The Nothing Girl

Book 1: Frogmorton Farm Series

by Jodi Taylor

Genres: Magical Realism; Fantasy Romance; Humorous Fantasy; Romantic Fantasy

Synopsis

Getting a life isn't always easy. And hanging on to it is even harder . . .

Discover this funny, heart-warming tale of self-discovery from Jodi Taylor, author of the internationally bestselling Chronicles of St Mary's series.

Nobody ever notices little Jenny Dove. Even her family call her the Nothing Girl. Isolated and alone, Jenny is about to end it all when she is rescued by Thomas, a giant golden horse only she can see.

Under his mischievous guidance, Jenny begins to think she might one day become someone. And when the charmingly chaotic Russell Checkland erupts into her life - together with his tumbledown farmhouse - and proposes a marriage that will save them both, Jenny is ready to take a chance.

Sadly, her new life at Frogmorton Farm doesn't exactly sweep Jenny off her feet. There are leaking roofs, unpaid bills and so many buckets. And then, as a series of apparent 'accidents' unfolds, Jenny begins to worry this might not be a fairy-tale ending after all...

Readers love Jodi Taylor:

'I haven't met a Jodi Taylor book I didn't love, they get you right in the feels'

'Has you laughing and crying in equal measure'

'Beautifully written, captivating and witty'

'A surprising gem of a book'

(P)2015 Audible, Ltd

Release date: January 1, 2019

Publisher: Audible Studios

Print pages: 320

Sample

Chapter One

As it turned out, I didn’t kill myself after all. I don’t mean I didn’t try. In fact, I made all my preparations with the thoroughness of a thirteen-year-old girl whose teachers always commented on her ‘thoroughness’ because they couldn’t think of anything else to say about her. I had carefully considered ways and means and made my choice.

I didn’t go for the wrist-slitting. I think it was because of the mess. Someone would have to clear it up afterwards. I’d been brought up not to make a mess. Not to make a fuss. I know you can do that sort of thing in the bath but I really didn’t want people seeing me with no clothes on, so paracetamol it was. I stockpiled, carefully camouflaging a packet here and a packet there amongst other, more innocuous purchases, not knowing when exactly, but pretty sure it would be soon.

And it was. The weekend followed the normal pattern. There was the usual Friday-night euphoria. School was finished. I had two whole days ahead of me when I didn’t even have to think about it. Monday was an age away. I was happy; although happiness was, in my case, just an absence of misery. I woke on Saturday morning – no school. Yay! By Saturday afternoon, however, I was thinking – this time tomorrow I’ll be nearly back at school again, and the darkness started to nibble at the corners of my mind.

On Sunday, my first thought was – I’m back at school tomorrow, and then the whole day was wasted in fearful anticipation of the following week. By Sunday night I was a little pile of misery in the corner of my bedroom.

And then the next day, of course, would be Monday.

But not any more. I’d had my last Monday. And Tuesday and Wednesday and all the rest of it. This was my last Sunday night. There would be no more Mondays.

I had a nice bath. I was quite calm. I thought I might be nervous, but knowing I wouldn’t ever, ever have to face the world again gave me the quiet strength I needed. It was good to let go. I brushed my hair carefully, put on my favourite jeans and top, and sat back carefully against the pillows. I’d assembled everything I needed – because I’m thorough – water jug, glass, and three packets of paracetamol. There was no note. I wasn’t interested in making people suffer. I did wonder, idly, how long it would take them to find me. When I didn’t turn up at school tomorrow, would they simply assume I had another doctor’s appointment and hadn’t told them again? They never said anything, because they didn’t want to be seen to be picking on the girl with the problems. If, of course, they could remember who I was. I wouldn’t blame them if they couldn’t. Sometimes even I had difficulty remembering me.

God knows when my family would miss me. Maybe when I started to smell.

I hadn’t bothered with a will either. Partly because I was only thirteen years old but mostly because my parents were dead and I lived with my uncle and aunt. My parents’ money had come to me and now it would go to them. My uncle is a solicitor. I know these things. Not that they needed it. They weren’t short of a bob or two themselves.

