Blackberry Picking at Jasmine Cottage

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017

Copyright © Zara Stoneley 2017

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

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Zara Stoneley asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

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and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Source ISBN: 9780008241087

Ebook Edition © November 2017 ISBN: 9780008237981

Version 2017-09-05

For Hilda, my nana, who loved animals, people and life.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Acknowledgements

A Note From the Author

Also by Zara Stoneley

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Lucy Jacobs stared out of the window, and tried to ignore the little shiver of excitement that had sent a rash of goosebumps down her arms.

Could she do this? Was she brave enough to cut the last tie, change her life for ever?

The words danced about in her head in much the same way as the chickens in the garden were doing.

Yesterday they’d flounced in indignantly when the first spots of rain had fallen. They hated the damp, and had spent most of the day sulking and shivering, but this morning after poking their sharp little beaks out, and craning their necks, they’d discovered sunshine. She’d had to laugh as they’d jostled their way out, like a group of pointy-elbowed bargain hunters in the January sales.

Today the good weather had put a skip in their step – they were scratching around in the soil, with an occasional dash across the garden if they suspected one of their group had found something worth fighting over. And the news had brought a secret smile to her lips, she couldn’t help it. This could be the start of a massive adventure.

‘Are you still there? Miss Jacobs?’

She was still here. And she knew it was time to stop behaving like a hen and to make a decision. If she did this she was shutting a door for good. Moving on. Which was exciting. But scary.

‘Miss Jacobs?’ The tetchy tones scratched their way over the airwaves.

‘Yes, sorry.’ She tried to concentrate on what the estate agent was saying, and block out all the conflicting thoughts that were bouncing around in her head.

She much preferred talking to the young, jolly Simon Proofit who made everything sound like a good idea, than to Mr Bannister who had never told her his first name, and insisted on calling her Miss Jacobs and making her sound like some old spinster.

It was strange really, Mr Bannister had lived in the village of Langtry Meadows all his life, but his whole manner suggested a brusque, efficient city type. Whereas Simon, who had over an hour’s commute from a suburb of the closest city, always made it seem like working in this tiny village was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

‘I suppose you need time to think about it?’ The sharp words were followed by a resigned sigh that rolled towards her in large waves of disappointment. Mr Bannister really wasn’t the man you wanted to start your weekend with. He was enough to rain on anybody’s parade, as her gran would have said.

The hen that she’d not-so-originally nicknamed Squeak darted forward and tried to wrestle a long worm from Bubble’s beak. They looked like lovers sharing a strand of spaghetti. Bubble flapped with indignation, and Squeak, well squeaked before bustling off in a huff to scratch under the apple tree. She kept cocking her head to one side though, keeping a beady eye on the other hen. Just in case.

Lucy smiled to herself. Who’d have thought she, Lucy Jacobs, would become an expert on poultry? Well maybe not an expert, but her life had changed beyond recognition in the last twelve months. She’d swapped the hustle and bustle of a city centre school, nestled next to the M6 motorway, for a tiny primary school overlooking a village green, and somehow found time to look after a pig, goose, chickens, cat and fat, naughty pony.

Taking on a teaching position in the village of Langtry Meadows had, it was fair to say, changed her life. Renting Annie’s cute home, with its overflowing cottage garden and menagerie of animals had, at first, seemed a step too far from her clean and tidy semi-detached house – the only reminder of her old life she’d hung on to.

She’d rented her home out, fully intending to go back there one day – after her cover position at Langtry Meadows Primary School came to an end. But she’d accepted a permanent position now, and whilst the rent was handy she was beginning to wonder if she’d ever go back there.

And one day, in the not too distant future, Annie would return from her travels, which could leave her in a bit of a mess if she wasn’t careful. She really did need a plan.

The city would seem so large, impersonal now. Although she knew that was partly what had originally drawn her there. But living in Langtry Meadows had changed her, she’d realised that this close community of caring people was what she wanted in her life. Not anonymity. And she also wanted a rather gorgeous vet called Charlie sharing her breakfast table, which was part of the problem …

She hoped her sigh hadn’t travelled down the phone, and decided she better say something just in case he had heard, and thought she wasn’t interested.

‘Well, no. I mean yes, I …’ If she did this, if she bought the house that Mr Bannister had told her had just come up for sale in the village, and she sold her house, she was saying goodbye to her old life. She didn’t need to keep a foot in the past, just in case things didn’t work out, did she?

