The Extra Week

Content Advisory
My books and stories are written for an adult audience and do not shy away from darker subject matter. Themes within my work may include violence, murder, abuse, and references to suicide.

These elements are part of the world and the characters within it, and are not presented lightly. However, they may be distressing for some readers. If you are sensitive to these topics or have personal triggers, please consider this before choosing to read.

The Light Stories will be more your cup of tea

The photograph on the website had clearly been taken at the height of summer, capturing fields of an almost impossible green, climbing roses spilling across the doorway, and old stone walls warmed by the afternoon sun until they looked honey-coloured rather than grey. A weathered wooden bench sat beneath the kitchen window, overlooking a narrow path that wound through an untidy garden toward a low drystone wall, beyond which lay nothing but miles of empty, rolling countryside.
It was, in every respect, precisely the sanctuary I had been looking for.
I had spent the better part of six months wrestling with a manuscript that seemed utterly determined to resist being written, constantly undone by the ambient friction of domestic life…. the shrill ring of the telephone, the chatter of neighbours, parcel deliveries, and the endless accumulation of petty digital demands that invariably swallowed whole days. I would sit at my desk until dusk only to produce three laboured paragraphs, two of which I would inevitably discard over coffee the following morning.
What I craved was true, unyielding silence…. the kind that lives far beyond the dull hum of distant bypasses or the flicker of neighbouring televisions. I pictured myself rising with the dawn chorus, watching the morning mist unspool slowly across the pastures, and working uninterrupted through long, solitary afternoons without the petty indignity of explaining why I was still in my dressing gown at eleven.
The listing described the cottage as a secluded retreat set upon a working family farm, complete with a private garden, a wood-burning stove, and endless open acreage stretching in every direction. While there were no photographs of livestock on the page, I simply took it to mean the hosts had chosen to showcase the interiors rather than the outbuildings…. my mind naturally filling in the blanks with cattle grazing placidly against the fence line, hens scratching through the dirt, and the quiet comfort of animals nearby. The rental rate seemed astonishingly modest for such complete seclusion, and within the hour, I had confirmed my reservation.

——

The journey took the better part of four hours, the final stretch spent negotiating increasingly treacherous country lanes flanked by dense, overgrown hedgerows that seemed determined to leave their mark along my paintwork. Eventually, my satnav abandoned all pretence of civilised roads and directed me down an unpaved farm track better suited to a tractor than a saloon car, marked only by an ancient, weathered timber board that announced HOLLOW ACRE FARM…. beneath which, painted in fading, uneven white lettering, an arrow pointed toward Holiday Cottage. The track was deeply rutted, with a tufted ridge of high weeds running along its spine that scraped against the underside of the vehicle while gravel crackled sharply under the tyres.
The farm revealed itself slowly through a stand of overgrown sycamores.
At the far end of an expansive gravel yard stood a severe stone farmhouse, its small, irregular windows sunk deep into thick masonry beneath a roof of dark, weathered slate. A sprawl of outbuildings hemmed it in, a modern corrugated iron shed, an elongated brick workshop, and an immense timber barn whose ancient cladding had weathered almost entirely black, its roofline sagging with age like an exhausted shoulder. The yard was cluttered with all the heavy paraphernalia of modern agriculture, mud-caked tractors, an idling combine, mountainous stacks of wooden pallets, and pieces of rusted machinery whose precise functions I could not begin to guess.
Yet there was not a single animal in sight…. not a grazing horse, nor a dairy cow, nor even a stray farm dog to bark at my arrival.
I parked by the main house and climbed out to ease my stiff spine, drawing in the cold, dense air that carried the rich scent of turned earth, diesel fumes, and the dry, powdery dust of stored grain. It was profoundly, almost unnervingly quiet, broken only when a distant crow called out from somewhere beyond the treeline, the sound carrying with crisp clarity across the open acreage.
Before I had even taken three paces toward the porch, the heavy front door swung outward and a man stepped into the yard.
He appeared to be in his late sixties, though a lifetime of relentless physical labour had carved years onto his frame. Short and built with the sturdy breadth of a cider cask, his stomach strained heavily against the pearl buttons of a faded checked work shirt, whilst his dark brown trousers were ingrained with years of mud, grease, and machine oil. His weathered face was ruddy and webbed with deep creases, lit by small, shrewd blue eyes tucked beneath bristling brows and a battered tweed flat cap. Wiping thick, grease-darkened fingers on an oily rag that looked distinctly dirtier than his skin, his face split into a broad, expansive grin.
“Well now, there she is!”
“Hello,” I smiled, immensely relieved to have arrived in one piece. “I was beginning to think the lanes had swallowed me whole, but I’m hoping I’ve found the right place.”
“You have indeed, lass…. you have indeed. Come all this long way on your own, have you?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “Just me.”
“Good run of it?”
“A bit tedious on the motorway, but glorious once I reached the open countryside.”
“Aye, well, that’s the real beauty of being tucked out here,” he said warmly, stepping closer with an outstretched hand. “Nobody bothers you. Nobody at all. Arthur Bell, lass. This place has been in my family for far longer than I care to count.”
His grip was calloused, remarkably strong, and he held my hand just a beat longer than courtesy usually dictated, studying my face with an expression of such disarming, fatherly warmth that I found myself relaxing immediately.
“Now then, let’s get you properly settled in,” Arthur insisted, letting go with a genial chuckle. “You’ve had a gruelling drive, and you’ll be wanting a decent, hot meal inside you.”
“Oh, please don’t trouble yourself, I brought plenty of supplies with me.”
“Nonsense! I won’t have a guest wasting away on dry crackers under my roof on her first evening. You’ll sit down to a proper hot supper tonight.” He patted his substantial belly with a booming laugh. “Not much danger of me wasting away, as you can see for yourself.”
There was an immediate, unvarnished familiarity about him that I found comforting…. a throwback to the cheerful, hearty farmers from childhood holidays who considered hospitality a matter of stubborn personal pride.
“Do you keep much livestock here?” I asked, glancing toward the empty paddocks beyond the yard. “Cattle or sheep?”
Arthur shook his head dismissively. “Not these days, no. Purely arable now, lass…. wheat, barley, a touch of oilseed rape when the rotation calls for it. We kept beasts decades back, but they’re far too much heartache and bother in the modern age. A crop doesn’t kick you in the ribs when you’re trying to tend to it, does it?”
He chuckled at his own well-worn quip, and I politely hid my mild disappointment…. after all, I had booked the cottage to finish my novel, not to indulge in a pastoral fantasy.
“Just yourself managing all of this, then?”
“Me and the boy,” Arthur said, turning toward the gloom of the long brick outbuilding and cupping his hands to his mouth. “DANIEL! COME ON OUT HERE, LAD! WE’VE GOT COMPANY!”
A brief metallic clatter echoed from within the shadows, followed by a sudden, expectant silence.
Arthur rolled his eyes with exasperated fondness. “That lad…. always got his nose buried deep in some contraption or other.” He drew breath and shouted again with surprising volume. “DANIEL! SHIFT YOURSELF!”
A tall figure detached itself from the dark interior and stepped out onto the gravel.
My immediate impression was of his towering height…. he stood well over six feet, though he carried himself with rounded shoulders and his chin ducked low toward his chest, as if trying to disguise his imposing presence. He wore heavy work trousers and an old forest-green wool jumper with the sleeves pushed up past broad, sinewy forearms, moving with an easy, unexpected grace that defied his awkward posture. Thick dark brown hair fell loosely across his forehead, brushing the collar of his jumper in a way that suggested he had either hacked at it himself with kitchen shears or neglected it entirely.
Yet when he finally raised his head, it was his eyes that arrested me…. a striking, luminous pale grey beneath dark, heavy lashes that met my gaze for one startling, electric second before darting bashfully down to the pebbles at his feet.
“This is Daniel,” Arthur beamed, pride softening his coarse voice. “My boy. Anything you need moving, mending, or carrying while you’re staying here, he’s your man.”
Daniel offered only the slightest inclination of his head.
“Hello, Daniel,” I said softly, conscious of his obvious reserve.
He shifted his weight awkwardly, hands buried deep in his pockets. “Hello.”
His voice was unexpectedly deep, carrying a soft, pleasant timbre, though the greeting came out stiffly, as if the words were unfamiliar on his tongue.
Arthur stepped forward and delivered a hearty, affectionate thud to the young man’s shoulder. “Go on, lad, don’t be backward in coming forward! The lady’s travelled halfway across the country to stay with us, least you can do is give her a proper greeting.”
A faint, embarrassed flush crept up Daniel’s neck, and my heart went out to him…. beneath the untidy mop of hair lay an exceptionally handsome face, defined by a clean, angular jawline, a straight nose, and a mouth that looked as though it were permanently restraining a quiet smile.
“Nice,” Daniel murmured, giving another small nod.
Arthur burst out laughing. “That’s our Daniel for you…. never was one for pointless chatter. Quiet as a church mouse, aren’t you, son? But he’s a good lad, works from dawn till dusk without a peep of complaint.”
Daniel managed a faint, shy grunt, keeping his gaze firmly fixed upon his boots. Yet as Arthur turned away, the young man glanced up beneath his fringe, and for a fleeting instant, our eyes locked again, the hint of a tentative, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips before he quickly looked away.
Arthur clapped his thick hands together, the sharp crack echoing across the silent yard. “Right then, lass! Let’s get you over to your little palace and out of this damp.”

