The Little Clock House on the Green: A heartwarming cosy romance perfect for summer

A Somersby Sister, 15th October 2013.

Kate.

Twenty-four and staring up at The Clock House.

Dressed in black.

Blind with tears.

Filled with rage.

And completely and utterly finished with dreams.

The sound of a door closing brought Kate back to life. She whirled around, the echoes of memory so strong she half expected to see a replay of a five-year-old Bea disappearing around a corner. But there was no movement. No sound. Nothing.

Heaving in a breath she realised she’d been so caught up she’d been moving through the building by rote and now she was standing in the largest of the main rooms on the ground floor – the one that Trudie used for productions because you could erect a stage at one end and still have space for at least twenty rows of seating for the audience.

Kate’s gaze wandered from the soothing eau de nil paint on the walls, up to the high white painted ceiling with its ornate coving and now-naked ceiling-rose. At one time there’d been a Phantom-of-the-Opera-worthy chandelier hanging from the rose. Kate had seen photographs of it from when the building had belonged to Old Man Isaac’s great-grandfather – a famous clockmaker who’d settled in the village and built this place. If she did get to open this place as a spa she was determined to bring back a little of that opulence for customers to appreciate.

It was sad Old Man Isaac didn’t have anyone left in his family to pass the building on to, but given the chance, she’d make him proud with what she wanted to turn it into.

With the memories she’d been so worried about facing starting to fade, Kate walked back through the large open foyer and into the next main room. This room was slightly smaller because of the kitchenette. Kate knew that contained within the Formica cabinets were topsy-turvy towers of teacups with matching saucers and plates in what she was fairly certain Farrow and Ball would name ‘Catering Crockery in Hospital Blue’.

In the far corner of the room there was a lonely spinner of leaflets, their print faded with time and the sunlight that poured in through the floor-to-ceiling double doors. Soft-play mats in primary colours were stacked in the corner. Evidence that the local nursery still used the room.

Kate was going to need to work out how to zone the areas so that there was still plenty of space for village functions. Her mind drifted to thoughts of building regulations. What if there was some sort of covenant on the land that meant you couldn’t use the building for a commercial enterprise?

She thought of Bea’s box files. Ever since Kate had come up with the hare-brained scheme to open a day spa one day, Bea had got fixated on opening it in The Clock House. Not that they ever envisaged having the funds to buy the building. But still. The dreams had had to be corralled somehow and so Bea had collated files of research and made business plan after business plan.

If Kate was going to do this, she’d need to ask Oscar if he’d kept all of Bea’s files.

If she did this?

It hit her then how big a thing this was to do. And who was she, with her zero experience, to have a go?

The doubt she’d managed to bat away the moment she’d put that pebble in her pocket gathered and swooped, to peck at her.

What on earth had she been thinking? Had she even been thinking? If she really wanted to resurrect past dreams, she should do it in a place that didn’t know her. Somewhere where if she failed, that failure wouldn’t strike at the heart of those she loved.

Needing air, she unlocked one of the patio doors and stepped out into the walled garden. She walked towards the intricately carved wrought-iron moon-gate in the wall, overwhelmed with feeling.

She hadn’t realised how much she yearned for the opportunity to settle and build something. Something that would end all the regret and the running.

She’d toyed with this future like a cat toys with a mouse too many times to count and now she wasn’t sure she’d ever believe she deserved it.

How had she managed to convince herself that Old Man Isaac selling and Juliet sending her the postcards were signs from Bea? Now that she was actually here, standing in front of the moon-gate, and faced with the reality of what running a business would entail…

She should let it go.

It would find lovely owners. Old Man Isaac would make certain of that, she was sure.

And maybe whoever owned it next would turn it back into a house.

A home.

And on her visits back to Whispers Wood, she’d be able to walk past it without feeling so divided.

Without feeling.

With her heart heavy in her chest she opened the moon-gate and walked through, thinking she’d take one last look and then explain to Juliet that she was very sorry, but she wasn’t the right person to take over the place.

She stopped to take in the scene before her.

