New Beginnings for Bryony Bennett

Chapter Two

She was happy the mental checklist in her mind was decreasing successfully. Once she’d finished her snack—if a cup of coffee and a squashed oat bar could constitute a snack—she’d empty the trailer and get herself a base set up. That expression made her snigger. Anyone would think she was all set for some important mission. Jane Bond at your service.

The lock on the trailer had stuck and it took a lot of effort, swearing and the greasing spray she found in the boot of the car to loosen it. By the time she swung the lid back and surveyed the contents she was sweaty, grimy and ready to say sod it all and open the wine. When she found it. Bryony gave herself a strong talking to. Out loud.

‘That, my girl is enough whinging. Get on with it. Rewards only come to those who deserve them. And if you don’t do it, who will?’

‘Not me.’

‘Wh...’ She stood up, bumped her head on the inside of the trailer lid and yelped. ‘Shoot that hurts.’

‘Serves you right. And you’re lucky you didn’t get more than a sore head. That trailer is sticking out into the lane. Anyone could have run you over.’

Oh grief . She recognised that voice. What was Mr Grumpy doing back so soon? Her heart sank . Please don’t let him live nearby. Give me a break.

‘Don’t you think you might give some warning when you’re around?’ she asked in what, she decided under the circumstances, was a pleasant tone. ‘You know, so I can make sure my bum doesn’t stick out or whatever.’ Something damp touched that part of her body. ‘And while you’re at it, teach your dog that it’s rude to goose people all the time. Once is enough.’

He didn’t even crack a smile. Just stared at her. ‘Move this before it causes an accident, and I’m the one who’s in the doghouse because of your stupidity.’ He strode off. Down the track this time.

‘So, what’s all that about running me over then?’ she mused out loud, as he disappeared over a stile she hadn’t noticed before. ‘What with, his size elevens?’

The dog—Merlin—yelped, and with what she could only describe as an apologetic woof, loped down the lane after his master. How would Mop get on with Merlin? Mop was generally sociable but there was never any real way to tell. No doubt she’d find out in due course. The cats, who rejoiced in the names of Crosby and Nash, after two members of the 70’s supergroup her mum raved about, would no doubt do their usual - ignore or hiss.

Bryony carried two large boxes into the kitchen before she remembered Mr Grumpy had mentioned the trailer stuck out into the lane. In that case, she’d better see if she could move it. It was likely to be a tad difficult because Milly-the-car couldn’t go much further into the garden without being impaled on a rock or ten. She really must put, ‘make a decent driveway’ top of her outside to do list. She didn’t want suing or whatever for endangering life, limb or vehicle. Even though she’d not seen anyone except him and Merlin go up or down since she’d arrived, and they were on foot, the postman must use it. And whoever did the yearly meter readings.

She grabbed the car keys, walked briskly towards the gap she optimistically called her gateway, and headed to the rear of the trailer to move the folding table she’d set on the grass, ready to carry inside. Whereas, strictly speaking, Mr Grumpy was correct in saying the trailer stuck into the lane, you’d have to be a hedge cutter to touch it. He was arsy for arsiness sake.

A long strident hooting made her jump. A bottle green van, with - for goodness sake - what seemed like darkened glass, was heading up the lane towards her at a pace much too fast for the conditions. Surely that was illegal? Illegal or not, it was getting closer. Bryony grabbed the table and edged past the trailer into her garden. She must start calling it that, not the field . The van rumbled by seconds later, and as she thought, missed the trailer easily. Or would have, if she hadn’t noticed a distinct swerve in her direction. Twerp. However, to be fair, anything bigger would have needed to take care. Not that she thought anything bigger than a transit would try to get up or down the lane. Not if they valued their paint job and tyres. Who drove it? She couldn’t see. Not only was the sun in her eyes, but the darkened glass didn’t help either. It could have been man, woman or an alien for all she could tell. The alien would be interesting.

Bryony propped the table up on one of the barrels and surveyed the car, trailer and lane. A plan of action was needed. Fifteen sweating minutes later, she’d manoeuvered the trailer past the car and shoved it on a level spot near the shed. There was something to be said for having a wide gateway and good upper arm strength. The car, she decided, couldn’t get further toward the house, but she was able to drive it to one side of the entrance. Bryony put the barrels and chains back in place and her hands on her hips.

‘Okay, Mr Know it All. Try and find fault with that and I’ll deck you.’ She shook her head at her aggressive stance and made her way back to the house.

Time to get cracking.

Several hours later, the car and trailer were empty, and she had a semblance of a comfortable room to live in. It seemed old habits die hard, and the kitchen resembled her student bedsit. Albeit with a blow-up mattress, camping stove and a garden table and chair. But she’d made sure the electricity and water were switched on, the Internet was connected, and the table top fridge and microwave she’d managed to fit in the trailer had survived the journey. Not like the late lamented cafetiere.

After a welcome shower, Bryony sat outside her back door, with a glass of wine, and a microwave curry she had the forethought to pack in a cool bag with the wine and sighed with satisfaction. She was here, and apart from Mr Grumpy, everything seemed rosy.

A rumble made her jump.

That bloody van. It zoomed, if lurching and rocking over rocks and ruts at a stupid pace was zooming, down the lane and with a squeak and scrape of what she presumed was brakes, must have stopped.

Relative silence continued for a minute and then the engine revved, and quietened, before it revved again. Going through the gate? She had no idea but presumed so.

Why take the lane at such a pace? She sipped her wine as she ruminated over that. It probably wasn’t that fast, and only the conditions made it seem so. Plus, as this cottage had been empty for so long, and the buildings through the gate were the only others ones whose inhabitants would use it on a regular basis, the driver probably thought he had nothing to worry about. As she only intended to use Milly when it was necessary he, she or it probably didn’t. Mop would keep well away and the cats ditto. Town born and bred, they had a healthy respect for traffic. Bryony finished her wine, resisted the urge for another glass and sat happily doing nothing until tiredness drove her indoors to her not so comfy bed. Thank the Lord her new one was due to be delivered the next day, along with a reclining chair she’d coveted for years. The pleasure she’d experienced when she was able to order one was indescribable. She’d practically got down and begged for delivery today, but the store owner had been firm but apologetic. His delivery man was off, and no one else had the guts to navigate the lane. Which she supposed, after having done it herself, made sense.

She wriggled around until she was cosy and fell asleep making another mental to do list. A trip to the village shop was a necessity. She could manage without a lot of things, but something to microwave for dinner was needed. She had no intention of driving into the nearest town when she could shop local and introduce herself.

