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We hope you enjoyed reading Loving Spirits at the Vintage Teashop .

Chapter One

As the train pulled slowly into the station, I felt a pang of regret that the journey had ended so soon. I’d been looking forward to my first ever ride on a steam train for weeks, and it had lived up to all my expectations.

Sitting here in this elegant compartment with its plush, burgundy seats, overhead luggage racks, and sliding door, my heart had soared, along with my imagination, as I’d gazed out of the window at the clouds of steam from the engine and seen myself in another age – one of smart clothes, well-mannered people, and schoolchildren who sat quietly and patiently as the teachers requested, instead of arguing, crunching noisily on boiled sweets, or making sarcastic comments about boring school trips.

The coach journey, from Lowerthorpe Primary School in Leicestershire to the Cotswolds town of Much Melton, where we’d caught the train, had seemed to last an awful lot longer than an hour and a half.

I didn’t envy the teachers who had to deal with some of these kids every day.

I’d only volunteered to accompany the class on this school trip because it was an opportunity to spend time with my daughter, Immi.

What with work and school, I hardly saw anything of her these days, so I was hoping this excursion would be a bonding exercise.

I glanced at my little girl, who wasn’t so little any longer. Immi had taken no notice of the views from the window, nor had she shown much excitement about travelling on a steam train. She and her friend, Violet, were far too engrossed in the game they were playing on their mobile phones.

I hadn’t wanted to get Immi a phone at all, but she’d begged and pleaded, telling me that everyone in her class owned one, and she was practically a social outcast because she wasn’t on Snapchat.

I’d finally given in and bought her a reconditioned phone last year for her tenth birthday.

There’s nothing so persuasive as a kid’s emotional blackmail – especially when you already have a terrible feeling that, as a mother, you’re just not cutting it.

The door slid open, and Immi’s teacher, Mr Gaskill, quickly scanned the compartment. A short, balding man in his mid-fifties, he’d always struck me as an amiable sort of bloke, and Immi seemed to like him.

‘Everything okay?’ he asked. Whether he was addressing me or the six children who were with me, I wasn’t sure.

Either way, he hurried on without waiting for an answer.

‘We’re pulling into Harling’s Halt now, so can you gather your coats and bags, please?

We’ll be getting off the train in a minute.

When we do, I want you to form an orderly queue on the platform so I can do a head count.

Miss Chase, can you see that they do, please? ’

He gave me a brief smile as I nodded. ‘The bus will leave for Rowan Vale from the station car park. You’ll all have ten minutes to use the toilet facilities and ten minutes only, so no loitering, okay?’

He eyed them all sternly to emphasise his point then slid the door shut again, before making his way to the next compartment, presumably to deliver the same speech to its occupants.

There were twenty-four children on this trip, along with the teachers, Mr Gaskill and Mrs Ledbury, another volunteer mum called Diana Goodyear, and me.

Each adult had taken responsibility for six children on the train.

I could only hope that, between us, we’d manage to keep control of them all when they were let loose in an unsuspecting Rowan Vale.

‘Okay, you heard Mr Gaskill,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Coats and bags, please.’

There were a few chaotic moments as the children grabbed their belongings and headed for the door.

I collected a couple of sweet wrappers and an empty crisp packet from the floor, shoved them in my jacket pocket, and followed my charges into the corridor.

They’d been joined by their classmates from the other compartments, as well as Diana and Mrs Ledbury, who were chatting animatedly about a new brand of lipstick they’d discovered which, apparently, had incredible staying power and didn’t even leave a mark on a cup.

Mr Gaskill called for everyone to follow him.

The children jostled and pushed each other a bit, vying to be the first off the train, but overall, they weren’t too bad.

I brought up the rear, automatically counting all the heads as we moved forward, even though I knew Mr Gaskill would do it again when we disembarked.

Finally, I stepped onto the platform at Harling’s Halt and gazed around in delight.

I hadn’t realised that the station would be part of the Rowan Vale experience, although I should have.

It was, after all, part of the Harling Estate which included the village, owned by a man called Sir Lawrence Davenport.