——

The cottage stood about a hundred yards from the farmhouse, separated from the main yard by a low stone wall and a narrow garden.
It was even prettier than the photographs.
A climbing rose had grown almost to the roof, although at this time of year its flowers were gone and its branches were heavy with dark leaves. Ivy crept around one side of the building, and a crooked apple tree stood beside a small wooden gate.
The front door was painted a faded sage green.
Inside, the cottage smelled faintly of woodsmoke, old furniture polish and lavender.
There was a sitting room with exposed ceiling beams, a large stone fireplace containing a wood-burning stove, and a comfortable-looking sofa covered in cushions. A bookcase occupied one wall, its shelves filled with an odd assortment of novels, gardening books and ancient encyclopaedias.
The kitchen was small but well equipped, with a wooden table beside the window and a view across the fields.
Upstairs were a bedroom and a bathroom.
The bedroom had a large iron bedstead, thick white bedding and a patchwork quilt folded across the foot. An old wardrobe stood against one wall, and the window overlooked the garden and the countryside beyond.
It was perfect.
I could already imagine myself sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop, a pot of coffee beside me, watching the changing light across the fields while the words finally began to behave themselves.
Arthur watched my face with obvious satisfaction.
“Suit you?”
“It’s wonderful.”
“Good. That’s what we like to hear.”
He showed me how the heating worked, explained the temperamental kitchen tap, and pointed out where the spare blankets were kept.
“Gets cold out here at night,” he warned. “Colder than you might expect. These old walls hold the chill.”
“I don’t mind the cold.”
“Well, you might after a few nights. Daniel will keep you supplied with logs. Won’t you, lad?”
Daniel, who had carried my suitcase upstairs without being asked, nodded from the doorway.
“Fire,” he said.
Arthur grinned.
“Aye, fire. That’s right.”
I noticed Daniel’s face redden again.
“Thank you,” I told him. “I appreciate it.”
He looked at me, gave the smallest of smiles and disappeared outside.
Arthur watched him go.
“Good heart, that one. Always been a bit different, but there’s not a bad bone in his body.”
“He’s very shy.”
“Aye. Shy.”
Arthur seemed to consider the word.
“That’s one way of putting it.”
Then he smiled again.
“Now, a couple of things before I leave you in peace.”
He pointed towards the front door.
“Make sure you lock up at night.”
“Of course.”
“Both locks. Top and bottom. Sometimes the wind gets up something fierce, and you don’t want that door blowing open while you’re asleep.”
“I’ll remember.”
“And don’t go wandering around the farm buildings after dark. Machinery everywhere. Easy enough to trip over something and break your neck.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t intend to go exploring in the dark.”
“Good girl.”
The phrase amused me. I was twenty-five, hardly a child, but Arthur said it with such cheerful paternal authority that I simply smiled.
“And meals,” he continued. “We’ll have you up at the house for supper tonight. Six o’clock. Don’t be late, mind. I don’t like food going cold.”
“That’s very kind, but honestly, I don’t want to impose.”
“Impose?”
He looked genuinely astonished.
“Lass, you’re our guest. You’ll eat with us when we ask you, and that’s the end of it.”
He laughed. I laughed too.
“Six o’clock, then.”
“That’s the spirit.”
He reached out and patted my shoulder.
“You’re going to have a lovely time here. I can tell.”

——

After they left, I unpacked, made myself a coffee. Looking through the window from where I sat at the wooden kitchen table, I could see the afternoon was turning golden. The fields stretched away towards a distant line of trees, their harvested surfaces striped with the pale remains of cut stalks. A narrow track wound between them, disappearing over a gentle rise.
There was no traffic, no music, no shouting. Only the occasional distant rumble of farm machinery and the soft tapping of a branch against the window.
I opened my laptop.
For a while, I simply sat looking at the manuscript.
Then I began to write.
An hour passed. Then another and by the time I looked at the clock, I had written nearly three thousand words.
Three thousand.
At home, that would have been an exceptional day’s work. Here, I had barely noticed the time passing. I leant back in my chair and laughed aloud.
“Well, this was worth the drive.”
A movement outside caught my attention. Daniel was walking along the garden path carrying a large wicker basket filled with logs. I opened the door before he reached it.
“Hello again.”
He stopped so abruptly that one of the logs shifted in the basket. “Hello.”
“More firewood?”
He nodded. “Cold tonight.”
“So your father keeps telling me.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “Cold,” he repeated.
“Well, come in. I’ll get out of your way.”
He stepped inside, ducking his head slightly beneath the low doorway.
Up close, he seemed even taller, and I noticed the breadth of his shoulders beneath the old jumper. He smelled pleasantly of fresh wood, clean sweat and the outdoors.
He knelt beside the stove and began arranging the logs in the basket already provided, his movements careful and methodical.
“Do you do all the work around here?” I asked.
He glanced up. “Some.”
“I imagine there’s an awful lot to do on a farm this size.”
He shrugged. “Enough.”
I smiled. “You’re not much of a conversationalist, are you?”
His hands stopped moving and for a moment, I worried that I had embarrassed him. “I’m sorry. That sounded rude. I didn’t mean it that way.”
He looked at me. Those extraordinary grey eyes holding mine for a second. Then his cheeks turned scarlet. “S’all right.”
I laughed softly. “Good. I’d hate to offend the man responsible for keeping me warm.”
He ducked his head, but not before I saw him smile. A proper smile this time and it transformed his face.
After finishing stacking the logs, he stood and brushed his hands against his trousers.
“Tomorrow,” he murmured.
“Tomorrow?”
“More. If you need.”
“That would be lovely. Thank you, Daniel.”
He nodded and moved towards the door.
“Daniel?”
He stopped. “Yes?”
“Your father said you have to work terribly hard. I hope I’m not adding too much to it.”
He looked at me for a moment then he shook his head. “No bother.”
And with that, he was gone.
I watched him walk back towards the farmyard, his long strides carrying him quickly along the path. There was something rather sweet about him and I wondered whether he had always been so shy, or whether growing up on an isolated farm with only his father for company had made him uncomfortable around strangers.
Whatever the reason, I hoped he would relax a little during my stay.

