Page 6 of A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage
The solicitor in London who had read her the will had given her the key. Pulling it from her bag, she climbed the three stone steps to the front door. The wrought-iron railing beside them was pitted with rust in places, and the terracotta and blue-glazed flowerpots on each step were spilling over with rather bedraggled geraniums in bright reds and pinks.
She hesitated for a moment before opening the door. It felt a little weird to be back here now, as a grown-up. To think that she owned the cottage now — that Aunt Molly wouldn’t be there in her kitchen, ready to greet the family with a beaming smile, a ‘nice cup of tea’ and a plate of warm scones with thick Devon cream.
The key clicked in the lock and turned easily. She pushed the door open and stepped into the kitchen.
It was much as she remembered — whitewashed walls, oak beams in the ceiling, a wood-burning stove in the inglenook fireplace. There was a faint smell of stale drains, but hopefully that was just because the place had stood empty for a while, not a warning of anything serious.
A stripped pine table stood in the middle of the room, with four wooden chairs around it. Half a dozen pots of dead herbslined the windowsill above the big white butler sink, and the blue paint on the cupboard doors was scuffed and faded — the hinges on a couple of them had come loose, leaving the doors hanging at a slightly drunken angle.
Pausing on the doorstep to ease off her muddy shoes, she set off to explore. Beyond the kitchen was a narrow passageway. To her right a flight of stairs twisted tightly up to the first floor. She opened the door to her left. Yes — Molly’s sewing room.
More memories flooded back. Molly’s old sewing machine stood on a wooden table against one wall. A wicker basket held all her paraphernalia — scissors, tape measure, pincushion, marking chalk. There was a cardboard box full of fabric remnants, and several biscuit tins — a treasure trove of buttons and cotton reels. Vicky used to play with them on rare rainy days, sitting on the floor and sorting them by colour or size.
Next she moved to the room at the end of the passageway — the sitting room. Longer than it was wide, with windows on each side, it was a cosy room, the walls papered in a gold-coloured Regency stripe, the floor covered in a green-and-gold carpet over dark oak floorboards.
A heavy walnut sideboard stood at the back of the room. A recliner armchair and a battered old sofa upholstered in a flowery chintz faced a huge stone inglenook fireplace at the near end. She could just visualise one of those big leather chesterfields, as big as a divan, with a pile of cushions and pillows, in that place.
She smiled at the memory of how Molly had always filled the fireplace with vases of flowers in the summer. Now the vases stood empty and rather sad, just a few withered petals scattered on the stones around them. It would be nice to bring in some roses from the garden later...
Stupid. Impatiently she shook her head. She was letting herself imagine what she would do if she stayed — but she wouldn’t be staying.
A pair of French windows opened onto the back garden. The key was in the lock, so she opened them and stepped outside. Like the front garden it was overgrown, but there was something charming in the way nature in her exuberance had taken over.
At the far end was what looked like a vegetable garden — a frame of bamboo canes for growing runner beans, rows of potatoes, cabbages and rhubarb showing lush greenery in spite of the tangle of weeds fighting them for space. In one corner stood an old apple tree smothered in delicate pale pink blossom.
Closer to the cottage, dog violets and cow parsley, and vivid red campion thrust their colourful heads up through the long grass. The air was filled with their fragrance and the happy twitter of birds, the hum of busy bumblebees, and the twinkling flash of butterfly wings.
She stood for a moment, just breathing it in. So different from London, with its acres of hard grey pavements, looming concrete office blocks, and rows and rows of narrow brick houses. If she had worn a corset, this must be what it would feel like to take it off...
Her phone buzzed, cutting through the moment. Reluctantly she pulled it from her bag.
“Hello.” Jeremy’s clear, well-modulated tones. “Are you there yet?”
“Yes — I got here about ten minutes ago.” She chose not to tell him about running the car into the ditch, nor her enigmatic neighbour.
“What sort of state is it in?”
“Not too bad. As we thought, the kitchen will need to be replaced and I expect several of the windows too. And the garden is a bit overgrown.” She would enjoy getting stuck in to tidying itup a bit — the apartment she shared with Jeremy was very smart and very convenient, but she had always regretted the lack of a garden.
“Okay. Send me photographs of any work that needs to be done and I’ll check that you’re not being overcharged. Don’t forget to get three quotations.”
She rolled her eyes. “I won’t.”
“By the way, has the valuation on the Eastman Road property been completed yet?”
“It’s in the file.”
“Ah — good. Well, I’ll see you in a few days then. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Jeremy . . . I love you.”
“Same here. Goodbye.”
She smiled wryly as she closed the call. ‘Same here’ was about as close as Jeremy could get to saying anything romantic. Well, that was okay — she was used to him.
She had been working for him for four years in the estate-agent office he managed — one of the chain owned by his mother. Dating him for two years, engaged for six months, due to marry him next summer. His mother was already looking at suitable venues. She had the contacts to get a good deal.
She tucked the phone back into her bag and climbed the stairs to the first floor. The stair carpet was a bit threadbare — that would need to be replaced. Jeremy would no doubt tell her that she ought to be recording her notes. If she was valuing the place for sale she would, but she didn’t want to start thinking like that. Not yet.
