Table of Contents
Chapter one
Oliver stared at the map. Why he had no idea. The next stage of his journey hadn’t leapt out at him in the last twenty-five minutes so what did he think… the power of his frustrated gaze was going to burn the route onto his retinas if he glared at it long enough? He tossed the map onto the passenger seat of the BMW and buried his fingers in his hair, gripping tightly in his annoyance.
The irritating monotone voice on the GPS unit had suddenly sounded as though she’d drained an entire bottle of JD, with her words slurring into one another before she faded out completely. That had been ten miles back, and he’d managed to lose himself twice since his chatty companion had left him to fend for himself. Of course, he’d tried to coax her back with promises and gentle soothing and, when that hadn’t worked, had repeatedly pressed every single button he could find then whacked the screen with his fist. None of which had convinced her to start talking again. That’s when he’d remembered the map he’d purchased on a whim at the garage he’d stopped to fill up at earlier. The same map he’d just screwed up into a useless ball and thrown down beside him.
Where the chuff is this place? It’s like bloody Brigadoon!
Oliver opened the door, climbed out of the car and shielded his eyes against the sun with his hand. He couldn’t deny it was beautiful countryside, or that it was indeed in the middle of nowhere. That combination had been the main reasons he’d found the job opening so attractive. Oliver leaned against the car, crossed his arms and filled his lungs with fresh country air. He could hear Becky’s voice now as she’d burst into his flat, waving the Haymarket magazine at him.
He would be the first to admit that seeing Andrew at the hospital every day had begun to suck all the enthusiasm for his job right out of him, and being an intern in the casualty department wasn’t something you could afford to do unfocused. It hadn’t taken long for him to decide he needed a complete change. A change of employment, of pace, of bloody everything.
Becky, his sister, had been very supportive when she’d found out about Andrew’s string of affairs. Although the support had only come after she’d told him she’d always thought Andrew was a wanker anyway. He had pointed out that it would have been quite helpful if she’d given her opinion when he’d started dating Andrew. Not waited until he’d had his heart plucked from his chest and stomped on by said wanker.
“Well, I thought I’d grow to like him, didn’t I.” Her response had been less than apologetic.
“And did you?” he’d asked.
Becky had simply topped up his glass of Jacob’s Creek and replied, “Good God no. Man’s a tosser.”
Five unbelievably long months later, she’d shoved the Haymarket under his nose and jabbed an excited finger at the advertisement she’d circled in fuchsia lipstick. “It’s perfect! Exactly what you need. New job, new house, new people. Fire up the laptop and let’s send your C.V.”
Oliver gazed around him, the only sounds the gentle thrum of the BMW’s engine and birdsong from the trees shrouding the country lane. Becky had been deciding the route his life should take from the moment they were out of nappies—having a twin was not always a blessing, especially when they knew you better than you knew yourself. The C.V. had been emailed and before he’d had time to breathe he’d had two phone interviews and a Skype call with the retiring GP. Now he was staring at miles of British countryside wondering if Becky had been wrong this time.
His main priority at the moment, however, was trying to figure out how to get to where he was going. There was, of course, the possibility he could be stranded in the arse-end of fuck-alone-knows-where forever. His frantic family would end up sticking posters of him around London and he’d eventually be found wandering around a farmer’s field wearing a cabbage leaf hat, up to his neck in sheep shit.
“Lost, are ya?”
“Jesus!” Oliver exclaimed. He spun round to find a weathered face staring at him over the hedge. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“Lost, are ya?” the elderly farmer repeated.
Oliver couldn’t see any mode of transportation, so where had the old man come from? All he had was a walking stick and a border collie. Maybe he flew in on the stick, or rode in on the dog. Oliver’s inner voice wasn’t exactly being helpful, so he ignored it and pasted what he hoped was a winning smile on his face. “Yes, sir, I am. My GPS gave out on me about ten miles ago.”
The old man gave a disapproving grunt. “Can’t be doing with those new fangled electro gadgets. They never work round ‘ere. Sun’s best way to get ya where you’re goin’.”
Oliver glanced up at the steadily beaming yellow ball in the sky and frowned. Unless the sun had directions to Little Mowbury etched into it, the bloody thing still looked the same to him. The man was obviously delusional. But then sniffing sheep shit had to have an effect on a person after fifty years or so. “Would you know how to get to Little Mowbury, sir?”
“’Appen I do.”
“That’s great,” Oliver said on a sigh of relief, and smiled widely as he waited for the man to continue… and waited… and waited. What the hell? Is he giving me directions telepathically? Osmosis maybe? “Um… could you tell me?”
