Hello, lovely people –
Little did I know that an evening spent feeding orphaned baby lambs would lead to the inspiration for my latest novel, Happiness for Beginners.
Hope Farm, the setting for my story, is based on the fabulous Animal Antiks farm – a place which helps children and young adults with learning difficulties, mental health issues and autism. They do great work and have very generously allowed me to spend time there in the name of research. There’s more about this wonderful place in the back of the book if you’d like to find out about their work. They are simply amazing.
So thank you for picking up my book. I hope that you enjoy it. The story is, obviously, pure fiction, but the heart behind it is very real.
Happy reading!
Love Carole : ) xx
PS If you want to keep up with what’s happening – new books, a bit of chit-chat and some fab giveaways – I spend far too much time on social media, especially Facebook and Twitter, so you can always find me there. I have a newsletter which you can sign up to at www.carolematthews.com. I don’t share your information and you can unsubscribe at any time. I’m also on Instagram, but never seem able to find my messages there!
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Also by Carole Matthews
Let’s Meet on Platform 8
A Whiff of Scandal
More to Life Than This
For Better, For Worse
A Minor Indiscretion
A Compromising Position
The Sweetest Taboo
With or Without You
You Drive Me Crazy
Welcome to the Real
World
It’s a Kind of Magic
All You Need is Love
The Difference a Day Makes
That Loving Feeling
It’s Now or Never
The Only Way is Up
Wrapped Up in You
Summer Daydreams
With Love at Christmas
A Cottage by the Sea
Calling Mrs Christmas
A Place to Call Home
The Christmas Party
The Cake Shop in the Garden
Paper Hearts and Summer
Kisses
Million Love Songs
Christmas Cakes and
Mistletoe Nights
THE CHOCOLATE LOVERS NOVELS
The Chocolate Lovers’ Club
The Chocolate Lovers’ Diet
The Chocolate Lovers’ Christmas
The Chocolate Lovers’ Wedding
Copyright
Published by Sphere
ISBN: 978-0-7515-7209-4
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Carole Matthews 2019
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Poem lyrics © Paul Edward 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Sphere
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
Also by Carole Matthews
Title Page
Copyright
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
Chapter Ninety-Two
Chapter Ninety-Three
Chapter Ninety-Four
Chapter Ninety-Five
Chapter Ninety-Six
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Chapter One Hundred
Chapter One Hundred and One
Chapter One Hundred and Two
Author Note
Acknowledgements
Carole Matthews is the Sunday Times bestselling author of over thirty novels, including the top ten bestsellers Let’s Meet on Platform 8, A Whiff of Scandal, For Better, For Worse, A Minor Indiscretion, With or Without You, The Cake Shop in the Garden, Paper Hearts and Summer Kisses, A Cottage by the Sea, The Chocolate Lovers’ Club, The Chocolate Lovers’ Christmas, The Chocolate Lovers’ Wedding, Million Love Songs and Christmas Cakes & Mistletoe Nights. Carole has been awarded the RNA Outstanding Achievement
Award. Her novels dazzle and delight readers all over the world and she is published in more than thirty countries.
For all the latest news from Carole, visit www.carolematthews.com and sign up to her newsletter. You can also follow Carole on Twitter (@carolematthews) and Instagram (matthews.carole) or join the thousands of readers who have become Carole’s friend on Facebook (carolematthewsbooks).
To Sylvia Simpkin – a crazy crafting lady
who will be much missed.
Your crafting legacy will live on,
bringing so much pleasure to many people.
30th July 1959 - 26th March 2018.
Chapter One
Anthony the Anti-Social Sheep lowers his head and growls. I hold up a hand, trying to establish myself as the head of the pack – which, if I’m honest, I’m not even sure is a sheep thing. It certainly doesn’t cut the mustard with Anthony. He squares his not-inconsiderable shoulders and makes eye contact. I can, however, tell a sheep with an evil glint in its eye and Anthony, as so often, has one now.
