Kitty's Countryside Dream

A feel good romantic comedy about life, love and family.

Christie Barlow

For Anita Redfern,

Friendship is a real gift.

It’s given with no expectations and no gratitude is needed.

Thank you for being my true friend.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Lizzie’s Christmas Escape

Christie’s Email Sign Up

A Letter from Christie

Also by Christie Barlow

Evie’s Year of Taking Chances

A Year in the Life of a Playground Mother

The Misadventures of a Playground Mother

The Thank Yous

Chapter One

When I received the telephone call on 1 November 1985 it was unpredicted; it came out of the blue, but maybe destiny was calling – a fresh start, and a time to make something out of myself. I’d never travelled further than the local town before, never mind outside the county, and yet here I was two months later standing on the stone steps that led up to my new ground-floor flat. I stopped and stared at my surroundings. This particular January day there was a cutting chill in the air; the sky was grey with a very high chance of snow falling, according to the man who had been in deep conversation with the woman sitting opposite me on the train. Travelling from Cheshire to my new destination had been a blur. I settled on the train with my small battered suitcase lodged between my feet and my book clasped in my hand. I read for over an hour until I heard the announcement of the station over the tannoy. I had arrived in Rosefield, a quaint village on the edge of North Staffordshire.

I paused on the pavement and looked up at my new home – it was plain and simple yet unexpectedly pretty; my guess was the terraced houses were built in the early 1900s and sometime later converted into flats. The brightly coloured front doors were all adjacent to each other and adorned with identical stone steps leading to them. The sash windows with the larger panes of glass gave my new home a welcoming feel. A couple walked hand in hand, laughing as they wandered past me in the street, but I quickly ducked my head as they passed, keen to avoid eye contact. Delving deep into the pocket of my parka I retrieved the bunch of keys that had been handed over to me by the solicitor. Quickly I checked the address – I wanted to make sure I was in the correct street and standing outside the correct house. Mine, according to the tatty label attached by the fraying string, was the sage-coloured front door – a fine-looking door. I couldn’t believe I had been given my own property; it seemed unreal.

Two months ago, I’d been summoned to the solicitors’ office; I was told to bring my identification. After they confirmed I was indeed Kitty Lewis they congratulated me – I was now the proud owner of Bluebell Lodge and a separate ground-floor flat inherited from a grandmother that I was led to believe had died before I was born. According to the solicitor, she had owned both properties. It had been a whirlwind of a week, a week that had unleashed a whole different life for me.

The property must have been vacant for a while; there were newspapers sticking out of the letter box and an empty milk bottle sitting on the doorstep. It was now or never, leaving my old life behind. I was intrigued to uncover what was on the other side of the sage door – what did my new home have to offer?

Placing the rusty key in the lock, I pushed the door open. I didn’t have any expectations; I had grasped the adventure on a whim. I no longer had a purpose in life. I’d surrendered my university place several years ago, giving up on my high hopes of becoming a doctor one day in order to nurse and care for my terminally ill mother. My mother had sadly passed away five months earlier, just a few days after my birthday, leaving me on my own. My eyes welled up with instant tears, the memories still raw. I missed her so much.

I was an only child, born to Alice and Julian, and I was, it had seemed, their absolute pride and joy. They constantly told me I was special, a gift, the child they never thought they would have. They had tried for many years for another baby but it just wasn’t meant to be – I was to be their only one. My mother had dedicated her life to me when my father was tragically killed on his way home from work one evening in May – 12 May to be precise, a date I struggled to cope with each year. He was struck by an oncoming lorry that had veered off the road, hitting him and killing him instantly. He didn’t suffer, according to the paramedics, which was the only comfort my mother and I could take from the devastation it caused. I was just ten years old at the time.

Struggling to push the front door open fully, I discovered a backlog of piled-up newspapers and leaflets. Bending down, I scooped my arm around the door and threw the hazardous mountain of paper up the hallway. With one last mammoth push I was in. I was instantly hit by the damp chilliness of the air inside; wrapping my arms around my body, I snuggled deep inside my coat, peering out wide-eyed, anxious to discover what my new home had to offer. It seemed unlikely any heat had passed through the cream-painted radiators in a while.

Flicking the light switch, I was relieved to find there was electricity; the bulb lit up the small hallway, which was painted in soft truffle. Although I didn’t have my bearings yet, a strange feeling surged through my body; I felt like I belonged – I felt like I was at home. Glancing along the hallway, I saw a row of coat pegs, all empty except for a clear plastic umbrella hanging from the end hook. A small round hall table draped with an off-white lace cloth and an avocado-green dial telephone sat directly under the pegs. Picking up the receiver and placing it to my ear, I heard a dial tone – the line was still connected.

Cautiously peering around the door to the left, into what must have been the sitting room, I was pleasantly surprised. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, maybe a mountain of clutter, but the room contained minimal furniture – a green velvet sofa with a multicoloured crocheted blanket thrown over it, an armchair positioned to the side of the pattern-tiled fireplace. Moving towards the curtains, I swiftly pulled them apart. The daylight burst its way into the tiny living room, giving it a new lease of life. I blinked while my eyes refocused, adjusting to the light.

