It would be no exaggeration to say that this May Day fair was attended by more people than in the previous ten years put together. Entry was prohibited to anyone not in medieval dress, which could be rented at the entrance for a very small fee. Visitors included two Richard the Lionhearts, a Geoffrey Chaucer (Vicar Lionel Temple) a Lady Godiva, in a flesh-coloured bodystocking, complete with real horse, and a coven of witches and their cats. Even Miss Salt’s greyhound, Lady, joined in the festivities with a Maid Marian headdress.
Alas last year’s May Queen Miss Ruby Sweetman, now Mrs Ruby Beswick, was absent as she is on honeymoon in Italy.
The well, despite its grisly history, has been reconstructed to its, we hope, original form. A small log cabin has been erected nearby (The Witchery) as a museum telling the (much-edited) story of the village and its history.
The village headcount has increased to more than double what it was the previous year. New residents have settled in well and footfall to the Wych Arms and Plum Corner stores and post office is much improved. The Maid of Cheesecake tearoom is extremely popular. The cheesecakes are made by our own Miss Salt (with a little help from Cilla, Griff and hopefully – when she is home from Edinburgh University – Zoe Oldroyd). The cheesecakes (quote from the press) ‘have that extra little secret ingredient that makes them special, yet Miss Salt refuses to disclose exactly what it is’. But then, what is Wychwell without a secret or two in reserve?
The coffers of the estate are richer by one and a half million pounds, thanks to the ex-Mrs Sutton, now Mrs Hilary Fosse, who has never publicly disclosed (by mutual agreement) where she found her inspiration for the fabulously successful Country Manors novels. Seven to date and one Hollywood film in the can.
The old Dearman coat of arms may stand but the motto has been changed.
In Imperfectione Perfectio Est
A wonderful innovation for there truly is perfection in imperfection.
Miss Emelie Tibbs left us, in manuscript form, the full story of her rather beautiful relationship with the previous Lady of the Manor, Miss Lilian Dearman. That and some of her wonderful, poignant poetical works make up the next chapter, though it will by no means be the last.
I, Lionel Temple, will be delighted to add to it after the wedding of Miss Salt and Mr Herv Gunnarsen next month (December) and then in March when Master Gunnarsen is due to be born.
I foresee quite a few more chapters in this History of Wychwell book. Maybe – looking forward (we hope) – some even fit for public consumption.
Revd Lionel Temple. 30 November 2017.
Acknowledgements
As always, I have a few people to thank because getting a book to you is a team effort. I’m just a cog in a big engine.
To my fantastic agent Lizzy Kremer at David Higham Associates and the team there – especially Alice, Olivia, Margaux, Guilia, Maddalena, Harriet and Brian (who hands the cash over). And my smashing publishing team at Simon & Schuster – Ian, Suzanne, SJ, Jo, Emma, Dawn, Dom, Joe, Jess, Rich et al. And the fantastic Sally Partington, my copyeditor. Working with you, Sal, is my favourite part of the whole process.
Thank you Raimonda and Chris at the New York Cheesecake Company in Barnsley for giving me the idea to include cheesecakes in my next book while sampling their delicious wares. You really are masters at what you do.
And my new friends up in Ayr – The Handmade Cheesecake Company www.handmadecheesecakes.co.uk. Yes, folks, you can have them posted to you!
Thank you to my friends both in the profession and out of it who keep me (mostly) sane. Especially Maggie Birkin who sent me a copy of an article about the sale of the North Yorkshire village of West Heslerton and said it might make good subject matter.
Thank you to the very lovely Yvonne Staley who adopts rescue greyhounds and introduced me to Leon, Holly, Fran, Dancer, Storm and Jenny. Greyhounds are fabulous dogs, lazy and affectionate and there are so many of them needing a good home. Yvonne would like to recommend Northumberland Greyhound Rescue http://northumberlandgreyhoundrescue.org.uk, but there are many of these beautiful creatures stuck in other centres . . . so do go and rescue one.
Thank you to Rita Elvea Berntsen for all the Norwegian bits. And for rescuing me from almost having Herv sing the Scooby Doo theme in Danish. Rita – you are magnificent.
And if you are wondering who I had in mind when writing my hero . . . you should check out Lasse Matberg on the Internet. Then you’ll realise why the chapters with Norwegian Herv in were quite joyous to write.
Thank you to my readers who send me their lovely missives and keep me in the job.
And thank you to my family. Without them, I would never have found the path hidden in the undergrowth, that led me to this bloody brilliant career.
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Prologue
The previous September
They took a day off and went with her because in the three million years they’d all been friends, it was the first time Helen had ever asked them a favour. That was how Elizabeth came to end up carrying a picnic basket in a grassy middle of nowhere, watching one of her two best friends wriggling out of her drawers and about to sit on the giant appendage of a club-bearing man carved into an alien county hillside.
‘Hels, are you actually right in your head?’ she asked.
Janey said nothing but her equal disbelief showed in the dropped-open jaw as Helen stuffed the discarded pants in her handbag and then sat down squarely and triumphantly on Mr Big’s phallic enhancement.
‘Now if I had told you what I wanted to do, would you have come?’ she said. ‘I don’t think so! You would have tried to talk me out of it, wouldn’t you?’
‘Too bloody right I would,’ said Elizabeth, whilst thinking, She’s lost it.
‘And this is the something you needed to do that is really, really, really important then?’ Janey asked, her eyebrows raised as far as they could stretch. ‘Dragging us halfway across the bloody country to see a chalk drawing?’
‘Aw, come on, we’re here now. Just sit down and have a sandwich,’ said Helen, straight-backed and sitting there as if she was waiting for something extraordinary to happen.
‘Where are we, like?’ Janey looked at the surrounding countryside, dominated by the thick white outline of the naked man with the enviable asset. ‘And more to the point – why?’
‘Oh, I’m having a sarnie, I’m flaming famished!’ Elizabeth decided. She was almost brain dead with tiredness, even though she had spent most of the long, long journey snoring on the back seat. She threw herself onto the grass next to her knickerless friend and dragged the picnic basket purposefully over. Janey huffed in a ‘can’t beat ’em, join ’em’ sort of way and grudgingly followed suit, muttering something about them all being bonkers.
‘He’s an ancient fertility symbol,’ Helen explained.
‘I’d never have guessed!’ said Elizabeth, ripping so hungrily into a giant sausage roll that the chalk man almost winced.
Helen went on, ‘Well, I was watching this programme a couple of weeks ago about how all these women who hadn’t been able to conceive came here as a last resort and sat on his … well, here, for a while, and seventy-eight per cent of them – that’s seventy-eight per cent of them – became pregnant.’