Winter Wishes at the Farm on MuddypuddleLane (The Farm on Muddypuddle Lane #8)

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

If Mark Stafford didn’t get this damned book written soon, he was toast.

Throwing his pen down in exasperation, he leant back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and stared out of the window of his small office, blowing out his cheeks. What was the deadline again? Oh, yes, the end of February.

He checked the calendar, praying it was a leap year so he would have an extra day. God knows, the way he was going, he would need it.

The house opposite flashed into life as their many Christmas decorations all lit up at once. It wasn’t properly dark yet, but the November afternoon was overcast and gloomy. Unfortunately, the Santa waving at him from an illuminated ladder hanging from one of the bedroom windows did nothing for his lack of festive cheer. In fact, it made his grumpiness worse. Thank goodness neither his agent nor his editor could see him now; they’d think he was a proper Grinch, and that simply wouldn’t do since he was supposed to be writing a Christmas book.

When the idea of writing a festive story had been pitched to him, he should have come clean and confessed that Christmas wasn’t his cup of eggnog. But he’d thought he could pull it off, so he’d agreed. Yet, five weeks into the project, he had nothing. No characters, no storyline and no inspiration. The situation was made even more annoying because this wasn’t his first book, nor even his third. Mark had written eleven books in his career, so why was he finding this one so blimmin’ difficult?

It wasn’t as though he had to write a three-hundred-page novel. He was a children’s author, whose target readers were four to seven years old. The book would be thirty-five to fifty pages maximum, including the illustrations.

Mark was the first to argue that writing children’s books wasn’t easy. The author had to appeal to both the child and the parent, and fewer words didn’t mean less effort or dedication. It was different, that’s all – a difference he’d thought he’d mastered.

Clearly not, if today’s miserably disappointing effort was any indication.

It didn’t help that the publisher wanted a title and the cover art in the next couple of weeks so they could begin the marketing process. But how could he give them that, when he had no idea what the story was going to be about?

His neighbour’s manically waving Santa Claus was becoming irritating, so Mark lowered the blind. The afternoon had drawn in, and as much as he enjoyed taking a break from working by gazing into the street, he’d found himself doing considerably more gazing than working. Resting his eyes was one thing, but these past few days his peepers seemed to have taken a vacation.

He scowled, feeling hemmed in and claustrophobic. Maybe he should get some fresh air? It might clear his head.

Actually, there wasn’t anything to clear. That was the problem – his head was empty. Perhaps filling it with Christmassy stuff might help? He could pay the city centre a visit and soak up some atmosphere. The festivities weren’t in full swing yet, but there should be enough Christmas spirit around to get him in the mood.

Deciding this was as good a plan as any, he donned his padded jacket and plonked a knitted beanie on his head. It wasn’t unduly cold out, but an annoyingly fine drizzle hung in the air.

The bus stop was a five-minute walk from his house, so rather than drive and try to grapple with Bristol’s awful rush-hour traffic, he decided to hop on a bus. It would also mean he needn’t worry about parking, which could be a nightmare. He would even have a bite to eat whilst he was out, because his fridge was rather empty and the freezer was equally as bad. He really should make more of an effort in the kitchen, but although he enjoyed cooking, he couldn’t be bothered just for himself. Now and again he would have a frenzy and bulk cook lots of stuff, but that didn’t happen regularly enough to keep his freezer stocked with home-made dishes. The only meals in there right now were of the ready variety, and none of them appealed.

His thoughts were still on food when the bus trundled into The Horsefair, and he hopped off at the next stop. The street was busy with people scurrying along the pavements, and shops were already belting out Christmas tunes, their window displays full of festive cheer. Overhead, twinkly lights were strung across the street and the lamp posts boasted flashing stars and snowflakes. Mark ducked into a store selling decorations, wandered aimlessly around it and then ducked out again, not having found what he was searching for.

He had yet to find it fifty minutes and numerous shops later, so he gave up and headed for a little place he knew on Philadelphia Street where the food was good.

As he ate, it suddenly came to him that he was trying to recapture the feeling that he used to have when he was a child. Christmas had been such a wonderful, magical time then, and the sheer excitement he’d felt had been overwhelming.

