Read Online The Long Weekend by Veronica Henry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Veronica Henry
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quiet and the sound of birdsong rather than aeroplanes flying overhead took some getting used to. And not having to worry about traffic was strange. She was grateful for the job at the pub, which gave a momentum to weekends she had no idea how to fill. She’d met a few people at college, but she didn’t know them well enough yet to agree to meet up. She was essentially quite shy, and not keen on change, so serving food at the local seemed the perfect way to fill the void until she got herself a social life.
Her encounter with the Barnes brothers had taken her by surprise. Instinct told her to run a mile from their privileged insouciance, yet there had been a warmth in them that spoke to her. And so she found herself leaving early for work, taking a diversion, irresistibly drawn to see just where it was they came from. It was a balmy evening as she crossed the field, the long grass slapping at her bare legs, then wandered through the lanes to the east of the village, passing slumbering cats and sweet-scented hanging baskets – in Mimsbury, you were undoubtedly judged on your horticultural ability. Only the occasional car passed by, at a sedate speed. Isleworth would have been frantic with Saturday traffic at this time – the boom of bass and pipping horns, the smell of exhaust fumes entwining with the stench of frying food from the takeaways gearing up for their busiest night. As she took the left fork past the station and followed the river, she felt the tug of anticipation in the pit of her stomach. She knew from consulting the OS map her parents had bought that the Mill House was just around the corner.
Nothing could have prepared her for the fairy tale she found as she rounded the bend. The Mill House was built of brick that had softened to a mellow dusty coral. With a profusion of wonky half-hipped roofs, and run through with bleached oak timber beams, it sprawled behind the ebullient river Pease, a wooden bridge connecting it to the real world. At its side the mill wheel turned, determined and relentless, whilst behind it languished an acre of softly lush lawn studded with weeping willows. Outside were parked a silver Range Rover, a sporty Golf and a small van with smart black livery that proclaimed ‘Melchior Barnes – Wine Merchants’.
The scene took Claire’s breath away. It was hard to believe that mere mortals actually lived there. What was particularly charming was that it wasn’t preserved in self-conscious pristine perfection, which you might have expected from the jewel in Mimsbury’s crown. It was clear on not especially close inspection that it was a family house, and the chaos of their life was evident to anyone who cared to look. The smell of cooking and the sound of laughter and music floated out of the open windows: the party preparations were clearly in full flow. Claire could see a man battling to put up a green linen gazebo in the garden. He must be the boys’ father. Even from here, he looked too posh, too well bred, to be staff.
She felt like some Dickensian urchin pressing her nose up against a window into a better world. Before anyone could see her staring, she slipped away, wondering why on earth she had done this to herself. Yes, they’d extended a disingenuous invitation to a party, but she knew wild horses wouldn’t drag her there, and they wouldn’t miss her. She was taunting herself.
She hurried away, anxious to put as much distance between herself and the Mill House as possible. She headed back along the main road towards the centre of the village, her shoes coated in dust, perspiring slightly from the heat of the early-evening sun. It would be boiling in the kitchen at the pub. And it would be crowded – people would be crammed into the garden, hoping to eke out the last hour of sunshine over a drink. Oh well, at least she’d be busy, not left alone with her thoughts.
At last the Mimsbury Arms came into view, perched on the other side of the road, a handsome coaching inn
Her encounter with the Barnes brothers had taken her by surprise. Instinct told her to run a mile from their privileged insouciance, yet there had been a warmth in them that spoke to her. And so she found herself leaving early for work, taking a diversion, irresistibly drawn to see just where it was they came from. It was a balmy evening as she crossed the field, the long grass slapping at her bare legs, then wandered through the lanes to the east of the village, passing slumbering cats and sweet-scented hanging baskets – in Mimsbury, you were undoubtedly judged on your horticultural ability. Only the occasional car passed by, at a sedate speed. Isleworth would have been frantic with Saturday traffic at this time – the boom of bass and pipping horns, the smell of exhaust fumes entwining with the stench of frying food from the takeaways gearing up for their busiest night. As she took the left fork past the station and followed the river, she felt the tug of anticipation in the pit of her stomach. She knew from consulting the OS map her parents had bought that the Mill House was just around the corner.
Nothing could have prepared her for the fairy tale she found as she rounded the bend. The Mill House was built of brick that had softened to a mellow dusty coral. With a profusion of wonky half-hipped roofs, and run through with bleached oak timber beams, it sprawled behind the ebullient river Pease, a wooden bridge connecting it to the real world. At its side the mill wheel turned, determined and relentless, whilst behind it languished an acre of softly lush lawn studded with weeping willows. Outside were parked a silver Range Rover, a sporty Golf and a small van with smart black livery that proclaimed ‘Melchior Barnes – Wine Merchants’.
The scene took Claire’s breath away. It was hard to believe that mere mortals actually lived there. What was particularly charming was that it wasn’t preserved in self-conscious pristine perfection, which you might have expected from the jewel in Mimsbury’s crown. It was clear on not especially close inspection that it was a family house, and the chaos of their life was evident to anyone who cared to look. The smell of cooking and the sound of laughter and music floated out of the open windows: the party preparations were clearly in full flow. Claire could see a man battling to put up a green linen gazebo in the garden. He must be the boys’ father. Even from here, he looked too posh, too well bred, to be staff.
She felt like some Dickensian urchin pressing her nose up against a window into a better world. Before anyone could see her staring, she slipped away, wondering why on earth she had done this to herself. Yes, they’d extended a disingenuous invitation to a party, but she knew wild horses wouldn’t drag her there, and they wouldn’t miss her. She was taunting herself.
She hurried away, anxious to put as much distance between herself and the Mill House as possible. She headed back along the main road towards the centre of the village, her shoes coated in dust, perspiring slightly from the heat of the early-evening sun. It would be boiling in the kitchen at the pub. And it would be crowded – people would be crammed into the garden, hoping to eke out the last hour of sunshine over a drink. Oh well, at least she’d be busy, not left alone with her thoughts.
At last the Mimsbury Arms came into view, perched on the other side of the road, a handsome coaching inn
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