According to the website, when the line between Harling’s Halt and the market town of Much Melton had closed in the 1960s, Sir Edward Davenport – Lawrence’s father – had stepped in and purchased it, along with a couple of vintage steam trains.

The Davenports had operated the private line between the two stations ever since.

Harling’s Halt was where many visitors to Rowan Vale began their journey to the village.

This was where they’d catch one of the vintage buses that would take them on a ten-minute ride to their destination – a privately owned village nestled on a large estate in the Cotswolds countryside, where modern vehicles were banned, staff dressed up in period costume from several eras, and many of the old buildings were used for their original purpose.

As Mr Gaskill counted the children for a second time, I looked around the little railway station, cheerfully decorated with bunting, hanging baskets, and flowerpots.

Signs directed passengers to the Victory Tearooms, as well as a waiting room, ticket office, and toilets.

But what really grabbed my attention were the people in period costume on the platform.

‘Ooh,’ Diana said, ‘it’s like The Railway Children !’

It was a bit, what with the Harling’s Halt version of Mr Perks, the station porter, who was pacing up and down in his uniform, looking every inch as if he’d stepped out of the film.

However, despite that, there was no doubt that the station was dedicated to the First World War era.

Union flag bunting was strung along the buildings, recruitment posters were pinned to the walls and stuck to the windows of the waiting room, and the faint chorus of ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ could be heard as if from a distance.

Ladies in ankle-length skirts and dresses and wide-brimmed hats, and many men in First World War uniform, strolled along the platform, while others stood around in groups, chatting.

Obviously, they were actors employed by the estate, but I could almost believe they were truly discussing the latest news from the front or preparing to say an emotional goodbye to their loved ones.

This place was already beginning to cast its spell on me.

Maybe it would work its magic on the kids too.

I glanced hopefully at Immi, but she was chatting to Violet and didn’t seem too interested in her surroundings.

I sighed inwardly. Well, I thought it was fascinating, even if not everyone appreciated it. Those uniforms looked so authentic.

I jumped as Mr Gaskill said my name loudly, and to my embarrassment, I realised everyone was staring at me.

‘Sorry. Yes. No. I mean, what?’

Diana grinned. ‘All the nice girls love a soldier,’ she whispered, giving me a playful nudge.

‘I asked if you or Mrs Goodyear would mind accompanying the girls to the toilets while I escort the boys,’ Mr Gaskill explained patiently. ‘Mrs Ledbury is going to the pick-up point to check on the travel arrangements to the village.’

‘Of course. No problem.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ Diana said. ‘I’m getting that desperate, there’ll be a puddle on the ground if we don’t hurry up.’

‘Oh, Mum!’ Her daughter Katie’s face turned scarlet as some of the boys howled with laughter at her embarrassment.

Mrs Ledbury – who could, apparently, retain water like a camel – headed through the archway to the coach and car park to check if the bus had arrived yet.

Diana, Mr Gaskill and I herded the children to the Ladies or Gents as appropriate.

After using the facilities myself, I waited outside for the rest of the girls.

Immi and Violet soon returned to the platform, followed by Mr Gaskill and most of the other children.

Mrs Ledbury hurried back through the arch.

‘The bus stop’s at the entrance to the coach park,’ she informed us, ‘and the bus is ready and waiting.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Maybe we ought to head there now. Would one of you mums mind waiting for the stragglers while we settle the rest of the children on the bus?’

‘I’ll do that,’ I said, glad of the opportunity to take a few more moments to soak up the atmosphere at Harling’s Halt.

Immi looked at me uncertainly. ‘Shall I wait with you?’

‘No, it’s okay,’ I assured her. ‘You go ahead with the others.’

As Diana and the two teachers herded the kids through the archway, I leaned against the wall, feeling genuine contentment. It really was like stepping back in time here, and this was just the station. What would the actual village be like?

It was a gorgeous, sunny day in early April. There were just a few more days until the spring term ended. As well as today, I’d booked next week off work so I could spend the first part of the Easter holidays with my daughter, and I couldn’t wait.

Violet’s mum, Mel, usually looked after Immi if my working hours clashed with school holidays.

She had four children of her own and said one more was no bother.

