Kitabı oku: «The Chic Boutique On Baker Street», sayfa 2
Ben laughed. ‘That is for you, Mr Jenkins, wet the baby’s head.’
Alf chuckled as he began to fill the tumbler with the amber liquid. Gwendolen began to bellow again and, after a couple more contractions, Ben hauled the calf from its mother, laying it down on the fresh straw nearby. Alf preened and puffed out his chest, a tear in his eye, as he set the bucket of water down in front of Gwendolen. He planted a brandy-soaked kiss between the prize cow’s long lashes.
‘Well done, my girl, well done!’
Ben set to work, cleaning out the calf’s nose with his fingers, tickling its nostrils with a blade of hay to get the calf breathing and moving about. The calf sneezed and, shaking its head, opened its brown eyes and looked straight up at its deliverer. Ben felt the rush of adrenalin, strong as always, as his job gave him another day to be proud of.
‘Welcome to the world, little one,’ he whispered softly, as he patted the calf lightly. He pulled his gloves off, reached into his zip pocket for his phone and snapped a picture of the new arrival with his camera phone.
An hour later, Gwendolen and Ophelia—the latest addition to the Jenkins household—were tucked up in their stall, clean and warm, whilst Alf, Annie and Ben sat around the farmhouse kitchen table, the fire roaring in the hearth. Ben had stripped off his blood-soaked coveralls and was now sat, hay still stuck out of his tussled brown hair, gulping down hot sweet tea and eating a steaming bowl of corned beef hash and Yorkshire puddings, made by the fair Annie. Alf and his wife were eating with him, laughing and joking happily, talking of their new calf and their plans for the upcoming summer county fair. Ben, dressed in a black woollen jumper and dark blue denim jeans, savoured the food and atmosphere. The Jenkinses were such happy folk, and he felt a pang as he thought of driving his jeep home to his own empty cottage.
He lived in the village, next door to his vet practice, and had impressive grounds himself, with space for horses and more, but with running two successful businesses, his dreams of having a little bolt-hole of his own like this had yet to come off as he had hoped. The furthest he had got was to purchase four chickens for his expansive back yard the week before: two black and one white Croad Langshan hens, and a Leghorn cock. He planned to have more animals eventually, but he had held off for some reason, probably due to the time and effort needed to keep them healthy and happy. He had not felt himself lately, and had only taken the chickens on due to another owner becoming unwell. The thought of the chickens being left abandoned had haunted him, so he had galvanised his efforts and stepped in to give them a home. They were still getting used to each other, animal and man, and the notion of how horrified Tanya would have been to share her home with his feathered friends gave him reason to chuckle, which hadn’t happened often recently. Lucky for the chickens that Tanya wouldn’t be sharing an abode with them, although her departure had been more of an adjustment for their owner than he had envisaged, given the circumstances. Who knew that the wife you are indifferent to, leaving with your best friend, would leave such a hole?
The thought of pulling up his drive to an empty house meant Ben wasn’t in any rush to leave, and the Jenkinses were great clients, keeping him in business with their many farm animals and half-dozen dogs. Also, the dogs seemed to be constantly matted from farm life, which meant they often frequented his other establishment, Shampooched. He had bought the dog groomer’s a few months after he and Tanya had moved to Westfield when the lady who ran it for many years retired and moved to Spain to crochet away her twilight days from her veranda. He had bought it for Tanya, hoping to get her more involved in village life, but it hadn’t worked out quite as he had hoped. In fact, not at all how he had hoped, so now he had Tracy, who was sullen and off kilter to some, but she loved dogs and ran the business well, which took some of the pressure from him. Which reminded him, he had to run to the wholesaler’s first thing, as Tracy had left him a list that morning, and he had his regular surgery to attend to as well, so he had an early start.
Having polished off two bowls of hash and enough Yorkshire puddings to fashion a raft on a sea of gravy, he reluctantly said goodbye to the Jenkinses and headed home. On the dark drive, he contemplated two things: whether his new chickens had started laying yet, and whether he would see Amanda tomorrow. He wondered what she had meant by the ‘we’ when she spoke about being open soon. Did she mean the normal ‘we’ as in clients and staff, or did she really mean ‘we’ as in ‘my adorable drop dead gorgeous bodybuilder husband and I’? Ben found himself wondering what sort of bloke she was with. Whoever the poor lad was, he had Ben’s sympathies. She looked like a handful, and a bossy one at that. She was cute though …
As he pulled up to his front door, he smiled to himself at the memory of her flouncing off. He felt sure she was going to be a pain in the neck. He just hoped whatever arty-farty stuff she sold didn’t drive the regular stream of tourists away. Somehow, he just knew he would have to keep an eye on his new neighbour.