When he’s in this kind of mood there’s really no reckoning with him and I know that I have no option but to make a dash for the gate. Anthony, in turn, knows that I’m too far away to make it. Three times this week he’s charged and up-ended unsuspecting ramblers who’ve strayed into his field. I’ve lost count of the muddy walkers that I’ve patted down while apologising profusely as they try to re-set their spectacles and gather their backpacks. It took the last one two hastily brewed cups of tea and a sizeable wedge of lemon drizzle cake before they were right again. One of these days someone will sue me for a sheep-based assault.
‘Good boy, Anthony,’ I coo, as I back slowly away. ‘You’re not really the devil incarnate. You’re just misunderstood.’
Unappeased, he starts his run towards me and, as the other infinitely more placid sheep lift their heads to watch, I turn on my heels, sprinting as fast as my wellies will allow. ‘Play nicely, Anthony!’
He is unheeding.
The five-barred gate is coming tantalisingly closer, but I can hear Anthony’s hooves thundering behind me. He’s one hell of a size for a sheep, with a big, square head and the posture of a seasoned pugilist. Technically, he’s a ram, but on this farm we try not to complicate matters. He was recently parted from the elements that specifically made him a ram in the hope that it would make him more docile. Sadly, it didn’t work.
I don’t know what’s made him so bad-tempered and disgruntled with life. I love him as much as a human can love a sheep without it being illegal. He has the prime choice of fields. He’s first in line for food. If only he could learn to love me back or at least not want to knock me over every time I enter his territory then I’m sure we would both be happier. The dogs are, quite wisely, terrified of him and he certainly has a more menacing growl than either of them. Anthony has long eschewed baa-ing as a form of communication.
As I run, Little Dog is barking encouragement at the gate. He’s been on the wrong side of Anthony many times before now and has learned not to venture into his field. Little Dog knows how much a prod with his battering-ram nose in your nether regions hurts. Big Dog, possibly brighter than either of us, is staying well clear and is, quite sensibly, cowering behind the wheels of the tractor.
‘No, Anthony,’ I shout as fiercely as I can over my shoulder. ‘NO!’
But it’s too late. His massive head makes contact with my bottom and he tosses me as hard as he can. As I’m catapulted forwards, I can feel clear air between me and the ground. Lots of it.
I land, face forward, with an inelegant ‘ouff’ in the muddiest part of the field, the bit where we open the gate, the bit that’s trodden to sludge by the hooves of many more amenable sheep. Even though I’m short and sturdily built, I’m no match for Anthony.
His work for the day done, a contented Anthony trots off to find someone else to terrorise. I swear that sheep is smiling. Little Dog, braver now that the surly Anthony has gone, squeezes under the gate and comes to lick my face.
‘You’re not much use as a guard dog, are you?’ I admonish as I push myself up on my elbows.
He looks at me with his one eye and his expression seems to say that he wholeheartedly agrees. Like everything and everyone here, Little Dog came to us damaged. I think that he must have been kicked in the face or something equally dreadful in the past, because as well as losing an eye, he has suffered nerve damage which means that his lips are permanently pulled back so he looks as if he’s always smiling. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem any the worse for it now and his weird grin makes him look like the cutest thing there ever was. Which is just as well as he’s a pretty hopeless guard dog. Unless licking a burglar to death would count.
Little Dog is probably some kind of Jack Russell/random terrier combo. He’s got stubby legs and a white coat with brown patches that’s the texture of a paintbrush.
Then there’s Big Dog. He’s my second contender for the prize of Most Useless Guard Dog. He’s blessed with only three legs, breath that would floor a dinosaur and a fear of anyone wearing a red jumper. He’s a huge beast with a tail that can clear a coffee table in one wag. He might be Alsatian-based somewhere in there, possibly crossed with a mountain dog or wolf – yet he is the scarediest dog ever.
I haul myself up, grateful that no bones are broken, and hobble to the gate. I’ll probably have a corking bruise or two in the morning, but I’ll live to fight another day.
As I don’t want Anthony making a break for it today and terrorising any random strangers, I make sure that I secure the bolt very carefully behind me. ‘You’re going nowhere today, Big Man,’ I tell him, sternly. ‘I want you to take time out to think about your behaviour.’
He gives me a scornful look and goes to annoy his fellow field companions. He’s not well-liked, my dear Anthony, and that makes me love him more. We acquired him because he was considered too much of a handful for anyone else. It seems to have set a pattern.
