Happiness for Beginners

by Carole Matthews

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Feel-good and full of emotion, Carole Matthews will make your heart sing with this glorious read.

One broken family. Two hearts meeting. Dozens of naughty animals

There's laughter, tears and a huge amount of love in
HAPPINESS FOR BEGINNERS, the new book from BESTSELLING and BELOVED Carole Matthews.

***Available to PRE-ORDER in hardback, ebook or audio now***

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Molly Baker is living her best life.

Thirty-eight years old, she lives on the twenty-five-acre Hope Farm in Buckinghamshire, surrounded by (mostly) four-legged friends and rolling hills. There's Anthony the anti-social sheep, Tina Turner the alpaca with attitude, and the definitely-not-miniature pig, Teacup.

Molly runs the farm as an alternative school for kids who haven't thrived in mainstream education. It's full on, but she wouldn't have it any other way. So when the well-groomed Shelby Dacre turns up at Hope Farm asking to enrol his son Lucas, Molly isn't fazed.

But Lucas is distant and soon Molly realises he might be more of a handful than she anticipated. And then there's the added problem that his dad is distractingly handsome. Molly has her beloved farm to think of - could letting Lucas and Shelby in be a terrible mistake, or the start of something wonderful?

Feel-good, funny and an absolute must-read from the queen of romance Carole Matthews, Molly's story will make your heart sing. New starts and second chances abound in Happiness for Beginners.

Release date: February 21, 2019

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 464

Sample

Anthony the Anti-Social Sheep lowers his head and growls. I hold up a hand, trying to establish myself as the head of the pack – which, if I’m honest, I’m not even sure is a sheep thing. It certainly doesn’t cut the mustard with Anthony. He squares his not-inconsiderable shoulders and makes eye contact. I can, however, tell a sheep with an evil glint in its eye and Anthony, as so often, has one now.

When he’s in this kind of mood there’s really no reckoning with him and I know that I have no option but to make a dash for the gate. Anthony, in turn, knows that I’m too far away to make it. Three times this week he’s charged and up-ended unsuspecting ramblers who’ve strayed into his field. I’ve lost count of the muddy walkers that I’ve patted down while apologising profusely as they try to re-set their spectacles and gather their backpacks. It took the last one two hastily brewed cups of tea and a sizeable wedge of lemon drizzle cake before they were right again. One of these days someone will sue me for a sheep-based assault.

‘Good boy, Anthony,’ I coo, as I back slowly away. ‘You’re not really the devil incarnate. You’re just misunderstood.’

Unappeased, he starts his run towards me and, as the other infinitely more placid sheep lift their heads to watch, I turn on my heels, sprinting as fast as my wellies will allow. ‘Play nicely, Anthony!’

He is unheeding.

The five-barred gate is coming tantalisingly closer, but I can hear Anthony’s hooves thundering behind me. He’s one hell of a size for a sheep, with a big, square head and the posture of a seasoned pugilist. Technically, he’s a ram, but on this farm we try not to complicate matters. He was recently parted from the elements that specifically made him a ram in the hope that it would make him more docile. Sadly, it didn’t work.

I don’t know what’s made him so bad-tempered and disgruntled with life. I love him as much as a human can love a sheep without it being illegal. He has the prime choice of fields. He’s first in line for food. If only he could learn to love me back or at least not want to knock me over every time I enter his territory then I’m sure we would both be happier. The dogs are, quite wisely, terrified of him and he certainly has a more menacing growl than either of them. Anthony has long eschewed baa-ing as a form of communication.

As I run, Little Dog is barking encouragement at the gate. He’s been on the wrong side of Anthony many times before now and has learned not to venture into his field. Little Dog knows how much a prod with his battering-ram nose in your nether regions hurts. Big Dog, possibly brighter than either of us, is staying well clear and is, quite sensibly, cowering behind the wheels of the tractor.

‘No, Anthony,’ I shout as fiercely as I can over my shoulder. ‘NO!’

But it’s too late. His massive head makes contact with my bottom and he tosses me as hard as he can. As I’m catapulted forwards, I can feel clear air between me and the ground. Lots of it.

I land, face forward, with an inelegant ‘ouff’ in the muddiest part of the field, the bit where we open the gate, the bit that’s trodden to sludge by the hooves of many more amenable sheep. Even though I’m short and sturdily built, I’m no match for Anthony.

