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

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

Beatrice climbed the stairs, a pile of ironing in her arms, and tried to ignore the squabbling coming from the living room. The girls could only entertain themselves for so long, and she sensed they’d reached their limit.

The chores had to be done though, and this morning she’d managed an impressive array of cleaning, tidying, washing and ironing. In fact, she’d got carried away and had done more than she’d intended. Whenever she thought she’d finished, she managed to find something else that needed doing. The house hadn’t been this clean since she’d been forced to blitz it after hosting Sadie’s fifth birthday party in the summer and sixteen children had rampaged through the place.

As she entered her youngest daughter’s bedroom, her eye fell on Sadie’s favourite story and her lips tightened. Its author was the reason she had been unable to keep still for more than five minutes today.

Placing the ironing on the bed, she picked up the book and scowled. Beatrice had to admit that Mark told a good yarn, one that appealed to kids and adults alike, and the illustrations were gorgeous. Taya had been given it a few years ago, and if Beatrice had realised who’d written it at the time, she might well have hidden it. Or thrown it away. But when she’d seen the name ‘Mark Stafford’ on the cover, she hadn’t initially realised that the man she had entrusted with her heart and the children’s author were one and the same. When she’d found out, she had been… not upset, exactly, but it had brought an unwelcome rush of buried feelings to the surface.

The book had become a firm favourite of Taya’s and had eventually been passed on to Sadie, who loved it equally as much. Beatrice must have read the blasted thing at least a hundred times, and she was heartily sick of it – and not just of the story itself. The book was a constant reminder of a part of her life she would prefer to forget. Unfortunately for her (not for the author) the book was extremely popular so there was no escaping it. Then the damn man had gone on to publish several more. So she now pretended that the books gracing her daughter’s shelf had been written by some other Mark Stafford, a Mark Stafford who she had never met and had never loved. A Mark Stafford who hadn’t chosen a career instead of her. And she had succeeded up to a point, her memories safely buried underneath those that had come after – marriage, babies, divorce. Life .

Then yesterday happened. Why the hell had he come back? His parents had moved away years ago, so what reason could he possibly have to return to a backwater (his words) like Picklewick. “Something to do with his books” didn’t sound at all believable.

And how had he ended up playing the Grinch at the farm? She was positive it had been him. Or was she?

Beatrice reached for her phone.

‘Who was under the Grinch mask?’ she asked Dulcie after the pleasantries were out of the way. ‘I didn’t think it was Walter.’

‘It was originally, but this guy showed up, a children’s author. He asked if he could take a look around because he’s doing some research for a new book, and when we got to the grotto Walter wasn’t feeling too good, so he stepped in.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Mark Stafford.’

‘I knew it!’ Beatrice muttered.

‘Nikki has heard of him – his books are very popular, apparently – but I had to Google him. He was alright, wasn’t he?’ Dulcie sounded anxious.

‘He was a brilliant Grinch,’ Beatrice assured her. ‘Very believable.’

‘Thank goodness for that. You had me worried for a minute. He seemed really down to earth. I wanted to pay him, but he refused to take any money. That was nice of him, wasn’t it?’

‘It was.’ Mark was a nice guy. Or he had been until he’d dumped her.

Her heart was thumping by the time she came off the phone, as something occurred to her. Something it shouldn’t have taken this long to realise.

If she had recognised him , even with a green latex mask hiding his face, then he would have undoubtedly recognised her . And he hadn’t said a word.

It wasn’t working. This was Mark’s third day in Picklewick and so far he had nothing, and his visit to the farm on Muddypuddle Lane on Saturday had produced zero results, despite the impromptu Grinch performance.

He still had trouble believing he’d actually agreed to it. With her powers of persuasion Dulcie would go far, he thought wryly. She’d failed to manage to talk him into a repeat performance next Saturday though. He hadn’t minded helping out in an emergency, but he wasn’t going to make a habit of it, especially since Beatrice worked at the farm.

