Love in a Small Village

By Nanette Field

Clara Garden is thirty-five and single, with no escape in sight. Just jilted by her fianc, who runs off to Las Vegas to marry his receptionist, shes not sure where to turnuntil a birthday gift from her mother gives Clara an opportunity to escape from Vancouver Island.

She travels to England for a tranquil summer at Meadow Vale, a farm house deep in the Warwickshire countryside. Determined to put her failed relationship behind her, Clara anticipates history, culture, custard-covered desserts, and possibly romance as she embarks on her first foreign trip. It should be easy: stay in a beautiful house, walk a dog every day, and feed the ponies.

Instead, she finds herself dealing with vaguely disturbing neighbors, a medically fragile Chihuahua, a pregnant pony on the brink of labor, and the fact that the previous three house sitters have met untimely deaths. Drawn into a family feud and local events such as the village fete and a childrens riding competition, Clara becomes known to local police and media before the summers end. Even so, she finds there is life after a broken engagement.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475941739

Nanette Field

Nanette Field holds degrees from the University of British Columbia and the University of Moncton. She began writing as a child and has published short stories and essays. Field lives on Vancouver Island, British Columbia. This is her debut novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I took a deep breath and blew at the candles on the angel food cake.

Try again, Clara, my mother, Pam said. You didn’t get them all.

I inhaled and attempted once more. A few more candles went out, but many remained lit. I can’t believe you managed to fit this many candles on one cake.

How many was I supposed to put? You’re thirty-five today.

I think once you’re past about ten, one symbolic candle is all you need.

Come on, I’ll help you blow them out before all this wax melts into the cake and we can’t eat it.

That wouldn’t be such a bad thing. This is a huge cake for just the two of us. What were you thinking?

She laughed. I had to make something big enough to hold all these candles.

Together we extinguished the rest of the candles and Pam cut a generous slice for each of us adding a fluffy dollop of freshly whipped cream to each, just the way I liked it.

I dug into my wedge of soft cake with my fork, unearthing a short, sandy blonde hair. As I ate around it, I hoped it was Pam’s and not fur from the kitten she had recently acquired.

Eating anything prepared by Pam was a bit like taking part in an archaeological expedition. Ever since I lost a filling on an earring in a lasagne three years ago, my sisters and I had implored Pam to remove her jewellery and wear her reading glasses when she cooked. But Pam liked to look fashionable in the kitchen and style always triumphed over substance with her.

I almost forgot, she said handing me an envelope. Your present.

I took the envelope eagerly. Although it was past nine o’clock on the evening of my birthday, this was the first present I’d received. I’d gotten an e-card from Maude, my sister in Paris, two days earlier and a phone call from Minnie, my sister in Victoria, that morning, promising me a Banana Republic gift card as soon as she had time to pick one up.

Clearly, once you were well and truly an adult, unless you had a family of your own, birthday cards and gifts were few and far between.

This year I hadn’t even received the usual supermarket cake from the staff at the elementary school where I worked as an educational assistant. Instead, the social committee had decided to use the money collected for birthday cakes to sponsor a needy child in Africa. Although I didn’t begrudge little Zahara her daily bowl of rice and access to clean drinking water, I felt let down at work when no one acknowledged my special day.

This change wasn’t a big deal for the many married teachers on staff. They had well-trained husbands who sent them great, frothy floral arrangements to the school.

I ripped open the envelope from Pam with anticipation. She always chose unique gifts. One Christmas Minnie, Maude and I had each gotten blood pressure monitors. We were all healthy, active and well under thirty at the time, but they’d been on sale and Pam could never resist a bargain, particularly if she could collect frequent buyer points at her favourite drug store while completing her gift shopping.

Tucked inside a flimsy birthday card from the dollar store was an Air Canada return ticket to London and a photograph of a picturesque white cottage partially obscured by a gnarled pear tree in the foreground.

What do you think? Pam asked, rocking back and forth in her chair and beaming. Isn’t it just the best present ever? The house is called Meadow Vale. You leave the day after school finishes at the end of June and you don’t come back until Labour Day. You have the entire summer in the British countryside.

I looked at the picture of the cottage, speechless for a moment. Is this a guest house?

Something like that, smiled Pam. It will be your home while you’re enjoying a well-deserved holiday in England.

Pam had been subsisting on a disability pension for years. Gifts from her were always thoughtful, usually quirky and eccentric, but never wildly expensive.

Is it some sort of hostel? I asked. How many other people will I be sharing a bathroom with?

You’re not sharing with anyone. You’ll have the whole cottage to yourself for the entire summer. Isn’t it wonderful?

I looked at the picture again. It was bigger than I’d thought at first glance—more a good-sized family home than a cozy cottage. I noticed the edge of an out building in the background. How could you afford to rent an entire house for the whole summer as well as buying a ticket to England?

The accommodation is free. I just had to pay for the ticket and I redeemed my Air Miles so it hardly cost anything—just the taxes and airport improvement fee.

