What Would Jane Austen Do?, page 5
Buster turned and licked her face. ‘And now you’re just trying to curry favour,’ said Maddy wagging her finger in mock admonishment.
She leaned in to his warm body and they sat together as they waited. All she could hear was the occasional distant sound of a car, the tweeting of some unidentified bird and the panting of her companion. It would be nice to have a dog for company. She had enough space here and it would be fun, but then what would she do with it when the year was up? A dog wasn’t just for a year and wasn’t really suited to life in a flatshare.
‘You wouldn’t like living in a flat, would you, Buster?’ She untwined her fingers from his collar and let them trail along his coat. ‘You are a very handsome boy, aren’t you? Although when my mother mentioned the possibility of meeting a handsome stranger, I don’t think she meant the canine variety.’ To pass the time, Maddy pulled her phone from her jacket pocket and took a selfie with Buster with a backdrop of open sky and green fields. It made it look like they were in the middle of nowhere, and Maddy had a sudden pang of longing for suburban streets, coffee vendors and bustling, brightly lit shops. She sent the picture to Alice with the caption, Playdate with a handsome stranger, and added a few smiley emojis.
Buster picked up the stick and dropped it on her lap. ‘Okay then,’ Maddy said, getting to her feet. ‘Just one more go.’ She lobbed the stick in the air watching Buster tear after it. It must be wonderful to feel so easily pleased by the simple act of having someone throw a stick for you. Instead of returning though, Buster let out a single bark and raced off in the opposite direction.
‘Buster! Come back here!’ Maddy yelled, but her erstwhile charge was now running full pelt towards a dark-haired man in a navy weatherproof jacket. Was this the person she’d spoken to on the phone? Surely not, because from this distance he looked for all the world like…
‘Excuse me, do you mind not throwing sticks for my dog?’ he shouted.
Maddy found herself staring at the familiar figure striding towards her. What the hell was he doing here? And how come even in casual gear he managed to look like a model from a clothing catalogue, whereas she had windswept hair and a grass-stained bottom?
Buster didn’t seem worried about any sartorial considerations and having abandoned his stick, was happily jumping up and wiping muddy paws all over his trousers.
As the man, now very obviously identifiable as Cameron Massey, closed the last few metres between them, his startled expression said he clearly recognised her too.
‘You?’ he said, coming to an abrupt halt.
Not quite the greeting she’d been expecting. Maddy politely held out her hand. ‘What a surprise. Are you—’
‘Don’t you know sticks can cause serious injuries to a dog’s mouth or throat?’
Maddy withdrew her unshaken hand. ‘Erm no, I didn’t. Sorry.’
Hang on, why on earth was she doing that automatic apologising thing? And hadn’t he skipped over the grateful thank-you-for-finding-my-dog bit? Just looking at that irritated expression was like pressing an instant rewind button and she was straight back in that recording studio again.
‘Because if I had,’ she continued, her voice louder now and ripe with indignation, ‘I would obviously not have thrown the stick for him, would I? I may be lacking in veterinary facts but I’m not stupid. And in any case Buster found it lying on the ground in the first place.’
‘So it’s the dog’s fault, is it?’
‘It’s nobody’s fault,’ replied Maddy tartly.
Cameron squatted down and with his fingers, carefully checked over the inside of Buster’s mouth. He clearly didn’t find any fragments or splinters, and he gave the dog a fuss before tugging a lead from the pocket of his jacket and clipping it onto Buster’s collar.
‘Right. Well, I’ll get Buster back home before he picks up anything else he’s not supposed to.’
Maddy watched him turn and walk back in the direction from which he’d come. She raised her chin slightly and smiled politely as she called out, ‘Thank you. You’re welcome, it was no trouble at all.’
At least the dog was no longer lost or her responsibility. Ms Austen had been right about the bracing country walk though, and Maddy headed back to the house with a purposeful stride.
