Chapter two
“What in the name of all things Nigella is going on out here?” a woman’s voice shouted above all the others. Oliver turned round to see a buxom older woman push her way through the crowd.
“Some bloke’s killed Hugo!”
“He’s not bloody dead,” Big and Tall snapped as he retreated from the back seat with the dog in his arms. “Maggie?”
“Out the back,” the buxom woman replied and turned on her heel, flapping her hands at the circle of onlookers. “Go on, you lot, mind your business.” They parted like the Red Sea as she stomped through them and into the pub, Big and Tall hot on her tail. Oliver stared after them, wondering what the hell he should do now. He didn’t have to wonder very long because the woman, Maggie, paused at the door and turned to glare at him. “Well, don’t just stand there, Jenson Button, come on.”
Oliver slammed the car door and locked it before he raced after them. He stopped inside the door and the onlookers began to file back in, skirting around him. Some of them just shook their heads as they passed him and others shot him pitying looks. Oliver tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. He got the distinct feeling he’d knocked over the wrong dog. Not that knocking any dog over would have been right, of course. But, from the way the all eyes were trained on him, he was in big trouble.
“I’m guessing you’re Jenson.” A young, dark-haired man balancing several plates with varying amounts of lunch debris on them, gave him the first smile he’d seen since he’d arrived in Little Mowbury.
“Yep,” Oliver replied lamely. He put his hand out, always manners first, then dropped it again when the man raised an eyebrow and glanced at his arms full of crockery. “Sorry.”
“Come on, they’ve taken him out the back. I’ll show you.”
“Thanks.” Oliver hurried after him around the side of the bar and through a door marked Private. He stared in disbelief as they entered the kitchen—not that it was the kitchen he was surprised by, he had seen one before—it was the dog on one of the shiny metallic work surfaces that was new. He flashed a grateful glance in the waiter’s direction and rushed over to where Big and Tall gently ran his hands over Hugo.
Oliver put his hand on Hugo’s soft head and leaned in closer. “How’re you doing, mate?” He kept his voice low in the hope of distracting him while Big and Tall tried to discern whether anything was broken. When he was rewarded with a wet lick to his nose, he smiled gratefully. “I know it hurts, but we’re gonna fix you right up. Before you know it you’ll be chasing sheep and frightening the crap out of drivers everywhere.” Hugo whimpered and Oliver pressed his lips to Hugo’s fur. “It’s okay, mate, ssh, it’s okay.”
“Nothing’s broke as far as I can tell.”
Oliver looked up at Big and Tall, keeping his cheek on Hugo’s head. “Is he going to be alright?”
“He needs some stitching and an x-ray or two, I dare say,” Big and Tall replied as he wandered over the sink to wash his now bloody hands. “I’ll have to take him into Wimborne for the vet to check him over.”
“I’ll come with—”
“Where’s my boy?” The shrill cry and the slamming open of the kitchen door coincided, and Oliver wasn’t sure which one was the loudest. A woman, who had to be in her mid-sixties, practically sprinted towards them. She shoved Oliver out of the way and took Hugo’s head in her hands. His tail thumped weakly as she rained kisses on his face. “Deano?” She looked at Big and Tall for information.
“He’s got some cuts and bruises, Doris,” Big and Tall replied. “I don’t think anything’s broke. But we’ll take him into Wimborne to Maguire to make sure.” He patted Doris on the shoulder.
Oliver couldn’t help but notice the size of the man’s hand on the older woman’s smaller frame, and for the first time he took a good look at his knight in… well… mud splattered jeans. Big and Tall, or rather, Deano, had to be at least six-five in his stocking feet. He was broad shouldered, muscular and Oliver had trouble dragging his gaze away from Deano’s big forearms, which were covered in dark hair. His hair was light brown, flecked with golden highlights and a sprinkling of grey, cut short at the back and sides, left slightly longer on the top so it swept across his forehead. His cheeks and chin were covered with light stubble and his brown eyes were surrounded by thick, dark lashes. Oliver’s gaze dropped to his mouth which was—
“You!” Oliver blinked as Doris turned her wrath on him. “Was it you? In your big city car? Were you even looking where you were going? Or were you too busy doing your hair in the rear view mirror? What kind of monster are you?” Her voice rose on each sentence and by the time she’d finished Oliver could have sworn the glassware in the kitchen had begun to vibrate.
“I’m-I’m—”
“A fuckin’ twat?” Doris interjected. “I couldn’t agree more!”
“Now, now Doris,” Maggie stepped between them, which Oliver found unnerving. Was she saving him from being beaten to death by someone only a few years younger than his Gran? By the look on Doris’ face, he was rather glad of Maggie’s presence. “It was an accident, that’s all.” She looked at Deano over the top of Doris’ head. “I think you should get Hugo to Maguire’s and get the poor lamb sorted out, don’t you?” Deano took the hint.
“Yep, I reckon that’s best.” He picked Hugo up as gently as he could. “Come on, Doris, you can ride in the back with him.”
Maggie patted Deano’s arm as he passed, Doris hot on his heels. “Let us know what Maguire says,” she said and urged him towards the door.