I’d been lucky as the agency that employed me as a carer was very accommodating around the hours I worked, but I certainly didn’t get as many holidays as Immi did, and since I was a single parent with little cash to spare on childcare, Mel had been a godsend.

Immi would be going up to secondary school in September, which felt like a huge change in our lives.

It was making me think about the future, and the direction I wanted it to go in.

My options were limited, but my once dormant ambition was growing like Japanese knotweed.

I wanted a job that would give me more time at home but would also pay enough to make life less of a financial struggle.

And if I was being really greedy, I’d put a bigger flat for Immi and me on the wish list. Maybe even a house with a garden.

Yeah, right, Callie. Good luck with that.

I mentally shook my head. I was living in a dreamworld. Jobs like that didn’t exist. Not for people like me anyway. I could imagine what Mum would have said: Get your head out of the clouds and concentrate on the real world.

It was just a shame that the real world wasn’t much fun.

The sound of a kerfuffle to my right snapped me out of my daydreams. I pushed away from the wall and stared, open-mouthed, at the sight of two men – one dark haired and one fair – dressed as soldiers angrily pushing and shoving each other at the far end of the platform.

Was this part of their act? Funny sort of act if it was, especially when they must have realised there were children about.

I looked round at the other actors, but they were taking no notice. So it was part of the act then? Surely they’d at least look a bit alarmed if not? And ‘Perks’ was nowhere in sight, so I couldn’t ask him.

The stragglers would come out of the toilets at any moment and the last thing I wanted them to see was two grown men in fancy dress having a punch-up. Since no one else seemed remotely interested, it was up to me. Great.

I rushed up to the soldiers, my heart thudding as I noticed the very real anger in the fair-haired man’s eyes.

‘Excuse me?—’

‘You’re a liar, Ronnie Smith! She wouldn’t have looked twice at you. Besides, she was loyal to me was my Lily.’

‘Yeah, right. Loyal to all of us was Lily. One at a time, like.’

‘You take that back or I’ll kill you!’ The fair-haired soldier aimed a punch at the dark-haired one. His fist landed on Ronnie Smith’s cheek, confirming they weren’t acting.

Fancy behaving like that when you worked with the public! What if Immi had waited with me and seen and heard all this?

‘Oy! There are children about. What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

The fair-haired soldier gave me a fleeting glance then, dropping his fist, he stepped back and stared at me. The one called Ronnie Smith rubbed his cheek and watched me through narrowed eyes.

‘Are you talking to us?’

‘No. I’m talking to that unicorn over there. Seriously ?’ I added as they both looked round in surprise. ‘Look, there are children?—’

I noticed the remaining pupils were now on the platform. Mrs Ledbury had returned and was clearly doing another head count. Her gaze fell on me, and she pointed to the arch which led to the car park.

‘Bus is leaving in a minute!’ she called.

I nodded. ‘Be right there.’

As Mrs Ledbury turned back to the kids, I glared at the soldiers, who looked dazed.

‘You see? Children. Well,’ I said, nodding at the fair-haired man, ‘I know he’s called Ronnie Smith, but what’s your name?’

For a moment, he gaped at me, then falteringly he replied, ‘Bill. Bill Fairfax.’

‘And who’s your manager?’

‘Our… our manager? You mean our superior officer?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Very funny. I mean who’s in charge of you? Who employs you? You must have a supervisor of some sort? Or should I go straight to Sir Lawrence?’

The two men stared at each other, then at me. Were they really that gormless or were they having me on?

Exasperated I said, ‘Oh for goodness’ sake. Fine, I’ll speak to Sir Lawrence then. I’m sure someone can tell me where to find him.’

Slowly, Bill Fairfax said, ‘Are you really talking to us?’

‘Well, who else…’

But my voice trailed off as I experienced the weirdest feeling. A chill ran up my spine and along my shoulder blades, making me shudder. A vague memory stirred, but I couldn’t pin down what it was.

I swallowed, suddenly feeling a bit nauseated.

‘Miss Chase, what are you doing ? The bus will leave without us,’ Mrs Ledbury called from further up the platform. She sounded impatient.

I shook my head, wondering what the heck was wrong with me.

‘Coming!’

Without so much as another glance at the two actors, I hurried to join the class.