Oh my.

So ironic that here time had absolutely stood still, she thought, as she looked around.

It always looked best in spring and summer. The wild meadow on the other side of the moon-gate. Where tall grass vied for space with poppies, cornflowers and buttercups.

And there, tucked away amongst the large shrubs of buddleia, was what Kate had been unconsciously looking for since opening the main door of the building.

As she stared at the roofs of the white painted hives, the tears finally spilled from Kate’s brown eyes.

She’d found Bea’s bees.

Chapter 7

Then I Saw Her Face, Now I’m A Belieber!

Daniel

Daniel was finishing his cool-down when the lady with the crazy energy from the exercise class approached.

Impish blue eyes, fire-engine-red lips and dressed from head to toe in a pink so bright it hurt his eyes, she bounced up and greeted him with a ‘Cooee,’ and a hand-wave.

‘Morning,’ he replied cautiously.

‘I don’t think we’ve seen you around here before, have we, sweetie? I’m guessing it’s you that owns that beautiful car that Ted is working on?’

Daniel tried to remember that outside London it was perfectly acceptable to talk to complete strangers. ‘That’s right.’

‘So, I suppose you’ll be with us until Ted fixes you up?’

‘I guess so,’ Daniel agreed, although, truth to tell, he’d enjoyed the last couple of days enough to have thought about staying on. He hadn’t had a holiday in years and the change of pace had reminded him that not everyone in the world was caught up in that ‘concrete jungle where dreams are made of’, mentality.

When Ted had intimated that Daniel would rather be in a five-star hotel than the local village B&B, he hadn’t been that far off the mark. He’d hot-footed it out of London with his only thought being to get away, but if Monroe hadn’t broken down, it wouldn’t have occurred to Daniel to stop in a village, or even small town. He’d have carried on driving until he’d hit the next major city and paid a lot of money to stay in an impersonal hotel.

He’d really lucked out at the B&B, though, because in addition to the fabulous breakfasts and scrumptious cream teas, he would swear his host had instantly picked up on his need for anonymity. Other than some quiet and polite greetings, he’d been left to his own devices. Kicking back and mulling things over had been something he’d needed to do for weeks.

‘What a shame you’re not staying the summer, at least,’ the woman in front of him said and Daniel felt her gaze slide interestingly over him from head to toe. He took an awkward step backwards. Was she… hitting on him? Surely not. She was at least twice his age.

‘I guess you probably don’t get a lot of newcomers to the village?’ he asked, attempting to stretch the conversation and prove he wasn’t feeling the pressure of small talk.

‘Too true, sweetie. But you mustn’t mind me – I’m always on the lookout, that’s all.’

The lookout? He was just wondering if there was any tactful way of telling her he wasn’t interested but that he could show her how to set up a Tinder account when he saw her.

It was the third time he’d spotted her in two days.

The first time, she’d been hauling case out of the back of that taxi and Monroe hadn’t exactly shown herself in her best light. The second time, she’d been pacing back and forth across the small front garden of the cottage the taxi had pulled up outside of. The last time he’d seen her had been a few moments before – talking to the woman now standing in front of him. He’d spotted the boots first before lifting his gaze to notice the legs were out again. By the time he’d reached the daisy-dukes he’d been so distracted he’d nearly run into a tree. Righting himself and concerned he might end up doing something else embarrassing, like tripping over a leaf and face-planting right in front of her, he’d elected to pretend he hadn’t seen her and concentrate on getting the rest of his run in.

‘I have to be on the lookout,’ the woman in pink told him, ‘I’m casting for A Midsummer Night’s Dream and really want us in rehearsals by the end of this month.’

Daniel wasn’t listening. He was too interested in watching the gorgeous brunette with the dynamite legs hop over the low brick wall in front of the building at the end of the village green and… wait, had she just kicked that For Sale sign?

He grinned as he watched her give it a second kick before she disappeared into the building.

‘…and I’m always on the lookout for fresh talent. I don’t suppose you can act, sing or dance as well as you look?’