“‘Bout eight miles up road,” the farmer replied, scratching idly at the bald pate visible under the rim of his flat cap. “Just keep goin’ straight ‘til you get to crossroad an’ turn left. Stay on road for ‘bout four mile, but don’t go past Thatcher’s Arms.”
“Thatcher’s Arms?” Oliver echoed.
“Uh-huh, pass Thatcher’s Arms an’ you’ve left village.”
Oliver stared, open-mouthed, at the man. Was this actually happening or had there been bad prawns in that sandwich he’d bought in the same garage as the map? It was like conversing with Peter Butterworth in Carry on Camping. Were Sid James and Barbara Windsor going to pop out from behind a bush with Kenneth Williams? He inwardly cursed the Saturday afternoons his dad made him watch old British comedies, and shook his head in the vain hope it would dispel the bad sandwich dream he was trapped in. Nope, Farmer Barleymow still stared him down from the other side of the hedge.
“Okay, thank you,” Oliver slid back into the driver’s seat and closed the door. He fastened his seatbelt and nodded at the old man. “So that’s follow this road to the crossroads, do a left and just keep driving until I hit Little Mowbury?”
The ancient farmer looked at him as though he was mad—or stupid—or both. “You ain’t from round ‘ereabouts, are ya? Like I said, it’s left at t’crossroads.”
“Right, thanks, left at t’crossroads,” Oliver waved a hand out the open window and put his foot on the gas. “’Appen I might make it after all,” he mumbled in a poor imitation of the man’s accent as he headed, hopefully, towards Little Mowbury.
As he drove, Oliver remembered his conversations with the village’s retiring GP, Malcolm Winslow. Apparently his wife had been nagging him for the last ten years to find someone to take over the practice, and he’d finally succumbed to the call of the golf course and sipping Pimms in the garden under an umbrella. He’d told Oliver it was time to hand the reins over to the younger generation and keep his wife in a manner she was completely unaccustomed to.
Winslow had warned him that Little Mowbury was a typical English country village, with one teeny twist. It was the English country village that time forgot. His slightly manic chuckle hadn’t exactly instilled confidence when he’d told Oliver the villagers still considered him an outsider and he’d lived there for forty years. But Oliver wasn’t to worry. New blood was what the village needed—it just didn’t know it yet. Of course, Winslow had waited until last night to divulge that little nugget of information, a little too late for Oliver to do anything but pray. His flat had been let out, his furniture was waiting in storage to be shipped, and his mother had cried enough crocodile tears to make him feel guilty for the rest of his life.
Of course, the icing on the cake had been the knock on the door last night as he was on his way to bed. When he’d opened it, he’d half expected to see Becky on the mat with a bottle of red in one hand and a bag of Doritos in the other. He definitely hadn’t expected to see Andrew with a sheepish grin on his face and a six pack of Stella under his arm.
Against his better judgment he’d let him in. What followed had been two hours of screaming, yelling, angry tears—from Oliver. Pleas for him to stay—from Andrew, and the best sex they’d ever had. But as he’d lain there, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, listening to Andrew’s breathing return to normal, Oliver had suddenly realised that was all it was—sex. How could you go from loving someone so much you couldn’t imagine your life without them, to just sex? In fact, Andrew had asked that very question as Oliver had barely given him enough time to get dressed before he’d ushered him out the door. For Oliver the answer had been a lot easier than he’d ever thought it would be. “Because I would never be enough.”
After all that, there was only one option as far as he was concerned, which was to get into his car and try to convince himself accepting the job hadn’t been the worst thing he’d ever done. Which, up until now, he was positive had been agreeing to let Becky bleach his hair when he was going through his Billy Idol phase in college. Half of it had fallen out and the rest had turned orange, not his finest fashion moment.
“Thank God for old farmers,” Oliver said aloud as he approached the crossroads, practically down to the mile where the wizened man had said it would be. Easing off the gas, Oliver checked for oncoming traffic… or sheep, and turned left.
As he drove, knowing that his destination was finally within his grasp, excitement churned in Oliver’s belly. Maybe Becky was right, and this was exactly what he needed. The position came with a little cottage next to the surgery, so being able to roll out of bed and into work was very appealing. Winslow had sent him a rather fuzzy photograph of the cottage, but from what he’d been able to discern, it looked like a picture on an old-fashioned chocolate box. Even his mother had cooed over it, before returning to her “my baby’s leaving me” stance. He had a week to settle in before he joined Winslow in the practice for a couple of weeks, and then he would be flying solo after that. If he was honest, although he was as scared as fuck at the upheaval, he was looking forward to getting stuck into country life. Working in casualty had been often times rewarding, but the connection between doctor and patient wasn’t really there. They came in, you fixed them up and sent them home or on to another department. Yes… you were helping people, but after they left A&E, you had no idea what happened to them. You could only hope whatever assistance you’d been had given them relief. To say he was intrigued to build a relationship with his patients, to see the same faces and actually get to know them, would be an understatement. He just hoped his bedside manner was up to the challenge.
