Page 4 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure

Chapter Three

I n the kitchen of his cottage, Atticus woke from an afternoon nap and placed the kettle on the hob of the AGA cooker.

He then turned to the sink, where plates were piled on the draining board.

Once carefully dried, he walked across the quarry-tiled floor and positioned the crockery in exact order on the shelf of an old pine dresser, beside a weathered wooden box.

‘Just as you like it, Clara,’ Atticus said, inching a plate into perfect position.

He stirred milk into his freshly made brew and watched as the liquid turned a deep muddy brown, then tossed the bag into a bin under the deep stone sink.

As he sipped his tea, Atticus stared fondly at the box on the dresser.

Worn smooth by years of handling, the dark wood had faint cracks along the grain.

Clara kept her embroidery needles, thimbles, and scissors in the box, but now, nestled on the faded velvet lining, a glass vial was sealed tight.

Inside the vial, Atticus had kept back a small quantity of Clara’s ashes, a keepsake of his love and loss.

Ness lay nearby on a rug, but as Atticus reached down to stroke her, she raised her head, her tail beginning to thump. ‘What is it, old girl?’ he asked as he heard an engine chugging past the cottage. Resting a hand on the wooden draining board, he peered through the open kitchen window.

Outside, a vintage tractor came into view, and Atticus smiled. ‘Ah, my Little Grey Fergie,’ he whispered, admiring the clean lines and innovative engineering of a vehicle he’d lovingly restored many years ago.

Perched behind the wheel, Jake waved to his granddad.

‘Be careful!’ Atticus called out.

‘Hi, Granddad!’ the children yelled and balanced perilously as Jake revved the engine.

‘Watch the paintwork!’ Atticus shouted.

Caitlin and Maeve wobbled unsteadily, perched on the running boards, and Atticus winced as their trainers bounced up and down. Jake, with Finn still beside him, revved the engine again, tooted a horn and roared away across the yard towards the fells.

Atticus wondered why Mary allowed her offspring so much freedom. Scraping a chair across the tiles, he sat down and murmured that his grandkids should show more respect for his vintage vehicle.

‘Mary has arrived,’ Atticus said to Ness, stroking her head. ‘Now there’ll be a commotion.’

Sipping his tea, Atticus knew that at any moment, the cottage door would burst open, and Mary would surge in. He glanced at the wall clock and decided to head off to the pub for a quick pint before the whirlwind that was Mary built pace, and his peaceful day was over.

Atticus reached for his hat and slipped out of the kitchen.

With Ness by his side, the pair hurried across the yard, blending in with visitors who were buying last-minute provisions in the shop. Slipping through a gate, he began to walk along a path that led to the pub.

The Black Bull stood proudly at the heart of the village green in the quaint village of Eden.

It offered craft beers and, more recently, a menu of local dishes.

As Atticus and Ness wandered through the pub garden, they passed holidaymakers and hikers, enjoying a thirst-quenching drink as they reflected on their day out on the fells.

Nearby, a family of ducks waddled through a cluster of wildflowers beneath the sweeping branches of a willow tree before gracefully gliding into the pond.

Ness tugged on her lead, and Atticus shook his head. ‘Never mind the ducks,’ he said, ‘a pint is more important.’ Keeping his dog by his heel, he wandered into the pub where his best friend, Arthur, sat in a cosy corner of the snug, munching on pork scratchings.

‘A pub should be a pub, not a fancy restaurant,’ Atticus complained.

‘It’s true.’ Arthur nodded and lifted a pint to his lips, leaving a frothy moustache. ‘It’s a place to sup. Half these folks don’t even talk to each other,’ he chuntered and offered his friend a pork scratching.

The two men looked beyond the snug where families were dining.

Many youngsters had their eyes focused on a screen, engrossed in online activity, oblivious to the interesting memorabilia covering uneven walls beneath low-beamed ceilings.

Old photographs of local landmarks hung beside antique farming tools and vintage advertisements for the pub from days gone by.

‘Mary has landed, eh?’ Arthur asked.

Atticus licked the salt from his lips and rubbed his hands along the rough fabric of his moleskin trousers. ‘Just arrived, and Jake is driving around the yard like Lewis Hamilton.’

‘No wonder you needed a pint.’ Arthur nodded.

The snug, with its small windows and worn wooden benches, was dimly lit and offered the perfect retreat from the noisy chatter in the main bar. Here, Atticus and Arthur played dominoes every week, representing the pub in the local league.