Warning bells began ringing in my mind as visions of a white slavery ring operating out of the British countryside appeared. What do you mean free? Nothing is free.

Technically you’re house sitting. The owners are spending the summer in France, and they need someone to stay at their home and keep an eye on things.

Why not just get a neighbour to stop by every couple of days? Why do they need someone living in their house while they’re away?

Because of the animals?

Animals?

They have a dog that needs to be fed and walked every day. You like dogs and English dogs are always well-behaved. You’ll love him.

I guess I can look after their dog. What breed is it?

Many British people have spaniels.

You don’t know, do you?

No, Pam admitted. I fell in love with the place when I saw the pictures, and Mrs. Dexter-Huxley was so enthusiastic in her emails. Apparently she was thrilled to find a Canadian willing to come and stay in their home. Most of the other people I contacted wanted British house sitters with local references. She shrugged. The breed of the dog didn’t seem important.

This is so unexpected. It’s hard to take it all in.

I know. Pam patted my hand. But you’ve always wanted to travel and it never worked out for you. I found a way to make it happen.

I looked at the photo in my hand. How did you hear about this family—

The Dexter-Huxleys.

I nodded.

Online, said Pam, licking a blob of frosting off her thumb. This is lovely icing—so smooth and creamy—

I waved the photo near her face. The house, Pam—focus.

You’d be amazed what you can find online if you know what to look for. There are lots of house sitting websites. I just kept looking until I found a good situation for you.

You really outdid yourself with this present. I can’t believe I get to stay in this beautiful country house all summer and all I have to do in return is walk a dog every day. I was thinking about getting a puppy. This will be good practice. I stared at the picture, taking in all the details—the inviting wide front porch, the dormer windows, the colourful garden. It was a lovely house.

Pam nodded. Just walk the dog and take care of the horses.

Horses? My head snapped up. I don’t know anything about horses except that it hurts when you get bitten by one. Don’t you remember the time you took us to a petting zoo and I almost lost a finger? I can’t take care of horses.

Ponies really, not horses. All the little girls in England have them. They’re just like big dogs except they don’t eat meat. She grinned. Not even fingers.

But I don’t know how to take care of horses, I said. They scare me.

Don’t be silly. I’ll help you research basic horse care on line before you leave. You’ve got almost a month to learn everything you need to know.

Surely this family—

The Dexter-Huxleys, said Pam helpfully.

Surely the Dexter-Huxleys want someone experienced with caring for horses. They can’t be willing to leave their animals with a stranger who doesn’t know the first thing about looking after them.

I may have mentioned you’ve had experience with horses.

I have no experience with horses!

You just said yourself you were bitten by one at a petting zoo. That’s an experience.

I drew in my breath to respond, but how do you counter a statement that is both ridiculous and true?

Do you like your present? Pam asked.

I can’t begin to tell you how I feel about it, I said standing up. I’ll help with the dishes.

Leave them. It’s your birthday.

I’d better go then. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow. I paused at the front door and looked at the torn envelope in my hand. Thank you for dinner and the present.

You deserve it. This has been such a hard time for you.

Pam stood on tip toe to reach my cheek, and kissed me, depositing a gooey smear of the nude beige lipstick she bought by the box whenever it went on sale. I’ll call you after work tomorrow, and we’ll talk about your trip some more.

CHAPTER 2

I drove mindlessly through town, predictably ending up at his house. I saw the flickering light of the TV through the sheer living room curtains, and the two highly polished vehicles snuggled next to each other in the driveway—his sporty convertible and her showy SUV. I wiped away a tear, angry at myself for still caring, but that should have been my little Toyota cuddled up in his carport.

I’d have to stop cruising by their house so often. If anyone noticed, they’d think I was a stalker.

Sighing, I turned off their street and proceeded home along the shining wet roads of Port Alberni. As usual it had started to rain sometime during the evening. It was a sleepy town, and even though it was still early I didn’t pass one other car. I was totally alone, only the crescent moon and a few screeching bats careening through the dark sky for company.

Born and raised in this Vancouver Island community, I had long ago outgrown my hometown and had once dreamed of travel and adventure. I switched on the radio. According to the local station, we were in for four more days of rain and there had been another string of break-ins in my neighbourhood. I sighed. I was thirty-five, still single and no escape in sight.

When I arrived home, I went through my little bungalow, turning on every light. If Pam was visiting she’d nag me about the wanton waste of energy, but I didn’t care. The house didn’t seem so lonely when it was all lit up. I even left white LED Christmas lights strung along the plain brick fireplace all year long. I plugged them in and straightened the e-card from Minnie. The grainy black and white drawing of the Eiffel Tower had flipped over, the thin paper I’d printed it on not heavy enough to support it.

I put Pam’s card next to it, the photo of the English cottage propped up beside it, and straightened the few framed family photos along the narrow mantel piece.

Minnie and Maude grinned out of one frame, identical in matching University of British Columbia graduation caps and gowns.

I stroked the gilt frame, proud of their achievements yet dissatisfied with my life. The only graduation picture of me was from high school.

