Springtime at Cherry Tree Cottage (3 page)

I'm swooning in the saddle. If I were in a costume drama right now, I'd be begging for the smelling salts. At last! All my life – well, since I was about sixteen and first recognised the existence of boys – I've been hoping to find a man who is as mad about horses as I am, and I think I've just found him.

I wish circumstances were different, that I hadn't sworn off men for the foreseeable future and just shown myself up as the world's worst horsewoman. I give Rafa a pat, hoping there'll be time for the shame to fade before I see Robbie again.

We pass a tub of spring daffodils and a road sign that reads ‘Furzeworthy', the name of the hamlet where I'll be staying for the next three months at least.

‘You'll be all right now?' Robbie stops at the gate of Wisteria House, where there's a forged-iron B&B sign hanging from the wall that hides the house from the road.

‘I'm fine, thank you.' All I need is a shower and a couple of paracetamol for my bruises.

‘I'll see you tomorrow then.' Robbie swings his horse around with the merest touch of the reins against his neck.

‘Tomorrow?' My forehead tightens.

‘Hasn't Mel told you?'

I shake my head. ‘I haven't met my new boss yet, only chatted to him on the phone.'

‘You're booked to fix Nelson's loose shoe,' he adds cheerfully over his shoulder as he rides away.

That's awkward, I think as I dismount. I lead Rafa on to the drive, closing the wooden gate behind him in case he has any plans to accompany Nelson. I take him past the house, a former farmhouse, built from red Devon brick with a tiled roof and freshly painted white wooden window-frames. Woody branches of wisteria run from one side of the house above the main door and along the pergola at the front.

There's a soft-top sports car and a family MPV parked along the gravel, but no sign of a farrier's van. Beyond the vehicles, there's a pair of wooden loose-boxes – one for my horse and another for his gear and my tools – and a double garage and brick extension with a horseshoe hanging upside down above the door.

I tie Rafa up outside the stables, untack and hose him down. He stamps his feet, taking a moment to appreciate the sensation of cold water against his skin. I remove the excess with the scraper and lead him out to the field next to the stables, where he goes straight down and rolls.

Grey horse plus Devon mud equals a peculiar shade of orange.

He hauls himself up and gives himself a thorough shake. He takes a mouthful of water and dribbles it out between his whiskery lips before heading off to graze.

‘I haven't shod a stunt rider's horse before.' I lean against the gate. ‘How cool is that.'

‘Hello, Flick. What was that?'

I turn abruptly to find Louise immediately behind me. She's wearing a wrap dress that flatters her curves, and wellies that don't do anything for her at all. I flush to the roots of my hair at being caught apparently rambling on to myself.

‘Oh, nothing. I was talking to Rafa. It's a bad habit of mine.'

‘Come in and have a glass of wine.' Mel's wife has a ready smile, wavy blonde hair down to her shoulders and blue eyes. She's about the same age as me, yet she's settled with a husband and son, and the B&B, while I'm no longer sure what I'm looking for, or if I'll ever find it.

‘Yes, why not?' I say, thanking her.

I leave the head-collar in the stable ready for the morning, and follow her into the back of the house. We pass through the boot room where Louise leaves her wellies, and I pull off my jodhpur boots and chaps before entering a proper country kitchen with an Aga, butler sink and dresser. There's a brown ceramic hen on the windowsill and yellow curtains printed with red roosters. There's a bottle of rosé, a flagon of cider, a couple of wine glasses and a toy train on the elm table in the centre.

‘So you're in one piece,' Louise says. ‘I've been worried about you, coming off your horse like that.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Well, apart from the grass stains on your knees and the bloody lip, Robbie called – he wanted me to make sure you were all right.'

‘That's kind of him.' An image of the stunt rider on his testosterone-fuelled stallion jumps into my head and lingers there.

‘That's my cousin all over. He's a lovely guy. A bit of a lad, maybe, but he'd do anything for anyone.' Louise picks up the wine bottle and gestures towards the sink. ‘You're welcome to wash your hands. Would you like a drink? It's way past wine o'clock,' she adds when I hesitate.