Arthur leaned back and cradled his pint. The owner of a nearby smallholding, Arthur’s weathered face was etched with lines of experience, and his eyes sparkled with memories. The air was thick with camaraderie, born of years spent together in this very spot.

When Clara was alive, Arthur and his wife, Shirley, joined the couple for quiz nights. Now, as the two men raised their glasses in a silent toast, they were simply two old friends enjoying each other’s company in their favourite haunt.

‘Shirley says she’ll be over to see Mary,’ Arthur commented.

‘That’ll be grand.’ Atticus reached into his pocket for a treat for Ness and rubbed her head as she ate it.

‘Will Mary be expecting you to spend time with the grandkids?’ Arthur asked.

‘Aye, like every year.’

‘They’re a bit too lively for the likes of us, if I remember them all correctly,’ Arthur replied.

‘Kids today want entertaining,’ Atticus grumbled. ‘Mary is constantly on the go, finding things for them to do.’

‘Not like our day, eh?’ Arthur nodded. ‘The fells were our playground when we weren’t helping out on the farm.’

‘It’s true.’ Atticus thought of the hours he roamed over the hills with Arthur, building dens in ditches. ‘Another pint?’

Suddenly, the door to the snug flew open, and Mary burst in. ‘I thought you’d be in here,’ she said, giving Atticus a hug.

‘Hello, Mary love.’ Atticus smiled and reached out to wrap an arm around his daughter. Stroking the soft skin of her face, he felt his heart tug. She was so like her mother, beautiful in every way.

Seeing tears in the corner of her dad’s eyes, Mary patted his arm.

‘Don’t waste a stand-up,’ she said, swinging a leather tote from her shoulder.

‘I’ll have a white wine, please Dad.’ She turned and grinned at Arthur, then pecked him on the cheek.

‘What are you two up to? Putting the world to rights over a pint? ’

‘It’s good to see you, Mary.’ Arthur smiled. ‘And you’re looking well. Must be all that fresh Irish air.’

‘And rich country living,’ Atticus added as he placed the drinks down. ‘Is Conor still making millions?’

‘Probably as many as Mungo.’ Mary picked up her glass. ‘Cheers to you both, it’s good to be here.’ She grinned, before taking a slug of her wine. ‘Now, Dad, tell me all the news from the village and Barn Hill Farm.’

After another round and bidding goodbye to Arthur, Mary took Atticus’s arm. Reg, the landlord, said it was good to see Mary again and hoped she’d be a regular during her holiday. Several locals acknowledged father and daughter arm-in-arm, and Atticus replied with a grunt as he tipped his hat.

‘Still as unsociable as ever,’ Mary said as they crossed the road. ‘Do you never stop to have a chat?’

‘I’ve nothing to talk about.’

‘Dad, you’ve a zillion things that you could pass the time of day with,’ Mary sighed. ‘When Mum was alive, she couldn’t shut you up.’

It was true. Atticus had loved keeping up to date with life in the locality. He knew every farmer for miles around, and together with Clara, they’d had a pleasant life in the community.

‘Why don’t you join in with village events anymore?’ Mary asked as they walked along the path to the farm.

‘It’s not the same without your mum, I’m no more than a spare part. No one wants an old man getting in the way.’

Mary sighed. What had happened to the funny, happy dad she’d grown up with?

‘You’re not old,’ she said firmly. ‘Seventy is nothing these days, and you’re still as fit as a fiddle and as handsome as a prince.’

It was true. Despite his sadness, her dad was still the good-looking man he’d always been.

His thick black hair, greying at the sides, and dark amber eyes, softened by time, still gleamed.

Lines around his eyes told a story of resilience, and he had a rugged attractiveness.

Tall, fit, and energetic, Atticus carried himself with an easy grace.

‘Aye, well, the bones are beginning to creak, and my back is starting to play up.’ Atticus stopped and grimaced as he stretched his neck, confirming his point.

‘Use it or lose it!’ Mary was emphatic. ‘Some warm sunshine on your bones might ease that. Why don’t you take that trip to Spain you always planned with Mum?’

Atticus wished that Mary would stop nagging. She’d only been back five minutes and was already telling him what to do. ‘I’m fine as I am, don’t worry about me,’ he said.

As they passed the café, the last diners were making their way to their cars.

Mary and Atticus stood back as a four-by-four cruiser, towing a twin-axle tourer, slowly drove past, heading to the caravan park.