Mark stared at the pasta in the wide-rimmed bowl and shook his head. He was thirty-nine years old and hadn’t been a child for a very long time, so how the hell did he think he could ever feel that way again? But his instinct – that gut feeling he always listened to when it came to his storytelling – was insistent that was what he needed to do. If he wanted to make this next book shine and sparkle, he needed to remember what it was like to be a child at Christmas.

Perhaps going on a writing retreat would help? He’d done something similar before; when he’d written the seaside series he had rented a house on the coast for three months to immerse himself in all things harbour and beach-related.

Mark realised he was looking for inspiration in the wrong place. Bristol wasn’t it.

However, Picklewick, the small village where he’d grown up, might very well be.

Beatrice Webb let out yet another exasperated sigh. Getting her children ready for school was a daily battle and she didn’t think she had the energy for another skirmish this week, but as today was only Thursday, she still had one more to go until the blessed weekend.

The murky mornings at this time of year didn’t help, because Taya, at nine years old, was becoming a real lug-a-bed and was as grumpy as hell at being woken. Five-year-old Sadie was the opposite – up like a lark and raring to go. Unfortunately, Sadie’s lark had risen at five-thirty, and by raring to go, Beatrice wasn’t referring to school. Sadie tried everything to delay going, from hiding her school shoes to having a full-blown meltdown, and this morning she was insisting she had to write a letter to Santa and it had to be done before school so it could be posted on the way.

‘Taya, please go brush your teeth,’ Beatrice instructed, as she tried to wrestle her youngest daughter’s hair into submission.

‘I haven’t finished my breakfast.’ Taya had been reading instead of eating.

Although Beatrice had asked her not to read at the table, Taya had ignored her. She’d been tempted to snatch the book out of her daughter’s hands but, for one, she didn’t want to deal with the fallout, and secondly she knew how lucky she was that she didn’t have to nag her child to read, the way many of her friends had to nag theirs.

‘Please get a move on,’ she urged. Turning to Sadie, she said, ‘All done.’

Sadie patted the top of her head. ‘I wanted plaits, not bunches.’

‘You look lovely with bunches.’

‘But I wanted plaits.’

‘I haven’t got time to do plaits. Sadie, get dressed. You too, Taya.’

Sadie smacked her pencil down on the table. ‘I’m not going to school with my hair in bunches.’

Beatrice counted to five. ‘When I asked you how you wanted your hair, you said you didn’t know.’

‘Well I do now, and I want plaits.’

She briefly considered fetching her scissors and snipping the offending bunches off. It would solve the problem – but in turn would generate a much bigger one.

‘Taya, if you don’t put your uniform on in the next five minutes, you’ll be going to school in your pyjamas,’ she warned.

Taya gave her a ‘yeah, right’ look and slowly got to her feet. Taking her book with her, she dawdled out of the kitchen.

With a sigh of relief that at least one of her children was doing as she was told, Beatrice turned her attention to her youngest daughter. ‘Come on, it’s time you got dressed too.’

Beatrice shot a look of longing at the toaster, but she knew she would be needed upstairs, despite Sadie being more than capable of dressing herself. If she wanted to get her kids to school on time, she would have to forgo breakfast. Telling herself that her waistline would thank her for it, she cleared away the breakfast things – and by clearing away she meant dumping them on the draining board to be dealt with later.

‘Mummy, I’m going to ask Santa for a Wixset for Christmas,’ Sadie announced.

Beatrice blinked. What’s a Wixset, she wondered.

‘And a talking puppy that wees and poops, because you won’t let me have a real one. And a scooter. Not like my old scooter – I want one you plug in. It goes really fast. And I want a tiara. A proper one, not a plastic one.’

Ushering her reluctant daughter into the hall and up the stairs, Beatrice said faintly, ‘I’m not sure Father Christmas can stretch to all that. It’s rather a lot.’

‘No, it isn’t.’ Sadie’s reply was confident. ‘Penelope had a scooter and a Wixset from her mummy for her birthday, and her granny and grandad got her a Poopy Puppy, and her dad bought her a tiara. It’s got real diamonds. Penelope said so.’

Oh well, if Penelope said so, Beatrice grumbled silently to herself. Even without knowing what a Wixset was, she had a suspicion that that little lot would cost a fortune.

Sadie hadn’t finished. ‘And I want a head.’

