Many a Moon

By Sheila Claydon

How is Ellie going to find a job without a reference? How long can she survive without a home? How can she ever trust a man again?

Fortunately, the village of Mapleby is waiting for her, and so are the people who lived there in the thirteenth century. So is Will, and together they make a heartrending journey that uncovers their past as well as their future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Jun 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228621386

Sheila Claydon

Born and educated on the south coast of England, Sheila Claydon has gradually moved northwards across the UK. Now living in northwest England on a stunning stretch of unspoiled coastline, she finds walking a constant source of inspiration as well as a counterweight to the sedentary life of a writer.Interspersed with her writing is a long and varied career in health, education and employment. She likes to think she is a better writer because of those experiences, and also admits to basing some of her characters on people she has worked with in the past.Although family is central to her life, she still finds the time to read, to write, and to travel. Many of the places she has visited feature in her books. Her fans say reading them is like buying a ticket to romance.Her motto is a quote by the late Ray Bradbury: 'First, find out what your hero wants. Then just follow him.' She starts with plots, chapter outlines, characterisation, each time she starts to write a new story. Then the hero takes over and she follows him instead...'She loves to hear from readers and can be contacted at http://sheilaclaydon.com where her books are listed and where she also writes an occasional blog.

Book preview

Chapter One

Housekeeping Manager Wanted

The Old Mill Country Club is situated close to the picturesque village of Mapleby. It employs a customer care team of energetic and enthusiastic professionals whose aim is to ensure that all its guests enjoy a relaxing and problem free holiday. If you would like to join them and you have the necessary qualifications and experience…

I skipped to the bottom of the advertisement. No point in reading the detail if it didn’t offer the one thing I needed. Yes! There it was at the very bottom. Accommodation available for suitable candidate.

I scrolled back to the top and studied the job spec. Leadership skills - tick, Budget management - tick, Rota management - tick. I carried on down the list, tick, tick, tick, until I reached experience of managing a professional housekeeping function.

I certainly had that. What I didn’t have was a convincing explanation as to why I had left a well-paid job at one of London’s most prestigious hotels. Nor why I didn’t have a reference.

I began to fill in the online application form. I’d think of something if I got an interview because in recent weeks I had become very good at making things up as I went along.

* * *

The advertisement hadn’t exaggerated when it described Mapleby as picturesque. Its village green is fringed with trees, several of them such magnificent oaks that they are probably hundreds of years old. There is a river with a rustic bridge, a well-preserved medieval church, an inn with an uneven roof and windows in the oddest places, and a tangle of narrow lanes where chocolate box cottages had gardens full of flowers. Even the general store and adjoining café blend in with their old fashioned copperplate signage, striped canopies and wooden tubs.

I was sure that inside the café each table would be covered with a check cloth. The flowers would be real, the cakes homemade, and there would be cross-stitched samplers on the walls. This was a village with aspirations. It was decked out to attract the visitors staying at the Old Mill Country Club. I doubted if many of the inhabitants were even local. The cute cottages were likely full of escapees from the city, and the rustic-looking store and café probably did a roaring trade in matcha lattes and avocado toast. On a whim I stopped. I had time to kill before my interview so a bit of local knowledge would make it look as if I had actually done some research instead of just applying for the first job I’d found outside of London that offered accommodation.

I was right about the check cloths. Wrong about the samplers. No matcha latte or avocado toast either. Instead the chalkboard offered apple pie and lemon drizzle cake, buttered scones with jam, toasted tea-cakes, and a selection of sandwiches with surprisingly creative fillings. The cranberry, brie and walnut on rye bread was tempting but as my stomach was too churned up to cope with food, I settled for a pot of tea.

The waitress, whose name badge said she was called Rachel, gave me a warm smile as she decanted teapot, milk jug and cup onto the table. Passing through or visiting the country club?

Her local accent and her question put me right about Mapleby. I was wrong about the city escapees. This was a place where families went back generations and everybody knew everybody else’s business.

The country club, I said. Then, because she had a nice smile, and because I hadn’t spoken to a soul in days, and because there was nobody else in the café to hear me, I told her about my interview. If I expected anything it was that she would wish me good luck and go back to whatever she had been doing in the kitchen. Instead she started asking questions.

I kept my answers as close to the truth as I could. I said I’d had enough of city life, the noise, the crowds, the expense. I even told her about the job I had just left but without divulging the name of the hotel or the fact that I was now unemployed. Without meaning to I even told her a bit about my past because she was very, very good at asking questions. Then, without me saying a word, she told me about the country club.