What she needed was a plan to make the house habitable and then she could look at getting herself some work. She didn’t need to be in London—these days huge numbers of journalists worked remotely. Why should she cave in and crawl back to London?
‘You have a pair of hands and a brain, Madeleine Shaw, so get busy and use them!’ she said out loud.
As soon as she’d made herself a warming cup of coffee, she sat down at the kitchen table and started making a list. Apart from her bedroom, the other upstairs rooms were not a priority. However, if she was going to live here for any length of time the ground floor needed to be tidy and habitable. Her mother had already given the kitchen a good scrub but it was clear from the other rooms that there would be plenty to keep her occupied.
She started with the sitting room at the front of the house. The centrepiece of the room was a dark oak fireplace, although clearly the fire hadn’t been lit recently and the grate was full of ash. Yellow floral curtains hung either side of the large bay window, and the room was filled with an eclectic mix of furniture styles. The sofas, upholstered in a dark orange, reminded Maddy of the poster in the church: No drab colours. There was definitely a seventies feel to this room, she decided, as she flicked the duster round.
Keeping active didn’t stop her thoughts from trailing back to her earlier encounter. How strange to run into Cameron Massey of all people; he was still clearly demonstrating how he’d earned his reputation for being argumentative. If anything, he’d rubbed even more people up the wrong way since that interview, as after rubbishing Jane Austen and the entire romance genre on air, he’d incurred the wrath of several romance writers who had taken to social media to express their feelings. He must spend as long having pointless arguments on social media as he did writing his books.
Slightly more worryingly, he’d also mentioned getting Buster home so clearly he lived round here. She hoped for both their sakes that they could manage to avoid bumping into each other too often over the next twelve months.
Chapter Six
Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken.
Narrator, Emma
* * *
‘Hello! The front door was unlocked, but I’m not a burglar!’ The shout reverberated through the hall, and if it was possible to tell from just eleven words, the voice sounded friendly.
Maddy welcomed the break from housework and dropping her duster, she hurried in the direction of the sound. Day three of Operation Meadowside Needs Urgent Cleaning had moved on to the dining room, which could have come straight from the pages of a Victorian novel. While the sitting room had contained books, magazines and other personal items, this room was more formal with its chunky mahogany furniture, heavy curtains, and large court cupboard covered in ornate carvings. It was also not much used if the layers of dust were anything to go by.
A young woman—Maddy guessed in her twenties—stood in the middle of the hall in a pink, stripey, long-sleeved T-shirt and denim dungarees, with a broad, welcoming smile, and looking like an over-enthusiastic children’s TV presenter. Her white-blond hair sported pink highlights and was held back off her face by a fuchsia-pink hairband.
‘Wow, looks like you’re already settling in,’ she said, looking around at the unopened boxes still littering the entrance hall that suggested the complete opposite. ‘My name’s Sally by the way.’ She giggled. ‘That sounds like I’ve got a weird surname. It’s Sally Cartwright. I live in the village and thought I’d pop along and say hello, welcome’—she grinned and gave Maddy a quick wave in case she was in any doubt about who the welcome was for—‘and I’ve brought along a few supplies.’ She held out a large basket with a proper wicker handle that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Fortnum & Mason’s promotion, containing a bottle of wine and other items. ‘I hope it’s all still in one piece—I had to clip the basket to the back of my bicycle.’
‘It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Maddy, but then you probably already know that. Do you want to stay for a coffee? You’ll be rescuing me from more cleaning so I hope the answer’s yes.’
She led the way to the kitchen where she unpacked the contents of the basket at the wooden table. Along with the bottle of wine there was a box of eggs, a small seeded loaf of bread, a coffee cake, a packet of chocolate biscuits, a box of Maltesers, and a few items of fruit. Just looking over the gifts gave Maddy a warm fuzzy feeling inside.
‘This is so kind of you, I don’t know what to say.’