Beatrice steered her into the bedroom and helped her remove her pyjamas. ‘Just a head? No body?’

Sadie nodded. ‘Just a head. I want to learn to do plaits, because the ones you do fall out.’

‘Oh, right. Okay. A head with hair.’ Beatrice used to have one of those when she was a girl.

‘Duh! Of course with hair. Silly Mummy.’

The door to the bedroom bounced open as Taya stormed in. ‘Mum!’ she cried, ‘I need a new school bag. The strap has broken.’ She waved the offending item in Beatrice’s face, and Beatrice’s heart sank further when her daughter asked, ‘Can I pick the next one?’ because she simply knew it would be the one all her friends had and would be hideously expensive.

Not for the first time since her youngest had started school in September, Beatrice thought about getting a part-time job. But the problem was, finding one which fitted in around school times was as likely as the diamonds in Penelope’s tiara being real.

‘Mrs Webb, can I have a quick word?’

Beatrice saw Sadie’s teacher beckoning her from the door of the classroom, and her heart sank for the second time that morning. A teacher wanting a word was never good, plus Beatrice had hoped to make a quick getaway, considering Sadie had walked into the classroom without any drama, but seeing Miss Barnes talking to her might evoke some.

Miss Barnes seemed equally as concerned, as she glanced over her shoulder. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to inform you that Sadie is going to be Toadstool Number One in the Christmas play, and I know she wanted to be a fairy so she’ll probably be a little disappointed when she finds out. But the fairies are all Year Three children as there’s quite a lot of dancing, and…’ She ground to a halt.

Beatrice said, ‘Thanks for the heads up.’ She was going to have to find some way of bigging up the toadstool role. Knowing her daughter’s penchant for pink and silver, a sparkly pink number might do the trick. ‘Can the toadstool be any colour?’ she asked.

‘Oh, yes. Just use whatever spare material you’ve got lying around.’

Bless her. From what Beatrice could gather, this was the teacher’s first year in the classroom. She had an awful lot to learn about the competitive nature of certain mums. And although Beatrice didn’t want to spend hours making a costume which would only be worn for a matter of hours, she wasn’t going to let her daughter down by having her wear a substandard outfit. Maybe she could enlist some help in making it?

It was a good idea to strike while the iron was hot (in other words, before her enthusiasm waned or she forgot) so Beatrice decided to call in to see her mum on the way home. Thinking it best not to arrive empty handed, she popped into the bakery on the way and picked up a selection of cream cakes.

As she was passing the newsagents, being careful not to jostle the cake box, she automatically glanced at the window and the notices that were pinned there.

And stopped.

Frowning, she stepped closer and peered at a Help Wanted sign. The farm on Muddypuddle Lane was advertising for an assistant for their newly opened farm shop. Experience preferred, hours negotiable.

How negotiable? she wondered.

There was only one way to find out, but first she’d have to have a chat with her mum. There was no point in getting her hopes up if Mum didn’t feel able to help out with childcare during the school holidays or at the weekends.

Her mum was delighted to see her, but that was probably more to do with the cream cake offering than with seeing Beatrice herself. Her mum mightn’t be so delighted when she heard the favours Beatrice wanted to ask.

She decided to begin with the easiest first and said brightly, ‘Sadie is going to be a toadstool in the Christmas play.’

Deborah was examining the cakes. ‘Toadstools aren’t particularly festive, are they?’ She picked up a cream horn with her fingers. ‘I’ll leave the coffee puff for your dad.’

‘You wouldn’t leave it for Dad if you liked it,’ Beatrice teased. Mum couldn’t stand anything coffee flavoured, although she enjoyed a latte as much as the next person.

Deborah took a bite of her cake and said around the mouthful, ‘I suppose you want some help making it?’

‘You don’t have to,’ Beatrice assured her.

‘I think I do if you don’t want it to fall apart after five minutes.’

‘Harsh.’

‘But true,’ her mum countered with a smile. ‘I’ll see what I can find. Put the kettle on, if you’re staying.’

Beatrice couldn’t leave yet, so she filled the kettle and switched it on. ‘Mum, can I ask you something? Please say no, if you don’t think you can. I know we’ve talked about it in the past, but you’ve had a taste of freedom and—’

‘You’ve got a job?’ Deborah beamed at her.