Doris paused at the door and turned to glare at Oliver. She raised her hand and pointed at him, jabbing the air for emphasis. “This isn’t over, city boy. I’ll be seeing you again.”
The door swung shut behind her and Oliver slumped against the counter. He’d just been threatened by an old woman and didn’t mind admitting his sphincter had tightened up on him. His hair fell into his eyes and he lifted his hand to brush it back, frowning at his shaking fingers.
“Are you alright, love?” Maggie’s voice seemed to come from underwater and Oliver shook his head. The adrenalin had stopped pumping and he was crashing. He vaguely heard her shout, “Jason, chair! Rich, sweet tea!”
Oliver sank onto the chair Jason practically pushed him into and put his head between his knees. A soothing hand rubbed circles in between his shoulders, but he had no idea whether it belonged to Maggie, Jason or the mysterious Rich he’d yet to meet. Not that he cared. He was too busy trying to stop his garage-bought sandwich from coming back up. After a few minutes, his head began to clear and his stomach stopped its ominous roll. Oliver sat up slowly and blinked at the three people studying him with worried expressions on their faces.
“Rich!” Maggie snapped and a cup of tea was shoved into his hands. “Drink that, love. It’ll get the blood flowing again.”
Oliver bit back the urge to tell her that the tea wasn’t the cure all she obviously thought it was. He took an obedient sip. It was the half a pound of sugar she’d put in it that would do the job. “Thanks,” he murmured, blowing a lock of hair from his eyes.
“I’m surprised you didn’t go sooner,” Maggie said sagely. “It must have been a shock.”
“It was,” Oliver replied after taking another sip. “I’ve never run anything over before.”
“I meant Doris.”
Oliver’s gaze met hers and he couldn’t help but smile at the wicked gleam in her eye. “I will admit,” he chuckled. “I never thought I’d meet anyone scarier than my great aunt Matilda, but Doris has her beat hands down.”
“Don’t worry,” Jason said, giving his shoulder a reassuring pat. “She has that effect on everybody.” He held out his hand, which was now empty. “I’m Jason Havers, one of the chefs here at The Thatcher’s Arms.” He nodded towards Maggie and the man beside her. “Maggie’s the owner and that’s Rich, the other chef.”
“And chief potato peeler,” Rich drawled. “Tea maker, washer upper, floor mopper, waitress—”
“Oh, shut up, you big girl’s blouse,” Maggie scoffed, elbowing Rich in the ribs. “Bit of hard work never did anyone any ‘arm. Puts hair on your chest.”
“Is that how you got yours then?” Jason quipped, not seeming to mind the clip round the ear the comment earned him.
“Ignore these ingrates,” Maggie said with a roll of her eyes, the fond smile taking away the sting of her words. Oliver smiled, beginning to feel much better as the sugar kicked in. “I’m Maggie Mason and I’m in charge, not that anyone pays me any mind.”
“Thank you all, really.” Oliver shook her hand. “I’m Oliver Bradford.”
“You still look a bit pale,” Jason said, pressing the back of his hand to Oliver’s forehead. He looked at Maggie. “Maybe we should call Winslow.”
“Actually,” Oliver said carefully. “That’s where I was headed before Hugo and I met.”
“To see Malcolm Winslow?” Maggie asked, a frown creasing her already wrinkled brow. “What on earth for?”
Oliver cleared his throat. “I’m the new doctor.” All three stared at him in stunned silence until Maggie drew in a deep breath and summed up his entire morning in two words.
“Bloody hell.”
*
After another strong cup of sweet tea with enough sugar in it to keep him up for a week, Maggie deemed Oliver fit to continue on his journey. Manned with detailed directions to the Winslow house, Oliver slid behind the wheel and started the engine with a sigh of relief. Not the best first impression he’d ever made but nobody had died—as far as he knew. They were still waiting on an update from Deano. Jason had promised to let him know as soon as they had any news. The few members of the village he’d actually conversed with seemed nice. He wasn’t entirely sure everyone else would be as welcoming once the jungle drums had stopped beating.
Directions on the passenger seat beside him, Oliver headed towards Malcolm Winslow’s cottage on the edge of the village—approximately three minutes from the pub. He pulled up outside the cottage and killed the engine, which had barely had time to warm before he’d reached his destination. Oliver leaned back in his seat and studied the tiny house while trying to quiet the uncharacteristic butterflies in the pit of his stomach.
The cottage was beautiful. The walls were painted a pale, creamy yellow with pink and white roses climbing the trellises either side of the front door. The garden was immaculate with brightly coloured flower-filled beds and a trim square of neatly manicured lawn. As far as Oliver could see, the only thing missing was a big red bow tied around the property. It was old-fashioned chocolate box picture-perfect. He could have been looking at a page out of one of his mother’s copies of Homes and Gardens. Oliver fished his phone out of his pocket and took a quick snap of the cottage. He tapped off a text and attached the picture before sending it.
