some gorgeous gardenia-scented bath salts and a big fluffy bath sheet, Amber pulled on
a pink vest and short white canvas skirt from her nearest bag and tugged out a pair of sandals.
Then, ducking her head, she carefully negotiated the stairs, trying not to fall over several cats and the large and lolloping
dog.
‘Better?’ Gwyneth beamed in the gloom of the oddly-shaped kitchen. ‘Oh, don’t you look puckie! I’ve made some lemonade, look
– you must be dry as a bone – and the food’s all ready. We can start the unpacking later. This must all seem very strange
to you.’
Amber nodded. Strange and a bit scary. In fact, there had been a moment when Lewis had deposited the last of her luggage at
the top of Moth Cottage’s staircase and leapt back in the Hayfields van with no more than a cheery grin, that she’d wanted
to beg him to take her back to Reading station. Or Heathrow. Or the nearest town. Or anywhere with a bit of twenty-first century
civilisation from where she could return to her friends and/or family and not be left alone in this stunningly pretty but
exceptionally isolated place.
But Lewis, no doubt with the ever-demanding Jem on his mind, hadn’t even given her a backward glance, let alone a chance to
plead for a return trip, and had roared away round the village green’s dusty single-track road and out of sight.
Watching Gwyneth move nimbly around the kitchen, which appeared to have no modern appliances or gadgets whatsoever, Amber
gave herself another mental talking-to. She really had to stop being such a wimp about this. Yes, it was strange and naturally
unfamiliar, but for goodness sake – wasn’t this exactly the sort of thing she’d wanted? She’d never, as her friends had pointed
out, been far away from home except for holidays, and she was rattling towards thirty, for heaven’s sake – surely she had
to make some life-changes, experience different things, before it was too late?
And it was only a couple of months in a southern village after all. It was hardly a solo Himalaya-trek, or moving away to
live on the other side of the world for ever.
‘Go and sit yourself in the garden,’ Gwyneth said. ‘Getcomfy and I’ll bring the dinner out.’ She stopped. ‘Sorry, duck – I suppose you’ll call it lunch, but we still mostly have
our dinner midday here, with a bit of tea late afternoon and supper later on.’
Amber smiled. ‘Gran always had her dinner at midday, too. And after all, the people who dished up the meals at school were
called dinner ladies, so dinner is fine by me – but please let me help you.’
‘Won’t hear of it,’ Gwyneth said stoutly. ‘I’ve got it all in hand and you’re a guest. But a word of warning, duck. If you
wants to have a bit of peace for a few minutes, I’d sit out the back rather than the front. Sit in the front and every man
and ’is dog will come and give you the once-over. ’
Knowing that she definitely wasn’t up to that sort of scrutiny just yet, Amber gave a grateful smile and accompanied by the
dog and a posse of cats, ducked out of the back door.
The garden was adorable. Like something out of a picture book. It matched the rest of Moth Cottage exactly. Long and narrow,
with tiny well-worn brick paths wending between raspberry canes, strawberry beds, vibrantly stuffed flower borders and equally
well-stocked vegetable patches, overhung with stunted apple and cherry trees, and with a rickety trellis smothered in fat
creamy roses at the far end.
Beneath the trees, Amber was delighted to see two deck chairs set on either side of a very elderly table with odd legs. Real
deck chairs like she used to slide into on sand-encrusted childhood seaside holidays, slung with faded striped canvas on splintery
wooden frames and those strange notch contraptions that her Dad used to have so much trouble putting up.
How long ago all that was. When she had been very young, before Coral and
a pink vest and short white canvas skirt from her nearest bag and tugged out a pair of sandals.
Then, ducking her head, she carefully negotiated the stairs, trying not to fall over several cats and the large and lolloping
dog.
‘Better?’ Gwyneth beamed in the gloom of the oddly-shaped kitchen. ‘Oh, don’t you look puckie! I’ve made some lemonade, look
– you must be dry as a bone – and the food’s all ready. We can start the unpacking later. This must all seem very strange
to you.’
Amber nodded. Strange and a bit scary. In fact, there had been a moment when Lewis had deposited the last of her luggage at
the top of Moth Cottage’s staircase and leapt back in the Hayfields van with no more than a cheery grin, that she’d wanted
to beg him to take her back to Reading station. Or Heathrow. Or the nearest town. Or anywhere with a bit of twenty-first century
civilisation from where she could return to her friends and/or family and not be left alone in this stunningly pretty but
exceptionally isolated place.
But Lewis, no doubt with the ever-demanding Jem on his mind, hadn’t even given her a backward glance, let alone a chance to
plead for a return trip, and had roared away round the village green’s dusty single-track road and out of sight.
Watching Gwyneth move nimbly around the kitchen, which appeared to have no modern appliances or gadgets whatsoever, Amber
gave herself another mental talking-to. She really had to stop being such a wimp about this. Yes, it was strange and naturally
unfamiliar, but for goodness sake – wasn’t this exactly the sort of thing she’d wanted? She’d never, as her friends had pointed
out, been far away from home except for holidays, and she was rattling towards thirty, for heaven’s sake – surely she had
to make some life-changes, experience different things, before it was too late?
And it was only a couple of months in a southern village after all. It was hardly a solo Himalaya-trek, or moving away to
live on the other side of the world for ever.
‘Go and sit yourself in the garden,’ Gwyneth said. ‘Getcomfy and I’ll bring the dinner out.’ She stopped. ‘Sorry, duck – I suppose you’ll call it lunch, but we still mostly have
our dinner midday here, with a bit of tea late afternoon and supper later on.’
Amber smiled. ‘Gran always had her dinner at midday, too. And after all, the people who dished up the meals at school were
called dinner ladies, so dinner is fine by me – but please let me help you.’
‘Won’t hear of it,’ Gwyneth said stoutly. ‘I’ve got it all in hand and you’re a guest. But a word of warning, duck. If you
wants to have a bit of peace for a few minutes, I’d sit out the back rather than the front. Sit in the front and every man
and ’is dog will come and give you the once-over. ’
Knowing that she definitely wasn’t up to that sort of scrutiny just yet, Amber gave a grateful smile and accompanied by the
dog and a posse of cats, ducked out of the back door.
The garden was adorable. Like something out of a picture book. It matched the rest of Moth Cottage exactly. Long and narrow,
with tiny well-worn brick paths wending between raspberry canes, strawberry beds, vibrantly stuffed flower borders and equally
well-stocked vegetable patches, overhung with stunted apple and cherry trees, and with a rickety trellis smothered in fat
creamy roses at the far end.
Beneath the trees, Amber was delighted to see two deck chairs set on either side of a very elderly table with odd legs. Real
deck chairs like she used to slide into on sand-encrusted childhood seaside holidays, slung with faded striped canvas on splintery
wooden frames and those strange notch contraptions that her Dad used to have so much trouble putting up.
How long ago all that was. When she had been very young, before Coral and
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