‘Not yet. There’s one going up at the farm on Muddypuddle Lane.’

‘Doing what? You don’t know anything about sheep or cows, and think of the dirt. Plus, you’ll be out in all weathers.’ Her mother shuddered.

‘They want someone for the shop.’

Deborah’s face cleared. ‘Oh, yes. I’d forgotten about that. Phew, that’s a relief. I had visions of you in overalls and wellies. Of course I’ll look after the girls. I love having them.’

‘I don’t know the hours yet and they might want someone for the weekends,’ Beatrice warned.

Her parents had retired earlier in the year and although Beatrice had discussed the possibility of going back to work with them, she didn’t want them to feel obliged – after all, they deserved to enjoy their retirement, and although they adored their grandchildren, the kids weren’t their responsibility.

‘I’ll phone the farm later and find out,’ she said. ‘Anyway, they mightn’t want me.’

Her mum popped the last of her cake into her mouth and licked her fingers. ‘How could they not want you , my darling girl?’

‘You’re biased,’ Beatrice replied, but she hoped her mum was right. With Christmas approaching, she needed all the money she could get her hands on.

Picklewick was much the same as he remembered, Mark thought as he drove along the high street, heading towards the one and only pub where he would be staying for the next couple of weeks. After deciding yesterday that this was the place to be, he had wasted no time in throwing some clothes in a case this morning and setting off. After all, he didn’t have anything keeping him in Bristol.

No, Picklewick hadn’t changed – it was Mark himself who had.

Intrinsically, the village appeared the same as he remembered, but it felt new and strange, as though the past was a foreign land whose soil he now walked.

He hadn’t been back to the area since his parents had moved to a bungalow in Bath, and that had been years ago. And even when they’d still lived in Picklewick, his visits had been fleeting, never for more than a long weekend, because his wife had found the village boring. Ex-wife, now; and the irony of her marrying a hotelier who lived in the wilds of Scotland still made him chuckle. He wondered how bored she was now.

The Black Horse came into view, and he smiled as he caught sight of the familiar sign hanging above the door. It swung in the stiff breeze, and when he got out of the car he could hear it creaking. The sound brought back memories, but he pushed them aside. He would have plenty of time to think about his misspent youth in this very establishment after he’d checked in and unpacked.

The landlord didn’t recognise him at first. ‘Here for work?’ Dave asked as he showed him to his room.

‘You could say that.’

‘A couple of weeks, is it?’

‘There or thereabouts.’

Dave unlocked a door. ‘This is yours. Number three. You’ve got this floor all to yourself at the moment, so it’ll be nice and quiet – apart from the noise from the bar of course, although it shouldn’t be too bad as it never gets rowdy. Unless it’s karaoke night, and then it can get a bit loud.’ The landlord winced. ‘Some of the singing leaves a lot to be desired. But Thursday is quiz night so it should be quiet enough this evening. Do you quiz?’

‘Not really.’

The landlord was squinting at him, a puzzled expression on his face, then he slapped a palm to his forehead. ‘ Mark Stafford ! I should have realised, but it didn’t twig. Long time, no see. How are you?’

‘Good, thanks.’

‘And your mum and dad?’

‘They’re living their best life in Bath.’

‘I heard that’s where they’d moved to. What about you? Do you live in Bath, too?’

Mark shook his head. ‘Bristol.’

‘Not too far from them, then. You’re here for work, you say?’

Mark rarely broadcast what he did for a living, preferring to fly under the radar, but he decided to give the man a half-version of the truth.

‘I’m an illustrator. Books,’ he added, before Dave asked the inevitable question.

‘Covers, like?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Right. And you’ll be working here?’

Mark guessed what the man was thinking. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t splash paint everywhere. I’m a digital artist.’

‘That’s a relief. The missus would throw a fit if you got paint on her carpet.’ He handed Mark an old-fashioned key. ‘Breakfast between eight and nine?

‘Perfect.’

‘Any special requirements?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘Right, I’ll leave you to it. If you need anything, just shout. We serve food in the bar from noon until nine p.m.’

‘Thanks. I’ll be down soon for a spot of lunch.’

Dave took his leave, but not before pointing to a slim folder on the dressing table. ‘Local information,’ he said, adding, ‘Not that you’ll need it.’

