Paula Brackston's Blog, page 5

Life Lessons. Life of PA Part Four

This week’s Life of PA blog will be focusing on the newsletters, social media and the Level 3 Personal Assistant Diploma that I am currently working my way through alongside working two jobs! Those topics may seem mundane but they are a vital part of what I do. They say that if you want something done, ask a busy person to do it and it will be done promptly and that is definitely how I work. I prefer to keep myself busy as I seem to have a very busy mind. I like to tell myself that I have the same type of mind as Mum, chaotic but creative and always thinking of those little things that people never usually consider. That being said, there are only a limited number of hours in a day and days in a week to fit so much into. I have found that as I get older, time flies when I don’t want it to and drags when I want to time skip forward. As a child, everything felt so slow, happy and reassuring. Nevertheless, I usually seem to fit everything into a week relatively well. A message that this course reinforces quite frequently is about managing your time properly to optimise productivity. So far, I feel that different types of time management to suit different people and different work drives should be suggested. I feel lucky that I work well when I use endless lists that only I can decrypt, many different calendars, colour coding and labelling everything as it is an easy and accessible method of time management.

Live action image of me at work!

  The start of this course focuses on the hierarchy of the workplace and asks quite a few questions about the importance of managers. Many of the questions ask about my own personal experiences with a workplace hierarchy and where I fit into the mix. As my work for Mum is a unique work setting, I answer these questions based around my old job. I used to work for the largest dog grooming company in the UK so I have quite a good insight into very corporate hierarchies and how they treat the ‘little man’. This course is ten self-study modules with a lot of content and questions. I chose one that was self-study so I have more freedom to pick it up when I have the time to do so. It also means I do not feel a huge amount of pressure from time or a tutor and it can be worked around my sporadic rotas. Doing a course on top of two jobs and daily life has stresses but is also quite rewarding!

He looks how I feel!

  Once a month we will be releasing a newsletter out to people who have signed up. If you are not already signed up, scroll down to the bottom of this page and you will see a box to enter your email into. Obviously, finish my intriguing blog on my course, newsletters and website first! My section of the newsletter is called: Skyla Investigates: Book-Inspired Historical Nuggets. I will be focusing on completely random historical or book related topics. My main aim is to not only teach you lovely readers something new, but to also learn something myself. That is why I will be picking subjects that I know little to nothing about. Every day is a learning day and I plan on including as many people in that as I can. My current reassuring phrase is: If it’s not a win, it’s a lesson. In this household, we have our daily news article and fact of the day. I find that even a small piece of learning similar to that every day helps to prevent me from getting into a repetitive path of thinking. Every day I do a three-minute lesson on Duolingo learning Welsh. It seems to be helping me discipline myself into completing it every day to get that silly ‘streak’ trophy at the end of each week. However, growing up in Wales and having a slightly lacklustre understanding of the language does help me ever so slightly.

Duo checking I don’t break my 90 day streak!

  To us it is important to hear feedback from our wonderful readers. So, if I may ask a few questions. What kind of blogs do you prefer from me? More personal and ‘day in the life’ type blogs or more specifically personal assistant related blogs? I like to try and meld the two to create a balance and hopefully attend to everyone’s different interests. Later this year there will be more content based around turning the Found Things series into a television series! That means a whole lot more content based around filming and all the nitty-gritty bits that go with it. That being said, would everyone like to see more images of my life with Mum? As mentioned in a Facebook post of mine, pictures speak a thousand words and I know it can be fascinating to see how different people’s daily lives unfold. Is there anything content wise that you would like to see from either or both of us? We are very welcoming to constructive criticism and ideas. Afterall, even if you may not agree with someone’s opinions or ideas, that can still help you to think more about what it is you do actually like.

Ready to jot down new ideas!

The post Life Lessons. Life of PA Part Four appeared first on Paula Brackston.

Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Six

CHAPTER SIX

  Neville landed heavily on the chair behind his desk. It was not yet nine, and already the morning had a sluggardly feel to it. Things weren’t helped by the water still trickling down the back of his neck. He had grown blasé about the dry sunny days, and so had not bothered to pack his waterproof cycling poncho, and had been caught napping by the weather Gods. Neville had always considered theirs to be a singularly schoolboy type of humour. He had arrived at work looking sufficiently pathetic to send Mrs Appleby hurrying away to find him a towel. Women of a certain age fussing around him were becoming a defining feature in his life. Still, as he rubbed at his hair in the merciful privacy of his little room, Neville was glad of this particular motherly act by the rosy-cheeked receptionist. He draped the towel over his head for a minute and removed his squelching shoes, placing them upside down on the radiator. Not for the first time he thanked his luck and Bertie Willis’s retirement for giving him the sanctuary of his own office, rather than having to crouch behind a pegboard partition with the rest of the sorry souls in open plan. He took off his sodden socks and draped them next to the shoes. Steam rose. 

  Barefoot and damp Neville tried to focus on his post, but found there was little.  What there was had ‘pending’ written all over it and could be ignored for some time. He looked at his watch. Nine oh-five. He wanted a hot drink, but couldn’t walk through the building without his shoes. He switched on his computer and tried to shake himself out of the lethargy which was threatening to triple the length of his working day. 

  ‘Pull yourself together, Meatcher,’ he spoke to his reflection on the screen. ‘Got to keep busy.’

  This was hardly the work ethic speaking. His desire to be occupied and diverted had little to do with wanting to be productive, and a lot to do with wanting to avoid replaying the embarrassing events of the night before in his rather hung over head. 

  An idea came to him and he started tapping keys with something approaching enthusiasm. Medieval Cooking, he typed, then hit ‘search’.  A long list of sites presented itself. 

  He chose one and read an extract from a medieval recipe.

  “Kutte a swan in the rove of the mouthe toward the brayne elonge and lete him blede, and kepe the blode for chawdewyn; or elles knytte a knot on his nek.”

  ‘Yeuch,’ said Neville. ‘Somehow I don’t think slashed swan would be well received in Nettlecombe.’

  He searched on. In no time at all he was transported back, away from his mundane surroundings, to another world.  A world where poverty and excess could be seen on the same page. Where feast day banquets sat beside concoctions of the basest ingredients flavoured with longing and stirred with desperation. No creature was too grand or too humble to be considered inedible. From the whale to the snail through a crispy pig’s tail and a bucket of tripe in a potent cocktail of blood and entrails everything was a potential comestible. Swan and peacock, gull and woodcock, flattened to spatchcock or brought to the table with feathers in place, garlanded and paraded, and carried shoulder high on pewter platters to the Lord and his cohort. While down in the stifling kitchens maids and boys supped boiled blood and vinegar, seasoned with their own sweat.  On luckier days the lowly might dine on pudding of capon neck, whilst their masters sliced slivers of seal in a meal of noise and carousing with strong ale spurring the revellers on to lewdness and dancing. And every day the cooks would strive to invent yet more glorious dishes and ingenious menus to display their skills and disguise the truth of what they were eating.  They coddled and curdled and spiced and diced and chopped and devilled and stuffed and dreamed up an endless variety of fare. Honey toasts, raspberry soups, comfits and daryoles, all as labour spending as was possible.

  Neville was yanked back to the present day by a brisk rapping on his door, followed by the arrival of Luke Philips. Had he been blindfolded Neville could have swiftly identified the youth by his trademark aftershave. Looking at the boy in front of him Neville doubted he actually shaved at all. 

  ‘The point of knocking,’ Neville told him, ‘is to wait for a response before entering the room. Did you miss that module at management school?’

  ‘Sor-reee!’ said Luke. He stood frowning at Neville, then his gaze shifted to the radiator.

  Neville saw him notice the shoes and socks. He straightened his back.

  ‘You’ve never worked in Japan, have you Philips?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Why, have you?’

  ‘Oh yes, a few years ago. Before I came here,’ Neville lied. ‘Fascinating place. Know a thing or two about business, the Japanese. I was lucky enough to meet one of the true masters of the Shinto Way of Planning Management. And you know the first thing he taught me? The most crucial thing?’

  Luke shook his head, leaning forwards a little.

  ‘Feet,’ said Neville. ‘No real business man in Japan would dream of keeping his shoes on in the office. “He who traps the sole entombs the soul”. That’s what they believe. Only with the feet bare can a man truly utilise his management skills. Remember that, Philips. Remember and learn.’

  ‘Really? Amazing,’ said Luke. There was a short pause then he asked, ‘And do they also say “He who wears a wet towel on his head looks a complete twat.”?’

  Neville scowled.

  ‘What do you want, Philips?’

  ‘Mr Harris asked me to give you this,’ he lobbed a brown folder onto the desk. ‘It’s the planning application for the development at Withy Hill Farm.’

  ‘Yes, thank you. I can read.’ Neville pushed the file to one side, and went back to his computer. Without looking up he said ‘With all your qualifications you won’t need a map to find your way out, will you, Philips?’

  Alone again, Neville peered at the plans on his desk. A quick browse revealed them to be detailed and well prepared. He experienced a sudden flashback to the lovely Lucy lying beneath him on his kitchen table. With a sigh he closed the folder and returned to studying his monitor.

  ‘Give me Medieval England any day,’ he said.

  At Honeysuckle Cottage Rose and Baby were going about their daily chores.  Baby lay on his tartan rug on the living room floor practicing passing a rattle from one hand to the other, while his mother dusted. Not that there was any dust. The flicking of a clean damp cloth was purely preventative. The miniature cottages on the mantelpiece gleamed; the permanently empty crystal vase sparkled; the television screen shone. No corners were cut. Rose crouched down to run her duster along the stripped pine skirting boards. As she did so, something caught her eye. She peered closer. A small slender object was wedge behind the radiator. Using the ornamental brass poker from the hearth she managed to free what turned out to be Ryan’s missing mobile phone. She turned the unfamiliar object over in her hands. Ryan never let her use it.

  ‘Don’t touch it,’ he had warned her. ‘It’s not made for clumsy great hands like yours. You’ll only break it. Have you any idea how much this thing cost? No, course you haven’t.’

  Rose risked wiping it gently with her cloth and even allowed herself a little smile.  Surely he would be pleased she had found it, after all the fuss he had made about it’s being lost.  But somehow it would be her fault it had slipped behind the radiator; something she had done. Better not to be the one who found it. Better to put it somewhere safe where he could find it himself later. She decided to place it on the mantelpiece beside the clock.

  She was about to do just that when Baby let out a sharp cry, having managed to smack himself smartly on the nose with his rattle. Rose hurried to him, picking him up and making soothing noises. His sobs subsided and he began to gurgle happily again as she held him. It was only then that she noticed he had got hold of the phone and was squeezing buttons with his busy little fingers.

  ‘Oh no! You mustn’t do that, sweetheart. Here, give it back to Mummy, there’s a good boy.’

  Baby was not keen to give up his new toy, so that by the time Rose rescued it from his clutches the thing was bleeping and flashing. She returned Baby to his rug and stared at the phone, frantically searching for a way to switch it off. As she squinted at the small screen she saw there was something written there. It seemed her husband was so confident she would never touch his phone he had not bothered to lock it, and Baby’s fumblings had opened his messages.

  Saved message, it said at the top, and then underneath the damning words.

  Hi Hotstuff. Can u get away again Friday night? If so, meet me @ The Larches @ 8. I’ll bring Champagne, u bring fab body of yours. Love Sugarplum.

  Rose read the message again. And again. Of course she had long known about Ryan’s infidelities, but had always managed to close her mind to them. This one could not so easily be ignored. It was right there, in her house, in her hand. Too close to Baby. Too close. 

  She chose what turned out to be the right button to switch off the phone, then carefully wedged it back behind the radiator. She looked at Baby playing so innocently on his rug. She knelt down beside him and held his dear little hand.

  ‘Something will have to be done, Baby,’ she told him. ‘Something will have to be done.’

  But what?

  She picked him up and wandered through the house and into the back garden. She completed a slow circuit, pausing to show Baby the bright new ferns in the bottom hedge. Returning across the lawn, the door into the garage caught her eye. She went inside. The space was spotless and empty, save for a pressure hose, a toolbox, and a workbench. A book lay on top of the workbench. She read the title. ‘Haynes Manual – Subaru Impreza’. She picked it up, giving Baby a little smile, and together they headed back into the house, just in time to hear the post landing on the doormat. 

  Under the usual entreaties from charities and bargain offers from a nearby DIY store was a slim white envelope addressed to Rose. She turned it over in her hand several times before opening it and unfolding the crisp cream paper.

  Dear Mrs Behr, it ran, We are delighted to inform you that your Baby has been judged the winner of the regional final of the Beautiful Babes Competition. We therefore have pleasure in enclosing a cheque for £500, shopping vouchers for Horrocks Department Store, Bournemouth, to the value of £500, and entry details for the National Final, which is to be held in London the week after next….

  Rose gasped and beamed at Baby, who gave a gummy grin in reply. 

  ‘Oh goodness, Baby! London! Imagine that. Imagine.’

  Fliss sat at the kitchen table and dialled Daniel’s number. She rarely troubled him at work, but hadn’t been able to get the idea of a laboratory at Withy Hill Farm out of her head. Daniel could do some digging for her.

  ‘Hi, Babe,’ he answered the phone quickly, but Fliss could hear him tapping away at his keyboard.

  ‘Hi, Dan. Look, I know you’re busy, but I’ve got a favour to ask.’

  ‘For you, my sweet, anything. Shoot.’

  ‘I want you to find out all you can about Withy Hill Farm Enterprises.’

  ‘No problem. What exactly am I trying to discover?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. Something’s not right up there.’

  ‘Ooh, sounds spooky.’

  ‘I saw some plans. They want to build a laboratory.’

  ‘On a chicken farm?’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Just a sec, I’ll do a quick search. Looking forward to this weekend, by the way. Should be able to get away early for a change, well in time for nosh on Friday, so get your best frock ironed and I’ll take you out somewhere.’

  ‘I’m not sure I possess a frock.’

  ‘OK, just your underwear and a mink coat, then.’

  ‘Ha, ha.’

  ‘A man can dream, can’t he?’

  ‘Not if it involves me and fur, he can’t.’

  ‘Ah, here we are, Withy Hill info. Hmm, nothing obviously sinister. They are part of a group. I’ll look up the parent company later and download some stuff for you. All looks pretty innocent so far.’

  ‘Keep looking. I smell a rat.’

  ‘That would be a lab rat, I suppose?’

  ‘You are so much less funny than you think you are, Dan.’

  ‘But you love me anyway, right?’

  ‘See you Friday.’

  As she finished her call the back door burst open and Rhian appeared.

  ‘What are you doing home?’ Fliss wanted to know.

  ‘I live here.’

  ‘You know what I mean, it’s not three o’clock yet. Why aren’t you at school?’

  ‘The scuzzy teacher called in sick and they couldn’t find a replacement, so we got an early bus. OK?’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yeah, I brought a friend home with me. I suppose that is allowed.’

  ‘Of course, you know I like to meet your friends, especially new ones.’

  Rhian called back through the door.