I brush the dirt from my hands, my jeans, my shirt. I should introduce myself to you. How rude of me not to have done it before. I’m Molly Baker. I’m thirty-eight – no idea how that’s even possible. I’m single, but I’m not a mad cat lady. I’m a mad all-kinds-of-animals lady. Welcome to my life at Hope Farm.
Chapter Two
I’d have a shower, but there’s really no point. I usually end the day filthy, so I might as well start out that way too. The animals won’t mind and the people joining me on the farm today couldn’t care less what I look like. It can wait until later.
Besides – a small but not inconsiderable point – there’s no hot water on tap. That’s due to the fact that I live on-site at the farm in a small, but perfectly formed caravan – this place was never blessed with a sprawling farmhouse – and my only bathing facility is an open-air bucket shower at the back of one of the barns. Al fresco bathing is fine in the summer months and, sometimes, I hook the bucket shower up to the hosepipe for the horse wash and go with ice-cold water. Bracing, yet enjoyable in its own way. But in the depths of December the appeal of staying dirty can be quite overwhelming. Most of the time, I quite like the process of boiling myself a kettle of water to do my ablutions, or maybe I’m just used to it. It’s time-consuming though and I don’t have the luxury of being able to set it up right now – there’s so much else to do.
My home is modest, but I do my best to make it cosy. It was originally my aunt Hettie’s home and is as old as the hills. To cheer it up, I recently gave the outside a coat of paint and strung up a bit of pretty bunting to disguise the fact that it’s living on borrowed time. I’ve made it homely on the inside and I’m constantly doing running repairs to keep it going. Mind you, as I spend most of my time out on the farm, it’s purely a place to sleep and I don’t need much in the way of creature comforts. My assistant Bev bought me some nice cushions, embroidered with cutesy farm animals, which the dogs probably love more than I do. One of our casual volunteers crochets, and has hooked me a matching blanket – again possibly more
appreciated by the canine inhabitants. Although I do like to snuggle under it if I can wrest if from them. I changed Hettie’s orange 1960s curtains for pale blue gingham numbers which do look pretty. What else do I need? Bev tells me that mismatched crockery is all the rage, which is just as well as mine has achieved that status quite by accident – usually an over-waggy tail. In the summer, I swelter and in the winter it’s like living in a freezer, but it’s a small price to pay for the freedom of the land.
Today, the spring weather is excelling itself and it feels as if we’ve finally cast off the harsh mantle of winter. A hearty dump of late snow in February seemed particularly cruel when the early snowdrops were out in full force. That’s all forgotten now, as spring is most definitely in the air and the day is balmy with a gentle breeze, when so often up here in our exposed position it can be howling a gale. The sky is the palest of blues dotted with clouds tinged with grey, hinting that we might be in for a spot of seasonal rain later.
I stretch my back, which is already tight due to my lumpy mattress. The one extravagance I do occasionally miss here is a long, hot bath, particularly when I’ve got a lot of aches and pains, but then everything else makes up for that. At Hope Farm I live in a most idyllic slice of Buckinghamshire countryside, with no nosy neighbours – in fact, no near neighbours at all. This place is situated in a spot of splendid isolation – just as I like it. I look around and know that every morning I wake up here I am truly blessed.
Little Dog falls into step at my heels – his favourite place in the world. Warily, Big Dog decides that it’s safe to come out of his hiding place and joins us.
‘Come on then, you two. Before we open our doors for business, let’s see how everyone else is.’
We head first to pick up our two pygmy goats, letting them out of their overnight pen. Dumb and Dumber spend the day out in the paddock with the horses who don’t mind them as company. The alpacas tolerate them occasionally too – when they’re in the mood. They are goats of very small brain, but they’re undeniably cute and set up a plaintive bleat whenever they see us.
‘Morning, lovelies,’ I say as I let them out into the yard. ‘Are you hungry?’
Goats are always hungry.
The dogs give them a good sniff in greeting. After they’ve been fed and fussed over, the goats wait patiently to be taken up to the paddock, already familiar with the routine.