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Boldwood Books - Judy Leigh

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176 pages

English

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Growing old disgracefully and having a grand old time…

Billy and Dawnie may be in their seventies, but that won’t stop them taking chances or starting again. Their grown-up children have families and lives of their own, so now it’s Billy and Dawnie’s turn, and a life near the sea in Devon beckons.

But the residents of Margot Street (or Maggot Street as Dawnie insists on calling it), don’t quite know what to make of their new neighbours. Billy’s loud, shiny and huge Harley Davidson looks out of place next to the safe and sensible Honda Jazz next door, and Dawnie’s never-ending range of outrageous wigs and colourful clothes, means she’s impossible to miss.

As new friendships are formed and new adventures are shared, Billy and Dawnie start winning their neighbours’ affection. And when life teaches them all a terrible lesson, the folks of Margot Street are determined to live every day as if it’s their last.

Judy Leigh returns with a soul-warming, rib-tickling, timeless tale of true love, true friendship and happy-ever-afters.

Praise for Judy Leigh:

‘Brilliantly funny, emotional and uplifting’ Miranda Dickinson

'Lovely . . . a book that assures that life is far from over at seventy' Cathy Hopkins bestselling author of The Kicking the Bucket List

'Brimming with warmth, humour and a love of life… a wonderful escapade’ Fiona Gibson, bestselling author of The Woman Who Upped and Left

Sujets

Holidays

Siblings

Humorous

Women

Coming of Age

Friendship

Romantic Comedy

Sibling

General officer

Woman

The Women

General

Holiday

Family Life

Romance

Fiction

Humour

Informations

Publié par	Boldwood Books
Date de parution	03 décembre 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781838895730
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,2050€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

HEADING OVER THE HILL

JUDY LEIGH
First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Boldwood Books Ltd.
This paperback edition first published in 2021.

1
Copyright © Judy Leigh, 2020
Cover Design by Debbie Clement Design
Cover Photography: Shutterstock
The moral right of Judy Leigh to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-80280-367-9
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-83889-573-0
Kindle ISBN: 978-1-83889-574-7
Audio CD ISBN: 978-1-83889-566-2

Digital audio download ISBN: 978-1-83889-568-6
Large Print ISBN: 978-1-83889-571-6
Boldwood Books Ltd.
23 Bowerdean Street, London, SW6 3TN
www.boldwoodbooks.com
For Cait
CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Acknowledgments

More from Judy Leigh

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
1

‘Maggot Street? You have to be kidding me, Billy.’
Billy clutched the steering wheel of the old Transit, swinging the van around a corner, and then whirled his eyes towards his wife, who was huddled next to him, her purple lace-up boots on the dashboard. ‘Margot Street, darlin’. Mar-go. As in Margot Fonteyne, the famous classical ballet dancer of the 1960s.’
‘As in “Am Mar-go-ing to like this place?” I don’t think so at all.’ They turned the bend too sharply and, as Dawnie indicated the maze of houses on the estate, she leaned across to Billy, almost obstructing his vision, her voice incredulous. ‘Look at it, Billy. It’s just a pile of boring terraced houses.’
Billy grinned, extending a hand to pat Dawnie’s knee. ‘It’s just a six-month let, my darlin’. The first of May to the last day of October, with an option to stay on if we need to. I just went online, like we agreed, and picked something convenient and cheap for us, just for now. We’ll take our time to buy the house we really want – a big rambling one, on the coast looking over the rolling waves, in time for Christmas. Log fire, beams on the ceilings. It’ll all be just dandy.’
Dawnie wrinkled her nose in answer. ‘I thought it’d be great to live here in Barnstaple, by the sea, away from the frozen north. I thought it’d be a great place for two seventy-year-old misfit hippies to do our own thing in the wilds of north Devon. But this group of identical terraces, Billy: look at it. It’s all net curtains and plastic faux-wood front doors. The residents are going to hate us here.’
‘Don’t fret, my pet,’ Billy chuckled. ‘It’ll be deadly. Think about the advantages. Lindy and Stewie and the kids have our house in Bolton. It’s big and ramshackle and ideal for them – so close to the shops and schools. And now my da’s money is in the bank from his place in County Mayo, God rest his soul, so that makes us cash buyers. We can pick wherever we want. And I want something peaceful, where we can hear the sea when we open the window and look up at the moon.’ Billy stared at her meaningfully, raising his bushy eyebrows. ‘We’re in charge of our lives for once. The kids are settled; it’s a new start for us, and the pictures of the seaside properties on the internet look grand. We came here years ago and loved it: remember that summer in Staunton Sands when the kiddies were little? And if the worst comes to the worst and we don’t like it here or we can’t find the place we want by the end of six months—’ He gave a big shrug, his shoulders moving like two giant hills. ‘Then we can move on again. We could always go to Ireland. I’ve still a cousin over there.’
‘I’ve got nothing against this area: it’s just this horrible street. Look at it,’ Dawnie exploded, scratching her head. She was wearing the long blonde wig today and her scarlet sunglasses; she thought she’d dressed perfectly for the early summer sunshine that glinted and dazzled her through the windscreen of the red Transit. But now she wasn’t sure, staring out of the window at this tidy row of terraces, net curtains at the windows, neat hanging baskets by the doors. People could be quick to judge. Then she folded her arms, came to a decision and let out a long breath. ‘Oh, sod them all, Billy. I mean, if the neighbours are going to dislike us just because of your long hair and leather jacket and my wild wardrobe, then they aren’t worth worrying about.’
Billy rolled the Transit around another bend into a narrow row of neat terraces. ‘I bet they’re all lovely people, darlin’. You just have to trust in the beauty of human nature. I’m sure they’ll all be wonderful, our new neighbours.’
Dawnie slid the red glasses up onto her forehead and beamed at him. ‘Ah, you’re right, Billy, as usual. We’re going to love it here. And here we are – look: this one is ours, the cute little brick one right in the middle with the white plastic door. Number thirteen, Maggot Street.’

