Page 4 of The Second Chance Supper Club

Time for a breath of fresh air. After her wobbly day unpacking yesterday and Helen’s phone call just now, she needed to get outside.

Remind herself why she’d chosen to move here – how much she loved this rural part of Northumberland.

In a quick change of plan – she’d go and fetch the paint for the kitchen this afternoon, instead – Cath popped on her trainers and grabbed her jacket.

There was no point feeling sorry for herself when she had a whole new life to lead.

Stepping out of her cottage front door, the fresh air brushed her cheeks, and she could hear the bleating of sheep in the nearby fields.

And there, in the low-walled small square of her front garden, she noted the daffodils were just going over, and several clusters of pretty bluebells were starting to bud.

A pot of red and yellow tulips, no doubt planted last autumn by the old man who’d lived here, greeted her as she locked up.

She wondered if he had lived here on his own for a while.

Had he enjoyed his life of independence in the village?

Had he been married once? He’d certainly loved his garden by the looks of it, tending the borders with care, planting bulbs.

The bold shoots of those tulips giving a spring-like sense of hope, of new beginnings.

She walked along the little main street, with its row of honey-grey stone houses and cottages, turned in by the ancient stone parish church, through the graveyard with its mossy headstones, heading to the fields on the public footpath.

Yellow bursts of celandine scattered the grassy floor of the ancient cemetery making it look far from gloomy.

Blackbirds and sparrows were busy tweeting away as they gathered twigs and moss.

A shady path led her under huge beech trees that were just starting to bud, and then she came out into the cool sunshine of late April.

Sheep grazed the field, giving her a nonchalant glance as she passed, their young lambs skipping in giddy groups, as she made her way along the mud track that edged the pasture, following alongside the river.

The gentle rush of the River Till murmured its way soothingly through the valley.

Cath spotted a moorhen with three fluffy black chicks paddling in a sheltered spot near the bank.

A pair of white cabbage butterflies fluttered past. The steady beat of her steps, the vivid greens and golds of late spring, the soft sounds of nature began to work their magic.

Being out in the countryside always calmed her.

She strolled on through two fields, coming out onto the back lane that would eventually lead to the market town of Alnwick one way and back to Tilldale the other.

She paused for a while to take in the vista, gazing towards the purple-brown hues of the Cheviot Hills in the far distance.

Rolling farmland, and then moorland, that would scarcely have changed over the centuries.

Life didn’t feel so rushed here. Maybe it was time to slow down, for her to take stock, to just be.

To feel the breeze on her face, the warmth of the sun, the scent of …

ah, manure. She smiled to herself; whilst idyllic, this place was also real, people worked and lived this land.

And that was a good thing, it felt grounding.

She came back to the village along the lane; the vroom and then air-thrust from a couple of passing cars, a touring campervan trundling by, followed shortly afterwards by a big noisy tractor.

Crikey, she’d backed into the hedgerow for that one.

She set off again with a new sense of purpose.

Tilldale village was soon within her sights.

A cluster of cottages with dark-grey slated roofs, a few cars parked along the main street, and the village pub, a pretty stone building with a small grassy garden in front of it, The Star Inn.

It was nearing midday, and with nothing much planned for lunch, she thought she might as well call in to the village shop.

The jingle of an old-fashioned bell marked her entry as she opened the navy-painted door.

Wooden shelves lined with all your grocery basics, large wicker baskets of fruit and vegetables, local arts and crafts, cards and newspapers, and the smell of freshly baked and far-too-tempting pastries greeted her.

Along with, and behind the counter, the tanned and toned body of a slightly shaggy-haired male, his chest sculpted into a white T-shirt. Not what she’d expected.

She gave a smile, as he said a cheery ‘Hello.’ Well, things were looking up.

His hair was dark, his eyes a deep brown, set off by olivetoned skin. He looked to be in his forties, definitely a tad younger than her. But it was very nice indeed to be greeted by an attractive man. A man without a pot belly, and years of history together.

‘Good morning, is there anything I can help you with?’ There was a slight edge to his tone that suggested foreign climes …

and perhaps something a little more sensual?

Or was that just her imagination? Hah, she’d been out of the dating game for far too long.

In fact, she had absolutely no intention of getting back into it.