——

Supper was served in the farmhouse kitchen at precisely six o’clock.
Arthur had prepared an enormous vegetable pie, accompanied by potatoes, carrots and enough gravy to feed a small army.
He watched approvingly as I helped myself.
“That’s it, lass. Get some food inside you.”
“It’s delicious.”
“Good. Eat up.”
Daniel sat opposite me, his shoulders rounded, concentrating on his plate.
The kitchen was warm and old fashioned, with a huge wooden dresser, copper pans hanging from hooks and a large clock ticking above the fireplace.
Arthur did most of the talking.
He told me about the farm, about the difficulty of getting decent workers, about the weather and the price of grain. He asked about my writing and seemed genuinely interested when I explained the novel I was working on.
“A writer, eh? Fancy that.”
He looked towards his son. “Hear that, Daniel? We’ve got ourselves a proper author staying with us.”
Daniel nodded. “Books.”
“That’s right, lad. Books.”
Arthur winked at me. “Perhaps she’ll put us in one.”
“Perhaps I will,” I said.
“Make me handsome, then.”
I laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“And give our Daniel a sweetheart while you’re at it. Poor lad’s never had much luck with the ladies.”
“Dad.”
It was the first time I had heard Daniel speak with anything resembling emphasis. Arthur roared with laughter.
“Look at him! Red as a beetroot!”
Daniel stared at his plate and I felt my own cheeks warming.
“Leave him alone,” I said, laughing. “You’re embarrassing him.”
“Someone’s got to tease him. Otherwise he’d never say a word.”
Arthur reached for the gravy jug. “Another helping?”
“Oh, no, thank you. I’m absolutely full.”
“Nonsense. Little bit more.”
He spooned gravy over my potatoes before I could protest. I smiled helplessly. He really was determined to look after me.
After supper, Arthur insisted on walking me back to the cottage, although it was barely a minute’s walk and there was still enough light to see clearly. Daniel followed a few paces behind.
At the door, Arthur reminded me about the locks.
“Both of them, lass. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t stay up writing all night. You’ll wear yourself out.”
“I’ll try not to.”
He gave me a broad smile. “Good girl. Sleep well.”
Daniel lingered beside the gate.
“Goodnight, Daniel,” I said.
He looked up. “Night.” Then, after a pause, he added quietly, “Sleep good.”
I smiled. “You too.”
He stood watching as I went inside. I locked the door, both locks as instructed, and drew the curtains.
The cottage had grown chilly during my absence, so I decided to try the stove. Daniel had left everything ready, with kindling arranged beneath the logs and a box of matches placed neatly on the mantelpiece. The fire caught almost immediately. Within minutes, flames were licking around the wood, casting a soft orange glow across the sitting room.
I made a cup of tea, settled onto the sofa and opened my laptop again.
Outside, darkness gathered over Hollow Acre Farm. Somewhere in the distance, a heavy door closed with a hollow wooden thud. I barely noticed.
I had written more that afternoon than I had managed in the previous week, the cottage was beautiful, the food was excellent, and my hosts seemed determined to make me feel welcome.
Even the absence of animals no longer mattered.
I had found precisely the sort of place I needed.
Before going to bed, I checked the fire, switched off the lamps and stood for a moment at the sitting room window. Beyond my reflection in the glass, the farmyard was almost completely dark. A single yellow light shone above the doors of the big barn. I could just make out someone crossing the yard beneath it, a tall figure with his hands in his pockets and his head bent against the cold.
Daniel, presumably.
He stopped beside the barn and looked towards the cottage. I raised my hand in a little wave, although I doubted he could see me through the reflection. For a moment, he remained perfectly still, then he lifted one hand.
I smiled and drew the curtains.
Upstairs, I climbed into the enormous bed and pulled the thick quilt around myself.
The sheets were cold at first, but I soon warmed them.
I lay listening to the unfamiliar silence, feeling pleasantly tired and deeply content.
Fourteen days stretched ahead of me. Fourteen days without interruptions, obligations or anyone demanding my attention. I wondered how much of my novel I might finish.
Perhaps, if things went particularly well, I might even ask Arthur whether I could stay a little longer.
It was a lovely thought. I closed my eyes. And slept.

——

By the fourth morning, I had developed a routine so agreeable that I began to wonder why I had ever considered writing at home.
I woke naturally, usually shortly after seven, when the pale morning light began creeping around the edges of the bedroom curtains. The cottage was always cold at that hour, the sort of cold that made getting out of bed an exercise in determination, but I had discovered that if I hurried downstairs, switched on the heating and made a pot of coffee, the kitchen became comfortable within twenty minutes.
I would sit at the little wooden table in my dressing gown, watching the countryside emerge from the mist while my laptop hummed quietly beside my breakfast.
The fields were never quite the same from one morning to the next.
Sometimes the mist lay low against the earth, turning the distant hedgerows into dark islands in a pale sea. On other mornings, the sky was perfectly clear, and the rising sun caught every remaining stalk of harvested wheat, making the fields shimmer with gold.
Once, I watched a fox trot along the edge of the garden carrying something in its mouth. It paused beneath the apple tree, looked directly at me through the window, and continued on its way with the unhurried confidence of an animal that knew precisely where it belonged.
I was ridiculously pleased to have seen it.
I mentioned the fox to Arthur over supper that evening.
“Plenty of those about,” he said, helping himself to another enormous portion of potatoes. “Badgers too. Deer sometimes, if you’re lucky.”
“I’d love to see a deer.”
“Daniel knows where they go. Don’t you, lad?”
Daniel nodded. “By the trees.”
“There you are. He’ll show you one morning.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to interfere with his work.”
Arthur waved away the objection. “He’s got time to take a pretty young lady for a walk.”
Daniel promptly dropped his fork. I laughed, and Arthur nearly choked on his gravy.
“Dad,” Daniel muttered.
“What? I’m only saying!”
“You’re terrible,” I told Arthur.
“Aye, so I’ve been informed.”
Daniel bent to retrieve his fork, his hair falling forward to hide his face. When he straightened, I caught his eye and gave him a sympathetic smile. He smiled back.
I was beginning to enjoy those little exchanges.

——

My writing flourished and by the end of the first week, I had completed two chapters, rewritten a troublesome third, and finally solved a problem with one of my characters that had been bothering me for months.
It was extraordinary what uninterrupted concentration could accomplish.
I found myself becoming increasingly protective of my mornings. I would rise, make coffee, write until lunchtime, and then reward myself with a walk through the surrounding countryside.
Arthur had shown me which tracks I could use without interfering with the farm machinery.
“Anywhere along the field boundaries is fine,” he explained. “Just keep away from the working areas. And don’t go into the barns. Nothing interesting in there for you.”
“I promise not to steal your tractors.”
He laughed. “You’d have a job getting one down the lane without me noticing.”
There were miles of paths to explore.
I walked beside hedgerows thick with blackberries, through small patches of woodland where fallen leaves lay damp and fragrant beneath the trees, and along a narrow stream that wound through a shallow valley beyond the fields.
The stream was little more than a trickle in places, but I loved the sound it made over the stones.
Sometimes I took a notebook and stopped to write down ideas. Sometimes I simply walked, enjoying the unfamiliar pleasure of having nowhere particular to be.
I rarely encountered another person.
There was a village several miles away, but Hollow Acre seemed remarkably isolated, even by rural standards. The nearest neighbouring farmhouse was barely visible on the horizon, and the surrounding lanes carried so little traffic that I could walk for an hour without seeing a car.
It was exactly the peace I had wanted.