So there I was, all set to go. Possibly as a means of avoiding school it was a bit OTT – a sledgehammer to crack a walnut – but I couldn’t do this any more. My road had not been very long, but it had been painful and I couldn’t see it getting any better, so I was going now, before it got any worse. It seemed unlikely the world would miss me. Or even notice.

Years later, someone would call me a nothing girl. Admittedly, it was an emotional moment, with greed and hatred and betrayal ricocheting around the room and damaging everything in their path. But all those years ago, when I was only thirteen and still struggling to find my place in the world, before I even heard the phrase hurled at me, that’s what I was.

The Nothing Girl.

I know now there are other people like me. People who, either accidentally or on purpose, fall through the cracks of life. And nobody notices. You call out and no one hears. You drown and people don’t see. You’re not being ignored because that implies they can see you in the first place. I’m talking about people like me – ghosts in their own lives. Hurting themselves just to check they’re still alive.

I wiped away a tear and pulled out the foil blister packs, pressed out the first two tablets, and swallowed them down with a sip of water. I was about to take two more when, from nowhere, a voice said, ‘I think two are enough, don’t you?’

I nearly fell off the bed in shock. I don’t know what I thought. A mysteriously appeared Uncle Richard? A burglar? God?

Scrambling off the bed and scattering foil packets everywhere, I said, ‘Who’s there? Who are you?’

That was when I got my second big shock of the evening because I became aware, belatedly, that I was speaking normally.

This doesn’t happen to me. I’ve got a stutter. A stupid thing. I had a little one as a child that came on if I was upset or frightened. After my parents died it got worse and worse, until it seemed I had to dredge words up from the very core of my being and every single word spoken depleted me somehow. And it was such hard work. And it took so long. At first people were sympathetic in various ways. They waited patiently for me to struggle through a sentence, which made me feel bad. Or they finished the sentence for me which made me feel worse. So I said less and less over the years and now I hardly said anything at all. I certainly didn’t come out with: ‘Who’s there? Who are you?’ without a huge amount of stammering and spluttering and all the massive effort my classmates find so mirth-provoking.

Strangely, I didn’t feel that frightened. After all, I was in the process of taking my own life. How could it get any worse? I think I was more angry than scared. I’d worked my way up to this – this was the most important and probably the last act of my life and someone was telling me two paracetamol were sufficient, as if I just had a mild headache, instead of a life so unbearable that I didn’t want to be in it any longer.

At this moment of high drama, as I stared into the shadowy corners of my bedroom, I became conscious of the smell of warm ginger biscuits. Well, I was only thirteen at the time. Biscuits played a large part in my life. Besides, the smell was familiar and reassuring.

I reached over to my bedside lamp and turned up the brightness. The small pool of light around my bed grew larger and brighter as the darkness retreated. Standing a safe distance away, over by the wardrobe, was an enormous golden horse.

A real horse. Not a picture or a projection. A very real, very solid, very large horse. In my head, I said, ‘Are you a hallucination?’

‘I think vision is a much nicer word, Jenny, don’t you?’

‘Are you a vision?’

‘No.’

‘Am I imagining you?’

‘No.’

‘Am I dead?’

‘No.’

‘What are you?’

He looked down at himself in surprise. ‘I’m a horse!’

We regarded each other for a while.

‘Why are you here?’

‘To be your friend.’

This seemed too good to be true and I refused to let myself believe it. Friends were not something I had.

‘How did you get in here? Can horses climb stairs?’

‘I can go anywhere you go. Because I’m your friend.’

I sat back down on the bed and stared at him. He was right. He was a horse. He was the most beautiful horse I’d ever seen. And certainly the biggest. He was golden and glowed slightly in the lamplight. His mane was long and cream, as was his gently swishing tail. His forelock hung between his ears, slightly obscuring a white star on his forehead and two very large, dark eyes.

He twitched his ears and shifted his weight slightly. I had a sudden vision of enormous piles of horse poo all over Aunt Julia’s expensive gleaming wooden flooring.