  ‘Mum’s cool, come in Sam.’

  Sam turned out to be a short, dark haired, solemn looking girl, with heavy brows and thick-rimmed glasses. She stood out from Rhian’s previous friends by her extreme and unexpected squareness. She even offered Fliss a firm handshake.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Horton.’

  ‘Please call me Fliss. It’s very good to meet you, too, Sam. Is that short for Samantha?’

  ‘It’s just Sam.’

  ‘Right. Do you live in Barnchester, Sam? Have you let your Mum know where you are? You’re welcome to stay for supper, or for the night if you like.’

  ‘Yes, I do live in Barnchester. And yes, I have informed my parents of my whereabouts. And yes, I would like to stay if it’s not inconvenient.’

  ‘Not at all. What sort of thing do you like to eat? I’ll rustle up some tea.’

  ‘My family is committed to a Vegan diet.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I’m a vegetarian myself…’

  ‘Mum, Sam’s not just a veggie, she’s a proper Vegan.’

  ‘I know, don’t panic, I’ll make a batch of nut burgers and I’ll be really careful about what I put in them.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Horton.’ 

  There was a short silence. Fliss noticed Rhian was grinning, clearly impressed by her new friend’s strangeness.

  ‘Sam’s mother was at Greenham Common, Mum. Her oldest brother was born there. How cool is that? And Sam’s been on six demonstrations. Six!’

  ‘Well, that’s wonderful,’ said Fliss. ‘What were you protesting against?’

  ‘A variety of things. We believe in action, be it a march, a silent protest, or something more direct.’

  ‘Direct? You mean tying yourself to the railings outside 10 Downing Street, or throwing yourself under a horse?’ Fliss risked finding out if Sam had a sense of humour.

  ‘If the cause warrants it.’ 

  Clearly she did not. 

  ‘Well, better not let you two go to the races then.’

  ‘Mum, do you have to be so flippant?’ Rhian was cringing. ‘Just because Sam actually believes in stuff…’

  ‘I don’t doubt her sincerity, Rhian, I just don’t want you doing anything rash.’

  ‘No-one said we were going to do anything.’

  ‘True, but Sam here is clearly an old hand, having been on six marches…’

  ‘Demonstrations,’ Sam corrected.

  ‘I beg your pardon, six demonstrations. You’re new to all this. I’m your mother, I get to do the worrying and fussing; you get to be embarrassed and frustrated. That’s the way it works.’

  ‘Sam’s parents go with her on the demos, they don’t fuss.’

  ‘OK, next outraged uprising of the population we’ll all go. I’ll make Vegan sandwiches, how about that?’

  ‘Mrs Horton,’ Sam adjusted her glasses and regarded Fliss with a long suffering face, ‘we believe demonstrations to be manifestations of the collective subconscious. Indeed, the French for a public demonstration is ‘ une manifestation’. As such it is up to the individual to give voice to that subconscious whenever the need arises. This may not necessarily be in the context of a nationwide protest.’

  ‘Well, I can’t argue with that,’ said Fliss. 

  ‘C’mon, Sam, let’s go upstairs.’ Rhian took her friend’s bag and led the way. ‘Give us a shout when grub’s ready, Mum.’

To be continued…

The post Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Six appeared first on Paula Brackston.

Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Five

Not all chickens are the same. Withy Hill chickens were different.

CHAPTER FIVE

  When a remarkably beautiful woman walks into a room two things happen. The first is that she is noticed. By everyone. Noticed and appraised. The second is that the people in the room are affected. They all undergo subtle changes. The men instinctively suck in their stomachs and puff out their chests. The women lift their chins. The presence of great beauty does not impact so hard on others who inhabit extreme positions on the scale of gorgeousness. Other fantastically beautiful people know they are just that, do not doubt their own fabulousness for one second, and so are not threatened. Such loveliness is the norm for them. Fearsomely unattractive people are also only too aware of their place on the spectrum of loveliness.

  It is everybody in between who will wiggle and squirm.

  The middle aged woman on her way down as her looks crumble could do without another momento mori.

  The balding man who was the college Romeo three decades ago can only look, sigh, and run his fingers through the memory of his hair.

  The young girl on her way up licks her finger to tidy an eyebrow and gets ready to stand comparison.

  The new mother strokes her now empty belly and determines to start those sit ups again.

  The very old man who still hears air-raid sirens tries to remember a time when he wasn’t invisible.

  In this particular room, the immediate result of such gorgeousness was silence. A moment later Cynthia came to.

  ‘Aah, Miss Ferris-Brown, so glad you were able to join us. Everyone, this is Monsieur Lambert’s Personal Assistant, Lucy Ferris-Brown who has kindly agreed to assist us on behalf of the great man himself.’

  There was much nodding and hello-ing and shuffling about through introductions.

  ‘And this is Neville Meatcher,’ Cynthia told the lovely Lucy, ‘our local culinary expert.’

  Although passably good-looking in a harmless, forgettable way, Neville had never enjoyed much success with women. He had had his moments, and of course there had been his doomed engagement, but on the whole he found relationships with females to be more trouble than they were worth. He was used to being pretty much ignored by any young and gorgeous women, should they happen to stray into his orbit. It didn’t bother him. Being ignored was infinitely preferable to receiving the type of attention he suffered from Cynthia.

  It came as something of a surprise, therefore, to find Lucy greeting him with a warm, lingering handshake, gazing at him intently, and apparently hanging on his every word. 

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said awkwardly.

  ‘Anyone sitting here?’ Lucy arranged herself elegantly on the chair next to him, the skirt of her exquisitely cut suit revealing yards of silky leg.

  Neville tried to focus on what Cynthia was saying, but his attention kept getting tweaked by the nose back to Lucy, as wafts of Something Classy and Expensive reached him.

  The meeting meandered on, consisting mostly of Cynthia telling everyone how things would be, Lucy saying what a good idea everything was, Pam’s tummy rumbling, and Miss Siddons nodding earnestly. 

  On Neville’s left Hamlet came and settled himself, leaning heavily against his leg. On his right Lucy sat light as an angel, her own thigh occasionally making a whispering contact with Neville’s. Hamlet’s malodorous breath did battle with Lucy’s sweet perfume somewhere over Neville’s head. He found himself leaning away from the stinking dog, and therefore towards Lucy. Experience told him to expect her to shift in the other direction, but she did not. Instead she seemed to enjoy the proximity, and laughed softly if Neville made even the feeblest of witty remarks.

  So unused was Neville to being flirted with that he took most of the evening to realise what was going on.

  When the meeting came to a close Cynthia announced she would go and make coffee.

  Lucy spoke quietly.

  ‘Bet it’s instant,’ she said.

   Neville nodded.

  ‘More than likely,’ he said.

  ‘I do hate cheap coffee, don’t you? Rather not have anything at all. At home I always use Jamaican Blue Mountain. Beans, of course,’ she said.

 ‘Really? Me too,’ said Neville. ‘There’s no finer coffee, in my opinion. And the fabulous smell when you grind those beans…’

 ‘Mmmmm,’ Lucy closed her eyes in rapture. ‘I’d love a cup of that. Right now,’ she said, eyes still closed.

 ‘Oh well, I could organise that.’

 ‘You could?’ Her eyes sprang open, bright and beaming at Neville.

  ‘No problem. I’ve got my bike outside. I’ll nip back to the flat and get some.’

  ‘Oh,’ something approaching a frown flitted across Lucy’s face. It was quickly replaced by a little smile. ‘Wouldn’t it be so much nicer if we went to your place. Just the two of us. You and me.’ She ran a beautifully manicured finger down his lapel.

  Neville opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out so he shut it again.

  ‘You can tell me all about your little village,’ Lucy went on, ‘so I can tell Claude. I know he’ll want all the details.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course.’ Neville was beginning to blush. ‘I suppose we’d better say goodbye to Cynthia.’

  ‘Oh, let’s not bother her. Let’s just slip away quietly.’

  ‘Right. Good idea.’

   Neville led the way down the hall to the front door. Hamlet insisted on following them, and more than once sniffed Neville’s crotch noisily.

  ‘Look, will you sod off, Hamlet. Go on.’ Neville pushed the dog back into the house and edged outside. ‘There. Sorry about him. He’s harmless, but, well, you can see…’

  ‘Yes. Never could see the point of dogs,’ said Lucy. ‘Especially when they get old and smelly like that one. Oh, is this your bicycle?’

  ‘Yes.’ Neville had never in his life wished more for a sports car.

  ‘Hmm, you must be incredibly fit, riding this everywhere. Does it go very fast?’

   Neville raised his eyebrows. Fond as he was of his bike, he had never considered it a babe magnet.

  ‘Do you want a go?’ he found himself asking.

   Lucy laughed prettily.

  ‘In these shoes? I don’t think pedals were designed for kitten heels. But you could drive the thing. I’ll sit on the handlebars, like they do in romantic movies.’

  ‘Are you sure? They’re quite narrow, and the bell’s not in the ideal place.’

  ‘Oh come on, it’ll be a hoot,’ said Lucy, buttoning up her jacket.

  ‘OK,’ Neville whipped his bicycle clips from his pocket and put them in place. He straddled the bike then turned to Lucy.

  ‘I’m not sure…’

  ‘Just hoik me up. I’m quite light,’ she told him.

  She was indeed no weight at all. Neville was able to lift her onto the handlebars quite easily, her short skirt allowing her legs to dangle either side of the front wheel.

  ‘Oooh!’ she squealed as they set off. ‘You were right about that bell!’

  Neville concentrated on pedalling and steering the worryingly unstable bike. The gravel drive wasn’t the best surface for such an exercise. Just when he more or less had things under control Cynthia’s shrill voice put him off his stride.

  ‘Neville?’ she cried from the front doorstep. ‘Neville, what on earth are you doing? There are things I need to discuss with Miss Ferris-Brown. Bring her back!’

  ‘Quick!’ urged Lucy. ‘Let’s get out of here before she drags us back inside and forces us to drink gnat’s piss coffee.’

  Neville kept his head down and pedalled hard. Cynthia’s entreaties were drowned out by the bellowing bark of Hamlet, who, now released, was giving chase.

  ‘Bugger,’ said Neville.

  ‘Faster!’ cried Lucy.

  Hamlet was closing on them when they reached the end of the drive and broke free of the snare of the gravel. The wheels found smooth tarmac and a downward slope and the bike shot forwards. Too late Neville discovered that Lucy was hampering his access to the rear brake. As they gathered speed down the hill into the village he did not dare apply the front brake for fear of catapulting his passenger into the middle distance. 

  ‘Wheee!’ she cried, holding up her legs. ‘This is lovely!’

  The night was clear and well lit by a pearly moon, so that Neville could not pretend to himself that the spectacle he and Lucy now presented would not be enjoyed by most of the village.

  Without brakes they did not come to a halt until well beyond the far side of the green.

  Lucy was pink cheeked and glowing, her tousled hair and broad smile making her even more beautiful.

  ‘That was fantastic, Neville,’ she slipped nimbly off the bike. ‘You certainly know how to show a girl a good time,’ she said, tugging her skirt back into place.

  They walked back through the village to Neville’s flat. Lucy was more than polite about his little home. They talked as he set about making the coffee.

  ‘You know,’ she told him, ‘Claude is terribly excited about the new partnership with Withy Hill Farm. It’s very important to him.’ She drifted around the kitchen, idly inspecting things.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be a success,’ said Neville. ‘Anything with Claude Lambert’s name on it has got to be a winner.’

  Conversation paused while Neville ground the beans.

  ‘Mmm, smell that,’ he said to her a moment later.

   Lucy stood close to him and inhaled deeply, watching him pour boiling water over the coffee grinds.

  ‘Shall we have some brandy while we’re waiting?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh. Yes. If you like.’

  ‘I noticed you have some rather good Cognac. We can still have the coffee. Later.’

  There was something about the way Lucy said ‘later’ that made Neville prick up his ears. It smacked of ‘afterwards’. Of dot, dot, dot.

  Things were happening too fast for Neville to make sense of. The evening had started with Cynthia and Miss Siddons and boring details of the fundraising event to be chewed over. Now here he was with a stunningly gorgeous woman in his flat smouldering at him and requesting brandy.

  He poured them generous measures. She downed hers where she stood and handed him back the glass for a refill. She sipped the second drink more slowly.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘for the business venture to be truly successful Withy Hill will have to expand. Considerably. Claude has huge plans.’

  ‘I’m sure he does.’ Neville swigged away in an effort to catch up.

  ‘They will need new offices, new buildings at the farm. Bigger production facilities. And, of course, somewhere for research and development.’

  ‘It all sounds very ambitious and exciting.

  ‘Oh it is. Claude is a man of ideas. Of vision. You’ll see that when you meet him.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it very much.’

  ‘The two of you will get on so well, I know you will. You share a passion for food. You believe in excellence. Nothing but the best. No room for compromise.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Neville enthused, draining his glass. ‘Another?’

   Lucy hesitated, then nodded and offered her glass.

  ‘The problem is,’ she said, ‘not everyone understands that sort of single minded dedication. They have no vision, and they are suspicious of those who do.’

  ‘Sad people leading sad lives,’ Neville pronounced, emboldened by brandy and more than ready to agree with anything Lucy said.

  ‘And people like that want to see great people fail. Sometimes they will even go out of their way to condemn and obstruct, just out of spite. As if they can’t stand to see a man realise his dreams.’ Lucy swigged more brandy and hiccupped gently.

  ‘Pitiful,’ said Neville.

  ‘Isn’t it? But I know, Neville, I just know we can count on you, and on your unfailing support.’

  ‘Of course. Abso-bloody-lutely.’

  Neville was standing so close to Lucy now he could see the pulse beating in her deliciously smooth throat.

  ‘That’s why I know you’ll see that the planning applications for Withy Hill go through unopposed.’

  ‘Oh well, you know that sort of thing really isn’t up to me.’

  ‘Oh Neville, don’t be coy. I’ve heard you are a powerful man,’ she purred, swaying a little, the drink seemingly having a strong and immediate effect on her.

  ‘There’s really not much I can do,’ he told her.

  ‘Really?’ Lucy put down her glass and began to play with Neville’s tie. ‘Are you sure? Not even for little me?’ She licked her perfect lips and stepped back, still holding his tie. She wriggled up onto the kitchen table and slowly reeled Neville in. ‘Maybe there’s some way I could make you change your mind,’ she said.

  In the cold, unsexy light of day Neville had once had an argument with his brother-in-law about scruples. Then, when nothing remotely fanciable was at stake, it had been easy to take a lofty view and to accuse Brian of being not moral but scared, in that it was acceptable to fiddle your expense account as long as you didn’t get caught. Neville had insisted that every right-thinking man knew instinctively when something was fair and decent and when it was not. That given, a man of scruples would naturally choose the right path; honour demanded it. A black and white situation every time.

