The Shadow of Suspicion Over the Countryside
Margaret sat in her cosy cottage on the outskirts of York, flipping through an old notebook in search of her neighbour Emily’s phone number. At last, finding the digits she needed, she dialled. “Emily, hello, love!” Margaret began warmly. “It’s Maggie, from the cottage next door. I meant to ask—how do you grow such lovely radishes? Yours are always so crisp, and mine never turn out right.” “Oh, it’s nothing special,” Emily replied, a touch of weariness in her voice. “Just soak the seeds for a day or two before sowing. I’ll be down this weekend to plant mine. Still in the city for now.” “In the city?!” Margaret gasped, her voice trembling with shock. “Then who’s that your Henry brought to the cottage?” Emily froze, her breath turning shallow. Without another word, she ended the call, hailed a cab, and sped toward their countryside retreat. Upon stepping inside, she stood motionless, stunned by what she saw.
Emily Whitmore was seething. Her face burned, eyes flashing like lightning. Had her husband Henry, who she believed was at work, seen her now, he would not have recognised the gentle Em who had straightened his tie and kissed his cheek that very morning. But Henry saw nothing of her fury. He was in high spirits, looking forward to Friday evening—succulent beef roast with buttery mash, the way Emily made it, fresh-picked peas from the garden, and a chilled bottle of ale, for tomorrow was Saturday, and no work beckoned. Little did he know, a storm was brewing over his head.
It had all begun with that call from Margaret. A pensioner, Margaret lived in a spacious flat with her daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren. But come spring, she was whisked off to the countryside, where she stayed until late autumn. Family visited only on weekends for barbecues, leaving her to pass the quiet weekdays with little but the telly for company. So when any hint of intrigue surfaced in the village, her curiosity burned bright.
That morning, around ten, Margaret stepped onto her porch, surveying the lane when she noticed the gates of the neighbouring cottage swing open. A car rolled in—one she couldn’t name but was certain belonged to Henry, Emily’s husband. Yet instead of parking by the door, it pulled behind thick blackberry bushes. “Ah,” Margaret thought, squinting. “Doesn’t want to be seen. What a sly fox, that Henry!”
A call from a friend distracted her, so she missed the two figures—a man and a woman—stepping out, the latter immediately branded a “floozy” in Margaret’s mind. Back on the porch, she resumed her watch. Half an hour later, her patience was rewarded: a young woman in a bright green tracksuit emerged, arms spread wide. “You were right—it’s gorgeous here! The air’s so fresh!” Definitely not Emily. This stranger, lithe and dark-haired, couldn’t have been older than twenty-seven. “Goodness, Henry!” Margaret whispered. “Nearly fifty, and he’s nabbed himself a beauty!” At the sound of a man’s voice, the woman vanished inside.
Margaret seized her notebook and dialled Emily again. “Emily, dear, it’s Maggie from the cottage,” she chirped, feigning innocence. “Just wanted your radish trick again.” “Oh, same as always,” Emily said. “Soak the seeds. I’ll plant mine when I come down this weekend. Still in town.” “In town?” Margaret paused for effect. “Then who did Henry bring to your cottage?” “When?” Emily’s voice wavered. “Hour and a half ago. Parked behind the bushes—only the roof’s visible from my porch.” “Right. Talk later.” Emily hung up, pulse pounding in her temples.
She dialled Henry. “Love, where are you?” “At the office. Why?” came his breezy reply. “Just wondered when you’d be home. Late today?” “Earlier, if anything—it’s Friday!” Emily clenched the phone till her knuckles whitened. “We’ll see about that,” she muttered, calling a cab.
The drive took under an hour—off-season roads were clear. Tipping the driver, Emily marched toward the cottage. Henry’s car gleamed behind the brambles. Heart drumming, she crept onto the porch, eased the door open, and stepped inside. The kitchen table bore a spread—cheese, cured meats, pickles, fresh tomatoes, and an open box of chocolates. Beside them, an uncorked bottle of champagne and two flutes. “So Henry’s working up an appetite before supper,” she thought bitterly. “Well, I’ll give him something to chew on!”
She flung open the bedroom door—and froze. Two shapes shifted beneath the duvet. A muffled yelp sounded as Emily yanked at the covers, but they held fast. “Emily, what the devil—?!” Henry’s nephew, Thomas, sat bolt upright, beside a girl Emily didn’t know. “Aunt Em! What are you doing here?” Thomas stammered, flushing. “Took a cab,” Emily snapped. “This is my cottage. Care to explain yourself?” “I—I asked Uncle Henry for the keys this weekend!” he blurted. “He said you wouldn’t be here ’til June!” “Wasn’t planning to,” she said coolly. “But vigilant neighbours reported intruders. Never mind. Enjoy yourselves. Only now I’ve no ride back.”
Thomas sprang up. “I’ll take you! Sophie can fix supper while I run you home.” The girl—Sophie, apparently—nodded hastily. Emily waited on the porch, stewing over the suspicions that had nearly shattered her trust.
When Henry returned that evening, he found the table set and Emily smiling. As he dug into his meal, praising her cooking, she remarked idly, “Margaret rang today. Claimed you’d brought a girl to our cottage.” “And you said?” Henry tensed, though his voice stayed even. “I told her my husband’s faithful as the day is long.” “Quite right,” Henry nodded. “Margaret’s lost the plot. Lent Thomas the keys—he’d asked. His car’s the same colour—easy mistake.” Silently, he added, “That woman!”
Later, settled before the telly, Emily watched a soap-opera wife weep over infidelity and thought, “How lucky I am with Henry. And I nearly ruined it with my mistrust.” Peace filled her heart, gratitude that the storm had passed, leaving their warmth untouched.
