Page 5 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure
‘Will he let me ride too?’ Declan bounced on his toes, wide-eyed and still clutching his teddy as Jake chugged towards them.
Caitlin ran ahead, hopping onto the tractor’s running board, her hair whipping behind her as she held on tightly.
‘Welcome!’ Jake called out, pulling Finn into the front seat beside him, while Maeve joined Caitlin, balancing precariously but laughing in delight.
‘Me too! Me too!’ Declan cried out.
But before Jake could disappear with his cousins, Mary swept her five-year-old into her arms. ‘Not on your life,’ she said firmly. Her tone softened as Jake caught her eye. ‘Jake, you know better than to drive that tractor with passengers!’
Jake’s grin widened, and the playfulness in his eyes was difficult for Mary to resist. ‘Maybe later,’ Mary relented to Declan, ‘but only if Grandad supervises.’
Jake revved the engine, and Caitlin and Maeve screamed as Finn clung on.
‘Welcome home, Aunty Mary,’ Jake called out to the whoops and cheers of his cousins.
Mary smiled and watched them disappear into the distance, her heart full. She was home, and despite the challenges ahead, she was ready to tackle Atticus and bring back the joy to her dad that she felt herself.
Chapter Three
In the kitchen of his cottage, Atticus woke from an afternoon nap and placed the kettle on the hob of the AGA cooker. He then turned to the sink, where plates were piled on the draining board. Once carefully dried, he walked across the quarry-tiled floor and positioned the crockery in exact order on the shelf of an old pine dresser, beside a weathered wooden box.
‘Just as you like it, Clara,’ Atticus said, inching a plate into perfect position.
He stirred milk into his freshly made brew and watched as the liquid turned a deep muddy brown, then tossed the bag into a bin under the deep stone sink. As he sipped his tea, Atticus stared fondly at the box on the dresser. Worn smooth by years of handling, the dark wood had faint cracks along the grain. Clara kept her embroidery needles, thimbles, and scissors in the box, but now, nestled on the faded velvet lining, a glass vial was sealed tight.Inside the vial, Atticus had kept back a small quantity of Clara’s ashes, a keepsake of his love and loss.
Ness lay nearby on a rug, but as Atticus reached down to stroke her, she raised her head, her tail beginning to thump. ‘What is it, old girl?’ he asked as he heard an engine chugging past the cottage. Resting a hand on the wooden draining board, he peered through the open kitchen window.
Outside, a vintage tractor came into view, and Atticus smiled. ‘Ah, my Little Grey Fergie,’ he whispered, admiring the clean lines and innovative engineering of a vehicle he’d lovingly restored many years ago.
Perched behind the wheel, Jake waved to his granddad.
‘Be careful!’ Atticus called out.
‘Hi, Granddad!’ the children yelled and balanced perilously as Jake revved the engine.
‘Watch the paintwork!’ Atticus shouted.
Caitlin and Maeve wobbled unsteadily, perched on the running boards, and Atticus winced as their trainers bounced up and down. Jake, with Finn still beside him, revved the engine again, tooted a horn and roared away across the yard towards the fells.
Atticus wondered why Mary allowed her offspring so much freedom. Scraping a chair across the tiles, he sat down and murmured that his grandkids should show more respect for his vintage vehicle.
‘Mary has arrived,’ Atticus said to Ness, stroking her head. ‘Now there’ll be a commotion.’
Sipping his tea, Atticus knew that at any moment, the cottage door would burst open, and Mary wouldsurge in. He glanced at the wall clock and decided to head off to the pub for a quick pint before the whirlwind that was Mary built pace, and his peaceful day was over.
Atticus reached for his hat and slipped out of the kitchen.
With Ness by his side, the pair hurried across the yard, blending in with visitors who were buying last-minute provisions in the shop. Slipping through a gate, he began to walk along a path that led to the pub.
The Black Bull stood proudly at the heart of the village green in the quaint village of Eden. It offered craft beers and, more recently, a menu of local dishes. As Atticus and Ness wandered through the pub garden, they passed holidaymakers and hikers, enjoying a thirst-quenching drink as they reflected on their day out on the fells. Nearby, a family of ducks waddled through a cluster of wildflowers beneath the sweeping branches of a willow tree before gracefully gliding into the pond.
Ness tugged on her lead, and Atticus shook his head. ‘Never mind the ducks,’ he said, ‘a pint is more important.’ Keeping his dog by his heel, he wandered into the pub where his best friend, Arthur, sat in a cosy corner of the snug, munching on pork scratchings.
‘A pub should be a pub, not a fancy restaurant,’ Atticus complained.
‘It’s true.’ Arthur nodded and lifted a pint to his lips, leaving a frothy moustache. ‘It’s a place to sup. Half thesefolks don’t even talk to each other,’ he chuntered and offered his friend a pork scratching.
The two men looked beyond the snug where families were dining. Many youngsters had their eyes focused on a screen, engrossed in online activity, oblivious to the interesting memorabilia covering uneven walls beneath low-beamed ceilings. Old photographs of local landmarks hung beside antique farming tools and vintage advertisements for the pub from days gone by.
