Myrtle Cottage

By Penny Pendleton

Myrtle Cottage, : (Book 1 in the Tonorwig Series)

After life changing events Jacob begins her new life at Myrtle cottage a market garden in a quiet yorkshire village.

A stranger to the village is not all he seems and brings with him questions and mistrust.

When tragedy arrives Jacob finds a link to the past that can solve problems of today.

The first book in the Tonowrwig Series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penny Pendleton
• Release date: Jul 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310277399

Book preview

Chapter 1.

'Have a good life'. She finished the note and signed her name with a defiant flourish, not with the Jacobyna he preferred but with the Jacob she preferred. She folded it neatly in half and placed it in the centre of the table.

Through the kitchen window she could see the sun begin to rise above the grey-ness of the housing estate, it was time to leave.

She stood up and collected the brightly coloured bag containing her laptop, purse and other essentials. She wore her usual jeans with a black t shirt and a woollen sweater. Running her fingers through her short iron grey hair she pushed her wire framed spectacles back on her nose and took a last look around the kitchen, checking for clutter.

It wasn't like most kitchens; it didn't have the usual signs of domestic habitation. No milk jug or sugar basin on the table. No scrap of paper with a scribbled shopping list, no newspaper with a half-finished crossword puzzle, not on this table. Just the single sheet of A4 paper.

The counter tops, lining the white painted walls, were as usual, clear of storage jars, teapot and kettle.

The cupboards housing the essentials of daily living were spotless. Closed tight, with no smudgy fingermarks around the wooden handles and no half open drawer showing an untidy arrangement of tea towels. If you were to open a cupboard and peer inside you'd find the shelves clean and the contents carefully arranged. No ketchup bottle with sauce dribbling down the side, no sticky pot of jam.

It was just how Peter said a home should look.

She took a last look through the kitchen window at the garden, with no money to spend. The house had grown shabby, but the garden made up for it. She loved the garden, it was her space, a colourful oasis of carefully tended vegetable and flower beds. She would miss the garden most.

She had grown up in this house and spent nearly thirty years of marriage here.

When she was a child, the garden had rambled down to a gentle, trundling stream. It had carried a cargo of fish over algae covered rocks past the old oak tree and under a stone bridge down through the village. Beyond the lane, fields had spread out to the horizon in a glorious hotchpodge of colour.

Over the years, the village changed. A housing estate now sprawled across the fields and the school had become a warehouse for a local firm of builders.

The river was now a dirty trickle of water flowing over abandoned supermarket trolleys and carrying a cargo, not of fish, but human detritus. The dusty grey hedges liberally festooned with discarded supermarket bags, empty beer cans and a million cigarette ends. They'd cut down the oak tree, and the stone bridge had given way to a concrete and iron monstrosity, wide enough to take motor cars along what was now, a busy arterial road. Little Burn was a rundown suburb of Harmston.

She gave a sigh of relief as the front door closed behind her. It seemed so obvious now, so much the right thing to do that she wondered if the idea of leaving Peter had been floating around in her subconscious for months, maybe years. It was hard to tell in retrospect.

Waving the black rubberised key and pressing the button on the edge, she grinned like a ten-year-old as the door to the camper van opened with a satisfying clunk.

The streamlined box she'd fitted on the roof was full of books. A selection of pots and pans from the house stored in the miniature kitchen. Her clothes and a few personal items stashed away in the various cupboards built into the living section. That was it, she didn't need anything else.

She sat in the driver's seat and adjusted the rear-view mirror slightly before reaching down to turn the key in the ignition. The engine fired with a gentle growl. A right at the traffic lights and through the new industrial estate.

She drove past the DIY and furniture stores with their promises of the perfect home before joining the thin stream of traffic heading east to pick up the M1.

After twenty minutes she'd reached the motorway and leaving the dusty yellow acreage of Lincolnshire she headed north towards the greenery of Yorkshire. The map on her phone told her she would be on the M1 for just over five hours.

Slowly, the anxious knot of tension in her abdomen began to dissolve into a gentle fluttering of nervous butterflies. The headache that had been pounding in the background for the last few days began to fade.