It was no secret that he was back, so she was bound to get to hear of it, and there was also a possibility he might bump into her again, but he didn’t want to be wearing a lurid green mask when he did.

He should go back to Bristol. It would be the sensible thing to do. If he was going to continue to suffer from writer’s block, he may as well suffer from it in the comfort of his own home. He’d spent all of yesterday cooped up in this room, wracking his brains for ideas, without success, only emerging at mealtimes.

For Mark, his imagination was often sparked by an image or a scene; he would feel the urge to draw it, and from that a story would form. But nothing he’d seen in Picklewick so far had inspired him. And having Beatrice’s face pop into his mind every ten seconds didn’t help. She hadn’t changed, she was as lovely as he remembered.

A thought drifted across his mind – what would have happened if he’d stayed in Picklewick? Might he and Beatrice have got married and had kids? A pang went through him, and he brushed it aside.

‘What can I get you?’ Dave asked when Mark ventured downstairs in search of a spot of lunch.

He wasn’t hungry (the full English had been, well…. full ) but he could do with a break. Staring into the distance with a blank sheet of paper in front of him, was rather demoralising.

‘An Americano and a cheese and pickle sandwich, please.’

The landlord said, ‘Coming right up,’ but made no move to ensure that happened. Instead, he lingered, wiping a cloth across the already clean table. ‘Someone called earlier, enquiring about you. A woman.’

Mark’s pulse quickened. ‘Who?’

‘Nikki Warring. She teaches in Picklewick Primary.’

His disappointment was acute. ‘What did she want?’

‘She didn’t say.’ Dave fished a crumpled note out of his pocket. ‘I was going to push this under your door, but since you’re here…’ He placed it on the table and Mark glanced at it.

Just a name and a mobile number, but he could guess what it was about. He’d visited many schools, nurseries and libraries since his first book was published.

The landlord hadn’t moved, clearly hoping Mark would phone Nikki Warring at this very moment.

‘Sandwich?’ Mark reminded him.

‘Yes. Right.’ With a longing look at the note, Dave wandered off, leaving Mark alone with his thoughts.

The way his heart had leapt when he’d thought the caller might have been Beatrice, concerned him. His reaction to seeing her yesterday could be explained by the unexpectedness of the encounter. But today…?

He should definitely leave. Who was it who’d said that the past was a country one should never revisit? He couldn’t remember, but the sentiment was spot on. Picklewick had been magical growing up. It wasn’t quite as magical now that he was an adult and viewing it through adult eyes. It was still pretty and quaint, and still unspoilt, but it wasn’t doing anything for him.

Not wanting to be rude, or offend his readership (the adult contingent, that is), after Mark finished his lunch he gave Nikki Warring a call.

‘Mr Stafford! Thank you so much for getting back to me,’ she said. ‘I’m Dulcie’s sister. I wish I’d known at the time that it was you who had stepped into the breach on Saturday – I would have loved to have met you. Actually, that’s what I wanted to speak to you about. I teach at Picklewick Primary and I wondered whether you could be persuaded to visit our school? The children would be thrilled to bits if you did.’ She paused for breath.

Seeing an opening, Mark leapt in. ‘I’d love to, but I doubt I’m going to be in Picklewick long.’

‘It won’t take long. Just an hour of your time. Please? We don’t often get many authors in this neck of the woods, and to think you went to this very school.’

And that was how Mark Stafford, successful children’s author (hopefully dressed in his own clothes this time) agreed to visit Picklewick Primary School on Wednesday afternoon to entertain small children for the second time in less than a week.

Beatrice couldn’t believe how quickly time could speed by. No sooner did she arrive at the farm shop, than it was time to leave to collect the girls from school. She was thoroughly enjoying every minute of her new job, and every day was different.

She assumed things would probably settle down after Christmas, but for now she was rushed off her feet. Today, for instance, she’d been taste-testing milkshakes (mince pie flavour had been her favourite) and putting together festive afternoon tea boxes. There had been a steady stream of customers, and she knew that as the weekend approached, it would get even busier.

