Sunshine at Cherry Tree Farm Read online

  Sunshine at Cherry Tree Farm

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Look out for…

  Copyright

  For ghost dogs everywhere and the humans who still love them

  Chapter 1

  His name was Rupert, and that should have told me all I needed to know. Not that I’m nameist or anything, but with a name like that there was no way he came from the council estate up the road; the other kids would have decimated him! And he wasn’t a kid, not by a long stretch, not if that chest and those arms were any indication. He was tall too, like many rowers tended to be.

  Rupert and I moved in entirely different circles, and I don’t know what on earth possessed me to agree to go out on a date with him, though the three glasses of white wine I’d drunk may have had something to do with it. I was drinking for two, because Amber had just that morning found out she was pregnant, and that meant I had to drink her share. Oh, and don’t forget that chest. It bulged and rippled under a tee-shirt which clung to his body like I wanted to. I only took my eyes off it long enough to make sure he didn’t have two heads. The face above a set of extremely broad shoulders looked nice enough, so I didn’t bother to check again.

  But why the hell had I agreed to let him take me shooting? Who actually did something like that on a first date? Dinner, a drink, maybe a concert, ice-skating at a push – but definitely not clay pigeon shooting.

  The only redeeming thing was that he told me I could bring Millie. And did I mention his chest? If that’s what rowing did for a man, I made a vow to meet more rowers (if this one didn’t pan out).

  Rupert the Rower. I should have realised, even without the accent, that he was way out of my league. He was an ex-Kings student (private school – very private, because mummy and daddy had to have a great deal of money to send their children there, and he was the youngest of three boys). Then there was the house, or should I say, mansion. As I trundled up the gravelled drive in my little Micra, Millie panting on the passenger seat, I was under the impression this was where the shooting meet was taking place, not that Rupert actually lived there.

  I pulled my ten-year-old car into a space between a brand-new Range Rover and a top-of-the-range Jag, and clambered out. Hollington Hall. Nice. I wondered if they did wedding receptions. Not that I had any plans on getting married any time soon (had to find the right guy first), but it was something to consider for the dim and distant future. At least I wasn’t like some of my friends who had picked the dress, the shoes, and the bridesmaids’ outfits, all before their sixteenth birthdays! I was merely mildly interested, that’s all.

  Surprisingly, for a hotel, the front door was firmly closed.

  After unclipping Millie from her harness I carried her up the steps and placed her gently on the ground between a pair of tall columns, and tried to turn the door handle. Locked.

  There didn’t appear to be a bell, but there was a huge knocker in the shape of a lion’s head, so I banged it a couple of times and waited until it was opened by an elderly woman in a pinny. She frowned at me.

  ‘I’m here for the shooting,’ I said.

  She gave me a blank stare.

  ‘With some guy called Rupert? Sorry, I don’t know his last name.’ Perhaps I hadn’t got the right place either, because the large hallway behind her looked nothing like a hotel reception area. It lacked a front desk, for starters. A sleepy spaniel lifted its head and blinked, but made no move to get up. It was probably so used to guests that another one, even one with a dog, was nothing to get excited about.

  ‘Master Rupert,’ the woman said, issuing me with a stony stare.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘His name is Master Rupert Hollington.’

  ‘I thought Hollington was the name of this place?’

  ‘It is.’ She opened the grand door a little wider, and moved to the side with a sigh. ‘I’ll let him know he has a guest.’

  I stepped into the hall, my eyes on stalks. Rupert Hollington of Hollington Hall. Rupert the Rower, who’d gone to Kings and had a plummy accent, and who thought taking a girl clay pigeon shooting on a first date was a good idea.

  I wanted the highly polished, black-and-white tiled floor to open up and swallow me.

  The maid/servant/housekeeper (I had no idea what to call her – she might be his long-suffering nanny for all I knew) stalked down the hall and disappeared through a door at the far end, leaving me to stare up at the sweeping staircase with my mouth open. The place was huge!

  ‘Jessie, how lovely you could make it.’ Rupert strode up to me, both hands outstretched, and moved in for a double cheek peck.

  ‘Jenni,’ I corrected him, mortified.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Erm… yes?’

  ‘Jenni it is then, though I could have sworn you told me your name was Jessie.’

  ‘It was noisy in the pub,’ I said, trying to make him feel better, though to be fair, he didn’t seem in the least bit fazed that he’d got my name wrong.

  Never mind, it was an easy mistake to make.

  ‘I see you’ve brought your dog,’ he said. ‘Does it retrieve?’

  I glanced down at Millie, with her white fluffy fur and pink diamante collar. ‘Not even a stick,’ I admitted, wondering why he thought a West Highland Terrier would double up as a retriever. Now if he’d asked about her ability to dig holes…

  Rupert looked a little put out, but recovered quickly. ‘No bother. Just don’t let it off the lead, or it might interfere with the real dogs.’

  Was he calling my dog fake? Huh! She was as doggy as any other canine.

