The landlord didn’t recognise him at first. ‘Here for work?’ Dave asked as he showed him to his room.
‘You could say that.’
‘A couple of weeks, is it?’
‘There or thereabouts.’
Dave unlocked a door. ‘This is yours. Number three. You’ve got this floor all to yourself at the moment, so it’ll be nice and quiet – apart from the noise from the bar of course, although itshouldn’t be too bad as it never gets rowdy. Unless it’s karaoke night, and then it can get a bit loud.’ The landlord winced. ‘Some of the singing leaves a lot to be desired. But Thursday is quiz night so it should be quiet enough this evening. Do you quiz?’
‘Not really.’
The landlord was squinting at him, a puzzled expression on his face, then he slapped a palm to his forehead. ‘Mark Stafford! I should have realised, but it didn’t twig. Long time, no see. How are you?’
‘Good, thanks.’
‘And your mum and dad?’
‘They’re living their best life in Bath.’
‘I heard that’s where they’d moved to. What about you? Do you live in Bath, too?’
Mark shook his head. ‘Bristol.’
‘Not too far from them, then. You’re here for work, you say?’
Mark rarely broadcast what he did for a living, preferring to fly under the radar, but he decided to give the man a half-version of the truth.
‘I’m an illustrator. Books,’ he added, before Dave asked the inevitable question.
‘Covers, like?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Right. And you’ll be working here?’
Mark guessed what the man was thinking. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t splash paint everywhere. I’m a digital artist.’
‘That’s a relief. The missus would throw a fit if you got paint on her carpet.’ He handed Mark an old-fashioned key. ‘Breakfast between eight and nine?
‘Perfect.’
‘Any special requirements?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘Right, I’ll leave you to it. If you need anything, just shout. We serve food in the bar from noon until nine p.m.’
‘Thanks. I’ll be down soon for a spot of lunch.’
Dave took his leave, but not before pointing to a slim folder on the dressing table. ‘Local information,’ he said, adding, ‘Not that you’ll need it.’
As Mark unpacked, he didn’t think he would need it either, but when he gave its contents a cursory once-over, he was mildly surprised to be proved wrong. There was some kind of an event – a Christmas Wonderland – at the farm on Muddypuddle Lane on Saturday, and he intended to take a look.
‘Pop up now, if you like.’ That was what Dulcie Fairfax, the owner of the farm on Muddypuddle Lane had said when Beatrice rang to enquire about the job after she’d left her mum’s house.
Concerned because she didn’t have a CV prepared, and neither did she have anything smart enough to wear for an interview, Beatrice felt nervous and out of her depth as she drove into the farmyard later that morning.
She had managed to find a pair of black tailored trousers at the back of her wardrobe which hadn’t seen the light of day for several years, and she teamed it with a cream blouse that gaped a bit around the boobs because she’d put on weight since having Sadie. So rather than look as though she was bursting out of it, she wore a black vest top underneath and left the buttons undone. Her black ankle boots were tidy enough, and when she stepped out of her car she was glad she’d worn them and not the high heels that she’d bought to go to a friend’s wedding, as the farmyard was cobbled and uneven.