The next morning, after coffee and the last slice of bread, Bryony dressed in an old but clean, and thankfully hole-free, skirt and shirt, and shoved her bare feet into trainers. That would suffice. After all, she had no intention of looking like a fashion plate, whatever that was, so she’d start as she meant to go on. What you saw was what you got.

It was a perfect summer day. Blue sky, a few wispy clouds, and an aircraft vapour trail above her. The sea sparkled. Out in the channel a couple of container ships made their way towards some port or another, and a yacht tacked against the current and made the most of the warm breeze. The scene was the epitome of all things quintessentially English.

The walk was pleasant, even if she began to regret the sleeves on her top before she got anywhere near the railway bridge. Bryony rolled them up and changed her canvas shopping bag from one shoulder to the other, as she began yet another mental list. She loved it. Lost in happy thoughts of sage green or duck egg blue curtains, and whether she could justify a chaise-longue—probably not, for where would it fit in a country cottage—the first she knew of company of any sort was the growl of an engine and a long angry hoot on a horn. Bryony half turned, jumped, and fell on the verge in an ungainly sprawl. Her skirt rode up, no doubt showing her knickers, and her bag flew out of her hand and landed, luckily right side up, in a thorn bush. The driver tooted again as he drove past. This time she was sure it was amused, not angry, and turned over the railway bridge out of sight.

Sod the sod. She picked herself up retrieved her bag and dusted herself down. Nothing more than a couple of scrapes on her legs, and a long mucky streak of something she wasn’t going to sniff on her sleeve. Oh well. She wasn’t going back to change, so the village—or whoever was around so early—could take her or leave her.

Leave her it seemed.

For a start, the only shop that was open appeared if it was on its last legs. Half of the shelves were bare, and the items that were stocked had no discernible order to them. Tins of peas sat next to dog food and washing up liquid jostled with three bags of bird nuts and somewhat incongruously a two pack of loo roll and a box of condoms. Bryony surreptitiously checked the use by date. That month. It figured. Had she entered a time warp? Discovered herself in wartime and forgotten her ration card? One swift glance towards the dour woman wearing an old fashioned pinny, who stood behind an antiquated till and glared at her, didn’t help or reassure.

‘Morning.’ There was no need to be rude, just because you were made to feel like an alien. ‘Gorgeous day isn’t it?’ Bryony found an old - as in antiquated - chest freezer and peered inside it.

The woman grunted. ‘Must be for those who have money to buy up our ‘ouses, and time to sit and do nowt. Us that have to work for a living now, ‘tis all different. There’s our kids ‘omeless, and people with big mouths, big cars and money to flash, buyin’ up our village. Shouldn’t be allowed, that it shouldn’t. You want that ready meal or not?’

Bryony saw red. ‘Not.’ She said, shortly. ‘Have a nice day now.’ So much for a pleasant welcome. She turned on her heels and stalked out. She’d starve rather than buy anything in there. The bloody woman had probably injected the shepherd’s pie with hemlock or something. What a witch.

No not a witch. Just a miserable...Ah stop it.

Ahead of her, the brightly coloured local bus stop sign hung like a beacon. Bryony crossed over to it and scanned the information. Hallelujah . Two buses a day and one due in a few minutes. It gave anyone two and a half hours in town before it returned. That would do.

Town here I come.

Thank goodness the driver of the red white and blue striped minibus was chatty, cheerful and conscientious. He took her money, sympathised at the cost— ‘but it’s a community thing’—and reminded her to hold on until she was safely seated. The four other people seated, three women and a cheerful looking schoolboy in an immaculate navy blazer, nodded their greetings. Somewhat different to the grumpy woman in the shop. Was she related to Mr Grumpy? His mother perhaps? Or was everyone in the village miserable and against newcomers? It was a conundrum and one she couldn’t answer. Therefore, the sensible thing to do was to ignore it. Bryony settled back in her seat and looked at the view.

Twenty minutes later, with the driver’s warning of, ‘ten past here or you’ve a five hour wait’, ringing in her ears, she wandered along the bustling main street and dodged small children with buckets and spades, adults with cool bags, sun umbrellas, and all the paraphernalia needed for a day on the beach. The supermarket was along a side street, easily found, and seemed reasonably well stocked. The notice stating, ‘buy now, collect later’, was welcome and Bryony happily shopped, paid, and arranged to pick everything up before she caught the bus home.

That enabled her to spend a happy hour browsing the bookshops and curio shops and succumb to a fabulous scarf in a tiny shop called Browse and Buy. Which she did and decided she would do again. The guy who served her was pleasant and wished her a good day, saying he hoped she’d call again, before he opened the door for her. Such a nice change from the last small shop she’d shopped—or not—in.

Bryony drank a coffee, ate an ice cream, collected her shopping, and was at the bus stop with five minutes to spare. One of the women from the earlier bus walked up to stand next to her.

‘Done what you need?’ The tone was pleasant.

Bryony smiled. ‘Yes, thank you, and you?’

The other woman grinned. ‘Kids at school, himself busy, my time out. Here in the morning, yoga after lunch and my other half cooks tonight. Well, if you call reheated take away or microwave chips cooking. I leave the car at home, and chill. That way there’s no big shop, cos I can’t carry it, no, ‘can you take this to x or y’. Just me, my kindle, and a wander. Perfect. If there’s no yoga, and I have all day, I’ll walk to the ferry and come over that way. I’m Maddie, by the way. I live up the hill a bit, a few miles from where you got on.’

So at least one person didn’t see her as a bunny boiler, or whatever. Bryony got on the bus and didn’t mind that Maddie sat next to an older woman with a shopping bag as big as them both. Goodness knows what was in it. Bryony patted her own bag. She was sorted until Maisie arrived the day after next.

‘Are you sure you’ll be okay here?’ Town born and bred and with no inclination to ever leave suburbia, Maisie looked around and shuddered theatrically. Bryony wasn’t sure it was all put on. Even though the cottage had been cleaned, and the only dust was superficial, it needed a loving touch. She intended to give it one. Once she found all her cleaning things. Washing up liquid, face cleanser, shower gel and elbow grease wasn’t enough. The last few days had shown her that. However, knowing what supplies Maisie would bring had made her loath to buy more.

She’d worked like a dervish, and once her bed had been delivered and manoeuvred up the narrow staircase, and her chair given pride of place in her lounge, with only one coat of Colorado red transit delivery van paint left on the side of the shed and two barrels severely dented, she’d truly begun to feel at home. Maisie’s arrival, with Mop, Crosby and Nash, as well as the rest of her goods and chattels had completed that sensation.