It’s saved Mapleby, she said. Before it opened the young people couldn’t wait to leave the village. Now they compete for jobs and apply for every vacancy going regardless of their qualifications.

Even the Housekeeper role? If I was going to be up against a local who knew the area and didn’t need accommodation, then I didn’t rate my chances.

She laughed. No, I think you’re safe there. I can’t think of anyone in Mapleby with your sort of experience. Not in a village where the local pub is the closest we get to sophistication.

No hotels then? For all I knew the village was bigger than it appeared. Maybe around the next corner I’d find hotels, boutiques, wine bars, even a cinema.

She shook her head. "Apart from the pizzeria, the Cobbler’s Arms is it. It serves good food and thanks to visitors from the country club, it’s doing very well indeed, but if you want the high life you’ll have go into Castletown."

The reasonable sized town I’d noticed on the map looked to be only a few miles away. When I said so she shrugged. It’s too far to walk and the parking charges are ridiculous, but we still only use the bus on the days we’re feeling masochistic because it takes every back lane and track between here and the bus station. The journey is so slow it’s almost time to return to Mapleby by the time we get there.

So not used much by the holiday makers either I guess.

She grinned. You’d be surprised at how many want what they think is an authentic village experience. We try not to disappoint them.

What else do you do for the sake of authenticity? I was beginning to warm to her humorous slant on all things local, which was a step forward considering how miserable I’d felt all the way to Mapleby.

She indicated the chalk board. Local food. Everything on the menu is home reared, home grown or homemade, including most of the fillings in the sandwiches. And it’s the same in the shop. The holiday chalets at the country club are all self-catering so although the guests eat out some of the time, they mostly eat in. Our local bacon and sausages are especially popular. So are the fruit pies.

I looked around the café. Apart from the check cloths the décor was surprisingly low key and tasteful, as were the prints on the walls. The only thing that looked authentically rustic was a huge horseshoe mounted on a plaque with what looked like a small heart burnt into the wood beneath it. She smiled when I said so.

Authenticity has its limits. This café is my small attempt to bring Mapleby into the twenty-first century. As for the horseshoe, it’s a piece of village history.

She was interrupted by a group of hikers who pushed their way into the café and began to unzip anoraks and pull out the chairs at two adjoining tables. My time was up. I swallowed the rest of my tea, picked up my bag and made for the door. As I opened it I heard her ask if they would like the tables moved together, and then begin to answer questions about the food available. She still found time to wish me good luck though, and I left the café with a smile on my face. The first one I’d had all week.

As I drove the short distance from the café to the Old Mill Country Club I revised my initial worries. If most of the employees were local, then the chance of any of them having city connections was limited. I’d be safe here because Mapleby was as different from my previous life as it was possible to be, and that was exactly what I needed.

Chapter Two

The interview was nothing like anything I’d experienced before. It was just me and the club manager, and her stress levels were so high that I found myself wondering if she’d make it to the end of our meeting. She skimmed my resumé without appearing to notice its lack of references. Instead she asked me when I could start. And when I said immediately, I honestly thought she was going to kiss me.

Although Old Mill is open all year round, Spring is the beginning of the busy season, she explained. So there are rotas to organize, new team members to train, supplies to be checked and a hundred and one other things to do, and only me do them.

What happened to your previous housekeeper? I asked.

She fell in love. The words that dripped off her tongue were so scathing that I knew at once she had been badly hurt by my predecessor. I looked at her properly for the first time. She was fortyish, dark haired, attractive in a slightly too skinny sort of way, and very unhappy. That makes two of us, I thought, trying to look understanding.

She saw the question in my eyes and sighed. If you’re going to be working here then I may as well tell you because if I don’t, then somebody else will. She, and my soon to be ex-husband, have gone off to start a new life together.

I’m so sorry. That must be really hard for you.

Thank you, and yes, it is. He maintained the whole site and she managed the housekeeping team, so to lose both of them at once, and at the beginning of the season… she came to a stop as her eyes filled will tears.

Without realizing what I was doing, I took over the interview. Pushing a box of tissues towards her I stood up and switched on the kettle I had noticed when I arrived. It was on top of a small cupboard and there were mugs and spoons next to it. While I waited for the kettle to boil, I opened the cupboard. Sure enough there was a supply of tea, coffee, sugar, long life milk, and a tin with the picture of a dog on it.

