A New Beginning (13 page)

Extract from
Starting Over
by Wendy Lewis

CHAPTER ONE

A
strange,
fleeting
moment
of
foreboding
and
black
despair
swept
over
me
as
I
met
Martin’s
eyes
across
the
breakfast
table.
This
was
supposed
to
be
our
new
start,
an
attempt
to
repair
our
dwindling
finances
and
a
marriage
that
I
felt,
anyway,
was
beginning
to
go
nowhere.
He
must
have
noticed
something
for
he
stretched
out
a
warm
hand
and
covered
mine.

‘It’ll
be
all
right,
Fiona.
This
is
just
a
slight
hiccup
in
the
proceedings.
I
will
make
it
all
right.
It
will
all
be
sorted
out
in
no
time
at
all
and
we
will
be
back
in
the
cottage.’

I
wanted
to
believe
him
-
I
really
did
but,
before
I
could
reply,
there
was
an
unnerving
cracking
and
splintering
sound
from
outside,
followed
by
a
rumbling
crash
which
made
us
both
flinch.

His
mouth
tightened
slightly
as
he
rose
from
the
table.
‘I’ll
just
go
and
see
what
that
was.’

As
I
got
up
to
go
with
him,
Rory,
our
red
miniature
smooth-haired
dachshund,
heard
the
postman’s
van
and
leapt
up
onto
the
bench
seat
which
ran
round
the
living
room
area
at
one
end
of
the
mobile
home,
from
there
he
could
see
out
of
the
window.
He
was
joined
by
Lola,
a
silver
dapple
smooth-hair,
the
other
member
of
the
pack;
more
than
one
dachshund
constitutes
a
pack
we
had
found.
The
mobile
home
-
we
had
quickly
tired
of
this
mouthful
and
demoted
it
to
a
caravan
-
was
parked
in
the
orchard
which
ran
up
the
side
of
the
hill.
This
acre
of
mature
apple
trees,
with
damsons
and
greengages
growing
in
its
surrounding
hedge
had
been
a
huge
plus
point
in
our
decision
to
purchase
the
old
cottage.

The
two
dogs
began
a
deafening
tirade
of
canine
abuse
directed
towards
the
postman,
through
the
window.
He
glanced
up
at
the
two
raging,
fang-filled
faces,
then
left
the
elastic-banded
pile
of
mail
perched
on
the
gate
post.
The
wind
from
his
passing
van,
as
he
pulled
away,
lifted
the
bundle
just
enough
to
ensure
that
it
slid
off
and
flopped
down
into
the
muddy
gateway.

Martin
had
slipped
out
of
the
door,
before
the
dogs
realised
it
was
open,
and
gone
across
to
the
cottage.
On
the
way
he
picked
up
the
mail
and
absently
placed
it
back
on
the
gatepost;
his
entire
concentration
was
on
the
house
ahead
of
him…or
what
was
left
of
it.

I
concentrated
on
trying
to
pacify
the
dogs
who
gave
up
as
soon
as
the
postman
was
out
of
sight
behind
the
trees,
only
for
him
to
re-appear
halfway
up
the
hill,
where
he
paused
to
exchange
a
few
words
with
John,
the
farmer
from
next
door,
who
was
checking
the
sheep
he
was
running
in
the
field
adjoining
the
orchard.
I
watched
them
turn
towards
our
cottage
and
didn’t
think
it
was
necessary
for
them
both
to
be
pointing
at
it,
but
I
suppose
it
was
quite
a
novelty,
most
people
around
here
were
renovating
their
houses:
Martin
was
managing
to
demolish
parts
of
ours.
It
needed
larger
rooms,
he
had
said.

This
move
to
Deepwell
Cottage
had
followed
two
miserable
years
during
which
the
business
of
our
small
pub
had
declined,
and
Martin
had
helped
it
sink
by
gradually
drinking
more
of
the
whisky
than
we
were
selling.
Situated
right
out
in
the
countryside,
the
drinking
and
driving
ban
had
seriously
reduced
the
number
of
customers
and
we
had
finally
sold
up
while
there
was
still
some
equity
in
the
place,
and
moved
to
the
cottage
which
had
been
empty
for
eighteen
months.
The
idea
was
that
we
would
do
it
up
and
sell
at
a
substantial
profit.
Then
move
on
to
do
the
same
again,
hopefully
in
the
same
area
as
this
move
put
us
much
closer
to
Martin’s
eighty
year
old
mother,
Lily
who,
in
spite
of
gradually
going
blind
with
macular
degeneration,
still
insisted
on
living
alone
in
her
bungalow.
Martin
intended
to
do
most
of
the
work
on
the
cottage
himself…he
watched
a
lot
of
house-renovation
programmes
on
the
television.
When
we
had
arrived,
four
weeks
ago,
the
place
was
at
least
habitable
and
kept
warm
by
a
solid
fuel
Rayburn
in
the
kitchen,
a
bit
messy
to
operate,
but
cosy.