His work for the day done, a contented Anthony trots off to find someone else to terrorise. I swear that sheep is smiling. Little Dog, braver now that the surly Anthony has gone, squeezes under the gate and comes to lick my face.

‘You’re not much use as a guard dog, are you?’ I admonish as I push myself up on my elbows.

He looks at me with his one eye and his expression seems to say that he wholeheartedly agrees. Like everything and everyone here, Little Dog came to us damaged. I think that he must have been kicked in the face or something equally dreadful in the past, because as well as losing an eye, he has suffered nerve damage which means that his lips are permanently pulled back so he looks as if he’s always smiling. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem any the worse for it now and his weird grin makes him look like the cutest thing there ever was. Which is just as well as he’s a pretty hopeless guard dog. Unless licking a burglar to death would count.

Little Dog is probably some kind of Jack Russell/random terrier combo. He’s got stubby legs and a white coat with brown patches that’s the texture of a paintbrush.

Then there’s Big Dog. He’s my second contender for the prize of Most Useless Guard Dog. He’s blessed with only three legs, breath that would floor a dinosaur and a fear of anyone wearing a red jumper. He’s a huge beast with a tail that can clear a coffee table in one wag. He might be Alsatian-based somewhere in there, possibly crossed with a mountain dog or wolf – yet he is the scarediest dog ever.

I haul myself up, grateful that no bones are broken, and hobble to the gate. I’ll probably have a corking bruise or two in the morning, but I’ll live to fight another day.

As I don’t want Anthony making a break for it today and terrorising any random strangers, I make sure that I secure the bolt very carefully behind me. ‘You’re going nowhere today, Big Man,’ I tell him, sternly. ‘I want you to take time out to think about your behaviour.’

He gives me a scornful look and goes to annoy his fellow field companions. He’s not well-liked, my dear Anthony, and that makes me love him more. We acquired him because he was considered too much of a handful for anyone else. It seems to have set a pattern.

I brush the dirt from my hands, my jeans, my shirt. I should introduce myself to you. How rude of me not to have done it before. I’m Molly Baker. I’m thirty-eight – no idea how that’s even possible. I’m single, but I’m not a mad cat lady. I’m a mad all-kinds-of-animals lady. Welcome to my life at Hope Farm.



I’d have a shower, but there’s really no point. I usually end the day filthy, so I might as well start out that way too. The animals won’t mind and the people joining me on the farm today couldn’t care less what I look like. It can wait until later.

Besides – a small but not inconsiderable point – there’s no hot water on tap. That’s due to the fact that I live on-site at the farm in a small, but perfectly formed caravan – this place was never blessed with a sprawling farmhouse – and my only bathing facility is an open-air bucket shower at the back of one of the barns. Al fresco bathing is fine in the summer months and, sometimes, I hook the bucket shower up to the hosepipe for the horse wash and go with ice-cold water. Bracing, yet enjoyable in its own way. But in the depths of December the appeal of staying dirty can be quite overwhelming. Most of the time, I quite like the process of boiling myself a kettle of water to do my ablutions, or maybe I’m just used to it. It’s time-consuming though and I don’t have the luxury of being able to set it up right now – there’s so much else to do.

My home is modest, but I do my best to make it cosy. It was originally my aunt Hettie’s home and is as old as the hills. To cheer it up, I recently gave the outside a coat of paint and strung up a bit of pretty bunting to disguise the fact that it’s living on borrowed time. I’ve made it homely on the inside and I’m constantly doing running repairs to keep it going. Mind you, as I spend most of my time out on the farm, it’s purely a place to sleep and I don’t need much in the way of creature comforts. My assistant Bev bought me some nice cushions, embroidered with cutesy farm animals, which the dogs probably love more than I do. One of our casual volunteers crochets, and has hooked me a matching blanket – again possibly more appreciated by the canine inhabitants. Although I do like to snuggle under it if I can wrest if from them. I changed Hettie’s orange 1960s curtains for pale blue gingham numbers which do look pretty. What else do I need? Bev tells me that mismatched crockery is all the rage, which is just as well as mine has achieved that status quite by accident – usually an over-waggy tail. In the summer, I swelter and in the winter it’s like living in a freezer, but it’s a small price to pay for the freedom of the land.

Today, the spring weather is excelling itself and it feels as if we’ve finally cast off the harsh mantle of winter. A hearty dump of late snow in February seemed particularly cruel when the early snowdrops were out in full force. That’s all forgotten now, as spring is most definitely in the air and the day is balmy with a gentle breeze, when so often up here in our exposed position it can be howling a gale. The sky is the palest of blues dotted with clouds tinged with grey, hinting that we might be in for a spot of seasonal rain later.