——

Daniel began appearing at the cottage every evening.
At first, he came only to deliver firewood. He would knock twice, wait patiently until I opened the door, and step inside carrying a basket of logs against his hip.
“Evening,” he would murmur.
“Evening, Daniel.”
“Cold?”
“Freezing.”
He would smile, kneel beside the stove and set about building a fire. I soon discovered that he was extraordinarily good at it. He seemed to know exactly how much kindling to use, how to arrange the logs and when to adjust the airflow. Within minutes, the stove would be roaring cheerfully, and he would sit back on his heels to watch the flames catch.
The first time I offered him a cup of tea, he looked so startled that I almost laughed.
“Tea?” he repeated.
“Yes, tea. You know, hot water, leaves, milk. Quite a popular invention.”
His mouth twitched.
“Please.”
“Milk? Sugar?”
He held up two fingers.
“Two sugars?”
A nod.
“Right. Sit yourself down.”
He looked towards the sofa, then at the door, apparently uncertain whether he was allowed to stay.
“Go on,” I encouraged. “You’ve earned five minutes off.”
He sat on the very edge of the sofa, knees awkwardly bent, enormous hands resting on his thighs.
I brought him his tea. “Careful. It’s hot.”
He accepted the mug with both hands. “Thanks.”
I settled into the armchair opposite him.
For several minutes, we sat in companionable silence, listening to the crackling fire. I had always been comfortable with silence. I didn’t feel the need to fill every pause with conversation, and Daniel seemed particularly grateful for that.
Eventually, I asked whether he had lived on the farm all his life.
He nodded. “Never fancied going anywhere else?” A shrug. “Home.”
“Fair enough. It’s a lovely place.”
He looked around the cottage. “Like it?”
“I love it.”
His expression brightened. “Good.”
I smiled. “You really don’t waste words, do you?”
He shook his head, smiling into his tea. It became a small joke between us.

——

The weather turned colder during the second week.
A sharp wind came down from the north, stripping the remaining leaves from the apple tree and rattling the cottage windows after dark.
The old building seemed to absorb the chill. Even with the heating on, the sitting room was uncomfortable until the stove had been burning for a while, and I found myself looking forward to Daniel’s visits with an enthusiasm that had very little to do with the firewood.
He was sweet. There was no other word for it.
He had an almost childlike pleasure in small things, although I was increasingly aware that there was nothing childlike about his appearance.
He was somewhere in his late thirties, I guessed, perhaps thirty-eight or thirty-nine. His body was lean and powerful from years of physical work, his hands broad and capable, and when he occasionally forgot to stoop, he was impressively tall. But he seemed so uncomfortable with attention that I made a point of never commenting on his appearance. Instead, I asked about the farm.
He knew an astonishing amount about machinery which I discovered accidentally one afternoon when I found him working on a tractor outside the long brick building.
The engine was partially dismantled, and an extraordinary assortment of tools lay neatly arranged on a cloth beside him.
“Good grief,” I said, peering beneath the raised bonnet. “Does it ever go back together?”
Daniel glanced at me. A smile appeared. “Usually.”
I laughed. “That’s reassuring.”
He pointed to a metal component. “Fuel pump.”
“Is that what’s wrong with it?”
He nodded. “Pressure’s dropping.”
“Sounds expensive.”
Another smile. “Can fix it.”
He began explaining something about the mechanism, using short phrases and gestures to demonstrate how the parts fitted together. I understood very little of it, but I was fascinated by the confidence with which he handled the machinery.
His hands moved with absolute certainty. There was none of the hesitation I had grown accustomed to seeing when he spoke.
“You’re very clever with all this,” I said.
He stopped. His shoulders rounded immediately. “Just machines.”
“Well, I’d be hopeless. I can barely change a windscreen wiper.”
He laughed. It was a lovely sound, deep and unexpectedly warm.
I found myself laughing too. For a moment, he looked directly at me.
Those pale grey eyes were extraordinary in the afternoon light. Then Arthur called from the farmhouse.
“Daniel! Stop bothering the lady and get on with your work!”
“He’s not bothering me!” I called back.
Arthur appeared in the doorway, grinning. “Course he isn’t. Handsome young fellow like that, why would he?”
“Arthur!”
Daniel lowered his head, but I could see him smiling.
Arthur winked. “I’ll leave you lovebirds to it, shall I?”
I threw my hands up in exasperation. “Honestly, you’re impossible.”
“Aye, but you love me anyway.”
And, rather to my surprise, I realised I did.
Not romantically, of course. Arthur was old enough to be my grandfather, and Daniel, despite being attractive, seemed far too innocent and awkward for me to think of him in that way.
But I had become genuinely fond of them both. They were beginning to feel like family.

——

One evening, Daniel arrived carrying not only his usual basket of logs but a small paper bag. He stood in the doorway holding it awkwardly. “For you.”
I looked at the bag. “What’s this?”
He pushed it towards me. Inside were three enormous apples. They were slightly misshapen, with red and yellow skins and little brown marks where insects had nibbled them.
“From the tree?” I asked.
He nodded. “Last ones.”
I was touched. “Daniel, that’s lovely. Thank you.”
He looked pleased. “Good ones.”
“I’m sure they are.”
I took one out and polished it against my jumper. “Shall I try one?”
He nodded eagerly. I bit into it. It was crisp, sharp and wonderfully sweet.
“Oh, that’s gorgeous!”
Daniel beamed. “Good?”
“Delicious.”
He watched me take another bite, looking so delighted that I felt absurdly pleased to have made him happy.
“Would you like one?”
He shook his head. “For you.”
“Well, thank you. That’s very kind.”
His cheeks coloured. Then he bent to the stove and began arranging the firewood.
I watched him for a moment.
“Daniel?”
He glanced up.
“You’re a very thoughtful man, you know.”
He looked startled. Then he smiled. Not the small, embarrassed smile I was accustomed to, but something wider and almost proud.
“Like you happy,” he said quietly.
I felt a sudden warmth of affection. “Well, you’ve certainly managed that.”
He lowered his head again, but I could see the smile lingering.

——

The following evening, Arthur invited me to supper and produced a homemade apple crumble.
“Daniel tells me you liked his apples.”
“They were wonderful.”
Arthur looked delighted. “He’s been talking about that all day.”
“Dad.”
“There he goes again! Blushing!”
I laughed. “Leave him alone.”
Arthur leant back in his chair, studying us with an expression of exaggerated thoughtfulness. “You know, I’ve been wondering whether I ought to start planning a wedding.”
I nearly dropped my spoon. “Arthur!”
“What? Nice young woman, handsome young man. Stranger things have happened.”
“You’re going to frighten him to death.”
Daniel was staring at his plate, his ears bright red. Arthur chuckled. “Look at the pair of you.”
I shook my head, laughing despite my embarrassment. “You’re dreadful.”
“Aye, but you’ve got to admit, you’d make a handsome couple.”
I glanced towards Daniel, intending to give him another sympathetic smile. He was looking at me. For once, he didn’t immediately look away. His grey eyes met mine steadily, and a slow smile spread across his face.
It was such an unexpected expression that I momentarily forgot what I had been about to say. He really was handsome. Not merely pleasant looking, but genuinely, strikingly handsome when he allowed himself to be.
I felt my cheeks grow warm. Arthur noticed immediately. “HA! There it is! She’s blushing too!”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!”
Daniel grinned. I laughed, covered my face with my hands and wished the floor would swallow me.
It was all perfectly ridiculous and rather lovely.

