The Little Clock House on the Green: A heartwarming cosy romance perfect for summer. Eve Devon
Chapter 6
Kate
Kate emerged from the cut-through into brilliant sunlight and couldn’t understand why there was a lot of shouting going on. As her eyes adjusted, there, under the shade of the oak trees lining the right hand side of the green was her answer… Someone had gone and let the army in to train on the green.
Her first thought was, did Crispin know about this?
Her second thought, as she looked closer, was that the army would probably be full of fitter, younger individuals, who wouldn’t give away their position by training in varying eye-watering shades of neon Lycra.
So the noughties had truly arrived in Whispers Wood. Prior to this, outdoor exercise in the village was usually of the T’ai Chi pace, rather than full-on, cardiac-arrest-inducing (by the looks of some of the participants), sergeant-major-style-y circuit-training.
‘Kate? Kate Somersby? Sweetie, is that you?’
Kate looked over in the direction of the voice, a smile breaking out over her face. ‘Hi, Trudie – looking good.’
‘Oh, thanks, sweetie. Trying to lose these last fifteen pounds is killer,’ she puffed out as she lunged not so much gracefully as disgracefully across the green towards her.
‘I see that,’ Kate replied.
Kate always thought of Trudie McTravers as the Eddie to Aunt Cheryl’s Pats because whenever they got together and alcohol was involved, mayhem wasn’t usually far behind.
Wonderfully larger-than-life and the self-appointed creative director of the local Whispers Wood am-dram society, rumour had it that during the eighties Trudie had starred in several Alan Ayckbourn plays in the West End.
Rumour also had it that before quiet and reserved bank manager, Nigel, had snapped her up she’d also starred in several films of an adult nature. Trudie never confirmed nor denied the rumours and as her Twitter ID was: @AFlairForTheDramatic, Kate suspected she wasn’t only the star of such rumours but the source as well.
‘You just get back?’ Trudie puffed out.
Kate nodded. ‘A couple of days ago.’
Trudie’s gaze strayed to Kate’s ‘do’ and grinned. ‘Cheryl?’
‘Cheryl,’ Kate confirmed.
‘How long are you back for?’
‘Oh, this time I was thinking,’ she leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, ‘of forever’.
Trudie’s laugh took on a braying quality before she brought herself under control. ‘Okay, but actually, that’s got me thinking… How long are you back for really, because we’re doing Midsummer Night’s Dream again, and you always made a fabulous Titania.’
Kate winced at the disbelieving laugh and determined not to gently remind Trudie that it had been Bea, not her, who had played Titania, to everyone’s delight.
Some years Trudie ‘encouraged’ (begged and bribed) so many of the Whispers Wood inhabitants into her production that she had to rope in the residents of Whispers Ford to make up an audience. But the year Bea had played Titania and Oscar Matthews had played Bottom, everyone had agreed it had been Trudie’s most inspired production yet. Of course, that was the year that Bea had finally got Oscar Matthews to notice her, so…
‘McTravers, are you chatting or exercising?’
Kate glanced over in the direction of the booming voice. ‘Oops,’ she whispered out of the side of her mouth to Trudie, ‘I don’t think Private Benjamin is allowed to talk.’
‘I’m a woman,’ Trudie shouted back at the fitness instructor, ‘I can talk and exercise.’
‘Prove it,’ ordered Mr Sergeant Major, ‘and give me fifteen star jumps while you’re standing around chatting the day away.’
‘Is he for real?’ Kate asked in equal parts scared and impressed as Trudie duly obliged.
‘Trust me, he is definitely for real,’ Trudie puffed out. ‘Last week, he caught Crispin chatting to Sandeep and made him drop and give him twenty.’
‘No! And Crispin did it?’
‘Managed twelve before he passed out.’
‘Oh my God, that’s barbaric.’ Although, darn, because she would have loved to have seen that.
She looked over at the rest of the class, hanging out in the shade of the trees, doing burpees. Burpees! On Whispers Wood green. It defied all village logic. Or maybe she’d been away too long. ‘Trudie, are you sure this guy isn’t violating your civil rights or something?’
‘Sweetie, I can’t afford to care if I want to lose the fifteen pounds. Besides,’ she gasped mid star-jump. ‘Have you seen the way his butt looks in those shorts?’
Kate couldn’t help it – she looked over at the fitness instructor and, yes, checked out his butt encased in the kind of white shorts last seen in an eighties Wimbledon final. ‘Wow. Um. Very Magnum P.I.’
‘Such a shame that the face was made for radio.’
‘Trudie,’ Kate admonished.
‘At least I get to spend one hour three mornings a week doing a little butt-staring,’ Trudie wriggled her eyebrows appreciatively.
‘And what does Nigel have to say about this new hobby of yours?’
‘Oh he’s far too busy reaping the rewards to complain.’
Kate screwed up her face. ‘Euw! T.M.I.’
‘What can you possibly mean,’ Trudie said, adopting an innocent expression. ‘I’m talking about having the stamina to help Nigel out in the garden – what are you talking about?’
Kate laughed.
‘Now all I have to do,’ Trudie added, her attention on the fitness instructor, ‘is to convince Mr Butt that after helping out backstage at the summer play, he really wants to be in the Christmas one.’
‘Playing what? The back end of the pantomime horse?’
‘Trudie McTravers, do not make me come over there,’ came the voice from the other end of the green.
‘Help,’ Trudie said, not very convincingly.
‘Run!’ Kate advised. ‘Run like the wind.’
Trudie finished her star-jumps and turned to give Kate a mock salute. ‘Back for forever, you say?’
‘Uh-huh,’ Kate murmured, saluting back, convinced she heard Trudie mutter a, ‘well, just when you think you’ve heard it all,’ under her breath as she sort of yomped back to the rest of the class.
Kate’s smile faltered when she realised she had nothing left to distract her from what she’d come to see.
She blew out a breath to prepare for her first proper glance… and turned to face The Clock House.
There it stood.
Rising up from the far end of the village green. Strong and straight and true.
Her gaze roamed greedily over it.
The three-storeys-high, Georgian red-brick building with the ornate clock perched proudly on top was finished off with a lead dome and brass weathervane.
The sash windows still had their white trim, and the matching double doors, gleaming in the sunshine, looked as if they’d only recently been re-painted. In the brick space between the second and third floors, simple, no-fuss, wrought-iron lettering spelled out ‘The Clock House’.