LITMIR.BIZ

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She’d make the best of it, as she always had, and maybe living in Tindledale would help them relax, Sebastian especially. That would be bound to have an enormously positive impact on them all.

      Jessie closed her eyes and tilted her face up towards the rejuvenating rays of the early summer sun, letting the warm breeze cool her flushed cheeks as she wrapped her arms around herself and then ran a hand over her perfectly taut abdomen. She allowed herself a moment of contemplation, before her mind drifted back to more trivial thoughts – would she manage to find a yoga class to replace the one she loved in London? Tindledale village hall, perhaps! The estate agent had mentioned the thriving community and all that it had to offer: Brownies, Scouts, an amateur dramatics group; even a knitting club in the local haberdashery shop – and she had been meaning to learn to knit for ages now. And something about a summer show being a big part of village life – Jessie made a mental note to find out exactly what this entailed, as it certainly sounded more exciting than the flower-arranging sessions with the Women’s Institute that Sebastian had said would suit her. And then something else occurred to Jessie, something that made her heart sing, something that she hadn’t thought about for such a long time. Bees!

      Jessie had loved keeping bees as a child. And chickens. Her dad had taught her how. And, for a while, she had even written about country life for a variety of farming magazines, before her own life had somehow turned into looking after the children and the home instead, so Sebastian could concentrate on his career. Well, maybe this was a chance to change things around and rekindle her passion for bees and chickens … goats and gardening too! The possibilities were endless. So Jessie made her decision. She would do what Sebastian wanted – what she wanted too, she was sure of it now – and move here, to the village of Tindledale.

      So with her mind made up, and a sudden urgency to hike back to the car and drive straight to the estate agent’s office to sign all the paperwork for the new house, Jessie took a deep breath and allowed herself one last thought of ‘what if?’ before shaking her head and exhaling hard, knowing there really was no other solution. This was how it had to be. And besides, a fresh start away from London and the distraction there was probably for the best …

      

      As if on autopilot, I flick on the kettle and select two mugs – one with Best Mum Ever on for me, the other with a swirly letter J for Jack. I spoon coffee granules into each of them and then I remember. Jack isn’t here any more! I let out a long breath, before twirling my wavy fair hair up into a messy bun, securing it with a red bobble band from a wonky clay dish Jack made for me in nursery all those years ago – it’s been proudly displayed on the windowsill ever since – before storing his cup back in the kitchen cabinet. Jack has only been gone a week, but I have to say that it’s felt like the longest seven days of my life. Although not quite as bad as when he first went away, back in September – that was really difficult. For a while, it was as if a chunk of my heart was actually missing, which might sound completely melodramatic, but it’s true; it was like a physical pain, a knot of emptiness wedged just below my breastbone that I just couldn’t seem to shift. You see, Jack and I kind of grew up together – I wasn’t much older than Jack is now, when he was born. I know it’s only university and he’ll be back again in a few months for the summer holidays, but still … I guess it’s taking me some time to adjust to my now empty nest.

      But I am so proud of him, I really am, and that should make this transitional phase of my life a whole lot easier to cope with. It’s just that I’m so used to keeping it all together for Jack and me – now it’s only for me, it feels very strange indeed. I inhale sharply and drop a sugar lump into my cup, before giving it a good stir, taking care not to clatter the spoon excessively against the side of the mug – Jack hates the sound of it, especially after a late night of gaming with his mates up in his attic bedroom, and even though he isn’t here I find it comforting to remember our familiar family quirks and oddities. I smile fondly at the memory of me bellowing up the stairs for him to turn the volume down or at least put on the expensive Bose headphones that he saved up so long for – working weekends collecting glasses and helping out in the Duck & Puddle pub in the village.

      Dunking a digestive biscuit into my coffee, I allow myself a small moment of satisfaction on thinking how well Jack has turned out; even pride, perhaps, as I remember how tough it was too at times – everyone knows that being a single parent is certainly no sauntering stroll in the park. There were many occasions where another adult, someone else to rant to when Jack had ripped his new school trousers after only a day’s wear, would have been very welcome indeed. And someone to share the highs with, like when he was Joseph in the school nativity play and delivered his lines so promptly and perfectly as I watched on with happy tears in my eyes. And then more tears when his place at Leeds University was confirmed, studying architectural engineering, which is no surprise, as Jack has always loved building things. I blame Lego! But no, everything isn’t AWESOME! Well, I guess it is for Jack – a whole new life, an exciting adventure; but why does he have to do it so far away from home? Our lovely little village. Tindledale, the place where he was born, right here in our cosy, tile-hung, two-bedroom cottage, to be exact, on the Laura Ashley rug in front of the log burner in the lounge.

      I had called an ambulance, but by the time it had hacked along all the country lanes from Market Briar, the nearest big town, Jack’s scrunched-up bloody face was peering up at me, and my dear friend, Lawrence, who runs the local B&B and is a retired thespian (strolling home on that balmy summer night after a Tindledale Players rehearsal) heard my sweary screams through the open window (and I really am not a swearer, but the pain was excruciating, to be fair) and dashed in the back door to placate my mother, who was hollering out of the hands-free home phone, perched up on the mantelpiece, for me to ‘Pant hard, Megan. PANT HARD!’ And adding, ‘I knew I should have booked an earlier flight’, in between chain-smoking her way through a packet of Lucky Strike, followed by lots of sympathy sighs and intermittent ear-splitting shrieks from her duplex apartment in Tenerife. And Mum has never forgiven me for making her miss the birth of her only grandchild, allegedly … although I have no recollection of actually telling her the wrong due date, but for years she was adamant that I had. ‘Why else would I have written it on my wall calendar, a total of nineteen days after the actual event?’ she had said in an extra-exasperated voice.

      Anyway, having Jack is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I adore children, which is very handy given that I’m a teacher – acting head teacher, to be precise – at the Tindledale village school, the same school that I went to, and Jack also. And Mum and I can laugh about it all now, even if it is long distance. Jack and I have had some glorious holidays over the years, staying with her, just a few kilometres from a lovely, secluded sandy beach, and of course she comes to see us whenever she can, but it’s not the same as having family here all the time. Thank God for friends! Talking of which, Sybs, short for Sybil, cycles past the window before popping her head through the open half of the stable door.

      ‘Hi Meg, not intruding am I?’ She grins, carefully leaning her bicycle next to mine against the honeysuckle-clad fence. Sybs used to be a housing officer in London before giving it all up and settling in Tindledale last year.

      ‘Of course not, come on in and have a coffee with me,’ I say, thrilled to see her. I go to scoop up Blue so he doesn’t escape when I open the bottom half of the stable door – he’s my super-soft, caramel-coloured, palomino house rabbit, who used to live outside in a hutch until Jack found his poor female friend, Belle, dead one morning, having been savaged by a fox in the night. So Blue lives inside now to keep him safe, and can usually be found basking in the heat from the log burner in winter, or, like today, when it’s so warm and sunny, he likes sprawling prone across the cool, quarry-tiled kitchen floor. I plop him back down, and after a quick twitch of his tail, he scampers off to his bowl to munch on some carrot sticks that I sliced up earlier for him.

      ‘Ahh, better not,’ Sybs says. ‘I don’t want to ruin your lovely home. Another time, perhaps, I’m just on my way up to the High Street to see if Taylor can squeeze this filthy

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