Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part One
Neville loves cooking. Fliss loves the quiet life. Mummy Behr loves Baby Behr. And they all love living in Nettlecombe Hatchet.
But their rural idyll is under threat. When Fliss investigates she finds something very nasty in the chicken shed.
CHAPTER ONE
The chicken came first, we know that now.
Then egg followed chicken followed egg followed chicken in an orderly way.
Reliable. Comforting. One of life’s constants. Sure as eggs.
Your average hen will, given the chance, settle down when she has laid a dozen or so eggs in what she believes to be a safe place. She lowers her fluffy skirts and warms her clutch, taking only short breaks for water and a peck of corn for the next three weeks. Then it’s up to the chicks. Somewhere in their ovoid universe a flag is dropped and they’re off, pecking their way to freedom. Out they come – Maran and Warren and Sussex and Border; Speckledy, Welsummer, Orpington, Rhode Island Red and Black Rock alike – bendy beak, two stringy legs, soggy feathers and slow, blinking eyes.
But some chickens are different.
Withy Hill Farm chickens were different.
Very different.
* * * *
Happiness for Neville was a successful soufflé.
On this particular day he was entirely focused on an authentic Cassoulet Provençal. This was a fresh challenge for him, and as always when embarking on a new recipe, he felt the familiar tension in his abdomen which only well-managed excitement can bring. One might think a cassoulet, Provençal or otherwise, was, in the scheme of things, no big deal. It is, after all, bean and sausage stew. Even cooked for the first time, how hard can it be? You gather the ingredients, follow the directions in the recipe, and there it is. No complex kneading and proving involved; no paper thin pastry to handle, no eggs threatening to curdle – in fact, no volatile ingredients whatsoever. Sausage and beans. But Neville did not see it that way. Finding a recipe which met his own exacting standards had required extensive research. Having settled upon the definitive recipe, he selected the ingredients with equal care. The authentic French saucisson had necessitated a trip to Bournemouth. Fortunately, he already had in his possession the ideal vessel – a terracotta pot (with well-fitting lid, naturally) purchased on a gastronomic holiday in France the previous year.
It being Friday, Neville had no difficulty slipping quietly away from his desk at the Council Planning Office shortly before four o’clock. The journey home on his well maintained bicycle had taken a mere fifteen minutes, eager anticipation of an evening’s cooking lending wings to his pedalling heels.
He found Cilla, his ginger cat, waiting for him on the doorstep, as was her habit. She shared his passion for cooking and sprinted up the stairs to take her position on a high stool, from where she had a clear view of proceedings. Neville parked his bike in the hallway and followed her up the narrow staircase. In the kitchen he wriggled out of his small backpack and unloaded the contents onto the table. His lunchtime shopping trip had yielded some exceptionally fine smoked garlic. Ignoring the blinking light of his answering machine, Neville flicked through his box of CDs marked ‘cooking music’, and chose an early Dave Brubeck.
‘We’re cooking in 7/4 time tonight, Cilla,’ he said. ‘This is going to be something rather special.’
He removed his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair before rolling up his sleeves.
‘Now, let’s get these haricots drained and rinsed. The perfect cassoulet cannot be rushed, you know. Dinner will not be served much before nine tonight.’
Sometimes, while Neville waited for some crucial cooking process to take effect, he would take advantage of the fine view from the first floor window. The small flat, and the Post Office on which it sat, benefited from the village green to the front, and open countryside behind. A long-shadowed, late spring afternoon fringed the fields and tagged the trees with cool tails. The sweet smelling Dorset landscape was in its prime. It did not dazzle with drama, nor attempt the spectacular. It made no pretence at wilderness, nor did it lay claim to impressive size or height. Instead it quietly got on with what it knew best – gentle greenery; an impressionist’s palette of meadows and hedgerows; fescues inclining their weightless heads in the baby’s breath of a breeze; a high sky freshly painted bridesmaid blue; timeless oak; impressive chestnuts; rustling poplars; the burnished pinchbeck bark of the birch; over-ripe hawthorn blossom filling the unremarkable hour with notions of bubble-bath; every leafy corner overflowing, growing, plumping out and spilling; the spreading turf a plush flat matt mat inviting chequered picnic cloths and lovers’ recumbent forms, private but daring in the longer grass.
