Lady Valetta Writes

I’ve been a bit quiet on here. Life! Also, I’ve entered many of my stories into competitions, and most dictate that the work cannot have been “published” anywhere else. Apparently, if I upload a story on here, it is considered to be “published” – hey, I’m a “published” writer!

Anyway, my delightful local Writers’ Circle holds a Summer writing competition – and I came third!! (As I did last year, it must be my M.O).

The theme was: With West Wiltshire in Mind. I thought it was broad enough to fire my imagination, but I actually found it rather difficult. I eventually settled on something that took in a little of my own journey, with what I felt was obligatory reference to the local countryside and – a dog. We have cats, but everyone else round these parts seems to own a dog, so I felt that a dog was part of the landscape! I wasn’t at all convinced it was my best writing, so I was very surprised when the judge – a local small publisher – awarded it third prize! Enjoy…

WEST IS BEST

Rain pummelled the carcase of Rosie’s car as it headed west along the A303. She’d hoped to take a good glimpse of Stonehenge but it was obscured by the downpour. Not an auspicious start to her trip.

Emerging from the soulless church hall into the sun-drenched bustle of Soho, following an audition earlier that week, the prospect of a weekend in the Wiltshire countryside felt like just the tonic. She’d felt the job slipping away as she sat across from the director. Sometimes, you could just tell and Rosie knew that she was never going to be their girl for the role.

‘Girl’ was probably pushing it. Heading towards her fifties with little to show for a career; one ex-husband, sharing the flat that had once been theirs with a younger professional, no pension in sight, she suddenly felt the futility of chasing this dream, much like chasing a lover who was always unavailable, never returned your calls.

It wasn’t a shock when Aunt Helen died, but what did come as a shock was a solicitor informing her that she was an Executor to Helen’s will. The real surprise, when she’d met said solicitor in his musty office in a county town on the Somerset-Wiltshire border, was that Helen had left her house to Rosie. True, Helen had no children, but there were other nieces and a nephew. Rosie couldn’t fathom it, but wasn’t going to look this gift-horse in the mouth.

Hence, she was heading west again, but rather than the longed-for few days of late spring warmth while she rediscovered Helen’s part of the country, the heavens had opened, accompanied by a bracing breeze (more like hurricane, Rosie thought) and she’d forgotten her wellies.

Just beyond Stonehenge, Rosie smiled as, despite the driving rain, the countryside began to unfold: shades of green clashing, yet also matching, soft hills unfolding into each other, some topped with clumps of woodland, like beacons to the surrounding land, while others resembled smooth, draping velvet.

When she finally pulled up outside Helen’s house, her windscreen wipers had almost given up the fight against the weather, and Rosie sighed with relief that her ancient car had survived. They would both need a few days’ rest before the return journey.

She sat and took in the property: a semi-detached cottage set slightly outside the town, towards the end of a pretty lane. A neat and inviting front garden, the house itself looked sturdy, welcoming. Roof looks intact, she thought, grateful for an expense that she wouldn’t need to bear, whether she kept the house or not.

Strange, she thought. She’d assumed she’d sell, but something had shifted.

As she dashed to the door, regretting her inappropriate footwear, she heard somebody calling her name and saw one of the neighbours sheltering in his porch.

“Rosie?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s me!”

“Justin,” he announced. “I expect you could do with a cuppa after your journey?”

Rosie had heard that country folk were friendly, but she wasn’t expecting to be on afternoon tea terms so soon.

“I was just going to take a look inside…” she replied, although the prospect of a cuppa was certainly enticing.

“Of course, sort yourself first. There’s no power on in Helen’s… sorry, YOUR place, so come here next.”

Rosie agreed she’d pop in after looking around.

As she stepped inside the cottage, a flood of childhood memories almost floored her. Little had changed, although Helen had always been keen to embrace the new, whether fashion or technology. The cottage was cosy but smart; eclectic artworks adorned the walls, and sofas bulged with cushions and throws. The kitchen was fresh and Rosie remembered Helen’s excitement at refurbishing it a few years back.

She headed upstairs, smiling as the floorboards creaked beneath her feet, but was brought up short by a view across the countryside from a side window. The rain had slacked off, and the patchwork of fields, protectively encircled by the distant hills, sparkled as if freshly-polished.

When she headed next door, she was warmly welcomed by Justin and his partner, Adam. They had prepared quite the tea, with Victoria Sponge and chocolate brownies on offer. Genial and friendly, their fondness for Helen was evident.

“She spoke so much about you,” Adam said. “We were never allowed to miss one of your appearances on the box,” he added, crunching down on a hazelnut brownie.

“I hope you didn’t blink,” Rosie said; her career had hardly lit the screen alight. “I just can’t understand why she left the house to me.”

“That’s easy,” Justin said. “You were the only one.”

“Pardon?”

“The others never made any effort, apart from Christmas cards. But you, well…”

“I wish I’d visited more often. I’d never even seen the new kitchen” Rosie said.

“It was the emails, the phone calls,” Adam explained. “She didn’t need much more.”

Just as Rosie was beginning to think she should head over to the guest house she’d booked for her stay, she was aware of a scratching, followed by barking, coming from behind the closed kitchen door.

“Ah, Edmund,” said Justin as he opened the door and a medium-sized dog with ears pricked up as if in readiness for anything, bounded through it and, to Rosie’s surprise, made straight for her.

“Oh, that’s good,” Adam cast a glance at Justin as Rosie ruffled the dog’s fur. It hadn’t given her much choice, to be honest.

“What?” asked Rosie, the dog now nestled by her side.

“Didn’t the solicitor explain?”

“Explain what?”

She was a little anxious now.

“The house comes with a resident.”

Rosie looked at Edmund.

“She named him after a character in King Lear,” explained Justin.

“Hope he’s friendlier,” Rosie said. “But, hang on…”

“Edmund was Helen’s greatest companion, and, well, he comes with her house. We’re just hosting him, until…”

Another surprise, Rosie reflected, as she tramped through the fields the following day, again regretting her lack of wellies. After a somewhat sleepless night at the guest-house, Rosie returned to the cottage where the boys furnished her with a lead, some poop-bags and treats, insisting that she and Edmund head off and become acquainted.

Fortunately, the weather had improved, and Edmund led Rosie through a copse, then upwards along a lane that opened out onto a common where the Wiltshire countryside spread out before her. She took in the horses in their paddocks below, listened to the cacophony of birdsong, and watched Edmund follow his nose through briars and hedges.

She absorbed it all and something stirred as she considered Helen’s house. Her house, now. The pantry off the kitchen could easily be sound-proofed, ideal for the voiceover work that brought her an income. She could let out her room in the London flat.

As these thoughts and more gained shape, Edmund bounded towards her. It was as if he’d always been there.

She knew what to do.

Twenty minutes later, she knocked on Adam and Justin’s door.

“Say hello to your new neighbour,” she said. “I’ll be buying some wellies, though.”

They beamed but their smiles were nowhere near as wide as Rosie’s, who knew she was finally home.