  Now, however, a certain greyness had descended. Perhaps it was an alcoholic fog, or, more likely, the murky mist of lust. Either way, what was being offered to Neville seemed so very much more worthwhile, desirable and important than what was being asked of him. In any case, he could later rationalise, he truly could not influence planning decisions one way or the other, whether he wanted to or not. That this meant he would be doubly taking advantage of The Lovely Lucy was a point he chose to shut his mind to, as she began to unbutton her blouse and all sensible thought fled.

  It had been some considerable time since Neville had had sex with anyone other than himself. He was pleased to find the idea sending the necessary signals to parts of his body which had been living something of a half-life. The sight of Lucy hitching up her Chanel skirt to reveal suspender clad creamy thighs had him fumbling frantically with his belt buckle. This was, by any man’s standards, an ideal sexual encounter. A beautiful woman, and just enough brandy, and sexy underwear, and no commitment and no questions asked. No weeks of tedious dating. No having to say the right thing, or take an interest, or remember birthdays, star signs and pets’ names. Not even any sensitive seduction or tricky foreplay required.

   Sex on a plate. Which somehow mixed sex with food in a way that particularly appealed to Neville.

  As his trousers dropped to his ankles he became cruelly aware that he was still wearing his bicycle clips. Effectively hobbled, Neville teetered for a second or two before falling forwards into the open arms of the Siren on the table before him.

  ‘Ooh, so you like things a bit rough, do you, Neville darling?’ said Lucy, taking his lunge as a signal. ‘Oh yes, that works for me too!’ she told him huskily, flinging up her legs and hooking her feet around his back.

  ‘Oh Lucy,’ moaned Neville, kissing her hard. She kissed him back so enthusiastically his lip began to bleed.

  Suddenly, into this maelstrom of lust came the insistent buzzing of Neville’s doorbell.

  ‘What? For pity’s sake,’ he hissed, ‘who can that be?’

  ‘Never mind. Ignore it. They’ll go away.’ Lucy started kissing him again.

  The buzzing continued. Then, just as Neville was on the point of adding Lucy to a short but memorable list in his autobiography, he was halted by the unmistakeable sound of Cynthia’s voice.

  ‘Neville? Neville!’ she shouted through the letterbox. ‘Neville, it’s me, Cynthia.’

  ‘Oh God, I don’t believe it!’

  ‘Don’t answer. She’ll go away,’ panted Lucy.

  ‘You don’t know her – she’ll never give up.’ Neville disentangled himself from Lucy. Cynthia had had an immediate and unmissable effect on him.

  Lucy smiled sweetly.

  ‘Never mind, darling. You take a moment to get your, er, breath back. I’ll go and wait for you in the bedroom.’

  ‘I will. Sorry. Bedroom’s through there. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  ‘Neville?’ Cynthia was hammering on the door now.

  ‘Coming!’ Neville shouted, causing loud giggles from Lucy. He cursed Cynthia as he descended the stairs, hastily doing up his trousers.

  As soon as he opened the door Cynthia stepped through it. Neville all but leapt in front of her to bar her route to the stairs.

  ‘What is it, Cynthia? What do you want?’

  ‘You left without these,’ she held up the print outs from the meeting. ‘I knew you would want them.’

  ‘Couldn’t it have waited until morning?’

  ‘I suppose it could. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’ She peered up the stairs.

  ‘No, I was just going to bed. Headache, you know.’

  ‘Your lip is bleeding,’ Cynthia told him.

  ‘What? Oh, cut myself shaving I expect. Now if you don’t mind…’

  ‘Where is Miss Ferris-Brown?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘The last time I saw her she was perched on your bicycle,’ Cynthia pointed out.

  ‘I gave her a lift.’

 ‘To?’

  ‘The telephone box on the green. To call a taxi. To take her to the station. To catch a train.’

  ‘She could have used my telephone. And anyway, don’t all young people have mobile phones these days?’

  ‘Poor signal here, apparently. Look, it was good of you to bring these round, but as I think I mentioned, I have got a headache, so…’

  ‘Shall I come up and make you some cocoa?’

  Neville stared at the plain, lightly moustached, overweight, middle-aged, bossy woman in front of him and had no trouble declining her kind offer. He experienced a fleeting lurch of guilt and pity, but gritted his teeth against them. With a gentle shove he bid her goodnight and firmly shut and bolted the door, then hurried back upstairs. This time he removed his bicycle clips and shoes before going in search of Lucy.

  He found her, lovely as ever, quite naked save for his Egyptian cotton sheets, draped diagonally across his bed, and deeply, soundly, heavily asleep.

  ‘Damn it,’ said Neville.

  Baby beamed at the photographer. Rose stood back, glowing. Here was a surely a true star. The sitting room had been transformed into a photographer’s studio and Baby was positioned on a sheepskin rug, a backdrop of blue sky and fluffy clouds showing off his sparkling little eyes to perfection. All around were lights and umbrellas and reflectors and gadgets and gizmos. Unfazed by any of it, the infant smiled and chortled and held poses beautifully.

  ‘He’s a natural, Mrs Behr,’ said the photographer. ‘A joy to work with. Wish they were all as co-operative as this. That’s it, big smile, look this way, little fella. Lovely.’

  Snap, snap. Flash, flash.

  ‘Just the ticket, young ‘un.’ The photographer squinted back into his view finder.     ‘Lovely, lovely. Yes, like I say, my job would be a thousand times easier, if they were all like your little man here.’

  Rose smiled. Having people praise Baby was high on her list of Things She Really Liked. And the photographer was clearly right – Baby was revelling in the attention, not a bit camera shy or unsettled by all the bright lights and flashes. He appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself.

  As if to confirm this, Baby let out a tuneful and spontaneous giggle.

  ‘Reckon you’ve got a winner here, Mrs Behr,’ the photographer continued to talk as he clicked. ‘I’ve done hundreds of these baby shoots in my time, seen some corkers, and some down right pug-uglies, don’t mind telling you. You’d be amazed.’

  Click, click. Pop, flash, whirr.

  ‘Now junior here, he’s got star quality. Spotted it the minute I say him. And he loves the camera. That’s lovely, hold that…Crucial, for this sort of thing. No good looking cute and cuddly if they start screaming at the sight of my tripod.’

  Rose, by now quite pink with pleasure, waved an encouraging rattle at Baby. Any misgivings she may have had about subjecting the twinkling little light of her life to being photographed had long since vanished. Baby was loving every second of the fuss and focus.

  The unexpected slamming of the front door caused both Rose and Baby to jump.

  ‘Rose? Rose!’ Ryan shouted as he stomped down the hall to the kitchen. ‘Where the fuck’s she got to now?’

  Seconds later he arrived in the sitting room.

  ‘There you are. Didn’t you hear me calling for you? Why didn’t you answer? My day’s already pear sodding shaped enough without you playing silly buggers.’

  All smiles vanished from the room. Baby stopped cooing and gurgling and gazed mutely at his father. The photographer paused, shutter release cable in hand, for once with nothing to say. Rose took a step towards Baby. She opened her mouth, but Ryan gave her little opportunity to speak.

  ‘I’ve lost my bastard mobile,’ he told her, pulling cushions of the sofa. ‘Got all the way to the office before I realised it wasn’t in the car.’

  ‘Have you tried your briefcase?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Of course I’ve tried my sodding briefcase. D’you think I’m stupid?’ He abandoned wrecking the sofa and started on the CD rack.

  ‘I don’t think it will be in there,’ said Rose.

  ‘Oh don’t you?’ Ryan’s fury was reaching dangerous levels. ‘Well where do you think it is, then, if you’re so clever all of a sudden? Eh? You tell me where the bastard thing is.’

  Baby began to whimper. Rose scooped him up and jiggled him gently. She made no attempt to answer Ryan.

  ‘You’re bloody useless, woman,’ he said, storming out of the room. ‘I can’t waste any more time, some of us have to go to work. Just look for it, will you, if you’re not too busy,’ he yelled back at her as he thumped out of the house.

  It took some moments for Ryan’s turbulence to leave the room.  Eventually the photographer found his voice again.

  ‘Well, I think I’ve got what I need,’ he said brightly. ‘Yes, I think we’ve some cracking shots of our new little superstar here. You wait and see.’

  He busied himself dismantling, disconnecting, and packing, chatting away all the while.

  Still holding Baby close, Rose turned to the window so that this stranger, who had witnessed her humiliation, should not also see the lone tear she failed to hold back.

  At Withy Hill Farm Fliss was at last nearing the end of her cleaning stint. The Christian’s had had a drinks party the night before, and she had spent nearly an hour on her knees battling with red wine stains, cursing the sadist who dreamt up ‘Wheaten Whisper’ as a carpet colour.

  ‘Ten more minutes,’ she told herself, ‘then freedom. Thank God.’ 

  She stood up and checked the room for any grubbiness she might have missed.

  ‘Pretty good,’ she announced. ‘Perfect, in fact. Should keep even Mrs Christian happy.’

  ‘Ahh, Fliss, here you are,’ Mrs Christian appeared as if from nowhere. ‘Who were you talking to?’

  ‘Oh, no-one. Just humming.’

  ‘I see. Well, when you’ve finished in here, could you do the study. Michael is out today, so you won’t be disturbing him.’

  ‘That’s alright then.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said, that’s no problem, Mrs Christian.’

  ‘Good. I’m going into Barnchester. See you on Friday.’

  Fliss snatched up her duster and hauled the Hoover after her into the study.

  ‘Right,’ she addressed the leather and mahogany. ‘What can’t be done in here in ten minutes doesn’t get done.’

  She vacuumed briefly, not bothering to move any furniture, then set about tidying the desk, flicking her duster over executive toys.  As she shuffled papers into a neat pile the words ‘planning application’ caught her eye. 

  She looked over her shoulder to check Mrs Christian wasn’t about to surprise her again. Pulling out the document, she read further. First glance revealed a straightforward application for a small new office building, and two new chicken sheds. Closer inspection, however, revealed something altogether more sinister.

  A fourth building, positioned behind the others, had not one single window, and its title made Fliss pale. Clearly written beneath the architect’s drawings were the words ‘Proposed Laboratory.’

The post Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Five appeared first on Paula Brackston.

Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Four

A tale of cooks, crooks and chooks.

   An hour later Daniel was helping her lay the table.

 ‘Rhian!’ Fliss shouted up the stairs. ‘Lunch is ready. Get yourself down here.’

  ‘Yeah, coming.’

  ‘Now, please!’

  ‘This smells delicious, Babe,’ Daniel said. ‘And those roasties are a triumph, as always.’ He slipped his arm around her waist as she passed, planting a kiss on her throat.

  ‘Dan!’ she laughed, wriggling from his grasp, ‘the gravy’s going to boil over. Let go.’ She removed the pan from the heat and called Rhian again, ‘It’s on the table!’

  ‘No need to shout,’ her daughter said as she appeared at the door. She had about her the air of one being forced to do something hugely unreasonable. Whilst not actually frowning, there was a darkness shading her young features that suggested intense disapproval. Of everything and everyone.

  ‘Ah, there you are. Hope you’re hungry, there’s loads here.’

  ‘Drinks, ladies?’ Daniel asked. ‘A nice clean Pinot Grigio perhaps, to complement the meal?’ With a flourish he took the wine from the fridge and made a point of offering it to Rhian for inspection. 

  ‘I’ll have water,’ she said, reaching past him for a bottle of Evian.

  ‘Fliss? You’ll join me in a glass, won’t you.’

  ‘Yes please. Mind your backs, chicken coming through.’ She placed the meat on the table, relieved to have got the cooking over with.

  Rhian frowned at the awkward angle of the bird’s limbs.

  ‘What happened to it?’

  ‘Nothing. What do you mean?’

  ‘Well look at it. Its legs are all wonky.’

   Daniel moved over for a closer look.

  ‘Hmm, does look a bit dodgy. More battered hen than battery, I’d say.’

   Fliss saw nothing remotely funny in the situation.

   ‘It most certainly is not a battery chicken, nor has it suffered any ill treatment whatsoever, alive or dead. This sort of thing is unavoidable sometimes when you are stuffing fowl, as the two of you would know if you’d ever done it. Now sit down and let’s eat.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be scrumptious, Babe. You know I love your cooking. Here,’ he poured her a generous glass of wine, ‘get some of this down your lovely neck.’

 Fliss fortified herself with a few gulps of her drink, then did her best to carve. She wished the others wouldn’t watch so closely while she was doing it.

  ‘Dan, help yourself to veg. Rhian, come on, don’t let it get cold. Stuffing, anyone?’

  At last they were all seated in front of platefuls of food. Fliss nibbled at a roasted yam. She noticed Rhian eyeing her chicken suspiciously.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with it, I told you.’

  ‘Why can’t we have organic chicken? Sharon’s Mum always buys organic.’

  ‘Sharon’s Mum has an enormous divorce settlement to squander. She can afford to eat organic, sadly we cannot.’

  ‘It’s embarrassing, being poor,’ complained Rhian.

  ‘Then don’t tell anyone.’ Fliss replied.

  ‘Everyone knows.’

  ‘I don’t see how. And anyway, who is ‘everyone’? And why do you care what they think?’

  ‘It’s obvious,’ Rhian stabbed at a potato but didn’t eat it. ‘For a start we don’t even have a car.’

  ‘We don’t need a car.’

  ‘Yes we do. I’ll be always having to cadge lifts and get my friends’ mums to take me places, now that we live out here. Assuming I ever make any friends in this Hicksville place. It’ll be humiliating.’

  Daniel tried to lighten the tone.

  ‘Is this where I’m supposed to say things like, ‘good for the soul’ and ‘character forming’?’

  ‘No,’ Fliss warned him, ‘this is where you’re supposed to top up my glass and say nothing.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Rhian tried another angle, ‘I think it’s hypocritical of you, feeding me this. You’re always banging on about healthy food, you don’t eat this stuff, but it’s OK for me to.’

  ‘I don’t eat any meat, expensively organic or otherwise. And this is perfectly good food, Withy Hill chickens…’

  ‘Are full of God knows what,’ Rhian interrupted, ‘and we’re only eating it because you’ve taken a cleaning job up there and your new boss gave you a freebie.’

  ‘All the staff get a discount, and I told you the farm has a reputation for quality food. They supply posh restaurants in London, for heaven’s sake. I wouldn’t feed you anything questionable. Now can we just eat, please.’

 But Rhian had pointedly put down her knife and fork.

  ‘Daniel could pay for decent meat,’ she declared. ‘He can afford it.’

   There was a crackling pause where most of the oxygen seemed to disappear from the air in the kitchen.  Fliss knew the best course of action would be to ignore the remark, but she could see Daniel about to defend himself. 

  ‘Don’t be rude, Rhian,’ she said quickly.

  ‘I’m just stating facts. It was the same in London, he’s happy enough to stay with us at weekends, he could pay something towards…’

  ‘Daniel contributes exactly what I ask him for.’

  ‘Huh, a few bottles of gnat’s piss wine and the odd pub lunch. Big deal.’

   Daniel could stay silent no longer.

  ‘I’d willingly give more, really, it’s your mother who…’

  ‘Shut up, Daniel,’ said Fliss, rather more sharply than she had intended. ‘Rhian, get on with your lunch. When you contribute to the housekeeping, then you can have a say in how it’s spent. OK?’

