BLOG TOUR

Author bio 

Catherine Jones lives in Thame, where she is an independent Councillor. She is the 

author of eighteen novels, including the Soldiers' Wives series, which she wrote 

under the pseudonym Fiona Field. 

Book description 

Trouble comes to the sleepy market town of Little Woodford - a world of allotments, 

pub quizzes, shopping and gossip - the heart of middle England. 

Little Woodford has a sleepy high street, a weekly market, a weathered old stone 

church and lovingly tended allotments. A peaceful, unexciting place, the very heart 

of middle England. 

In Little Woodford no one has fingers in more pies than Olivia Laithwaite, parish 

councillor, chair of the local WI, wife, mother and all round queen bee. So of course 

it's Olivia who is first to spot that The Beeches has been sold at last. 

Soon rumours begin to swirl around the young widow who has bought this lovely 

house. Why exactly did she leave London with her beautiful stepdaughter and young 

sons? Are they running from someone? Hiding something? Though if they are, they 

won't be the only ones. Sometimes the arrival of newcomers in a community is all it 

takes to light a fuse... 

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Extract

Heather walked up the road, under the ancient oaks and yews, across the brook and 

past the cemetery, the old, rather higgledy-piggledy gravestones basking in the ever-

strengthening April sunshine. Above her the rooks cawed incessantly as they wheeled 

over the rookery in the trees behind the Norman church, with its weathered grey stone 

walls and squat tower, and the only other noise was the distant hum of the ring road, 

the other side of the cricket pitch. The peace of the scene was deeply calming. 

Sometimes, in the summer, when there was a cricket match on and the bell-ringers 

were practising, she felt it was the kind of place that John Betjeman could have 

immortalised in a poem; leather on willow, an occasional spattering of applause, cries 

of ‘howzat’ and the slightly arrhythmic bing-bong-ding-dong of a peal of bells. Utter 

cliché but utter English bliss. 

She strolled on knowing that she could have phoned Joan to ask about the flowers 

but she always liked an excuse to take this walk, and besides, she was mindful that 

neither Joan nor her husband Bert had been in the best of health since the winter –

Joan had had a nasty virus and was only recently on the mend – and they might 

appreciate a visit. Plus, there was every possibility that Bert would offer some of his 

own flowers from his allotment for the church, and every little helped. Bert’s 

allotment didn’t just yield a cornucopia of vegetables every year, but dahlias, 

hellebores, foxgloves, hollyhocks and a dozen other types of flowers that Heather 

would accept gratefully for the church arrangement whilst having only the vaguest of 

idea as to what they were called. And, even if it was a bit early for the best of Bert’s 

flowers, he would certainly have foliage which, in itself, was very useful. 

Towards the top of the road, the quiet was dissipated by the bustle of the high 

street but Heather didn’t mind. She loved the town’s wide main street with its wiggly 

roof line, its big market square and pretty Georgian town hall. It mightn’t be the sort 

of place you moved to for the shopping – Bluewater it wasn’t – but the boutiques and 

delis, the cafés and the pub and the hanging baskets full of winter pansies and the tubs 

of daffs and tulips more than made up for the lack of major retailers. And today was 

market day so there was the extra bustle and activity that that always brought. It was a 

proper small market town, she always thought. Perfect – well, perfect as long as you 

didn’t scratch too deep. Like everywhere they had problems with poverty, drugs and 

the occasional crime but there were worse places to live in the country. Far worse. 

She knew that – Brian had been a vicar in one or two. 

She was looking in the window of the cake shop and wondering about treating 

herself and Brian to a custard tart each when she heard her name being called. She 

turned and saw the pub’s landlady. As always, Belinda had a smile on her face. She 

was a life-enhancer, thought Heather. Brian might deal with the town’s moral well-

being but Belinda provided an equally important service on the mental health side of 

things by listening to their woes, being unfailingly cheerful and totally non-

judgemental. Her sunny outlook radiated out of her and sparkled out of her blue eyes. 

‘Belinda, hello. You well?’

‘Yes, thank you. You?’

Heather nodded. 

‘I’ve just been to the hairdresser,’ said Belinda. ‘That always makes me feel better. 

Good for morale, don’t you think?’

Heather gazed at Belinda’s beautifully cut bob that framed her smiling face and 

wished she knew. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a professional hair-

do. She washed her own hair and pinned it up to keep it out of the way. Not smart or 

fashionable but suitable for a vicar’s wife. Cheap to maintain, and when it got too 

long, she hacked bits off with the kitchen scissors. 

‘It must be,’ she said, smiling and quenching the tiny pang of envy she felt. ‘By 

the way, Amy says someone is moving into The Beeches.’

‘Well, if Amy says so it must be true. Anyway, I’d better get on; not long till 

opening time and I mustn’t keep the punters waiting. Will you be coming to the next 

book club?’

‘I will. I can’t say I was thrilled by the last choice but it was an interesting read.’

‘Good. Well… Good you found it interesting, at any rate. If everyone did, it’ll be 

the basis for a lively discussion.’

‘Will you be there?’

‘Should be if the new girl shows up. We’ve had so much trouble with our part-

timers recently. Don’t the young want to earn extra money? And don’t they realise 

that letting an employer down is more than just bad manners…’ Belinda stopped. ‘

Sorry I was about to go into rant mode.