I stretch my back, which is already tight due to my lumpy mattress. The one extravagance I do occasionally miss here is a long, hot bath, particularly when I’ve got a lot of aches and pains, but then everything else makes up for that. At Hope Farm I live in a most idyllic slice of Buckinghamshire countryside, with no nosy neighbours – in fact, no near neighbours at all. This place is situated in a spot of splendid isolation – just as I like it. I look around and know that every morning I wake up here I am truly blessed.

Little Dog falls into step at my heels – his favourite place in the world. Warily, Big Dog decides that it’s safe to come out of his hiding place and joins us.

‘Come on then, you two. Before we open our doors for business, let’s see how everyone else is.’

We head first to pick up our two pygmy goats, letting them out of their overnight pen. Dumb and Dumber spend the day out in the paddock with the horses who don’t mind them as company. The alpacas tolerate them occasionally too – when they’re in the mood. They are goats of very small brain, but they’re undeniably cute and set up a plaintive bleat whenever they see us.

‘Morning, lovelies,’ I say as I let them out into the yard. ‘Are you hungry?’

Goats are always hungry.

The dogs give them a good sniff in greeting. After they’ve been fed and fussed over, the goats wait patiently to be taken up to the paddock, already familiar with the routine.

I should tell you that Hope Farm isn’t what you might call a ‘traditional’ farm. Oh, no. We don’t grow crops, we don’t have cows, we don’t *lowers voice to whisper* kill any of our animals for food. Instead, our residents live a life of pampered luxury. They’ve all had tough starts in one way and another and I think they deserve a little TLC and understanding. Much like the young people who come to spend their time here, too. You see, I run the farm as an alternative way of educating kids who have special needs or behavioural issues. How I came to be doing that is quite a convoluted tale. We should sit down with a cup of tea and I’ll give you chapter and verse. Now, I’ve just got to crack on.

Our next resident is our ‘pet’ lamb, Fifty, who is at the opposite end of the spectrum to Anthony. Where Anthony is more often in an evil humour, Fifty is one of life’s most affable sheep. He’s convinced that he’s a human or a dog or a pig – anything but a lamb – and, as such, he’s pretty much given the free rein of our farmyard. If you drew a cartoon sheep, you’d draw Fifty. He has a handsome brown face, ears that are quite possibly big enough for him to take flight and a doleful expression in his big brown eyes. He has eyelashes to die for.

He’s best friends with our monster-sized pig, Teacup, and usually snuggles up at night beside him in Teacup’s pen. Now and then, when I’m feeling particularly soft, Fifty beds down in my caravan. When he hears us, he comes up for his early morning cuddle.

‘Hello, Fifty. What’s good today?’ He leans into my hand for his favourite itch behind the ear.

Fifty was an orphaned lamb who came to us with a fifty-fifty chance of survival. He was weak, underfed and literally on his last legs. He preferred to nestle in my lap rather than feeding, so I spent hours with my finger in his mouth teaching him how to suck. Eventually, he thrived with warm milk on tap and me with many sleepless nights beside him in the hay under a heat lamp. His legs were bent and buckled beneath him, so I massaged them with lavender oil every day to cajole his wasted muscles into life and bandaged his spindly limbs until he was strong enough to support his own weight. He still walks with an ungainly limp now but it never stops him from bossing the dogs around.

Teacup wakes up and hauls himself to see us, always open to the offer of food. Teacup’s only issue was to grow into a piggy the size of a Sherman tank when his owner foolishly bought one he was told would fit into a teacup. Hence the name. Living in the tiny garden of a semi-detached house in Hemel Hempstead soon wasn’t a viable option, so someone told someone who knew someone who knew us and that’s how we inherited him.

‘Morning, boy. Did you have a good night?’ I scratch his cheeks and the pig gives me a cheery grunt in reply.

I feed and water them all, holding the dogs away with my foot so they don’t nick their brekky. We have two domestic white geese who come wandering into the yard, obviously worried that they’re missing some breakfast action. We keep Snowy and Blossom for their eggs which are popular and Bev likes to put jaunty neckerchiefs on them which they usually surrender to after a few protest pecks.