This is home.

‘What’s not to be okay with?’ It did look a tiny bit grim; she’d have to admit. In the sunshine, the walls could do with another wash and a lick of paint, and the recurring spiders needed to be rehoused. Preferably a long way away. She wasn’t entirely certain a family of mice hadn’t long vacated the cupboard under the sink and made a mental note to buy one of those humane mousetraps she’d heard of. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Oh, I dunno.’ Maisie counted on her fingers. ‘Spiders, rats, bats and things that go bump in the night. No neighbours, no street light, no coppers.’

Bryony grinned and did the same. ‘Bug spray, humane traps, no ram raiders, no arsy neighbours, no loud music at 3 am, no gangs of kids.’ Well maybe not the arsy neighbours bit. ‘Cops a phone call away. Sounds perfect to me.’

‘Ah, each to their own. Right, I’m off. All this fresh air makes me twitchy.’ Maisie drained her mug of coffee. She’d brought a basic selection of pots, pans, crockery and so on, with a grin and a knowing look. As Bryony pounced on them with a ‘thank God’, Maisie chuckled.

‘I know you. You’ll have no idea where the box with this stuff is. It’s only from the pound shop, but it’ll do until you find the Meissen and the Le Creuset.’

‘I wish. Mais, you are a doll, I’ve managed with a kettle, microwave and camping kit and it’s getting boring. I prefer to be a bit more creative if I can.’

‘Urgh.’ Maisie rolled her eyes and shuddered.

‘Yep, I knew you’d say that. Perfect in my eyes, but I know you.’

‘I don’t suppose they do take out deliveries here? Unthinkable.’ Maisie put back on the trainers she’d kicked off as soon as she came inside. ‘Got to head back. I need diesel fumes and the smell of the brewery to combat it. To say nothing of strap hanging on the tube, and my head in someone else’s smelly armpit.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Sounds kinky eh?’

‘Sounds yuk—the picture that conjures up. ’Twas ever thus,’ Bryony said, and took a deep breath as Maisie enveloped her in a bosom-squashing hug. ‘Oh, Mais, I’ll miss you. Try and see if you can cope with fresh air for a couple of days every so often, will you? I need a dose of Maisie once in a while.’ Mop leaned on her legs and whined. ‘So does Mop.’

‘And not the cats?’ Maisie looked across to the ancient chair Bryony kept for the felines that owned her. They ignored Maisie. ‘I guess not.’

‘Crosby and Nash will miss your tins of sardines. Me and Mop will miss you.’

Maisie snipped and wiped the corner of her eye. ‘Damn you, if my mascara runs I’ll look like a panda all the way up the road. Fair enough. I’ll try and get down next month. What shall I bring you from the smoke?’

‘Sardines. Good coffee. Some of those chocolates from the deli.’

Mop whined.

‘And a bone.’

‘Right guys, it’s all down to us now.’ Bryony watched the van lurch out of the garden without leaving paint on the shed or adding more dents to the barrels and trundle up the track until it went over the railway bridge and out of sight. As ever, Crosby, the tabby, and Nash, his ginger and white sister, ignored her, and carried on sleeping in a patch of sunlight. They probably had their priorities correct. ‘Let’s get started, sort out somewhere for you lot to sleep, and make sure we can all eat. Everything else can wait.’

Mop ran around in circles and barked as he jumped tussocks of grass and chased a sparrow who dared to try and land. His shaggy coat stood up in all directions and showed where he got his name from. Bryony contemplated his antics for a while; wondered what the hell she was doing there, cut off from everyone and everything she was familiar with and then gave herself a mental shake. This was what she wanted. Just because Maisie thought fresh air and wide-open spaces gave you hives, was no reason to get goosebumps.

She was a child of the countryside, even if from University onward she mainly saw said countryside on high days and holidays. It was in her farming family blood. That was all she needed to remember. That and the injured stoats, sparrows and whatever else needed doctoring that she had brought home and begged her mum to nurse back to good health. Not the ice on the cattle troughs, washing on the clothesline stiff with frost, having to heat her clothes on the top of the Aga and wondering if she’d get home from school on a snowy day. Think of the treats like long sunny days, butterflies and cream teas. Paddling and sand in your hair. She had never forgotten the smell of suntan cream or the sting of it in her eyes—damned sore—scraped knees from sliding over the sand, and a magical sighting of something her dad says was a bog standard fish and she was sure was a shark. Plus being sick from too many undercooked prawns. Maybe that was not one of the better memories.

Wasps, power cuts, and freezing fog. Not at this time of the year though, and it was Devon not Scotland. May was the best time she could have chosen to move, she thought. The nights were drawing out, the days that bit warmer, but not too hot, and everywhere the signs that spring had well sprung and let summer take over.

After all that waxing lyrical, Bryony decided, it would probably rain like crazy for the next three months, and her leisurely move and discovery of what needed doing gradually, would turn into paddling and putting buckets under drips and leaks. If she wanted to relax that evening, and sleep well that night, she had better make sure she had her dinner and a bottle of wine in the fridge, and make her bed up. Even if it was going to be a mattress and a sleeping bag until she bought furniture she decided fitted the house. Both literally and metaphorically.

‘Time to feed Mop and the slugabeds.’ She whistled to Mop, who abandoned his investigation of the thorn hedge and loped towards her, ears flapping. He stunk.

‘What the hell have you rolled in?’ It was no good, it would have to be a dip in the stream at the edge of her land. No way was he going inside in that state and she had no idea where the hose was. Resigned to a rumbling tummy, Bryony towed a reluctant Mop across the uneven ground and waited until he realised she was urging him into the water, not away from it.

Ten minutes later, her toes squelching from the mud at the bottom of the stream—Mop had decided not to get clean without help—she got out, looked at her bedraggled state, and hoped no unsuspecting visitor decided to make an appearance and discover her in her now see through t-shirt and clinging jeans. Mop didn’t believe in not sharing, be it a bath in the stream, under the hose, or in a tub. She was soaked down to her knickers. Mop shook himself and added water to water.

‘Damned dog.’

He barked. She was a sucker where Mop was concerned, and he knew it.

With one last survey of her land— my land —Bryony made her way back to the cottage, to get dried and changed and make a list.

Bryony was a firm believer in lists.