‘Well, it’s a good excuse to pop over and visit your new neighbour, isn’t it? Oh, and I nearly forgot.’ Sally reached into the canvas bag hanging over her shoulder and produced a slightly bent A5 booklet. ‘Your very own copy of Cotlington Chat. It’s a sort of cross between a newsletter, an information board and a chat forum. Anybody can send anything in for publication and it keeps you informed of what goes on in the village.’
Maddy put aside the pamphlet for later reading. She has assumed—clearly erroneously—that very little went on in this sleepy village, and certainly nothing that required a several-page brochure.
Sally sat herself at the table while Maddy made them both coffees. ‘Sorry, it’s instant,’ Maddy apologised. ‘We used to have one of the Nespresso machines in the flat but it belonged to my friend so I had to leave it behind.’
‘I’m happy with anything,’ replied Sally cheerfully. ‘Shall I open the biscuits?’ Without waiting for a response, she opened the packet lying on the table and offered one to Maddy. It reminded Maddy of those sitcoms where hospital visitors brought grapes and then ate them themselves.
‘So tell me all about Nigel’s family! I bet you were thrilled to hear you’d be living here! Nigel must have been very fond of you,’ she added in only a slightly less enthusiastic voice.
On the basis that the answer to statement two was ‘not really’, and to statement three was ‘don’t have a clue’, Maddy started with the easy answer. ‘Well, the rest of the Shaw family is pretty ordinary really. My dad is—was—Nigel’s cousin. Mum and Dad live in Kent, but there are aunts and uncles dotted around the south and east of England.’
‘They must be so proud of what Nigel achieved.’
‘Well…’
‘I guess they’ll all be rushing over to visit now.’
That, Maddy definitely agreed on, although not for the same reasons. A change of focus was required. ‘So, as you cycled over I’m guessing you’re a local; do you live in Springfield Lane?’
‘No, but if you follow the road back towards the village, you get to a row of cottages off on the left, painted in pretty colours. I live there.’
‘And let me guess, yours is the pink one?’
Sally pulled up a lock of hair and laughed. ‘Good guess.’
‘I think they’re charming. They’ve got real character.’
‘Oh yes,’ replied Sally, her eyes sparkling. ‘I love my little cottage but sadly I only rent it. My jobs are a bit intermittent so Mum and Dad help out sometimes with the rent which I feel a bit guilty about, but it’s better than trying to find a room to let. People round here seem to like their privacy too much to have paying lodgers.’
‘Well, you can always stay here if you change your mind,’ said Maddy. ‘I seem to have enough space for any number of lodgers and it’d be fun to have company. I used to flatshare with my best friend when I lived in London.’ She didn’t add that the money would come in handy too.
Sally wrinkled her nose. ‘London is too noisy for me. But I’ll put the word out and if anyone’s looking to rent somewhere I’ll send them in your direction.’ She looked around her. ‘This is a gorgeous house. One day I’d like to have a place of my own although it won’t be as grand as this one. Mind you, I don’t know what I’d do with all these rooms.’
‘Me neither. Goodness knows what cousin Nigel did rattling around here all by himself year after year.’
‘Oh, he was always busy. Either organising the literary festival or planning the next one.’
Nigel Shaw organised a literary festival? That would certainly be a surprise to the family! Maddy couldn’t wait to update her dad on this snippet of news, and made a mental note to Google the event.
‘It’s held every year at the end of the summer,’ Sally continued. ‘The date for this year’s is 3rd September—I hope that’s okay for you? The date was fixed before…’ She pursed her lips, clearly trying to find a diplomatic way of stating the obvious.
‘Before he died?’
‘Exactly. So we wanted to make sure the date didn’t clash with any plans you had.’
Maddy shook her head wondering why her attendance was important. Maybe they just wanted her to feel welcome and part of the village. ‘No plans at all, other than to try and fix a leaky roof and keep the house standing for the next 362 days.’
‘What’s the number of days got to do with anything?’
