Mystery at Meadowbank Cottage An Original Story Written and Performed by Stephanie Poppins Music by my brother,
John Miles Carter Chapter Four It was early morning and Tuesday St.
Clair was already up and ready for the day.
It had been a week since she'd arrived and she'd already done so much to her new home.
For starters,
She'd sanded back the old sign above the door and painted each letter of Maybank Cottage a gorgeous Mediterranean blue.
Then she'd scrubbed the front step and cleaned the windows.
The old auger in her cottage kitchen had taken some figuring out,
But now it hummed contentedly as its dark green doors caught the morning light.
And as for the curtains,
She'd already changed those for pretty floral ones and polished the worktops,
Cleaned the cupboards and mopped the kitchen floor.
But best of all,
Each day after she finished work,
Her phone rang that little bit less and the wild birds sang that little bit more.
This little village was homely and quiet enough to listen to the wildlife as it thrived all around her.
Such a refreshing change it was from everything and everyone she'd left behind in the city.
Apart from her brother Justin,
Of course.
But he'd be over later that week as promised.
With one hefty tug,
Tuesday opened the old front door to let the summer sun flood in.
With the recent rainfall,
Her little cottage garden was a riot of leaf and colour that spilled over the cobbled pathway in haphazard lines and unruly clusters.
Now for today's job,
She declared,
As Spike,
Her new kitten,
Ran out from under her feet.
Gardening.
Pushing up her sleeve,
Tuesday tightened her ponytail and stepped out onto the worn front step.
She'd long since forgotten about her growing roots and although she still applied the heavy eye make-up,
She was getting much braver about the rest of her face.
Much to her delight,
Her irises had taken on a reddish,
Almost coppery glint and the dark outer ring offered a pretty contrast to the lighter flecks of caramel within.
What a day,
She beamed,
As she placed an old saucer of milk down.
This was one of many she'd inherited when she moved in.
It had a thin gold rim and pretty pink flowers painted in clusters around the central circle.
The people who lived here before obviously had very good taste,
She chuckled to herself.
And it was true,
Everything she'd found left behind in little cupboards had been stacked and boxed perfectly with tissue paper and thin gauze tea cloths.
Tuesday had wondered at first why anyone would leave such beautiful things behind.
Then she remembered Jonathan saying Meadowbank Cottage would be sold as is.
He must have known full well about the boxes,
She concluded,
And couldn't be bothered to move them.
Oh well,
All the better for me.
Tuesday was glad she had seen neither hide nor hair of the vendor or his wife since that first day.
Old school reunions had never been her thing,
And one ex in the picture was more than enough,
Even if Robert Shafe was finally getting the message.
Stepping into her cottage garden she considered today's job.
The hollyhock standing against the weathered stone would need to be tempered.
Their spires reached over six feet.
Then the delphiniums and foxgloves,
Not to mention the roses,
They would need trimming back from the arched frame that stood at the garden's entrance.
A lovely day's work I've got cut out for me,
She said to Spike.
Then a deep voice broke her train of thought.
So you're the latest then,
Are you?
It was an old man leaning over her garden gate with one hand attached to a pipe and another threatening to unhook the latch.
He looks like he's been bent over his vegetables so long he can't stand up straight.
News Tuesday.
This must be that Tom Bucket Colleen was talking about.
I hope he hasn't come to take back his kitten.
She stepped forward with an outstretched hand.
Tuesday St Clair,
Nice to meet you.
Loosening the latch,
The old man took her hand in his weathered one.
His knuckles were gnarled like old tree roots and his face a map of wrinkles.
But beneath the bushy eyebrows were a pair of bright eyes that sparkled mischievously.
And from that very moment,
Tuesday noticed something wonderfully contradictory about him.
He was dishevelled,
Yet somehow very dignified.
Much more dignified than many men she'd met in the city.
Pulling up an old wooden chair,
She bade him sit,
And when he eased himself down,
His grin revealed a shiny gold tooth,
A remnant from richer days.
That lavender there,
That's me.
I planted that,
He said,
As he pinched a strand of the pungent flower and crushed it in his palm.
Take away for that.
Offering it up to her,
He was surprised to see Tuesday hesitate at first.
But old Tom's manner was so disarming,
She didn't see there was any harm in it.
Lovely,
She gushed.
I take it you're Mr Bucket?
Folks round here call me Tom.
Well,
It's lovely to meet you,
Tom.
Can I get you a cup of tea?
Now,
I'll be splendid,
Young lady,
Just splendid.
