one side. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy being in the film? You could regale us with what you saw just now.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘OK.’ He grinned. ‘Worth a try. Here, have some more cake.’
Laughing, she shook her head. ‘I must go.’ Gathering up her bag and map, she picked up the bunch of keys. ‘Thank you for your hospitality. Perhaps if I buy my cottage I’ll see you around?’
Mark shrugged. ‘Maybe. Good luck with the viewing. I hope it is all you dreamed of.’ His gaze followed her to the door. Turning to raise a hand in farewell as she closed it behind her she didn’t see the wistful appreciation in his eyes or hear Colin’s resigned chuckle. ‘Give up, Mark! She’s gone.’
7
Emma remembered Mark’s final words as she drew up outside the cottage and switched off the car engine. Dozing in the sun behind its curtain of roses it was pink-washed with black beams. Half the roof was thatched, the other half roofed in old lichen-covered tiles and it stood sideways to the lane at its junction with a smaller, narrower road heading off into the country, set well back behind a wall of overgrown garden. She climbed out of the car and for a moment stood still, just staring. It was enchanting.
The gate was broken, the once-black paint peeling off in brittle flakes, looking too frail to touch. She was reaching out to push it open when she became conscious suddenly that someone was watching her. She turned round. A young woman was standing a hundred yards away holding a bicycle, staring at Emma with undisguised hostility. As she saw Emma spot her, she climbed onto the bike and pedalled off. Emma shrugged and turned back to the gate. If someone else had wanted to buy the cottage they presumably had had time by now to do something about it. So why should they resent someone looking at the place? Cautiously pushing the gate back on its hinges she let herself into the garden. The flowerbeds were alive with bees and butterflies, a mosaic of bright scented colour. It was the cottage of her childhood memories, her fantasies, of the dream she only hazily recalled. The woman in the lane was already forgotten. Taking a step forward, she stopped again. It was strange. Although as far as she knew she had never set foot inside the gate, she did seem to know it all so well. She knew where each flowerbed lay, beneath the tangle of untended shrubs and weeds, she knew where the pump handle was, to the side of the front door, she remembered the medlar tree and the mulberry and the blackthorn and the pear in the hedge, the apples in the back garden and the circular beds separated with large round lumps of stone and flint.
Shaking her head she sniffed and she realised suddenly to her astonishment that she was crying. Brushing her cheek with the back of her hand she took a few slow paces towards the door. Only then did she realise that she had been so eager to climb out of the car and look at the house that she had left the keys on the passenger seat. Retracing her steps, she found them. There were six on the bunch. Two front door keys, a back door key and three shed keys. Selecting the most likely with a shaking hand, she inserted it into the lock. It clicked back easily and she found herself pushing the door open. But she already knew, without having set foot inside, that she was going to buy this house, whatever the cost, financially or emotionally. She couldn’t live without it.
In the excitement of the moment she did not give Piers a thought.
The hall was dark. It smelled of rich, sun-warmed wood and dust. She stepped over the pile of circulars and junk mail on the mat and stood, holding her breath.
Welcome home, Emma .
The voice in her head was quiet, but clear. The same voice that she had heard in the shop, surely, but this time it wasn’t frightening. It was warm. Enticing. It enfolded her.
She smiled and took a step forward.
I have waited a long time for you to come, my dear .
She frowned. And
‘I don’t think so.’
‘OK.’ He grinned. ‘Worth a try. Here, have some more cake.’
Laughing, she shook her head. ‘I must go.’ Gathering up her bag and map, she picked up the bunch of keys. ‘Thank you for your hospitality. Perhaps if I buy my cottage I’ll see you around?’
Mark shrugged. ‘Maybe. Good luck with the viewing. I hope it is all you dreamed of.’ His gaze followed her to the door. Turning to raise a hand in farewell as she closed it behind her she didn’t see the wistful appreciation in his eyes or hear Colin’s resigned chuckle. ‘Give up, Mark! She’s gone.’
7
Emma remembered Mark’s final words as she drew up outside the cottage and switched off the car engine. Dozing in the sun behind its curtain of roses it was pink-washed with black beams. Half the roof was thatched, the other half roofed in old lichen-covered tiles and it stood sideways to the lane at its junction with a smaller, narrower road heading off into the country, set well back behind a wall of overgrown garden. She climbed out of the car and for a moment stood still, just staring. It was enchanting.
The gate was broken, the once-black paint peeling off in brittle flakes, looking too frail to touch. She was reaching out to push it open when she became conscious suddenly that someone was watching her. She turned round. A young woman was standing a hundred yards away holding a bicycle, staring at Emma with undisguised hostility. As she saw Emma spot her, she climbed onto the bike and pedalled off. Emma shrugged and turned back to the gate. If someone else had wanted to buy the cottage they presumably had had time by now to do something about it. So why should they resent someone looking at the place? Cautiously pushing the gate back on its hinges she let herself into the garden. The flowerbeds were alive with bees and butterflies, a mosaic of bright scented colour. It was the cottage of her childhood memories, her fantasies, of the dream she only hazily recalled. The woman in the lane was already forgotten. Taking a step forward, she stopped again. It was strange. Although as far as she knew she had never set foot inside the gate, she did seem to know it all so well. She knew where each flowerbed lay, beneath the tangle of untended shrubs and weeds, she knew where the pump handle was, to the side of the front door, she remembered the medlar tree and the mulberry and the blackthorn and the pear in the hedge, the apples in the back garden and the circular beds separated with large round lumps of stone and flint.
Shaking her head she sniffed and she realised suddenly to her astonishment that she was crying. Brushing her cheek with the back of her hand she took a few slow paces towards the door. Only then did she realise that she had been so eager to climb out of the car and look at the house that she had left the keys on the passenger seat. Retracing her steps, she found them. There were six on the bunch. Two front door keys, a back door key and three shed keys. Selecting the most likely with a shaking hand, she inserted it into the lock. It clicked back easily and she found herself pushing the door open. But she already knew, without having set foot inside, that she was going to buy this house, whatever the cost, financially or emotionally. She couldn’t live without it.
In the excitement of the moment she did not give Piers a thought.
The hall was dark. It smelled of rich, sun-warmed wood and dust. She stepped over the pile of circulars and junk mail on the mat and stood, holding her breath.
Welcome home, Emma .
The voice in her head was quiet, but clear. The same voice that she had heard in the shop, surely, but this time it wasn’t frightening. It was warm. Enticing. It enfolded her.
She smiled and took a step forward.
I have waited a long time for you to come, my dear .
She frowned. And
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