“Can I help you, Miss?”
Clara was struggling to remove her bike, two suitcases, and violin case from the train and was grateful for the help, even if it did come from a young man in an ill-fitting uniform. Clara thought station attendants had disappeared years ago, but apparently not in Picklemarsh.
“Oh, yes, please. Could you take Charity?”
The station attendant’s hands remained outstretched and willing to help, though there was confusion in his eyes.
“Oh! Sorry, I mean my bike. I call her Charity. She was a gift,” Clara explained.
The attendant grabbed the bike from the train’s doorway and easily hoisted it onto the platform.
“Nice, is it original?” he asked, turning and taking both of the suitcases out of her hands to place them on the platform.
“It is. I did her up myself.” Clara picked up her violin case and disembarked from the train.
“I think my granddad used to have one of these,” he said, still admiring the bike.
“They are from the fifties; you can tell how well they were made by the fact that so many of them are still around.”
“I upcycle furniture in my spare time,” the attendant said. “My parents have a shop in the high street, and now and then they’ll let me have a corner to sell things. It’s fun, and it’s helping the environment.”
“I’ll have to look out for the shop. What’s it called?”
“Milton Furnishings.” He proffered a hand. “I’m Edward Milton. We’re not very original with our shop names around here, I’m afraid.”
Clara chuckled and took his hand. “At least you know who owns what, I suppose.”
Edward looked up and down the platform. “One second,” he said. He lifted his whistle to his lips and blew hard twice to indicate to the driver that all the passengers were clear. All two of them. A few moments later the train doors closed, and the engine slowly pulled away from the platform.
“Is someone picking you up, or will you need a taxi?” Edward asked, looking at all of Clara’s belongings.
“I’ll need a taxi,” she said. “I’m guessing you don’t have Uber around here?”
Edward laughed. “Nah, not around here. I’ll call Big Dave. He’s the local taxi driver.”
“You just have one?” Clara asked in surprise.
“Never needed more than one,” Edward admitted. He jutted his thumb towards the station. “I’ll give him a tinkle; I’ll be back in a minute to help you with your bags.”
“That’s kind, but I can manage,” Clara said, not used to the assistance.
Edward gestured around the empty platform. “There’s not another train for fifty minutes, I have nothing else to do. You’ll be doing me a favour, so I don’t fall asleep from boredom!”
“Okay, that’s really helpful. Thank you.”
“Oh, where are you heading?” Edward asked as an afterthought.
“Chadwick… something,” Clara replied, trying to recall the exact address her aunt had given her.
Every scrap of pleasantness fell from Edward’s face. “Chadwick? You’re not a Chadwick, are you?”
Clara frowned and quickly shook her head. “Um. No. I’m a Harrington, actually.”
“Oh!” The smile returned to his face in a flash. “Chadwick Lodge. Are you a relative of Miss Harrington?”
“Yes, she’s my aunt,” Clara replied, wondering what on earth was wrong with being a Chadwick. Whoever they were, they were not popular with Edward Milton. The change in his disposition had been quite the surprise.
“I’ll call Big Dave,” Edward said, a spring back in his step as he walked to the station building.
Big Dave turned out to be a skinny man called Terry. Clara didn’t ask why. In fact, she didn’t get a chance to ask why, as she was quizzed for her life story the moment she sat in the back of Terry’s Prius.
If she needed any further reminders that she was no longer in London, the seven-minute journey from the train station to Chadwick Lodge was it.
Dave, or rather Terry, asked about her journey, her visit, her bike (which was attached haphazardly to the roof rack), her two suitcases, her violin, and her choice in music. The last was part of a gracious act in allowing her to choose between the two radio stations which, owing to the place being in a bit of a ditch, could successfully be picked up in the village of Picklemarsh.
She had a choice between Damian FM, which was run by a local teenager from his bedroom, and Picklemarsh FM. Damian FM seemed to specialise in the kind of angry heavy metal that stemmed from being a bored teen stuck in a town that was located in a ditch. Picklemarsh FM was currently not operating as the owner was on holiday in Cornwall.