Three
Everyone in the sleepy hill-set village of Westfield knew well enough to let Agatha Mayweather have her own way. The unofficial Lady of the small Yorkshire village was a veritable force of nature, and even the strongest characters in the community cowered under her steely gaze. When Downton Abbey had first aired, many villagers, eyes glued to their screens over their latest knitting projects and cups of tea, immediately saw the similarities and soon, unbeknown to her of course, Agatha was nicknamed the Dowager of Westfield. It was unbeknown to her for obvious reasons: she would kill them if she ever found out. It was so obvious to all who knew her though that the name stuck, and even the meekest of the townsfolk had a good titter at the comparison. Agatha had a sharp mind, a mean tongue and a no-nonsense attitude, and had Mr Mayweather not since passed away, he would have guffawed at the notion himself. Agatha and her dear late husband, Henry, were great presences in the community, and since his passing from a long battle with cancer, Agatha had seemed to have coped admirably well, throwing herself even deeper into village life and the many committees and causes she was patron of and involved in.
Their property was on the outskirts of the town, a beautiful, sprawling nine-bedroom Georgian country house that many a Mayweather had resided in over the years. Her gardens were a joy to behold, and she regularly opened them, and indeed her home, to the general public for the summer, donating the proceeds, after the running costs, to various causes in Westfield. As well as this, she also organised most of the events in the village seemingly single-handed (as she often wouldn’t let people get much of a look-in). One such event was the summer county fair, held in the village of Westfield annually and a great kick-off to their summer months as a quiet, understated but beautiful tourist attraction. With the lambing season beginning, all talk was of the hard work to be done, both on the village farms and for the big event. Agatha’s clipboard was poised, primed and ready to go already and the villagers were all steeling themselves for her firm knock at the doors of their homes and businesses.
As acerbic as Agatha’s tongue was, she was dearly loved in the community and had no enemies amongst her kinfolk. She was the type of woman that you were friends with, immediately respected, admired and also, in secret, were a little afraid of.
Agatha’s morning began the same as every morning, with Taylor, her estate manager, gently rousing her with a cup of English breakfast tea. Sebastian Taylor’s family had worked as butlers for the Mayweather family for generations. As soon as the current Mrs Mayweather had become the lady of the household, she had done away with many of the old traditions and promoted Taylor, who was in fact her childhood friend from the village, and quite often her playground tormentor, to estate manager. Taylor, being a traditional fellow, was more than a little surprised to gain this new title at the age of forty-five, and a battle of wills had ensued. Agatha had won, of course, much to the amusement of her new husband at the time, but Taylor had managed to get his own way in upholding some traditions, such as bringing them their morning refreshments. These days, however, Agatha was secretly grateful for this small act of kindness every morning.
Losing Henry the year before, after twenty years of blissful marriage, had knocked the wind out of her sails more than she would ever own up to, and quite often, waking alone in the ornate four-poster bed, she was more than happy to see a friendly face as she awoke to seize the day.
‘Thank you, Taylor.’ She smiled as she took the ornate cup and saucer, embellished with tea roses, from the tray that he proffered.
‘Good morning, Mrs Mayweather, I trust you slept well?’
Agatha rolled her dark blue eyes at her manager. ‘Taylor, really? After all these years, you can’t just call me Agatha?’
Taylor chuckled, ignoring the daily request. ‘We have the summer fair to begin planning today, and the council meeting at 3 p.m., to discuss the permits for the beer tents and the marquees. Shall I be driving you?’
Agatha sipped her tea, her eyes closing momentarily as the sweet nectar travelled down her throat, warming her bones and waking her up.
‘Yes, please, Taylor, and I have an eleven o’clock in the village for the children.’
Taylor suppressed a smile. ‘Of course. I shall get them ready.’
Taylor left the room, and Agatha heard his soft footfalls as he descended the large central staircase. She hauled herself out of bed and padded to the ornate dressing table in her slippers, obviously left there the night before by Taylor. She tutted at his stubborn archaic ways and began to put her face on. Her gaze fell to the silver-framed photo next to her jewellery box. Henry smiled out at her, giggling at something she had said as they stood arm in arm, fresh faces, happy smiles, all decked out in their finery on their wedding day. She smiled and stroked her husband’s face through the glass.
