cover

Contents

Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Sheila Norton
Title Page
Dedication
Part 1: A Place to Hide
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Part 2: New Beginnings
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Part 3: Trust Your Heart
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Part 4: No Place Like Home
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Acknowledgments
Copyright

ABOUT THE BOOK

A charming and romantic story about living the simple life and the joy of animals, from the author of THE VETS AT HOPE GREEN.

Emma Nightingale needs a place to hide away. Pursued across the Atlantic by paparazzi obsessed with her famous ex-boyfriend, she takes refuge in quiet Crickleford, a sleepy town in Dartmoor, where she can hide away from the press.

Life in Crickleford is quiet and peaceful, but it won’t be for long if people discover the truth about Emma’s past – and Emma is soon in demand as a pet-sitter for Crickleford’s many animals.

Emma enjoys her new life, and finds herself fantasising about living in the pretty, empty cottage on Moor View Lane – but dramatic local events put Emma in the spotlight again, and the handsome young reporter from the town paper takes an interest in her story. Can Emma keep her secret and follow her heart’s desire…?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sheila Norton lives near Chelmsford in Essex with her husband, and worked for most of her life as a medical secretary, before retiring early to concentrate on her writing. Sheila is the award-winning writer of numerous women’s fiction novels and over 100 short stories, published in women’s magazines.

She has three married daughters, six little grandchildren, and over the years has enjoyed the companionship of three cats and two dogs. She derived lots of inspiration for her animal books from remembering the pleasure and fun of sharing life with her own pets.

When not working on her writing Sheila enjoys spending time with her family and friends, as well as reading, walking, swimming, photography and travel. For more information please see www.sheilanorton.com

 

Also by Sheila Norton

The Vets at Hope Green

Oliver the Cat Who Saved Christmas

Charlie the Kitten That Saved a Life

Title page for The Pets at Primrose Cottage

For all my friends and readers in my adopted county of Devon. Crickleford isn’t a real place, of course – but I think it should be!

PART 1

A PLACE TO HIDE

CHAPTER ONE

I hopped off the bus, pulling my suitcase after me, and stared around, taking in all the sights I remembered so well, despite the many years that had passed. The market cross, the town hall with its ornate black and gold clock that chimed loudly every half hour, the humpback bridge over the river, and the view, between the stone-built shops and cottages in the Town Square where I stood, of the big, square castle on the hill. So here I was, after all these years, back in Crickleford. Apart from the fact that I was now seeing everything through a January snow shower instead of in summer sunshine, nothing seemed to have changed. And that was exactly what I’d been hoping.

I’d stayed in this little Devon town, tucked away on the edge of a fairly remote part of Dartmoor, several times for family holidays from when my sister and I were about ten or eleven. Our parents had fallen in love with its charm and peacefulness, whereas we children, after the initial novelty of being in the country had worn off, found it too quiet and dull. No cinema! No swimming pool! No bowling alley! What were we supposed to do all week? By the time Kate and I were teenagers, Mum and Dad had given into pressure from us and started taking us somewhere livelier for our holidays.

Now, though, peace and quiet were exactly what I needed, and it couldn’t have been much more tranquil than it was now, on this cold, snowy afternoon. I pulled my woolly hat down over my ears, checked the address I’d tapped into my phone’s memos, then grabbed the handle of my suitcase, hoisted my rucksack onto my shoulders and set off up the lane. I’d found the advert on an internet search, but I had no idea what to expect. I’d never been a lodger before, never expected to be one, either. When I thought about the life I’d been living, just a few short weeks earlier, it seemed incredible that it had all come to this. But I knew I mustn’t think about that. I just had to get on with it, now, whether I liked it or not.

It was only a ten-minute walk to Primrose Gardens, which was a small turning off Lavender Lane. As I trudged along through the falling snow, I felt I could almost smell the perfume, in the chill winter air, of those spring flowers in the road names. They seemed to hold a promise of better days ahead – and I wasn’t disappointed when I arrived at my destination. Primrose Cottage was right at the end of Primrose Gardens, and it was a one-off, a little jewel of a pastel pink cottage, in a road of fairly ordinary semi-detached houses. Presumably the cottage was there long before its neighbours were built, giving its name to the road. There was a neat little front garden and a fairly old Peugeot parked outside. I walked up the path and rang the doorbell, suddenly feeling nervous, and it was answered by a woman of perhaps about thirty-five with short, curly fair hair and bright blue eyes.

‘Hi.’ I gave her a smile. ‘I’m Emma Nightingale. We spoke on the phone—’

‘Emma! Yes, of course, we’re expecting you. I’m Lauren Atkinson. Come in, quickly, out of the snow. Just drop your bags there. How was your journey? You didn’t have to get a taxi all the way from Newton Abbot, did you?’ she asked, ushering me through the hallway to the kitchen.

‘No, I got the bus,’ I said, following her. The house smelt of polish. Had she been cleaning up for me? I was only the lodger!

She turned to look at me in surprise. ‘The bus! You were lucky, then. There only are two a day.’

‘Yes. I researched that on the internet, and planned my train time to coincide with it.’

She looked impressed, as if this wasn’t a perfectly normal thing to do for a long journey.