It was only Wednesday but Beatrice was already looking forward to Saturday. If last week was anything to go by, this next one should be fun. She was secretly disappointed that Mark wouldn’t be there, wearing the Grinch’s outfit, but maybe that was a good thing because, despite how busy she was both during and outside of work, Mark had been a constant presence in her mind.

She was also looking forward to Sunday. Beatrice loved her girls with every cell in her body, but she rarely had a minute to herself, so she treasured the times when they were with their father. Eric didn’t often have them for a whole day because he was a nurse in Thornton General, which meant he worked days, nights and weekends too. She was planning a pampering day, and she knew she was going to need it after the busy week.

Right now she was on her way to collect the girls from school and she just had enough time to drop the car off at home and walk the six minutes from her front door to the school gates.

A gaggle of people were gathered in the playground waiting for the doors to open and the children to pour out of their various classrooms, and Beatrice spotted her best friend Lisa making her way over.

Lisa was studying her. ‘Have you heard? Mark’s back.’

Quietly Beatrice replied, ‘I heard.’

‘How do you feel?’ Lisa knew their history. How could she not, since she’d picked up the pieces. Beatrice had been a mess for a while.

She laughed, hoping it sounded natural. ‘I’m fine. I’ve been over him for years. Mark Stafford is water under the bridge.’

‘I heard a rumour that he was the farm’s Grinch. That can’t be right, can it?’

Airily Beatrice replied, ‘I believe he was.’

‘Have you seen him?’

‘No.’ It wasn’t technically a lie. She hadn’t seen him as such. She’d seen a green Grinchy mask.

‘Do you think he’ll have changed much?’ Lisa asked.

Beatrice shrugged. ‘No idea.’

‘He looks the same in the photos of him online. Better, actually. More suave. Suaver.’ Lisa flicked her wrist. ‘You know what I mean.’

All Beatrice knew, was that she wished Lisa would change the subject. Mark had only been in Picklewick a few days and she was already heartily sick of hearing his name. She was certainly sick of thinking about him, especially since she suspected he hadn’t given her a second thought since he’d left. And why would he? So what, if they’d dated once? It was a long time ago, and they’d hardly been in the same league as Romeo and Juliet. Well, he hadn’t – she would have laid down her life for him. Once or twice she’d been tempted to tell him how she felt, but thankfully had been unable to find the courage – the devastation she’d felt when he ended their relationship had been bad enough, without adding the mortification of him knowing she was in love with him.

A bell rang and a second later children exploded from the various classroom doors, filling the playground with yells and screams, and a blur of movement.

Beatrice craned her neck to see Sadie, but the child was nowhere in sight. She caught a glimpse of Taya though, who was trying to play it cool by ignoring her.

‘Oh, heck, what now?’ she muttered, when she saw Miss Barnes signalling to her. ‘Could you watch Taya for a minute?’ she asked Lisa. ‘I need to speak to Sadie’s teacher.’

Lisa gave her a sympathetic smile.

‘Can I have a quick word?’ Miss Barnes asked.

Mutely, Beatrice nodded and followed the teacher into the classroom.

Sadie was sitting in one of the small chairs, her arms folded, her face mutinous.

Miss Barnes said, ‘Sadie is a little upset today because she found out she’s going to be a toadstool and not a fairy in the school play, and she’s refusing to take part.’

Beatrice sighed. ‘Leave it with me. She’ll come around.’ Maybe the pink sparkly fabric she had in mind would do the trick?

‘Won’t!’ Sadie snapped. ‘Toadstools are nasty.’

‘Who says?’

‘Everyone.’

Beatrice highly doubted that. ‘Come on, let’s get you home.’ She held out a hand.

Sadie thrust her hands deeper into her armpits and stuck out her chin. ‘No.’

‘What do you mean no ?’