  ‘Oh great!’ Rhian stood up, noisily pushing her chair back. ‘I’m supposed to get a job now as well as school just so we don’t have to eat crap food. Well fuck it! You can keep your toxic chicken!’

  ‘Rhian! Don’t speak to me like that…’

  But Fliss was talking to an empty space, her words lost in the slamming of doors as her daughter charged back to her room. Fliss felt her already flimsy appetite evaporate entirely. She looked at Daniel beseechingly.

  ‘Don’t take any notice, Babe,’ he told her. ‘Hormones.’

  Fliss had been going to alert him to the flap of rubber glove he was about to eat with his mouthful of stuffing, but changed her mind and watched him chew.

CHAPTER  FOUR

  Fliss considered the supine body in front of her.  It was a body that had seen too many good meals; enjoyed too many large vodka and tonics; survived too many late nights; inhaled too many cigarettes; and been a stranger to exercise all its fifty-nine years. It passed through Fliss’s mind that women are judged harshly for such a lifestyle, and that had Pam been a man she could have been proud of her world-weary physique, letting it speak of high living and adventure. The cruel truth Pam had to live with was that no amount of lippy and mascara applied myopically, mouth stretched and eyes surprised, would ever again cause heads to turn. Unless they turned away.

  Fliss knew Pam was hoping for a miracle transformation.Which was why she was lyingon the bar an hour before opening time letting Fliss place crystals all over her.As if she could do anything about a career of smoking and drinking and overeating.  Fliss tried to focus. In her mind she ran through the lengthy list of aches and minor ailments Pam gave her at the start of the session. She selected a large amethyst from her collection. It was heavy and surprisingly warm in her hand. The purple of the stone was darker at the base, diluting to clear crystal at the spiky tips, reminding Fliss of a swiftly sucked Popsicle. She gently placed the gemstone on Pam’s brow knowing the corresponding chakra to be the same colour, allowing a connection. 

  Fliss consulted her reference book, checking her theories, trying not to let the pages make telltale noises. Amethyst for centring, she read, for confidence and general healing. And garnet, of course, garnet. 

  She was finding it hard to concentrate. The week had been a long one, preceded by a weekend without Daniel. Heavy workload, he had claimed. Needed the time to get on top of things paperwork-wise. Reasonable enough, she told herself. But still she harboured suspicions that his absence might have something to do with Rhian’s behaviour the week before. Her increasing rudeness towards Daniel was reaching an unpleasant level, and Fliss was unsure what to do about it. Still, it made a change from worrying about money. Having secured two cleaning jobs in the village within a week of moving in, at least she had something which could be called an income. And the odd Crystal Healing session was a little extra cash.

 Her attention was dragged back to her uncomplaining client by a low rumbling, which Fliss eventually identified as the sound of Pam snoring.

  ‘Pam?’ Fliss gently squeezed the older woman’s shoulder. The snoring stuttered and hiccupped, rounding off with a loud snort.

  ‘What? What’s that? Finished already?’ Pam sat up stiffly. ‘Well done, Fliss. Christ I feel better for that. You can work magic with those stones of yours, my girl. Magic.’  She swung her legs round and sat heavily on the edge of the bar. ‘You wait till Pete has a go. He’s gonna love this. Now, how about a coffee before you start on the Gents?’

  Fliss winced at the mention of her least favourite cleaning task. Somehow the job felt even more revolting following so closely the gentle activity of working with crystals.

  ‘I’ll have a rosehip thanks, Pam. I’ve got a some with me.’ She fished a box of herbal teas from her bag. 

  Fliss gazed wearily at the lounge bar as her drink infused in a mug declaring itself to be a present from Mallorca. Pam had told her of all the plans she and Pete had for the place when they bought it; how they were going to transform it from a modest boozer to an up beat, happening place with live music and quality bar food. They had not reckoned on the entrenched preferences of the locals, the lack of passing trade, or the dwindling numbers of patrons generally due to stringently enforced drink-driving laws. The designer bottled lagers had gathered dust in the cellar. The chrome and leather barstools had not been appreciated by the undiscerning bums that buffed them. The green Thai curry with wild rice had failed to excite interest. Even the live music had left the ungrateful clientele unimpressed. Still they had persevered until a spontaneous piece of market research in the public bar had revealed all but one band to be considered second best to silence. Pam had finally thrown up her hands, installed a huge TV for football matches, and doubled the orders of pork scratchings, her dreams of a high-class eatery disappearing as swiftly as the specials on the chalk smudged board.

  As she headed for the urinals Fliss wondered if her own hopes and aspirations would suffer the same fate.

  At Honeysuckle Cottage Rose was, by contrast, enjoying her cleaning tasks. It had only been an hour since Ryan left for his overnight trip, and already the house felt lighter, bigger, and friendlier. Of course, Rose no more believed in the existence of the Manchester Estate Agents Conference than she did the existence of the tooth fairy, but she would not challenge her husband about it. He made up conferences to excuse his absences when it suited him. She knew he lied, and that whichever girl from the office, or one of the nightclubs in Barnchester, was currently in favour would be enjoying his company. She also knew he would deny it with his dying breath. She knew too that there was nothing she could say or do that would stop him going. The betrayal was hurtful enough without confirming her own lack of significance in his life further. In any case, she had become accustomed to his behaviour. It was simply the way things were; the way things had been in their marriage for some time. Except for one crucial difference; now she had Baby.

  As she sprayed the mahogany-look nest of tables with BeesKnees she planned how she and Baby would spend their 48 hours of precious uninterrupted time together. While he was having his morning nap she would cook a batch of sweet potato puree, freezing it in ice cube trays, saving some for his lunch. When he woke up she would sit with him on his tartan rug in the sitting room and together they would explore things that rattled and squeaked and rustled. She would coax from him smiles and gurgles and tell him she loved him, speaking aloud words she could never in her life have said to another adult. After lunch she would take him out in the pram so that he could benefit from the spring air, and so that the world, (or at least her small corner of it) could see how lucky she was.  Tonight she would take time pressing his little clothes, and she would sleep in the single bed next to his cot, so that she could watch him sleep. 

  The ringing of the telephone startled her, catching her in such indulgent thoughts.

  ‘Mrs Behr? It’s Martin Cripps here, from the Barnchester Echo.’

  ‘Oh, hello.’

  ‘I’m ringing to let you know that you are the lucky winner of our Barnchester Bonnie Baby competition. Or rather, your baby is!’ Mr Cripps laughed at his own little joke.

  ‘Yes, I see. Thank you.’ Rose did not sound surprised because she was not. She, after all, knew Baby to be the most beautiful infant in all the land. It was only natural to her that, given a glimpse of him, everyone else should agree.

  Mr Cripps was a little deflated by her muted response.

  ‘This means that Baby Behr is automatically entered into the regional final, and as part of your prize we will be sending along the Echo’s very own photographer to create a wonderful portrait of the little chap. This will be yours to keep, along with the £100 cash, of course. And you are free to order as many copies as you like.’

  ‘Oh, thank you very much.’

   Mr Cripps gave up trying.

  ‘So, when would be a convenient time for our photographer to call? Say Tuesday of next week?’

 Rose did not need to consult a non-existent diary to tell her she had no other engagements next Tuesday.

  ‘Can he come at about eleven?’ She knew Baby would have finished his morning nap by then, and would be at his dimpling best.

  As she resumed her polishing Rose smiled to herself and began to sing a nursery rhyme in a clear, high voice that seldom ventured out.

  Neville pedalled slowly, and more than a little reluctantly, towards The Vicarage. The evening was already a sweet one, and he could think of any number of better things to be doing than heading for a meeting at Cynthia Danby’s house. His bike was still not running as smoothly as it should have been, following the previous week’s crash, and the idea of tinkering with it in the little sunny yard behind his flat was a tempting one. But he knew he could not escape Cynthia and her plans so easily. He reminded himself why he agreed to get involved in her fundraising event in the first place.

  ‘Claude Lambert,’ he said aloud, adding a silent prayer that the great chef would stick by his promise to be the main attraction, and not lose his nerve and remember a prior engagement after a few more doses of Cynthia. 

  Neville’s bicycle crunched gravel beneath its slim wheels as he steered up the drive which curved to the front of the house. He had always thought the building particularly unattractive but undeniably imposing. Its spires, pointy windows and angular lines were softened a little by the warmth of the local stone, but not enough to stop it being a foreboding dwelling. 

  As always when reaching the threshold of The Vicarage, however, there was something which exercised Neville’s mind far more than Victorian Gothic Architecture. And it was with dread that he heard the unmistakable sound of that something approaching. He dismounted, hastily leant his bike against the wall, and hammered on the door. He even yanked on the rusting bell-pull, though he knew this to be a reliably futile activity. Had the bell still been attached to the thing, its ringing would in any case have been drowned out by the monstrous rasping bark of Cynthia’s revolting dog. 

  Neville could hear the creature thundering around the side of the house and knew in another moment it would be upon him. He tried the handle, but the door was locked. Cursing Neighbourhood Watch and all its crime prevention leaflets he turned to face the inevitable. 

  Cynthia’s Great Dane may once have lived up to that description, but in its sunset years it was a sorry excuse for its breed. Being called Hamlet seemed a cruel joke now. Arthritis had slowed its gait to a stiff-legged shamble. The steely grey of its coat had acquired rust patches of eczema. It blundered about squinting through matching cataracts, guided mostly by its nose, which had become immune to its own fearful pong.

  ‘Good boy, Hamlet. It’s only me,’ Neville knew the terrible hound to be friendly, but wished to prevent the usual enthusiastic greeting in all its wet smelliness. He held his hand out to be sniffed. Hamlet failed to notice and advanced, wagging and panting, jaws wide open, so that Neville’s hand disappeared into its fetid mouth.  Neville gasped as the dog chewed playfully before letting him go.

  ‘Oh for pity’s sake! Get down, Hamlet! You disgusting creature. No, I don’t want to be licked. Where is your mistress? Cynthia!’ He thumped on the door again, dog drool running down his arm. 

  Hamlet moved in for an embrace, standing to place a heavy paw on each of Neville’s shoulders, pinning him against the door. At the same moment Cynthia could be heard unbolting the lock. Neville struggled free of Hamlet’s clutches just in time to avoid the indignity of falling flat on his back at Cynthia’s feet.

  ‘Ah, Neville! There you are. Come in, come in, darling boy. You’ve no time to play with Hamlet now.  Come along, follow me. We’re in the dining room.’

  Neville quickly caught Cynthia up, hoping Hamlet would lose interest in him, but the dog, like its owner, was more than a little keen on Neville.

  In the dining room the shutters were still open, so that low sunbeams fell across the room allowing a fine display of dancing dust. Half way down the landing strip of a table sat Sally Siddons, looking uncomfortably out of place. How much better suited she was to her more usual surroundings of the village Post Office. Her smallness and frailty fitted among the bitty detail of chocolate bars, penny chews, envelopes and stamps. Here she was somehow not drawn to scale, set against the muscular furniture, high ceilings, gigantic paintings, and lawn-sized Persian rugs.

  ‘Now, we’ve made a start on things,’ Cynthia returned to her seat at the head of the table. ‘Breaking with protocol to carry on with people missing, but needs must. And given the disappointingly short list of volunteers there is not a moment to be wasted. Miss Siddons has kindly agreed to act as Secretary for the Nettlecombe Hatchet Event Committee – which we will refer to as NHEC for simplicity’s sake.’

  Miss Siddons smiled sweetly and nodded her bouncing grey curls in Neville’s direction. 

  Neville knew exactly why the harmless woman had been press ganged into service. She would have sooner fallen on her neatly sharpened pencil than disagreed with their host. This effectively gave Cynthia two votes on anything and everything, just to be extra sure that things were done her way. Neville took a seat as far from Cynthia as politeness would allow. Hamlet sat heavily beside him.

  ‘Is anyone else coming?’ he asked.

  ‘We are expecting Pamela from the Soldier’s Arms – she expressed an interest, being in a catering business of sorts herself. Then of course Mr Christian is keen to be involved, as Withy Hill Farm is to be the venue for our event. However, he is an exceptionally busy man, so we may not see much of him. We will have to content 

ourselves with the use of his facilities, and of course the not inconsiderable benefit of the Withy Hill reputation for fine food. Monsieur Lambert will not be able to attend our meetings in person, though I understand he may send his Personal Assistant on occasion. He wishes to be kept informed of our progress. I must say it is a coup indeed to have such a well-known and highly respected chef as the main attraction for our fundraising occasion. I’m certain he will draw a good crowd.’ She fixed Neville with a meaningful stare. ‘There are others who share our passion, mon cher.’ 

  Neville was determined to steer a strictly business course through the stormy waters of Cynthia’s infatuation with him.

  ‘So,’ he cleared his throat, reluctantly scratching Hamlet’s ears to keep him from climbing onto his lap, ‘it would seem to me that we need to make a plan. A countdown to the big day, with tasks identified and allotted, so that everyone knows what they are supposed to be doing and when they are supposed to be doing it.’

  ‘Quite so…’

  ‘And we should decide what shape the day itself is going to take, down to the smallest detail.’ Neville surprised himself with his own boldness. Not many people would dare to interrupt Cynthia. He quickly lost his nerve, however, ‘Don’t you think so?’ he added.

 Miss Siddons nodded again, resembling more and more a toy dog on a car parcel shelf. 

  ‘I do indeed,’ Cynthia enthused, ‘which is why I have jotted down one or two points which I believe will ensure the day runs smoothly.’ She launched into a lengthy description of the Nettlecombe Hatchet Event, starring Monsieur Claude Lambert.

   It is a vision of such detail that Neville wondered why she was bothering with a committee. Clearly the involvement of anyone else was for form’s sake. He listened to her increasingly excited portrayal of the planned day. There was to be a ‘Food Hall’ selling local produce; entertainments and activities for children (to include a bouncy castle and pony rides); a refreshment tent; music provided by a local string quartet (Neville had particular misgivings about this); and, of course, the cookery demonstration by their celebrity chef, followed by a question and answer session, and book signing. As if this weren’t more excitement than a person could stand, the competition for the best local recipe (to be included in Monsieur Lambert’s next book) would be judged on the day. 

  Neville was seriously beginning to question Cynthia’s motives for having him involved at all, when all sensible thought was rendered impossible by Hamlet suddenly entering into a frenzy of wheezy barking. Cynthia added to the din by bellowing at the dog as it lumbered towards the hall. It was brought to a sudden halt in the doorway by the equally solid frame of Pam, who repelled its advances with a stealthy slap.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Cynthia. Gents flooded again. Still, I’m not the only one who can’t make it here on time. Look who I found on your doorstep.’

  She moved aside. Neville craned his neck to get a better view, and into the room stepped the loveliest, sexiest, most beautiful, most elegant, most delectable, and all round most gorgeous woman he had ever seen.

To be continued….