Next to Teacup we have two more pigs – Salt and Pepper. They’re New Zealand Kunekunes and are short, fat and hairy. Pepper, the lady pig, is very vocal and bossy. Poor old Salt mostly stands in the corner of his pen being the epitome of a long-suffering and hen-pecked husband. If you go to fuss them, Pepper barges him out of the way so that he doesn’t get a look-in – poor thing – so we try to sneak him treats when she’s not looking. They get their breakfast too.

Further along is a run with a dozen or more rabbits of all shapes and sizes who are used to being cuddled to within an inch of their life and seem none the worse for it. Many of the kids who come here aren’t used to animals at all, so they’re great for introducing them to the work of the farm and in learning to how to look after another creature. The alpacas will give you a nip or a swift kick if you do something they don’t like, but the bunnies are altogether more agreeable. They’re all content to sit quietly soothing a troubled teen in return for a carrot.

‘Do you want to stay with Teacup?’ I ask Fifty. ‘Or will you come with us?’

Our favourite lamb finds a spot in the sunshine next to Teacup’s pen and settles down. Looks as if I have my answer. Which is just as well as I have a lot to do and need to get a wiggle on.



It’s not yet eight o’clock, but the sun is climbing high and it looks set to be a warm day. Big Dog wanders ahead as we meander up to the field, sniffing anything he comes to with an intensity that’s admirable. Little Dog stays contentedly by my side, my constant companion.

As always, when I’m striding out across the farm, I feel my soul settle. This is my home, the place where I belong. It’s only here that I can be myself and am truly happy. I should tell you some more about it as we go. Hope Farm was left to me by my aunt Hettie, my godmother and my mother’s older sister. I spent most of my childhood at this place and she was more of a mum to me than my real mother ever was. I don’t remember even calling my mother ‘Mum’. It was always Joan. And poor Joan was an alcoholic and never really had the time or the ability to look after a child. Her mothering skills could best be described as erratic. By the time I was born my father had long gone, so he was never in my life.

Hettie was the one who was always there for me. Joan saw me as an unwelcome interruption to her social life and made it abundantly clear. So Hettie would sweep me away from our awful, loveless home and take me to the farm where I’d tell all my troubles to the animals and find my comfort in caring for them all. Hettie was always patient, nurturing and showed me what to do. I looked after her small flock of sheep, her menagerie of pets and her rag-tag brood of chickens, learning what feed they needed, how to collect the eggs from the hens and what to do when they weren’t well.

When, eventually, my mother cared more about the bottle than anything else in her life, Hettie took me on permanently before Social Services did. Just after I started secondary school, she installed me in her run-down caravan on the farm, making me take the only bed while she slept on the sofa-cum-bed in the living area. I didn’t know that the best word to describe my aunt then was ‘recluse’. I just thought she was shy. The truth of it was that for years she’d pretty much shut herself off in this green and pleasant part of Buckinghamshire, shunning neighbours, family and friends – pretty much everyone apart from me. I never thought to question why. It was more of a case of ‘why wouldn’t you?’ After all, I was ‘shy’ too.

We never had visits from friends or neighbours and I never thought it strange. If Hettie didn’t miss contact with the outside world, then neither did I. Going to school was torture. Every day, I used to sit at my desk and count the hours until home time. I wanted nothing more than for the lessons to be over so that I could run straight back to the farm. The other girls might hang around in the village or have play-dates for tea at each other’s houses, but not me. I was a loner, the odd one out, the one who didn’t get invited and I didn’t mind at all. Hettie taught me a lot about animals, but nothing about social skills. The idea of being up here surrounded by all this beauty with creatures that didn’t judge you or expect anything of you was more appealing to me as well.

When Hettie died I took over the running of the farm and the mantle of family weirdo. Not that I see any of our relatives now. When my mother and then Hettie passed away, I lost any tenuous contact I had with the remaining cousins and whatever. The few phone calls I did get from them after Hettie’s funeral I never quite managed to return and, eventually, they stopped. What did I have to talk to them about, anyway? They had normal office jobs, families, holidays in Majorca. I had my animals and, beyond that, no discernible life. Trust me, there’s only so much mileage in talking about alpaca poo.

We cross the stream on our well-trodden path, both dogs running ahead of me now I check and feed the animals three times a day: once early in the morning before everyone else arrives, then again late afternoon and usually I do another round again at sunset, just to make sure that everyone’s all right.