‘I’m not going until Miss says I can be a fairy.’

‘In that case, you can stay here all night,’ Beatrice said. Blackmail, even from a five-year-old, wasn’t nice.

Miss Barnes said, ‘We’ve had such a lovely afternoon, too. We’ve had a visit from an author, haven’t we, Sadie? He spoke about your favourite book, didn’t he? Look.’ She pointed to the hallway. ‘There he is. You don’t want Mr Stafford to see you in a mood, do you?’

Beatrice froze, and her gaze was slowly drawn to the open classroom door and the hallway beyond. And she immediately locked eyes with him.

Recognition flared in his and a smile flitted across his face. He gave a small, awkward wave, then turned his attention back to Mrs Warring, Taya’s teacher.

Irrationally, Beatrice wished she was wearing something more glamorous than jeans, boots and a padded jacket that made her look like a small hippo. The bobble hat with a red pompom on it wasn’t her best look either, and neither was her make-up-free face. When all was said and done, she looked a mess.

Miss Barnes said, ‘Excuse me a minute. I just want to say goodbye to Mr Stafford. He was so marvellous, and the children adored him.’

Beatrice dragged her gaze away and focused on her belligerent daughter. ‘We’re going,’ she said, her tone brooking no argument.

‘No.’

‘If you don’t do as you’re told, you’ll go straight to bed after tea, young lady.’

‘Don’t care.’ Sadie settled herself more firmly in her chair.

‘No TV and no games,’ Beatrice warned.

Her daughter stared stubbornly straight ahead.

‘No story,’ Beatrice added, wondering what other sanctions she could impose.

Sadie shot her a glance, then hastily looked away.

Ah-ha! Leverage! ‘In fact, I won’t read you a bedtime story for the rest of the week, if you don’t do as you’re told.’

Sadie leapt to her feet and stamped her foot. ‘I don’t care! I won’t be a toadstool. Toadstools are for boys.’

‘Who says?’

Beatrice froze at the sound of Mark’s voice. Great. Now he was a witness to her abysmal parenting skills as well as her frumpy, mumsy appearance.

Ignoring her, he walked up to Sadie. Sadie gazed up at him in awe, her defiance miraculously vanished.

Sitting in the chair next to the one Sadie had abruptly vacated, he reached into the inside of his coat and withdrew a small pad and a pencil. Wordlessly he flipped the pad open and began to draw.

Sadie glanced at Beatrice, who shrugged. She had no idea what was going on, either.

Mark’s head was bowed, his attention on whatever it was he was doing, and Beatrice grabbed the opportunity to look at him properly.

Taller than her five-foot-six by at least half a foot, he had always been athletic, but he had filled out over the years, his shoulders broader than she remembered, tapering to a lean waist. His long legs were encased in black jeans, and he struggled to fold them underneath the low table.

His short, dark brown hair was longer on top, and had flashes of silver at the temples, and crow’s feet crinkled at the corners of his hazel eyes, those same eyes that had haunted her dreams for many months after he’d broken it off with her. A dusting of stubble shadowed his jaw, and her gaze lingered on his lips until she forced herself to look away.

His fingers gripped the pencil, guiding it across the page with firm, deft strokes and in less than a minute, he’d finished.

Sadie let out a gasp when he tore out the page and gave it to her. ‘It’s me, Mummy. He drawed me! ’

So he had. He’d drawn her little face peering out from a toadstool and she had a wand in her hand, with stars issuing from its tip.

‘See?’ he said. ‘Toadstools aren’t for boys. They’re for girls, because they’re magic. Without toadstools, fairies wouldn’t be able to fly.’

The logic of that passed Beatrice by, but Sadie grasped it immediately.

‘Fairy dust!’ she exclaimed.

‘Exactly!’

Her eyes narrowed, then she said to Beatrice, in a tone remarkably like that of a queen bestowing a favour, ‘I think I will be a toadstool. A pink one, with a wand. Can I show Miss?’ Without waiting for an answer, she trotted towards Miss Barnes’s desk where the two teachers were examining some books.