‘You might be disappointed with the internet connection around here,’ she said sadly. ‘Well, with the mobile phone signal too, to be honest. They both tend to come and go. You can normally get a decent phone signal up at the Town Square, though.’

I had a mental picture of the entire population of Crickleford congregating on the Town Square to send their text messages.

‘Thanks for the warning,’ I said. I’d have to call Mum and Dad later, to let them know I’d arrived safely. I sighed, remembering the looks on their faces when I told them I was leaving. I’d only been home from America for a few weeks, but my homecoming had caused them nothing but aggravation. They said they were sorry I wasn’t staying, but their faces told me otherwise. They were relieved. I wasn’t the kind of daughter a family would want to have living with them. I was a liability. When I said I was coming all the way to Devon, they didn’t offer to drive me. I guess even having me in the car with them would have been more trouble than it was worth.

My sister had been more sympathetic, but I could tell that even she thought it would be better for me not to stay at home in Loughton.

‘You can come back when things have calmed down,’ she said, at least having the decency to look distressed on my behalf. ‘It’s just … right now … well, all this fuss and attention is just as bad for you as it is for us, isn’t it.’

Actually, it was surely worse for me, since I was the cause of all the fuss and attention. But I could understand Kate’s concerns. Married to the lovely Tim, with their nice home, good jobs and two perfect little children, Kate was my twin, but I often thought she must have inherited the entire stock of our parents’ combined genes for sensible behaviour, leaving me with just the stupid, irresponsible ones. I couldn’t stay at home. Everyone around there would be talking about me. It wasn’t fair. And hopefully, here in this rural backwater away from most vestiges of civilisation, and having reverted back to my real Christian name, I could be anonymous. The very idea of anonymity, right now, was bliss.

While I’d been thinking all this, Lauren had pulled out a chair for me at the kitchen table, boiled the kettle and got mugs down from a shelf. I felt strangely like an honoured guest instead of a paying boarder.

‘Tea or coffee?’ she asked brightly, putting a biscuit tin on the table in front of me.

‘Tea would be great, thanks – but I can do it!’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll show you where everything is and you can help yourself in future. But I thought you’d probably appreciate having a cuppa made for you, after your long journey. From London, you said?’

‘On the outskirts, yes.’

She shook her head in wonder, as if I’d said I’d flown there from the moon.

‘So, what made you want to leave there and come all the way down here?’ she went on, sitting down opposite me. ‘Have you got a job lined up here?’

I couldn’t blame her for asking. After all, she needed to be sure I was going to pay my way. It would be hard to explain that I’d had money in American bank accounts, which, by now, would certainly have been made unavailable to me. Other than that, I only had enough for the first month or so here, and that was thanks to the generosity of my parents. Or their eagerness to see me gone.

‘I’ve got a couple of irons in the fire,’ I lied vaguely. ‘Interviews lined up.’

‘That’s good. What is it you do, then?’

Do? I resisted the urge to laugh. I hadn’t actually had to do anything much apart from float around looking glamorous, since I’d left England at the age of nineteen with Shane, the love of my life (at the time). Before that, well, there’d been a brief spell of—

‘Caring!’ I said. ‘Working in a care home.’

‘Really? With elderly people? That must have been very rewarding.’

I’d only done it for about a year. Between leaving school with no qualifications, moving in with Shane, and him getting his big break. But I remembered there’d been talk of me needing to take NVQs.

‘Yes,’ I said now, my fingers crossed under the table. ‘I’ve got my NVQs and everything.’

‘Well in that case, you shouldn’t have any trouble. There’s a massive shortage of carers everywhere, isn’t there.’

Was there? How would I know? But I nodded sagely as I sipped my tea. And then, fortunately, before I could add any further lies, there was a shout from the next room:

‘Mummeeee! What are you doing? Can I watch TV?’

Lauren raised her eyebrows at me.

‘That’s my little one, Holly. I did warn you, didn’t I? She’s not normally too noisy.’

‘Oh, that’s fine, I like children. How old is she?’

‘Three. Here she is. Holly, this is Emma. Remember I told you? She’s going to be living here.’

A little girl with blonde curls and blue eyes like her mother was watching me suspiciously from the doorway.

‘I’m not three,’ she told her mother crossly. ‘I’m nearly four.’

‘Hello,’ I said, smiling at her. ‘I hope we’re going to be friends.’

The look of suspicion intensified.

‘Let’s take Emma upstairs and show her her room, shall we?’ said Lauren brightly. ‘Can you manage your bags up the stairs, Emma – let me take one.’

‘No, that’s fine, I’ve got it.’ I grabbed the case and the rucksack again and followed her up the slightly rickety stairs, with Holly stomping up behind me.

‘Here you are,’ Lauren said, throwing open a door, revealing a room that I could only describe as very blue. Blue walls, blue curtains, blue duvet, even a dark blue carpet. Fortunately I like blue. The little lattice window looked out over the garden, where the snow was beginning to settle on a couple of small trees and a child’s swing. I suddenly felt sure I was going to feel happy here, in this little blue room.

‘It’s really nice,’ I said.

‘It’s my grandad’s room,’ Holly said in a mutinous tone.

‘Oh!’ I looked at Lauren, confused. Another door had a sign on it in the shape of a teddy bear with the name HOLLY painted in pink, and I presumed the other two doors belonged to the bathroom and my host’s own room. The cottage wasn’t exactly big enough to be hiding another wing.