I was just getting my bearings when suddenly I heard a loud thud. It appeared to come from the next room. Startled, I stood still, frozen to the spot, straining to hear something else, but there was nothing, just the sound of silence.

‘Pull yourself together, Kitty,’ I said. Talking to myself was something I did often these days.

Over the last few years, looking after Mum had taken up almost all of my time. I was her sole carer. It had become a lonely existence, with only my books for company. Most of my friends had vanished over time, disappearing off to universities all over the country to enjoy newfound friendships and freedom. Their invites had been plentiful to begin with, but the more times I turned them down, the less they remembered to invite me. I couldn’t blame them – what did I have to offer in the grand scheme of things? I didn’t have any clue about fashion or make-up or men; the last few years of my life had been spent washing and clothing Mum and cooking her meals whilst battling with the daily household chores. It hadn’t always been like this – there had been a time when I was a social butterfly and in my college days I flitted from one party to another. I enjoyed spending time with my friends, but once my mum was diagnosed with her illness everything changed rapidly. Without my dad, she only had me to rely on, and I wasn’t going to let her down. Even though some of my memories were raw, they were also heartening. I was apprehensive about my new adventure, yet there was a tinge of excitement inside me too.

I walked towards another door situated at the back of the living room and cautiously pushed it open. Startled, I gasped. There before me were two round, beady eyes staring straight back at me. Catching my breath, I was relieved to find it was only a cat; it must have sought warmth away from the bitter chill of the January air. He meowed and padded towards me. Then he arched his back, brushing his furry white body against my legs. The tinkle of his collar suggested he belonged to someone. Reaching for his tag, I saw his name was Alfie and he belonged … well, he belonged to me, according to the battered, engraved gold tag attached to his red tartan collar. His address was my new address. This was a comforting welcome; I wasn’t on my own. Sweeping him up into my arms, I snuggled him into my neck, stroking his fur whilst he purred contentedly, probably thankful he was no longer alone. He was a little on the scrawny side and I had no idea who had been feeding him. No doubt he had fended for himself by hunting for his food, but I was here now – I would care for him. I placed him on the floor and opened the kitchen cupboards; they were bare except for a bag of pasta and a box of cat biscuits. I shook the box and immediately Alfie jumped up onto the table, scrutinising my every move. I poured the biscuits into a bowl. Within a matter of seconds the bowl was empty and he sat on the table licking his paws. He appeared happy and I stroked his head.

The kitchen was homely: there was a round pine table positioned in the middle of the room with four chairs tucked away underneath; a Belfast sink to one end of the kitchen and oak-coloured units that ran all along the far wall; a fridge, a cooker and a wall clock that was still ticking. Opening the fridge door, I glanced inside. I retrieved the carton of milk sitting in the doorway, which was no longer in date, and placed it on top of the kitchen unit. Towards the back of the kitchen I noticed a bike, an old-fashioned one with a wicker basket attached to the front of it, propped up against the wall. It had been years since I had ridden a bike; in fact the last time I could even remember was when I raced around the block against my father. I had squealed with delight whilst we both pedalled furiously to catch up with the ice-cream van. Blinking back tears, I picked up Alfie from the table and cuddled him; he was still purring. I was glad of my new friend, my only friend for now.

Placing Alfie onto the floor, I walked back out into the hallway, but he was hot on my heels. The door to the bedroom was slightly ajar, and, peeping around it, I was pleased to see it was a charming room, the rosebud-patterned curtains tied back to reveal a view of the street. It was deserted; there wasn’t a single car or person in sight. The bedroom’s décor was dated but the room was clean and tidy. There was a double bed, a bedside table with a lamp and a freestanding wardrobe. I was relieved to discover the bed because, up until now, I’d had no clue as to where I was going to sleep tonight. I opened the wardrobe door; it was empty except for a few wire coat hangers and a bundle of clean sheets folded up on the top shelf. There was a small bathroom just off the bedroom and in a nutshell that was about it.

Since I was a child I had always had the familiarity of my family home. After my dad died, my mum would never leave; she swore blind they would have to carry her out of that house in a box. Her cherished memories were made there with my dad and while she lived there she felt he was always close by. Since her death I had put the house up for sale; it was too much for me to take on by myself. It was an emotional, heart-wrenching decision, but I needed to move on.

I was going to use the money to buy myself a flat that I could afford and find myself a job. The call from the solicitors came at the right time – it was better than winning the lottery. My childhood home was sold fully furnished and the new family were extremely grateful for the helping hand, as was I.

This flat was everything I needed and somehow it was mine. I wasn’t sure how or why it belonged to me but I was here and here I was going to stay.

My mind was whirling and today’s journey was beginning to take its toll. Lying my exhausted body down on top of the bed, I stared at the ceiling. I needed answers and I had no idea who was going to provide them. Since I was a small child my parents had told me my grandparents were deceased, so why, if this hadn’t been the case and my grandmother had been very much alive, had I never met them?