A lack of milk for coffee constituted an emergency in Bryony’s eyes. Black tea she could cope with, but sadly not black coffee. She’d tried. After three days of not being able to come to life over that usually gorgeous aromatic first early morning cup, she gave up and went back to adding milk. Without it, the coffee both tasted and smelled bitter and unpleasant. Of course, it was probably the way she brewed it but even so, it wasn’t worth being irritated about. Lately, Mop had taken to hiding as she took that first black mouthful.

Driven into the kitchen by a dry throat and a rumbling tummy, she surveyed the fridge with alarm. The milk jug - she still loved pouring milk out of the black and white pottery cow, rather than anything else - had enough liquid in it to bathe a sty-riddled eye and not much else, and her eyes were happily sty free. The bottle, or these days the plastic carton—when was the last time she’d seen milk in a glass bottle—was still in the fridge. On its side and without even a drop of liquid in it. Why on earth hadn’t she thrown it out and written ‘m i l k’ in big letters on the chalkboard she bought for reminders such as that?

What she could have sworn was a bowl of fruit was actually two wizened satsumas and one… one shrivelled grape. The few tins and jars left would never make a meal. What could you do with olives, tomato soup and tinned potatoes, plus a box of gluten free cake decorations? Why had she even got tinned potatoes? She hated them.

No rice, no gluten free pasta, not even any tuna. Though she’d have to fight the cats for that. The bread bin was empty, the butter dish almost, and the jam jar looked as if it had been licked clean. Actually, on reflection she thought it probably had. Getting stuff out of boxes and into cupboards and drawers had taken priority over heading into town and doing more shopping. She ate ‘on the hoof’, flopped into bed exhausted most nights, and slept until Mop woke her with an apologetic woof and an urgent need to go outside and attend to business. Which meant her larder was mainly empty. Sadly, her stomach was also empty, coffee-less, and showing its displeasure loudly. The only things there was plenty of were cat food, dog food and weirdly lettuce. None of which appealed. Therefore, a visit to the village shop—the other village shop that had been shut when she’d suffered Mrs Grumpy—was on the cards, even though it meant changing out of dungarees with a hole in the bum, putting a bra on and looking less like a hobo and more like a respectable adult.

Needs must. Suck it up. She opened the olives.

Why on earth her bras were in the dining room sideboard, she hadn’t got a clue. As for her clean undies? Apart from the one to wear and one for a spare she carried with her in the small bag—all she had space for in her car on her journey south—Bryony had no idea what she had done with the rest. Did that mean she’d find them along with the cutlery in the bathroom and her shoes in the garage? It wouldn’t surprise her in the least. She’d been so concerned with washing—and disinfecting—walls and floors, sweeping out cockroaches and any dead spiders she’d missed—surely it hadn’t been that bad when she made her previous visit—that even a couple of weeks later, putting things where she would find them, and food shopping, was low on her list of priorities. Clean sheets, a shower that was mould free, and a loo that no longer looked as if it hadn’t been flushed for the last decade hit the top of that list. Okay the loo wasn’t to her taste—the inside was decorated with leaves and flowers that were enough to make you wonder if a bee would pop out and bite you on the bum—but it sparkled, and due to copious amounts of room spray smelled nicely of lavender.

Now least she had some clean clothes, albeit not many. How on earth could she descend into slutty-dom in such a short time? Sod it! The local populace would have to get used to her new look. Her uniform of navy suit and a name tag had been left behind, along sadly, with her 20% off all books as a member of staff at Tina’s Tiny Bookshop, card. Just as well she’d stocked up on reading material. A book, be it in her hands or on her eReader was as necessary as wine or chocolate. Those boxes of books, wine and chocolate had been unpacked, or at least put onto a makeshift shelf or ten, as were the few containers she’d discovered marked correctly. Evidently, she’d been somewhat optimistic with her idea that she’d understand her shorthand on boxes marked ‘odds n sods drm cpd’, ‘#3’, and ‘loo not now’.

Bryony twisted her hair into a plait, and then anchored it in a sort of a bun. It was too hot to let it hang loose. It had been the bane of her younger life. Bright red and always untidy. She tried to tell herself it didn’t bother her, and that she had comes to terms with her ruler straight mane, but she knew that was a lie. The only positive thing about it all was she didn’t have the pale skin tones and tendency to burn if one ray of sun looked at her that many redheads did. She should be happy with her lot.

I must try harder.

Clad in a clean sundress, with both pairs of semi-suitable underwear—no obvious tears or unravelled seams—in the wash she made a mental note to put ‘find knickers’ at the top of her to do list, and decided it was commando or no milk. Luckily, she’d found a pair of deck shoes she could wear without her big toe peeking through a hole. Her trainers had succumbed to trainer fatigue the week before and had been thrown in the bin. The deck shoes were old, but sturdy, and were in a bag all by themselves without even a pair of socks tucked inside. Thanks to that, she was one step closer to respectable. Bryony grabbed her canvas ‘books are best’ bag and found her purse in the fridge. For a second or two she debated whether to take Mop… she decided not—until she’d sussed out where dogs were acceptable and where they could be tied up—and left him in the house with a new bone and got ready to set off to walk the half mile or so to the village. He howled, and she felt all kinds of monster. He hated being left alone in a new place, but what else could she do? I will be as quick as I can, Mopsy, I promise.

Chapter Three

The damned green transit swayed down the lane past her entrance—still semi closed with the three barrels but not with the chain between them—that had fallen into a heap of rusty bits after the post van nudged it a few days earlier—to the field gate a bit further down the lane, where the ruts were even deeper. Someone got out, opened the gate and did the ‘get back in, drive through, get out, shut the gate and drive off’ thing. Something Bryony had seen at least twice a day, each way since she’d arrived, plus a couple of noisy times in the wee small hours. As on every other occasion, she’d been inside and by the time she got to the window to be nosy, the van was driving away. She’d never yet managed to suss out who the driver was.

This time the damned sun was in her eyes. So, was it a farmer checking his wheat or sheep were okay, or was it smugglers or booze makers? The possibilities were endless. They made for a humorous mind set as she turned in the opposite direction to the van and headed up the lane on foot. She might just start a green van sighting log book.

3 am… overloaded . That was if she ever woke up and the van was driving past and not just invading her dreams.

7.37…stuck in mud. Those ruts would be horrendous when it rained.

7.59… tractor pulled it out. Bobble hats galore.

12 noon…playing Bob Marley… Bloody hell her mind was full of rubbish. Not Bob Marley, she loved his music, but the rest.

A pheasant squawked and whirred up out of the long grass on the verge. Bryony squeaked in surprise, a bit like the pheasant, and dropped her bag.