  I had a feeling this date wasn’t going to go as well as I’d hoped, especially when he asked, ‘Are your wellies in the car?’

  Wellies? What wellies? Oh dear; I hadn’t thought to dress for mud, assuming my leather boots and chunky jacket would be outdoorsy enough. Clearly not. When I took the time to really look at him, I realised he was wearing a Barbour jacket and a pair of green Wellington boots. Both the jacket and the wellies were liberally spattered with mud.

  ‘Is the shoot in a field?’ I asked, pleased to be able to display some shooting terminology.

  He gave me an odd look. ‘Where else would it be?’

  Maybe I should have done a bit more research on Google. ‘I’ve never handled a gun before,’ I admitted. ‘The only thing I know about it, is that you call “pull” and then do your best to hit the thingy.’

  I was unprepared for his sudden burst of laughter. ‘Oh, my dear girl, you’re priceless!’

  ‘Eh?’ So what if I didn’t know the correct term for
those flying disk things? I’d already confessed I knew nothing about shooting.

  ‘We’re shooting pheasant,’ he said, taking my arm and guiding me towards the door he had appeared from.

  I pulled back. ‘Wait. What? As in real, live birds?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Ew. No thanks.’

  ‘You don’t have to touch them,’ he said, giving my arm a tug.

  It wasn’t the touching which bothered me – it was the killing itself. Millie, close by my side, gave a small grumble in the back of her throat, half warning, half concern, and nudged my leg with her nose. I bent to pat her, using the movement as an excuse to shake off his hand.

  ‘Is it friendly?’ he asked, leaning forward and holding out his fingers for her to sniff.

  Millie drew back behind my legs.

  ‘She,’ I emphasised the word, ‘is perfectly friendly.’ And Millie promptly made me into a liar by emitting a low growl.

  I tugged at her lead in annoyance, vowing to give her a good telling off later. Not that it would do any good; if a dog had to be admonished for bad behaviour, the ticking off had to take place immediately after the event, else the dog would have no idea why its owner was cross.

  ‘I don’t think shooting is for me,’ I said, and turned to leave. Even if Rupert suggested doing something else instead, I wasn’t sure he was my kind of guy.

  Millie simply confirmed my thoughts when I glanced down at her.

  She was weeing on his wellies.

  Chapter 2

  Six Months Later

  I decided to handle Patrick myself. A cantankerous old gent, he was quite particular about who he’d let strip him. He preferred me, and usually spent all of the session with his nose buried in my cleavage making little whimpering sounds, but whether they were from delight or distress I couldn’t tell.

  The Old English Sheepdog stood in the doorway, tail between his legs, head low, looking up at me with a wall-eyed stare, begging me not to do this horrendous thing to him.

  ‘Mrs Paisley,’ I said, stepping out from behind the reception desk and holding out my hand for Patrick’s lead. ‘He’ll be done in a couple of hours, as usual.’

  Mrs Paisley simpered, her fingers rising to pat her hair. ‘We’ll both be pretty, won’t we my darling,’ she cooed to the dog.

  The old lady was about Patrick’s age, if dog years were anything to go by. Both were elderly, set in their ways, and quietly determined. Mrs Paisley had been bringing Patrick to Telling Tails ever since I’d turned the sign on the newly-painted door from closed to open.

  Patrick peered out from under his overgrown eyebrows and sighed. The dog had his “hair” done at the same time as Mrs Paisley, every six weeks. Perm, cut, and set for her; bath, strip, and trim for the dog. I had no idea how Mrs Paisley felt about her own hair appointment, but I knew Patrick wasn’t too keen on his. The Old English whimpered forlornly as Mrs Paisley sashayed out of the door, waggling her fingers in her trademark wave.

  ‘Come on, Patrick,’ I said, leading the recalcitrant dog to the bathing area at the back of the shop. ‘Let’s get you sorted.’

  He followed me obediently enough but baulked when I asked him to walk up the ramp and get into the tub, so I got behind him and pushed his fluffy, ample bottom, putting my back into it until he gave in to the inevitable and padded up the little slope.

  ‘There’s a good boy.’

  He shot me a baleful look from underneath shaggy brows. Still holding his lead (I wasn’t going to take the chance he’d make a run for it, something he’d done once before) I selected a collar from the nearby rack and slipped it on him, before attaching it to one of Telling Tails’ own leads, and clipping it onto the bar at the far end of the tub. Only then did I remove his own diamante-studded collar.

  ‘Good dog,’ I murmured, patting him on the neck.

  Patrick gave me another miserable glance then stoically stared ahead, trying to pretend this wasn’t happening. I tickled his ears with one hand, turning the water on with the other, and the dog flinched as the showerhead gushed into life.

  A familiar nose nudged my leg and I looked down to see Millie, demanding attention. ‘Have you come to say hello?’

  She panted, her little face happy, her eyes sparkling. She always waited until each dog was securely restrained before she approached, even though she and Patrick were old friends. I’d taught her to wait, because not all dogs were as friendly as this old gent.