Tea or coffee? I asked while she mopped at her eyes.

Tea please.

Neither of us said another word until I’d filled two mugs with tea, put one on her desk together with several sachets of sugar, opened the tin, and sat opposite her again.

She gave a watery smile as she reached for a biscuit. Thank you. That’s the first nice thing anyone has done for me since the day my husband left.

My answering smile wasn’t tearful but it should have been because I’d been there. Was still there actually, the only difference being that I had chosen to walk away whereas she had elected to stay. I wondered which one of us had made the right decision.

Anyway, we bonded over that cup of tea and a shared pack of gingersnaps and soon she was telling me about the country club. I already knew it had almost one hundred apartments and chalets and its own golf course. I knew about the indoor pool, the library and the games room. And about the onsite restaurant. But Joanne…we were on first name terms by now…made it come alive when she talked about it.

You really love it here, I said.

She nodded. We were leading what I considered was the perfect life until he spoiled it. The staff at Old Mill are like family, and a lot of our guests are too. Many of them return year after year, even the difficult ones. And because they are mostly appreciative it makes everything we do seem worthwhile, which is why I was in a panic before you arrived because I don’t want to let them down.

I don’t think you’re going to do that, and I don’t suppose the staff think so either.

Another smile. This one a whole lot less watery. You’ve made me feel much better and not just because you’ve been so kind. It’s because of the way you took over and did what was necessary. That convinced me far more than any number of words on a reference could, that you are just what Old Mill needs. So come on, let me give you the grand tour and I’ll show you your accommodation too.

Although she had reverted to her professional persona the friendliness remained as she led me outside. When we reached the car park she stopped and looked doubtfully at my shoes. Do you have anything more practical because we’ve a way to go and you’re going to have to cope with cobbles, shingle, and grass.

* * *

Ten minutes later I was climbing a muddy incline in my jogging trainers. They were white with a red stripe and it would take me ages to clean them but when I reached the top I forgot everything except the view. Ahead of us was the golf course, its lush greenness fringed with trees and flowering shrubs and, like all golf courses everywhere, it was a vista of hills and dips that seemed to go on forever. In the far distance I could just make out someone sitting on a red tractor-mower.

I had already admired the seascape when we first walked out of the club house, and then made all the right noises about the tasteful arrangement of holiday chalets as we walked around the site, but this was different. I turned to Joanne.

It’s so peaceful I can even hear the birds singing, which isn’t something that happens often in London.

You might not find it quite so enjoyable at four o’clock in the morning when the dawn chorus starts up.

Before I could answer her I heard somebody call my name. The voice floated up from below. Ellen, it’s ready now. Drat the girl, where… The rest of the sentence was swallowed by a sudden gust of wind as a slim figure with two long brown plaits bouncing on her shoulders ran into a stone building at the foot of the hill.

Telling myself I really must remember that there were a lot of other women called Ellen in the world, I pointed. Is that another chalet?

She laughed. No, it’s not. Come on, I’ll show you.

We clambered down steep wooden steps built into a wooded slope and the closer we got to the bottom of the hill the louder the noise became. At first I couldn’t think what it was, then I realized it was a fast flowing river. There was another noise too. A creaking sound that I couldn’t identify. As the only way to make it to the bottom of the hill was in single file clinging onto a knobbly wooden handrail, Joanne didn’t elaborate further until we were on the grass at the edge of the golf course. Then she beckoned me to follow her along a narrow path, pushing some spindly saplings out the way until we reached a sun dappled clearing. I looked at the scene in front of me in confusion. Where was the river? Where was the building? I was too busy being confused to hear what Joanne was saying. Her concern brought me to my senses.

Yes. Sorry. I’m fine. I guess the climb down made me lightheaded. After years working in a city I’m not used to real fresh air the same as I’m not used to quiet.

A week or two living here will soon sort you out. In the meantime let me introduce you to the old mill. It’s not, as you can see, exactly suitable for a chalet.

She was right, and I joined in with her laughter. Inside though, my stomach churned. What had just happened? Why had I seen someone called Ellen run into this derelict and almost roofless building? And why had I heard the rush of a fast flowing river when there was just a shallow ditch, dry now but probably muddy when it rained?

Joanne was too busy telling me about the mill to notice my confusion. It was built sometime in the twelfth or thirteenth century when Mapleby was very different from the sleepy village it is today. I’m not even sure why the country club is named after it because nobody knows anything at all about its history.