‘Sheesh, no need to startle the natives. I’m not about to put you in the pot, as much as I am a carnivore.’ Bloody hell, as if Mop and the cats aren’t enough, now I’m talking to a bird.

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘Argh… shit…’ Now the birds were answering back.

Get a grip.

It wasn’t a bird but a bloke. The ‘drop dead, play your cards right and you can have me,’ arsy Mr Grumpy bloke of the other day. This time, his longish curly hair was tucked behind his ears and helped to anchor the sunglasses pushed up onto his crown. In one earlobe a tiny silver stud winked in the sunlight.

A stud for a stud? Oh shoot, next I’ll be drooling. Where the hell had he come from? Did that van belong to Mr Grumpy then? If so, he deserved his nuts cracked for being so bloody dangerous.

‘You’re a liability,’ she snapped. Best to get in first with the accusations just in case he was the driver.

‘Who says?’ he snarled back.

‘Me, if you drive recklessly like that.’

‘Like what? What planet are you on, woman? I’m on my bloody feet, no driving involved.’ He spread his arms out as if to show that. Sadly, or happily, it showed off his more than okay physique. ‘Where have I hidden a steering wheel? No, don’t bloody answer that.’

Bryony bit back the smart and non-pc answer she’d been going to give. No point in riling him further. Not without good reason, anyway. Dressed in what she decided was hot as hell denim cut offs, a black t-shirt, and deck shoes almost as disreputable as the ones she had discarded, he could have been the sort of man hot dreams were made of. If he wasn’t such a class one irritant.

‘I do. You need your licence torn up into little bits. Is it normal to scare the pants off newcomers?’ Bryony demanded, annoyed she must seem a complete wussy female. ‘You know hello, welcome, and now drop dead?’ She bit back ‘and scare them shitless and give them sleepless nights with your sodding van’. She’d said enough along those lines already.

He shrugged. ‘I’ve never scared anyone.’

Bollocks.

‘Who are you anyway?’ She’d get his name out of him whatever else she didn’t manage. ‘Apart from the non-friendly-neighbourhood whatever, who is allergic to people.’

He shrugged. ‘Only some. Get over your paranoia.’ His face was a blank canvas. Bryony itched to do something—anything—to change that.

Grief did he never smile? Had he had fillers or whatever and ended up with a frozen face? Didn’t things like that happen sometimes if you over did the stuff? With her hatred of needles, Bryony would rather go for a week without wine and chocolate, than contemplate voluntarily being injected with anything, thus her knowledge of such procedures was a bit sketchy to say the least.

‘Well?’

‘Very thank you.’

‘Oh for…’ If there had been anything to stamp her foot on and make a noise she would have done. Bryony clenched her hands into fists and was rewarded by the tiniest hint of his mouth twitching. Not a proper smile but maybe a softening of his bottom lip? However, he still didn’t offer his name.

‘Fine. Keep who you are to yourself. I’ll just think of you as Mr Grumpy, that’s apt.’ Bryony picked her bag up again and ignored him. He stepped in front of her. She sidestepped. He matched it. And grinned. The sort of grin that would make hundreds of women drop their knickers given half a chance. Not her though, she was made of sterner stuff. She hoped.

But, oh my goodness, that makes him so bloody different. Does he have two personas? Am I in a split dimension? Oh grief, damp knicker alert as Maisie would say.

Then, she remembered, she didn’t actually have knickers on, as she hadn’t been able to find a clean pair and the cheese grater thong her mum had given her for Christmas - ‘to bring you up to date, love’ - which she discovered in with the corkscrew and three dishtowels, was as useful as an ice cream in hell. That had gone on and off in record time and now resided beneath her period pants in her underwear drawer. She wouldn’t throw it out and maybe hurt her mum’s feelings, but she doubted she’d wear it, not even when she was desperate. Like now. Not desperate. She was as they said, commando, and if she were honest, rather liked it.

Three sidesteps, matched movement by movement later, Bryony huffed. ‘This is ridiculous.’

‘Isn’t it?’ He agreed and moved with her again. ‘Fun though.’

‘Rubbish. Why are you doing it?’

He did that sexy shoulder roll that made her tingle. Damn him.

‘Why not?’

‘I want to get to the shop, that’s why not. You’re blocking my way.’ Point out the obvious, why don’t I? ‘I get antsy without coffee. I need you to move.’

‘Nope, you don’t. Lots more lane to use.’

‘Which you seem intent on stopping me using.’

He raised one eyebrow, something Bryony had never managed to do. She had been informed by Maisie it looked as if she were squinting. Typical that on him, it was just darn sexy.

‘My apologies. After you.’ He swept a bow that would do anyone in a Regency drama proud and stepped back. ‘Never let it be said that I, a mere male, stood in the way of progress.’ The twinkle in his eye was almost her undoing. ‘Or a determined woman.’

Almost. She frowned as best she could when she wanted to giggle. Opened her mouth to speak and groaned instead. A familiar doggy outline loped up the lane with excited woofs. And it wasn’t Mr Grumpy’s responsibility this time.

‘How the hell does he do it?’ She grabbed Mop by his collar, thanking all the gods she’d left it on him. ‘You are a bloody menace,’ she informed the dog who wasn’t at all fazed by her semi-annoyed tone. He knew Bryony loved him. ‘I’m gonna rename you.’ She’d forgotten grouchy Mr Grumpy. Who actually seemed to become less grumpy by the minute as he grinned and lost most of his disapproving, constipated expression.

‘Do what?’

‘Get out. I swear that dog would give Houdini a run for his money. I left the window on one of those inch open thingys. The sort that are supposed to be burglar proof.’

‘Nothing’s burglar proof if they set their mind to it.’

‘Okay, Mr Literal. But that gap? Not even Mop should be able to wriggle through it. Now how can I go and shop with him and no lead?’

‘Tie him up. There’s rings outside the post office.’

‘With what? My knicker elastic?’ How she wasn’t as red as the post box outside that shop—or her hair—she had no idea. She’d almost added, ‘if I had any on’.

‘Do you still get that?’

‘Wha…? Oh, for f… goodness sake.’ Change the subject, change the subject. ‘I don’t suppose you’d hold on to him for me?’

‘You suppose correctly.’

Oh hell, back to Mr Grumpy again.

‘I’ve other things to do other than babysitting disobedient dogs. Let me know when you’re ready to sell. And watch out he doesn’t get shot for sheep worrying.’ He nodded curtly and walked off towards the village, ahead of her.