‘Yes, darling,’ Lauren was saying patiently to her daughter. ‘But Grandad’s not here any more, is he?’

‘Oh!’ I said again. ‘I’m so sorry to hear—’

‘No, no, I didn’t mean that!’ She laughed. ‘Not quite. We’ve had to move my dad into Green Pastures. The nursing home. He’d started wandering. And, well, he thought we were still at war with the Germans. It was getting difficult. Still, I suppose you’re used to that kind of thing!’ she added. ‘Maybe they’ll have a vacancy for you there.’

‘Yes, maybe,’ I said faintly.

‘So, of course, what with the fees for the nursing home …’ She sighed. ‘That’s why we decided to start letting the room. You’re our first lodger, actually, so I’m not at all experienced with all this. I hope everything will be all right for you.’

She looked at me anxiously, and her uncertainty made me warm to her. I was glad I’d found this place, this cottage, this little family. This blue room of her poor demented father. It could have been a lot worse.

‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ I said. ‘It’s my first time of being a lodger, too, so we can work it out together, can’t we?’

After I’d unpacked – my every move followed by the slightly unnerving stare of Holly, who remained just outside my door, arms folded as if my being in her grandad’s room was an affront to her sensibilities – I slipped my coat and hat back on, to take my phone as far as I needed in order to get a signal and call home.

‘Where are you going?’ Holly demanded as I headed for the front door.

‘Just to make a phone call,’ I said, giving her a smile. ‘I won’t be long.’

‘Holly!’ Lauren remonstrated, rushing out of the kitchen. ‘You mustn’t ask questions. Emma doesn’t have to tell us where she’s going.’

‘Why not?’ the child demanded sulkily.

‘Because she’s a grown-up, and … oh, look, sorry, Emma.’ She turned to me, shaking her head. ‘I’ll have to explain all this a bit more to her. She doesn’t quite understand.’

‘Of course she doesn’t, don’t worry!’ I laughed. ‘It’s not a problem.’

‘Well, you’re entitled to your privacy. Speaking of which, here are your keys. This one’s for the front door and the other one’s for your room.’ She winked. ‘I’m sure you don’t want a little visitor popping in and out whenever she fancies it.’

‘Are Romeo and Juliet allowed in her room?’ Holly asked.

I blinked in surprise. I’d thought Holly was the only child. And – Romeo and Juliet? Really?

Lauren was laughing at my expression. ‘They’re our cats, you haven’t met them yet – they’re probably outside somewhere. My husband’s an English teacher so everything has to have some kind of Shakespearean connection. And no, Holly, I’m sure Emma won’t want the cats in her room, lying on her bed—’

‘Oh, I won’t mind at all, if you don’t,’ I reassured her. ‘I love cats, we had one in …’ I stopped, swallowing. I’d nearly said in New York. I missed Albert, my beautiful Ragdoll house cat. Would Shane be looking after him? I doubted it. ‘We had one at home,’ I finished quickly.

‘Ah, well, that’s OK then. But just shoo them out if they annoy you.’

I walked back towards the town centre, snowflakes now blowing in my face, holding out my phone every now and then to see if I had a signal yet. Having Holly around would be a pleasant distraction from my worries, once she’d got used to me anyway. And I didn’t care about the phone or the internet. It suited me not being easily contactable. I wasn’t even going to give anyone apart from my family my new address. But talking to Lauren about my supposed job interviews had made me realise that, as well as looking for work, I’d have to concoct some kind of background for myself. People were always curious about newcomers, especially in a small town like this, so I needed to be prepared.

It was late in the afternoon, and already dark, by the time I’d stopped outside the library to call my parents.

‘Glad you arrived safely,’ Mum said, sounding unhappy. ‘You know we wish you didn’t have to—’

‘I know.’ I swallowed, determined to sound brave. ‘But honestly, Mum, I think I’m going to like it here. I just want to hibernate for a while. Is it … any better at home now?’

‘Not yet, no. I’m not even sure they realise you’re not here.’

‘Well, sorry, but if I hadn’t slipped out the back way before it got light this morning, I’d have been mobbed again and, even worse, they’d have tried to follow me. They’ll soon give up once they realise I’ve disappeared.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Well, look, if you ever need me urgently you’ll have to call that landline number I gave you for my landlady. Lauren Atkinson. She’s really nice. I’ve got no mobile signal at the house,’ I warned her before we said goodbye.

I walked back to Primrose Gardens through the snow, feeling guilty all over again. My parents didn’t need this hassle, and it was all my fault. I’d turned up on their doorstep just before Christmas and the whole festive season had been ruined because of me. Of course, I’d been a disappointment to them for most of my life, but I’d really excelled myself this time. It would probably do them a favour if I stayed away for good. All I’d done was bring them trouble and shame. Why couldn’t I have been a better daughter, a more sensible, dutiful girl like Kate?

Well, I decided, this was my chance. If I couldn’t turn things around now, when would I get another opportunity? I made up my mind there and then to make a go of things, here in Crickleford. I’d become a model citizen here, and perhaps even save up, in due course, for a nice little place of my own. I imagined myself with a husband – one who was grown-up and normal, who wore a suit and worked in an office – and a nice, well-behaved little child (I pictured one a bit like Holly but with a less hostile stare), and living in a pretty little cottage with its own garden. I’d work hard – at something – and earn a proper salary, for the first time in my life. And when my parents came to visit me, they’d finally have that look on their faces, the one they normally reserved for Kate. Well done, they’d say. We’re proud of you, Emma.