I picked it up and blew a thin layer of dust off the glass. I looked young and hopeful. The portrait had been taken shortly before everything had changed. I had been accepted into the teaching programme at UBC, and was packed and ready to leave when I learned the news. Pam often walked to the grocery story because she worried about the size of her carbon footprint. A drunk driver had run her down on her way to pick up a loaf of bread and a jug of milk.

In my mind I saw her, pale and lifeless in intensive care, clear latex tubes snaking out of her nostrils and a huge mass of white gauze on one side of her skull making her head look misshapen and asymmetrical, like a Halloween pumpkin that hadn’t developed properly.

Minnie and Maude, twelve that summer, were away at a three-day summer camp when the RCMP had come to the door to inform me about the accident. I numbly climbed into the back of their cruiser for the short ride to the hospital.

There, thick grey linoleum squeaked under the rubber soles of my flip flops as I paced, trembling and stunned, in the ICU waiting room. My toenails, painted bubblegum pink, were the only flash of colour in that drab room.

Concealed machines beeped softly, marking the beating of some unseen heart. To occupy myself, I fed all my change into the coffee machine, drinking three cups of the scalding, bitter brew. I was buzzing with caffeine by the time a short heavy-set man in baggy teal scrubs approached.

You have to be prepared for the worst, he said, his thick fingers twisting a clump of whiskers in his goatee. Her injuries are catastrophic. She shouldn’t have survived the ambulance ride here.

I smeared tears and snot across my face with a wet crumpled tissue—so much for appearing strong and competent. She has to get better, I said. We need her.

Where’s your father? He should be here.

He left when my sisters were babies. I don’t even know how to contact him.

In that case I’ll have to alert a social worker. You and your sisters are minors and can’t be left home alone while your mom’s in the hospital.

I stood up straighter. I’m eighteen. I’ll look after the twins until my mom gets out of here.

He patted my shoulder. False hope isn’t going to help anyone.

I didn’t get to UBC that September. Instead, I made school lunches and signed field trip permission slips. I was the one at the middle school assembly when Maude won a certificate in a Remembrance Day poster contest. I took Minnie shopping for her first pair of high heels for her grade seven dance.

I spent every afternoon at Pam’s hospital bedside, recounting the details of our lives even though she was in a coma.

It was worth it when she finally opened bleary eyes, blinking at the florescent lights above her bed, and mine was the first face she saw.

I planned to apply to university again, once Pam was home and the family was settled, but the years had slipped by and I hadn’t gotten there yet. Despite surprising doctors by surviving, Pam was altered by her injuries, tiring easily and unable to concentrate for long. She had to give up her job as a librarian and there was never enough money. I worked at a doughnut shop to help.

Instead of becoming a teacher, I qualified as an education assistant. Given the circumstances, it was the closest I was likely to come to teaching.

I sighed and placed my graduation photo back on the mantel piece, careful to place it exactly on the dust-free spot it had occupied.

A small heart-shaped frame nestled behind the others. It contained a picture of a grinning Mike, his arm around my waist while I held up my left hand, showing off a beautiful diamond engagement ring.

I had recycled the stack of wedding magazines I’d bought after becoming engaged and removed bridalbeauty.com from the list of favourites on my computer, but I couldn’t make myself take down this photo even though I felt as if I was going to throw up every time I saw it. It was a record of the only time in my life things had gone according to my plan.

Three weeks after that picture had been taken; Mike Nome, my beloved fiancé and top selling realtor in Port Alberni, had gone to a conference in Toronto.

While he was away, I’d reached a decision. I would take his name when we married. I had considered hyphenating, but couldn’t imagine going through life as Clara Garden-Nome and I wanted to commemorate our marriage with a change of name.

I was eager to share my decision with Mike upon his return, but before I had a chance he surprised me with an announcement of his own.

It’s not you, it’s me, he said standing stiffly in my kitchen. And Karen.

Your receptionist?

He nodded. There’s been an unspoken attraction between us for months. We both decided it would be healthy if she came to Toronto with me so we could get it out of our systems.

I shook my head to clear it, but it didn’t help. You took Karen with you on your conference?

That’s right. It was supposed to be a meaningless fling, but it turned out to be more than that. The sexual energy between us is explosive. He paused, licking his lips. We’re in love and we belong together.

He reached for my hand, shaking it like a business acquaintance. I hope we can still be friends.

I can’t be friends with you after this! You’re a … a … Words failed me.

Furious, I decided not to return the engagement ring. I would sell it and buy something flashy and frivolous with the money. That would show Mike how little he’d meant to me.

When I tried to sell it, I learned that my beautiful solitaire diamond was a worthless cubic zirconia. The guy at the pawn shop, the list of women’s names tattooed along his forearm advertising an active social life, patted my hand.

Don’t feel bad, he said. Lots of guys don’t spring for the real thing until they’re sure the girl’s a keeper.

I ground the heels of my hands into my eyes, obliterating the tears that still flowed every time I thought about my pathetic love story and tucked the heart-shaped picture behind Minnie’s wedding photo. I blew my