——

There were little things about Hollow Acre that I noticed without giving them much thought.
Arthur was extremely particular about the doors.
Every evening, he reminded me to lock the cottage, sometimes asking whether I had remembered both locks the previous night.
Once, when I mentioned that I had left the kitchen window open while I went for a walk, he looked genuinely upset. “Don’t do that, lass.”
“Oh, it’s only a little window.”
“Doesn’t matter. You don’t want someone getting in.”
“Out here? Who on earth would come all this way?”
He shook his head. “Never know. Best be careful.”
He seemed so concerned that I promised to keep everything shut when I went out. After that, he was cheerful again.
There was also the large barn.
It stood at the far end of the yard, its enormous wooden doors usually closed. Occasionally, I heard machinery running inside, or the heavy scrape of something being moved across the floor.
Once, while returning from a walk, I saw Daniel coming out of it carrying a long iron bar. He closed the doors behind him and slid a heavy bolt into place.
“What’s in there?” I asked.
He turned towards me. For a moment, he simply stared and then he shrugged. “Storage.”
“Anything interesting?”
He shook his head. “Old stuff.”
“Ah. The mysterious treasures of farming.”
He smiled faintly.
“Old stuff,” he repeated.
I laughed and continued towards the cottage.
I had no particular interest in farm machinery, and there were plenty of other places to explore.

——

The best evening of the holiday came three days before I was due to leave.
It had rained all afternoon, a steady, miserable rain that blurred the windows and turned the garden path into a ribbon of mud.
I had spent the day writing.
By five o’clock, I had finished another chapter and was feeling so pleased with myself that I opened a bottle of wine I had brought from home.
Daniel arrived shortly afterwards, soaked to the skin.
His hair was plastered against his forehead, and water dripped from the shoulders of his jumper.
“Daniel! You’re absolutely drenched!”
He shrugged. “Rain.”
“Yes, I’d noticed that.”
He smiled.
“Come in before you catch your death.”
He stepped inside and carefully wiped his boots on the mat. I fetched a towel from the kitchen. “Here. Dry your hair.”
He took it, looking faintly bewildered.
“Go on. You’ll drip all over my lovely floor.”
He rubbed the towel over his head. When he lowered it, his hair was sticking up in every direction. I burst out laughing. He looked alarmed.
“Oh, Daniel, I’m sorry. You look like you’ve been dragged backwards through a hedge.”
He touched his hair. Then he laughed too.
I reached up without thinking and flattened one particularly rebellious tuft.
“There. Much better.”
His laughter stopped and he looked down at me.
For a brief moment, neither of us moved.
I became aware of how close I was standing, of the warmth coming from his body despite his wet clothes, and of the remarkable clarity of his eyes.
Then he lowered his head. His cheeks turned crimson. I stepped back, suddenly embarrassed myself.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
He nodded. “Nice.”
I smiled. “Well, thank you.”
He turned quickly towards the stove and knelt to build the fire whilst I busied myself in the kitchen, feeling faintly foolish.
When I returned with his usual cup of tea, he was sitting on the hearthrug watching the flames.
“Here you are.”
He accepted the mug. “Thanks.”
I sat on the sofa. “Do you know, Daniel, I think this is the happiest I’ve been in months.”
He looked up. “Happy?”
“Very.”
He smiled. “Good.”
“I’ve written so much. More than I thought possible. And it’s so peaceful here.”
He watched me carefully.
“I think I’m going to miss this place terribly when I go home.”
His smile faded. “Go?”
“On Friday. Three days from now.”
He lowered his eyes. “Oh.”
I felt rather sorry for him. “Don’t look so sad. I might come back next year.”
He stared into his tea. “Next year.”
“Yes. If your father will have me.”
He said nothing.
I wondered whether he was upset by the thought of losing the company. It must be lonely for him here, particularly if he found it difficult to make friends.
“Besides,” I added brightly, “you’ll probably be relieved not to have to bring me firewood every evening.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“No?”
He looked at me. “Like coming.”
I smiled. “Well, I like having you.”
He held my gaze for a moment then his mouth curved into that lovely, bashful smile. “Good.”

——

The next morning, Arthur was unusually interested in my departure plans. “Friday, is it?”
“Yes. I’ll probably leave around lunchtime.”
“Long drive back.”
“About four hours, depending on traffic.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Got everything sorted?”
“More or less. I’ll pack on Thursday evening.”
“Well, don’t be rushing off without saying goodbye.”
“Of course not!”
He smiled. “We’ll have to give you a proper send-off.”
“Arthur, you’ve already fed me enough to last until Christmas.”
He laughed. “Nonsense. Can’t have you leaving here hungry.”
I shook my head. “You really do enjoy feeding people.”
“Best part of having guests.”
He glanced towards Daniel, who was standing beside the kitchen sink. “Isn’t it, lad?”
Daniel looked up. “Yes.”
Arthur smiled. “Aye. We like our guests happy.”

——

On Thursday, I spent most of the day finishing the chapter I had been working on.
I had reached the end of a particularly difficult scene when I suddenly realised that I had written almost twenty thousand words during my stay. Twenty thousand.
I stared at the number on the screen, hardly believing it. The holiday had been an extraordinary success.
I saved the manuscript in three different places, shut the laptop and walked around the cottage grinning like an idiot.
I wanted to tell someone. Naturally, I told Daniel who arrived just after six, carrying his usual basket of logs.
“I’ve done it!”
He stopped in the doorway. “Done?”
“Nearly twenty thousand words!”
He looked puzzled.
“My book. I’ve written almost twenty thousand words since I got here.”
His face brightened. “Good?”
“Very good!”
He smiled broadly.
I was so delighted that I impulsively threw my arms around him, a brief, spontaneous hug, the sort I might have given anyone who had been kind to me during a happy fortnight. Daniel went completely still. I felt the sudden tension in his body and immediately stepped back.
“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
He stared at me. His cheeks were scarlet. Then, slowly, he smiled. “Nice.”
I laughed. “You do have a limited vocabulary, don’t you?”
He grinned. “Enough.”
I laughed again. “Apparently so.”
He built the fire while I told him about the chapter, explaining far more than he could possibly have wanted to know about fictional characters and troublesome plotlines.
He listened with apparent interest, occasionally nodding or making a small sound of encouragement.
When I finally stopped talking, I realised he had been watching me the entire time.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve been going on rather.”
He shook his head. “Like listening.”
I smiled. “You’re a sweetheart, Daniel.”
He lowered his eyes.
I wondered, not for the first time, why someone so gentle and attractive had apparently never found a partner. Perhaps Arthur’s teasing was less innocent than it seemed. Perhaps he genuinely hoped I might take an interest in his son. The thought made me smile.
Poor Daniel. He deserved someone lovely. Someone who would appreciate his quiet nature and wouldn’t expect him to be anything other than himself.