‘Oh, it’s … erm…’ Maddy inwardly cursed her own carelessness, ‘just a figure of speech, you know?’
‘Right,’ Sally continued after a slightly awkward pause. ‘I’ll tell Myra you’re okay with the date for the festival; she’ll be so thrilled. Well, we all will actually. We didn’t know whether that was your sort of thing.’
‘It sounds fun. It will be something to look forward to.’
‘Oh it is. The next committee meeting is on 6th April so I’ll tell Myra to send round a copy of the last minutes. Leonard always does them very promptly and he’s ever so good—probably because he used to be a teacher. Then you’ll be up to speed at the next meeting.’
Maddy struggled to keep up with Sally’s logic. ‘Next meeting? Sorry, I’m not with you here. Why do I need to know about the meeting?’
The look of excitement on Sally’s face vanished and her facial barometer eventually settled on something between confused and apologetic. ‘Oh. They didn’t tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’
‘You’re the new chair of the Cotlington Literary Festival Committee.’
How on earth had she been landed with organising a literary festival in less than six months? Was there an opt-out clause? Perhaps she could just say no? Sally clearly thought it was the highlight of the social calendar. Maddy needed to find out more about this thing before agreeing to anything, and it was as she washed up the coffee cups that she remembered about the pamphlet Sally had brought round, which might contain some helpful information.
At first glance, the March edition of Cotlington Chat appeared to have a gravestone on the cover, although according to the note on the inside, the cover was a pen and ink drawing of the original village mile-marker situated at the bottom of Springfield Lane, and had been drawn by a local artist.
The first couple of pages were dedicated to a write-up of cousin Nigel’s funeral. Yet again, Maddy was stunned that he had made such an impression on the village, and it flew in the face of everything she had heard from her own family. Her eyes scanned the glowing comments:
A great loss to the village…
A hugely popular man who shared his wealth with his neighbours
…a wonderful service with representatives from his family in attendance…
That made her and her dad sound like some sort of London ambassadors on a UN peacekeeping mission.
Underneath the main article were various individual quotes from the local population:
Thanks for the new roof, Nigel!
1st Cotlington Scouts
I’ve been saying that stretch of road was dangerous for years. Gone but never forgotten,
Maud Hartnell,
Secretary, Haxford & District Road Safety Committee
There was also a limerick written by Leonard, who appeared to be secretary of the Literary Festival:
There once was a man named Shaw
Who reached aged seventy-four
He had one last hurrah
Then (accidentally) crashed his car
Now’s he’s off to the great evermore
Good grief, was this really what passed for literary entertainment out here? Maddy was not at all sure she wanted to be saddled with this job. It was certainly a long way from the glossy UpClose magazine that she used to write for, which had a circulation of around 140,000.
After she was back in London, she might write a humorous look back on her year in the country, although the jury was out on whether the Cotlington Literary Festival would feature on her CV.
On page four there was a full-page article about this year’s literary festival:
The Cotlington Literary Festival 2022
As longstanding residents will know, this is our annual celebration of all things literary in the village, and 3rd September is the planned date of this year’s fabulous festival. Following the tragic death of festival founder, Nigel Shaw, the committee are in talks with the new owner of Meadowside, but hope that the festival will take place as usual in its glorious grounds.
What? Maddy almost leapt out of her seat. So not only was she expected to chair the committee but she was also the hostess! On the housekeeping budget she had, the catering alone would be a nightmare. And who organised the speakers? This had all the hallmarks of a disaster. And why hadn’t Mr Chapman informed her of this obligation? The article continued in its fulsome praise:
Nigel loved the annual festival and you can be assured that your committee will do everything possible to ensure that his legacy continues here in Cotlington, and are working hard on your behalf.
She had mistakenly assumed that Sally’s visit was a neighbourly welcome but now she wondered whether she had been the bearer of a Trojan basket. Maddy scanned down the page to see who had written this glowing paeon. Myra Hardcastle—of course it was. Well, if she was so keen to keep the festival running maybe she’d prefer to run it herself.