Daniel whipped his attention back to the woman in front of him. ‘I’m sorry, cast members?’

‘Oh, sweetie, don’t worry, I can see your mind is elsewhere,’ she said, with a chuckle, as she turned in the direction of his gaze.

She wasn’t wrong. With a nod of his head towards the building in front of them, he found himself asking, ‘Is The Clock House a private residence?’ Maybe she kicked the sign because she lived there and didn’t want to move.

‘I guess technically it is. Old Man Isaac – that’s the owner, moved out a few years ago when he turned eighty. Got a bit much for him,’ the woman confided. ‘Moved into one of the cottages opposite,’ she explained, pointing in the direction of the charming stone cottages at the other end of the green. ‘He never did get married nor have any children, so he sort of keeps the building open for the village to use it. You know, for toddler groups and the local flower-arranging class, that sort of thing. It’s a fabulous space. My am-dram group meets there every week.’

‘I see. So if the door was open I would be free to go in and take a look around?’

‘Of course. On a Thursday morning it should be empty. I’m going to need your name, though.’

‘My name?’

‘And a few other details,’ she said, grinning from ear to ear.

Oh, she was good. He smiled and held out his hand. ‘Daniel Westlake. And you already know I’m in the village because my car broke down and I’m waiting for Ted to get the part he needs and then fit it.’

‘And where are you staying while you’re here?’

‘At the little B&B on the other side of the village. Sheila Somersby’s place?’

‘I know it. Sheila has a lovely place.’ And apparently deciding he was harmless, she finished with, ‘Well, Daniel Westlake, it’s been lovely to meet you. Enjoy your visit at The Clock House. I’m Trudie McTravers. It’s a small place, so no doubt we’ll run into each other again.’

‘Don’t forget to stretch and cool-down properly before you leave the green.’

She smiled and in a flurry of pink and red, jogged back across the green.

Daniel walked towards The Clock House and bypassing hopping over the wall, opted for the perfectly accessible gated entrance. Three strides across the gravel and he was poking his head inside the front doors.

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he muttered as he stepped across the threshold into the large foyer that was so much more grand than he had been expecting.

He turned in a circle, blowing out a long whistle when he saw the beautiful sweeping staircase which curved up to the next floor. The stick balusters were painted in thick creamy gloss, and the handrail and stair-treads had been left in their original dark wood, though stained with a clear protective varnish. All the walls were painted in a watery green, right up to the cornicing, which was painted in simple white.

Daniel couldn’t believe the owner, this Old Man Isaac fellow, had let the village use such a stately place for meetings and what-not. Or that the villagers had kept it so lovingly maintained. Said something about the people of Whispers Wood, didn’t it?

As he crossed the parquet floor he wondered what it would have been like to grow up in a house like this one. He’d spent most of his childhood in a crowded semi in Stevenage with his mum, his aunt and uncle, and their two kids, because his father was away such a lot. It hadn’t been a bad upbringing, but he’d rather have been on the road with his dad. At least in those early years, Daniel reflected, before automatically shutting his thoughts down.

Taken with the welcoming ambience, he stole up the staircase to explore, forgetting he was supposed to be looking out for a glimpse of his ‘wonder woman’.

He guessed once upon a time the rooms on the second floor would have been one-room deep, in keeping with the traditional Georgian layout. Reaching out, he knocked against one of the walls in the same way he’d seen the woman with all the scarves do in that property programme – and concluded that most of the walls were partition. If it was up to him he’d keep some of them divided and open some out.

To use as what, though?

And that’s when it hit him.

If it was him he’d open this place up as office space… conference facilities… something that would bring people who worked in isolation together.

Within minutes, the creative side of his brain, held in check for far too long, was firing like a Nerf gun at a seven-year-olds birthday party. Inspiration flexed back to life like an old and wasted muscle and as he continued his tour he focused on the fact that the place was for sale and how he needed something to do.

What would it be like to get to come to work in a space like this every day?

Hadn’t he been looking for a fresh start?