The post Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Four appeared first on Paula Brackston.

Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Three

A tale of cooks, crooks and chooks.

Skyla trained her Fan Tail Bantam to do tricks.

CHAPTER THREE

  Blood surged through Neville’s body and his breathing was deep and ragged. He lowered his head and redoubled his labours, the effort forcing from him short, undignified grunts. He tightened his grip on the handlebars. The top of the hill was close, and beyond it lay the sweet reward of fast freewheeling down the two remaining miles to Barnchester. 

  By the time he reached the summit his bicycle was wobbling and zigging with every push of the pedals. A final spurt of effort achieved his goal, and with a modest whoop of delight he was careering down the slope, the air drying his briny face, while speed and triumph re-energised his body.  His heart beat changed from the erratic salsa which accompanies exertion to the rock rhythm of exhilaration. 

  He did not, however, have long to enjoy this blissful state. 

  He was at first only dimly aware of the vehicle approaching from behind. Gradually the timbre of its engine caused him sufficient concern to glance over his shoulder. He glimpsed the distinctive white and red livery of a Withy Hill lorry, and registered, too late, that it was descending at an unsafe speed. The lane was narrow, its path twisting, and its surface patchy. Neville attempted to hug the verge, felt his front wheel wobble perilously, overcorrected, hit an unnecessary kerbstone, and left the road. As the lorry swept past, Neville and his bicycle described a high arc through the air, the finishing point of which was at the centre of an impressive bramble thicket.

  ‘Shit! Ow!’ exclaimed Neville, and then ‘Aah! Sod it!’ as his hands grasped nettles.

   It took him a full ten minutes to right himself and extricate his stinging, bleeding body from the vicious plants. He hauled his bike back onto the tarmac. It had fared better than he, but he feared punctures. His own wounds were not serious, but they were many and unattractive. He could feel blood dripping from a particularly nasty scratch on his cheek, and more from his throbbing nose. His hands were a mass of small cuts and stings. He spent a further ten minutes removing vegetation from himself and his bike before proceeding stiffly on his way. By the time he reached his sister’s house, he was feeling quite unwell.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Neville! Whatever happened?’ Sandra ushered him into the kitchen the better to examine his injuries.

  The twins bounded into the room with energy levels peculiar to seven-year-olds, plastic laser guns at the ready.

  ‘Uncle Neville, you’re a mess! Did you come off your bike?’ they chorused.

  Neville was spared the trouble of a reply by the appearance of his brother-in-law, Brian.

  ‘Good grief, Neville. You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards!’

  ‘Forwards, actually,’ Neville corrected, ‘and thrown rather than dragged. But otherwise your powers of deduction do you all credit. Ouch! That stuff stings.’

  ‘Don’t be such a baby.’ Sandra continued to dab at him with something that smelled suspiciously like loo cleaner.  ‘Really, it’s not a very dignified way to behave, flying about the countryside on that bike of yours, falling into hedges. At your age.’

  Neville wondered how he had gone from baby to geriatric in the blink of his sister’s eye.

  ‘I’m forty-five,’ he said.

  ‘My point exactly. There. That’s the worst of it off your face. When did you last have a tetanus jab?’

  ‘Don’t overreact, Sandra,’ said Brian. ‘It’s only a few scratches. Nothing a stiff drink won’t put right. Isn’t that so, Neville?’ he asked, heading for the brandy.

  ‘You shouldn’t give alcohol to people in shock,’ Sandra told him.

  ‘He’s not in shock, are you Neville?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Sandra tutted and raised her eyes, apparently addressing the ceiling.

  ‘People don’t know they are in shock. That’s the point. They’re too shocked to be able to tell. Do try to be sensible, Brian.’

  ‘What’s tetanus?’ asked one of the twins.

  ‘Used to be called Lockjaw,’ their father revealed with some relish. ‘Very nasty. Patient goes rigid, can’t open his mouth. Bites through his own tongue sometimes.’

  ‘Wow, gross!’ the twins agreed, jostling for a better view of their uncle. 

  Neville was sure they had never found him so interesting.

  ‘I think I’ll just go and wash my hands.’ Neville made his way unsteadily to the toilet under the stairs.

  Behind the firmly locked door he peered at his reflection in the mirror. It was not a reassuring sight. His face looked as if he had had an encounter with a rabid porcupine. It was clear the porcupine won. The longest gash, which had at last stopped bleeding, ran in an unflattering straight line across his cheek and over his nose. Not for him some rakish scar accentuating handsome bone structure. His nose, which must have briefly connected with something solid, was already swollen and pink. A series of nicks at the corner of his mouth gave him a sickly grin.

  ‘Neville Meatcher,’ he told himself, ‘you are a pathetic sight.’

  Once back in the kitchen he ignored Sandra’s warnings of imminent coma and accepted Brian’s brandy. The twins, sensing Neville was in fact in control of his jaw, tore off to be noisy and destructive elsewhere.

  The first few gulps of Napoleon’s finest began to spread a welcome numbness through Neville’s body. He sat on a stool at the breakfast bar, watching his sister busying about in the kitchen, and started to feel better. The doorbell abruptly halted his recovery.

  ‘That’ll be Wendy,’ Sandra spoke from the depths of the fridge. ‘Let her in will you, Brian?’

  Neville had forgotten about Wendy. He had to make a conscious effort to stop his shoulders sagging. He really did not feel up to making polite conversation with someone he couldn’t ever remember meeting. Seconds later he was doing his best to smile at a particularly tall, skinny, yet unmissably full-bosomed young woman.

  She held out a hand.

  ‘Hello, Neville. We met at Brian and Sandra’s New Year’s do,’ she laughed softly, ‘I don’t suppose you remember me. Oh dear, what has happened to your face?’

  ‘Fell off his bike,’ Brian enlightened her. ‘Man’s a speed freak, Wendy. Knows no fear. Lives for excitement. Isn’t that so, Neville?’

  Neville felt about as exciting as a candlewick bedspread, but tried not to show it. He took Wendy’s hand, but then felt silly shaking it while still sitting down. Standing up, however, proved to be a mistake. Wendy was standing so close that there was now no space between them at all. Neville found his proximity to her cleavage, which was prettily framed in a floral summer dress, distinctly unnerving. 

  He squinted painfully at her, trying a brighter smile, but feared the cuts on his face turned it into a lunatic, lopsided leer.

  ‘Of course I remember you, Wendy,’ he lied. ‘How could I not?’ he insisted, unfortunately allowing his gaze to slide back to her chest. 

  ‘Brian,’ Sandra snapped, ‘for heaven’s sake, take our guests into the lounge. Don’t keep them hanging about in the kitchen. You haven’t even offered Wendy a drink yet. Sorry, Wendy.  You’d think we never had visitors. Now off you go. Make yourselves comfortable next door. I’ll be in soon as I’ve seen to the parsnips.’

  Neville experienced a flashback to a previous encounter with some of his sister’s parsnips and made a mental note to give them a miss.

  Brian did as he was told before disappearing upstairs to quell quarrelling twins.   Neville and Wendy were left sitting uncomfortably on comfortable chairs.

  ‘Do you race?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your bike. Brian said…’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Neville shook his head, causing the room to spin a little. ‘It’s just my way of getting around really. Quite tame. I don’t often end up like this.’

  ‘How did you come to fall off?’ Wendy crossed her long, thin legs, her dress moving to reveal a length of thigh.

  Neville found himself thinking of scaffolding poles.

  ‘Actually, I was forced off the road,’ he explained. ‘By a lorry.’

  ‘Oh, how awful.’

  ‘Had the bad luck to land in brambles.’

  ‘Poor you.’ Wendy looked genuinely distressed by his suffering. ‘I don’t think they should allow lorries on country lanes,’ she decided, raising her chin. ‘Not on Sundays.’

  Whilst Neville considered this a somewhat idealistic vision, it occurred to him that it was strange to meet a Withy Hill truck on the road at the weekend – particularly on a Sunday.   

  Wendy appeared to have run out of questions on the subject, and a prickly silence sat between them. After a full painful minute Neville could stand it no longer.

  ‘Do you do any sports yourself?’ he asked desperately.

  ‘Me? Goodness, no!’ Wendy laughed. ‘I only ended up at Sandra’s aerobics class because I’d got the nights mixed up. Thought it was pottery.’

  ‘Ah, arts and crafts more your thing, then?’ he pressed her.

  ‘Not really. Just thought I’d give it a go.’

  Neville sensed another chasm opening up in the conversation. His head was now unpleasantly fuzzy, and all manner of aches and bruises were surfacing. He caught himself mid sigh, prepared to admit defeat and accept the fact that he was socially crippled, useless at the whole getting-to-know-you thing, destined to remain a bachelor, and would quite happily have done so if only his sister would give up her clumsy attempts at matchmaking. He was shocked to find himself so keen to bring the tortuous tête-à-tête to an end that he actually couldn’t wait to get to Sandra’s Sunday roast.

  Noon at Honeysuckle Cottage found the Behrs presenting a tableau of happy family life. Mummy and Baby sat on a rug on the front lawn surrounded by the prettiness and colour of the little garden. In the driveway Ryan stood by his car, sponge raised, about to apply copious amounts of Gleam Foam.  To the passer-by nothing could have appeared more tranquil; a perfect example of a young English family on a Sunday afternoon. The dependable husband providing the good life for his good wife and hisinfant. One unit. One family. One team. Living the rural dream in their rose-covered cottage. Here surely was love, trust, contentment, security, safety, harmony, a matrimonial symphony where three was company. 

  In truth, however, the Behrs were parts of two different pictures. They were experiencing two different moments. Rose was completely absorbed in gazing at the true object of her affections, and Ryan saw nothing but his. While Rose delighted in the slightest movement or response from her baby, her husband was enjoying a near sensual pleasure from bathing his car. For him, the pearlessent vehicle was the apotheosis of his ambitions. This car did not simply enable him to go places; itshowed the world that he had arrived. This Japanese automobile with Italian pretensions said all there was to say about its owner.

  Rose allowed her gaze of adoration to rest long and loving on her golden child. She was lost in contemplation of the culmination of her own wishes and desires.  

  They continued in their own little worlds for a further hour, the citrus scent of the car shampoo their only shared experience. 

  Rose studied Baby closely and decided it was time for his lunch. She picked him up and walked over to Ryan. 

  ‘I’m taking him in for something to eat now,’ she told his back. ‘Do you want anything?’ 

  She already knew the answer, but was unable to stop herself asking just the same.          Years ago Ryan had announced he did not wish to be tied down to the routine of a proper Sunday lunch, so they now ate their meal in the evening. Quite why he required such flexibility Rose couldn’t fathom, as his Sundays continued to follow the exact same pattern, month in, month out. He would invariably go out, with his mates, on a Saturday night, arriving home late and drunk. He would lie-in the following morning until his hangover forced him into the kitchen, where he would expect a full English breakfast. He would refuse lunch, only to raid the fridge without fail at about three o’clock, having renewed his appetite by washing the car. Sunday afternoons he could be found dozing in front of the television, waking in time to bounce the baby on his knee for ten minutes before declaring himself more than ready for a drink.

  ‘I don’t need lunch,’ he told her without looking up from his suds. ‘Wouldn’t do you any harm to skip the odd meal, either’ he added.

  Rose, who never ate breakfast, deflected his barbed remark by squeezing Baby just a little tighter, then turned for the house. Stepping along the path she brushed passed a budding fuchsia bush. The feel of its light tickly leaves transported her back to childhood and a thousand happy hours spent in this garden, with these very plants. She thought back to how patiently her grandmother had taught her all their names; shown her how to tend and get the best out of each flower or shrub or little tree; impressed upon her which ones had healing properties, and which were poisonous, and how sometimes these were one and the same, the different result dependent upon the quantities used. She plucked a short spike of lavender by the front door and held it for baby to sniff, watching his little eyes widen in surprise. Happy now, Ryan for the moment forgotten, she continued towards the kitchen.

  In the hot kitchen of number three Brook Terrace Fliss grasped the bird’s legs and prised them apart. The heat burnt her fingers. She fought a wave of nausea at the smell of cooking meat as she reached for a fork and began jamming the stuffing into the chicken’s steaming cavity. But the limbs were greasy as well as hot, and she had difficulty maintaining her grip. Casting around the room for help she spotted the rubber gloves. They did indeed improve her purchase on the slippery bones, though more than once she was aware she had stabbed through the pink rubber with the fork.

  Daniel appeared in search of ice for the gin-and-tonics he was assembling. He stood behind her and peered over her shoulder.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to stuff it before it goes in the oven?’ he asked.

  Fliss considered this to be a wholly unnecessary question, and was tempted to pretend she had learned some modern and highly regarded technique regarding the cooking of fowl, but she couldn’t be bothered.

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘Ah. I like the rubber gloves. Nice touch. Makes the whole procedure look very surgical. Very ER.’

  ‘Where’s that gin-and-tonic I was promised?’ Fliss wanted to know. She needed a drink. She was hot and flustered and fed up and would rather have been anywhere than in her smelly, steamy kitchen on such a beautiful day. Every Sunday she went through the ordeal of preparing a roast dinner, and every Sunday she asked herself why she bothered. Being vegetarian, she would make do with the vegetables. Rhian would always find something to complain about, and would never be persuaded to help with the clearing up. Daniel would begin to prowl and pace as the day went on, complaining that it had all got very late and had work to get done before Monday came. Fliss would be left with an Alpine range of washing up which would rob her of the remainder of the weekend.

  She slammed the oven door on the somewhat misshapen chicken and wiped the back of a gloved hand across her brow, depositing small lumps of stuffing in her hair.

  ‘Here you are, chef,’ Daniel handed her a drink, glancing at his watch as he did so.   ‘What time d’you think it’ll be ready?’

 ‘Oh, usual time’ Fliss tried to sound nonchalant, but was having trouble not snapping at him. The added stress of having to cook in an unfamiliar kitchen full of unlabelled boxes was beginning to get to her.

 ‘Usual time being…?’

 ‘When it’s cooked.’

 ‘Right. About two? Did you know you’ve got stuffing in your hair? Mmm, good g and t, if I say so myself. Now, where’s the Review section of the paper got to? Ah here it is. Garden for me, I think.’ He walked towards the back door, pausing and asking, clearly as an after thought, ‘You going to join me?’

  ‘In a minute,’ she told him instead. ‘Just want to get the gravy done.’

  ‘Oh. Need any help?’

  ‘I can manage, thank you,’ she replied through gritted teeth, snapping off her gloves.

  Once alone she sat at the kitchen table and swigged off half her drink. The worst thing about the hairball of irritation inside her was that most of it was caused by her own feebleness. She knew if she were firmer with Rhian, and Daniel for that matter, she would get more help. Some help! But it was never worth the battle.

 Through the window she could see Daniel sitting on the patio reading, his back to the house. He was leaning forward on his chair studying the paper on the table, so that Fliss could see the nape of his neck and the strong line of his shoulders. She enjoyed an echo of pleasure as she remembered the night before. Even after two years they were still hungry for each other, still hot, as Daniel liked to put it. 