My aunt was young and strong when I joined her here. I was eleven, self-sufficient out of necessity and a willing helper. I helped her to feed the animals before I went to school and when I came home, I’d throw off my uniform and race back out into the fields again, usually finding her up to her elbows in muck somewhere. At the weekends, I rarely left the farm. It won’t surprise you to know that I never spent my Saturday afternoons shopping for eyeshadow or at the cinema in giggly groups. I could count the number of friends on one hand. Well, one finger actually.

Hettie never said so but, as the years went on, I think the land was becoming too much for her. Although she was as strong as an ox for her age, there are twenty-five acres here which is not a lot in farming circles, but is more than enough to manage for two and is almost impossible to cope with single-handedly. Until I arrived, Hettie would never have anyone here to help her – she wouldn’t have considered having strangers on her land – but somehow she kept it going. When I joined her, we divided up the tasks between the two of us. As I was younger, I took on the heavier labour and, in my teens, became a dab-hand at tractor driving while she tended the animals, always preferring to be with her beloved beasts. Yet, as Hettie aged, I gradually shouldered the bulk of the work and happily so. My aunt never owned the land, but rented it from the neighbouring farmer and when she’d gone the arrangement continued seamlessly.

I did once have a job in the real world. Hettie insisted. When I left school I trained as a teacher as I had no idea what else to do and Hettie wanted me to continue with my education. I’d have happily stayed on at the farm, but one of us needed to bring in some money. Hettie had largely funded us both out of money left to her from her parents and I knew that was becoming increasingly sparse.

Teaching was the obvious thing, I suppose. I liked the idea of helping children. At school, I’d had no one to turn to when times were tough at home and I thought I’d like to make a difference to kids who might be suffering in similar ways. So, very reluctantly, I left the farm every day and went off to the local college and completed a City and Guilds course in teaching, fitting my studies in around looking after the animals. After that, I landed a job at a local secondary school. It wasn’t as I’d imagined and, to be honest, I felt as much out of my depth there as I had done as a pupil. I don’t easily fit in.

I had no idea how noisy schools had become since I’d been at one and I’d disliked it then. My experience of it as a teacher was little better. The class sizes were enormous and somehow turned children who started out with real potential into surly, badly behaved monsters. I felt ill-equipped to deal with it all. I couldn’t connect emotionally with the children when they needed it and I couldn’t make a difference as I’d wanted to because I was bogged down with the curriculum and exam targets. The workload was never-ending and the bureaucracy of the state school system was too constraining. I found it all so stressful. I began to wonder if there was another way to educate those, like me, who were square pegs in round holes, the ones who had difficult home lives, as I had, the ones who didn’t conform to the ‘norm’.

Then, one day, I’d just finished a lesson where I barely had control over a small but foul-tempered, foul-mouthed rabble who were riding roughshod over any desire the other pupils might have had to learn and was so disheartened and disillusioned that, instead of walking to the staffroom for a group moan and a restorative cup of tea, I just kept walking, down the corridors, out of the door, beyond the bounds of the playground and never went back. Some might call it a breakdown. Some might call it coming to my senses. Whichever way, I wasn’t required to work my resignation.

So that was it. I simply retreated to the world of the farm and found that, like Hettie, I was so much happier surrounded by animals rather than people. But I worried about those children. The thought of the ones who were lost or angry with no one to turn to kept me awake at night. I wasn’t cut out to deal with kids en masse – I’d learned that quickly enough – but I did want to help. Surely there had to be a better way?

I found it. Eventually. And quite by accident. It seems ironic that Hope Farm is now the home to an alternative school for some of the most challenging youngsters in our society. With me, the most reluctant of teachers, as the founder, principal and chief dogsbody. Who’d have thought? Yet I love my job and find it so rewarding. This square peg forged herself a square hole.

But I’ll have to tell you all about that later as I need to press on with my tasks and high-tail it back to the yard before today’s students arrive.



Up here in the big field we have two enormous Shire horses, Sweeney and Carter, both ex-police mounts. Sweeney suffers from anxiety. One riot too many, maybe. Carter has Seasonal Affective Disorder and is a nightmare in the winter months. Talk about grumpy. If he could stay huddled up in his stall and never venture outdoors, he would. Thankfully, he’s a different boy altogether during the summer and loves to be out in the paddock. They’re both fine, handsome lads and, other than being a huge expense, give us little trouble.