Maybe Monroe breaking down was fate. Daniel came to a sudden halt halfway back down the stairs to the ground floor. He wasn’t sure he believed in fate. Believing in fate would surely render the last year as being unavoidable and Daniel couldn’t accept that. He was too certain that if he’d been paying proper attention – been looking at the whole picture – he would have spotted what Hugo had been up to earlier.

By the time he’d made it back down to the foyer Daniel had all but totally convinced himself that one weird flight of fancy was allowed after everything that had happened lately. To truly consider buying this place when he already had one failed business under his belt was career suicide.

Except… he couldn’t imagine working for someone else. Couldn’t think how to transition from accountancy to anything else without having to explain this whole sorry year and as soon as anyone discovered what had happened at West and Westlake, it wouldn’t matter that he was the innocent party. He’d be considered a risk.

Trudie McTravers had said the village used this place for functions. All he’d be doing, if he bought it, would be guaranteeing that even more people could use it. He remembered all those fruitless hours searching for affordable business premises when he and Hugo had located to London. For the first eight months, they’d had to run West and Westlake from a combination of Hugo’s front room and the Starbucks down the road.

There must be people in the surrounding villages who worked from home. Sole business owners having to ask their kids to keep the noise down because they were working. Or people trying to find a place to hold a meeting. Setting up this place as a pop-up and pop-in work premises would make the perfect small business.

A business where the only faith he’d have to have would be in himself.

He wandered into a room with a small kitchenette, thinking that he was crazy.

A business like he was thinking of wasn’t about numbers. It wasn’t accountancy.

It was… sexier.

More appealing.

But who swapped numbers, facts and assurances for a creative small business that would depend on getting people in to turn a profit?

Straight-down-the-line Daniel Westlake certainly wouldn’t. Would he?

Shoving a hand through his nut brown hair in frustration, he sighed. He probably couldn’t afford it anyway.

There was something about this place, though. He’d only been in it for a few moments.

Only been in the village for a handful more.

Crazy.

Yet he had his phone in his hand with half a mind to check house prices in the area before he realised that it was actually ringing.

‘Hello?’ he said, answering the call, grateful for the interruption because there was working out what to do next business-wise and there was getting completely carried away without doing a shred of research into a field he knew nothing about.

‘Mr Westlake? It’s Ted… said I’d ring you when–’

Daniel couldn’t hear a thing over the music playing in the background. ‘Sorry? What? I can’t hear you.’

‘…I just wanted to let you know that it’s going to take a few more days to fit it.’

‘So, what exactly was the problem with her, then?’ Daniel shouted. ‘Sorry – can you turn the music down your end? I can’t make out – oomph–’

Daniel felt a sudden impact against his back.

‘What the–’ he stopped mid-sentence because then there was softness pressed up against him.

Instinctively he turned, his arms coming protectively out and around the warmth that had ploughed into him.

The fall was so unexpected he didn’t have time to twist and soften the other person’s landing.

His breath whooshed out of him as he landed and then didn’t quite make it all the way back into his lungs because that was when he registered that the person on the hard parquet floor with him, was her.

Outstanding!

Because falling on her was so much better than falling down in front of her.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he finally managed, growing concerned when she didn’t move or make any kind of sound as she lay under him. ‘Hey?’ he whispered, leaning forward to check for signs of life, his heart speeding up when she didn’t respond. ‘Hey, hey, hey,’ he repeated, each word getting a little louder and more panicky when she continued to lie silent under him.

His hand came out to gently sweep across her cheekbone and without giving him any time to prepare, her huge, sparkling brown eyes suddenly flashed open to stare up at him.

Daniel swallowed. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen such big, such beautiful, such emotive brown eyes. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure.’ She lifted a hand to the back of her head and groaned. ‘I think I might be dead.’ She blinked a couple of times and then frowned. ‘Although I have to say it’s a huge surprise if I am – I mean, I always thought there’d be harp music or bells in heaven… I definitely didn’t figure on The Big Man being a Justin Bieber fan.’