Close behind, a motorhome with foreign number plates appeared.

The vehicle’s rear was covered in international stickers, each telling the story of the owner’s journey around Europe .

‘It’s like a motorway junction these days,’ Atticus tutted. ‘You’re not safe to walk about on your own land.’ He scowled as the motorhome driver leaned out his window and held up a hand.

‘ Groeten aan jou !’ the mature driver smiled.

‘Greetings to you too,’ Mary replied, recognising the Dutch plates.

‘Aye, greetings,’ Atticus mumbled.

When they reached the farmhouse, she saw Helen standing on the porch with Declan in her arms.

‘Here’s my gorgeous boy,’ Mary said. ‘Say hello to your grumpy grandad.’ She ruffled Declan’s hair and deposited the toddler in Atticus’s arms.

Atticus held the wriggling toddler as Declan tugged on the brim of his hat.

‘Where are the kids?’ Mary asked Helen.

‘Glued to the kitchen table, gobbling food like they haven’t been fed for days,’ Helen replied. ‘Come in and join us.’

Sensing his reluctance, Mary grabbed her father’s arm and steered him into the farmhouse. ‘Don’t you want to say hello to your grandchildren?’

‘Aye.’ Atticus winced as Declan grabbed his hat and pulled it from Atticus’s head to make a bed for his teddy. ‘Of course I do.’

In the kitchen, seven raucous children sat around a large oak table. In the centre, plates were piled high with savouries and cakes.

‘Grandad,’ Jake called out, ‘ come and sit here.’

Atticus sat down, and Jake held a plate of warm sausage rolls. ‘These are delicious,’ he said, handing one to Ness, who gobbled it down in seconds.

‘I hope you’re looking after that tractor, it’s nearly as old as I am and needs lots of care.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Jake replied, ‘I love the Little Grey Fergie as much as you do.’

‘You shouldn’t have bodies sprawled all over it. It’s not right. Vehicles like that need respect,’ Atticus grumbled.

Mary listened to her father and Jake discuss the merits of owning and running a vintage utility tractor.

They discussed in depth the four-speed, unsynchronised transmission that had been manufactured by Ferguson in Coventry in 1951.

Taking a slice of gingerbread, she felt pleased that Jake had something in common with her father.

Their love of engines and anything mechanical was a shared pastime.

As Helen poured more drinks and restocked plates with quiche and pork pies topped with apple sauce, Mungo appeared.

Pulling out a chair, he took a pie and sat beside Jake and Atticus.

As the trio ate, Mary, keeping one eye on the children, listened to their conversation. Atticus explained to Jake the merits of entering an antiquated vehicle into the county shows held annually in Cumbria.

‘Your Grandma Clara and I used to enjoy a day out at a show,’ Atticus said.

‘Why don’t you do it again?’ Mungo asked .

‘Ah, it’s not for me,’ Atticus tutted. ‘Too much work and fierce competition.’

‘But Grandad, I can help,’ Jake said. ‘I love working on an engine and doing up a vehicle. We could do it together.’

‘He has a point,’ Mungo sat forward, his head on one side as he waited for his father to respond. ‘Jake can learn from you.’

‘Oh, I’m too old for all that,’ Atticus said, rising and pushing back his chair. ‘I’ll be getting off now.’ He walked over to Declan and removed Teddy from his temporary ‘bed’, prising Declan’s sticky fingers from his hat.

Declan pouted, gripping Teddy tightly.

‘Your Mam will find another hat for Teddy,’ Atticus said as he brushed crumbs from its brim.

Mary watched her father leave and heard Jake complain to Mungo that he wished his grandad had more time to spend with him. His expertise with vehicles was better than anything Jake could learn at college.

Suddenly, with all the talk of the tractor, Mary’s mind was racing. A memory of childhood came back to her as she thought of the old barn where the Little Grey Fergie used to be stored. With the children’s chatter in the background, an idea began to form.

Could a remnant of those holidays still be in the barn?

Might there be a way to wake Atticus up and help him embrace the golden years?

An idea sparked, but her plan would require careful scheming and hinge entirely on her father’s love of hoarding anything remotely tied to the farm.

Crossing her fingers, Mary felt a surge of determination.

Reaching for another piece of gingerbread, she chewed thoughtfully, her mind spinning.

She knew her father well enough to understand one crucial detail.

He must believe the idea was entirely his own.

Licking crumbs from her fingers, she gave a decisive nod.

It was bold but worth a shot, and her idea might just work!