  She smiled, thinking of the way he made her feel. When they were together she had no doubts about him, no fears or insecurities. It was only when they were apart that the woodworm of fear began its work on her self-esteem. For now she was content to remind herself that whatever he lacked as a house-husband he made up for as a lover.

  She finished her drink and went out to join her man, deciding to make the most of the peace and calm before lunch.

The post Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Three appeared first on Paula Brackston.

Moving in with Your Boss. Life of PA Part Three

  Recently, I have moved back in with my family due to unforeseen circumstances. As noticed by a clever few on Facebook, photos of Dutch with Mum’s tribe of fluffy assistants have begun to appear, indicating that we have joined the Brackston household once again. Now, don’t get me wrong, living with my Mum again is a lovely experience. However, this time around, she’s my boss. This means no more slacking, days off or dawdling! In all seriousness, as much as the situation is not ideal or planned for, this is a great opportunity for me to coordinate my time working with Mum a bit better. If I have a random idea or need her opinion on something, I can simply waltz upstairs to bother her with it. This also means that my commute to work has lessened to a flight of stairs, very convenient when I cannot currently drive a car.

The Three Musketeers!

  Dutch seems to be thoroughly enjoying his new home by terrorising Tigerlily and my family’s three other cats. As much as he is a good boy, he does not quite seem to understand how big he is and how he can flatten others very easily! One day I am planning on getting a little black, fluffy and witchy kitten friend for him as he is a very social character. Until that day, he has Tigerlily to bounce on his head to keep him occupied. Additionally, I have a tortoise named Amity. He is about three and a half years old now and only just larger than the palm of your hand. His vivarium is the largest piece of furniture I own and has my father still cursing me for having to carry it up and down the stairs every time I move house.

Amity in His Natural Habitat

  As I spoke about in my previous blog, new beginnings are upon us. And in my case, that’s extremely apparent. I like to think of myself as a caterpillar emerging as some oddly patterned butterfly after being trapped in a chrysalis for what feels like a lifetime. Ready to spread my delicate wings and fly into the next chapter. As with any new chapter, you never know how it will end until you get there. Ups and down are inevitable and are what make the journey interesting and unique.

Hard at Work or Hardly Working?

  The future as Mum’s PA looks exciting, nerve-racking and is an opportunity of a lifetime. I am slowly easing myself into the swing of keeping on top of tasks I am set to, organising social media and just alleviating some weight from Mum’s shoulders. Alongside my work, I am doing a Personal Assistant Diploma. This is so I can properly fulfil my potential and be provided with the key skills needed to be the best PA the world has seen! I shall go into more detail about my course and progress with it in my upcoming blogs.

Rejected High-Five!

  I have been brainstorming ideas for social media posts to try and add my own flare to the mix. A new idea that will be appearing from this upcoming Sunday is ‘Word of the Week’. This will include different words from various books of Mum’s, with mini Easter-eggs and facts about the books and the process of writing them. Following Mum’s influence, I am once again trying my hand at photo editing and collages. Some are better than others but the general consensus is that they convey my ideas well. Plus, there is so much potential for content with photo collages with different themes, graphics, colours and images. As stated on my first collage post; “A picture speaks a thousand words, therefore, a collage of images tells a whole story!”.

Commandeered the Writing Room Bed!

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Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Two

A tale of cooks, crooks and chooks.

  Back in Neville’s kitchen, steam had opaqued the windows, and Cilla now slept patiently on her stool as the dinner bubbled towards perfection. Neville sat at the table enjoying a glass of French red wine. The insistent light of the answerphone caught his attention at last. Reluctantly he reached over and pressed the button.

  The first message was from his sister, Sandra.

 ‘Hello, Neville? It’s me.’ For Neville, her knowledge that he had so few young female callers that he would correctly identify ‘me’ was both depressing and irksome.     ‘Hope you are well, not suffering too much with your hay fever. Brian and the twins are off swimming, so I thought I’d grab a moment for a natter. You must still be at work. Anyway, I wanted to invite you for lunch on Sunday. Wendy’s coming over. You remember Wendy? From my Aerobics class? You met her at our New Year’s do. Tall girl. Big smile. Nice nails. Remember? Anyway, say you’ll come. I’m at a PTA meeting tonight, so ring tomorrow. OK? Bye.’

  Neville was fond of his sister, and knew she cared about him, but he disliked her clumsy attempts at matchmaking. She seemed unable to accept the fact that a man of forty-five could be perfectly fine living on his own. Neville was not lonely. He was used to his bachelor existence. Since his fiancée decided against marrying him and moved to Australia five years ago, there had been no romantic interest in his life, and he was content to leave it that way. He had no desire to have his world turned upside-down again. On top of which, he liked his life the way it was. He was able to indulge his passion for cooking without bothering anyone. He enjoyed the simplicity and orderliness of his existence. He also enjoyed peaceful, solitary Sundays, particularly if the alternative was a noisy few hours at his sister’s house, chewing his way through unyielding beef. Still, he would probably go. If the fine weather continued at least he could enjoy the bike ride into Barnchester.

  The second message was much more disturbing. It was from Cynthia Danby. The very sound of her voice made Neville nervous.

  ‘Neville, darling boy!’ she boomed from the machine. ‘Cynthia here. Just wanted to have a word with you about a little idea of mine for the Nettlecombe Hatchet summer fund-raiser this year. It’s something culinary. Right up your street. I thought cuisine, then I thought Neville. I know you’re the man for the job. Do ring, so we can put our little heads together. I’ve such exciting plans. A bientôt, mon cher!’

  Neville took a large swig of wine. The last thing he felt like doing was ringing Cynthia Danby, but if he didn’t she would probably turn up, and then he would have to deal with her in person. A thought terrible enough to kill anyone’s appetite. But she wouldn’t come at night. He could leave it until the morning. He really didn’t want the woman in his evening any more than she already was. There was something about her that made him behave like a sickly rabbit about to be devoured by an oversized fox. Although they had lived in the same village for four years, he had mercifully escaped her notice until quite recently. But, the previous winter, he had attended a French cookery weekend at the Hardy House Country Hotel, and the benighted woman had been there too. For reasons Neville would never understand, she had developed an instant, and to his mind insane, crush on him. He had spent most of the course sidestepping her advances. Had it been anyone else, he might have been flattered, but being pursued by a widow approaching sixty, apparently constructed entirely of tweed, reeking of lavender, carrying a stone or two more than was healthy, and with a tendency to become verbally incontinent after two glasses of wine, was an ego booster he could have done without. 

  He erased the messages, wishing Cynthia was as easy to get rid of, and picked up the Barnchester Echo. He needed to have his mind on other things by the time dinner was ready, or he wouldn’t feel like eating anything at all.

  At  3 Brook Terrace, Fliss was also attempting to distract herself with the local paper. She turned the pages slowly, trying to summon up enthusiasm for the misdemeanours of unemployed youths, the recent wedding of Miss A to Mr B, the success of the Echo’s raffle in aid of retired postmen, and the delights on offer in the way of evening classes at the village hall. None of it really held her interest, but at least it prevented her from looking at the clock or her phone.

  Daniel had still not arrived. He was often late for their dates, but it was unlike him not to at least text to reassure her that he was on his way, and not dead in a ditch somewhere.

  Her mother had always had people dead in ditches at twenty minutes late, and that was before the days of mobile phones. To Fliss’s certain knowledge, she had not once been right. Perhaps, had they lived in Norfolk, she would have stood a better chance. In any case, there weren’t too many ditches between Docklands and Nettlecombe Hatchet. Daniel had probably got engrossed in something at work and lost track of time, that was all.  Fliss tried to focus on the paper once more to glean information about the area she had so carefully chosen as the best place to bring up Rhian. She was already beginning to question the wisdom of this choice. It had seemed so right, so sensible, so necessary. London was full of terrors and temptations for a young girl, and Rhian was not easily controlled. Maybe if she had had a father’s influence things would have been different. But Fliss had felt her connection with her daughter slipping away, each day bringing more complaints from her teachers, arguments with her friends, and minor dramas of all shapes and sizes.  A move to the country seemed the only possible solution.

  Fliss’s thoughts were interrupted by the muffled ringing of the mobile. She recovered it from beneath the sofa cushion, where she had hidden it so she couldn’t keep looking at it, and tried to answer in an unconcerned but somewhat pissed-off voice

  ‘Hello? Yes?’

 ‘Fliss? Babe! A thousand apologies. Had my head in a mess of figures and completely lost track of time. What can I say?’

 ‘Sorry, perhaps?’

 ‘Of course. You’re right. I am sorry, gorgeous. I’ll make it up to you, promise.’

 ‘Never mind,’ Fliss fell well short of the tone she had aimed at, hitting the mark somewhere around feebly miffed.

 ‘Hope you didn’t go to too much trouble. You have eaten, haven’t you? Tell me you didn’t wait supper.’

 ‘I didn’t wait supper,’ she lied. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter now, I’m just glad you’re OK.’

 ‘Oh God, you were worried. Now I feel terrible.’ 

 ‘No, no. Don’t be silly.’

 ‘Really? You weren’t sitting there imagining me dead in a pile-up on the M3?’

 ‘Pile-up? No, absolutely not. I’ve been reading the paper. Didn’t realise it was so late, actually. Wasn’t worried a bit.’

 ‘Oh.’

 ‘So,’ she tried to forget the whole thing and start again, ‘are you going to make it down tonight, or…?’

 ‘Can’t see it, Babe. Traffic will be hell by now. I’ll come down in the morning. That OK?’

 ‘Of course. That’ll be fine.’

 After this exchange, Fliss fought to quell doubt as it grew in a fertile plot in the back of her mind. She had no reason to think Daniel was lying to her; he often stayed late at the IT Consultancy where he had worked since long before she met him. In the two years they had been seeing each other she had known him bring huge amounts of work home for the weekend, too. He had a demanding job, and he was conscientious and hard working. She had never seen him so much as notice other women when they were out together. Indeed, she knew him well enough to be pretty certain he didn’t have the spare time to cheat on her, even if the thought chanced to enter his head. No, her fears were more to do with herself than him, and deep down she knew this. She had been let down once too often. She had trusted too readily in the past, and she had been hurt. Still she continued to think the best of people. It was just that sometimes she lacked the self-confidence needed to believe that she could be 

enough for any man. Particularly a good-looking, successful, wealthy, popular one, who had the female population of London on his penthouse doorstep. And now she had moved herself so far away from him. Had he ever really meant to drive out and spend weekends with her, as they had discussed? 

  In the kitchen she opened the oven and peered unenthusiastically at the patiently waiting veggie casserole. With a sigh she shut the door again, turned off the cooker, and went to bed.

CHAPTER TWO

  Saturday morning saw a quiet breakfast in the Behr household. Baby Behr sat happily gurgling in his reclining chair on one end of the kitchen table. Ryan silently read the Echo. Rose Behr busied herself grilling bacon. She was accustomed to the lack of conversation. Particularly on a Saturday morning. She was content to satisfy herself with the background music of Baby’s babblings. As Ryan folded the paper inside out a discreet notice caught her eye. 

  Beautiful Baby Competition, the banner read. 

  She leant closer, spatula in hand.

  Is your baby the bonniest in the Barnchester area? £100 and the title of Barnchester’s Beautiful Babe await the winner. Send photos.

 ‘Don’t do that,’ Ryan shook the paper. ‘I hate it when you read over my shoulder. Wait till I’ve finished, can’t you? You’ve got all bloody day to read the thing. That bacon ready yet?’

  Rose loaded her husband’s plate and set it before him.

 ‘Are you going in to the office today?’ she ventured to ask.

 ‘Isn’t it Saturday? Don’t I always go in on Saturday mornings?’

 ‘Well, most Saturday mornings…’

 ‘And this is just like most Saturday mornings, so, yes, I will be going in to the office today.’ He ate noisily for a minute, then added, ‘I’ve got an important client to show round a five-bedroom in Trenthide at twelve. Could go on to lunch. Expect me when you see me.’ 

  Rose sat down opposite him and sipped her tea. 

 ‘You on another diet?’ he asked, nodding at the absence of a plate.

  She shook her head.

 ‘Just not very hungry,’ she said, leaning over to squeeze Baby’s hand and smile at him.

  Ryan mopped up egg with fried bread.

 ‘For someone who is often ‘not very hungry’ you never seem to lose any weight. How d’you suppose that works?’

 Rose offered no explanation.

 He finished his food, stood up, and removed his tie from the back of his chair. 

 ‘Right, I’m off,’ he announced. He turned to Baby and grinned, as if noticing him for the first time that morning. ‘Alright, mate? Daddy’s off to earn loads of dosh.’ He made the little seat bounce more and the baby gave a happy squeal in response. ‘Mind your mother doesn’t get up to anything when I’m out, OK? Good man.’

  He left his wife unkissed and uncherished as usual, whistling on his way to the garage and his warmly stabled Subaru Impreza.

  Rose waited until she heard the engine start, then reached for the Echo. She read the details of the competition again, and smiled at her little boy. How could she not enter him? She went quickly to the sitting room and fetched the album, determined to find the very best photograph she could.

  Nettlecombe Hatchet was bathed in a gentle spring light beneath a Constable sky. As Rose pushed Baby in his chariot down the garden path prodigious butterflies performed an erratic fly-past. An early flowering Honeysuckle perfumed their progress. Small birds flitted busily, or trilled from the blossom-filled branches of the old apple tree by the gate.  Wheeling carefully onto the narrow pavement, Rose headed towards the Post Office, Baby’s competition entry tucked safely under his quilt. It was only a short walk past the duck pond and around the green to the village stores and Post Office.

  Rose pushed the button on the pelican crossing and waited a few seconds for the lights to change. As she stepped onto the road it was clear of traffic, but before she could reach the safety of the opposite pavement a large lorry steamed around the bend at the top of the village, saw the red light, and noisily airbraked to a halt. For Rose time froze on an in-breath. The silence which followed the clamour of the truck’s emergency stop was filled with what could have happened. Her heart thudding beneath her cardigan, Rose shakily guided the pram up the kerb. She regarded the driver coldly as he put the vehicle into gear and moved off at a more suitable speed. As it passed Rose read the words ‘Withy Hill Farm Enterprises’, proclaimed in large red letters above a gaudy chicken logo. 

   Baby Behr had slept peacefully through the whole event, and dreamed on undisturbed.  Rose parked him in front of the shop window where she would have a clear view of him at all times, and went inside. 

  Behind the counter Sally Siddons stood listening, grey curls nodding politely, as Cynthia Danby maintained a ceaseless current of loud chatter while paying for her purchases. 

 ‘We must not rest on our laurels,’ Cynthia insisted, ‘or should I say, our Lobelia. Just because Nettlecombe has won the Village in Bloom title twice running does not make this year’s result a foregone conclusion. I know for a fact Upton Maytravers have enlisted the help of a garden designer. From London, if you please. How that sits with the spirit, if not the letter, of the rulebook I wonder, Miss Siddons, I really do. Oh, I’ll have a packet of mints too. Thank you. Ah, Mrs Behr. How is Baby?’ she squinted out of the window. ‘There, slumbering happily. They are so sweet when they’re asleep, aren’t they?’