It's true. I had dinner – or what she called ‘tea' – at five with Louise and her son, Ashley, a quiet boy of about seven. He didn't utter a word the whole time, which I found rather disturbing. I wasn't a shy child.

‘You can have cider if you prefer, but I wouldn't recommend the local brew unless you're actively seeking a laxative effect.' Louise smiles as I run my hands under the tap. There doesn't appear to be a towel so I let them drip dry. ‘Or there's a beer in the fridge. Mel likes a lager when he gets in from work.'

‘A beer would be great, thanks.' I don't want a hangover tomorrow. ‘Isn't Mel back yet? I was hoping to have a chat with him.'

‘He dropped in for his tea before going off with his brother for a couple of pints. They'll have gone to the Talymill Inn or the Dog and Duck in Talyton. I shouldn't wait up if I were you.' Louise fetches a bottle of lager, opens it and passes it over to me. ‘Please make yourself at home.'

I pull up a chair and sit down as she pours herself a glass of wine.

‘I'm so pleased you've agreed to cover for Mel while he's getting himself sorted,' she begins. ‘I hate to see him dragging himself out to work when he's in such terrible pain. A bad back is an occupational hazard, but we hoped he'd get away with it for a few more years at least. He's only forty-eight, after all: a spring chicken.'

I'd hardly describe a man in his late forties as a spring chicken, I think, as she continues. ‘Sometimes he wishes he'd gone into dairy farming like his brother, but he wouldn't be any good at getting up in the mornings.'

‘When does he have the operation?' I ask.

‘Tuesday, the day after tomorrow. He had his pre-op checks last week so he's ready to go. I think he was half hoping they'd find something wrong with his heart or liver so he had an excuse not to go ahead.'

‘Tony told me that you and Mel met while he was shoeing your horse.'

Tony was my ATF, or Apprentice Training Farrier. Based in Wiltshire, he's in his early fifties, and an experienced – if not always patient – teacher. I can recall his cutting remarks whenever I put the wrong shoes in the furnace, or dropped a box of nails. It was a fun, fast-paced, and sometimes pressured environment, and I loved it. In fact, I miss being part of the gang now. There were always three or four apprentices at different stages of training, and Tony. He's a mate of Mel's, which is how I found out about this job. He put in a good word for me and here I am.

‘I'm one of those horsey women who fell for their farrier.' Louise runs her fingers up and down the stem of her glass. ‘Mel was still married to his first wife, but they were living separate lives – pretty much, anyway.' I wonder if she uses that excuse to justify his infidelity and her involvement in breaking up a marriage. I can see why an older man would fall for her, with her caring outlook, sense of humour, and the beauty spot on her cheek. ‘Everyone said it wouldn't last, but we've been together for nine years now, and married for seven.'

‘You don't have a horse now?' I ask.

‘I kept my mare until Ashley turned two and things started getting difficult. I couldn't manage any longer.'

It seems a little odd, I think, because Louise seems very much like the coping kind.

‘I imagine that it's pretty time-consuming, running a B&B,' I observe.

‘The business does well in the summer, but it's very quiet in wintertime. My parents run a small hotel not far away from here. They're my mother's pigs – the ones that gave Rafa the heebie-jeebies. Anyway, I've had years of experience in hospitality. It fits in well with looking after Ashley – and Mel, of course.' She pauses, checking the clock on the wall before turning back to me. ‘Are you married, or engaged, or seeing anyone?'

‘Oh no,' I say, revealing more than I intend in the forceful tone of my voice.

She smiles wryly. ‘You sound like someone who's decided to remain single, come hell or high water. What happened? You don't have to say,' she adds quickly. ‘I'm sorry, I'm such a gossip.'

‘No, it's fine. I can talk about it now,' but before I can go on, Ashley cries out from somewhere upstairs. Louise raises her eyes towards the ceiling as he cries again.

‘I'm afraid you'll have to tell me another time. I'm going to have to sit with him for a while,' she sighs. ‘You're welcome to stay here, or take your drink into the snug or your room. Help yourself to another.'

I wish her goodnight and head for my room at the front of the house, one of the three en-suites that she uses for her bed-and-breakfast business. I look out of the window where I can just make out Rafa's grey silhouette in the darkness.

