Page 5 of A Helpin g Hand for the Village Nurse

‘Don’t forget…’ Victor nodded back at a house on a distant hill. It was squat and sturdy and made of stone as far as Ottilie could see from this distance, the sun glinting off slate tiles on the roof. ‘Daffodil Farm – that’s us. Anything you need, just knock. I’d give you a landline number, but I can never remember it, and the mobile phones I’ve lost in slurry and feed and such over the years, I don’t see any point in having another. You can call the house though – there’s always someone in.’

‘Thank you,’ Ottilie said. ‘That’s very kind.’

‘Not at all. Least we can do.’

‘What for?’

‘For taking the job. You’ll have your work cut out, let me tell you. Gwen never stopped – no wonder she chose not to live in the village – commuted in from Keswick, you know. If she’d lived here, she’d never have had a moment’s peace. Half the village would still have her on duty if they could.’

‘Well, I’m looking forward to starting.’

‘You say that…’

Ottilie laughed at Victor’s eyebrow raise. ‘Honestly, a full schedule is exactly what I need. I love being busy. If anything, I’ll be sticking my nose into things that probably don’t need me, so I don’t mind at all if I have a full appointment list every day.’

‘Again, I have to say be careful what you wish for. I’ll ask you if you still feel that way once you’ve done your first week. When do you start, by the way?’

‘I’m taking a week of leave to get the house straight before I start and I have a bit of extra training to do, but if anyone needs me before then I’m happy to see them unofficially. I know you don’t have a nurse at the moment, so I appreciate people are anxious about that.’

Victor scratched his head and then put his hat back on. ‘I’m actually being serious now – I’d keep that to yourself. You’ll have a queue at your front door before you can say hypochondriac. And don’t forget we have a doctor.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Ottilie nodded slightly. ‘I haven’t met her yet in the flesh – only on Zoom. Dr Cheadle, isn’t it? I’m planning to pop into the surgery later to introduce myself.’

‘I’m surprised she didn’t retire at the same time as Gwen. They’ve worked together for forty years and I know Dr Cheadle is right fond of her, and she’s about the right age to finish too.’

‘Well I’m glad she didn’t. I’ll be making full use of her local knowledge while I find my feet.’ Ottilie glanced down the road to where the van had just gone. ‘I’m sorry, I’m enjoying our chat but I really must…’

‘’Course. Don’t let me keep you. Don’t forget where I am if you need anything.’

‘I won’t. It was lovely to meet you, and I look forward to meeting the rest of your family. And your alpaca!’

Victor picked up his mallet as Ottilie got back into the driver’s seat. ‘And I expect you’ll get more sense out of the alpaca than any of my lot.’

As Victor had promised, Thimblebury revealed itself like a sunrise gradually unveiling its glory as Ottilie drove into the hollow where it lay nestled. The housing market had been frantic that year and so, crazy as it seemed to her now, this would be the first time she’d visited in person. Desperate to make the move to secure the job, and with Wordsworth Cottage pretty much the only house for sale in such a tiny place, she’d made an offer on it without a physical viewing, from photos alone, almost the same day that the house had gone up for sale. It had been the only way, as far as she could see, and something in her heart simply told her that this village and this house was where she was meant to be at this point in her life. Risky, insane, foolhardy…her mum had many opinions on the matter, and to a point Ottilie could see why she might be alarmed on her behalf, but she’d spoken at length to the previous owners during the transfer, had trusted the surveys, and was now the keeper of a higgledy, ramshackle house that had been built over four hundred years before Ottilie had arrived on the planet. In her opinion, more decisions ought to be made this way, because far too often, life was too short to be cautious.

The houses of Thimblebury were scattered over the basin of the valley as if they’d been left by a child who’d finished playing with them. The narrow streets and lanes were random and chaotic but all the more charming for it. Ottilie was used to angular roads and avenues on the new estate she’d lived on with Josh, the houses precise and pristine and ordered. She’d been happy enough there, and she’d thought it pleasant and convenient and full of the trappings of modern life that she’d always wanted before, but since she’d lost Josh, she needed something completely different, something that wouldn’t make her think of him every time she looked. She hoped Thimblebury, with its mismatched houses and wildflower verges, and swallows nesting in the eaves of thatches or gardens with bird boxes or bug hotels, and an antique red telephone box, and all manner of other little charms would be it.

The River Leven was relatively sedate at this point where it passed close to the village, and Ottilie had been delighted to cross it via an old stone bridge. She wasn’t sure which bit of coast it ended at, but she did know that at some point it met nearby Lake Windermere and she looked forward to seeing for herself before too long. There were trees everywhere – tiny maples and magnolias in gardens, towering oaks and beech shading the churchyard and willows draped over the riverbanks. She’d never lived anywhere so vibrant and green. From the top of the valley, the village spread out like a living tapestry. It had looked pretty online, ideal for her new life, but up close it was breathtaking.

Ottilie was caught by a sudden wave of emotion at the sight and, from nowhere, tears filled her eyes.

‘Josh…’ she murmured. ‘You’d have bloody loved this.’

Only she’d never know that for sure. Perhaps Josh would have loved it. Or perhaps he’d have been unmoved by the hedgerows where poppies and coltsfoot peeked from long grass while bees shuttled in and out, or the drystone walls where anemones and ivy thrived in the gaps, or the verdant fields that changed colour in the breeze like shoals of shining fish darting this way and that, or the cloud of starlings overhead or the rooks and crows standing sentry in the high branches of the trees, but he wasn’t here to say.

Ottilie tried not to think of that as she continued into the village. Thimblebury was her new start and she had to be braver than this. She had to make it work, because the alternative was wallowing in her memories back in Manchester and, whatever else she was guessing at, she knew for certain Josh would never have wanted that.

The removal van was obscuring Wordsworth Cottage from view as Ottilie stopped the car. Two youths and a much older man were sitting on the stone wall of her front garden. The older man stubbed out a cigarette as he noted her arrival and came to greet her.

‘Sorry,’ she said as she got out of the car. ‘I got a bit held up.’

‘Not to worry; just that we couldn’t do a lot until you got here.’

‘No, of course. I’ll open up now.’

‘Lovely spot you’ve got here,’ he said as he followed her to the gate.

For the first time, Ottilie’s house was right there in front of her, in the flesh, and it was every bit as beautiful and welcoming as she’d hoped it would be. The front-facing wall was rendered a pristine white – it looked as if the sellers had painted it freshly for her, because it was gleaming in the sun. She made a mental note to email them to thank them. The gable wall was made of a sturdy dove-grey stone and the roof was heavy slate. The sash windows looked newly painted too, and the sage-green front door was dressed with a leafy garland hanging from an iron knocker, and a fragrant honeysuckle clinging to the surrounding trellis.

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