——

Later that evening, I went to the farmhouse to return a casserole dish Arthur had lent me.
The kitchen door was open, and I could hear voices inside. Arthur was speaking. “Well, we’ll see, won’t we?”
There was a pause. Then Daniel said something too quietly for me to hear.
Arthur laughed. “Patience, lad. You’ve got to have patience.”
I knocked on the doorframe. “Hello? Am I interrupting?”
Arthur turned towards me. “Not at all, lass! Come in!”
Daniel was standing beside the table. He looked at me, and his face immediately coloured. Arthur chuckled. “Speak of the devil.”
“Oh?”
“Just telling Daniel he’ll have to find someone else to pester once you’ve gone.”
“He’s never pestered me.”
“Really? Good.”
Daniel looked at the floor.
I placed the dish on the counter. “Thank you for lending me this.”
“Any time, lass. Any time.”
Arthur dried his hands on a tea towel. “Now, about tomorrow.”
“Yes?”
“We thought we’d make you a proper breakfast before you go.”
“Oh, Arthur, you really don’t have to.”
“Course we do. Can’t send you off on an empty stomach.”
I laughed. “I’ll hardly be starving.”
“Daniel’s got something planned.”
I looked towards him. “Have you?”
He nodded. His cheeks were pink. “Breakfast.”
“That sounds lovely.”
Arthur grinned. “Something special, apparently. Won’t tell me what it is.”
Daniel smiled at the floor. I was touched. “Well, I’m looking forward to it.”
“Good,” Arthur said. “We’ll have it in the big barn. Plenty of room in there, and we’ve got a table set up.”
“The barn?”
“Aye. Thought we’d make a bit of an occasion of it.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“Nine o’clock suit you?”
“Perfectly.”
Arthur nodded with satisfaction. “Nine it is, then.”

——

That night, Daniel stayed a little longer than usual. He had built the fire, accepted his tea and settled on the sofa while I finished packing my suitcase.
I came downstairs carrying a stack of books. “Do you know, I brought six novels with me and haven’t read a single one.”
He smiled. “Writing.”
“Exactly. I was too busy writing.”
I placed the books in my bag and sat beside him. “Thank you for everything, Daniel.”
He looked at me.
“For the fires, the apples, all your help. You’ve been wonderful.”
He lowered his head. “Like helping.”
“I know. That’s what makes it so lovely.”
For a while, we sat listening to the fire.
Then he spoke. “Miss you.”
I turned towards him. He was staring at his hands. “Oh, Daniel.”
His cheeks reddened. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” I touched his arm. “I’ll miss you too.”
He looked up. For once, he held my gaze. His eyes seemed almost silver in the firelight. “Really?”
“Of course.”
He smiled. It was a beautiful smile, open and unguarded, and I felt a sudden pang of affection for this awkward man who had made my holiday so pleasant.
“Perhaps I’ll come back in the spring,” I said. “I’d love to see the countryside when everything’s growing again.”
He nodded. “Spring.”
“Or summer. Those roses must be beautiful when they’re flowering.”
He said nothing for a moment. Then he asked quietly, “Like staying?”
I laughed. “I’ve loved staying here.”
He watched me. “Stay?”
I assumed he meant another visit. “Yes, Daniel. I’d love to stay here again.”
His smile widened. Then he looked away, almost bashfully. “Good.”

——

After he left, I finished packing.
The cottage looked strangely bare without my books scattered across the table and my clothes hanging in the wardrobe.
I felt unexpectedly sad. It had been such a wonderful fortnight.
I had arrived tired, frustrated and thoroughly fed up with my manuscript. I was leaving rested, happy and more enthusiastic about writing than I had been in years.
Arthur and Daniel had been delightful hosts.
A little eccentric, certainly, but that was part of their charm.
I would miss Arthur’s enormous meals and terrible jokes.
I would miss Daniel’s shy smiles and the way he always seemed to know when the cottage needed warming.
I would even miss the old stove, with its stubborn door and cheerful flames.
Before going upstairs, I checked the locks. Both secure. Arthur would have been proud and I smiled at the thought.
Outside, the wind had dropped, and the night was unusually still. The big barn stood dark at the far end of the yard, its doors closed against the cold. I glanced towards it as I drew the curtains. Tomorrow morning, I would finally see inside.
I wondered what Daniel had planned for breakfast. He had seemed so pleased with himself when Arthur mentioned it. Perhaps he had baked something.
The thought of that enormous, awkward man carefully preparing a surprise breakfast made me smile all the way upstairs.
I climbed into bed, set my alarm for seven and switched off the lamp but could not sleep and, for a while, I lay awake thinking about the journey home.
The traffic would be dreadful.
There would be emails waiting, washing to do, shopping to buy and all the ordinary demands of everyday life.
I sighed.
I really didn’t want to leave.
Perhaps I should have booked three weeks instead of two.
I turned onto my side, pulled the quilt around my shoulders and closed my eyes.
In the morning, I would have breakfast with Arthur and Daniel, thank them properly, collect my things and drive away and perhaps, before I left, I would ask about coming back next year.
It seemed a shame to say goodbye to somewhere that had made me so happy.

——

I slept deeply that night so when the alarm sounded the following morning, I woke feeling refreshed and surprisingly cheerful.
I woke to the smell of rain. Not actual rain, for the morning was bright and clear, but that wonderful earthy scent that rises from fields after a night of heavy moisture. It drifted through the bedroom window when I opened it, carrying the faint sweetness of decaying leaves and the sharper smell of freshly turned soil.
For a moment, I stood looking out across the countryside.
The fields were pale beneath the morning sun, their harvested surfaces glistening with dew. Beyond them, the trees stood almost motionless against a washed blue sky.
It was going to be a beautiful day.
And I was going home. I felt a ridiculous little pang of disappointment.
Two weeks earlier, I had been desperate to escape my ordinary life. Now, standing in the quiet bedroom of a cottage I had grown to love, I found myself wishing I could remain there indefinitely. I had never expected to become so attached to the place. I was not sure if it was the writing or the peace. Perhaps it was simply the pleasure of being somewhere that seemed entirely removed from the pressures of modern life. Whatever the reason, Hollow Acre had become something rather special.
I dressed slowly, choosing comfortable jeans and a soft blue jumper, then went downstairs to make coffee. My suitcase stood beside the front door, packed except for my toiletries and the clothes I was wearing. My laptop was already in its bag, the manuscript safely backed up, and the kitchen table looked strangely empty without its usual scattering of notebooks and pens.
I made a final inspection of the cottage while the kettle boiled. Nothing forgotten in the wardrobe or in the bathroom. I double checked no books hiding beneath the bed.
I even checked the kitchen cupboards, although I knew perfectly well that I had used the last of my groceries the previous evening.
Then I poured my coffee and sat beside the window.
I could see the farmhouse from where I sat. Smoke rose lazily from one of its chimneys, and a tractor stood beside the machinery shed with its bonnet raised. Somewhere out of sight, metal struck metal with a sharp, ringing sound.
Daniel was already working, presumably. I smiled. Poor Daniel. He would probably have been awake for hours, yet he had still found time to prepare a special breakfast for me.
I wondered what it would be.
Toast and eggs, perhaps. Arthur certainly believed in substantial breakfasts. Or maybe Daniel had attempted something more ambitious. I hoped he hadn’t gone to too much trouble.
At twenty minutes to nine, I washed my cup, dried it and placed it carefully in the cupboard and then checked my appearance in the little mirror beside the front door.
I looked healthy. Much healhier than when I had arrived.
My cheeks had colour, my eyes were bright, and the tiredness that had seemed permanently lodged beneath my skin before the holiday had disappeared.
I smiled at my reflection. “Well, that was money well spent.” I picked up my cardigan, opened the door and stepped outside.

