The woman had given him the names of three village and he had chosen Foxfield because he liked the name.
Simon always checked in at libraries when he was on the road. The librarians were always helpful and knew about much more than the Dewey decimal system. It made sense – all those people coming and going. A library was a sanctuary for many and had replaced the church in the community. Anyone could enter a library and have access to the internet, books, company, a place to learn, a place to chat and explore other worlds. Foxfield was only ten miles from Newcastle and it was close to the sea but not on the shore. It was the perfect distance between everything, he decided as he rode his motorbike towards the village.
The roads became narrower and there were hedges on either side before he entered the village. He rode his bike over the river that ran towards the sea and passed houses with lovely gardens protected by stone fences. There were hedges and a mix of Tudor and stone houses set back from the streets. As he went deeper into the village, the houses came closer to the footpaths, as though eavesdropping on those who passed. There were flower boxes outside windows with small flowers in them as though recently planted.
He passed the pub with the satisfying name of the Sinking Ship Inn, which he thought was apt for how he was feeling, but he rode onwards. Though he would have loved a beer, he was afraid if he started to drink during the day, that was another slippery slope he would have to climb up again, and he didn’t have the energy to cope with another issue right now.
The village was smaller than he had thought but it had everything he needed, including a well-stocked store for necessities. He could get the bus into the bigger town for the larger shops if he needed them. There was a post office and some tearooms that Anika would have adored, judging from the very frilly interiors as he passed the lace curtains in the window.
He paused as a woman came out to a table and set down a large basket of scones, which he had to admit were of an excellent height. A flash of memory came back to him of making scones as a child with his grandmother. She would handle the dough firmly but gently, like a midwife handling a newborn baby. Confident and with knowledge.
His job was to lay them carefully out on the tray, sprinkling some flour on top before they went into the hot oven.
Life was so simple then.
He went through the village and then down a hill, realising he had been heading towards the sea. There was an expanse of green grass on one side of the road and the sea on the other and, as he came around the curve of the road, he nearly lost control of the motorbike.
Because there was the most beautiful house he had ever seen. A Georgian manor with a wild, tumbled garden and a round gate with some sort of plant growing around it. There was a fence but it was only waist height, probably to avoid hindering the view of the sea from the house.
He pulled off the road, got off his bike and lifted the visor of his helmet to get a better look at the beauty before him.
He could see cars slowing down slightly as they passed the house and he didn’t blame them. It was a doll’s house, something out of a fairy tale, a vision in a somewhat bleak landscape facing the dull sea.
‘You seem quite taken with her,’ said a voice and he turned to see an older woman with a walking stick and a dog on a lead. She couldn’t be more than eighty, he thought, but she seemed frail. She was well turned out, as his mother would say, with a tweed blazer and matching skirt. There was a silver brooch of a small thistle on her blazer lapel and what he noticed was an Hermès scarf. He knew that logo after watching Anika spend so much of his money there while they were together.
‘It’s a beautiful house. Do you live there?’ he asked politely, taking off his helmet.
‘I used to, but it’s too big for me now. I’ve moved to the gatehouse, which is just as nice but more suitable for the old knees,’ she said.
Simon smiled at her. ‘So it’s empty?’ he asked.
‘Not for long, we have someone moving in soon. Don’t we, Trotsky,’ she said to the terrier whose overbite gave him a distinctly Winston Churchill energy.
‘Lucky them,’ said Simon. ‘But the garden is a lot of work.’
‘Yes, it is. Do you know anyone who might like to help?’ she asked. ‘I only ask because there aren’t many young people in Foxfield who want to do this sort of work. Perhaps you have some friends who might like to do some labouring in the garden?’
Simon had known Foxfield was a good idea the minute the librarian had mentioned it to him in Newcastle. This proved it.
‘I do, actually – I mean, I don’t know anyone around here, but I’m looking for work,’ he said.
‘How long will you be in Foxfield for?’ asked the woman, as the pug dog huffed beside her legs.
Simon shrugged. ‘At least a month or two.’
The woman made a face and tipped her head to one side. ‘I would need someone longer – it’s an enormous amount of work.’
Simon looked at the house and the garden in front of them, pondering if he could stay longer than he usually did in one place.
‘There is a small cottage at the back of the property,’ said the woman. ‘It’s the gardener’s cottage; hasn’t been used in years but it’s dry, and we can take a few things from the house to make you comfortable. It has all the amenities and power, if you want to use it while you’re here.’
Simon was silent, thinking about his options.
‘The payment is two thousand a month for three months with your own private accommodation.’
The appeal of staying put for a while and having some money overcame any other reservations he had and he threw his head back and groaned. ‘You are making it impossible to say no,’ he said to her and he offered his hand in agreement.
‘Simon Herald, your new gardener for the summer, at your service.’