The floral curtains on the upstairs landing window of number eleven Margot Street twitched briefly. A hand held the material back, leaving a gap just wide enough to peek through. A man in his seventies, his hair grey-brown and thinning on top, peered through his spectacles with eager eyes as he leaned forward. A woman appeared behind him, resting her chin on her palm and frowning. She was considerably shorter than him, her ample figure encased in a flowery dress not dissimilar to the curtain material. At the end of her legs, which were sheathed in tan-coloured nylon tights, was a pair of comfortable brown slippers. She leaned closer. ‘Is that them, Malcolm? Our new neighbours?’
‘I certainly hope not. It’s a red Transit van. Must be builders come to make good any damage left by the students, or whatever those three young men were who lived there before.’
‘Darren and Jason and the other one? Oh, I’m so glad they are gone. The smells that used to come through the walls sometimes – awful smells. Goodness knows what those young men used to cook: all sorts of strange ingredients, no doubt.’
‘They were probably smoking cannabis – especially if they were students.’ Malcolm didn’t move. ‘Or cooking foreign food. I don’t like foreign food.’ He sniffed. ‘Apparently the new tenants are an older couple. Perhaps they’re our age, Gillian. In their seventies. Sensible people who – oh, my goodness.’
‘What is it, Malcolm?’ Gillian patted her short white hair to check the hairspray had kept it in stiffly in place. ‘Can you see them?’
‘There’s a man, the driver, in a leather jacket. He has long grey hair in a big ponytail. He looks like a thug; he’s huge. He’s going to the back of the van and he’s getting something out – something large, I think – goodness me, is that a motorcycle in there?’
‘Let me see, Malcolm, You’re in the way. I can’t see.’
‘Don’t push me, Gillian. Wait your turn. It can’t be the new neighbours. Oh, he’s getting luggage out of the van first. There’s someone coming to help him…’
‘Is it them?’ Gillian craned her neck. ‘Is it the new people, moving in next door?’
‘Oh, will you look at that woman?’ Malcolm caught his breath.
Gillian assumed he’d seen an attractive woman and was ogling her. She pushed her husband to one side. ‘Let me see.’
A woman in a red mini dress and a denim jacket appeared around the side of the van. At the end of long skinny legs, she wore huge purple lace-up boots and her flowing blonde hair came almost to her waist. She was tugging a large case.
Malcolm coughed. ‘Well, would you believe it? She’s no spring chicken…’
‘And dressed like that – just look at her,’ Gillian muttered.
They stared together, their hands gripping the curtains. Then, at the same time, they caught their breath and jerked backwards, almost slipping down the stairs. The blonde woman had seen them; she was staring up through red sunglasses and was smiling, waving her hand maniacally and yelling, ‘Yoo-hoo. Hello, we’ve arrived.’
Malcolm tutted softly to himself. ‘No, Gillian – that’s not them. There must be a mistake. They surely can’t be the new neighbours.’

Across the road at number fourteen, a dark-haired man in his early fifties was putting out the recycling boxes, which were stacked with folded cardboard. It was a job he liked to make sure was completed early, in case he forgot to do it. Work at the garden centre was hectic during the summer months and it was important to have a routine for everyday jobs like dustbins. He couldn’t ask his mother to do strenuous chores. Besides, he was strong: he worked out regularly, so it made sense for him to take out the bins. He placed two green plastic crates carefully, one on top of the other, adjusted his tie and pushed his hands into his pockets.
He frowned. Two people had just emerged from the red Transit across the road. A large man with long grey hair tied in a ponytail, wearing a leather jacket and jeans, was ro