——

Arthur was waiting beside the farmhouse. He had changed out of his usual stained work shirt into a cleaner checked one, although his trousers were the same mud-marked brown pair I had seen almost every day. His flat cap still sat crookedly on his head. “Morning, lass!”
“Good morning!”
“Sleep well?”
“Beautifully.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
He looked towards the cottage. “All packed, are you?”
“Nearly. Just a couple of things to put in the car.”
“No hurry. No hurry at all.”
He smiled broadly. “Come on, then. Your breakfast awaits.”
He offered me his arm with exaggerated gallantry. I laughed and took it. “Goodness, Arthur. Anyone would think I was royalty.”
“Well, we like to treat our guests properly.”
We crossed the gravel yard together. The big barn stood ahead of us, its weathered wooden doors open for the first time since my arrival.
From outside, it had always looked rather gloomy. Now, with the morning sunlight spilling through the entrance, I could see that it was much larger than I had imagined.
The roof rose high above a series of enormous timber beams, and the walls were lined with old agricultural equipment, wooden crates, sacks and stacks of timber. The air smelled of dust, grain and old wood.
There was another smell beneath it, faint and unfamiliar, but I assumed it came from the machinery.
Arthur led me inside. “Now, don’t go getting too excited. We’re not exactly a fancy hotel.”
Then I saw the table and stopped. “Oh, Arthur!”
A small wooden table, covered with a clean white cloth had been placed near the centre of the barn, where the morning sunlight fell through a high window.
There were three chairs, proper plates, polished cutlery, folded napkins and a little glass vase containing a handful of late flowers and a jug of orange juice stood beside a cafetière of fresh coffee.
In the middle of the table was a large platter piled high with pancakes. Beautiful, golden pancakes.
Beside them sat a bowl of fresh blueberries, a little jug of cream and a glass bottle of maple syrup.
For a moment, I simply stared and then I turned towards Arthur. “How did you know?”
He grinned. “Wasn’t me.”
I looked around. Daniel was standing near the far end of the table. He wore clean dark trousers and a pale grey shirt, the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. His hair had been washed and combed, although several unruly strands had already fallen across his forehead. He looked almost painfully handsome. And terribly nervous.
“Daniel?”
He lowered his eyes. “Breakfast.”
I looked back at the table then at him. “Oh, Daniel.”
I remembered mentioning my love of pancakes with blueberries during one of our conversations, such a casual remark that I had almost forgotten making it but he had apparently remembered every word.
I felt an unexpected tightness in my throat. “That’s the loveliest thing anyone’s done for me in ages.”
His cheeks turned pink.
Arthur chuckled. “Been fussing about it since yesterday. Wouldn’t let me touch a thing.”
“Well, it’s absolutely beautiful.”
I walked towards Daniel. “Thank you.”
He looked at me. Those extraordinary grey eyes met mine for a moment. Then he smiled. “Like it?”
“I love it.”
His smile widened. I reached up and kissed his cheek. It was a quick, affectionate gesture, nothing more but Daniel went perfectly still. When I stepped back, his face was crimson.
Arthur burst out laughing. “Well! There’s a reward for you, lad!”
“Oh, stop it,” I said, laughing too.
Daniel lowered his head, smiling at the floor. I felt wonderfully happy.

——

Breakfast was delicious. The pancakes light and warm, with slightly crisp edges and soft centres. The blueberries were fresh and sweet, and the cream was thick enough to cling to the fruit before slowly sliding into the syrup.
I made appreciative noises throughout the first few mouthfuls.
Arthur seemed delighted. “Good, is it?”
“Wonderful.”
“Daniel made the pancakes himself.”
I looked across at him. “Did you really?”
He nodded.
“From scratch?”
Another nod.
“Well, I’m impressed.”
He smiled shyly.
Arthur leant back in his chair. “He’s got hidden talents, that boy.”
“Clearly.” I took another mouthful. “I might have to steal him and take him home with me.”
Arthur laughed so loudly that the sound echoed beneath the barn roof. Daniel looked up sharply at his father. For a moment, his expression was unreadable and then he blushed.
I laughed. “Don’t worry, Daniel. I’m joking, sort of.”
He lowered his eyes.
Arthur was still chuckling. “Careful what you offer, lass. He might take you up on it.”
I shook my head. “You two have been wonderful. Both of you.”
Arthur smiled. “We’ve enjoyed having you.”
“And I’ve loved being here.”
“Good.” He poured himself another cup of coffee. “That’s what matters.”
We talked about the weather, the harvest, my writing and the journey home. I told them how much work I had completed, and Arthur seemed genuinely impressed.
“Twenty thousand words, eh?”
“Almost.”
“That’s a lot of writing.”
“It is for me.”
“Well, there you are. Must be something about the place.”
“There certainly is.”
Daniel sat quietly beside his father, eating his pancakes and occasionally glancing towards me. Every time I caught him looking, he smiled. I found myself wondering whether I would ever meet another person quite like him. He was such an unusual mixture of physical strength and awkward gentleness. I hoped he would find happiness.
He deserved it.

——

We had nearly finished breakfast when Arthur set down his coffee cup and looked at me thoughtfully. “Now then, lass.”
I glanced up. “Yes?”
“Do you absolutely have to get home today?”
I laughed. “Well, I suppose not absolutely. Why?”
He shrugged. “Just wondering.”
I put down my fork. “Is something wrong?”
“Wrong? Good heavens, no.” He smiled. “Quite the opposite.”
He glanced towards Daniel, then back at me. “Thing is, we haven’t got another guest coming until next Friday.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. Cottage is empty all week.”
I nodded, wondering where he was going with this.
Arthur folded his hands across his stomach. “And you’ve been saying how much you’ve enjoyed yourself.”
“I have.”
“And how much writing you’ve got done.”
“Yes.”
“Well, seems a shame to send you packing when you’ve been doing so well.”
I stared at him. “Arthur….”
He smiled. “How would you fancy another week?”
For a moment, I thought I had misunderstood. “Another week?”
“Aye. Seven more days. No extra charge.”
I laughed in disbelief. “You’re joking.”
“Not a bit of it.”
“Arthur, I couldn’t possibly.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, you’ve already been ridiculously generous.”
He waved a hand. “Nonsense.”
“And I wouldn’t want to take advantage.”
“You’re not taking advantage of anything.” He leant forward. “We like having you here, lass. You’re good company. Quiet, respectful, tidy. And Daniel’s taken quite a shine to you.”
Daniel lowered his head.
I smiled at him. “Well, I’ve grown rather fond of you both.”
Arthur nodded. “Then there you are.”
I looked down at my plate. Another week. Seven more mornings at the kitchen table.
Seven more days of writing without interruption.
Seven more evenings beside the stove, listening to the wind outside while the fire crackled cheerfully.
It was almost too tempting.
I thought about home where there was nothing urgent waiting for me. I had arranged my affairs before leaving, and most of my work could be done remotely. I could easily stay.
And I wanted to. Very much.
I looked up. “Are you absolutely sure?”
Arthur smiled. “Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”
I glanced towards Daniel. He was watching his father. Something passed between them so brief I barely registered it.
Then Arthur looked back at me. “Well?”
I laughed. “Oh, why not!”
His smile broadened. “That a yes?”
“Yes! I’d love to stay!”
For a moment, nobody spoke then Arthur turned towards his son. His expression changed. Not dramatically, only a small movement at the corners of his mouth. A smile of quiet, profound satisfaction. “Hear that, Daniel?”
His voice was soft. “She wants to stay.”
Daniel looked at him. Then he looked at me. And something was different.