The village of Nettlecombe Hatchet had fought against change and modernity and won. Vigilant residents were quick to spot the smallest unnecessary signpost, unsympathetically painted porch, or plainly parked caravan lingering too long in a driveway. A ruthless policy of ethnic cleansing was applied to house style and construction, driving out all but the very best reproduction Portland stone. Living in a seventeenth century cottage would gain you coveted invitations to Cynthia Danby’s soirees. Thatch put you beyond reproach.
At number three Brook Terrace a tatty blue transit van came to a smelly halt. The driver threw open his door and started to roll a cigarette.
Fliss Horton and her daughter Rhian climbed out of the other side. Physically they were out of the same mould, but from very different schools of decoration. The same cane-straight auburn hair (half plaited, half flowing in Fliss’s case; sleek and sharp on Rhian). The same angular, rangy body (Fliss’s swathed in tie-dye and velvet, Rhian’s buckled into cutting-edge high street). The same ivory complexion (naked and natural on Fliss, heavily kholed on Rhian).
Their temperaments could not have been more different. Rhian was salt to Fliss’s sweetness. Rhian was quicksilver; a stormy night; a fiery drink; a fanfare. Fliss was a rainbow; a log fire; a dove; a nocturne.
‘Oh look,’ said Fliss, ‘the honeysuckle’s out. Mmmm, smells delicious.’
Rhian gave her the sort of withering look at which teenagers are expert.
‘Hoo-bloody-ray,’ she said, sitting down on the low wall in front of the little house.
‘It’ll be great to have a garden,’ Fliss went on. ‘This bit’s just full of flowers, and the one at the back has got plenty of space for sunbathing. Or barbeques. Or badminton.’
‘Oh well, that must be why we moved here then.’ The expression on Rhian’s face could have turned milk. ‘Of course. So that we can freeze to death trying to sunbathe, because we are in fact in Dorset, not Ibiza; have pathetic, taste-free barbeques, because you don’t want us to eat meat; and prance about playing badminton, like we know how.’
Fliss’s bright smile stiffened into a grimace.
‘That’s the spirit, Rhi, hate everything before you’ve even given it a chance.’
‘Look, this move wasn’t my idea.’
‘As you never tire of reminding me.’
‘I didn’t want to leave London. I didn’t want to leave my friends. I didn’t want to move to the arse-end of the planet, so don’t expect me to suddenly start liking it just because you do.’ Rhian pushed past her mother and hauled open the rear doors of the van. ‘And if my PC is damaged after being in this crap van, Mr Driver of The Year can fork out for a new one.’ She started pulling at the overstuffed boxes.
Fliss opened her mouth to speak but the ringing of her mobile saved her from having to think of a suitable reply.
‘Daniel?’ As a reflex Fliss stepped out of her daughter’s hearing range, quickly walking to the stile opposite the house where she leant against the small sign that pointed walkers in the direction of Withy Hill Farm.
‘Hi Babe.’
‘Where are you? I thought we were meeting here at three – it’s gone four now.’
‘Sorry, Sweet Thing. I’m up to my ears in it here.’
‘You’re still at work?’
‘I know, I know, I feel terrible. I really wanted to be there to help, you know I did, but…’
Fliss drooped visibly.
‘Oh Dan, I was counting on you.’
‘Please don’t make me feel any worse about it. Look, I’ll get away as soon as I can, OK? I can still be down there for supper. We can crack open a bottle of wine together, hmm?’
Fliss allowed a hefty sigh to answer for her.
‘Anyway,’ Daniel went on, ‘it’s not as if you’ve got any actual furniture to lug about. It’s just your stuff, isn’t it? And you’ve got White Van Man to help you.’
Fliss looked at the lumpen figure still in the driver’s seat, most of his bulk obscured by a crumpled copy of The Sun he was pretending to read.