Alfie jumped up and curled alongside the arch of my body. He too seemed pleased with the sudden turn of events – he had a new friend. Tomorrow, the second part of my adventure would begin. I was anxious to discover what would be uncovered at the mysterious Bluebell Lodge. Feeling my eyelids droop, I closed them tightly, and fell into a deep sleep, the most restful sleep I’d had since my mother had died.

Chapter Two

I woke up startled, forgetting where I was for a brief moment. Blinking, I stretched my arms then glanced down at my watch. It was 10 a.m. already. My stomach was in knots and I realised I hadn’t eaten since yesterday lunchtime. My first priority had to be to locate the nearest shop and stock up on essentials.

Alfie must have read my mind because he uncurled himself and started to butt his head against my hand; he too must be famished.

This was it: my new life in Rosefield started today, and it was time to explore. Feeling anxious, I wished Mum were here. She’d been my only friend for so many years and here I was, all alone now except for Alfie.

Still, I was looking forward to the day ahead. I stretched my arms, threw back the covers and walked over to the window; the street was already full of life. Looking up at the sky for comfort, I felt close to Mum today. Blinking the tears away, I smiled; I felt as if she would be watching over me.

I splashed tepid water on my face and brushed my teeth – that would have to do for now. My other personal belongings were making their way to my new home by removal van; hopefully they would arrive in the next day or two.

Heading into the kitchen, I decided to take the bike. I checked the tyres; they were inflated, which was a good start. I steered the bike towards the front door, being careful not to damage any wallpaper. Tossing my purse into the basket, I bounced the bike down the steps and turned to lock the door behind me. Alfie was sitting there with his eyes wide, probably praying that I wasn’t leaving him.

‘I’ll be back as soon as I can, don’t worry,’ I said softly, stroking his head. I laughed; it made a change actually speaking to another living creature. Since Mum’s death the person I had been talking to most had been myself.

Closing the front door, I locked it behind me. I mounted the saddle and pocketed the key, then pushed off, placing my feet on the pedals. Deciding to cycle left, I headed off down the street.

‘Here we go.’

It was mid-morning and people were bustling up and down, going about their business. A couple of ladies stood on the edge of the pavement and gave me a cheery wave when I cycled past, followed by a ‘good morning’. I felt myself smile. Lifting my hand, I waved back with enthusiasm. I surprised myself; it felt like I hadn’t interacted with strangers for years, No one knew me here and I was going to grab this fresh start with both hands. I cycled past numerous terraced houses; each one of them pretty, with a different coloured door, and very well maintained. A little further on there was a small arcade of shops: a butcher’s, a baker’s and a newsagent. I noticed a pub on the corner but that was still plunged in darkness and had not yet opened its doors for the lunchtime trade.

I braked outside the baker’s and slid from the saddle, leaning the bike against the window. I retrieved my purse from the basket and entered the quaint little shop. Its glass cabinets were bursting with mouth-watering cakes, pastries and home-made sandwiches. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the shop, which instantly triggered the ache of hunger in the pit of my stomach. I purchased numerous items and the assistant packed them into a carrier bag. She rang up the amount on the till and I handed over the loose change from my purse. I exchanged smiles with her; she seemed pleasant enough. ‘Enjoy your food,’ she said, handing my receipt over the counter. I looked at the name on her badge: Lucinda. She looked around my age; maybe she’d be someone I could eventually ask about my new home and surroundings.

I’d purchased enough food for the next few days, but now for Alfie; I mustn’t forget Alfie, the poor mite. The newsagent was next to the baker’s. It wasn’t the usual place to find cat food, but I decided to try there first. As I pushed the door open the bell tinkled above my head, alerting the assistant to my presence. This shop was like Aladdin’s cave; it sold everything from hardware to milk and, yes, thankfully, cat food. I grabbed a packet from the bottom shelf and placed it on the counter, and then decided to add a bottle of wine and a couple of ready meals for myself. The assistant smiled at me. I promptly paid and thanked her. Throwing my bags into the basket, I mounted the saddle and pedalled back down the street exactly the same way I had come. Everyone seemed friendly, the high street was picturesque and I already felt at ease. Braking in front of my house, I hopped off the saddle and bounced the bike back up the steps towards the front door. Alfie was waiting patiently on the other side, purring, meowing, and most probably relieved I had returned, eagerly waiting to be fed.

I’d barely torn open the packet of food before Alfie began nudging my hand, trying to eat the contents. Once he had finished, his wide eyes were willing me to give him more. I too demolished my lunch quickly; the ache in my stomach began to diminish. Hugging a mug of tea, I relocated to the sofa and pondered my next move. The directions to Bluebell Lodge lay mapped out on the piece of paper in front of me. That was it – just directions, nothing more. I had already been informed that Bluebell Lodge was a farmhouse, the family home of the Porters and since Agnes Porter, my grandmother, had passed away, the estate was being managed by Tom Drew. The route didn’t look difficult and judging by the map it was less than five minutes from the house, which was ideal because I had never owned a car. I had no idea what I was going to find, but I was intrigued to find out.