She leaned in to his warm body and they sat together as they waited. All she could hear was the occasional distant sound of a car, the tweeting of some unidentified bird and the panting of her companion. It would be nice to have a dog for company. She had enough space here and it would be fun, but then what would she do with it when the year was up? A dog wasn’t just for a year and wasn’t really suited to life in a flatshare.
‘You wouldn’t like living in a flat, would you, Buster?’ She untwined her fingers from his collar and let them trail along his coat. ‘You are a very handsome boy, aren’t you? Although when my mother mentioned the possibility of meeting a handsome stranger, I don’t think she meant the canine variety.’ To pass the time, Maddy pulled her phone from her jacket pocket and took a selfie with Buster with a backdrop of open sky and green fields. It made it look like they were in the middle of nowhere, and Maddy had a sudden pang of longing for suburban streets, coffee vendors and bustling, brightly lit shops. She sent the picture to Alice with the caption, Playdate with a handsome stranger, and added a few smiley emojis.
Buster picked up the stick and dropped it on her lap. ‘Okay then,’ Maddy said, getting to her feet. ‘Just one more go.’ She lobbed the stick in the air watching Buster tear after it. It must be wonderful to feel so easily pleased by the simple act of having someone throw a stick for you. Instead of returning though, Buster let out a single bark and raced off in the opposite direction.
‘Buster! Come back here!’ Maddy yelled, but her erstwhile charge was now running full pelt towards a dark-haired man in a navy weatherproof jacket. Was this the person she’d spoken to on the phone? Surely not, because from this distance he looked for all the world like…
‘Excuse me, do you mind not throwing sticks for my dog?’ he shouted.
Maddy found herself staring at the familiar figure striding towards her. What the hell was he doing here? And how come even in casual gear he managed to look like a model from a clothing catalogue, whereas she had windswept hair and a grass-stained bottom?
Buster didn’t seem worried about any sartorial considerations and having abandoned his stick, was happily jumping up and wiping muddy paws all over his trousers.
As the man, now very obviously identifiable as Cameron Massey, closed the last few metres between them, his startled expression said he clearly recognised her too.
‘You?’ he said, coming to an abrupt halt.
Not quite the greeting she’d been expecting. Maddy politely held out her hand. ‘What a surprise. Are you—’
‘Don’t you know sticks can cause serious injuries to a dog’s mouth or throat?’
Maddy withdrew her unshaken hand. ‘Erm no, I didn’t. Sorry.’
Hang on, why on earth was she doing that automatic apologising thing? And hadn’t he skipped over the grateful thank-you-for-finding-my-dog bit? Just looking at that irritated expression was like pressing an instant rewind button and she was straight back in that recording studio again.
‘Because if I had,’ she continued, her voice louder now and ripe with indignation, ‘I would obviously not have thrown the stick for him, would I? I may be lacking in veterinary facts but I’m not stupid. And in any case Buster found it lying on the ground in the first place.’
‘So it’s the dog’s fault, is it?’
‘It’s nobody’s fault,’ replied Maddy tartly.
Cameron squatted down and with his fingers, carefully checked over the inside of Buster’s mouth. He clearly didn’t find any fragments or splinters, and he gave the dog a fuss before tugging a lead from the pocket of his jacket and clipping it onto Buster’s collar.
‘Right. Well, I’ll get Buster back home before he picks up anything else he’s not supposed to.’
Maddy watched him turn and walk back in the direction from which he’d come. She raised her chin slightly and smiled politely as she called out, ‘Thank you. You’re welcome, it was no trouble at all.’
At least the dog was no longer lost or her responsibility. Ms Austen had been right about the bracing country walk though, and Maddy headed back to the house with a purposeful stride.
What she needed was a plan to make the house habitable and then she could look at getting herself some work. She didn’t need to be in London—these days huge numbers of journalists worked remotely. Why should she cave in and crawl back to London?
