The whole office stopped and stared at her. Richard smoothly ended his call and raised an eyebrow.
‘I’m leaving.’ There, she’d said it!
Richard blinked; the others gave a sharp gasp.
‘With this notice? I doubt it,’ he scoffed.
‘I’ll work what’s left of my notice, after you’ve given me my annual leave,’ Adira replied sternly, looking him in the eye. They both knew she’d hardly taken any of the leave due since working at Goldgate Chambers. Richard looked away with a scowl.
‘Where are you going?’ asked another barrister.
‘As far away from here as possible,’ she replied, collected her bag and marched out of the office with her head held high.
Chapter 2
Fletcher Hendricks sat on the bottom stair and cursed harshly. He did that a lot – curse, not sit about. He was a doer, always on the move – or rather he tried to be. Nowadays, it was taking him longer to get about, but then at eighty-five, who could blame him? He did. Fletcher hated the fact he was old. He loathed being constantly tired, his impatience grew as he witnessed first-hand the way his body refused to do as he told it, the frustration! And now he had something in his eye, which was practically blinding him. Fletcher had been reaching for his gardening diary on the top shelf in the library, when down it came with a thud, belting his forehead, whilst some debris from the shelf had flown right into his eye.
‘Ah!’ he’d roared, but to no one, except probably the odd mouse to be found in his rambling, old house. Stumbling into the hall, he steadied himself by grabbing the banister post and easing his body down. He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Wasn’t that supposed to help? No, he remembered, you were supposed to put your top lid over your bottom eyelid, then blow. He tried again, his shaky hand only just managing to manoeuvre his eyelid. Yes, that seemed better.
Cursing again, he collected his diary from the bottom step and made his way into the kitchen garden. It was May, time to start planting the cabbages, cauliflowers, courgettes and broccoli. He had to dig over the herb garden and sow basil, coriander, parsley and dill; nurture them, watch them grow, given the hearty Lancashire weather.
Fletcher lived deep in the countryside in Lilacwell, an area of outstanding natural beauty near the Forest of Bowland. He was proud of his roots, having lived there all his life in the majestic, Georgian country house, The Laurels. It was his family home, passed on from generation to generation. Except Fletcher hadn’t a son or daughter to pass it down to, only a nephew. Still, Jasper had been like a son to him.
Memories of Jasper’s childhood often made Fletcher smile, a rarity in itself. He’d reminisce while gazing out at the now unkempt orchard of holidays spent there with a young, enthusiastic nephew, eager to help pick the apples and prepare them for cider making. Jasper had loved staying at The Laurels with his Uncle Fletcher. He’d doted on his every word, idolising the wise, old sage his uncle had been to him. Fletcher in turn had enjoyed playing up to the role, ready to offer guidance and counselling when asked, which he often was. Jasper had a connection with Fletcher which he struggled to find with his own father, Rufus. Fletcher’s brother lacked the imagination and passion which a young boy growing up craved.
For Jasper, The Laurels held all the fun and excitement he could soak up in the long, hot summer days. The Georgian pile held secrets from the past, hidden amongst its stone walls. Fletcher would make up ridiculous, fictitious tales of various members of the family in an attempt to entertain his young nephew. Watching Jasper stare up at him by a crackling fire, eyes like saucers, hanging on his every word, made Fletcher a happy man. He came to life when Jasper stayed. Endless hours of fruit picking, horse riding, fishing and foraging in the woods filled Fletcher’s days. He’d welcomed the distraction from having to run The Laurels and the land which surrounded it. It was hard work, sapping all his energy, and Fletcher often longed for a sense of freedom, without the worries of the estate.
Basically, it was all down to him. He had staff to keep, tenants’ rent to collect and farmers to liaise with. It all took time, which he begrudged. Being the eldest son, he’d always known where his responsibilities lay. He was expected to take over The Laurels once his parents had gone. Meanwhile, Rufus, his younger brother, was free to do as he wished. Ironically, Rufus was the more sensible of the two, which probably meant he would have been a better custodian, or indeed a happier one, than Fletcher had proved to be.
Fletcher had never married, never having found that someone special to share his life with. Or, if he had, she’d slipped through his fingers. Never having children was the biggest regret of his life. However, as parenting went, it was obvious to see how his brother neglectedhisson, even to Fletcher. Perhaps subconsciously he had tried to compensate for Rufus’s shortcomings, by taking on the character of boisterous Uncle Fletcher. Certainly, he relished his time with Jasper, it gave him the perfect excuse to act the goat, brought the child out of him. It made a refreshing change to being grown-up and responsible.
His head ached with responsibilities. It took some co-ordinating running The Laurels, or at least it had. These days, he employed a manager to collect the rents and oversee any issues regarding the land he owned. Whereas at one time the impressive country house bustled with scullery maids, gardeners, a butler and housekeeper, now it had only an elderly cleaner popping in once a week (almost as old as Fletcher himself) and a man from the village who cut the grass. A rather sorry state from what had been. Gone were the days when The Laurels had hosted midsummer evening parties, with dancing on the lawns and laughter echoing round the orangery; warm, cosy Christmases where the hall was decked with holly, berries and mistletoe and the family all congregated once a year. Now it stood forlornly empty, apart from its only occupier.
Like Fletcher, The Laurels was gradually winding down, being sapped of its vigour. Sadly, the sparkle had faded.
‘That’s a nasty bump, Fletcher.’
‘It’s nothing, Lilly,’ he dismissed and turned away from his cleaner’s close scrutiny. He knew she meant well, but he resented the concern. As the years had tumbled on, so had the fear of his independence fading. His ultimate dread was to be taken away from the precious home that he’d known all his life and put into care. The very thought gripped him and often kept him awake at night. It was in those dark moments when he was at his worst, though he’d never admit it to anyone, especially those who cared about him. And plenty did, including Lilly Grimshaw and her twin sister Ruby, the three of them having practically all grown up together.
Lilly and Ruby, like Fletcher, had never married and lived in a pretty, little cottage nearby. Lilly had kindly offered to clean his home years ago when the last housekeeper at The Laurels had had enough of Fletcher’s cantankerous nature and bolted, unfortunately taking the butler with her, leaving a rather lonely Fletcher to fend for himself. Being in her late seventies, Lilly was barely able to whiz round with the hoover, but she did her best, knowing it was the company Fletcher craved more than a tidy home. She and his nephew seemed to be the only visitors these days and he couldn’t remember the last time Jasper had been at The Laurels.
‘You ought to go to the doctors, you know,’ insisted Lilly. ‘You could be suffering from concussion.’
‘Don’t be daft, woman,’ Fletcher snorted. The last thing he wanted was to see some quack who’d alert the social services and whisk him off in no time.
He opened the kitchen door and slammed it shut with force.
Lilly shook her head in despair as she watched him through the window, marching off to the kitchen garden in wellington boots. Typical Fletcher, stubborn as a mule.
The phone rang. Quickly making her way to the hall, Lilly picked it up a little breathless.
‘Hello, The Laurels.’
‘Hello, Lilly.’
‘Jasper!’ she beamed. ‘How are you, dear?’
‘I’m good thanks, and you?’