——

I noticed his posture first. He was sitting straighter. His shoulders, usually rounded and drawn inward, had settled naturally into their full breadth.
His head was raised. The familiar awkwardness had vanished.
Then I noticed his eyes. He was looking directly at me. Not glancing, not peeping from beneath his hair, not lowering his gaze in embarrassment.
Looking. Steadily. Thoughtfully.
There was something assessing in that gaze, something almost calculating, as though he were considering a problem that had finally been solved. I felt a small, inexplicable flutter of unease.
Then his expression softened. “Really?”
The word was perfectly clear. His voice was deeper than I remembered, smooth and confident, without the awkward hesitation that had characterised almost everything he had said during my stay. I blinked.
“Really,” I answered.
He smiled. A beautiful, gentle smile. “I’m glad.”
I smiled back, although something in me remained faintly unsettled.
He stood. For the first time, I saw him at his full height, tall and straight, his broad shoulders filling the pale grey shirt.
Goodness, I thought. He really is enormous.
He walked around the table towards me, no awkwardness in his movements. He moved with the easy confidence of a man entirely comfortable in his own body.
I glanced towards Arthur. The old man was watching us smiling.
“Daniel?” I said, half laughing.
He stopped beside my chair. “I’m so glad,” he said his voice warm, almost affectionate. “I would love you to stay with me longer.”
I felt myself blush. “That’s very sweet.”
He reached towards me. Both hands rose to either side of my face gently caressing my cheeks.
I was too surprised to move. It was an unexpectedly intimate gesture.
“Daniel….”
He smiled. Such a lovely smile. “You’re staying.”
I laughed nervously. “Yes. Apparently I am.”
His thumbs moved gently across my cheeks.
Then his hands slid down, stroking my jaw, along the sides of my neck. I felt the roughness of his fingertips against my skin.
“Daniel….”
His hands settled on my shoulders. For one absurd moment, I thought he was going to kiss me.
Then his fingers moved again. Upwards. Around my throat.
I froze.
He was still smiling.
“Daniel?”
His hands closed.

——

Daniel remained kneeling beside the body for another minute. He watched her face carefully, one hand still resting against her throat. Then he released her.
Her head rolled slightly to one side a strand of hair lying across her mouth.
He brushed it away.
“There,” he said softly, his voice clear, articulate and entirely without hesitation.
Arthur approached, stepping carefully around the broken plate. “All done?”
“Yes.”
“Good lad.”
The old man looked down at the woman. Her eyes were partly open.
He bent, studied her face and gave a satisfied nod. “Pretty one, this.”
Daniel smiled. “Very.”
“Thought you liked her.”
“I do.”
Arthur straightened with a grunt, pressing one hand against his aching back. “Well, you took your time about it.”
Daniel glanced up. “She needed to decide.”
“Could’ve done it days ago.”
“She hadn’t agreed to stay.”
Arthur sighed. “You and your little rules.”
Daniel said nothing. He was looking at the woman’s face. After a moment, he reached out and gently closed her eyes.
Arthur watched him. “You always were a sentimental bugger.”
Daniel smiled faintly. “She is happy here.”
“Aye, she is.”
“She told me.”
“I know, lad. I heard her.”
Daniel looked around the barn. The tablecloth now hung crookedly from the breakfast table. Coffee had dripped onto the floor, and a broken plate lay scattered beneath one of the chairs.
“Shame about breakfast, took me ages.” he said.
Arthur snorted. “There’s plenty left. I’ll have another pancake when we’re finished.”
He walked towards the far wall, where several stacks of timber rested beside an old wooden cabinet. “Come on, then. Give us a hand.”
Daniel rose smoothly to his feet. Without the rounded shoulders and lowered head, he seemed almost a different person, tall, handsome and perfectly composed.
He crossed the barn in a few long strides and helped his father drag the cabinet away from the wall.
Beneath it, the floorboards were darker than the surrounding timber.
Arthur knelt with some difficulty and inserted a metal hook into a narrow gap between two boards.
“Getting too old for this,” he muttered.
Daniel crouched beside him. “I’ll do it.”
“Aye. You do that.”
He stepped aside as Daniel lifted the first section of flooring. The boards rose together, revealing a rectangular opening beneath the barn.
A smell drifted upwards.
Dry earth. Old wood and something else. Something that had settled into the place over many years and would never entirely leave it.
Arthur wrinkled his nose. “Could do with airing.”
Daniel lifted the second section. Beneath the floor was a shallow chamber lined with rough stone. It had once been a storage pit, built long before Arthur’s grandfather bought the farm.
Now it held other things.
Human remains lay along the bottom, arranged with a care that was almost domestic. Some little more than skeletons, their bones pale against the dark earth.
Others retained scraps of clothing.
A faded floral dress.
A man’s shirt.
The remains of a red cardigan.
There were nineteen. Daniel had counted them often enough to know.
Arthur peered down. “Getting crowded.”
“It is fine, Dad. There’s room.”
“Not much.”
Daniel studied the chamber. “We can move them closer.”
Arthur grunted. “Suppose so.”
He looked back towards the breakfast table. “Well, fetch her, then.”
Daniel returned to the woman. He knelt beside her and slipped one arm beneath her shoulders, the other beneath her knees. He lifted her with surprising tenderness, her head resting against his chest.
For a moment, he stood looking down at her. The blue jumper suited her. He had thought so when she arrived that morning.
He had liked the way she laughed, too and the way she had touched his hair. That had been particularly nice.
He carried her across the barn.
Arthur watched him approach. “Mind her head.”
“I’ve got her. I am not going to hurt her.”
Daniel lowered himself into the opening. His boots settled on the packed earth between the older remains.
He crouched and carefully placed the woman beside a skeleton wearing the remnants of a green dress. He arranged her arms at her sides and then he straightened her jumper, smoothing the fabric across her stomach.
Her hair had fallen across her face again so he tucked it behind her ear. “There,” he murmured.
Arthur leant over the edge. “All right down there?”
“Yes.”
“Then come on. We’ve got things to do.”
Daniel didn’t move. He was looking at the woman.
Arthur sighed. “Daniel.”
“Just a minute.”
The old man shook his head. “Every bloody time.”
Daniel knelt beside her his expression thoughtful, affectionate, brushing his thumb across her lips.
“I have you for seven more days,” he said quietly.
Above him, Arthur gave a low chuckle. “She did say she’d love to stay.”
Daniel smiled. “She did.”
“You’re staying,” he whispered down to her and gently unbuttoned her jumper, brushing his hand across her nipples as he lifted her top. Then he reached down and began undoing his trousers.
Arthur turned away. He had seen enough over the years to know that his son preferred privacy.
“Don’t be all morning,” he called. Daniel didn’t answer.

——

An hour later, the barn was quiet, floorboards were back in place, cabinet returned to its usual position, and breakfast table had been cleared.
Daniel stood at the large wooden doors, looking across the yard towards the empty cottage.
Arthur came up beside him. “Right, lad. Better get back to work.”
Daniel nodded. “Yes, Dad.”
Arthur studied him for a moment. “Happy?”
Daniel smiled. “Very.”
“Good.” The old man patted his shoulder. “Now, remember. We’ve got new people coming next week.”
Daniel lowered his head. His shoulders rounded. His expression softened into the familiar, uncertain smile.
He looked towards his father from beneath the untidy fall of his hair. “Guests?”
Arthur chuckled. “Aye, lad. Guests.”
Daniel gave a small, awkward nod. “Nice.”
Arthur laughed. “That’s my boy.”

——

The cottage stood empty beneath its climbing roses. Its windows were clean, its furniture comfortable, and its little wood-burning stove waited patiently beside a neatly stacked basket of logs.
On the kitchen table lay a handwritten card welcoming visitors to the farm.
Beneath the cheerful message were the house rules.

‘Please lock both doors at night.
Please remain clear of the working farm buildings.
Please let us know if you require anything during your stay.‘

And at the bottom, in Arthur’s broad, uneven handwriting, was one final sentence.

‘We hope you enjoy your visit so much that you’ll never want to leave.’