‘You have a pair of hands and a brain, Madeleine Shaw, so get busy and use them!’ she said out loud.
As soon as she’d made herself a warming cup of coffee, she sat down at the kitchen table and started making a list. Apart from her bedroom, the other upstairs rooms were not a priority. However, if she was going to live here for any length of time the ground floor needed to be tidy and habitable. Her mother had already given the kitchen a good scrub but it was clear from the other rooms that there would be plenty to keep her occupied.
She started with the sitting room at the front of the house. The centrepiece of the room was a dark oak fireplace, although clearly the fire hadn’t been lit recently and the grate was full of ash. Yellow floral curtains hung either side of the large bay window, and the room was filled with an eclectic mix of furniture styles. The sofas, upholstered in a dark orange, reminded Maddy of the poster in the church: No drab colours. There was definitely a seventies feel to this room, she decided, as she flicked the duster round.
Keeping active didn’t stop her thoughts from trailing back to her earlier encounter. How strange to run into Cameron Massey of all people; he was still clearly demonstrating how he’d earned his reputation for being argumentative. If anything, he’d rubbed even more people up the wrong way since that interview, as after rubbishing Jane Austen and the entire romance genre on air, he’d incurred the wrath of several romance writers who had taken to social media to express their feelings. He must spend as long having pointless arguments on social media as he did writing his books.
Slightly more worryingly, he’d also mentioned getting Buster home so clearly he lived round here. She hoped for both their sakes that they could manage to avoid bumping into each other too often over the next twelve months.
Chapter Six
Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken.
Narrator, Emma
* * *
‘Hello! The front door was unlocked, but I’m not a burglar!’ The shout reverberated through the hall, and if it was possible to tell from just eleven words, the voice sounded friendly.
Maddy welcomed the break from housework and dropping her duster, she hurried in the direction of the sound. Day three of Operation Meadowside Needs Urgent Cleaning had moved on to the dining room, which could have come straight from the pages of a Victorian novel. While the sitting room had contained books, magazines and other personal items, this room was more formal with its chunky mahogany furniture, heavy curtains, and large court cupboard covered in ornate carvings. It was also not much used if the layers of dust were anything to go by.
A young woman—Maddy guessed in her twenties—stood in the middle of the hall in a pink, stripey, long-sleeved T-shirt and denim dungarees, with a broad, welcoming smile, and looking like an over-enthusiastic children’s TV presenter. Her white-blond hair sported pink highlights and was held back off her face by a fuchsia-pink hairband.
‘Wow, looks like you’re already settling in,’ she said, looking around at the unopened boxes still littering the entrance hall that suggested the complete opposite. ‘My name’s Sally by the way.’ She giggled. ‘That sounds like I’ve got a weird surname. It’s Sally Cartwright. I live in the village and thought I’d pop along and say hello, welcome’—she grinned and gave Maddy a quick wave in case she was in any doubt about who the welcome was for—‘and I’ve brought along a few supplies.’ She held out a large basket with a proper wicker handle that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Fortnum & Mason’s promotion, containing a bottle of wine and other items. ‘I hope it’s all still in one piece—I had to clip the basket to the back of my bicycle.’
‘It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Maddy, but then you probably already know that. Do you want to stay for a coffee? You’ll be rescuing me from more cleaning so I hope the answer’s yes.’
She led the way to the kitchen where she unpacked the contents of the basket at the wooden table. Along with the bottle of wine there was a box of eggs, a small seeded loaf of bread, a coffee cake, a packet of chocolate biscuits, a box of Maltesers, and a few items of fruit. Just looking over the gifts gave Maddy a warm fuzzy feeling inside.
‘This is so kind of you, I don’t know what to say.’