He snorted. I got the impression he was laughing and it was funny, but I was still trying to get to grips with an enormous golden horse in my bedroom and a so-far-uncompleted suicide attempt. I was therefore actually feeling a little bit aggrieved at the interruption. Suicide is a big thing.

‘Why now?’

‘I think we both know the answer to that one.’

‘Have you come to stop me?’

‘I don’t have to,’ he said, calmly. He lowered his head and began to examine the contents of my bookcase.

‘Why don’t you have to stop me? You can’t, you know. I’m going to do this.’

He turned back from the bookcase. ‘No, you’re not.’

‘You can’t stop me,’ I said, trying not to sound petulant.

‘Jenny, let’s not start off with an argument. You can say anything you like to me. In fact, I wish you would. All I ask is that you’re truthful with me. If you lie to me then you’re lying to yourself.’

I was angry. ‘I want you to go away.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘I do. Go away. You’re frightening me.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘I’ll call my uncle.’

‘And tell him – what?’

That stopped me. I’d already had more than my fair share of ‘doctor’s appointments’. The last thing I needed was to bounce downstairs announcing there was an enormous talking horse in my bedroom.

‘Jenny,’ he said, gently. ‘Pick up the packets and throw them all out of the window.’

‘No,’ I said, clutching them to me.

‘You’re not going to do this.’

‘I am. I am.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘You don’t know that. How do you know that?’

‘Because you’ve done your homework.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve done your homework for Monday. It’s over there. An essay on Julius Caesar, two pages of German translation, and what looks like … yes … a page of simultaneous equations. You’ve got the second one wrong, but all the others are right. Well done.’

I stopped dead, wrestling with the implications. He was right. I had done my homework. Even though I’d planned to kill myself on Sunday night I’d done my homework for Monday. And now, as I looked around the room, I could see my stuff ready for Monday. My uniform would be hanging in the wardrobe. My shoes were cleaned and ready. I told you I was thorough. I tried to think about what this meant and ended by bursting into tears.

I heard him move across the room towards me. His breath was warm and comforting in my hair. I could smell ginger biscuits again. He stood between me and the door. My shield against the world.

‘It’s all right,’ he said, gently. ‘It really is all right, Jenny. You just wait and see.’

I wiped my nose on my sleeve. ‘Why are you here? Why me?’

I never forgot his reply.

‘Because, Jenny, you’re special.’

So that’s how I met Thomas. I asked him his name and he said, ‘Thomas’. It was surely only a coincidence that that was the name I was thinking of at the time.

Five years later, I left school with good A levels; better than both my cousins certainly. In a perfect world, of course, Francesca would have had the beauty and Christopher would have had the brains. Well, the universe got it half right. Francesca was very beautiful. Christopher, sadly, had the brains of an earthworm and slightly less personality. He never got anything right. Even with tall parents and a tall sister, he managed to be well under average height. In a good-looking family, he was not only undistinguished but unmemorable. Ten minutes after he’d gone, you’d be hard pushed to remember what he looked like. He compensated by being obnoxious. The only talents he possessed were delusions of adequacy. He truly believed he was something special and even when various business affairs came crashing down around his head, as they invariably did, he was always unshakeably convinced it was everyone else’s fault. So stupid was he that he’d managed to take Rushford’s only bookshop and run it slowly into the ground. God knows what it cost Uncle Richard to keep him afloat. But he did. What Christopher wanted, Christopher got. Because on top of everything else, he was a cowardly, spiteful bully who delighted in tormenting those weaker than himself. And I should know. I remember, when I was a child, Russell Checkland had yanked him off me a couple of times.

And no one ever mentioned A levels and Francesca in the same sentence. She didn’t need them.

They went on to have proper lives. Nothing happened to me for another fifteen years. After what Aunt Julia told me that day, I made sure I kept my head down and lived a gentle, uneventful life.

It happened when I tried to make a bid for freedom, picking my moment and then nervously showing my aunt a number of university brochures and pamphlets. She looked through them all very carefully, using the time to think of something to say. I did think it was because she was hurt that I wanted to leave home, but it was worse than that.