As Mark unpacked, he didn’t think he would need it either, but when he gave its contents a cursory once-over, he was mildly surprised to be proved wrong. There was some kind of an event – a Christmas Wonderland – at the farm on Muddypuddle Lane on Saturday, and he intended to take a look.

‘Pop up now, if you like.’ That was what Dulcie Fairfax, the owner of the farm on Muddypuddle Lane had said when Beatrice rang to enquire about the job after she’d left her mum’s house.

Concerned because she didn’t have a CV prepared, and neither did she have anything smart enough to wear for an interview, Beatrice felt nervous and out of her depth as she drove into the farmyard later that morning.

She had managed to find a pair of black tailored trousers at the back of her wardrobe which hadn’t seen the light of day for several years, and she teamed it with a cream blouse that gaped a bit around the boobs because she’d put on weight since having Sadie. So rather than look as though she was bursting out of it, she wore a black vest top underneath and left the buttons undone. Her black ankle boots were tidy enough, and when she stepped out of her car she was glad she’d worn them and not the high heels that she’d bought to go to a friend’s wedding, as the farmyard was cobbled and uneven.

Beatrice looked around with interest. A huge tree sat in the centre of the yard, decorated but unlit; there was a kiosk with a chalkboard sign on it advertising The Grinch’s Grotto, pony rides and various other activities; and there were several barn-type buildings, as well as the farmhouse.

A woman wearing scruffy jeans, wellies and an oversized hoodie, emerged from one of the buildings, and Beatrice recognised her as the woman who’d won the farm in a raffle. The farm had originally belonged to Walter York and had been in his family for generations, but rumour was that he’d been in financial difficulties, with the result that the farm had been raffled off. Beatrice had bought a ticket, but it was Dulcie – a complete newbie when it came to farming – who had won it. She seemed to be coping alright now though.

‘Beatrice? I’m Dulcie.’ The woman hurried forward, holding out a hand.

Beatrice shook it nervously, suddenly feeling overdressed. She knew of her (how could she not, with Picklewick being so small?) but they’d never actually met, and she wasn’t sure what to expect.

Dulcie said, ‘Come through into the kitchen. I don’t know about you, but I’m gasping for a cuppa.’ She strode towards the farmhouse and Beatrice followed, picking her way carefully over the muddy cobbles.

‘Tea or coffee?’ she asked, after inviting Beatrice to take a seat at the chunky oak table in the kitchen.

‘Nothing, thanks,’ Beatrice replied, gazing around her in awe. This wasn’t how she expected a farmhouse kitchen to look – this was something out of a cookery show on TV.

Dulcie noticed her interest. ‘This is Otto’s domain, not mine. He owns The Wild Side in the village.’

Beatrice knew who he was. Everyone in Picklewick knew that Otto York had been a renowned London chef. She also knew that he’d grown up in Picklewick and used to live on this very farm. But that was as far as it went – he had been a couple of years below her in school, so she hadn’t had anything to do with him, and then he’d moved away and had made a name for himself. Like someone else she could mention, she thought, then gave herself a silent telling off – she was in the middle of a job interview, for Pete’s sake! Now wasn’t the time to be reminiscing about old boyfriends.

‘It’s nice,’ she said, dragging her attention back to the present, her eyes roaming over the stainless-steel units.

‘We’ve only just had it installed. You should have seen it before! Anyway, are you sure you don’t want a drink? I’m having one, and I’m also going to have a red velvet crackle cookie. Otto’s been experimenting with a festive version.’

‘Okay then, thanks. Tea, please.’

Dulcie was really down to earth and as Beatrice sipped her tea and nibbled on her cookie (which really was rather moreish), Dulcie filled her in about the shop, which was also new, having only opened a couple of weeks ago.

‘I can’t manage everything by myself,’ she explained. ‘The business is really taking off, and I’m struggling. If you’ve finished your tea, let me show you around. We’ll start with the shop first, since that’s where you’ll be working.’ She led Beatrice outside and they walked back across the yard, towards one of the outbuildings. ‘We sell fresh produce such as goat’s milk, cheese, eggs and any fruit and veg that are in season and we’ve got a surplus of, so that can vary from week to week – day to day, even.’ She came to a halt outside a door and pushed it open.