‘Well, it’s a good excuse to pop over and visit your new neighbour, isn’t it? Oh, and I nearly forgot.’ Sally reached into the canvas bag hanging over her shoulder and produced a slightly bent A5 booklet. ‘Your very own copy of Cotlington Chat. It’s a sort of cross between a newsletter, an information board and a chat forum. Anybody can send anything in for publication and it keeps you informed of what goes on in the village.’
Maddy put aside the pamphlet for later reading. She has assumed—clearly erroneously—that very little went on in this sleepy village, and certainly nothing that required a several-page brochure.
Sally sat herself at the table while Maddy made them both coffees. ‘Sorry, it’s instant,’ Maddy apologised. ‘We used to have one of the Nespresso machines in the flat but it belonged to my friend so I had to leave it behind.’
‘I’m happy with anything,’ replied Sally cheerfully. ‘Shall I open the biscuits?’ Without waiting for a response, she opened the packet lying on the table and offered one to Maddy. It reminded Maddy of those sitcoms where hospital visitors brought grapes and then ate them themselves.
‘So tell me all about Nigel’s family! I bet you were thrilled to hear you’d be living here! Nigel must have been very fond of you,’ she added in only a slightly less enthusiastic voice.
On the basis that the answer to statement two was ‘not really’, and to statement three was ‘don’t have a clue’, Maddy started with the easy answer. ‘Well, the rest of the Shaw family is pretty ordinary really. My dad is—was—Nigel’s cousin. Mum and Dad live in Kent, but there are aunts and uncles dotted around the south and east of England.’
‘They must be so proud of what Nigel achieved.’
‘Well…’
‘I guess they’ll all be rushing over to visit now.’
That, Maddy definitely agreed on, although not for the same reasons. A change of focus was required. ‘So, as you cycled over I’m guessing you’re a local; do you live in Springfield Lane?’
‘No, but if you follow the road back towards the village, you get to a row of cottages off on the left, painted in pretty colours. I live there.’
‘And let me guess, yours is the pink one?’
Sally pulled up a lock of hair and laughed. ‘Good guess.’
‘I think they’re charming. They’ve got real character.’
‘Oh yes,’ replied Sally, her eyes sparkling. ‘I love my little cottage but sadly I only rent it. My jobs are a bit intermittent so Mum and Dad help out sometimes with the rent which I feel a bit guilty about, but it’s better than trying to find a room to let. People round here seem to like their privacy too much to have paying lodgers.’
‘Well, you can always stay here if you change your mind,’ said Maddy. ‘I seem to have enough space for any number of lodgers and it’d be fun to have company. I used to flatshare with my best friend when I lived in London.’ She didn’t add that the money would come in handy too.
Sally wrinkled her nose. ‘London is too noisy for me. But I’ll put the word out and if anyone’s looking to rent somewhere I’ll send them in your direction.’ She looked around her. ‘This is a gorgeous house. One day I’d like to have a place of my own although it won’t be as grand as this one. Mind you, I don’t know what I’d do with all these rooms.’
‘Me neither. Goodness knows what cousin Nigel did rattling around here all by himself year after year.’
‘Oh, he was always busy. Either organising the literary festival or planning the next one.’
Nigel Shaw organised a literary festival? That would certainly be a surprise to the family! Maddy couldn’t wait to update her dad on this snippet of news, and made a mental note to Google the event.
‘It’s held every year at the end of the summer,’ Sally continued. ‘The date for this year’s is 3rd September—I hope that’s okay for you? The date was fixed before…’ She pursed her lips, clearly trying to find a diplomatic way of stating the obvious.
‘Before he died?’
‘Exactly. So we wanted to make sure the date didn’t clash with any plans you had.’
Maddy shook her head wondering why her attendance was important. Maybe they just wanted her to feel welcome and part of the village. ‘No plans at all, other than to try and fix a leaky roof and keep the house standing for the next 362 days.’
‘What’s the number of days got to do with anything?’
‘Oh, it’s … erm…’ Maddy inwardly cursed her own carelessness, ‘just a figure of speech, you know?’