‘Jenny, dear.’ She stopped.

I took a deep, steadying breath, marshalling the words one by one like recalcitrant sheep. ‘I … like this one. Look at the History … syllabus.’

‘Of course, it didn’t come out as smoothly as that, but typing my stutter would take for ever and reading it is even more irritating than listening to it. You just have to imagine it.

‘Jenny,’ she said again.

‘You aren’t … looking at them.’

‘Jenny. I so hoped we wouldn’t have to have this conversation. I need you to listen to me very carefully. Naturally, your uncle and I were very pleased with your exam results. It’s nice to see you doing something well.’

Deep inside me, things began to clench. I could almost see my words flying free out of the window, leaving me far behind, never getting off the ground.

‘My dear, the thing is … oh dear, this is so difficult. Jenny dear, you’ve lived with us a long while now and we hoped you would always continue to make your home with us.’

Behind me, Thomas breathed into my hair. I couldn’t see him but I knew he was there. He was always there for me. ‘Be calm. Breathe slowly. Wait to see what she has to say first.’

‘You see, some years ago, you remember, when we took you to see all those doctors and the thing is, well, they wanted you to go and live in – a special place – where they thought you would benefit from being with others like you.’

It came out in a rush. ‘Like me?’

‘Yes. You know we love you, Jenny. Your uncle and I, your cousins Christopher and Francesca, we’re your family. We know how difficult it is for you to – relate – to others. We tell people you’re quiet and shy, but it’s more than that. You know it is. We, your uncle and I, were quite horrified of course. There was no way we could ever let you go to a place like that. So your uncle spoke to them and they agreed, eventually, that if we could provide a quiet and secure environment for you, then that would suffice and you could continue to live with us. And it’s worked very well. You’ve remained quietly at home, gone to a normal school, and lived a normal life. But that’s the deal, Jenny. You have to live with us … I’m so sorry, my dear, but you must see it’s for the best. You continue to live here, no stress, no pressure. You can have a lovely life as long as you stay here with us. You wouldn’t like the alternative at all. So you see, we can’t let you go to college. I’m so sorry.’

Behind me, Thomas said in a voice I’d never heard from him before. ‘It’s very important that you stay calm. Pick up the leaflets, take your time, and sort them neatly. Put the large ones on the bottom and the smaller ones on the top. Do it now, please.’

So I did. I was accustomed to being told what to do. I watched my hands carefully sorting the college stuff and concentrating on my breathing.

Aunt Julia hurried on. ‘I’m glad you’re taking this so well, Jenny. It just goes to show how well you function when you have a secure home environment behind you.’

I still said nothing, gently placing them on the coffee table.

‘I will speak to your uncle when he comes home tonight. I hope this hasn’t been too much of a shock for you.’

I sat back. The log jam of words and emotions began to subside. I looked at Aunt Julia, threw her a wobbly smile, and nodded.

‘I knew you’d understand. And I really don’t think student life is for you, my dear. It can be very boisterous at times. You would find it very alarming. You know how shy you are.’

I nodded again. ‘Now, you pop back to your room and I’ll ask Mrs Finch to bring you up a nice cup of tea.’

Thomas and I trailed back to my room. I was frightened and trembling. I sat on my bed and rocked backwards and forwards. There was something the matter with me. I wasn’t normal. They’d been going to put me in a home. They still might.

Three things came out of that particular conversation. Uncle Richard came to see me that evening with a suggestion that I study with the Open University. He spoke so kindly that I burst into tears again. He said it was a shame to waste such good exam results; that study suited me; that I was a clever little girl. He would get some course details for me to have a look through.

I stopped crying, gulped, and nodded.

‘And, Jenny, if you’re going to study on-line then you’re going to need a really nice computer. Would you permit your aunt and I to give you a … a… “good exam results” present? Would you like a new laptop?’

I nodded again.

He smiled, ‘And, of course, you’re going to need somewhere to study. Come with me a minute.’