Clara opted for silence.
She realised she’d made a grave error once Terry felt the need to fill the silence with endless questions.
“Here we are,” he finally said as they rounded a corner at the end of a narrow road.
They pulled up outside a beautifully quaint cottage. A small, iron gate led into a perfectly kept garden which included roses and buddleia. Ivy covered the house, which was the kind of building Clara used to draw as a child: a large rectangle, four windows, a door in the middle.
A car horn sounded loudly, breaking the peace.
“Yeah, yeah! Keep your hair on!” Terry shouted out of the open window. He put the Prius into reverse, and they backed up a little.
Clara saw an expensive-looking black car pass them. The male driver looked to be in his fifties and stared at Terry with disdain. He drove around the taxi and through a large, open metal gate beside the cottage before proceeding up the driveway and out of sight.
“Does he live there?” Clara asked.
“No. He wishes. That’s Julian Bridgewater, probably going to see Lord Muck himself.”
“Lord Muck?”
“Angus Chadwick,” Terry replied. “He owns Chadwick Manor, up that driveway. Your aunt lives in Chadwick Lodge; it used to be the gatekeeper’s lodge many years ago. It was converted about eighty years ago, and now they rent it out.”
Terry opened his door and pulled his lanky frame out of the vehicle. He opened the rear passenger door for Clara.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Finally!” a familiar voice called from the cottage door. “I thought I’d have to wait until my funeral to see you again!”
Clara rolled her eyes and turned to face Aunt Vee. “Don’t be silly,” she admonished.
Vanessa Harrington hadn’t changed one bit since the last time Clara had seen her. She was in her early seventies now, but didn’t seem to have aged at all in at least a decade. She was tall, walked with purpose, and maintained a very fashionable, short hairstyle.
“I’m getting on, you know,” Vanessa complained as she stepped through the gate and held her arms wide open. “Come here.”
Clara did as she was instructed and hugged her aunt tightly. It had been two years since they’d seen each other, but Clara always stayed in touch via phone calls.
“You’re too skinny,” Vanessa complained.
Clara didn’t say anything; no one could accuse Vanessa of having an ounce of fat on her frame.
“I’m happy with my weight, Aunt Vee,” Clara told her.
Vanessa let her go and leaned back, looking her up and down critically before letting out a “hmm.” She turned her attention to Terry. “Bring the bags in, Terence.”
She took Clara’s arm in hers and walked her down the pathway. Clara looked over her shoulder. “I… I don’t think that’s part of his job.”
“Nonsense, what else is he going to do around here?” Vanessa stood to one side and gestured for her to enter.
Clara admired the heavy, black door; it was clearly an original feature of the house. The hallway had beautiful flagstone tiles, but the walls looked much newer and the ceilings weren’t nearly as low as she thought they’d be.
The cottage displayed many original features in between skilful modernisation. It was light and airy, the windows all being relatively new and double-glazed. The walls were painted in light creams and were free of any of the usual lumps and bumps Clara associated with cottages of a similar age.
“It’s beautiful, Aunt Vee,” she said as she admired an antique bookshelf.
“Of course it is,” Vanessa said. “Your room is the one up the stairs and first on the left. The bathroom is up there, second on the left, if you’d like to freshen up. I’ll sort Terry out and pay his bill, and then I’ll get the kettle on and we’ll hear all about what’s been happening with you.”
Clara knew better than to argue. She wasn’t being asked if she wanted to look at her room and freshen up; she was being told to do so. Vanessa wasn’t asking if it would be okay for her to pay the taxi fare; she was going to. And that was that.
There was something comforting about being back with her favourite—and only—aunt. Clara placed a kiss on her aunt’s cheek before turning and heading up the stairs.
“Far too skinny,” she heard Vanessa mutter under her breath.