Kitty's Countryside Dream (2 page)

I
woke up startled
, forgetting where I was for a brief moment. Blinking, I stretched my arms then glanced down at my watch. It was 10 a.m. already. My stomach was in knots and I realised I hadn't eaten since yesterday lunchtime. My first priority had to be to locate the nearest shop and stock up on essentials.

Alfie must have read my mind because he uncurled himself and started to butt his head against my hand; he too must be famished.

This was it: my new life in Rosefield started today, and it was time to explore. Feeling anxious, I wished Mum were here. She'd been my only friend for so many years and here I was, all alone now except for Alfie.

Still, I was looking forward to the day ahead. I stretched my arms, threw back the covers and walked over to the window; the street was already full of life. Looking up at the sky for comfort, I felt close to Mum today. Blinking the tears away, I smiled; I felt as if she would be watching over me.

I splashed tepid water on my face and brushed my teeth – that would have to do for now. My other personal belongings were making their way to my new home by removal van; hopefully they would arrive in the next day or two.

Heading into the kitchen, I decided to take the bike. I checked the tyres; they were inflated, which was a good start. I steered the bike towards the front door, being careful not to damage any wallpaper. Tossing my purse into the basket, I bounced the bike down the steps and turned to lock the door behind me. Alfie was sitting there with his eyes wide, probably praying that I wasn't leaving him.

‘I'll be back as soon as I can, don't worry,' I said softly, stroking his head. I laughed; it made a change actually speaking to another living creature. Since Mum's death the person I had been talking to most had been myself.

Closing the front door, I locked it behind me. I mounted the saddle and pocketed the key, then pushed off, placing my feet on the pedals. Deciding to cycle left, I headed off down the street.

‘Here we go.'

It was mid-morning and people were bustling up and down, going about their business. A couple of ladies stood on the edge of the pavement and gave me a cheery wave when I cycled past, followed by a ‘good morning'. I felt myself smile. Lifting my hand, I waved back with enthusiasm. I surprised myself; it felt like I hadn't interacted with strangers for years, No one knew me here and I was going to grab this fresh start with both hands. I cycled past numerous terraced houses; each one of them pretty, with a different coloured door, and very well maintained. A little further on there was a small arcade of shops: a butcher's, a baker's and a newsagent. I noticed a pub on the corner but that was still plunged in darkness and had not yet opened its doors for the lunchtime trade.

I braked outside the baker's and slid from the saddle, leaning the bike against the window. I retrieved my purse from the basket and entered the quaint little shop. Its glass cabinets were bursting with mouth-watering cakes, pastries and home-made sandwiches. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the shop, which instantly triggered the ache of hunger in the pit of my stomach. I purchased numerous items and the assistant packed them into a carrier bag. She rang up the amount on the till and I handed over the loose change from my purse. I exchanged smiles with her; she seemed pleasant enough. ‘Enjoy your food,' she said, handing my receipt over the counter. I looked at the name on her badge: Lucinda. She looked around my age; maybe she'd be someone I could eventually ask about my new home and surroundings.

I'd purchased enough food for the next few days, but now for Alfie; I mustn't forget Alfie, the poor mite. The newsagent was next to the baker's. It wasn't the usual place to find cat food, but I decided to try there first. As I pushed the door open the bell tinkled above my head, alerting the assistant to my presence. This shop was like Aladdin's cave; it sold everything from hardware to milk and, yes, thankfully, cat food. I grabbed a packet from the bottom shelf and placed it on the counter, and then decided to add a bottle of wine and a couple of ready meals for myself. The assistant smiled at me. I promptly paid and thanked her. Throwing my bags into the basket, I mounted the saddle and pedalled back down the street exactly the same way I had come. Everyone seemed friendly, the high street was picturesque and I already felt at ease. Braking in front of my house, I hopped off the saddle and bounced the bike back up the steps towards the front door. Alfie was waiting patiently on the other side, purring, meowing, and most probably relieved I had returned, eagerly waiting to be fed.