‘Good morning, Old Boot,’ she whispered, using her nickname for him. ‘Busy day today, my sweet.’ She kissed the tip of her finger and pressed it to the glass. When she had finished applying her make-up, she wandered off to the bathroom to get ready to face the day.
‘Err, gerrof!’ Taylor laughed as Buster licked at his head, sticking his wet tongue down his ear canal. Maisie, excited by Taylor’s reaction, jumped up at his crouched form and knocked him to the floor. Taylor closed his eyes and tried to cover his face as both dogs continued their slobbery assault on him. He tried to get up, and just got licked all the more. ‘Guys, come on now, stop it n—mmmffff!’
Buster took Taylor’s open, speaking mouth as an invitation for a kiss and Taylor found his tongue being massaged by that of a huge, rather smelly dog’s tongue in return. Horrified, he shut his mouth and began reaching frantically into his trouser pocket for a handkerchief. Just then, a bellow rang out and both dogs stopped, startled, and sat down, contrite at either side of a very wet and dishevelled Taylor.
‘Children, stop that immediately!’ Agatha was standing on the bottom step of the staircase, looking resplendent in a fitted peach skirt suit, pearly white blouse peeking from beneath, and matching cream cloche, her silvery white curls peeking out from beneath the fabric brim. Her dark blue eyes were shining with anger, and her taut gait made the dogs look to the floor. Taylor chuckled under his breath. Not every day two huge grey Irish wolfhounds looked like scolded children, which of course they were. Agatha, having never been able to have children, had always filled that maternal hole with the biggest, hairiest rescue hounds she could find, and Maisie and Buster definitely took the dog biscuit for being the craziest mutts she had ever given a home to. Agatha called them her children, and treated them as such, and both dogs adored her as much as she did them, although when Henry was alive, he had had to put his foot down and ban them from the bed, which, surprisingly, Agatha hated. She loved to cuddle up with them, but, even now, she honoured her late husband’s wish and they slept in two huge plush baskets in the hall of the house, or laid out like two overgrown rugs in front of the ever-present fire in the drawing room. Brandishing the two thick leather leads Taylor hadn’t noticed on the crook of her arm, Agatha smiled.
‘When you have quite finished, Taylor, let’s get into the car. Many, many things to do today, people to see …’
She wandered to the front door, grabbing her cream leather bag from the hall dresser on her way past, dogs in tow, tails wagging excitedly. Taylor groaned good-naturedly, pulling himself to his feet. His suit now looked like a dog blanket. Lucky he kept a lint roller in his glove compartment, he thought to himself, as he wiped the dog drool from his chin. After locking up the huge front doors, he wandered over to the car, whistling as he walked. Agatha eyed him from the back seat as he got comfortable, and he flashed her a cheeky wink. Colouring, she huffed and returned her attention to the dogs. Taylor held back a grin as they pulled away to the village.
A short drive later, they pulled up at the small parade of shops on Baker Street. Agatha had always loved this little slice of history—the large, ornate mouldings on the shopfronts, the quirky businesses they contained, it was always a favourite place of hers. She remembered running to the sweet shop as a young girl after school for her fix of sweets from Molly’s Delights, the little confectioner’s that used to be here on this very street. Molly had long since died, and the shop now changed hands, but the feel and look of the shops were still the same. She looked at the newest shop—A New Lease of Life. Rumour was—and Agatha always knew the truth—that the new owner was a city dweller, a quiet pale girl, who had recently upped sticks and moved to Westfield alone. The type of shop she had opened perturbed Agatha, and had since she had heard the new business application from the council meeting. Westfield was very much a make do and mend type of village, and an upcycling shop, whilst being a trendy fad to the city folk in today’s austere times, was less of a new concept to the villagers. The villagers here never threw out anything without revamping it or repairing it as much as possible, and not many people didn’t know how to sew, knit or bake. She did wonder how long this newcomer would stay, as she couldn’t see the shop being much of a success, even with the tourist trade. She made a mental note to investigate further. She would pay this girl a visit tomorrow and see what was what. Maybe she could help her integrate into the village, and boost her trade. She was just about to tell Taylor he could open the door to get the dogs out, when something caught her eye in the new shop window. Or rather, someone did. Ben Evans, town vet and owner of the dog groomer’s next door, was outside watering the planters at the front of the shop. Or, more accurately, he was drowning