No, no, she really didn’t. After a fabulous summer of getting to know Charlie Davenport, the village vet, she had to admit, she had dreamed up this strange fantasy that when, if, she settled permanently then it would be in a cottage made for two. Not one.

But his life was far too complicated for that at the moment. He had a child to consider. They had a child to consider. Adorable little Maisie had to be their main priority.

Lucy knew what it was like growing up with only one parent, thinking that she wasn’t good enough, thinking she wasn’t loved, wasn’t wanted – and she was determined that Maisie would never feel that way. The little girl would know that Charlie, her father, loved her with all his heart. That Lucy wasn’t going to steal him away.

When Josie, Charlie’s ex, returned from her six month contract abroad, then it would be the right time for her and Charlie to spend more time together, be more involved, maybe, just maybe, settle down in that dream cottage together. But for now, making sure Maisie felt secure, was happy, was what really mattered.

She felt the small smile creep over her face as she thought about Charlie. They’d agreed at the start of the summer that they’d take things slowly, see how it went and it had gone – she knew her smile had grown – wonderfully.

But they didn’t know when Josie would be back, didn’t know what would happen when she returned – whether she’d settle locally with Maisie or not. And until they did, it was hard to see what the future held. What if Josie moved away? What if the only way Charlie could see his daughter was to move as well? What if she couldn’t find a new job close to where they went? What if, what if, there were just so many ‘ifs’, which Lucy wasn’t keen on at all. For a girl who liked to have a plan, be organised, the uncertainty was difficult. But she was learning, getting better at taking each day as it came.

So really, if she was going to be sensible about this, she had to decide what she really wanted. Now. And worry about the future later – after all if she bought a cottage now, she could always sell it.

She really had never thought the whole question of buying a house would raise its head for months though, years!

The estate agent’s crisp tone cut into her thoughts. ‘It would be in your interests to move quickly. It does, as I have mentioned, require a fair amount of modernisation, but opportunities like this don’t come up very often. A cottage for sale in Langtry Meadows is a rare occurrence, and I’d have normally already contacted interested parties, but Miss Harrington persuaded me to give you first option. I’d advise you not to dally about too long.’

Ah. So that explained the unexpected phone call from Bannister & Poole’s Estate Agency. She’d made an offhand comment to the elderly Elsie Harrington about needing to look for a permanent home, and as if by magic a solution had appeared.

‘I won’t, dally that is. I’d love to look round.’ It really was an opportunity she couldn’t pass on, she had to at least look. And ‘modernisation’ might mean that it had an outside toilet and a well – which would put it way beyond her humble budget.

‘I’ll email the details through, although they are currently just draft ones, they haven’t been approved.’ She could hear him shuffling papers in the background. ‘I can meet you there at 11 a.m. if that suits?’

‘Well, I.’ She would really have liked to share the news with Charlie first, see what he thought, but he’d be busy seeing clients. And she did want to stay in Langtry Meadows, whatever the future held for her and the man she’d fallen head over heels for. ‘Today? This morning?’

‘We do close at midday, it is Saturday you know.’

Which meant Charlie couldn’t go with her, but she could check it out first. It could be totally unsuitable anyway. ‘That suits perfectly, and er, thank you, Mr Ba—’ He cut her off mid-sentence, and Lucy slowly took the phone away from her ear and stared back out at the garden, knowing she had a stupid grin on her face.

Lucy glanced down at her pyjama bottoms, then up at the kitchen clock. This was not how she’d expected her last weekend of freedom to start. The new school term started on Wednesday, and they had an inset day on Tuesday, and she was officially the teacher of Classes 1 and 2. The last few days of the holiday were supposed to be about relaxing, chilling, preparing herself for the chaotic weeks ahead. She hadn’t factored in being woken up by a phone call from a bossy estate agent, and the kind of stomach churning, exciting news that had left her feeling all butterfly stomach-ey and jittery.

Her brain wasn’t exactly functioning either, which was how she always felt before the first strong coffee of the day. Lucy was not a morning person, she wasn’t really a night owl either. She was guaranteed to be the one that had to be in bed by midnight or she risked falling asleep on the shoulder of the nearest person and no doubt snoring and drooling in a very unattractive way. She was the one the rest of the students had drawn a moustache on when she was at college, as she slept through oblivious.