  Millie whuffed up at Patrick, who huffed out a deep, answering sigh.

  ‘Does the deluxe package include claw-clipping?’ my newest employee called. Helen was bending over the Chihuahua on her table, peering at the dog’s tiny claws.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but don’t do them if they don’t need it.’

  She nodded and I resisted the urge to rush over to check for myself. I had to learn to trust the judgement of my staff and Helen, though relatively new to Telling Tails, certainly wasn’t new to the dog-grooming business.

  ‘Let’s get you smelling nice, shall we?’ I said to Patrick, and selected a shampoo for dogs with sensitive skins before catching a whiff of something nasty. ‘Ew, what have you been rolling in?’

  I aimed the shower jet at a dark smear on the dog’s shoulder. Fox poo, by the smell of it. I wrinkled my nose and tried not to breathe, the warm water softening the dried mess and sending whiffs of pungent aroma into the air.

  Millie’s nose twitched and she nudged me again.

  ‘It’s okay for you; you actually like it,’ I complained to her, rubbing my soapy palms together to spread the shampoo.

  Soon the rather more pleasing smell of medicated gel overcame the l’eau de fox, and Patrick uttered another despondent sigh.

  ‘I know, poppet,’ I said to him. ‘You worked hard to get that perfume all over you, didn’t you?’

  Another reproachful glance. The Old English had a great line in trying to make me feel guilty. It didn’t work.

  ‘You’re lucky your mistress doesn’t have much of a sense of smell else you’d be in here for a wash and blow-dry every week,’ I told him.

  He jerked his head up at that, looking alarmed, and I honestly believed he understood every word. Many of “my” dogs did, and Millie certainly did.

  The Westie watched for a while as I worked my way meticulously over Patrick’s thick coat. Wet, the dog appeared to be half his usual size. Perhaps that’s why he hated being bathed; the reduction in stature and the loss of dignity. Both the dog and I winced as I soaped his bottom and between his back legs.

  ‘Believe me, I wish I didn’t have to do that, either,’ I said. I much preferred the nose end to the tail end, though tails told an observer an awful lot about how a dog was feeling. At the moment Patrick had his clamped firmly between his legs, protecting his valuables from further assault.

  ‘You wait until I get the clippers out,’ I warned.

  The Old English lifted his head, stuck his nose in the air, and pretended he hadn’t heard, but my chuckle turned into a squeal when he shook violently, starting at his head and working his way right down to his backside, until all of him moved in rolling waves, his front end moving in the opposite direction to the back. Then his tail slapped me across the face and I could have sworn the dog laughed.

  I straightened up and looked down at my soaked tunic and drenched black trousers. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  The dog’s tongue flopped out in a pretend pant. He was laughing at me again, the naughty, little… I wondered if he knew I’d forgotten to put a plastic apron on – again – and I swore he’d done it on purpose.

  I gave him a final rinse (just to show him who was boss, but this time I stepped well back as he shook) before unclipping him and leading him to one of the drying tables. I preferred drying my clients by hand. It was more time-consuming, but I hated the thought of sticking a nervous pooch into the doggy equivalent of a tumble dryer. I liked the hands-on approach, using touch and my voice to soothe my furry charges.

  Patrick
tolerated the dryer but I suspected it was only because of the opportunity it provided; whenever my chest came within striking distance he’d try to bury his nose in my cleavage. Not that I had much of a cleavage for him to bury it in, but that didn’t stop me objecting.

  Millie followed and sat patiently underneath the table. ‘I can’t take you out yet,’ I said to her, ‘I’ve got three more clients to see to first.’

  She huffed, gave me a pitiful look, and wandered back to her pink cushion next to the reception desk. What was it with dogs and guilt trips? She had two walks every day, spent all her time with me, was petted and pampered, yet still she managed to look hard-done-by.

  Melaney, the other tip of the Telling Tails employee triangle, gave her a chew and the Westie plonked down on her cushion to eat it, after turning around three times and kneading the fabric into position. She grasped the chew, end up, between her paws and started work on it.

  Patrick licked his chops.

  ‘You can have one when I’ve finished with you,’ I promised, ‘if you’re a good boy.’ He blinked at me and I had to laugh. ‘Yes, I know, you’re always good,’ I reassured him.

  I didn’t hear my mother come into the salon over the clamour of the two driers, the clippers, and Classic FM on the radio, so I jumped when she tapped me on the shoulder. Switching the dryer off, I turned to kiss her on the cheek. She had a smile on her face and a carrier bag in her hand. The warm, enticing smell of something yummy and baked wafted from it.

  ‘I’ve brought you all some croissants,’ she said, walking towards the room at the back of the salon which she grandly called the “staff room”. I tended to refer to the cramped space which consisted of a couple of dilapidated, sagging armchairs, a kettle, a microwave, a washing machine, a tumble dryer, and a separate loo, as “out the back”.