The lane stretched out in a series of bends that required full concentration, so Oliver cleared his head and let his foot drift between gas and brake. He gently guided the BMW around the ever changing wide and barely car width turns, and tried to ignore the squeal of his tyres when he took a couple too fast. But if Farmer Giles’ directions were correct, Little Mowbury should be around the next bend. Oliver grinned widely as he passed the sign welcoming visitors to the village and may have stepped on the gas a little heavier in his eagerness—which was when the large brown shape leapt out in front of the car.
“Holy fuck!” Oliver yelled as the brown thing hit the bonnet then bounced off onto the ground and skidded a few feet along the lane before him. He slammed on his brakes and turned the wheel, nose-planting the car into a bush in his effort to avoid hitting whatever it was again. Yanking on the handbrake, Oliver opened the door and all but threw himself out of the car, taking off at a run towards the bundle on the road. “It’s a deer, it’s just a deer,” he mumbled to himself as he skidded to a halt in front of the furry body. A weak whine and a pair of deep brown eyes staring out of a mop of russet fur confirmed he would never make a vet. It wasn’t a deer. Unless the deer in these parts wore studded collars with the name Hugo on a bone shaped metal tag. “Oh shit.”
Oliver took in the blood on the dog’s thick fur and the rapid rise and fall of its chest and wondered what the fuck he was supposed to do. You’re a doctor in the emergency department, knob-head. This is an emergency. Do emergency things! The thought skittered across his brain and, thankfully, his medical training kicked in. He bent down and slid his hands under the dog’s body, hoping it didn’t decide to bite him, not that he’d have blamed it, then squared his shoulders and lifted it into his arms. The dog whimpered but didn’t attempt to snap, so Oliver spun on his heel and carried it to the car as quickly, but as carefully, as he could.
Thanking his lucky stars the weather was warm and the top was down, Oliver deposited the dog on the back seat without opening the door. When he released the animal, his hands left smears of blood on the cream leather, but he pushed the sight to the back of his mind. He could freak out about the upholstery later. Scrambling back behind the wheel, Oliver gunned the engine and put his foot down, wanting to get to Little Mowbury as fast as he could. Hugo didn’t look good and every bump in the road produced a low whine from the back seat. Oliver was no vet, but even he knew that didn’t bode well.
The village suddenly appeared as if by magic around the third bend and Oliver’s gaze flitted from side to side, searching for someone, anyone, to help him. The street was deserted and he was becoming frantic when he realised the sign hanging outside the pub was waving in the warm afternoon breeze. If you pass pub you’ve gone through village. The pub. It was nearly two by the dashboard LCD and Oliver breathed a sigh of relief. There had to be someone in the pub at this time of day.
The car screeched to a halt in the gravel strewn car park behind the pub and he left the engine running as he ran for the entrance to the public bar. It was like being in an eighties horror movie. Conversation stopped and everyone turned to stare at him as he stood panting in the doorway. Oliver hurriedly scanned the bar but there was no one behind it. He didn’t see any other option, so took a deep breath and blurted out something that, ironically, could have come straight out of any Carry On film. “Is there a vet in the house?”
Not a single sound could be heard. No one answered him they merely stared back at him as though he were completely mad, which Oliver felt was completely understandable. Although it was not exactly the way he’d wanted to be introduced to the village. He was about to shout in frustration when the scraping of a single chair being pushed back echoed around the bar.
“Nearest vet’s half hour away,” a gruff voice replied. “I can take a look.”
Oliver had a quick glimpse of dark blond hair and broad shoulders as he yelled, “I need you outside, quick.” He didn’t even stop for acknowledgement, simply ran back out to the car, hoping the owner of the voice would follow. At the car he murmured nonsense to the dog and stroked its head gently, turning when the crunch of footsteps on the gravel behind him heralded the arrival of the—shit—entire pub.
“What happened?” Big and Tall, who also had to be at least six and a half feet tall, asked as he nudged Oliver out of the way.
“He ran out in front of me,” Oliver explained, being jostled from behind by villagers trying to get a look into the back seat. “I didn’t see him. I couldn’t stop.” He heard Big and Tall’s gasp as the man soothed the injured animal. “What?” he asked, his panic rising. “What is it?” Before Big and Tall could answer, a gravelly voice from behind him yelled:
“Blow me down, he’s only gone an’ killed Doris’ Hugo!”