None of it mattered now. She'd left him. She smiled wryly, what would he say when he read her note. She had no idea what he would do. He'd be furious. He would have no idea why she'd left, not until he checked the bank.

Another less reasonable woman might have taken all the money.

Chapter 2.

She had met Peter just over thirty years ago. She had just finished a degree course in English literature when she'd received a letter from her father, telling her she was needed at home because her mother was ill.

She hadn't wanted to go home. She wanted to travel to India with a boy named James Archer, the most beautiful boy she had ever known. She worshipped James. With his thick hair the colour of shiny ripe chestnuts and pale translucent skin. He was tall and elegant, the first boyfriend she'd had that was taller than her. He would read poetry aloud as they lay in the park in the sun. They'd been inseparable since they met on their first day at Durham University. They'd lived together, studied together and dreamt together. When they graduated, they were going to travel, to gain experience, then he would paint and she would write.

When James refused to wait, she was desolate. He promised to write and tell her where he was but apart from a smudged postcard from Ahmadabad, she heard no more from James.

During the summer, while her mother's condition worsened, while James the beautiful one, the tall and elegant one was finding himself in India. Peter had slowly taken over her life.

--

A mutual friend had introduced them and during those last frightful months of her mother's illness It was Peter who was close by. Peter rotund, prosaic and two inches shorter that she was, was there while she'd sank into a dark place, grieving not just for her mother but for James.

She grew used to Peter being there and she let him take control. This set a pattern for their life together when they married, three months after her mother's funeral.

They moved in to her family home when her father died less than a year after her mother and Peter had begun to work from home as an accountant.

In what spare time she had she worked in the garden or wrote. At the start of their married life they had socialised with Peter's golfing associates and occasionally with her colleagues from the library. Then gradually their lives began to follow two separate paths. Peter's life revolved around golf and she had her writing.

Several years ago she'd become increasingly dismayed at the way Little Burn had changed and had written a history of the village she remembered as a child.

Her friend, Millward persuaded her to submit it to an online publishing site.

Millward was a tall white haired academic whose gentle manner hid a sharp, sometimes waspish sense of humour. He worked at the Harmston Archive and had a deep love of the past and was always willing to share his extensive knowledge. When he retired he became the organiser of the local history group that met at her library and she had become an enthusiastic member of the group.

Her writing was the mainstay of her life. She'd shown Peter the book, but he had no interest, dismissing it as 'pretentious nonsense'.

'Best left to a real writer,' He said as he tossed it on to the table.

She had, nevertheless, had a good response, eventually selling enough copies to update her laptop and start a 'Car fund'.

But the year had ended badly when she'd been told the library was being closed. The thought of finding a new job was disheartening, and at fifty-two, it was not going to be easy.

Just before Christmas, Millward told her the Harmston Archives were looking for an administrator and promised to recommend her. She'd been jubilant and sent off her C.V. with a covering letter the same day.

After several weeks she disappointed not to get a reply let alone an interview with the Archives, she wondered if she should phone them but decided that if they wanted her they would write.

She continued to scan the local papers for vacancies, sending off over a hundred applications.

As the weeks went by with only a few replies she became more and more despondent and began applying for jobs in neighbouring towns.

Peter had told her she would have to lower her sights and get a proper job. He'd gleefully pointed out an advertisement for cashiers in the local supermarket.

--

At the beginning of January something happened that was to change her life.

Chapter 3.

Her first day with no job, was a crispy sunny Monday. Peter had left for a week playing golf with the local club and she was anticipating a week of peace and quiet.

Dressed in a comfortable pair of old jeans, a thick sweater and leather boots she was about to go into town to get the weekly shopping when the post arrived.

The letter was address to Mrs Jacobyna Penlowe, she held her breath when saw the Harmston Archive Logo on the soft grey envelope, but the excited expectation swiftly vanished as she read the contents.

'After the glowing recommendation given by Mr Millward Jackson,' they wrote. 'We were disappointed not to receive a reply to our communications and have been forced to appoint another applicant.'

She'd received no communications from the Archives.

