Taylor suppressed a smile. ‘Of course. I shall get them ready.’
Taylor left the room, and Agatha heard his soft footfalls as he descended the large central staircase. She hauled herself out of bed and padded to the ornate dressing table in her slippers, obviously left there the night before by Taylor. She tutted at his stubborn archaic ways and began to put her face on. Her gaze fell to the silver-framed photo next to her jewellery box. Henry smiled out at her, giggling at something she had said as they stood arm in arm, fresh faces, happy smiles, all decked out in their finery on their wedding day. She smiled and stroked her husband’s face through the glass.
‘Good morning, Old Boot,’ she whispered, using her nickname for him. ‘Busy day today, my sweet.’ She kissed the tip of her finger and pressed it to the glass. When she had finished applying her make-up, she wandered off to the bathroom to get ready to face the day.
‘Err, gerrof!’ Taylor laughed as Buster licked at his head, sticking his wet tongue down his ear canal. Maisie, excited by Taylor’s reaction, jumped up at his crouched form and knocked him to the floor. Taylor closed his eyes and tried to cover his face as both dogs continued their slobbery assault on him. He tried to get up, and just got licked all the more. ‘Guys, come on now, stop it n—mmmffff!’
Buster took Taylor’s open, speaking mouth as an invitation for a kiss and Taylor found his tongue being massaged by that of a huge, rather smelly dog’s tongue in return. Horrified, he shut his mouth and began reaching frantically into his trouser pocket for a handkerchief. Just then, a bellow rang out and both dogs stopped, startled, and sat down, contrite at either side of a very wet and dishevelled Taylor.
‘Children, stop that immediately!’ Agatha was standing on the bottom step of the staircase, looking resplendent in a fitted peach skirt suit, pearly white blouse peeking from beneath, and matching cream cloche, her silvery white curls peeking out from beneath the fabric brim. Her dark blue eyes were shining with anger, and her taut gait made the dogs look to the floor. Taylor chuckled under his breath. Not every day two huge grey Irish wolfhounds looked like scolded children, which of course they were. Agatha, having never been able to have children, had always filled that maternal hole with the biggest, hairiest rescue hounds she could find, and Maisie and Buster definitely took the dog biscuit for being the craziest mutts she had ever given a home to. Agatha called them her children, and treated them as such, and both dogs adored her as much as she did them, although when Henry was alive, he had had to put his foot down and ban them from the bed, which, surprisingly, Agatha hated. She loved to cuddle up with them, but, even now, she honoured her late husband’s wish and they slept in two huge plush baskets in the hall of the house, or laid out like two overgrown rugs in front of the ever-present fire in the drawing room. Brandishing the two thick leather leads Taylor hadn’t noticed on the crook of her arm, Agatha smiled.
‘When you have quite finished, Taylor, let’s get into the car. Many, many things to do today, people to see …’
She wandered to the front door, grabbing her cream leather bag from the hall dresser on her way past, dogs in tow, tails wagging excitedly. Taylor groaned good-naturedly, pulling himself to his feet. His suit now looked like a dog blanket. Lucky he kept a lint roller in his glove compartment, he thought to himself, as he wiped the dog drool from his chin. After locking up the huge front doors, he wandered over to the car, whistling as he walked. Agatha eyed him from the back seat as he got comfortable, and he flashed her a cheeky wink. Colouring, she huffed and returned her attention to the dogs. Taylor held back a grin as they pulled away to the village.