We walked along the landing, opened the door, and climbed the attic stairs. There was a large attic, lit by three dormer windows. The floor was boarded and because it was part of Aunt Julia’s domain and subject to her rules, there was no clutter and little dust. A few flattened cardboard boxes lay in one corner and that was it.

Thomas had followed us up. ‘Oh yes,’ he said enthusiastically, wandering across to look out of the window. ‘We could really do something with this. Bed here, bookshelves all across that wall, desk or table under the window, TV over there, rugs, artwork, the works. And your own bathroom in that corner over there.’

‘What?’ I said, in my head. ‘They’ll never do all that.’

‘They’re feeling guilty. Go for it while you can. I suspect you’ll be spending a lot of time in here.’

So I did. With Thomas prompting me from behind, I pretended I was Francesca and asked for everything I could think of. Neither Uncle Richard nor Aunt Julia argued or haggled. I got everything I wanted. A wonderful space, warm and full of light. Plenty of room for my books, a big table at which to work. I chose my favourite colours – no one argued. I thought I might get some grief from Aunt Julia who believed in the God of Colour Co-ordination but I had my own way in everything. Six months later, I had my own little palace.

Thomas was right, however. We spent a lot of time in my room. Fifteen years later and I was sick of the sight of it, so when Russell Checkland asked me to marry him, I said yes.

You can blame Thomas. I did.

I was alone in the house when the doorbell rang. Aunt Julia and Francesca were shopping. Even Mrs Finch was out.

‘Well, answer it,’ said Thomas, not moving from in front of the TV.

‘Why me?’

‘I’m a horse. I don’t answer front doors.’

I sighed theatrically. ‘Tell me what happens.’

I puttered anxiously downstairs and was relieved to see it was only Daniel Palmer, Francesca’s fiancé.

‘Good evening,’ he said cheerfully, stepping through the door. ‘You do right to stay in out of all this rain, Jenny.’ Which was nice of him because I hadn’t actually been asked on the shopping expedition. Or even known about it. ‘Is Francesca back yet? I was supposed to pick her up ten minutes ago. Is she here?’

I shook my head and gestured him through to the lounge. He wandered in, still chatting amiably, shaking the rain out of his greying hair and wiping his wet face on his sleeve. His thick coat made him look bulkier than he was, although he wasn’t by any means fat. He wasn’t actually that much older than Franny, although his deeply lined face and quiet manner made him appear so. And, I suspect, associating with Francesca on a regular basis was enough to age anyone prematurely. I liked Daniel Palmer. He actually talked to me and usually phrased his questions with yes/no options for reply.

And now the time has come to talk about that eternally interesting triangle: Daniel Palmer, Russell Checkland, and Francesca Kingdom.

I knew Russell from childhood. He, Francesca, and I were much of an age. Christopher was three years older and had his own set of equally unpleasant friends, so we never saw much of him. Actually, I didn’t see much of Russell and Francesca either, but sometimes they allowed me to tag along for nearly ten minutes before they lost me.

Francesca was a pretty child who grew into a stunningly attractive woman. She has an enormous amount of dark red hair that curls exuberantly around her head, green eyes, and flawless, milk-white skin. She’s tall, effortlessly slender, and graceful. She’s got the brains of a teapot, but no one really cares, least of all Francesca. She’s got all she needs to get by.

And get by she does. Not surprisingly, someone told her she could be a supermodel so that’s what she decided she would be. She and Aunt Julia went up to London, engaged a stupendously expensive photographer, and sent her shots round to modelling agencies. She was, not surprisingly, picked up by the best and went off to make her fortune.

In London she again met Russell, who had been studying art, whose paintings were attracting considerable attention from those who mattered, and who was in London to make his fortune. It was, apparently, love at first sight and the rising young model with the promising future hooked up with the rising young artist with the promising future and they moved in together.

They were London’s golden couple. One or other or both of them were always in the papers. It was a fairy-tale romance – he was tall too, he too had dark red hair, although his hung down over his forehead in what everyone assumed was a romantic poet-ish look. If ever two people had everything going for them it was those two. Their lives were stuffed with all the fame, fortune, prospects, and excitement that my own life lacked. I followed their doings in newspapers and magazines, never dreaming that one day I’d be part of the story.

