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A Countryside Tale
A return to the fictional village of Croxshall, by Natalie Wakefield
T
he morning had not started well for Felicity
Flint. She’d been startled awake shortly after five
o’clock by a crash outside. Leaping out of bed,
she’d pulled a cardigan on as she crept towards the
window and peered out. Her back garden stretched up
the valley side, the hill in silhouette as the early dawn
paled behind it. Squinting, Felicity studied the dim
scene, jumping when something streaked across the
patio and leapt gracefully onto the garden wall, where
it sat elegantly and licked a paw. Tibbles belonged to
Mrs Spencer up the road, but occasionally sunned
himself on Felicity’s bench. It was getting lighter by the
second. She could just make out a darker patch on the
patio – he’d knocked over her pot of pelargoniums.
Pulling her cardigan tighter, and muttering to herself
in annoyance, she hurried downstairs to rescue the
stricken plant.
Outside it was cool, the air slightly damp, but a
slight haze was already forming as the sun rose.
Scooping the compost into a fresh pot and packing it
tightly around the stems, Felicity thought again how
beautiful the flowers had been this year. She looked
around for a spot where Tibbles couldn’t knock it over
again, dusted off her hands and went back inside. There
would be no going back to sleep now.
Having dressed and breakfasted, Felicity had
planned to nip to the shop for milk before giving her
first piano lesson of the day, but had managed to catch
her handbag on a drawer handle, snapping the strap
and spilling everything – purse, lipsticks, tissues, spare
change, pens, fluffy forgotten mints – all over the floor,
her keys skittered across the tiles and under the dresser.
It took almost ten minutes to successfully retrieve
them, then, having crawled around to gather up the rest
of her bits-and-pieces, she’d misjudged the edge of the
table and cracked her head as she attempted to stand.
An involuntary curse had flown out of her mouth at
volume, just as nine-year-old Lucy Burton was ushered
into the kitchen by her mother. Clutching her
throbbing head, bright red and apologising profusely,
Felicity had made a cup of tea for Mrs Burton and
patiently guided Lucy through her scales and exercises
until, with a final apology, she ended the lesson, closed
the door behind them and sank into a kitchen chair.
What she desperately needed, was a cup of tea. But of
course, she only just had enough milk for Mrs Upton
who would be arriving with six-year-old Barry in tow
any minute. Making do with black coffee, she greeted
them warmly, put Barry through his paces in
preparation for his upcoming Grade I exam and waved
them off with relief before grabbing her purse, slipping
on her shoes and marching off to Hubbard’s.
An hour and two cups of tea later, the throbbing
had eased and Felicity was happily pottering around
watering her plants and doing odd little jobs around
the house. By lunchtime, all seemed right with the
world and she was in the mood for baking. The day had
warmed nicely, but the kitchen’s old stone floor and
thick walls meant it didn’t get too hot. With the radio
in the background, she first mixed a bread dough, then
while it was proving, moved onto scones and pastry for
a quiche, with leftovers used to make a handful of jam
tarts. By late afternoon, her arms were aching
pleasantly and she had an array of treats on the cooling
racks. It had been shortly after the bomb scare a couple
of weeks ago that she had last taken anything round to
Mrs Knight. Fetching a wicker basket and the roll of
baking paper from the pantry she bundled up some
scones, a couple of the jam tarts and a perfectly risen
tin-loaf, leaving her slightly wonky attempt at a cottage
loaf on the rack. The quiche was in the oven, but was
just about done, so she turned it off and left the door
shut. It would still be warm when she got back.
Walking up Church Lane, she could see a small
gathering on the corner. It wasn’t quite the full coven –
Betty and Freda with husbands in tow and Betty’s yappy
Yorkshire terrier. Felicity straightened her shoulders as
she reached them, noting that Betty and Freda fell silent
as she approached, although the men turned with
smiles, seemingly oblivious to the frostiness emanating
from their wives.
’Evening all,’ Felicity said with a nod, then carried
on towards the little gate in the hedge that surrounded
Corner Cottage. She’d seen Dorothy only once, on the
day of Eddie Knight’s funeral. Bernie Cropwell, the
church organist, had fallen off a ladder and the
undertaker had rung ‘the new piano
teacher’ to ask if she could step in. Dorothy
had seemed tiny, bewildered and desperate
throughout the whole ordeal, and Felicity
had been taken straight back to her own
husband’s funeral several years before. She’d
started dropping off little bundles after that.
Would leave the basket on the step, as she
was doing now. Had been surprised that
first time, to find it empty on her doorstep
the next morning.