As I let myself back into Primrose Cottage, I had tears in my eyes, and it was nothing to do with the onions Lauren was frying in the kitchen.

CHAPTER TWO

The trouble with making good resolutions, of course, is that they’re hard to keep. Instead of getting up early the next morning, ready and determined to start my new life as a model citizen by doing a full-on job search, I forgot to set the alarm on my phone and slept in till nearly ten o’clock. The house was in silence, and outside a weak winter sun was now making the fallen snow from the previous day sparkle so brightly I had to squint as I looked out at the garden. But the heating was on and I showered, dressed, went down to the little warm kitchen and fixed myself some breakfast, feeling strangely lost and lonely. Where was Lauren? With a guilty start, I realised I didn’t even know if she went out to work, or what she did.

I took my cereal and coffee into the lounge and put on the TV to catch up with the news, sat on the sofa and within a few minutes I heard the rattle of the cat-flap in the kitchen door, and a chorus of meows, and two fluffy black and white cats came rushing into the lounge, shaking their cold paws and then stopping in surprise when they saw me there.

‘Hello,’ I said, bending down to give them both a stroke. ‘You must be Romeo and Juliet. I’m sorry I don’t know which of you is which, but I’m pleased to meet you.’

The plumper of the two had white socks and ears, while the other one was almost all black, with just a white splodge by his nose. They both responded to the stroking with deep purrs of pleasure, and almost simultaneously made a leap for my lap, where they turned around a few times, nudging each other out of the way, and then settled down, curled together with their heads tucked under each other’s paws. It was so comforting to have them with me, feeling their warm breath and the vibration of their purrs, that I couldn’t bear to move, and ended up sitting there, watching a repeat of some ancient inane sitcom, until nearly lunchtime. When there was a ring at the doorbell, I jumped up as if I’d been shot, scattering the cats in two different directions.

‘Hello?’

There was a stout, elderly woman on the doorstep, looking at me in confusion.

‘Is Lauren not home yet?’ she said.

‘No, I’m afraid she’s not.’

I looked back at her, not sure what to say. Can I help? seemed a bit pointless, given my circumstances.

She frowned. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but you are …?’

I grappled with my uncertainty. I still hadn’t worked out my story. Why I didn’t just say ‘the lodger’, I have no idea, but just then one of the cats shot past my legs into the front garden, and, flustered, I gabbled: ‘I’m just looking after the cats.’

‘Oh! I see.’ The woman stared after the retreating cat. ‘I didn’t realise Lauren employed someone …’

‘It’s a new thing. I mean, I just started yesterday. She doesn’t like them being left on their own, while she’s … out.’

‘I see. Well, perhaps you’d just tell her Mary called round with this.’

She handed me a plastic bag that felt like it had books in it. As she turned to go, she looked back at me over her shoulder and added:

‘Do you look after dogs too?’

‘Um … yes. Cats, dogs, rabbits, whatever.’ I was already regretting the lies but they seemed to just be jumping off my tongue of their own accord.

‘I see,’ she said. ‘And your name is?’

‘Emma. Emma Nightingale,’ I said. Maybe she’d forget, I thought as she walked off down the path. I hoped she wouldn’t mention it to Lauren.

It was, in fact, only another ten minutes before I heard the front door opening, and the sound of Holly’s chatter. I turned off the TV and rushed into the kitchen with my dirty breakfast crockery, trying unsuccessfully to look busy.

‘What are you doing?’ Holly said, fixing me with her blue-eyed stare.

‘Just washing these things up.’ I turned to smile at her. ‘And where have you been?’

‘Preschool of course,’ she said scornfully. ‘I go every morning.’

‘Oh, right. And did you have a nice time?’

‘Yes.’

She obviously wasn’t ready yet to trust me with the intimate details of preschool life. Lauren, meanwhile, was chattering about making sandwiches and asking if I wanted one.

‘Thanks, but no, I’ll go out and get myself something.’

Our arrangement included breakfasts and evening meals but I’d expected to be out at lunchtimes – where, I hadn’t quite worked out yet.

‘OK, if you’re sure.’

‘Oh, and someone called Mary came, and asked me to give you this.’ I nodded at the bag of books.

‘Aha. That’s my latest lot of reading.’ Lauren laughed. ‘Mary’s a retired colleague of my husband’s, from the school. Ever since I told her I’m not very well-read, she’s been trying to educate me. It’s nice of her, but I don’t get a lot of free time for reading, unfortunately. It’s just as well she only brings these bagsful about once a month.’

So at least I wouldn’t have to be interrogated by her too often.

Lauren smiled at me. ‘I didn’t want to wake you this morning. I should have explained, Holly and I always go out at half past eight and get back about this time. I work mornings while she’s at preschool. I’m a teaching assistant at the infants’ school.’

‘Oh, I see.’ I smiled sadly to myself. It must be lovely to work with children, but I’d never be able to do anything like that. Lauren had said she wasn’t well educated, but I was pretty sure she wasn’t a complete dimwit like me.