Louise's questioning has brought unwelcome memories of Ryan back to the forefront of my brain. A wave of regret washes through me as I recall the good times with my ex, the cuddles, kisses and companionship … And then the infidelity, utter devastation, and legacy of debt that he's left me with … I take a deep breath, count to ten and close the curtains, determined not to waste any more emotional effort on the waste of space who was once my fiancé. I can do it. I know I can. I'm over him, but I'm not ready to move on. I'm not sure that I ever will be.

I shower and change into my PJs before retiring to bed, but I can't sleep. Tomorrow, I'll be out on the road with an anvil, tools and van in my first job as a qualified member of the Worshipful Company of Farriers. I can't help wondering if Mel's clients will be receptive to having a female farrier to shoe their horses, or if I'll struggle to prove myself. I wonder, too, having demonstrated my complete inability to control my own horse, if I'll have to work extra hard to win Robbie Salterton over.

I wake to the sun's rays passing between the heavy brocade curtains and the aroma of sausages and bacon. I feel as if I'm on holiday until three alarms sound from my iPad, alarm clock and watch, bringing me to reality and the realisation that it's my first day in my new job.

The adrenaline kicks in. I jump out of bed and throw on a pair of jeans and a baggy sweater. I pad barefoot downstairs, past the snug for the B&B guests that's complete with a sofa and bookshelves laden with romances and thrillers. The corridor is filled with chicken-themed ephemera, including paintings, ceramic plaques and ornaments.

When I reach the door that's open into the kitchen, I pause to listen to the fierce sizzle of frying bacon and Louise's one-sided conversation with her son. I walk on by, my stomach growling as I put on my wellies and head outside to find Rafa. There's a black Toyota Hilux parked outside the garage that wasn't there last night.

I don't think Rafa is as pleased to see me as I am to see him. When I reach the far side of the field to catch him, he lifts his head and gives me a look as if to say, ‘Can't I stay out today?' I'm tempted to leave him, but his belly is round with the lush spring grass and I don't want him overdoing it. Usually, I like to have him on full-time turnout by the beginning of April, but there's too much to eat out here. The pasture is a smorgasbord of grasses and herbs.

I bring him into the stable where I give him a tiny feed and a small hay-net. I'm down to my last couple of flakes of hay, never a good feeling. Rafa digs up the bed of shavings that I made for him the night before and takes a couple of mouthfuls of hay before resting his leg and closing his eyes. I leave him to snooze, although I doubt he'll sleep much with the throbbing of a tractor muckspreading in a nearby field, the cooing of wood pigeons and cawing of rooks, and the frantic clucking of one of Louise's backyard hens that's laying an egg.

I return indoors to brush my hair and do my make-up, adding a touch of foundation with SPF, mascara and lip-gloss, before returning downstairs for breakfast. I knock at the door into the kitchen – I'm not sure if I'm supposed to order breakfast here, or wait in the dining room that's set aside for the B&B guests.

‘Come on in. There's no need to knock. We don't stand on ceremony.' Louise beckons me across to the table before attending to a pan on the Aga. Ashley is sitting in front of a bowl of Rice Krispies, his head to one side, as if he's concentrating on the noise they make as he pours milk on to them from a jug. The milk wells up over the rim of the bowl, spills on to the table and trickles towards the edge.

‘Ashley, you're spilling it,' I say, at which Louise turns and grabs the jug from his hand.

‘You're making a mess, darling,' she says, hardly raising her voice. She hands him a spoon which he drops on the floor – deliberately, I think. I pick it up, rinse it in the sink and wipe it with a tea towel printed with chickens. I put the spoon on the table within Ashley's reach. He picks it up and starts eating his cereal without saying a word.

‘Did you say thank you to Flick?' Louise says, giving me a look of apology.

He doesn't look up, even when I sit down opposite him to eat a plateful of fried potato, bacon, sausages, egg, mushroom and tomatoes.

His mum sends him off to clean his teeth and fetch his bag for school.

‘You'll have to bear with him, I'm afraid. He doesn't mean to be rude.'

‘It's okay,' I say, although I do feel a little confused by his behaviour. It's as if he doesn't want to know me.