Anyway, it was all going really well for them and then Francesca was offered a part in a new TV series. Some time ago a magazine had done a piece on her and her eccentricities – never wearing any colour but black, white, or green (this was sheer affectation; she looked stunning in every colour) and praising her unusual Renaissance-style beauty. This was seen by producer Daniel Palmer, who was looking for an actress to play a small part in his new TV series about the Borgias. That Francesca had no experience of acting seemed to bother no one, and actually all she had to do was look sinister, or mysterious, or lustful (often in that order, but sometime simultaneously) and occasionally utter a few words. The series was a huge hit. As was Francesca.

Russell meanwhile, looking for a centrepiece for his new show, hit on the idea of painting Franny in one of her Renaissance frocks. Arguably, it was the best thing he’d done to date. A besotted Daniel Palmer snapped it up. And Francesca as well.

Francesca, who had decided her future now lay with acting rather than modelling and possibly seeing Daniel as an easy way in, allowed herself to be snapped up. They disappeared over the horizon in a cloud of happiness and, in her case, ambition, and Russell Checkland woke one morning to find himself alone.

He took it badly. I don’t know the details, I don’t think anyone does. Twelve months later his deeply disapproving father yanked him back to Frogmorton, the dilapidated family home, paid his many debts, sobered him up, and packed him off into the army. Russell put up no sort of fight and allowed himself to be packed off.

There was no news of him for a couple of years, while Francesca’s acting career was not quite the glittering success she hoped for either. She spent a lot of time at home. Aunt Julia said she was resting.

Then, suddenly, Russell Checkland was back, discharged from the army. He’d thumped someone: an NCO I think. I thought that was what the army was all about, but apparently you can’t do that sort of thing if you’re an officer.

So he was back in disgrace, and his father died three months later. Rumour said the two events were not unconnected. Daniel Palmer had to go abroad for a few months and Russell and Francesca were spotted eyeing each other hungrily one evening at a secluded pub out near Whittington.

Rushford enthusiastically resumed gossiping about its two favourite gossipees and now that Daniel had just returned, everyone was waiting to see what would happen next.

I think Aunt Julia, in a refined and tasteful manner of course, and without raising her voice in any way, was tearing her hair out. What Daniel Palmer was thinking was anybody’s guess.

Exciting, isn’t it?

So, here was the apparently wronged fiancé sitting on Aunt Julia’s couch, waiting for Francesca, who genuinely was out shopping with her mother. I was wondering what to do when Thomas strolled in.

‘They all lived happily ever after,’ he said, and it took me a minute to realise he was talking about the film and not the real-life drama currently being played out all over Rushford. ‘Aren’t you going to offer him some tea?’

Daniel declined, much to my relief.

I got a tiny nudge in the small of my back. ‘And make an effort.’

Focus, breathe, and speak. ‘… Are you working on … anything … interesting at the moment?’

He waited while I got that out.

‘Yes, I’m thinking about the Tudors. There’s always plenty of material there. Do you think something about Elizabeth would go down well?’

I nodded.

‘She’s been done to death, of course. I’d need a fresh approach and I haven’t really had the time recently to get my head around it. It’s still on my “ideas” pile at the moment. What do you think?’

I nodded.

‘No,’ said Thomas. ‘Find something to focus on, take two breaths, and speak again. You can do it.’

I focused on the rose-patterned cushion, tracing the design with my eyes and edited my thoughts. ‘Focus on relationship … between Elizabeth and Mary. Introduce each episode … as a game of chess. Elizabeth … red queen. Mary white. Each queen introduces characters taking … part. Outlines plot. First … piece moves. Fade to normal action. At the … end … go back to chessboard and show new state of play in game … including all the dead … bodies or taken pieces lying on the board.’

I stopped, exhausted.

‘Well done,’ said Thomas. ‘The sentences were a bit . . .