‘Yes, and with Jon being a teacher, it works well,’ she was saying. ‘We both get the school holidays. Speaking of which,’ she added, ‘I forgot to mention: we’re going away in a few weeks’ time, for the February half-term holiday. I’m sorry it’s a bit soon after you arriving, but I hope you’ll have settled in by then. You won’t mind being on your own here, will you?’

‘Not at all,’ I said, trying not to sound too eager.

‘Good. We’ve found a bargain sunshine break. Tenerife will be lovely in February. The thing is, I’d normally book Romeo and Juliet into the cattery, but the nearest one has just closed down. I wondered … as you said you like cats …’

‘Oh, of course I’ll look after them!’ I said.

What a stroke of luck! I closed my eyes and offered up a silent prayer to the god of stupid lies. I was actually going to be a cat sitter, even if for only a week!

‘That’d be marvellous,’ Lauren was saying. ‘We’ll pay you, of course.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t expect that. I’m living here anyway, so—’

‘We’ll be saving the cattery fees, which are really expensive, and the cats will be much happier at home. So of course we’ll pay you, or else knock something off your rent, or whatever. We’ll come to an arrangement, definitely.’

‘Well, OK, thank you. I’ve been having a cuddle with them this morning, actually. They’re lovely cats.’ I nodded at the corner of the kitchen, where they were both happily wolfing down some food Lauren had dished up for them. ‘Which one is which?’

Holly gave me a pitying look.

‘Romeo is the boy, and Juliet is the girl, of course.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Holly, don’t be rude,’ Lauren chided her gently. ‘Romeo’s the one with the white paws, Emma. He’s greedier, so he’s getting a bit fat. But watch out for Juliet. She’s the one who’s more likely to bring in mice and things, I’m afraid.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ I looked at my watch. ‘Well, I’d better be off,’ I said, making a great play of having somewhere to go.

‘Have you got one of your interviews today, then?’

‘Um, yes, that’s right.’

‘At Green Pastures?’ she asked, looking excited.

‘No,’ I said quickly. I’d have to kill that idea stone dead, I realised. She’d soon find out whether I’d been there or not, when she visited her father. ‘No, somewhere else.’

‘OK. I understand, you don’t want to jinx it by telling us too much. Well, good luck, Emma.’

I felt guilty all over again as I strolled down the road into town. I didn’t like lying to Lauren, when she was being so kind to me. I’d have to try to get some real interviews lined up quickly, and with no reliable internet at home, the library would be the best option. It would be warm in there, and I could use one of their computers.

Despite the winter sunshine there was a sharp wind blowing as I walked up Fore Street towards the Town Square. People were scurrying from shop to shop, eager to keep out of the cold, but everyone who passed me gave me a nod and said ‘Good afternoon’, some of them pausing for a moment to give me a look of surprise, which unnerved me a little. Did they recognise me? Surely the stories hadn’t reached this far? I pulled my warm hat down further over my ears. Having red hair could be a curse. It was far too distinctive. Why on earth hadn’t I thought of colouring it before I came here? I stopped outside a hairdresser’s, staring through the steamy window and wondering whether I could afford to have my colour changed professionally. Once again I was overcome with gloom, remembering how little I’d needed to worry about such things in the past. I’d had my own stylist when I lived in New York, and my own manicurist. No expense spared. I sighed, reminding myself that those things hadn’t ended up making me happy. Was I going to be happy living in penury here in Crickleford, making up stories about myself and thinking about disguising my appearance? Well, it was worth a try. I slipped into Superdrug and bought myself a DIY hair colour kit. Cheeky Chestnut. How cheeky was a chestnut? That remained to be seen.

I needed lunch before I did anything else, and next door to the library was a small cosy-looking café with lead light windows of spun glass. It looked as old as the castle on the hill. The heavy oak door had two large signs on it, one declaring the establishment to be Ye Olde Crickle Tea Shoppe, the other, in huge bold type, warning: MINDE YE STEPPES! Ridiculously, I was then too busy smiling at the sign-writer’s sense of humour to actually mind the steps, which were immediately inside the door, and tripped down them, landing on my knees beside the table of a couple of giggling women with a baby. So much for trying not to be noticed.

‘You all right, my lovely?’ said a lady I presumed to be the proprietor, in a heavy Devonian accent. ‘Don’t thee be frecking, my lovely, everyone does that, first time they comes in.’

So would it not have been a good idea, I seethed to myself as I got up, rubbing my knees, to amend the sign to something like STEEPE STEPPES RIGHT INSIDE DOORE? Or do away with the steppes altogether and build a rampe?

‘New here, are you, my luvver?’ the woman asked as I seated myself at a table away from the door. She seemed to carry out all her business from behind the counter – customers happily yelling their orders across the café. I wondered whether she was actually unable to move. I was beginning to wish I’d gone somewhere else – the pub, or the inevitable pizza bar over the road. I’d chosen this place because I thought it would give me more privacy, and I’d ended up being stared at by the entire clientele.

‘Yes,’ I muttered, scanning the menu as quickly as I could, to try to avoid further interrogation.

‘Thought as much,’ she said, looking satisfied. ‘What be dwain round ’ere, then?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Annie asked what you’re doing here,’ someone at another table translated for me. ‘It’s not holiday season, see. We don’t get too many down from Up Country this time of year.’