As Beatrice watched her go, she felt Mark’s eyes on her.

He said, ‘She’s cute.’

‘She’s a monster in little girl’s clothing.’

He chuckled. ‘She looks like you. They both do.’

‘You make a good Grinch,’ she countered.

‘I’m not sure that’s a compliment.’

Beatrice didn’t say anything. He could take it whichever way he pleased.

Sadie appeared at her elbow. ‘Can we go now? I’m hungry.’

‘I think we’d better. Miss Barnes will want to go home.’ She grabbed her daughter’s hand and smiled at the teachers. ‘Nice seeing you again, Mark,’ she said, her voice cool and polite.

‘Wait, have you got time for a coffee?’

Beatrice blinked . He wanted to have coffee with her? Was this for old time’s sake?

‘Can’t. Sorry.’ She gestured towards her daughter.

‘Another time?’

‘Another time,’ she agreed.

‘When?’

‘Pardon?’

‘When would be best for you?’

‘Mummy, you could have coffee with Mr Stafford on Sunday, if you don’t want to take me and Taya.’ Sadie’s expression was hopeful. ‘But I don’t mind going now though. I could have a milkshake, and I promise to be quiet if you want to talk grown-up things. Taya will be good too.’

‘No, I—’ Beatrice began.

‘Sunday?’ Mark said.

Sadie announced, ‘We’re going to Daddy’s house.’

Beatrice closed her eyes briefly. Thanks, Sadie. ‘I’m busy on Sunday,’ she said.

‘She’s going to have a bath with bubbles, but it won’t take all day, will it, Mummy?’

Mark was staring at her, and Beatrice squirmed.

With a weak laugh, she said, ‘I look forward to a relaxing soak in the tub without kids knocking on the door every few seconds. You know how it is.’

‘Actually, I don’t. No kids.’

‘Oh.’

‘Sunday?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She was so tempted that it was almost a physical ache. But seeing him again would be so unwise.

‘It’s just a coffee, Bea.’

Oh, bugger! Now he was thinking that she was reading more into it than he’d meant. ‘Okay, eleven o’clock in Blake’s Cafe on the main street.’

‘See you there.’ He began to walk away, then paused. ‘Bea?’

‘Yes?’

‘Nice hat.’

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Beatrice sank onto the sofa, put her mobile on speaker, and reached for the glass of dry white wine on the side table next to her. She didn’t make a habit of drinking on her own, and never on a weeknight, but this evening she felt the need to break her own rule.

‘He asked me to go for a coffee with him,’ she said, then winced as Lisa screeched, ‘He asked you out?’

‘That’s not what I said. He didn’t ask me out. He asked me to go for a coffee.’

‘Same thing.’

‘It’s not the same thing. It’ll be a quick catch-up with an old friend – not a date.’

‘Old friend, my peachy backside! He was your boyfriend.’

‘ Was being the operative word. That was years ago.’

‘You were in love with him.’

‘I might have been, but I’m not now.’

‘Why do you think he asked you out?’

Beatrice didn’t see the point in correcting Lisa again on the date front; instead, she said, ‘For old time’s sake.’

‘Just be careful that old times don’t become new times.’

‘I’m not that daft. Anyway, I’ve heard he won’t be in Picklewick long.’

‘It doesn’t take long,’ Lisa pointed out, then her voice softened. ‘I don’t want to see you hurt, that’s all.’

‘I won’t be. It’s just a coffee with an old friend,’ she reiterated.

‘You keep telling yourself that.’

‘Don’t worry, I will. I’m not going to let Mark Stafford into my heart a second time.’

‘That’s the problem,’ Lisa said. ‘I don’t think he ever left it.’

And although Beatrice scoffed at the idea, she had a suspicion her friend was right. He had been her first love, and did first love ever truly die…?