His mother had bemoaned his move to the country. But then she would have about anything that meant her little boy wasn’t going to be living five minutes away on the tube. She was convinced he’d be forced to sleep in a cowshed and pee in a field because indoor plumbing hadn’t reached the back of beyond yet. Not to mention that he’d waste his very expensive medical education removing warts from the hairy arses of sullen farmers who chewed the cud, stunk of cow shit and could barely string a sentence together. Hopefully, seeing exactly what kind of ‘cowsheds’ they had in Little Mowbury would ease her mind.
Oliver checked his reflection in the rear view mirror and ran his hand through his hair. Satisfied it really wasn’t going to get any better; he picked up his briefcase, climbed out of the car and headed straight down the path before he lost his bottle completely. He sighed heavily as he reached the front step. He wasn’t usually this twitchy, but he’d had a big day, so he figured he was allowed.
Oliver took a deep breath and lifted the heavy brass knocker. The opportunity to drop it, however, was taken from him as the door was suddenly opened and the knocker yanked from his hand.
“Oliver!”
His breath whistled out of him as he was pulled into a bone-crushing hug by a tiny woman sporting a lavender rinse and a flowery apron. She released him long enough to drag him over the threshold and into the house. The woman was not as frail as she looked. Nor was the yell she gave the soft and quiet one you would have expected.
“Malcolm! Oliver’s here!” As she headed down the narrow hallway she glanced over her shoulder at him. “Shut the door would you, dear? Malcolm’s in the garden tying up some beans, come on through.”
Oliver did as he was bid, then followed her down the hall into a small square kitchen and out the back door into a beautiful garden that seemed to go on forever. He paused as he stepped onto the patio, letting the breathtaking view wash over him. On the paved patio area to the right of where he stood was a table surrounded by six chairs. Edged by brightly coloured flowers, three steps led down onto the path that wove its way through the lawn, which was dotted with apple and cherry trees. Beyond that was what looked like a vegetable patch, where a tall, rangy-looking older gentleman tied broad beans to a bamboo stick with green string. Oliver recognised him immediately from their Skype conversations.
“Oliver!” Malcolm Winslow lifted a hand and beckoned to him.
“Go on, dear, he doesn’t bite, needs new dentures. I’ll put the kettle on.” She gave him an encouraging smile then disappeared back into the kitchen.
Oliver put his briefcase under the table so it was out of the way, then hurried down the steps and across the garden to the current GP. He smiled when he reached him and held out his hand.
“Malcolm, it’s good to finally meet you in the flesh.”
“And you, my boy, and you.” Malcolm ignored Oliver’s hand and hugged him hard, slapping him on the back before he let him go. “We don’t go much for handshakes round here. Just be careful of the WI, their hands tend to wander.” He slung an arm around Oliver’s shoulder and urged him back towards the patio. “I see you’ve met Violet. She’s been on tenterhooks all day. I was beginning to think you’d arranged a secret rendezvous or something. She never gets that excited when I come home.”
“Be quiet, you silly old fool,” Violet said, putting a tray with a teapot and three cups and saucers on the glass topped table. Oliver smiled as she shot Malcolm a look that took the sting out of the comment. Malcolm grinned at her and eased himself into one of the chairs, indicating to Oliver to do the same. “How do you take your tea, Oliver?”
“White, one sugar, please,” Oliver replied as he settled comfortably in his seat. The late afternoon sun was high in the sky and its rays beat down on them. He sighed softly. He could get used to this.
“Any news on Hugo?” Violet asked as she set his cup in front of him.
Oliver blinked, lost for words. How did she know?
“The smoke signals went up as soon as you rolled into the village,” Malcolm said dryly. “Gossip flies around this place quicker than a bee on a 747. Not one of Little Mowbury’s better traits. But one you’ll have to get used to I’m afraid. The old biddies aren’t happy unless they’re buzzing about something.”
“Pfft, your curtains twitch as much as anyone else’s,” Violet admonished and turned her attention back to a dumbstruck Oliver. “So, any news?”
“Not yet,” Oliver said, curling his fingers around his cup. “Deano took him to someone called Maguire, who I presume is a vet. Jason at the pub said he’d let me know how Hugo was once they knew anything.”
“Deano’s a good boy,” Violet said with an encouraging pat on Oliver’s forearm. “He’ll sort it out.”
“My wife has a soft spot for Deano Wells,” Malcolm said, dropping Oliver a wink. “That’s why I’m retiring, so I can keep an eye on her. It’s the curse of being married to a great beauty, Oliver. I have to make sure she doesn’t have her head turned by young bucks like you. Keeps me on my toes.”
“Ignore him, Oliver.” Violet dismissed her husband with a stern look, but not before Oliver saw the flush on her cheeks at Malcolm’s teasing. She offered him a biscuit to go with his cuppa. “Once you’ve had your tea, we’ll get you settled in.”
Oliver chuckled at the exchange. They reminded him of his elderly Aunt and Uncle, who were obviously as in love nearly sixty years down the line as they’d been at the start of their relationship. Violet and Malcolm had welcomed him with open arms and, for the first time since his rather eventful introduction to Little Mowbury, he relaxed.