‘Blue,’ she said.
‘What’s that, Babe?’
‘The van is blue, not white. Actually, I didn’t really want you here to cart boxes. I thought it might help, you know, with Rhian. Present a united front. Stop her bitching at me all day. And I thought it would be nice – first day at our new home. Well, home for me and Rhi, weekend retreat for you. I wanted us to do it together.’
‘Sorry, Fliss, had some idiot talking to me – didn’t catch a word of that. What were you saying?’
‘Never mind,’ she shook her head and straightened up. ‘Look, I’d better get on with it. I’ll see you later.’
‘Love you, Sweet Thing.’ Daniel disconnected.
Fliss took a deep breath and moved towards the van.
‘Right,’ she said brightly, clapping her hands to the accompaniment of the music of her bangles, ‘first person to find the box with the kettle in it gets a chocolate biscuit.’
Across the lane from Fliss’s home, set back a little in its frothy garden, sat the low thatch of Honeysuckle Cottage, the cosy nest of Daddy, Mummy, and Baby Behr. As the slow afternoon began to touch the soft edge of evening, Rose Behr held her sleepy baby in her arms and rocked him gently. For her, the moment of his bedtime was an exquisite point in the day. To lull him to a quiet, restful sleep and see him tucked snugly into his safe, gingham-trimmed crib filled her with pride and satisfaction. She was able to gaze upon him as he slumbered, knowing she had successfully nurtured him through another day. She found it hard to pull away, to separate herself from him so that she could go downstairs, straighten the house, and get everything ready for when next he awoke.
She didn’t have to worry about her husband, as he would already be making his way to Dixie’s Bar in the high street in Barnchester. On a Friday night Rose knew better than to expect him home for dinner.
She hardly thought any more about how things used to be between them. Of how keen he had been when they were first going out together. Of how determined he had been that they get married and move into the cottage her grandmother had left her. That was five years ago. She knew that the extra weight she had acquired did not suit her. She realised Ryan had discovered not only her pregnant, but her post-pregnancy body to be repugnant. She had long known that his romantic interests lay elsewhere, and that at only twenty-eight she had become in his eyes, and indeed her own, an uninspiring middle-aged housewife.
But she didn’t care. Not any more. Not one little bit. For now she had Baby.
Baby Behr was four months old and a tiny, plump, pinkness of perfection. He had transformed his mother’s life. Now she knew what it meant to be in love. She was consumed by love – her love for her baby. This love was joy, was bliss, was warmth, home, hope, happiness – everything that was good and true and right. She had never imagined such a thing existed. The feeling fuelled her soul. The baby gave her all the emotional nourishment she would ever need. Her life had become golden, glowing, and special in a way that had altered her inestimably and forever. Let Daddy Behr dally with dolly-birds in Dixie’s; Mummy Behr would be all Baby needed, and his tiny, powerful presence would sustain her.
Or at least, this was what she told herself.
This was what she had to make herself believe.
To be continued…..
Love it so far xxx
Hooray! More at the weekend.
What wonderful, descriptive writing. I feel as if I’ve been introduced to the characters and I have a clear picture of the village of Nettlecombe Hatchet, like I was standing by under a tree, watching the story unfold. Looking forward to the next installment!
I thought I saw you there, Lorelei!
Well you mentioned Dorset, Portland stone and babies. I am hooked; I miss England and I really love the love the story so far; cannot wait for next installment
I was born in Dorset, so I enjoy setting stories there. Next instalment at the weekend!
Loving it this far. I love when books make me feel cozy.
Excellent! Although things do get a bit less cozy…..
Love the characters. Looking forward to more of the story.
That’s great to hear!
Your writing always picks me up and takes me on a new adventure! I can wait to find out what happens next!!!
Lovely! Prepared to be whisked away to the wilds of darkest Dorset.
I had not expected to connect so quickly to this story! Should have known with Paula’s writing, be it early or current it was destined to happen for me. Honestly….I want more!
And more you shall have, Sharon. At the weekend.
More please ….
Second instalment freshly posted!