I'd barely torn open the packet of food before Alfie began nudging my hand, trying to eat the contents. Once he had finished, his wide eyes were willing me to give him more. I too demolished my lunch quickly; the ache in my stomach began to diminish. Hugging a mug of tea, I relocated to the sofa and pondered my next move. The directions to Bluebell Lodge lay mapped out on the piece of paper in front of me. That was it – just directions, nothing more. I had already been informed that Bluebell Lodge was a farmhouse, the family home of the Porters and since Agnes Porter, my grandmother, had passed away, the estate was being managed by Tom Drew. The route didn't look difficult and judging by the map it was less than five minutes from the house, which was ideal because I had never owned a car. I had no idea what I was going to find, but I was intrigued to find out.

G
rasping
the directions that the solicitor had provided in my hand, I set off on my bicycle for the second journey of the day. The map indicated I should bear right and carry on up the street. It was only a short journey and I suppose I could have walked but I felt nervous and wanted to discover what was waiting for me as quickly as possible. Looping to the right at the top of the high street, I followed the directions to a white house that was situated on the corner of a bridle path. I continued down a narrow dirt track, which was just about wide enough to drive a car down. Given my atrocious map-reading skills, I questioned the path. Hanging on to the handlebars, I wobbled the bike along the thin gravel trail. Only a stone's throw away from the village centre, the scenery all around me was breathtaking. There was nothing for miles except fields that stretched further than the eye could see and ponies that grazed on the round bales of hay dotted over the bare field.

I guessed that I must be near now, and as I swung around the bend, there, in front of me, was a wooden farm gate. I braked in front of the gate and glanced down at the map. Yes, this looked like the place. The gate was unlocked; a combination padlock was tossed to the side, lying on the ground. Stuffing the map into my pocket, I felt apprehensive. Looking beyond the gate, I could see a tarmacked driveway; it was much smoother than the path I'd just travelled along. There was a row of bare trees adorning the driveway; I imagined they would look extremely picturesque in the spring when they enjoyed their full bloom once more. Leaning the bike against my body, I kicked open the gate, my heart pounding and my hands sweating; I felt like I was trespassing. Pushing the bike beyond the gate, I walked slowly along the tarmac, taking in my surroundings.

Reaching the end of the road, I turned the corner and the pedal somehow managed to hit the back of my leg, throwing me off balance. I stumbled then heard a loud squawk and a mass of white feathers flew up in the air. I squealed, realising I had run over something. I was still off balance and fell to the ground with a bump. I let go of the handlebars and the bike toppled on top of me.

‘Oh my gosh, are you OK? '

I was yanked to my feet by two strapping arms. Startled, I looked up. The arms belonged to the man standing before me. He was staring at me, waiting for a response.

Clearing his throat, he thrust his hand forward. ‘Pleased to meet you, I'm Tom. Tom Drew.' Hearing the name, I knew this was the man managing the farm according to the notes from the solicitor.

Bewildered and feeling like a fool, I swallowed, hoping some words would escape my mouth. I grasped his hand and shook it shakily. ‘Kitty' was the only word I could muster up.

I had no idea where he had sprung from. He was wearing a lumberjack shirt, the sleeves rolled up over his forearms. At a guess he was a little older than me, but not by much, maybe early thirties. He raked his hand through his floppy brown fringe and pushed it to one side, revealing the blue eyes that were looking down at me.

‘Don't worry about Dotty. She's always had a mind of her own that one; you didn't hurt her.'

‘Oh my, I am so sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going.' There was a bulk of feathers floating around, as well as a ball of fluff pecking at the grass to the side of the driveway. I thought it was a chicken, but the strange fur-like feathering gave it an unusual and somewhat comical appearance. The creature had feathered legs and, just for good measure, a powder-puff-like crest resembling a pompom on top of its head. I'd never seen a chicken close up before, except a roasted one on my dinner plate, usually covered in gravy.

Tom smiled and acknowledged my hesitation. He swept Dotty off the ground into his arms.

‘Meet Dotty, age four. She's a silkie.'

‘A silky what?'

He grinned at me.

‘A silkie chicken.'

He had completely lost me now; I had no idea what he was referring to.

‘It doesn't look that silky to me; in fact it looks covered in mud and very bedraggled, but I'm glad I didn't hurt her.'

The chicken began pecking at his shirt buttons. The beak looked lethal to me and very sharp; he was braver than me.

He raised his eyebrows then grinned. ‘It's a breed of chicken, just like a spaniel is a breed of dog.'