Beatrice scanned the room – a chiller, a counter, shelves… Everything looked clean and tidy. Festive bunting was draped around the walls and fairy lights twinkled behind the counter.

Dulcie said, ‘We milk the goats every day, although the yield isn’t great at this time of year and neither is egg production, but we’re hoping the Christmas bits and pieces will make up for it. We’ve got handmade soap, lotions and potions, biscuits, pastries, savouries, milkshakes, soups… And we’re hoping for a good turnout tomorrow for the first of our Christmas Wonderland events, and we’ve got lots of things planned. You might have noticed a sign for the Grinch’s Grotto?’

Beatrice nodded, her eyes everywhere, and she felt a spark of excitement. She could really see herself working here.

‘Come on, I’ll show you the rest of it.’

The rest consisted of a barn with goats, a sheep, chickens (who were roaming free), a couple of Shetland ponies (borrowed from the stables down the lane), and rabbits. A fantastic grotto which was very in keeping with the Grinch’s story, was in another building, along with a creative area where kids could make Christmas crafts, and a kitchen.

Dulcie said. ‘We’ll be selling mulled wine, soup, coffees, hot chocolate and anything else Otto dreams up.’

‘You said the hours are negotiable?’ Beatrice asked hesitantly, guessing they wouldn’t be as negotiable as she would need them to be.

‘What hours can you do?’ Dulcie asked, and when Beatrice told her, she said, ‘I’m sure we can work around that. When can you start?’

‘Whenever you want.’

‘How about tomorrow?’

‘But you don’t know anything about me!’ Beatrice protested. Dulcie hadn’t asked how she would deal with an awkward customer, or about her strengths and weaknesses, or any of the other questions she had anxiously expected.

‘Walter, Otto’s dad, does. He knows your father and he vouched for you. Besides, it’s more important to me that we get on. I don’t care about retail experience. What I care about is personality.’ Dulcie beamed at her. ‘So, can you start tomorrow?’

‘Absolutely!’

‘Fab. See you in the morning. By the way, you might want to dress down a bit.’

Beatrice glanced at her blouse and trousers, caught Dulcie’s eye, and the two of them burst out laughing. She was going to like working here!

‘Mummy has got some news,’ Beatrice said to Sadie later that evening as she pulled back the covers for her daughter to dive into bed. She had already told Taya, who hadn’t expressed much interest.

‘Story,’ Sadie demanded.

‘Don’t you want to hear my news?’ Beatrice pretended to pout.

Sadie sat up and folded her arms. ‘What is it?’ she sighed, rolling her eyes.

Beatrice saw herself in the gesture. ‘I’ve got a job, so Nanny will fetch you from school tomorrow, okay?’ Although her official hours were ten until three and she should be finished in time to collect the children, she didn’t want to have to worry on her first day.

Sadie’s expression didn’t change.

‘I’m going to be working in a shop,’ Beatrice continued.

‘A toy shop?’ Sadie’s eyes lit up.

‘Not a toy shop. It’s a—’

‘Sweet shop!’ She wriggled excitedly.

‘No, not a sweet shop, either.’

Her daughter’s face fell.

‘It’s a farm shop,’ Beatrice said, then hastily added, ‘Selling milk, cheese and fruit. Stuff like that,’ in case Sadie thought she would be selling actual farms.

‘Do they have animals?’

‘They certainly do! Goats, chickens and rabbits. Dulcie, who owns the farm, said they have a cat, but I didn’t see it.’

‘Can I see the rabbits?’

‘Yes, and you can see the goats, too.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Not tomorrow, but soon.’ Dulcie had explained that the farm was organising activities on the run-up to Christmas and opening its doors to the public and when Beatrice heard what Dulcie was planning, she knew her daughters would love it.

‘Enough questions,’ Beatrice said. ‘It’s time for a story. What would you like?’

‘That one!’ Sadie pointed to a book on the top of the small pile on her bedside table.

‘Not again,’ Beatrice groaned.

‘Yes again.’

‘Okay, budge over.’

Sadie scooted across the bed and smuggled under the bedclothes, so her mum could sit next to her.

Beatrice reached for the book, and as she did so the author’s name caught her eye and she winced.

It had been written by Mark Stafford – the man who had broken her heart.