Page 18 of The Black Trilogy

I set off on foot after breakfast the next morning, sheltering from the rain under a golf umbrella Carol lent me. George had given me directions, and as I reached the outskirts of the village, the houses got progressively bigger and more expensive.

The walk took twenty minutes, and the bottoms of my jeans were soaked through by the time I got there. Well-kept paddocks stretched into the distance on either side of the driveway, and the horses in them raised their heads to peer at me curiously as I trekked past.

“Where can I find George?” I asked a girl sweeping the stable yard.

She pointed at a house to the left then leaned on her broom as she watched me walk towards it.

The bell echoed, followed by the din of dogs barking inside. The sound made me miss my Doberman, Lucy, who I’d left back home with Dustin. He always dog-sat when I was away, and he tended to spoil her. At least she’d be getting plenty of walks.

When the door swung open, an excited pack surrounded me, ranging from a tiny Yorkshire terrier up to a German shepherd with a huge tongue lolling out the side of its mouth. George appeared behind them, wearing the country uniform of cords, wellingtons, and a waxed jacket. All he needed was a shotgun and a brace of pheasants, and he could have stepped straight from the pages of Country Life magazine.

“I hope you’re all right with dogs,” he said.

Bit late if I wasn’t.

“Yes, they’re fine,” I said, stifling a laugh as the Yorkie humped a chair leg.

“Come on, we can talk while I show you the yard.”

George herded the dogs back inside and pulled the door shut, then motioned at me to follow him.

Hazelwood Farm was a livery yard, a hotel for horses if you like, and judging by the looks of the place, it had a five-star rating. I’d rather have slept in one of the stables than the dive I’d ended up in on my first night in London, at any rate.

George led me around, showing me where things were and asking me to demonstrate different tasks, none of which were taxing. How hard could it be to fill a bucket of water or clean out a stable? The yard was beautifully kept, split into three large barns, each with eight horses.

“Each girl looks after one barn. It’s an early start to feed and muck out, then the horses get put to bed at five. You’d take it in turns with the other girls to do a late check,” he said.

“What days would I work?”

“Monday to Friday, with a half-day over the weekend. I’ve got a couple of part-time teenagers who come in to do the rest on Saturday and Sunday.”

“Is there any riding?”

“No, we have someone else who does that. You get a nice long lunch break. Would you be happy with that?”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“The job’s yours if you want it, then.”

“It sounds like just what I’m looking for.”

“Good, good. The accommodation’s a bit basic, but I can pick up your belongings if you don’t have a car. How soon can you start?” he asked.

Accommodation? Now, that was an unexpected bonus. It looked as if another of my problems had been solved. I gave him a smile, my first genuine one since I’d arrived in the country.

“I can start tomorrow if you like?”

CHAPTER 8

AT THE END of my first week at Hazelwood Farm, southern England was in the midst of a cold snap. When my alarm went off just before 6 a.m., the moon shone from a clear sky, and Jack Frost had left his lacy fingerprints on the inside of the windows.

At least I had the afternoon off today. Maybe I could clean my lovely new home? On second thoughts, if I removed the dirt, the whole place might fall apart. Plan B: walk to the bakery and buy a donut. Okay, two donuts.

When George had mentioned accommodation, I’d been surprised but pleased at the prospect of saving money on rent, not to mention my thirty-second commute to work each day. And although Carol had been sad to see me go, she was heading off on a seniors’ cruise next week, so I doubted she’d miss me too much.

Then I saw where I’d be living, and I almost went back to Melrose. The mobile home squashed between the hay barn and a boxy red-brick cottage had certainly seen better days, say, twenty or thirty years ago.

Judging by the window frame held together with duct tape, maintenance of the staff accommodation didn’t come high on George’s list of priorities, most likely falling somewhere between attending London Fashion Week and growing a potato that looked like Elvis. The hot water only worked when it felt like it, and trying to heat the place with the single bar electric fire was akin to melting a glacier using a Zippo lighter.

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