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‘Afternoon, Hannah,’ Mrs Hatt calls as I hurtle past her toward the small bridge that crosses the river toward town. Cats circle her feet as she walks down the brick path to the front door of her cottage, weighed down with shopping bags.
‘Afternoon!’ I yell, quickly reclaiming the handlebars with both hands when I hit a divot, causing me to wobble. I lose some speed as I roll up the slight incline of the old stone bridge but regain it after breaching the summit. Passing the town church, I see Father Fitzroy in the small graveyard that circles the ancient building, dusting off the headstones with a broom. ‘Afternoon, Father.’
He swings around, turning to follow me on my bike as I pass. ‘Afternoon, Miss Bright.’ He holds up his broom before going back to his task.
I’m forced to use my brakes when I approach a group of school-children waiting to cross the road, and I slow to a stop, smiling as they’re herded to the other side by their teacher. ‘Afternoon,’ she sings, pulling a stray child back into the line.
‘Hi.’ I wave, laughing as the stray kid goes astray again. There are just ten kids, and that accounts for twenty percent of the school’s students. That’s what I love about this town. It’s small. It’s also cosy, friendly, and safe.
As soon as the children are across, I push off and start pedalling leisurely once again toward the huge pond that marks the beginning of the high street. The pub is the first building on the left, followed by a row of small chocolate box cottages, and then a petrol station at the end. And on the right, a row of shops, starting with the town shop – which sells everything from milk to screwdrivers – and ending with a post office. And in between, Mrs Heaven’s café and, finally, my shop. My gorgeous, cute little arts-and-crafts shop.
I roll to a stop outside and throw my leg over my bike, leaning it against a nearby lamppost, and stare up at the new sign that was recently installed. I smile.
‘There’s not much call for art around these parts, love,’ someone says from behind, and I turn to find an old man with grey wiry hair and a long beard to match. His green-chequered shirt hangs out of his brown cords, his hands resting on the handles of a cart. He’s staring up at my shop’s new sign.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,’ I say, approaching him.
‘The name’s Cyrus.’ He removes the toothpick from his mouth and points it at my shop. ‘I hope you’re not planning on making millions.’
‘Not millions,’ I assure him. ‘Just enough to live on.’ I’ll be okay for another year or two, but the money I left with is running low. So it’s time to start making some for myself.
Cyrus eyes me, looking me up and down a few times. ‘You look like the creative type.’
I laugh as I feel at my haphazard bun. ‘And what does the creative type look like?’
‘Messy.’ Putting his stick back between his teeth, he pulls a broom from his cart and starts brushing at the pavement. I frown and look down at my dungarees, spotting a few blobs of paint. And then I pull at my white T-shirt. More paint spots. ‘It’s even on your flop-flips.’ Cyrus chuckles, sliding his brush back into the cart and taking the handles.
‘You mean flip-flops?’
‘I mean what I mean.’ He starts pushing his cart up the street, the wheels creaking as he goes, and I pull my red scarf from the pocket of my dungarees, reaching up to put it back on, tying a big bow tightly on top.
‘Hey, Mrs Heaven,’ I call when I see her come out of her café.
‘Hello, Hannah.’ She follows me into my shop. ‘I brought you a muffin.’
‘You’ll make me fat,’ I say as she hands it to me, and I take a bite, moaning a little. Mrs Heaven’s blueberry muffins really are heaven.
She chuckles and wipes her hands down her apron. ‘You could do with a bit of meat on those bones of yours.’
‘Are you kidding?’ I say through my mouthful. I’m the curviest I’ve ever been. Long gone are my days of watching what I eat. Or being told what I can eat.
‘A few pounds won’t hurt you.’ She winks on an impish grin. ‘How are you settling in?’
I wander over to the last of my boxes of stock and pick the edge of the tape. ‘Great, thank you. Only a few more boxes to unpack before I officially open.’ I get on with pulling out the brushes, slipping them into pots on the nearby shelf in order of size and type.
‘How exciting for you, Hannah,’ she chirps. ‘I’ll be sure to tell all my friends about your work.’ Mrs Heaven walks the length of one wall, where many of my landscape paintings hang. ‘Such a talented young lady. Have you always painted?’