Now was the time to enjoy her newfound freedom and a simple life, away from the trials and tribulations of any relationship.

‘Ah … well, yes, lunch. Something for lunch.’ She sounded all dithery, for goodness sake.

‘Of course. In our deli selection, we have freshly made sandwiches, locally baked pies, a feta and spinach quiche. And for sweet treats, I’ve made some fresh baklava and a honey cake this morning with our beautiful Northumbrian heather honey …’

‘Wow, that all sounds delicious.’ Cath’s eyes scanned the gastro goodies.

Had she just discovered the village shop from heaven?

It must have changed hands since they came here on holiday.

Mind you, that was several years ago. She’d have remembered this kind of fab food for sure …

and the owner, if indeed he was the owner.

‘Ah, I’ll take a slice of the quiche.’ Oh, and she saw that the baklava was drizzled and sticky, with a sprinkling of walnuts too.

‘And I’ll have to try the baklava – two pieces, please.

’ One for her … and one for her. She felt like she’d been transported to some delightful Mediterranean deli.

‘Andreas, we have a lemon drizzle ready now too,’ a further male voice floated from the back room.

Andreas . Now that did indeed sound Greek.

‘Okay, and there’s a lemon drizzle. But it’ll not be a patch on my baklava.’ The guy behind the counter gave a cheeky wink.

‘I can hear you,’ the voice fired back with an edge of laughter. Then a friendly face, with close-shaven greying hair and piercing blue eyes, appeared around the door frame. He was taller, slimmer, and much paler than the first chap. ‘We’re very competitive with our baking. Can’t help ourselves.’

Andreas introduced him. ‘This is my partner, Dan.’ He placed a hand on the other gent’s shoulder in a way that looked intimate. ‘We co-own the shop here.’

‘Ah, lovely to meet you both. I’m Cath.’ She smiled, feeling the warmth of their friendly banter, but also feeling an idiot at her previous thoughts of lusting after him. Where was her gaydar when she needed it? Bloody fool. She had been out of the market for far too long.

‘So, are you here on holiday?’ Andreas asked, as he boxed a generous slice of quiche.

‘Actually, no, not this time, though I’ve holidayed here in the past. I’ve just moved into the village. A couple of days ago.’

‘Oh, so you must be Cheviot Cottage lady. How marvellous. Welcome to the village,’ Andreas said with a broad grin. ‘Yes, that was Reggie’s old place, such a lovely chap.’ ‘Oh, I do hope he’s doing okay?’ Cath suddenly felt concerned. Oh, and it was Reggie, so she knew the old man’s name now.

‘Yes, he’s doing fine. All set up in a local care home. He’d had a couple of falls, I think it was getting a bit much for him, the garden and everything, all on his own there.’

‘Well, hello, and welcome.’ Dan offered a handshake across the counter. ‘We’ve been here in the village for eight years, and we’ve never looked back.’

‘Yep, left the city behind to start this little venture. And still here and loving it.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘Well, I hope you’re settling in nicely? And anything you need, we’re always about, so just shout,’ said Dan.

How sweet of them. ‘Thanks, I appreciate that.’ She sensed the offer was genuine.

Did they know that she was here on her own, she wondered.

Was she giving off that lone middle-aged woman vibe?

Was it that obvious? Or had the village grapevine done its work already, the local estate agent filling everyone in on the status of the new resident?

A phone started to ring out the back. Andreas looked up sharply, a crease forming across his brow. ‘Dan, would you take over … Nice to meet you … uh …’ With that, he was away.

‘Sorry,’ Dan began to explain, ‘it might be the care home. He’s been waiting for a call back. His elderly mother’s there too, and she’s not been well lately.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I do hope everything is fine.’ ‘Yes, me too. She’s such a love. Been quite poorly with a chest infection, bless her.’ Dan placed the sticky-sweet pastries into a second smaller box.

Cath then paid, saying her goodbyes with a further thank you.

She’d have to find out if Andreas was of Greek heritage some other time.

Though they’d only just met, the lads seemed lovely – she felt lifted by their warm welcome – and the shop felt like a little haven.

On the short walk back to the cottage, she trailed the aromas of still-warm spiced baklava with her and was very much looking forward to sampling the pastries with a cup of tea.