‘Right,’ Sally continued after a slightly awkward pause. ‘I’ll tell Myra you’re okay with the date for the festival; she’ll be so thrilled. Well, we all will actually. We didn’t know whether that was your sort of thing.’
‘It sounds fun. It will be something to look forward to.’
‘Oh it is. The next committee meeting is on 6th April so I’ll tell Myra to send round a copy of the last minutes. Leonard always does them very promptly and he’s ever so good—probably because he used to be a teacher. Then you’ll be up to speed at the next meeting.’
Maddy struggled to keep up with Sally’s logic. ‘Next meeting? Sorry, I’m not with you here. Why do I need to know about the meeting?’
The look of excitement on Sally’s face vanished and her facial barometer eventually settled on something between confused and apologetic. ‘Oh. They didn’t tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’
‘You’re the new chair of the Cotlington Literary Festival Committee.’
How on earth had she been landed with organising a literary festival in less than six months? Was there an opt-out clause? Perhaps she could just say no? Sally clearly thought it was the highlight of the social calendar. Maddy needed to find out more about this thing before agreeing to anything, and it was as she washed up the coffee cups that she remembered about the pamphlet Sally had brought round, which might contain some helpful information.
At first glance, the March edition of Cotlington Chat appeared to have a gravestone on the cover, although according to the note on the inside, the cover was a pen and ink drawing of the original village mile-marker situated at the bottom of Springfield Lane, and had been drawn by a local artist.
The first couple of pages were dedicated to a write-up of cousin Nigel’s funeral. Yet again, Maddy was stunned that he had made such an impression on the village, and it flew in the face of everything she had heard from her own family. Her eyes scanned the glowing comments:
A great loss to the village…
A hugely popular man who shared his wealth with his neighbours
…a wonderful service with representatives from his family in attendance…
That made her and her dad sound like some sort of London ambassadors on a UN peacekeeping mission.
Underneath the main article were various individual quotes from the local population:
Thanks for the new roof, Nigel!
1st Cotlington Scouts
I’ve been saying that stretch of road was dangerous for years. Gone but never forgotten,
Maud Hartnell,
Secretary, Haxford & District Road Safety Committee
There was also a limerick written by Leonard, who appeared to be secretary of the Literary Festival:
There once was a man named Shaw
Who reached aged seventy-four
He had one last hurrah
Then (accidentally) crashed his car
Now’s he’s off to the great evermore
Good grief, was this really what passed for literary entertainment out here? Maddy was not at all sure she wanted to be saddled with this job. It was certainly a long way from the glossy UpClose magazine that she used to write for, which had a circulation of around 140,000.
After she was back in London, she might write a humorous look back on her year in the country, although the jury was out on whether the Cotlington Literary Festival would feature on her CV.
On page four there was a full-page article about this year’s literary festival:
The Cotlington Literary Festival 2022
As longstanding residents will know, this is our annual celebration of all things literary in the village, and 3rd September is the planned date of this year’s fabulous festival. Following the tragic death of festival founder, Nigel Shaw, the committee are in talks with the new owner of Meadowside, but hope that the festival will take place as usual in its glorious grounds.
What? Maddy almost leapt out of her seat. So not only was she expected to chair the committee but she was also the hostess! On the housekeeping budget she had, the catering alone would be a nightmare. And who organised the speakers? This had all the hallmarks of a disaster. And why hadn’t Mr Chapman informed her of this obligation? The article continued in its fulsome praise:
Nigel loved the annual festival and you can be assured that your committee will do everything possible to ensure that his legacy continues here in Cotlington, and are working hard on your behalf.
She had mistakenly assumed that Sally’s visit was a neighbourly welcome but now she wondered whether she had been the bearer of a Trojan basket. Maddy scanned down the page to see who had written this glowing paeon. Myra Hardcastle—of course it was. Well, if she was so keen to keep the festival running maybe she’d prefer to run it herself.