She could remember each reply she'd had, five weeks ago an offer of an interview for a teacher's assistant. Last week an interview for a position as an office administrator and last Friday an interview for a part-time job at a local shop. She remembered the mocking look on his face as he pointed to the logo on the envelope. 'A step down from the library,' he'd sneered.

She creased her forehead in a puzzled frown. Two of the letters had come on a Thursday her day off. The post always came while she was at work and Peter left hers on the hall table

She climbed the stairs and stood apprehensively outside the door of the spare bedroom that Peter used as an office.

It was his territory, she went in once a week to dust and vacuum. For tax purposes Peter had made her a partner in the business, but he had made it plain it was to be his business.

She looked down the stairs to the front door half expecting to hear Peter's key in the door.

'Get a grip woman,' she told herself as she leant across the desk and opened the window, it's as much your room as it's his and anyway he wouldn't be home for another seven days.

The room felt stale and alien to her. It had a different smell to the rest of the house.

An expensive new laptop sat on the computer stand. When had he bought that? She remembered his sanctimonious comments about wasting hard-earned money when she'd bought her new laptop. 

In the corner stood a grey three drawer filing cabinet. Tentatively she tugged on the handle of the top drawer, nothing happened, locked.

She looked around the room, she knew he only carried a front door key and a car key on his key ring so where would he keep the key to the filing cabinet. The pot on the desk only held paper clips, sticky tape and pens.

She flipped up the lid of the laptop, nothing hidden in there.

The window sill was empty and a scan of the room didn't find any recess that might hold a key.

Absent-mindedly she picked a piece of sticky tape from the floor by the door. Then, with a cry of satisfaction, she ran her finger along the top frame and pulled down a key neatly taped to the wood.

'What are you hiding from your wife, Peter?' she asked.

If the top drawer held no surprises with its neat folders of invoices and receipts. The bottom drawer held the real bombshell.

It held a folder containing bank statements from three accounts.

One in the business name, one in Peter's name and one in her name.

It also had six letters addressed to her neatly filed in their own plastic folder,

She took the bank statements and letters down to the kitchen and laid them out on the table while she filled the kettle and she made a cup of strong tea. Then she sat at the kitchen table to read them.

A library in a neighbouring town had offered her an interview.

Three regretted the position had been filled.

And two were from Harmston Archives.

He'd been filtering her letters, just passing on the ones he approved of.

She sat back heavily on the chair her throat suddenly constricted, her breath coming in painful gasps as she struggled to control her feelings and understand why.

Why did he think he had the right to control her life?

She looked again at the letters from Harmston Archives. The first letter had been a friendly invitation to 'Come and chat', the second letter had been a slightly more formal invitation to call them.

She had been bubbling with excitement when she'd told Peter about the vacancy, he hadn't commented but that wasn't unusual.

Jealousy? Was he Jealous of Millward? The idea almost made her smile, she was fond of Millward, but the idea of anything other than platonic friendship was ridiculous.

Putting the letters back she opened the folders with the statements.

For a few minutes she stared blankly at the statements from the account in her name, holding them at arm's length to read the small print. During the lifetime of the account a substantial balance had built up with monthly entries marked salary.

What had he classed her as, secretary? Partner? It had been done to lighten his tax bill. Honestly done as well, he would be too afraid to defraud the tax office.

'Oh Peter, you are a bastard,' she said quietly.

Peter was a good accountant, but not necessarily a good husband

She took her glasses off and wiped angry tears from her eyes then put everything back into a tidy pile.

He wouldn’t get away with it.

She found her mobile and called the hotel where she knew he was staying. 'I'd like to speak to Peter Penlowe please.' The receptionist came back after a few moments and cheerfully told her Mr Penlowe was out and would she like to leave a message?

What message would she like to leave?

'No, thank you,' she said, her anger suddenly gone.

Jacob switched off her phone.

Through the window she could see the garden, the beautiful garden she'd tended all these years. With neat rectangular beds where she'd grown vegetables to supplement the household budget. The flower beds she'd nurtured, that supplied the flowers that brightened up the house.

She gave a slightly manic laugh, the highlight of today was going to be a trip to the supermarket to get the weekly shopping, with a Chinese meal for one. It seemed so long ago she'd sat in this chair and made a shopping list. But in less than two hours a fissure had run through her life and broken it wide open.