‘I knew that,' I mused. ‘A bit like a packet of crisps? They have different flavours, ready salted …'

I had no idea chickens came in different flavours, so to speak. A chicken was a chicken and they laid eggs. However, I nodded, trying to give the impression I was knowledgeable on such matters. Somehow I don't think Tom was fooled.

‘Look, she's harmless enough; she has an extremely friendly nature. Have a hold.' Without warning, he thrust the chicken at me.

Hastily taking a step back, I lost my balance again and tripped over my bike for the second time today; before I knew it I was back on the ground with a hefty bump. This wasn't going well. I instantly wished I hadn't brought the bike.

By this point, Dotty had flown out of Tom's arms with a great deal of commotion and was safely minding her own business doing what chickens do best, scratching amongst the soil in the flower bed at the side of the pathway. She seemed happy enough.

‘This is beginning to become a bit of a habit,' Tom said, laughing, and helped me to my feet again. ‘I've never had a woman fall at my feet twice in less than five minutes.'

I smiled and brushed myself down, yet I was conscious my face was burning a deep red colour.

‘How can I help you?' Tom enquired.

‘I'm looking for a place called Bluebell Lodge, have you any idea where I might find it?'

‘Look no further – this is Bluebell Lodge,' he replied, making a sweeping gesture with his hands. He eyed me up cautiously whilst wiping his brow.

‘I'm the manager of the Lodge,' Tom proudly announced. ‘The old bird left us recently – Mother Goose we called her – and she ran a tight ship for many years, highly respected in this area.'

‘Mother Goose?'

‘Agnes Porter. This place was her life; she ran it like clockwork for more years than anyone can remember.'

‘Did she have any family?' I wasn't sure why that question suddenly slipped out of my mouth, as I knew what the answer was, but I wanted to work out what Tom knew.

‘She was married to a man called Arthur. They owned the farm together, but he died of lung cancer many years ago. He smoked like a chimney, or so she told me. She was a kind lady, owned a little flat on the high street, but she biked here every day, come rain, shine or snow.

‘I began working here after Arthur died. Agnes threw herself into this farm after he passed away. She was a private woman, didn't like to socialise, and a hard worker. This farm was her life.'

He paused for breath and, remembering my manners, I thrust out my hand again. ‘Let me introduce myself properly: I'm Kitty Lewis, and you might be surprised to hear that Agnes Porter was my grandmother.'

Tom's eyes widened and his eyebrows waggled. I could see he was trying to process the information I had just shared. ‘Wow, that was not what I was expecting.'

‘To be honest it was a bit of a shock for me too. My parents never spoke of any living relatives. I was under the impression my grandmother had died before I was born – well that's what my parents told me – and now it seems they may have been a little economical with the truth. Back in November I learned that she had left me a flat in Rosefield, where I'm now living, and this place – Bluebell Lodge. What is this? A farm?'

‘You best come with me and I'll show you around. Have you got time for a cuppa?'

‘Go on then, a hot drink would be lovely.'

‘I'd best take the bike; I don't want to be picking you up off the floor for a third time today.' Tom grinned at me, grabbing the bike from the ground and wheeling it alongside him.

As we turned the corner at the top of the driveway, I gasped. Tom was looking at me, waiting for my response. I blinked, taking in my surroundings. Take deep breaths, Kitty, deep breaths.

‘Tom what are those?'

‘Those, my friend, are fields and fields of chickens.'

‘Bluebell Lodge is a chicken farm?'

‘Suppliers of the best free-range eggs in Staffordshire. What you see before you are the finest show chickens and that building over there is the hub of this enterprise.' He pointed to a beautiful old brick building with an old oak door: Bluebell Lodge.

I followed closely on his heels towards the building whilst I admired the view. Tom propped my bike up against the wall and pushed the door open. ‘Come on, let's pour that cuppa.'

If I was honest I had never seen so many chickens and I wasn't sure how I felt about owning that many of them. My parents weren't exactly animal lovers and we'd never had any pets when I was a child, not even a fish. Alfie was my first pet and now it seemed I had inherited thousands more.

I didn't know one end of a chicken from the other. Well, technically that wasn't true, I knew one end had a sharp beak and at the other end there appeared to be an awful lot of brown stuff squirting out. I didn't like either end. I had no idea what running a chicken farm entailed but thanks to Agnes Porter it looked like I was about to find out.