Page 1 of A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage
Chapter One
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“At the next junction, turn right.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me! I’m not driving up there.”
“Turn right.”
“Oh, shut up, you silly bitch. Have you seen it? It’s just a track. It’s all potholes and mud.”
“Turn right.”
“If you don’t shut up I’ll swap you for Stephen Fry.” Vicky threw up her hands in exasperation. “Oh, Lord, I’ve really lost it now! I’m sitting here arguing with my satnav.”
“Turn right.”
“Okay, okay, I’m turning right.”
This was going to be tricky. Potholes and mud were the least of it — there were deep ruts in the lane as well, as if something heavy had regularly been driven over it, and it sloped steeply uphill. Her nippy little hatchback was a city-bred car — it wasn’t accustomed to coping with that kind of thing.
“If this goes pear-shaped,” she snarled at the annoying gizmo sitting on her dashboard, “I’m never speaking to you again.”
Satisfied, the satnav lapsed into smug silence.
At least the ruts suggested that the lane led to somewhere. According to the naggy voice of the satnav, it led to Bramble Cottage, which was where she wanted to get to.
“Ah, well — here we go.”
Keeping her fingers crossed that the underneath didn’t bash on the ruts, she eased her foot on the accelerator and the car edged forward reluctantly. Replacing a dinted catalytic converter would be a nightmare inconvenience at the moment.
Jolting and squelching, she managed to inch the car up the slope. The lane might be rubbish, but the view was spectacular — gently rolling hills of lush green grass, squared off with thick flowering hedges and stands of trees. And off to the left, the shining blue of the sea.
When she was little, she had come down here every summer with her parents to stay with Aunt Molly for a couple of weeks. Well, Great-Aunt Molly to be more accurate — Dad’s aunt. After he died, they had gradually lost contact with her, except for birthday and Christmas cards — always with a five-pound note tucked inside.
After her mum had married again, holidays had become Spain or Greece — much more exciting than South Devon, and you could always rely on the sun.
But now she was remembering how much she had loved Bramble Cottage. And Sturcombe, the little seaside village just down the hill. And Aunt Molly, with her soft white curls and the sweet scent of roses that had always clung to her.
And now the cottage was hers . . .
She had reached the crown of the slope, still with her foot on the accelerator — and squeaked in alarm, the tyres slithering on the mud as she braked too sharply. The lane ahead was blocked by a herd of black-and-white cows, ambling slowly down the hill.
To make matters worse, the mud had been churned up by the cows’ hooves. She was helpless to stop the slide — and those swaying black-and-white rumps weren’t going to shift out of the way.
There was only one place to go. She swung the wheel and with a graunch — which sounded expensive — the car tipped into the ditch at the side of the lane.
A large black-and-white head turned towards her, the wide pink nose so close that the side window was misted with warm cow breath. A pair of liquid brown eyes gazed at her in mild curiosity, then the animal turned away and strolled after her sisters.
“In five hundred yards, you will have reached your destination.”
“Thank you for nothing.”
She reached out and jabbed the ‘off’ button on the satnav, and for good measure slid the thing out of its bracket and tucked it away in the glove compartment. Then she surveyed her situation.
Not good. The car was tipped at an angle of around thirty degrees, one front wheel in the ditch, both back wheels off the ground. She wasn’t going to be able to simply reverse out.
