Tears started to flow down Rita’s cheeks. Hilda was brusque. ‘Get a grip, girl, and reserve all that nonsense for when you manage to open. And don’t forget you will need some kind of insurance, I expect. And for God’s sake, get your hair done or something; you’ll be frightening the goats soon, let alone any potential punters.’
With the same elation she’d felt on having the idea of the retreat, Rita smiled. ‘You’re not going to be wandering around like that when thepotentialpunters arrive, are you?’
Granny Hilda lit a cigarette and blew out a long plume of smoke. ‘Only if they deserve it.’
A flicker of movement at the doorway made Rita turn. Zenya was standing there, hair scraped into a messy bun, boots spattered with mud, wearing an oversized army jacket that had definitely seen better days. She gave a tentative wave.
Hilda looked her up and down with a snort. ‘Good Lord. I thought the scarecrow in the south field had got loose.’
Zenya raised her brows, entirely unfazed. ‘Morning to you too. Love the dressing gown. Late night at the bingo?’
Rita clamped a hand over her mouth to stop a laugh escaping as Hilda narrowed her eyes like a cat preparing to pounce. ‘Zenya, meet Hilda Jory, my indomitable mother-in-law.’
Zenya reached out her hand to a tut from the old woman. ‘Well, Zenya, that’s a name with bite. And I don’t know why she says that, if not for you to assume I’m some kind of old battle-axe.’
Zenya didn’t react, just looked to Rita. ‘I was popping down to the bay and saw you were clearing out the barn.’ She stepped over the tarpaulin. ‘Thought I’d lend a hand.’
Rita flushed. ‘Oh. I didn’t… I mean, I didn’t ask because I can’t pay you yet.’
Zenya blinked. ‘Who said anything about money? I’d like to help get you up and running.’
‘She means she’s cheap,’ Hilda muttered, puffing on her cigarette. ‘And anyway, youcanpay her now.’
Hilda tapped the brown envelope tucked into Rita’s jacket pocket. ‘That’s not for flapjacks and frippery, girl. It’s seed money. So use it, and get decent bollocking staffon the payroll. Anyway, I’ve got death notices to read.’ With that Hilda Jory headed towards the door.
Zenya shouted after her. ‘Just say the word, Hilda, and I’ll happily balance your chakras.’
‘You’re all right, dear.’ Hilda’s eyes were twinkling. ‘Last time someone touched my chakras I didn’t walk straight for a week.’
ELEVEN
With a spring in her step from Hilda’s generosity the day before, Rita headed out to feed the animals. April had been typically wet and blustery, full of its usual showers, but somehow wetter than most years. A positive for Rita as aside from conducting her necessary chores outside, it had allowed her to focus on finalising her business and marketing plan. Sennen had agreed that putting yurts up on the High Meadow was a brilliant idea. An opportunity to showcase the ‘Seahaven on Earth’ aspect of the sweeping views over the cliffs and horizon. It would offer guests a peaceful, scenic retreat, while also keeping them comfortably distanced from the bustle of Rita’s everyday farm life.
Kelly had suggested her getting a business loan, but with owning half of Archie’s debt Rita was doubtful she’d get any credit, not yet. Hilda’s cash injection was a godsend, but yurts weren’t cheap and she wanted to get opening and start the money coming in as soon as she possibly could.
For now, she would provide a couple of compost toilets in the yurt area so that guests wouldn’t have to wander the good half mile down from the High Meadow in the dark. She would also give the outbuilding toilet and shower a good old scrub and daub of white paint.
Not ideal facilities, she realised, but she was selling the place as a rustic retreat – ‘coming back to nature with no mod cons’ – so hoped she wouldn’t get too many complaints. And, once more financially secure, she planned to convert another of the outhouses into a fancier toilet and shower area and also construct a basic kitchen and dining unit.
With chickens fed and on her way to tend to the goats, Rita conducted her daily ritual of having a look in the barn to try and muster up further ideas. With all the rain they had had, it had seemed a gloomy outlook all around, but today, the sun was shining and despite not having waxed her shapely legs for at least two months she had even put on shorts with her wellies.
Looking around at the newly cleared barn, and with the help of Hilda’s cash injection, everything somehow seemed less daunting now. There would be cushions. Lanterns. Maybe some fairy lights strung across the beams. She just needed to work out a timetable of what exactly the programme of classes would look like. Also, how she would cater for food and beverages. All of which would need to be high quality but not overly expensive.
As if her daughter was reading her mind, Rita’s thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a message prompting her to check her email.
I love it. You’re good at this, Mum!Sennen had typed.Just made a few minor tweaks to what you sent over. Here it is.
Rita began to read aloud.
‘Escape to Seahaven Bay Retreat – where the sea meets the soul. Nestled in nature, our cosy, back-to-basics yurts offer a front-row seat to a view so breathtaking, it feels like heaven on earth. Step into our sea-view barn for rejuvenating sessions including gong ceremonies and yoga, or gaze at the stars and moon in quiet wonder. Embrace the wild with cold-water sea swims, then nourish your body with fresh, raw, healthy foods – or head to the picturesque harbour to find a charming local hostelry. It’s time to lose your inhibitions and find your soul. Welcome to the Seahaven Bay Retreat – your rustic hideaway by the sea…’
‘Lose your inhibitions, eh, Mrs Jory,’ a deep voice enquired.
Rita nearly dropped her phone at the unexpected interruption. And on seeing who was in front of her she wished she’d tended to her hairy legs and sorted her hair, which was now almost two-tone.
Jago Jenken, proprietor of Hawthorn Acre, was the kind of man who turned heads without even trying. He had thick black hair and vivid green eyes, and one dimple that sat deeper than the other when he smiled, lending an uneven charm that made his grin all the more captivating. Even in worn work clothes and boots thick with mud, he looked better than most men in a dress suit. His voice was deep, the kind you felt in your chest, and his eyes held a mischievous twinkle that reminded her, achingly, of a younger version of her Archie. There was something about the way he carried himself, open and magnetic, that made it impossible not to watch him a moment longer than was proper.
‘Everything OK?’ Rita stuttered.