I fill two buckets from the shed and feed them both their breakfast. When they’ve finished, I give them each a sneaky carrot I have in my pocket as an extra treat. Bev, my assistant, comes to the farm pretty much every day and she rides them regularly to keep them exercised. I miss sharing the task as we used to, but I never seem to have the time to ride any more. There’s always something more pressing demanding my attention. I can’t think when I was last on a horse. I still have no idea what possessed me to take on these hulking great beasts, but someone asked me to and so I did.

I make a note that the top plank of their fence is broken – again – and will add it to the never-ending list of jobs that need doing. All these boys have to do is lean their weight on it and the wood snaps like a matchstick.

‘You’re very naughty,’ I tell them. ‘You’re always breaking your fence.’ But I stroke their noses so that they know I’m not really cross.

At the other end of the scale we have two miniature Shetland ponies, who look as cute as you can imagine. Ringo, however, suffers from permanent sweet itch as he’s allergic to his own hair. I tell you, I spend half of my life hacking at Ringo’s fringe with my kitchen scissors – much as I do with my own hair. I try to keep his mane brutally short so that it doesn’t touch his face and am constantly rubbing him with antihistamine cream which seems to help as well. He’s a dear little soul, though, and bears his horsey eczema stoically. His companion is Buzz Lightyear who fancies himself an escape artist. Despite being short in the leg, he’s always trying to jump his fence to get out to infinity and beyond. He very rarely manages it and, when he does, we always catch him before he gets too far as he’s easily distracted by butterflies, flowers and streams.

‘I bring breakfast and your friends,’ I tell them and dish out the feed buckets I brought from the shed.

While Ringo and Buzz are eating, I put the goats in the ponies’ paddock. They have a complaining bleat – I’ve never known goats with separation anxiety before – so I fuss them for a bit longer. They’ll be fine when they settle and the goats and ponies do love each other’s company.

Once everyone in the top fields are fed, I whistle for the dogs and they come hurtling towards me. We stride out back down the hill and I can already see from the cars parked in the yard that Bev and Alan have arrived. They are my stalwarts and I couldn’t manage without them.

Bev and Alan are the main people who help me to run this place and, generally, keep me on track. I make a mental note to tell Alan about the broken fence. He can go up there later and knock a few nails in – something he does on a weekly basis, if not more often. The rest of the time he systematically works his way through all the jobs written on the chalkboard in the barn.

‘Morning, lovely!’ Bev shouts as she closes the gate. ‘Nice day for it!’

‘Glorious,’ I agree.

Bev Adams is in her mid-fifties, an ex-body builder who is still in great shape. She has muscles that pop up everywhere and is as fit as a fiddle. I think I’m quite strong after years of physical work, but I’ve never seen anyone chuck hay bales round like she can. If you saw her, you’d think she was quite hard – her face always bears a ‘don’t mess with me’ expression – but she’s a total softie. Her skin is tanned and quite lined from working outside – don’t ever tell her I said that. God, she’d kill me. Her hair is long and home-bleached, but spends most of its time scraped back in a ponytail. And, as she’s as busy as I am, it’s not often that she gets time to bleach it so she usually has an inch of grey roots peeping through. She too favours my minimal style of hairdressing. My hair is short, brown and, as I mentioned, I cut it myself with the kitchen scissors. I like to think I’ve achieved a funky, choppy cut. A professional hair stylist might think otherwise. But when I’m showering outside under a bucket, the last thing I want to do is fiddle with my hair. I’m seriously low-maintenance all the way. I’d rather groom a horse for an hour than titivate myself.

‘I bet you’ve been up and at it since the crack of sparrows,’ Bev observes.

‘Pretty much.’

‘I’m knackered.’ She yawns. ‘I was on the lash last night at the Queen’s Head. Open mic night. Poets and shit. It was wicked. Everyone was there. You should have come along.’

Bev knows that I’d rather stick pins in my own eyes than spend an evening in a pub, but she never gives up trying.

After Hettie died, I lost my way a bit, let myself go. Turning to drink was always a worry given my mother’s history. I didn’t know if a tendency to that kind of addiction would be in my genes. You never know, do you – and I certainly didn’t want to risk it. Even now I rarely touch the hard stuff and, when I do, I’m usually cajoled into it by Bev. I enjoy a sip or two but, to my eternal relief, I can always take it or leave it.

I was lonely up here without Hettie. Goodness only knows, I like the isolated life, but everyone needs someone and I had no one. If I’m honest with you, I could have just joyfully let myself fade away. Who would have noticed anyway? I simply couldn’t face going into the town, a trip to the supermarket began to t