Her mobile gave a cheery bleep announcing an incoming message. Coffee. She needed coffee and a chance to wake up properly, then she’d shower and dress, and then she’d read the email that the efficient and officious Mr Bannister had already pinged off from his clean and tidy office, determined to disrupt the peace of her sleepy cottage in Langtry Meadows.

She’d only got as far as the bottom of the stairs, when a loud honk stopped her in her tracks. A warning honk, not the kind of gentle ‘go away’ noise that Gertie the goose often directed at unwelcome visitors. This had more urgency. And volume.

Rushing to the front door, Lucy threw it open, expecting some kind of carnage.

Gertie was having a fit. The type she normally reserved for straying men – as in they’d strayed on to her property and nothing to do with their morals. Well, to be more precise the goose was flapping her big white wings like some avenging angel and dipping her head backwards and forwards towards a mysterious object just inside the garden gate. Gertie didn’t like mysterious objects. She didn’t like most things, to be honest. And Lucy didn’t know if that was a ‘goose’ thing, or just a Gertie thing.

Lucy folded her arms, relieved that it was nothing more serious. ‘What have you got?’

Gertie glared back accusingly.

Lucy was used to parcels being left just inside the gate. Her regular postman knew all about how to deal with Gertie, but most strangers took one look at the bird as she hurtled round the corner of the cottage in response to the click of the gate catch, and scarpered. She couldn’t blame them.

‘Okay, I’m coming.’ She slipped her feet into the pink wellingtons that were in the porch. The wellies were her secret defence – with them on Gertie was putty (well not exactly putty, but no longer quite as lethal) in her hands. Gertie loved the boots; they were, as Annie had told her, the first thing she had seen and she thought they were her mother. She would happily follow them anywhere.

The parcel moved. Rocked. Gertie gave it a prod. It made a strange, wheezy noise and the goose drew herself up to her full height, gave a loud honk, then turned on her heel and marched off in search of something more interesting.

Frowning, Lucy lifted a corner flap cautiously. It sounded like there was something alive in there, and for all she knew it could be a box of snakes. Or worse. Rats.

Two eyes stared up at her out of the dark shadows of the box. One chocolate brown, the other the clearest blue she’d ever seen, spring water in a crystal clear stream.

Quiet trusting eyes.

She stooped down and opened the flaps of the box wider. It was a puppy, the blinking of its eyes the only movement as it gazed up at her. Over one eye was a patch of black, but most of its coat was the softest grey, splashed with black as though a careless artist had tired of finishing the painting, its paws and chest a damp, stained white with a smudge of tea-stains.

The puppy shivered and its chin sank down onto its paws as though it was exhausted.

‘Hang on.’ It didn’t respond. Not even the slightest wag of its fluffy tail, which sent a shiver of alarm through Lucy. Her instinctive response would have been to reach in and cuddle the poor animal, but something told her not to. It was poorly, very poorly.

She reluctantly closed the flaps of the box back down as gently as she could and ran back inside, grabbing her mobile phone as she dashed up the narrow stairs. She couldn’t ring Charlie to discuss something like a house for sale, but this was altogether different. ‘Charlie?’

‘Morning, gorgeous, you’re up early for a non-school day!’

‘I know you’re not open yet, but …’

‘Are you okay?’ His voice lost some of its cheery tone as he picked up the worry that tinged her words.

‘Somebody’s dumped a puppy in the garden. It’s in a box, but it looks really sick, it’s just lying there and shivering, and it’s …’

‘How sick?’ The cheeky edge had gone altogether now, replaced with professional concern in an instant, and she could imagine his frown, the narrowing of his eyes as he ran his fingers through his hair.

‘It looks like it’s been sick in the box, all its chest is damp and stained,’ she put the phone on speakerphone and dropped it on the bed, rifling through the drawer for clean underwear, ‘and it looks so thin and pathetic. I know I’m no expert, but it hardly even moved when I opened the box up, puppies just aren’t supposed to behave like that, are they?’

‘Bring it straight down, Luce.’

‘I’m just getting clothes on,’ she was breathless as she yanked her jeans up, fumbling with the zip with one hand, ‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’

Vet Charlie Davenport headed out of the surgery as soon as he spotted Lucy. He got the same familiar rush of pleasure he always did when he saw her. Along with the desire to take her in his arms and kiss her. Which would be very unprofessional.