As we retraced our steps, I saw we were standing on the very edge of one of the greens. What was here before the golf course? I asked her.

She shook her head. I’ve no idea. Probably fields or maybe a farm. If you want to know you’ll have to ask Greg at the restaurant. He fancies himself as a bit of an amateur historian as well as a very generous wine connoisseur, so any conversation with him is always a pleasure.

I smiled. Sounds like my sort of person. Is he the chef?

No, he’s the owner. You will probably get on really well with one another because he came here looking to escape city life too.

So the country club doesn’t own everything then?

Well yes and no. Greg rents the building from the country club, but the business is his. The Spa is the same, and so is the golf club.

We had reached the top of the steps by now and we paused for breath as we took in the peace of the rolling greens again. Joanne broke the spell. Come on. Let me show you where you’ll be living.

I tried not to but I couldn’t help it. Just before I turned to follow her I looked down through the trees to the old derelict mill, and there she was again. My namesake. Her hair was still bound up in heavy plaits but they were no longer bouncing on her shoulders as she struggled with a heavy sack, hauling it behind her until she disappeared from view.

Joanne didn’t hear me gasp, and by the time I caught up with her I was in control. Only just though, because this time I had seen the girl properly and, mad as it sounds, she looked just like I had when I was twelve years old, right down to the pigtails and the scrawny arms and legs.

* * *

Convinced that the stress of the past few weeks had made me hallucinate, and telling myself I would deal with it later, I tried to concentrate as Joanne led me to the nearest chalet, the one backing onto the golf course, and unlocked the door. She smiled when she saw the expression on my face, misreading the shock that was still coursing through me as admiration.

So you like it then?

I looked at the cheerful kitchen diner with its sunny yellow dishes, the cozy sitting area furnished with a TV, coffee table, comfortable chair, and a sofa piled with soft cushions and a matching blanket, and my eyes filled with tears. Blinking hard, I nodded. She opened the door to the bedroom. The blue and white of the duvet, and the voile drapes blowing in the breeze of the slightly opened window were as welcoming as the rest of the chalet, as was the ensuite bathroom with its fluffy towels and complementary soaps.

Thinking of all the hotel rooms that had been my home for as long as I could remember, I shook my head in disbelief. I thought I’d be living in the clubhouse.

If you did, you’d never get away from the guests. Every time you set foot outside your door someone would have a question or a complaint. Here at Old Mill when you’re off duty, you’re off duty.

I looked at her because I knew.

She flushed slightly. "It’s a bit different for me of course. The manager’s apartment is in the clubhouse. It comes with the job, whereas I can choose where to put our few live-in staff. Besides…."

She didn’t need to continue. Better on-site and continually busy than having to think about her personal life. It was exactly how I had felt until now.

* * *

I refused to think about the girl with the nut brown pigtails as I drove back to the dismal room I’d been living in since shortly after I’d quit my job. Instead, I played my favorite playlist at full blast, choosing to risk deafness rather than have to consider I might be going mad. It worked because by the time I started packing I had managed to convince myself I was just stressed, and we all know what stress can do. Sure that I would be fine once I settled into my new job, I lined up my three suitcases beside the door ready for an early start the following morning, got into bed, and in spite of the moonlight that filtered through the gap of the flimsy curtains, had the best night’s sleep I’d had in weeks.

Chapter Three

What should have been a three hour journey from London back to Mapleby took forever thanks to an accident on the motorway, so instead of stopping en-route for something to eat, I decided to wait until I reached the village and grab something from the village shop. When I pulled into one of the four parking spaces outside and saw my friendly waitress through the window of the adjoining café, I changed my mind and headed there instead. She looked up when the doorbell jangled.

You got the job then?

I nodded. I don’t think there was too much competition.

Don’t put yourself down. Joanne only ever takes on the best.

You know her?

Of course I do. Those of us who like to pretend we are still young and fanciable all frequent the Spa and the gym whenever we have the time. By the look of you, you will too once you’ve settled in.

Knowing she was probably right, I grinned. I didn’t realize it showed.

What, that you are toned and tweaked to within an inch of perfection you mean?

I pulled out the nearest chair, laughing as I did so. Until now I had been too worried about the future to give a thought to how I was going to maintain my obsessive fitness regime, let alone keep my hair and nails in check, but it seemed as if as well as offering me a home, Old Mill Country Club was going to provide at least a semblance of what I had been used to in London.

As if she knew what I was