I was tempted to tell them to mind their own business, but that was obviously only going to provoke even more interest, not to mention making me unpopular.

‘I’m staying with a family in Primrose Gardens.’

Back home in Loughton, even if anyone had been (to my mind) rude enough to ask a stranger what they were doing there, this would have been more than enough to satisfy their curiosity. But the proprietor, Annie, merely waited, arms folded, watching me, and I could feel the hum of expectation all around me until she finally went on, as they all seemed to know she would:

‘Why be that, then?’

‘I’m cat sitting for them,’ I said, exasperated. What the hell? At least it wasn’t exactly a lie any more.

This information seemed to take a while for everyone to digest, judging by the muttering going on around the place – long enough for me to order a coffee and toasted sandwich, anyway, but not long enough to allow me to consume them in peace when they were finally plonked on the counter by Annie, whose manner of service was to bellow ‘White coffee an’ a cheese toastie!’, so that I had to go and collect it from her.

‘Staying here permanent-like, be ye?’ she demanded loudly after I’d seated myself again.

‘Um … perhaps,’ I said, ducking my head, trying to avoid the stares.

Annie nodded thoughtfully to herself and a fresh murmur of interest broke out around me. The toastie was hot, but I ate it so fast, swilling it down with scalding coffee, that I had a sore mouth for the rest of the day. Ye Olde Crickle Tea Shoppe was one place to avoid like the plague, I decided as I stumbled back up ye olde steppes into the street, if I wanted any chance whatsoever of being anonymous around here!

And just to round off the day, the library was closed. I stared at the sign on the door, which managed, without a single Ye or extraneous e on the end of anything, to explain that it was open from 9 till 12 on Mondays and Wednesdays, closed Tuesdays and Thursdays, open again on Fridays from 12 till 3, and then on Saturdays, a comparatively full day of service from 9 till 3.

‘Why?’ I muttered to myself, trying without much success to understand and memorise these peculiarly diverse opening hours.

‘Because it’s a part-time library,’ said a voice from behind me.

It was one of the women who’d been in the olde tea shoppe. I felt like thanking her for stating the bleeding obvious.

‘The council made cuts, see,’ she went on. ‘So the library can’t stay open all week now. That’s if you can still call it a library. What with sessions for toddlers banging tambourines, and meetings for grannies doing their knitting. So anyway, I was wondering if you look after dogs as well as cats.’

‘Um – yes,’ I said, nodding and turning away, hoping to end the conversation as fast as possible. But she put a hand on my arm to detain me.

‘So will you look after my dog while I’m on my holiday? I know you’re new here, but I’m desperate, you see, what with the kennels closing down – bit of a shock, just before my holiday. Last week of February, first week of March, it is. How much do you charge?’

I gulped. The lie was getting serious now. How was I going to get out of this? But then again, I found myself thinking, what was the harm? It wouldn’t stop me looking for a proper job, of course, that’s if I ever actually got started looking for one, but in the meantime, why not? It’d give me something to do (mostly in the warm, I hoped), and earn me a few quid at the same time. And maybe, if I’d understood right that the local boarding kennels and cattery had closed down, a few other people might ask me to help them out till they found somewhere else.

‘Um … five pounds per hour,’ I said, grabbing what I hoped was a realistic figure out of thin air. I had absolutely no idea, of course. Should I charge more for a dog than a cat? More for walking it twice a day than once a day? Who knew? ‘What kind of dog is it, anyway?’ I asked. I imagined, hopefully, a fluffy little mongrel with short legs who’d prefer to doze by the fire than go on long romps over the fields.

‘An Alsatian. He’s energetic, but a bit kind-of nervy.’

Oh.

‘But very intelligent and loving,’ she added quickly. ‘If you give him a couple of good long walks a day he’ll be no trouble at all.’

‘Right.’

‘Best to stay with him all day, though. He cries and barks a lot if he’s left on his own, and all the neighbours complain. Miserable buggers.’

It sounded like I’d be earning my five pounds an hour. But nevertheless I agreed, and I was rewarded, to my surprise, by a hug of gratitude.

‘You’re a life-saver,’ she said. ‘I was beginning to think I’d have to cancel the holiday. I’m Pat, by the way. Sorry, I didn’t even catch your name.’

‘Emma,’ I said. We exchanged contact details and I walked home feeling slightly bemused. I had a booking – a client! How odd. Well, it was nice to be able to help that poor lady out of a predicament. But I’d definitely need to get myself back online when the part-time library opened up, in case she changed her mind and cancelled me. I had considered bringing my laptop to one of the cafés instead, if they had Wi-Fi or had even heard of it. But after today’s experience, I wasn’t so sure about that.

Back in Primrose Cottage, I celebrated by locking myself in the bathroom and smothering my hair in Cheeky Chestnut.

‘Oh! You look very funny,’ Holly told me without a hint of amusement, after I’d finally washed the stuff off and blow-dried my hair into what I thought was an attractive style. ‘Put the other hair back on, it was nicer.’

I’d always thought I liked children. But I don’t think I’d ever realised how much they can dent your confidence.

CHAPTER THREE

The next morning I set off for the library straight after breakfast, determined to get in there while it was open and get started on my job hunt.

