settle in and be happy here in Cliffehaven. It must be grim up in London, and from what Ruby told me, poor Ethel hasn’t had much of a life.’
‘They’ll settle in and get used to things without you fussing around them like a mother hen,’ replied Cordelia with a gentle smile.
Peggy realised she was fretting needlessly, so she gathered up their dirty cups and took them to the sink. ‘There’s still no sign of Ron or Harvey,’ she murmured as she glanced out of the window to the back garden. ‘Why don’t we follow suit and take some time off too? It won’t matter if tea’s a bit late this evening, and it’s far too hot in this kitchen to sit in here any longer.’
‘I think that’s a splendid idea,’ said Cordelia as she carefully placed the precious orange in the larder, eyeing the bottles of milk stout that sat on the marble shelf. She fetched her walking stick and bag of knitting. ‘And perhaps we could even have a glass of that milk stout you refused to drink when you were supposed to. It’s lovely and cold and just the thing for a hot day.’
Peggy raised an eyebrow. She hated milk stout, and Cordelia knew it.
‘Humour me,’ said the old lady dryly. ‘You need building up, and milk stout won’t kill you.’
Peggy looked at her with deep affection and went to fetch the milk stout and the baby. It was too hot, and she simply didn’t have the energy to argue.
Ron had quickly realised why his lurcher had been disappearing on a regular basis. After asking around, he soon discovered that the object of Harvey’s desire was a pedigree whippet that belonged to the snooty old battleaxe who lived in the large house set back from the main road into Cliffehaven.
Sprawling behind high rhododendron hedges that encircled at least two acres of garden, a sizeable lake and woodland, this grand edifice had been built over a century ago for a wealthy merchant who valued his privacy. To this end, only the tall chimneys and ornate ridge of the roof could be seen from the road, and the nearest neighbour – a large mansion which had been turned into a Forces hospital – was over a mile away.
And yet Ron knew the place rather well, for he’d long since discovered that the woodlands provided a fair number of rabbits, the odd roving deer and even game birds that had escaped from Lord Cliffe’s estate. The lake was a good source of ducks and their eggs as well as the sizeable eels that had become trapped after swimming down through the many streams that cross-crossed the woodlands. As there was no trigger-happy gamekeeper here like the one up at the Cliffe estate, Ron had been a fairly frequent visitor these past few years.
In his younger days he’d been employed by the owner to do a bit of gardening and some odd jobs when the weather had made it impossible to take out his fishing boats, so he knew his way around both the house and the grounds. Mr Fullerton had been alive then, traipsing back and forth to London on the train with his bowler hat, umbrella and briefcase to his office, where he was something big in banking.
Ron had come to quite like him, for he’d always had time for a pipe and a chat, and knew a fair bit about gardens. But he’d been henpecked, that was for sure, and as often as not their pleasant few minutes would be interrupted by the foghorn voice of his awful wife demanding his immediate presence.
Ron was not in the best of moods as he clumped up the hill in his wellington boots, for he’d missed lunch, and there were a thousand and one things he should be doing instead of coming up here looking for his lovesick, heathen dog. Rosie had asked him to change the barrels before she opened the Anchor tonight, Peggy was expecting to have her outside lav in full working order by the end of the day, and his ferrets Flora and Dora were getting fat through lack of exercise.
He finally reached the high hedge that fronted the property, and stood there for a moment to admire the view of Cliffehaven
‘They’ll settle in and get used to things without you fussing around them like a mother hen,’ replied Cordelia with a gentle smile.
Peggy realised she was fretting needlessly, so she gathered up their dirty cups and took them to the sink. ‘There’s still no sign of Ron or Harvey,’ she murmured as she glanced out of the window to the back garden. ‘Why don’t we follow suit and take some time off too? It won’t matter if tea’s a bit late this evening, and it’s far too hot in this kitchen to sit in here any longer.’
‘I think that’s a splendid idea,’ said Cordelia as she carefully placed the precious orange in the larder, eyeing the bottles of milk stout that sat on the marble shelf. She fetched her walking stick and bag of knitting. ‘And perhaps we could even have a glass of that milk stout you refused to drink when you were supposed to. It’s lovely and cold and just the thing for a hot day.’
Peggy raised an eyebrow. She hated milk stout, and Cordelia knew it.
‘Humour me,’ said the old lady dryly. ‘You need building up, and milk stout won’t kill you.’
Peggy looked at her with deep affection and went to fetch the milk stout and the baby. It was too hot, and she simply didn’t have the energy to argue.
Ron had quickly realised why his lurcher had been disappearing on a regular basis. After asking around, he soon discovered that the object of Harvey’s desire was a pedigree whippet that belonged to the snooty old battleaxe who lived in the large house set back from the main road into Cliffehaven.
Sprawling behind high rhododendron hedges that encircled at least two acres of garden, a sizeable lake and woodland, this grand edifice had been built over a century ago for a wealthy merchant who valued his privacy. To this end, only the tall chimneys and ornate ridge of the roof could be seen from the road, and the nearest neighbour – a large mansion which had been turned into a Forces hospital – was over a mile away.
And yet Ron knew the place rather well, for he’d long since discovered that the woodlands provided a fair number of rabbits, the odd roving deer and even game birds that had escaped from Lord Cliffe’s estate. The lake was a good source of ducks and their eggs as well as the sizeable eels that had become trapped after swimming down through the many streams that cross-crossed the woodlands. As there was no trigger-happy gamekeeper here like the one up at the Cliffe estate, Ron had been a fairly frequent visitor these past few years.
In his younger days he’d been employed by the owner to do a bit of gardening and some odd jobs when the weather had made it impossible to take out his fishing boats, so he knew his way around both the house and the grounds. Mr Fullerton had been alive then, traipsing back and forth to London on the train with his bowler hat, umbrella and briefcase to his office, where he was something big in banking.
Ron had come to quite like him, for he’d always had time for a pipe and a chat, and knew a fair bit about gardens. But he’d been henpecked, that was for sure, and as often as not their pleasant few minutes would be interrupted by the foghorn voice of his awful wife demanding his immediate presence.
Ron was not in the best of moods as he clumped up the hill in his wellington boots, for he’d missed lunch, and there were a thousand and one things he should be doing instead of coming up here looking for his lovesick, heathen dog. Rosie had asked him to change the barrels before she opened the Anchor tonight, Peggy was expecting to have her outside lav in full working order by the end of the day, and his ferrets Flora and Dora were getting fat through lack of exercise.
He finally reached the high hedge that fronted the property, and stood there for a moment to admire the view of Cliffehaven
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