As the only thing Mop ever did was follow her, it wasn’t likely. He wasn’t disobedient, not really. Just scared he was going to be abandoned as he had been before Bryony had come across him, tied to her front door with a note, ‘have him’ wrapped around the rope. Plus, she had no intention of keeping sheep, Mop and the cats were enough for anyone sane. As for the rest?

‘I’m never going to sell, you moron,’ Bryony shouted. If she had her catapult and some dried peas he’d be peppered by now. ‘And if I did, it wouldn’t be to a grumpy old man like you.’

He stopped, turned and looked her up and down. ‘If you think this is where I damn myself and say, typical female emotional response’, think again. I value my hide.’

Argh. She’d secretly hoped he would, so she could throw that at him. ‘Well, I am a bloody female. Look.’ She jiggled her boobs. ‘See? Mammaries and all the other bits. And I’d rather be emotional, than a dried up prune with concrete inside instead of a heart.’

He didn’t even relax his arsy, mean and bloody bored expression.

‘Moron.’ It wasn’t much of a rejoinder, but it would have to do. Keeping a tight hold on Mop she waited until grumpy guy rounded the corner and went over the bridge before she remembered the piece of rope at the bottom of her bag. It would do at a pinch. As long as she wasn’t away for many minutes and Mop could see her most of that time, it should be fine. ‘It’s only milk and some dog treats, I promise,’ she said as they went over the bridge at the same moment an express went under it. The rattle and roar would have sent a lot of animals running. That didn’t faze Mop at all. Just the thought of losing Bryony did.

Knicker elastic. What era was he from? Maybe he was a pirate, spirited from whenever. Perhaps Little Brindish was a Brigadoon sort of place and she’d been dropped there by aliens. And if she had knicker elastic to use, what the hell would hold her undies up? Willpower? Commando had its plus side, as well as its drawbacks.

By the time Bryony reached the edge of the village, Mr Grumpy was nowhere to be seen. The village dozed, there was no other word for it, in the early afternoon sunshine. At this time of the day she was better able to get a proper look around. The main street was almost empty apart from one car, covered in mud, two women—probably in their early forties, with portable coffee cups in their hands and shopping bags at their feet sitting on a bench—and a disappearing service bus. Maybe it took everyone away so as not to spoil the chocolate box prettiness? If so it missed the mark. The car was slap bang in the middle of what she still thought could almost be a poster for nineteen thirties England, except the double yellow lines didn’t help that yesteryear scenario either.

Progress was not always pretty.

The rings outside the post office were empty. Bryony stared at them doubtfully. Mop stared back at her and visibly drooped. ‘I know, but if you want dog biscuits and I want coffee, I need to go into the shop next door and buy them.’ Mop sat and scratched. ‘That’s not the answer.’ She double tied the rope through the ring in a knot that would hold a boat in a force ten. Whether it would hold Mop, she was doubtful. He pulled and whined. ‘Look, Mop-head do you want biscuits?’ He put up a paw. ‘Then I need to buy the bloody things.’

‘I’ll get what you want.’ Maddie, the tall, friendly, elegant, blonde she’d met on the bus, came out of the village store and smiled. ‘Is the poor thing getting separation pangs? My Sookie does that. She’s a Great Dane and as soft as they come. What do you need? Are you paying for it with cash? Or shall I cuddle this beautiful boy, and you pop in?’ She knelt on the floor, seemingly oblivious to the muck sticking to a pair of trousers that Bryony reckoned cost the equivalent to her week’s food bill. And she didn’t stint. The fact Bryony could now afford trousers like them was irrelevant. She’d no doubt put a hole in the knees on their first outing.

‘I’m not sure if…’

Mop put his head on the newcomer’s lap and slavered. The woman ignored that as well. That was enough for Bryony. Mop’s sense of who was okay had never failed him yet.

‘Yes, okay, thank you. I won’t be long.’ Bryony stroked Mop’s head. ‘Two minutes.’ She wasn’t sure if she was reassuring Mop or the newcomer.

‘Take your time, we’ll get to know each other,’ Maddie said cheerfully. ‘I won’t abduct him. Mrs C will vouch for me.’

‘Mrs C?’

Maddie nodded towards the shop. ‘Shopkeeper. She’s known me since in her words, I was knee high to a grasshopper, and she sneaked me what her Glaswegian hubby called sookie sweets, and my mum called teeth rotters. ‘A few won’t hurt you my lovely, as long as you brush when you get ‘ome’. She might come across as stand offish, but lots of the oldies are wary of newcomers. Like the old sod who keeps the other shop. She’s enough to make a saint swear. You just have to be patient.’

Bryony sorted that jumbled statement out.

‘Yeah how long for?’

‘Oh fifty, sixty years. You know, the, “I s’pose they ‘ave to live somewhere, and who’d want to stop in the city or up north when they could be ‘ere? But seems such a shame for our kiddies.”’ Her voice took on a homely Devon burr, so unlike the elocution diction she’d used before. Bryony guessed it was the tones of her childhood, just as she herself spoke with a much stronger London twang when she got together with Maisie.

‘“No chance of ‘ouses. Pity, that.”’ Maddie reverted to her normal voice. ‘What tends to get forgotten is at least half of local kids can’t wait to get away. Ah well, ignore the miseries and concentrate on the nice ones like me. Now, off you pop and let me get to know this lovely boy.’ She scratched an ecstatic Mop behind the ear. If he were a cat, Bryony would swear he’d purr.

‘Are you sure? I mean it’s a bit of an imposition and your trousers will get filthy.’ They were already but Bryony thought it politic not to mention that fact.

‘They’ll wash, and anyway Sookie will add to the muck when I get home. Ha, now you know where I got the name. Shades of kiddie summer delights. She’s in her dog run and delights in digging. Honestly, I’ve nothing to do until I pick my kids up in an hour or so. Go forth and make Mrs Cherry’s day, buy lots of stuff and let her pump you for information. We’re all dying to know more about you, you know. So far, you’ve been marked down as a school teacher recuperating from teaching stroppy kids, a reclusive author and an ex gangster’s moll, hiding out. Though why you’d choose Little Brindish is anyone’s guess. Newcomers stand out like a sore thumb.’ She winked. ‘But on the whole, we’re a friendly, cheerful, albeit nosy lot. Eventually.’

‘Yes well, I’ll just go and get what I need, shall I?’ Bryony said, somewhat bemused by the overload of information.

The blonde laughed. ‘I do rattle on a bit. Yep, go and shop and then we can introduce ourselves properly. A name at the bus stop isn’t a lot to go on.’