  Somehow Rose communicated to the Post Mistress her need for a stamp, and the transaction was made without interrupting Cynthia. In fact, she was able to accomplish her mission wordlessly, wave goodbye, and hurry back to Baby. 

  As she released the brake she glimpsed Neville as he entered the shop. She was aware of him pausing on the threshold, as if changing his mind, and then she heard Cynthia greet him enthusiastically. She wheeled away towards the snugness of her home, secretly excited at the thought of Baby being publicly acknowledged as Barnchester’s Beautiful Babe.

  For a fraction of a second Neville considered turning on his heel, but the unexpected sight of Cynthia at close range rooted him to the spot.

  ‘Just the man I was hoping to see!’

  Cynthia moved towards him with such purpose that Neville flinched.

 ‘Did you get my message? I have such exciting plans. I just know you’ll want to be involved. This year’s Nettlecombe Hatchet fundraiser will be the culinary event of the season.’ Excitement tinged Cynthia’s powdered visage with an unbecoming pinkness.

  Neville fought for sensible words under the chemical warfare that was her perfume.

  ‘Mrs Danby, I…’

  ‘Cynthia, please…’

  ‘Cynthia, I’m sure you don’t need my help…’ he began to edge past her towards the relative safety of the cold cabinet.

  ‘Oh but I do, mon cher.’

 ‘I’m really very busy at work at the moment.’ He focused on selecting semi-skimmed. ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t have the time to make a commitment, I wouldn’t want to be forever having to send apologies and put you to extra work covering for me, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Forget about such details, dear boy, put them from your mind. No, what I need you for is your infallible instinct for what is right when it comes to food. Please, don’t try to be modest,’ she held up her hand, ‘I have seen you in action in the kitchen.’ Here she lowered her voice. ‘I often think of the time we spent together at the Hardy House Country Hotel.’

  Neville shot a nervous glance in the direction of Miss Siddons, but she was fully occupied shuffling yesterday’s Bath Buns. He knew what lay ahead if he allowed himself to be dragooned into helping Cynthia – hours of meetings, all involving her, probably at her house. He must stand firm.

 ‘It’s very kind of you to consider me, but I really have to say no. As I said, I’m having to do lots of overtime. It wouldn’t be fair to say yes and then never be available.’ He stepped sideways towards the newspaper stand, but Cynthia gripped his arm.

  ‘Work is all very well, Neville, but one must have balance. One cannot afford to neglect the heart, the soul. I know you share my passion. I see in you a kindred spirit. Do not deny your true self.’

  Neville was horribly afraid the conversation was getting away from him. He opened his mouth to protest further, but Cynthia was in full flow now. He listened to her, his eyes beginning to glaze, unable to interject. Just as he began to feel the blossoming of a huge and vulgar yawn, the mention of a name brought him to his senses.

  ‘What did you say? Who is going to be present?’ he demanded.

 ‘Claude Lambert. I know, isn’t it thrilling! It’s all down to a cousin of mine who knows a niece of his. Or her daughter was at school with his niece. Or something. Anyway, Sylvia, my cousin, mentioned to him at some do or other that I was looking for a chef of some renown for our humble little event, and voila, he agreed to take part. In fact, the whole thing has escalated. I met him in London last week…’

 ‘You’ve actually met Claude Lambert?’ Neville was seriously impressed.

 ‘Such a charming man. We talked about ideas he has for his new book, and how he might make the fundraiser a tie-in, as he is launching a new venture with our very own Withy Hill Farm. Their produce is top notch.’

  Suddenly, as far as Neville was concerned, the whole project had taken on a golden glow. Claude Lambert, his chef of choice, his hero, was coming to Nettlecombe Hatchet, and he, Neville Meatcher, had the opportunity not only to meet the great man, but to work closely with him. Cynthia Danby or not, this was an experience far, far too special to miss. 

  ‘Well, of course, if I really can be of some use…’

 ‘So you’ll do it? Marvellous! I knew I could count on you. It’s going to be such fun! Now, there’s a great deal to be done. I shall set up a meeting; we’ll need a committee. I’ll be in touch very soon.’ 

  Scooping up her purchases Cynthia departed the shop a little breathless, leaving in her wake the smell of lavender and efficiency.

  Back in the sanctuary of his kitchen Neville depressed the plunger on his cafetiere. He found it hard to believe that Cynthia could actually have secured the involvement of the chef of the moment, and yet he knew it must be true. Whatever the woman’s peculiarities, she was not given to making up such things. Neville’s head teemed with questions he would ask the great man, had he the chance. Of course, he had all his books, and had followed his recent TV series as an assiduous student. He poured himself a cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain and resolved to steep himself in Monsieur Lambert’s recipes over the next few weeks. Sipping his coffee he wandered into the living room and looked out of the window. The sun was already warm and looked settled, and he decided a bike ride up to Bulbarrow Hill would make best use of the day. Below he saw a woman he didn’t recognise walking lightly across the green, his attention caught by her splendid chestnut hair. He watched her disappear down Brook Terrace, newspaper in hand. 

  Fliss, as always, found her mood lifted by the sunshine. She had slept well, the self-doubt of the night before had melted away under the sun’s rays, and she was looking forward to Daniel’s visit.

  As she turned into the narrow street that was her new home she smiled to find his car parked outside number three.

 ‘Dan? You in there?’ she called from the front door.

 ‘In the kitchen, Babe. Kettle’s on.’

  She found him ferreting in a cupboard.

 ‘Are we out of sugar?’ he wanted to know.

  That ‘we’ further soothed Fliss’s heart. She wanted always to be ‘we’ and ‘us’, rather than ‘I’ and ‘me’.

 ‘There’s plenty of brown in the jar by the coffee. Look.’

 ‘Ah, brown. I meant real sugar. Honest to goodness white tooth rot.’

 ‘You know I never buy it. We only have the stuff in the house if you smuggle it in.’

  Daniel grinned, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her to him.

 ‘And you know I have no greater pleasure than corrupting you, my angel. I live to help you sin.’ He kissed her, long and slow. ‘Did you miss me last night? All alone in that big old bed?’

 ‘What makes you so sure I was alone? How d’you know I haven’t got the hang of sinning, after all your expert coaching?’ she kissed him back.

  Daniel gasped. ‘Tell me you weren’t with that Teddy of yours again!  Furry little bastard! No wonder he always looks so smug.’

  ‘Poor Daniel – replaced so easily by a bit of stuffed fabric.’

  ‘And he’s only got one eye.’

  ‘Hmmm, makes him sort of heroic and romantic, don’t you think?’ She wriggled free of his embrace and finished making the coffee.

  Daniel sat at the table and flicked idly through the newspaper.

  ‘Where’s Rhian?’ he asked.

  ‘Where any self-respecting teenager would be at ten thirty in the morning – under her duvet.’

  ‘God, do you remember what it was like to be able to lie in like that? I just can’t do it any more. Body clock’s screwed by years of nine to five.’

  ‘Don’t give me that – you love your job. I’ve never known anyone who enjoyed working more than you do.’ She sat down opposite him and passed him his coffee. ‘Flapjack?’ she offered, nudging the tin in his direction.

  ‘The ultimate hippy fodder. Will you never stop trying to convert me to yoghurt and lentils?’

  ‘Only when you stop spiking my coffee with poisonous white sugar.’

  ‘Ah, but the difference is I do things like that to you through absent-mindedness. You, on the other hand, would love to change me, to win me over to your highly laudable if somewhat chewy lifestyle. With you it’s premeditated. You hate it that I haven’t had a day’s illness in years. I am walking, talking, living proof that all your careful weeding out of this, and cutting down on that, and raw vegetables on the hour is totally unnecessary.’ 

  ‘I can’t help it if I care about the way you look after yourself. I have a vested interest in keeping you healthy. Teddy’s not available every night.’ She nibbled pointedly on a flapjack. ‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘I think secretly you want to be reformed. Otherwise why would you bother with me?’

  ‘Oh, I can think of one or two activities we enjoy sharing,’ he said, kicking her foot gently.

  ‘I know you. I’ve worked it out. This arrangement is going to suit you perfectly. In London you can have your cutting edge, modern-man-who-doesn’t-give-a-shit life, then down here you can breathe fresh air, eat decent food, play village cricket, and pretend you’re doing it all for my benefit.’

  ‘Clever bugger, aren’t I?’ He leant across the table. ‘What say you we go upstairs and pretend to be teenagers for a couple of hours?’

  Fliss smiled but shook her head.

  ‘Tempting, but I have an interview to go to.’

  ‘On a Saturday? For crying out loud, Babe. Not much point in my coming down here if you’re going to be busy. When did all this happen, anyway?’

  ‘Don’t sulk. It’ll only take an hour or so. I saw an ad in the local rag last night, they need a cleaner up at the big farm on the hill. They asked me to pop up and see them. I could hardly say no. Now put that bottom lip away before someone treads on it.’ Fliss glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘Look on the bright side,’ she said standing up, ‘if you walk with me as far as the Soldier’s Arms they’ll just be opening by the time you get there. I’ll call in for you on my way back. OK?’

  ‘I suppose I could force myself to drink a couple of pints. If it’ll make you feel better.’

  ‘You’re too good to me.’ 

  ‘Hmm, well, I’ve got to win you away from old fluff brain somehow. Come on, I can ruin my reputation in the village on day one by lurking in front of the pub if we’re early.’

  Outside the day continued to outdo itself, and the village was at its most photogenic. A sprinkling of children played on the swings at the far end of the green. From a distance they were timeless and harmonious. Somewhere nearby their parents were watching, but not worrying. Miss Siddons’ elderly Jack Russell stretched his Queen Anne legs – twice round the duck pond slowly, his waddle matching that of the birds. Two teenage boys presented a study of boredom on the wooden bench, neither aware, despite the brass plate, that their backsides rested courtesy of the Nettlecombe Hatchet Soroptimists Society.

  Fliss and Daniel made their way through the centre of the village and began to climb the hill that would lead them first to the pub, a little way beyond the church, and ultimately to Withy Hill Farm.

  Daniel took Fliss’s hand.

 ‘We’ve got to make a decision about where we’re going on holiday,’ he said. ‘We need to get something booked soon.’

  Fliss did not answer immediately. She had always looked forward to their time away together, but after the previous year…

  Eventually she said, ‘Rhian won’t come with us this time. Her mind is quite made up.’

  ‘She’s at that age.’

  ‘She’s only fourteen.’

  ‘Exactly. It’s just not cool to go on holiday with the oldies, is it?’

  ‘Well she can’t stay here on her own.’

  ‘Perhaps your mum would have her,’ Daniel suggested.

  ‘For two weeks? They’d kill each other. One week, maybe, at a push. With the right mixture of bribery and threats. For each of them.’

  ‘One week’s no good, Babe.’

   Daniel’s tone was light, but Fliss knew when he was likely to be stubborn. She sighed.

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ she said. ‘I suppose it’ll be a saving – no point paying all that money for someone who doesn’t want to go.’

 The memory of their tense summer holiday in Greece as one of the longest fortnights of her life still refused to fade.

  ‘You know I’m happy to pay. My treat,’ Daniel reminded her.

  ‘I like to pay my share.’

  ‘Aren’t I allowed to spoil you sometimes? Especially if it’s just going to be the two of us. We could go somewhere really spectacular. Just this once couldn’t you ease up on the whole independent female thing and be a kept woman? Just for a few days?’

  They stopped outside the pub, its doors still solidly shut.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Fliss promised, turning Daniel’s hand in hers to check his watch. ‘I’ll be late. I’ll leave you to loiter.’

  Five minutes later she reached a bend in the lane. Turning, she could see Daniel still leaning against the pub wall, taking a packet of Camel Lights from his pocket. As she walked on she tried to convince herself that the holiday didn’t have to be a big deal. Except… Except she didn’t like the idea of leaving Rhian behind, or of being away from her for two whole weeks. It seemed too soon. She was still a child in so many ways. And Fliss herself would never be completely happy with Daniel paying her way, however well meant the gesture. Her ability to support herself and her daughter was vital to Fliss, and shaped the way she saw herself. It was the reason she was determined to earn her own living, even if that meant cleaning up somebody else’s mess, despite all Daniel’s offers of financial support. She knew he could afford it, but that wasn’t the point.

  Still, she consoled herself, her work as a Crystal Healer would pick up once she got known in the area. And the gem and crystal parties could be good money-spinners. One day she hoped to be able to make a living from doing the things she enjoyed. For now, a job was a job.

  On arriving at the farm she was surprised to find the place buzzing. Two Withy Hill trucks swept passed her, hurrying towards the shiny new warehouses. It struck her as unusual to find so much going on on a Saturday. 

  She paused to steady her breathing after climbing the hill, and watched the activity. From where she stood in the original farmyard beside the house she had a clear view of the new storage buildings and office, but not the barns which housed the livestock. For a farm it was a scene curiously devoid of animals. Not even a solitary chicken, for which the farm was known countrywide, was visible. Not a feather. Fliss could hear the distant humming and drumming of tractors working somewhere in the fields, and glimpsed the human beings busying about, but did not spy so much as a yard cat.

  Forgetting the time, she wandered over to the corner of the old stone hay barn, hoping for a better view of the chicken sheds behind, if sheds they could be called. These were enormous, gleaming, metal constructions, low and slinky, covering acres of ground. Fliss moved closer, curious to know what such buildings could be like inside.

  ‘What in blazes do you think you’re doing?’

   The unexpected volume and ferocity of the man’s voice sent Fliss’s heart sprinting again.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ she smiled weakly, ‘I was looking for Mrs Christian.’

  ‘My wife is in the house.’

  Two Dobermans at his side tracked her smallest movement with piggy eyes. Mr Christian flicked his fingers as he walked on towards the barn.

  ‘Eric, Vinnie, come!’

   Fliss waited until the dogs had stopped staring at her before heading for the house.

   There were days, she allowed herself to acknowledge, when being a kept woman, as Daniel might have put it, seemed extremely attractive.

To be continued….

The post Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Two appeared first on Paula Brackston.

Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part One

A tale of cooks, crooks, and chooks

Neville loves cooking. Fliss loves the quiet life. Mummy Behr loves Baby Behr. And they all love living in Nettlecombe Hatchet.

But their rural idyll is under threat. When Fliss investigates she finds something very nasty in the chicken shed.

CHAPTER ONE

  The chicken came first, we know that now.

  Then egg followed chicken followed egg followed chicken in an orderly way.    

  Reliable. Comforting. One of life’s constants. Sure as eggs.

  Your average hen will, given the chance, settle down when she has laid a dozen or so eggs in what she believes to be a safe place. She lowers her fluffy skirts and warms her clutch, taking only short breaks for water and a peck of corn for the next three weeks. Then it’s up to the chicks. Somewhere in their ovoid universe a flag is dropped and they’re off, pecking their way to freedom. Out they come – Maran and Warren and Sussex and Border; Speckledy, Welsummer, Orpington, Rhode Island Red and Black Rock alike – bendy beak, two stringy legs, soggy feathers and slow, blinking eyes. 