A short drive later, they pulled up at the small parade of shops on Baker Street. Agatha had always loved this little slice of history—the large, ornate mouldings on the shopfronts, the quirky businesses they contained, it was always a favourite place of hers. She remembered running to the sweet shop as a young girl after school for her fix of sweets from Molly’s Delights, the little confectioner’s that used to be here on this very street. Molly had long since died, and the shop now changed hands, but the feel and look of the shops were still the same. She looked at the newest shop—A New Lease of Life. Rumour was—and Agatha always knew the truth—that the new owner was a city dweller, a quiet pale girl, who had recently upped sticks and moved to Westfield alone. The type of shop she had opened perturbed Agatha, and had since she had heard the new business application from the council meeting. Westfield was very much a make do and mend type of village, and an upcycling shop, whilst being a trendy fad to the city folk in today’s austere times, was less of a new concept to the villagers. The villagers here never threw out anything without revamping it or repairing it as much as possible, and not many people didn’t know how to sew, knit or bake. She did wonder how long this newcomer would stay, as she couldn’t see the shop being much of a success, even with the tourist trade. She made a mental note to investigate further. She would pay this girl a visit tomorrow and see what was what. Maybe she could help her integrate into the village, and boost her trade. She was just about to tell Taylor he could open the door to get the dogs out, when something caught her eye in the new shop window. Or rather, someone did. Ben Evans, town vet and owner of the dog groomer’s next door, was outside watering the planters at the front of the shop. Or, more accurately, he was drowning them. His arm was holding the green watering can over the poor spluttering plants, but his gaze was firmly on the shop window next door. More accurately, he was focused on the woman within, who was bent over the large wooden table in the centre of the shop, cutting and measuring fabric. She was a pretty thing, Agatha noted, with long brown hair tied in a loose, messy plait, her thin frame covered in a pretty floral dress and matching pastel pink bolero cardigan. Agatha watched as Ben’s eyes never left her back. She was the polar opposite of his ex-wife, Tanya, that was evident. Agatha’s brow furrowed at the memory of the Day-Glo orange Mrs Evans as was. All labelled clothes, designer perfume, which choked everybody in a one-mile radius, and gaudy talon-like fake nails. Everyone in Westfield had been scandalised when Ben, a native of the village, had returned fresh from university with his new love in tow. She was at such odds to Ben and his quiet, kind ways. Agatha had never taken to the woman, and was not sad when she had left for the bright lights and temptations of city life. She had felt for Ben though; the evil witch had decimated the poor young Evans lad, and he had not been the same since. Agatha’s romantic side kicked in immediately, and she was just thinking how wonderful it would be for the two to get together, when the moment was abruptly broken. The nearest plant, bearing the brunt, was half dead, gurgling with the sheer weight of the water, and the terracotta pot, now full, began to overflow and splashed on Ben’s denim-clad feet. Startled, Ben jumped back, tripping over the A-board that Tracy always had too close to the shop, and promptly fell over, his legs in the air. Quick as a flash, he jumped up, swinging his limbs widely. Grabbing the A-board for support, he straightened himself up, now damp, and cast a furtive glance at the window to see if the girl had seen. The girl in the shop, however, simply worked on, unaware of the drama outside.
Ben dusted himself down quickly and Taylor took this as his cue to get out of the car, coming round to Agatha’s door. Ben looked horrified, obviously realising that his little trip to the pavement had not gone completely unnoticed. He nodded sheepishly at Taylor and, looking into the car, beamed at Agatha, his grey eyes shining with embarrassment. Agatha grinned back at him before she could stop herself. She had always had a soft spot for the Evans boy, and he had grown into a fine young man.
The dogs loved him too and, as Taylor opened the door, they both made a break for it, Ben only just catching their leads before they barrelled into the shop.
‘Good morning, Mrs Mayweather, how are you and your fine charges doing today?’
Agatha smiled. ‘Fine, Benjamin, fine, as muddy as always, I am afraid. Buster here still thinks he is a spring chicken. I am afraid he was chasing rabbits again in the far paddock, poor Archibald had to dig him out of the warren!’
Ben chuckled, thinking of the surly gardener, Archie, who had been the Mayweathers’ gardener for many years. He had been great friends with Ben’s father, Edward, and the only time anyone had ever heard him talk, let alone laugh, was in the Four Feathers on a Saturday evening, whilst thrashing Ben’s dad at the weekly darts and dominoes night. Ben’s parents had both since passed away, and thinking of Archie gave Ben a pang