He’d not expected to see her until the evening. It was the last weekend of the school summer holidays, and he knew that Lucy, organised as she was, would be busy with spreadsheets and lesson plans, getting ready for the new term of fresh-faced children, excited after a summer of freedom.

He felt the muscles in his shoulders tighten. This term that included his daughter Maisie, and he was dreading it.

He’d been over the moon when his ex, Josie, had finally let him see Maisie again. The daughter she’d told him might not be his, the daughter she’d refused to let him see for months.

When she’d asked him to look after Maisie while she worked abroad for a few months his whole world had seemed brighter and he’d been naively expecting it to be just like it had when they’d been a family.

Maisie had moved in with him at the start of the summer holidays, and it had been a big adventure. Now, with the new term approaching the reality had started to sink in. She was starting a new school, she wasn’t going back home to the friends she loved. She had a new uniform to pick up on Monday, and a bright new book bag that she didn’t like at all. It was the wrong colour. It had the wrong badge on it. Mummy hadn’t picked it.

They were both struggling, him with how to deal with the unexpected tantrums, and her with adjusting to a different life.

He sighed. After Maisie had begged, then told him it wasn’t fair, then stared at him with her big brown eyes brim-full with tears, and her lower lip trembling, he’d relented and allowed her to spend Friday night with a friend from her old school. He still wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing. He’d cocked up; he should have spent all summer ensuring she made friends with the children in Langtry Meadows. But it had seemed wrong to expect her to take the move in one massive step.

He was already proving pants at this single parenting lark. He was heading for disaster.

When Lucy had suggested they spend Saturday evening together, then take a picnic out on Sunday afternoon, fly the kite he’d bought, have some fun, he’d jumped at the suggestion as quickly as his daughter had. Maisie loved Lucy; he wasn’t convinced she held him in quite as high esteem.

‘It’s been sick again just in the time it’s taken me to walk down here.’ Lucy ran through the open doorway, out of breath, going straight through to the consulting room, where she put the box down and slowly undid the top. As though worried about what she’d find.

Charlie glanced in and frowned. This was worse than he’d expected. He reached for some gloves, then carefully lifted the tiny scrap out of the box. A gangly, skinny bundle of dirty fur that seemed to weigh nothing in his hands.

It shivered violently, the shakes travelling down its whole body. ‘Has,’ he paused, glancing up at Lucy who was pale, biting her lip, ‘she been in contact with any of your other animals?’

‘No, I’d only just found her when I rang, well Gertie found her. But she didn’t touch her, the box was still done up. I left her by the gate while I rang, she just looked so poorly …’

He nodded, relieved. ‘Good. You didn’t clean her up, then …’ He had to be sure.

‘No. Should I have done? I just panicked and …’ She stared at the gloves.

‘No, no. You did exactly the right thing, didn’t she little one?’ Charlie stroked one finger gently over the tiny puppy’s head, but it barely reacted.

‘What’s wrong with her, Charlie? Why are you wearing …?’

‘I’m sorry Lucy, the gloves are a precaution.’ He softened his tone. He didn’t want to upset her, but he had to be honest. ‘I can’t be sure, but there’s a chance this little mite has got parvo.’ He wanted to hug her. But he couldn’t.

‘Parvo?’

‘Parvovirus. It’s pretty lethal when it comes to young animals like this, and from a quick look at her she’s not very old at all. No idea where she came from?’

‘None.’ She shook her head, and her blonde ponytail swung from side to side. ‘The box was just dumped by the gate.’

‘Well she can’t be local, nobody here would do that. They must have driven in from outside the village.’ He frowned, angry at the callousness of some people. ‘How much effort would it have taken to have the animal treated, to have taken it into a local surgery?’ He knew the rough edge was back in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. ‘Instead of abandoning it to its fate. If you hadn’t been at home, it could have been dead within twenty-four hours.’

‘It’s that serious?’ Lucy leaned forward to look at the pup, her voice soft, and he knew she was finding it hard not to reach out, touch it, reassure the tiny scrap.

He nodded, tried to be brisk, business like. ‘It’s good that you got here quickly before morning surgery started.’ Charlie quite liked Saturday morning surgery, usually it ran at a nice steady pace. People bringing cats and dogs in for vaccinations, and consultations about neutering or teeth cleaning. At this time of year though there were often young animals and the last thing he wanted was the risk of a parvo outbreak in the village. ‘Look I need to get her on a drip.’