Chapter 8

The Whirling Dervish in the Wild Wellies

Daniel

‘A “what” fan?’ Daniel asked, unsure she was making sense. Maybe he’d really hurt her when he’d landed on top of her.

‘You can’t hear music?’ she asked, wincing slightly as she moved her head to the side, as if to check she could hear properly.

Over the sound of his thumping heart, Daniel suddenly registered a voice singing the words, ‘Is It Too Late For Me To Say Sorry Now’, and in a smooth, and let’s face it, basic accountancy move, put two and two together. ‘Oh, hell. The music you can hear is coming from my phone. Hold tight,’ he said and with one hand anchoring her to him, he reached out to grab the phone that had fallen from his hand when they’d hit the ground. ‘Ted? I’m sorry, I’m going to have to call you back, okay?’ and without waiting for a reply, he ended the call.

‘So, I’m not in heaven, then?’ she asked.

‘I hope that’s not too disappointing for you.’

An almost sorrowful expression that he couldn’t hope to decipher the meaning behind flitted briefly into her eyes before she chased it away with a determined, ‘Nah, I’m a glass half-full kind of gal.’

He smiled and wondered how long he could leave it before mentioning her long legs clamped around his hips.

Giving in to the urge to touch her again, he reached out and repeated the stroke of his thumb gently across her cheekbone. Her skin was like velvet and was it his imagination or did she tremble under him? ‘So.’ He blew out a soft breath. ‘You’re really real.’

‘As opposed to…?’

‘I’ve been wondering if you were a ghost,’ he admitted.

She looked intrigued. ‘Are we talking about the “Don’t Cross the Streams” kind, or the standing behind a pottery wheel, kind?’

‘The second one, I think,’ he answered.

She nodded. ‘Right, because who doesn’t love clay?’ And then that same haunting expression of earlier came back before she closed her eyes briefly, as if to smother it. When her eyelids fluttered open again, she said quietly, ‘It’s this place. It’ll do that to you. Bring back ghosts.’

He wondered what ghosts she’d been running from when she’d hurled herself through the open door and into him and he wanted to lift the heaviness from her words. ‘Ah, but when I first saw you, you weren’t in here.’

‘I wasn’t? Where did you first see me, then?’ Her expression took on an exaggerated thoughtful pose before she suddenly snapped her fingers, ‘Oh wait… was it… in your dreams?’

A laugh rumbled out of him. ‘You never say what’s expected, do you?’

‘And you do, I suppose?’

‘Plus, you have really weird hair,’ he replied, without missing a beat.

She sniffed. ‘I’ll have you know that my current deconstructed/reconstructed Amy Winehouse do is all the rage. At least, it will be for prom,’ she added, as if that explained everything.

It really didn’t, but being as he was lying on the floor in a building he’d just decided to buy, with a girl averse to talking in normal sentences, he was so far past surreal it would be silly to care.

Hell, maybe the knock had rendered him unconscious and he was the one hallucinating. As if to double-check the woman lying under him was indeed really real, he stared back down at her. That was when he noticed the tear tracks.

‘You’ve been crying,’ he accused.

The fun that had come back into her eyes left again.

‘Hey, your hair isn’t that bad,’ he added, trying to soften his claim about her crying.

Her full lips twitched. ‘It really is, but it was made with love, so I had to go with it. Are you going to let me up, then?’

‘Thinking about it,’ he replied, trying to come up with an excuse that meant he didn’t have to. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Are you uncomfortable?’

She gave him a look that said, not entirely, which he took as encouragement.

Fine by him to stay on the floor with her.

‘So are you going to tell me why you’ve been crying?’ he prodded, wanting to know what it was that had sent her whirling into his arms.

Immediately the shields came up. He shouldn’t have pressed it. He felt bad for landing on top of her, though – wanted to make sure he hadn’t put some of the sting in her eyes.

‘It’s fine. I’m fine,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘Let me up, will you?’

‘Or, we could do the Snow Patrol thing and let me lie with you and just forget the world.’

‘So tempting. And yet…’ This time there was a note of steel in her voice that had him holding his hands up in surrender.