Bryony grinned as she backed towards the shop door. Mop now on his back and having his tummy rubbed, ignored her. ‘I’m Bryony, like I said.’

‘Ah, good another ‘ey’ name. There’s not enough of us around. Plenty of Elizabeth’s, Eleanor’s and Rebecca’s or some such gorgeous names. And kids called Cher, Petunia and Will.I.Am. The only ‘ees’ are me, you and Lottie Monk, and she’s not properly local. Only comes to mother Dario. Or annoy him. Damn woman.’ It didn’t sound as if this Lottie was her favourite person.

It wasn’t the time to ask, not if she actually wanted some food. ‘Ah, right won’t be a sec.’ Bryony turned and walked briskly into the general purpose village shop, called sensibly it now seemed, ‘Cherry’s’. It wasn’t much bigger than the downstairs of her cottage, all lounge, kitchen and tiny dining room of it, but at a first glance sold everything from pipe cleaners—who used them? —to pizzas. No gluten free as far as she could tell, though. That would mean a trip to town to stock up on essentials.

‘Can I help you, my dear?’ A small, what only could be called bustling, lady popped out from behind a pile of loo rolls. ‘Need something you can’t find, lovey?’

What was it with people appearing from nowhere? Bryony got a grip of herself. ‘Er anything gluten free?’

‘Well now, not if you want fancy stuff, no, but I’ve got bread and pizza bases in the freezer. Keep a bit just in case. Oh, and some flour and pasta. My son’s last girlfriend’s, brother’s, wife’s, sister wanted it.’ She sniffed. ‘Didn’t need it, it were a fad with her, but tourists are happy so I keep a little stock in just in case. She were an incomer as well.’

Oh sheesh, not another incomer hater. Bryony nodded. ‘No gluten filled goodies for me, sadly.’ She was amused at how the relationship was spelled out in such a precise manner. Mrs Cherry was distancing herself maybe? ‘I’m a fully paid up certified coeliac. Anything is a great help. I can cope with fruit and veg and stuff, but I miss toast if I can’t have it. And I like baking.’

‘You poor thing. One of those coeliac people?’ She made it sound as if coeliacs had three heads or a tendency to do unspeakable things anywhere and anytime. ‘No wonder you wanted out of the city. Bad for you it is. So, it’ll do?’

‘Eh?’ Bryony was somewhat bemused at the way the conversation was going. Then she caught on, ‘Fantastic,’ she said in relief. She really didn’t fancy having to drive into town. There was enough to do at Cliff Cottage without taking time out for the dreaded supermarket shop. ‘You’ve saved my car’s springs and my temper. I have a bare cupboard.’

‘You are one of those coeliacs then?’ At least Mrs Cherry didn’t make it seem as if Bryony personally had arrived from a different planet, just been affected by city living. ‘Bless you, must be hard at times. I mean you can’t just eat anything can you? Not like that flipping Belinda. You have to be careful, eh?’ She sounded concerned. That was a swift change of heart, but Bryony wasn’t going to complain.

‘Er yeah, so the freezer?’ she prompted, half expecting to hear Mop howl.

‘In the corner. Now don’t you go worrying about the dog.’

Was the woman a mind reader? Probably just saw her anxious glances towards the door.

‘Maddie Monk is all over him and he looks in heaven. That woman has a way with animals.’

Another Monk? And Maddie thought the other one was a damned woman. Interesting… Bryony looked in the freezer, found a loaf, a couple of pizza bases and a packet of sausages. That, along with salad stuff—no lettuce—butter, a tin of tomatoes, pasta and some chorizo would do until she managed a shopping list, and the inclination—or more likely lack of food—forced her to drive to the supermarket. A list, she guessed could just have one word on it. ‘Everything’. She almost reached the shop door before she remembered what she’d come into the village for, retraced her steps and found a large carton of milk. She’d forget her head if it wasn’t screwed on some days. This being one of them.

Maddie looked up from her crouch next to Mop, noticed Bryony, and stood up in one graceful movement that Bryony envied.

‘Coffee?’ Maddie said, as she gave Mop a last pat. ‘We can sit in in the garden of the Red Pig and swap life stories. Juicy ones. I need to get my thrills somehow.’

‘Don’t we all? Yeah, why not?’ Sod it, if the pizza bases thawed. She’d make two, cook them and nibble. ‘Not that there’s much juicy going on.’

‘Nor for me,’ Maddie said cheerfully. ‘We could lie I suppose, but then when Johnny Depp or Michael Fassbender… me over, popped into my craft shop and had their wicked way with me you’d not believe me, so I won’t. We’ll be honest; you tell me why you ended up here and I’ll dish the dirt on the locals. Of which I am a fully paid up member. No grockle - that’s an incomer like you, sorry - am I. Born and bred in what’s euphemistically called the big house, and I call the money eater.’ She pushed open the pub’s garden gate, which squeaked as if it hadn’t been moved for years. ‘Coffee or wine?’

‘I’d better go with coffee,’ Bryony said ruefully. ‘I forgot to eat today.’ More like the cupboard was bare, but she didn’t intend to share that tidbit of information.

‘Two secs.’ Maddie disappeared inside the long, low, whitewashed building, sadly not thatched, and reappeared within a minute, carrying two packets of crisps. ‘They’ll bring the coffees out. So…’ She flopped gracefully, if that wasn’t a contradiction, into the chair next to Bryony and studied her curiously. ‘Creative, are you? In the throes of your muse?’

Bryony snorted. ‘The only muse I have is wondering where I’ve put stuff. That is the sum total of my musings, believe me. I don’t have a literary creative bone in my body. I’m a reader, not a writer. It’s damned hard work trying to sort out boxes marked with cryptic hieroglyphs I can’t remember writing.’

Maddie nodded like a sage old woman. ‘Ah yeah. If I ever move I think I’ll just hire a skip and dump everything. I mean who wants a mouldering fur coat circa 1920? It’s got more moth holes than material. Or my however many times removed cousin’s hip flask, and scout enrolment certificate? Not me that’s for sure.’ She must have seen Bryony’s surprised look because she hooted with laughter. Such a loud raucous noise from someone so elegant. ‘Family home. When my parents died I moved back in. After my divorce. Poor sod, my gorgeous ex just couldn’t cope with me. Can’t say I blame him. Lovely man but I so wasn’t the right wife. God help the guy.’

‘So why did you marry…’ Bryony put her hands to her hot cheeks. Her and her big, shove feet in first, think later, mouth. ‘Oh shoot, sorry, that’s crass and none of my business.’

