The Spark - Jules Wake Page 0,84

the stairs to the deserted hallway of the pub. Kitchen noises from beyond the bar suggested that breakfast preparation was well under way and would be in full swing by the time I came back, which solved my worry about not being able to get back in again.

Already the sun was hot in another cloudless blue sky. In the quiet of the morning, birdsong rose and fell as sparrows dived and danced in and out of the hedgerows ahead. I listened to the musical lilt of a blackbird perched on the top of one of the thatched cottages lining the green, before it took sudden flight. Bees and other insects buzzed with industrious intent around my ankles in the long, parched grasses of the verges as I followed the road down along one side of the green, every now and then giving my phone map discreet glances. Shinfield Lane. The Paddocks. I kept a wary eye on the little blue dot and took the unmarked lane leading east away from the village. My target, because I did feel like a spy, was less than a mile’s walk and I wished I’d brought my sunglasses because there wasn’t another soul around, making me also feel horribly exposed and self‐conscious.

I rounded a corner away from the houses, relaxing a little at being out of sight of the village, and took a few deep, even breaths, almost enjoying being outdoors so early. This was a gorgeous part of the country, so quiet and peaceful. Not a single car had passed me. I walked for ten minutes, passing a couple of cottages before a house on the distant bend came into view. According to my little blue dot, that was very likely The Paddocks. I slowed my steps as my stomach tied itself into a dozen hard, tight knots. Nerves warred with an unexpected fizz of excitement as I neared the house. Act natural, Jess. Just a tourist out for a walk. But I couldn’t help pausing to take careful stock of the house, inventorying all its elements. The spring green leaves of a well‐established wisteria climbed the whitewashed walls, long curling tendrils escaping to underline the pale-blue trim under the roof. The pretty blue paint was echoed on the windowsills underneath the leaded windows on either side of a squat, neat porch almost lost under another abundant climber with rosy-hued leaves.

In front of the house, a wide gravel drive bordered by colourful beds filled with lavender, alliums, geraniums and cornflowers offered plenty of turning room for the Range Rover and little Polo parked there. Away to the other side of the drive sat a separate whitewashed garage with blue-painted wooden doors.

An estate agent would have described it as a well-maintained, substantial property. It probably had at least five bedrooms and a very big garden. I refused to give in to the small kernel of bitterness that reared its ugly head and insisted on comparing this house to my mother’s neat and dull 60s semi.

Instead, I studied the windows upstairs, where most of the curtains were still closed. The family was there. The fizz reasserted itself, pushing back at the nerves as it spread through my veins. My legs wobbled and I had to force myself to keep walking, trying to be surreptitious in my study of the house. Drawing attention to myself and looking like some weirdo was the last thing I wanted. Once past the house, I dragged in a much-needed breath and crossed to the fence just beyond to lean on the wooden fence rails. This must be the paddock the house was named for, and as I scanned the small field, I realised a pony was trotting directly towards me, a small boy on its back. Oh no. It was too late for me to move, even if I’d wanted to, and a part of me was committed now.

‘He thinks you might have carrots,’ said the boy, hauling on the reins. ‘Naughty, Tiger. He’s very greedy.’

‘Tiger?’ I leaned to pat the inquisitive pony’s nose with a very shaky hand as I slowly raised my eyes to look at the boy. Familiar blue eyes stared back at me, before his face curved into a mischievous smile.

‘After The Tiger Who Came to Tea. When he was a foal, he got into the pony nuts and nearly ate them all.’

‘In that case, it’s a very good name.’

‘He’s not a very good pony, but I love him anyway. My brother Toby has Jackson; he’s