‘I’d like to use one of the computers,’ I told the library assistant cheerfully. He was a young lad who didn’t look old enough to have left school.

‘Oh. Sorry,’ he said, idly fiddling with his earring while he shuffled some papers.

‘Sorry for what?’ My cheerfulness was dissipating.

‘Well, not that it’s our fault, but the computer’s down.’

‘You only have one?’

‘Yeah. The other one’s gone away.’

He hadn’t even looked up at me yet. I wondered, for a moment, how much his tone and manner would change if I suddenly announced my real identity. He’d probably pull his bloody earring out with shock. Then again, he’d never believe me, not with this hair, to say nothing of my woolly hat and lack of make-up.

‘What do you mean, gone away?’ I said. ‘Did it walk out? Go on its holiday?’

Now he looked up, clearly wounded.

‘No need to be like that, lady. It’s gone away to be fixed, is where it’s gone.’

‘So they’ve both gone wrong, then.’

He thought about this. ‘Well, yeah. But this one—’ he indicated the culprit with a point of his thumb, ‘hasn’t gone away yet.’

‘I see.’ I sighed. ‘Well, let’s hope it goes away soon, then. And the other one comes back even sooner.’

He just stared at me. I gave up.

‘Can I join the library?’ I asked instead.

I took out two books on dog care, from the children’s section. They looked easier to understand than the ones on the adult shelves, and had nice pictures. Then I went across the square to the pizza bar to get a cup of coffee. At least it was warm in there and nobody demanded to know who I was or what I was doing. I perched on a stool in the corner and started swotting up on looking after large, energetic dogs. There was rather too much mention of exercise for my liking. It wasn’t so much that I was unfit; I’d had my own personal trainer in New York. But I wasn’t used to exercising in the countryside, with no gym or health spa. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d ever walked anywhere that wasn’t paved. I’d never have dreamed of jogging off-path in Central Park, for instance – my trainers were far too expensive to get mud on them. I’d come home from the States in just the clothes I stood up in, and because of the situation back in Loughton, I’d had to resort to online shopping to equip myself with a wardrobe suitable for my new life. And I could see the Alsatian was going to expect long, healthy romps through the woods and across the moor. I’d have to order some walking boots before my stint with him.

To start getting myself in the right frame of mind, and because I couldn’t think what else to do, I set off for a brisk walk around the town. I didn’t remember too much from my childhood holidays, apart from the town centre, so it wouldn’t hurt to find my way around. I started off heading towards Castle Hill. It was snowing lightly again, but the walk was warming me up nicely so I went on to climb the footpath up the hill, and walked round the outside of the castle walls. A vague memory came back to me, of going inside the castle with Mum and Dad and Kate, and of people inside being dressed up as Saxons or Normans or whatever. I really ought to swot up on local history too when I was next in the part-time library. But at this time of year, the castle appeared to be closed to the public. Never mind, this would be somewhere to bring the Alsatian, surely – I passed a couple of dog walkers – and perhaps climbing the hill would tire him out.

Back on Fore Street, I wandered down to Crickle Bridge and strolled along the path by the river for a while. Another good dog walk, I decided, as long as I kept him on a lead. I didn’t want him jumping in for a swim and frightening the ducks. Or were they geese? I’d better swot up on wildlife, too, while I was at it, if I wanted to fit in around here.

The river walk became a bit monotonous after a while. There were some houses along the riverbanks, some of them quite smart, with nice gardens extending right down to the water. I noticed they all had sandbags piled up next to their doors, and wondered if they often had to worry about the risk of flooding. When the houses petered out, I turned and headed back into town, but instead of going straight home, turned into a narrow little road called Moor View Lane, that wound gently away from the town centre. The houses and cottages on either side of the road looked so pretty with their light dusting of snow. I recognised the name of the road from somewhere, and suddenly realised it was the address the Alsatian’s owner had given me. I still had the slip of paper she’d written it on, in my coat pocket, and I fished it out now. She was at number thirty-two. I slowed down, staring at the houses as I passed them, beginning to entertain a little fantasy that involved me owning a cottage, something like Primrose Cottage but in a nice country lane like this, quiet and rural but only five minutes’ walk from the Town Square. I pictured myself (for some bizarre reason) cleaning the windows of the cottage and polishing its door knocker, and doing things in the garden – I had no idea what, as I’d never done anything in a garden in my life, but this was a fantasy after all.

Then I rounded a bend in the road, and it was there, in front of me: the very cottage I’d been imagining. It had the blue door I’d pictured, the cream-coloured walls, the red slate roof and the apple trees in the front garden. It even had the same kind of door knocker I’d dreamed up, although nobody was currently polishing it. How was this possible? Had I walked down this road before, on one of those long-ago family holidays, and somehow retained a memory of this very cottage? I stopped outside the rickety garden gate, and stared at the wooden sign next to the front door. BILBERRY COTTAGE. I had no idea what bilberries were, unless they were the same as blueberries, but it was a pretty name for such a pretty cottage.

I stood staring at Bilberry Cottage for so long, I suddenly realised that if anyone inside glanced out of the window they’d probably think I was planning a break-in. But in fact, there was no sign of life. No car outside, no muddy boots left on the doorstep, no children’s bikes or wheelbarrows in the front garden. And from what I could see, no curtains at any of the windows. Looking even more closely through the nearest downstairs window, I could see a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, and what looked like dust sheets over the furniture. Perhaps the place was being redecorated, but if so, the decorators must be on their lunch break! Or perhaps the cottage was unoccupied.