And if you could find your way to a little biscourt too,
I wouldn't be offended.
Minutes later,
Tuesday returned with a tree fall,
And they sat together in the bright summer sun,
Amongst clumps of lavender,
Bright geraniums and sweet climbing peas.
Then suddenly Spike emerged and tucked his tail around old Tom's legs.
So you found yourself a new home,
Little one,
He grimaced.
I was wondering where you'd got to.
Tuesday hesitated.
She couldn't yet tell if Tom was angry or indifferent.
And I see this one's been feeding you well,
He added.
Their eyes met and he smiled crookedly.
You're a kindred spirit,
I can see that,
Child.
You belong in this cottage,
That I'm certain.
Tuesday beamed,
And such a pretty smile too.
It ain't right,
Young lady,
As pretty as you should be alone like this.
Oh,
I'm not alone,
Tuesday reassured him.
I've got Spike.
Spike,
Is it?
That's okay with you?
Of course,
Tom smiled back.
Even if I wanted him now,
He wouldn't come back.
It's probably just as well.
Our foster kittens,
See,
Till they can find homes and move on.
And your home's as good as any.
Oh,
Right.
I bet that woman told you different,
Didn't she?
Colleen.
That's the one.
More trouble than she's worth,
That one,
With her prim and proper ways.
All show and no go,
That's what I call her.
Never on hand like a farmer's wife ought to be.
Tuesday knew her expression agreed.
She didn't need to say anything for Tom to understand that.
Tuesday Sinclair,
Your face says it all,
Her father used to say,
And he was right.
Tuesday could never hide what she was thinking.
Which meant Colleen would know she couldn't stand the sight of her.
Tuesday chuckled unashamedly,
And Tom joined in.
Do you know who lived here before you?
Um,
No.
It was old Mrs Green.
Lovely lady she was.
Jonathan's mum?
That's right.
She was a witch.
A witch?
Yeah,
A white witch.
That woman could heal you just by placing her hands upon you.
She's hardly missed round here,
I can't tell you.
Tuesday was fascinated.
Did she ever heal you?
Many a time.
See that old agar in the fireplace you've got?
Yes.
She'd be brewing up all sorts on that there stove.
Used as garden herb she did.
Said she preferred nature's way of healing.
Tom laughed.
But she did have some funny superstitions too.
She used to say if you really want something,
You're to bury it in the soil and the earth will pay you back dividends.
Well this garden is testament to that,
Said Tuesday.
You're right there.
Though I think there might be a bit more to it than that.
Have a look out back.
I wouldn't be surprised if you find one of her stones set in the ground.
She used them to mark out where she'd buried what.
Anyhow,
I've got to be going.
I've got many a kitten to feed and they wait for no man.
And Tuesday watched in amusement as old Tom Bucket shuffled back down the cobbled path and out into the sunny lane,
Overlooked by the field beyond where Jonathan Green was making preparations for his upcoming harvest.
It was the end of a long day's gardening and Tuesday St Clair was sitting up in bed looking at the warmly painted walls of her new bedroom.
She'd always wanted rose-coloured walls and the pretty pink lamps she'd picked up at the local flea market gave them an even warmer glow when lit.
How her life had changed in such a short space of time Gone were the days of negotiating the decor of her own flat.
Gone were the nights of wondering whether the person she lived with would make it home in one piece after another one of his benders.
This was the new Tuesday and she was pleased to say it was really beginning to agree with her.
She no longer obsessed over her appearance and everything she wore fit just right.
She opened her journal and continued where she left off.
Writing her diary was a habit she'd adopted ever since she lost her parents.
It was a guilt thing,
She guessed.
Years before,
Her mother had bought her a beautiful leather-bound book and its pages had remained empty until now.
Now she wrote to her mother every day and Tuesday had to admit she was becoming reliant on it.
This way she still had someone to talk to another woman who understood.
What a day I've had,
She wrote.
I made Spike a lovely little nest in this wooden crate I found and I placed it in the sun outside the front door so he can sleep in the sun when he wants.
Then I weeded the front,
Fixed the hinge on the front gate before starting with the back.
The house cast shade on the little courtyard there but through the bowed arch beyond I've discovered a little overgrown area.
I attacked it with the lawnmower and it's nice and flat now with stepping stones leading through it.
The more I mowed,
The more steps I revealed but they weren't what I was looking for.
Earlier on,
Old Tom told me about the superstition of the white witch that last lived here and sure enough,
Right at the end of the path guess what I discovered?
A little stone marker with the initials J.
G.
Engraved into it.