them. His arm was holding the green watering can over the poor spluttering plants, but his gaze was firmly on the shop window next door. More accurately, he was focused on the woman within, who was bent over the large wooden table in the centre of the shop, cutting and measuring fabric. She was a pretty thing, Agatha noted, with long brown hair tied in a loose, messy plait, her thin frame covered in a pretty floral dress and matching pastel pink bolero cardigan. Agatha watched as Ben’s eyes never left her back. She was the polar opposite of his ex-wife, Tanya, that was evident. Agatha’s brow furrowed at the memory of the Day-Glo orange Mrs Evans as was. All labelled clothes, designer perfume, which choked everybody in a one-mile radius, and gaudy talon-like fake nails. Everyone in Westfield had been scandalised when Ben, a native of the village, had returned fresh from university with his new love in tow. She was at such odds to Ben and his quiet, kind ways. Agatha had never taken to the woman, and was not sad when she had left for the bright lights and temptations of city life. She had felt for Ben though; the evil witch had decimated the poor young Evans lad, and he had not been the same since. Agatha’s romantic side kicked in immediately, and she was just thinking how wonderful it would be for the two to get together, when the moment was abruptly broken. The nearest plant, bearing the brunt, was half dead, gurgling with the sheer weight of the water, and the terracotta pot, now full, began to overflow and splashed on Ben’s denim-clad feet. Startled, Ben jumped back, tripping over the A-board that Tracy always had too close to the shop, and promptly fell over, his legs in the air. Quick as a flash, he jumped up, swinging his limbs widely. Grabbing the A-board for support, he straightened himself up, now damp, and cast a furtive glance at the window to see if the girl had seen. The girl in the shop, however, simply worked on, unaware of the drama outside.
Ben dusted himself down quickly and Taylor took this as his cue to get out of the car, coming round to Agatha’s door. Ben looked horrified, obviously realising that his little trip to the pavement had not gone completely unnoticed. He nodded sheepishly at Taylor and, looking into the car, beamed at Agatha, his grey eyes shining with embarrassment. Agatha grinned back at him before she could stop herself. She had always had a soft spot for the Evans boy, and he had grown into a fine young man.
The dogs loved him too and, as Taylor opened the door, they both made a break for it, Ben only just catching their leads before they barrelled into the shop.
‘Good morning, Mrs Mayweather, how are you and your fine charges doing today?’
Agatha smiled. ‘Fine, Benjamin, fine, as muddy as always, I am afraid. Buster here still thinks he is a spring chicken. I am afraid he was chasing rabbits again in the far paddock, poor Archibald had to dig him out of the warren!’
Ben chuckled, thinking of the surly gardener, Archie, who had been the Mayweathers’ gardener for many years. He had been great friends with Ben’s father, Edward, and the only time anyone had ever heard him talk, let alone laugh, was in the Four Feathers on a Saturday evening, whilst thrashing Ben’s dad at the weekly darts and dominoes night. Ben’s parents had both since passed away, and thinking of Archie gave Ben a pang of loss for his dearly departed mother and father.
Tracy came to the door of the shop and smiled tightly at Agatha.
‘Good morning, Mrs Mayweather.’
Agatha smiled tightly in return, trying not to stare at the girl’s shocking pink hair, which today was piled on top of her head like a solid structure of candy floss. The youth of today, she thought to herself. Tracy moved closer to Ben, taking the dog leads, attached to the very bouncy Maisie and Buster, from his grasp. Agatha caught a flash of colour from the shop window next door, and discreetly turned her gaze. The girl from the shop was now furtively staring at Ben as he chatted to Taylor, and her gaze flitted from Ben to Tracy, and back again. Did she think these two were together? Agatha’s interest was peaked. The look on the girl’s face was one she had seen before. It was how her husband used to look at her during their courting days, and how the young Evans lad had been looking at the girl only minutes before. The cogs started turning in Agatha’s quick mind, and a seed of a plan began to form.
As Taylor said their goodbyes, closing the door near Agatha and moving to his own, he looked at his long-term employer and suppressed a smile. I know that look, he thought to himself, that woman is plotting again …
Had Agatha noticed Taylor watching her through the rear-view mirror as she straightened her already immaculate suit on the leather upholstery of the back seat, she would have seen his amused look, and another, very different look in his eyes. But Mrs Mayweather was lost in thought, planning her strategy on her next pet project, and, as everyone knew, what Agatha Mayweather wanted, she generally got, sooner rather than later.