I walked on again, looking for the Alsatian owner’s house. Right: there it was, a neat little bungalow on the other side of the road. At least I knew where I’d be going when I had to pick up the key from her. I turned to walk back into town. Not that it was any of my business, of course, but I decided that if I ever managed to get on the internet again I’d look at Rightmove or Zoopla and try to see whether Bilberry Cottage was for sale. And then what? I thought to myself. Try to buy it for peanuts – literally? Put in an offer, with the money I hadn’t even earned yet for looking after an Alsatian? Get real, Emma. The cottage would have to stay a fantasy, obviously.

Meanwhile I was hungry, and I’d seen a pub – The Riverboat Inn – back on the other side of the bridge, that looked a lot nicer than The Star, on the Square, so I was going to treat myself to a ploughman’s lunch. I could imagine The Riverboat Inn being busy during the spring and summer months, perhaps with hikers who’d lost their way on Dartmoor and stumbled across Crickleford by accident. The little town wasn’t much more than a dot on the map, with no major roads nearby to encourage motorists to drop in for a look around. But this pub was exactly what a country pub in a small town should be like: big, old and sprawling, with little rooms off bigger rooms, low ceilings you had to bend double to walk beneath, oak beams, high-backed bench seats and a massive inglenook fireplace. I ordered my lunch and carried a small glass of red wine to a seat near the fire, pleased to be told that the food would be brought to me when it was ready, rather than being announced across the bar.

I’d just opened my library book to read a little more about dog care when a loud voice hailed me:

‘Well, hello, I was hoping I’d bump into you again.’

I looked up, startled, and for a moment didn’t recognise the elderly woman smiling down at me.

‘You’re the pet sitter. Emma, isn’t it?’ she went on, sitting herself down opposite me without waiting for an invitation. And because I must have still been looking at her blankly, she reminded me: ‘Mary. Friend of Lauren.’

‘Oh yes, of course, sorry,’ I said. ‘I gave Lauren the bag of books. She said she was pleased.’

‘Did she?’ Mary laughed. ‘Good, although I don’t suppose she’ll get through them all. She means well, bless her, but the reality is, she’s too busy to do much reading.’

‘I’m sure she is,’ I said. ‘Working at the school, and looking after Holly.’

I didn’t do too much reading myself, but I didn’t have the excuse of being busy.

‘Well, anyway, that’s not what I wanted to see you about,’ she said. ‘Will you take on my Scrap?’

‘Your … scrap?’ I frowned. Was this another piece of Devon dialect I hadn’t learned?

‘He’s no trouble, well, not as long as you don’t wear slippers. For some reason, he can’t abide slippers. He seems to want to tear them to shreds – he’ll rip them off your feet to get at them. Growls something terrible. But other than that, he’s as quiet as a baby.’

‘Oh. He’s a dog?’

‘Of course he’s a dog.’ Mary stared at me. ‘What did you think he was? He’s a Cairn terrier, two years old, still just an adorable little puppy really.’ She sighed. ‘I expect you know about Dribstone.’

I frowned again. I was beginning to feel like I’d just arrived in a foreign country without a phrase book. ‘Dribstone?’ I echoed, shaking my head.

‘Oh – you’re new here I suppose. You haven’t heard. Dribstone Boarding Kennels and Cattery – just outside Dribstone. The village further down the river?’ she added, looking a bit exasperated at my lack of local knowledge. ‘Well, it’s closed down.’

‘Oh, yes. Someone else mentioned that.’

‘It’s not surprising, really,’ Mary said. ‘The couple who ran it didn’t even like animals. No idea why they took it over in the first place. Nobody really liked leaving their pets with them.’

‘I can understand that!’

‘There was a woman here in Crickleford who sometimes looked after cats and rabbits and so on,’ she went on, ‘but she was a bit funny about taking dogs. She claimed they made her sneeze.’ Mary snorted. ‘Load of nonsense. Anyway, she’s gone.’

‘Gone?’ I said, alarmed.

‘Moved. Got a job in Bath, apparently. You know what it’s like in small towns. No jobs.’

‘Oh.’ I swallowed. That wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear.

‘So all the younger people move out to the cities,’ she went on, ‘and we end up with a population of pensioners and pets. And all the pensioners have nothing better to do than swan off on lots of holidays.’ She nodded at me. ‘That’s why I’m glad you’re here. Are you all right for the next two weeks?’

I thought quickly. The half-term holiday, when Lauren needed me for the cats, was three or four weeks off yet. This would fill some of the intervening time nicely, and once Lauren and Jon were back from their holiday I’d be having the Alsatian. After that, hopefully, I’d have a proper job. I nodded.

‘Yes, I can do that.’

‘Good. I’m off to my sister’s in Torquay and she doesn’t like dogs. Last time I went, she shut the poor baby in the shed.’

‘The baby?’ I gasped, imagining a madwoman in Torquay keeping children locked up in an outhouse. My ploughman’s lunch had just been delivered to our table but every time I thought about picking up my knife and fork to get stuck in, Mary was giving me a fresh shock.