  But some chickens are different.

  Withy Hill Farm chickens were different.

  Very different.

* * * *

  Happiness for Neville was a successful soufflé.

  On this particular day he was entirely focused on an authentic Cassoulet Provençal. This was a fresh challenge for him, and as always when embarking on a new recipe, he felt the familiar tension in his abdomen which only well-managed excitement can bring. One might think a cassoulet, Provençal or otherwise, was, in the scheme of things, no big deal. It is, after all, bean and sausage stew. Even cooked for the first time, how hard can it be? You gather the ingredients, follow the directions in the recipe, and there it is. No complex kneading and proving involved; no paper thin pastry to handle, no eggs threatening to curdle – in fact, no volatile ingredients whatsoever. Sausage and beans. But Neville did not see it that way. Finding a recipe which met his own exacting standards had required extensive research. Having settled upon the definitive recipe, he selected the ingredients with equal care. The authentic French saucisson had necessitated a trip to Bournemouth. Fortunately, he already had in his possession the ideal vessel – a terracotta pot (with well-fitting lid, naturally) purchased on a gastronomic holiday in France the previous year.

  It being Friday, Neville had no difficulty slipping quietly away from his desk at the Council Planning Office shortly before four o’clock. The journey home on his well maintained bicycle had taken a mere fifteen minutes, eager anticipation of an evening’s cooking lending wings to his pedalling heels.

  He found Cilla, his ginger cat, waiting for him on the doorstep, as was her habit. She shared his passion for cooking and sprinted up the stairs to take her position on a high stool, from where she had a clear view of proceedings. Neville parked his bike in the hallway and followed her up the narrow staircase. In the kitchen he wriggled out of his small backpack and unloaded the contents onto the table. His lunchtime shopping trip had yielded some exceptionally fine smoked garlic. Ignoring the blinking light of his answering machine, Neville flicked through his box of CDs marked ‘cooking music’, and chose an early Dave Brubeck. 

  ‘We’re cooking in 7/4 time tonight, Cilla,’ he said. ‘This is going to be something rather special.’

  He removed his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair before rolling up his sleeves.

  ‘Now, let’s get these haricots drained and rinsed. The perfect cassoulet cannot be rushed, you know. Dinner will not be served much before nine tonight.’

  Sometimes, while Neville waited for some crucial cooking process to take effect, he would take advantage of the fine view from the first floor window. The small flat, and the Post Office on which it sat, benefited from the village green to the front, and open countryside behind. A long-shadowed, late spring afternoon fringed the fields and tagged the trees with cool tails. The sweet smelling Dorset landscape was in its prime. It did not dazzle with drama, nor attempt the spectacular. It made no pretence at wilderness, nor did it lay claim to impressive size or height. Instead it quietly got on with what it knew best – gentle greenery; an impressionist’s palette of meadows and hedgerows; fescues inclining their weightless heads in the baby’s breath of a breeze; a high sky freshly painted bridesmaid blue; timeless oak; impressive chestnuts; rustling poplars; the burnished pinchbeck bark of the birch; over-ripe hawthorn blossom filling the unremarkable hour with notions of bubble-bath; every leafy corner overflowing, growing, plumping out and spilling; the spreading turf a plush flat matt mat inviting chequered picnic cloths and lovers’ recumbent forms, private but daring in the longer grass.

  The village of Nettlecombe Hatchet had fought against change and modernity and won. Vigilant residents were quick to spot the smallest unnecessary signpost, unsympathetically painted porch, or plainly parked caravan lingering too long in a driveway. A ruthless policy of ethnic cleansing was applied to house style and construction, driving out all but the very best reproduction Portland stone. Living in a seventeenth century cottage would gain you coveted invitations to Cynthia Danby’s soirees. Thatch put you beyond reproach.

  At number three Brook Terrace a tatty blue transit van came to a smelly halt. The driver threw open his door and started to roll a cigarette. 

  Fliss Horton and her daughter Rhian climbed out of the other side. Physically they were out of the same mould, but from very different schools of decoration. The same cane-straight auburn hair (half plaited, half flowing in Fliss’s case; sleek and sharp on Rhian). The same angular, rangy body (Fliss’s swathed in tie-dye and velvet, Rhian’s buckled into cutting-edge high street).  The same ivory complexion (naked and natural on Fliss, heavily kholed on Rhian).

  Their temperaments could not have been more different. Rhian was salt to Fliss’s sweetness. Rhian was quicksilver; a stormy night; a fiery drink; a fanfare. Fliss was a rainbow; a log fire; a dove; a nocturne. 

  ‘Oh look,’ said Fliss, ‘the honeysuckle’s out. Mmmm, smells delicious.’

   Rhian gave her the sort of withering look at which teenagers are expert.

  ‘Hoo-bloody-ray,’ she said, sitting down on the low wall in front of the little house.

  ‘It’ll be great to have a garden,’ Fliss went on. ‘This bit’s just full of flowers, and the one at the back has got plenty of space for sunbathing. Or barbeques. Or badminton.’

  ‘Oh well, that must be why we moved here then.’ The expression on Rhian’s face could have turned milk. ‘Of course. So that we can freeze to death trying to sunbathe, because we are in fact in Dorset, not Ibiza; have pathetic, taste-free barbeques, because you don’t want us to eat meat; and prance about playing badminton, like we know how.’

  Fliss’s bright smile stiffened into a grimace.

  ‘That’s the spirit, Rhi, hate everything before you’ve even given it a chance.’

  ‘Look, this move wasn’t my idea.’

  ‘As you never tire of reminding me.’

  ‘I didn’t want to leave London. I didn’t want to leave my friends. I didn’t want to move to the arse-end of the planet, so don’t expect me to suddenly start liking it just because you do.’ Rhian pushed past her mother and hauled open the rear doors of the van. ‘And if my PC is damaged after being in this crap van, Mr Driver of The Year can fork out for a new one.’ She started pulling at the overstuffed boxes.

   Fliss opened her mouth to speak but the ringing of her mobile saved her from having to think of a suitable reply.

  ‘Daniel?’ As a reflex Fliss stepped out of her daughter’s hearing range, quickly walking to the stile opposite the house where she leant against the small sign that pointed walkers in the direction of Withy Hill Farm.

  ‘Hi Babe.’

  ‘Where are you? I thought we were meeting here at three – it’s gone four now.’

  ‘Sorry, Sweet Thing. I’m up to my ears in it here.’

  ‘You’re still at work?’

  ‘I know, I know, I feel terrible. I really wanted to be there to help, you know I did, but…’

   Fliss drooped visibly.

  ‘Oh Dan, I was counting on you.’

  ‘Please don’t make me feel any worse about it. Look, I’ll get away as soon as I can, OK? I can still be down there for supper. We can crack open a bottle of wine together, hmm?’

  Fliss allowed a hefty sigh to answer for her.

  ‘Anyway,’ Daniel went on, ‘it’s not as if you’ve got any actual furniture to lug about. It’s just your stuff, isn’t it? And you’ve got White Van Man to help you.’

   Fliss looked at the lumpen figure still in the driver’s seat, most of his bulk obscured by a crumpled copy of The Sun he was pretending to read.

  ‘Blue,’ she said.

  ‘What’s that, Babe?’

  ‘The van is blue, not white. Actually, I didn’t really want you here to cart boxes. I thought it might help, you know, with Rhian. Present a united front. Stop her bitching at me all day. And I thought it would be nice – first day at our new home. Well, home for me and Rhi, weekend retreat for you. I wanted us to do it together.’

  ‘Sorry, Fliss, had some idiot talking to me – didn’t catch a word of that. What were you saying?’

  ‘Never mind,’ she shook her head and straightened up. ‘Look, I’d better get on with it. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Love you, Sweet Thing.’ Daniel disconnected.

   Fliss took a deep breath and moved towards the van.

  ‘Right,’ she said brightly, clapping her hands to the accompaniment of the music of her bangles, ‘first person to find the box with the kettle in it gets a chocolate biscuit.’

  Across the lane from Fliss’s home, set back a little in its frothy garden, sat the low thatch of Honeysuckle Cottage, the cosy nest of Daddy, Mummy, and Baby Behr. As the slow afternoon began to touch the soft edge of evening, Rose Behr held her sleepy baby in her arms and rocked him gently. For her, the moment of his bedtime was an exquisite point in the day. To lull him to a quiet, restful sleep and see him tucked snugly into his safe, gingham-trimmed crib filled her with pride and satisfaction. She was able to gaze upon him as he slumbered, knowing she had successfully nurtured him through another day. She found it hard to pull away, to separate herself from him so that she could go downstairs, straighten the house, and get everything ready for when next he awoke.

 She didn’t have to worry about her husband, as he would already be making his way to Dixie’s Bar in the high street in Barnchester. On a Friday night Rose knew better than to expect him home for dinner. 

  She hardly thought any more about how things used to be between them. Of how keen he had been when they were first going out together. Of how determined he had been that they get married and move into the cottage her grandmother had left her.  That was five years ago. She knew that the extra weight she had acquired did not suit her. She realised Ryan had discovered not only her pregnant, but her post-pregnancy body to be repugnant. She had long known that his romantic interests lay elsewhere, and that at only twenty-eight she had become in his eyes, and indeed her own, an uninspiring middle-aged housewife. 

  But she didn’t care. Not any more. Not one little bit. For now she had Baby.

  Baby Behr was four months old and a tiny, plump, pinkness of perfection. He had transformed his mother’s life. Now she knew what it meant to be in love. She was consumed by love – her love for her baby. This love was joy, was bliss, was warmth, home, hope, happiness – everything that was good and true and right. She had never imagined such a thing existed. The feeling fuelled her soul. The baby gave her all the emotional nourishment she would ever need. Her life had become golden, glowing, and special in a way that had altered her inestimably and forever. Let Daddy Behr dally with dolly-birds in Dixie’s; Mummy Behr would be all Baby needed, and his tiny, powerful presence would sustain her.

 Or at least, this was what she told herself.

 This was what she had to make herself believe.

To be continued…..

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Poor Things- film review

Not so much a review, more an Oh My Goodness!!

We went to see Poor Things (directed by Yorgos Lanthimos) at the cinema last weekend and I’m so glad we did. This is a film absolutely meant to be seen on the big screen. Many reviews talk about how visually stunning it is, but I was still unprepared for how beautifully and wildly creative the designers, cinematographer, and costume department have been. There is so much to look at in every scene it is quite dizzying!

The screenplay is an adaptation of a book by Alasdair Gray. The story is a curious take on the Frankenstein idea of a mad doctor reanimating a corpse. The newly minted Bella has to relearn/learn everything about the world, and her thirst for adventure and discovery, and her wide eyed curiosity and surprise, are what drive the film.

One of my favourite scenes showed Bella discovering how music can move you to dance. Her response to the unfamiliar rhythms and sounds was so joyous and spontaneous I found it delightful. Hats off to the choreographer, who had Mark Ruffalo gamboling and prancing to such marvellous effect too.

A fantasy recreation of Lisbon

The surreal nature of the story was effectively underpinned by the sets. More was definitely more, with little allowed to look in any way natural. Such a stylistic choice can only really succeed if fully committed to, and my goodness, here was whole hearted commitment. My favourite location was probably Lisbon, though the ship was fabulous too.

Emma Stone has rightly (IMHO) won a Golden Globe for her performance as Bella Baxter. Will she bag an Oscar too? I hope so. In fact, all the performances were impressive I particularly applaud Willem Defoe for (for once) underplaying his role, and Mark Ruffalo for stupendously overplaying his. I grimaced at his appalling English accent to begin with, but soon it just felt right for the character.

This is not a film for the faint-hearted. The surgical experiment that results in the creation of Bella is stomach churning (speaking as someone whose idea of a horror movie is Ghostbusters!), and there is a lot of sex. And I mean a lot! If you are likely to be offended by either of those things don’t go, but you will be missing out on something truly special.

Poor Things is a film about innocence, about discovery, about human nature. It makes us question the way we view things, the way we censor behaviour, the way we impose societal norms upon each other, and how seeing those norms disregarded can be both disturbing and exhilarating.

Poor Things is also, very definitely, a comedy. I found myself laughing out loud, often, (which is rare for me, particularly when viewing a film in a cinema). I have to say I was sometimes the only one laughing! I don’t know what to make of that, except that comedy and pathos travel through a story hand in hand, occasionally in stark contrast to each other, occasionally twins. What I found funny might shock or sadden someone else. What I found joyous might appear simply strange to another cinema goer. That is the marvellous thing about stories: the reader/listener/viewer brings their own interpretation to the finished art work, and that response is an ineffable part of the story’s make-up.

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The Wisdom of Oaks

Centuries old, withstanding flood, war and the march of time.

An ancient oak tree in Bartonsham Nature Reserve

On one of our favourite walks we pass this majestic oak tree. I’ve often wondered how old it might be. A light bit of Googling and some unreliable maths brings me to the conclusion it is between 200 and 350 years old. A living thing that has spun through the seasons all that time. Giving shade to farm workers, perhaps, resting from their labours. Or shelter for pilgrims, on their way to St Thomas’s shrine at the cathedral. Or yielding firewood to warm a hundred hearths. Providing a place of safety for generations of nesting birds, and food for a thousand foraging squirrels. A home for myriad butterflies and beetles. Countless lives sustained, improved or enhanced, simply by its quiet, steady presence.

Among the healthy boughs sit the ‘widow makers’

For all its benevolence, trees of such size should be sat beneath or climbed with caution. A natural part of its growth and development is that some branches will fall victim to pests or weather. These boughs, sometimes the size of smaller trees themselves, become unstable and ultimately die. The tree can shed them without compromising its own structural integrity or even noticing their loss, it has so many healthy ones remaining. Pity the hapless camper who chose the wrong time to pitch a tent in the tree’s shadow when one of these widow makers makes its sudden descent.

This particular oak, if I am at least close in my estimation of its age, has lived through twelve English monarchs, civil war, years of drought, annual floods, heavy snowfall, and temperatures from -15 to 36 degrees centigrade. It was an acorn when the country witnessed Regicide, and a sapling as the population lived through its only years as a commonwealth. As a young tree it grew through the rise and fall of the British Empire, the Napoleonic Wars, and the entire Industrial Revolution. As a noble behemoth it stood strong while planes carrying bombs to the city port of Liverpool rumbled overhead. It cast its moon shadows, undisturbed, when man first tore through the filament into space. It held its ground as the city grew and advanced. Now the field in which it continues to grow has been declared a Nature Reserve, so that the ancient tree, with all its long accumulated wisdom, is protected, safe to live out its remaining years unmolested. How lucky we are to have such a magnificent witnesses to the passing of time and the follies and endeavours of man just there, right there, along the path and across the field, next the river and under the broad, blue sky.

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