Felicity was halfway back down the
path when a lilting voice called out behind
her. Turning, she saw a beautiful young
woman waving from the porch.
’Felicity, isn’t it?’ The young woman
waved again. ‘Come along in. Dottie and I
have just opened a bottle of wine – why
don’t you come in and join us?’
With less than a second’s hesitation,
Felicity, intrigued, walked back up the path
to the porch and held out a hand. ‘Nice to
meet you.’
’I’m Kit,’ said the young woman,
shaking hands. Felicity followed her into
the house. She wasn’t sure what to expect –
had imagined dusty corners and piled up
magazines, but instead the house was light
and pristinely clean – almost sterile. They
went through to the living room where
Dorothy was perched on a couch, glass of
wine in hand. She placed it hurriedly on a
coffee table and stood up looking confused.
’Felicity!’ she said brightly. ‘How nice.’
’I hope you don’t mind,’ said Felicity. ‘Your young
guest invited me in and…’
’Not at all.’ Dorothy smiled and gestured to an easy
chair as Kit poured wine into a glass and they all settled
down, the basket of goodies placed on a side table.
’So, are you a relative, Kit?’ Felicity asked after a
brief pause.
Kit laughed. ‘I’m a complete stranger! Poor Dottie
didn’t know what to make of it when I turned up on her
doorstep out of the blue this afternoon.’
’Oh?’
’It was quite a shock,’ said Dorothy. ‘But a pleasant
one as it turns out.’
‘I’m a massive fan, you see,’ Kit leaned in
confidentially. ‘I was actually looking for the other
Corner Cottage in the village – I had no idea there were
two!’
Felicity smiled. ‘Ah yes, it has caused some
confusion before.’
’I just got off the bus, saw the sign on the gate and
walked straight up the path,’ said Kit. ‘You can imagine
my surprise when Oh Dear Dottie opened the door!’
’Oh Dear Dottie?’
’Yes! Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Oh Dear
Dottie?’
Confused, Felicity looked over at Dorothy, demure
in slacks and pastel twinset, eyes fixed on the carpet.
But there was a slight smile, even though her cheeks
were getting pinker by the minute.
’I loved Oh Dear Dottie!’ Kit continued. ‘They were
my favourite books as a kid. I recognised Dottie as soon
as she opened the door of course. Luckily for me, she
let me in and we’ve had a lovely afternoon.’
’How wonderful,’ Felicity murmured, bemused. She
vaguely recalled a rag doll in a polka dot dress that had
been very popular among her pupils a good while ago,
but couldn’t be sure it had any connection to the books
Kit was talking about.
’So you were originally looking for the Sewells at
the other Corner Cottage?’ Felicity asked, interrupting
Kit who was still waffling on about her childhood
obsession.
’Carol’s my aunt,’ replied Kit. ‘I popped round
earlier to let her know I’d arrived. I work for Richard
Kensington, the producer? He’s up here for the next
week and needed an assistant. Handy for me that I had
an aunt in the area!’
’Indeed.’
‘I’ve to go round to meet Charlotte Randall
tomorrow,’ Kit carried on. ‘She’s quite well-known in
theatre circles apparently, although I’d never heard of
her until Richard decided he wanted her for the new
play. Fancy having a worldwide bestselling author and
a semi-famous actress in the same village! Auntie Carol
never said anything you know…’
Felicity caught the look Dorothy shot her way – half
horrified, half hysterical. She bit her cheek to supress a
laugh. One could only imagine how Charlotte would
react to that little gem.
‘…anyway, I’ve had far too much wine,’ Kit was still
going. ‘I really must go. I promised Auntie Carol I’d be
back by half past seven. Thank you so much for a lovely
evening, Dottie – I can’t tell you how excited I am to
have met you. And I’ll be here all week! You won’t mind
if I come again?’ Felicity and Dorothy stood as Kit
pulled on her long coat, beret in hand. ‘And lovely to
meet you too Felicity. Ta-ra!’
In the sudden silence, the two women looked at
each other, then burst out laughing.
’I must go too,’ said Felicity eventually. ‘My tea is in
the oven – it’ll be burnt to cinders!’
’Oh dear. Yes, you’d better hurry,’ said Dorothy. ‘It
was lovely to meet you properly. I’m so sorry I’ve never
really -’
’Please,’ Felicity interrupted her. ‘No need to
apologise. But I’d like it very much if I could call again?’
Dorothy smiled broadly. ‘So would I.’
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