Her life with Peter unravelled before her, her marriage was a car wreck. A car wreck that had taken thirty years to happen.

Pain rolled like a heavy blanket over her head and settled behind her eyes.

The house was silent apart from the distant vibration of traffic as it passed the house in the relentless to and fro of daily life. With the hum and clatter of the fridge and the whirl of the boiler hidden away in a kitchen cupboard, even silence wasn't silent.

She took a sip of tea from the mug grimacing at the cold bitter taste.

Even the weather had changed, a bright sunny day had become dark and sodden, rain poured from the slate sky in glassy sheets just as tears coursed down her cheeks.

As a flash of lightening sparked across the sky, over the grey wet roofs, a thought flickered in her mind. Dim at first, like a tea light in a storm, then it began to grow.

It was simple. She would leave.

Her only real opportunity for a decent job had been the Archives and Peter had scuppered that.

She would end up working at the checkout at the local supermarket and she would die of boredom. And how would they manage for money? Peter's contribution to the household budget had always been grudgingly given and minimal. Her salary from the library had been eaten up with bills and a supermarket would pay much less. The idea was alarming. Where would she go? What would she do?

--

Millward opened the door of his bungalow and after one look at Jacob's swollen eyes he stood back for her to enter.

Leading the way into his small living room he kept up a nonstop stream of inconsequential chatter until she was sitting in a chair with a cup of fragrant China tea in her hand. Jacob would have preferred a cup of strong builders' tea but Millward would have been aghast at the very idea. What he could provide was friendship and understanding.

'Did you have no idea?' he asked, when she'd told him about the letters.

'No, it didn't occur to me. I never would have known if I hadn't been there to get the letter from Harmston Archives.'

'I did get an email from Jessica, asking if you were on holiday. It puzzled me I admit, but she lives and dies by the data protection initiative so she wouldn't say why she was asking.'

'Apparently, I've been drawing a salary for nearly thirty years with regular increases.'

'Indeed?' She could almost see the glint in Millward eyes, 'That gives you so many more options.'

'It does, doesn't it? I don't understand why he did it. He complains constantly about money so why ruin my chances of getting a well-paid job?'

'I hope you will forgive an observation,' Millward crossed his long legs and carefully straightening out the crease in his slacks. 'I suspect he might be jealous.'

'Jealous?' She shouted, 'Jealous of what? He has no reason to be jealous.'

'No I meant jealous of life's greater satisfactions, an intellectual jealousy. You are a writer, a literary person.' Millward pursed his lips and threw his arm out in an expansive gesture. 'I appreciate he has his own business concern, but from what you tell me of his parsimony, needing that much control would suggest he's not a happy man. Is he perhaps jealous of your success?'

What success.' She protested. 'What have I done?'

'You have a splendid job in a respected institution and you have a published book.' He reminded her.

She took a sip of the weak tea. They had always kept their money separate, keeping a joint account for household expenses. She had always assumed his reluctance to contribute was down to him being a miser, was it a form of control?

When she finally said goodbye to Millward it was with genuine sadness and promises to keep in touch and to keep writing.

Chapter 4.

When she woke the next morning the idea of leaving had set hard, she was going. She felt as if the idea had always been there, just waiting to be seen.

She found the user names and passwords to the bank accounts written on a piece of paper and pinned to the statements. It was a simple task to access the accounts, rearrange the balances and change the password to her account.

She watched the hourglass spin on the computer screen. She would leave him the house and take the equivalent in cash.

The hourglass stopped spinning, and a pop-up message came on the screen thanking her for her patience and assuring her of the bank's commitment to the nurturing of her future finances.

It had begun to rain again and people were trudging past the window heads down. Parents eager to drop children off at school or workers intent on getting the bus. What should she do now?

Deciding to leave was the easy bit. Where, might present a problem. She could go back to Durham where she went to University. She had loved living in the North. Her mother's family came from there. They'd lived in Wilbury, a quiet hamlet in Yorkshire. She had a half forgotten memory, of a carefree holiday and long summer days with her