Maddie patted her arm. This close you could tell she was a good ten or more years older than the twenty something she appeared at first glance. ‘Not at all, that’s nothing compared to some of the things we were asked when we split. You know, could we not do it, was he too hot for me, me for him… you think it, someone asked it. I even got asked once if I preferred women.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And if I did so what? Actually, I don’t. Not in that way. Only for gossip and gin. In fact, it was oh so much simpler. Meddling Italian mamas. Plus, lust, my dear. A large dose of lust.’ She winked. ‘Which, as we were young and stupid, was enough for us to mistake as love. Uni, miles away from home. Bonny Scotland and thought it oh so romantic to get married at Gretna.’

‘And is it?’ Bryony had often wondered.

Maddie wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, it probably is for a lot of people, but I felt cheated. I’d always thought I’d do the white wedding, meringue dress and lots of friends oohing and ahh-ing. A five-tier cake and glittery sugar almonds on the tables, with my proud father puffing out his chest and sending us all to sleep with his speech, and my Italian mama sobbing into a lace edged scrap of linen. Instead it was him, me, jeans and a hoodie, and two old ladies off a tourist coach as witnesses. One of whom wept into her hankie the whole time. I mean come on love, you don’t even know us.’

Bryony laughed. ‘I can so see that.’

Maddie rolled her eyes. ‘Be glad you didn’t. She pressed a fifty pence coin in my hand, in case I needed to get away in a hurry, though how far I’d’ve got on fifty pence I have no idea, patted my then beloved on the shoulder and told him to behave, put it in the right place and not to sow elsewhere, and the other complained she’d missed the chance to buy some cheap chocolate.’ She sighed gustily and grinned. ‘What a day. We celebrated with a deep-fried Mars bar, different to say the least, and a bag of chips.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘And toasted each other with a very cheap dodgy whisky, mixed with a can of Irn Bru, before a night in a motorway service station budget hotel. He had exams the next day and we prayed our clapped out old car would get us back in time. Luckily it did. Anyway, once uni was over we realised we had nothing in common except a love of sex, Italian mamas and here. It wasn’t enough. Strangely now we’re good friends.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘Not with benefits. I live with a great guy… oh, you’ll have to meet Dex, he’s sex on legs.’ She guffawed. ‘Well, he is to me. A balding middle-aged man with two left feet and his nose always stuck into an archaeology book might not be everyone’s idea of perfection, but that means no one is likely to fight me for him. And Dex, bless him, seems to have a very large affection for a loud mouthed, opinionated, thirty something…okay forty something, nosy blighter, and accepts I don’t want to get married. We have Luke and Lisa, twins, seven going on seventeen, God help us, and well…’ her voice petered out. ‘Live in the big house and wonder how to afford a new roof.’

Bryony nodded, her head reeling. Talk about sharing your life history. ‘So,’ she said curiously, and rolled her eyes at her use of the dreaded ‘so’ word to start a sentence. God, she hated it, and here she was doing it herself. ‘You’re a Monk and so is this Lottie person.’ She did her best not to sound like an interrogation officer. ‘Sounds interesting.’ That was an understatement if there ever was one.

‘Yeah, Carlotta, my ex sister in law. She never liked me, still doesn’t, and still thinks I ruined Dario’s life when we split. The fact we were ruining each other’s lives when we were together hasn’t got through to her.’

‘Dario? Unusual name.’ Nobody had mentioned a Dario anywhere before she was sure of that. Mind you, where had she been to hear anything other than the estate agents to get her keys, Mrs Grumpy’s, the post office and now Mrs Cherry’s shop?

Maddie guffawed. ‘Better than Romeo or Casanova. Both could have happened. Romantic, Italian mama, with a flair for the dramatic. He’s Dario, after Dario Cecchi who was a writer and painter and all things arty. Rosa, Dario’s mama idolised his work . I’m Madalena, God help me, after my great grandmama. No one ever spells it correctly, I even had a letter addressed to ‘the model Lena’. I mean, me as a model?’ She hooted with laughter. ‘Not in a million years. No patience for one thing, and too gobby for another. I’d end up telling temperamental photographers or designers where to get off. It’s lucky I prefer to be just me as Maddie, with my lovely Dex and kids, and my falling round my ears home. Blimey, I don’t half run on, you should have shut me up. I bet you’ve got your legs crossed now, cos you’ve been here for so long you need the loo and you’re wondering how to get away from this batty old woman. I can’t help it. Once I start you’d needed a steamroller to stop me. Is your poor head reeling?’

Bryony laughed. She had a feeling she and Maddie Monk were going to get on fine. ‘Just a bit, but it doesn’t bother me. I can run on as well when I need to.’

‘Phew. Anyway Dario? If you haven’t met him yet you will do.’ Maddie waited until the coffee was deposited on the table and smiled as the teenage girl pocketed her tip with alacrity, and walked away in a hurry. ‘Nice girl, off to study classics at Cambridge. Mum’s the local vet. Where was I? Ah yeah, my ex. Just a sec, you must have met him. He’s around the village a lot. Dark hair, needs cutting, earring.’

‘Mr Grumpy?’ Oh shoot, I said that out loud. Hell, let the earth open up and swallow me.

‘Mr…’ Maddie blinked and snorted, as she spooned in three teaspoons of sugar into the seaming liquid and stirred her coffee. ‘Oh God, yes, he’s been a right old fart lately. That dark hair, blue eyes, and an attitude that can switch from mumpy and miserable to sweetness and light before you blink?’ She licked her coffee spoon before she set it on the saucer.

‘Sounds right.’ Bryony was amused how Maddie looked around before she added another half teaspoon of sugar.

Maddie caught Bryony’s grin. ‘I know, it’s my one indulgence. Along with crème eggs—I stock up on them—and Haribo. I hide them from the kids.’

‘Fair enough, mine’s all sorts of chocolate.’ Bryony nodded slowly. ‘And gluten free crab sticks when I can get them. Yeah, that’s him. You say he’s around a lot. Does he not work?’

A strange smile played around Maddie’s lips. ‘Oh, he works. A bit of a transition time for him at the moment. He even looked after the estate agents for a few days, so it could open.’

That was interesting ‘Why did he give it up??’

‘He broke his arm. Playing golf, though how he could manage that I have no idea. Then the idiot was demonstrating a something or other shot while he was still in hospital and buggered it a bit more. Stupid idiot.’

‘What happened to the other guy? At the estate agent’s I mean, not on the golf course.’

‘Mr Combe? He won the lottery and retired.’