The Little Clock House on the Green. Eve Devon

red-brick building with the ornate clock perched proudly on top was finished off with a lead dome and brass weathervane.

      The sash windows still had their white trim, and the matching double doors, gleaming in the sunshine, looked as if they’d only recently been re-painted. In the brick space between the second and third floors, simple, no-fuss, wrought-iron lettering spelled out ‘The Clock House’.

      Her gaze sought out the face of the clock.

      Without even being conscious of it, her hand moved to stroke over the locket watch she wore.

      All this time, and, incredibly, a part of her had still expected the time on The Clock House clock to state 1:23pm.

      She squeezed against the cool metal in her palm, the chain cutting into her neck slightly.

      So selfish to think that here time would have stood still for four years.

      Bold roman numerals in the same material as the signage, reigned stately over the white face of the clock and the fact that after more than a hundred years it kept good time at all was a testament to Old Man Isaac’s family of clock-makers.

      Kate stared and breathed.

      Deeply and evenly.

      Right up until she clapped eyes on the For Sale sign staked to the low brick wall in front of the building. For the second time in twenty-eight years her little world came to a grinding stop.

      So this was how it felt to be blown apart that the building she’d grown up loving was up for sale.

      Thank goodness that pebble had landed vein-side up.

      Because maybe she really wanted this building… maybe she really needed this building… She took a shaky step forward, and then another, and then another, so that by the time she’d hopped over the low brick wall and stepped onto the gravel drive, her heart was pounding clear out of her chest.

      She hesitated and then rallied. She’d come this far, hadn’t she? Silly to turn away now.

      With trembling hands she reached out to the key-safe Old Man Isaac had fitted years ago. Everyone in Whispers Wood knew the combination because everyone used the building for village events. Flipping open the cover to expose the keypad, she entered the code her mother used before she had started the B&B, when she’d been responsible for cleaning the building, and prayed it hadn’t been altered.

      Seconds later and the key-safe opened to reveal a set of brass keys.

       In for a penny in for a pound.

      Kate put the largest of the keys in the lock, turned it, pushed open the door and stepped across the threshold.

      The shouting from the exercise group was drowned out by the whooshing in her ears as mine after mine dropped into her field of memory and exploded. Too quick for her to check for injury – too sharp to doubt she would escape unscathed.

      The Somersby Sisters.

      Bea and Kate.

      Five years old and wearing summer school dresses of green and white check. White ankle socks with frills and scuffed black shoes. Chasing each other round the building. Screeching with glee as they cartwheeled across the parquet flooring. Collapsing in a fit of giggles when they were told off for being too loud, too happy, too exuberant.

      The Somersby Sisters.

      Bea and Kate.

      Fifteen years old. Their school uniform skirts rolled up short, their long socks rolled down. School ties shoved into their bags. Lying in the gardens behind The Clock House, bitching about Gloria Pavey and whispering about boys.

      The Somersby Sisters.

      Bea and Kate.

      Twenty. In the main foyer, clearing up after Bea and Oscar’s engagement party. A little drunk and talking nineteen to the dozen about how, one day, they were going to open their own business – a little day spa that would use only the best organic treatments and would be set in the most perfect premises. Premises as perfect as The Clock House.

      A Somersby Sister, 15th October 2013.

      Kate.

      Twenty-four and staring up at The Clock House.

      Dressed in black.

      Blind with tears.

      Filled with rage.

      And completely and utterly finished with dreams.

      The sound of a door closing brought Kate back to life. She whirled around, the echoes of memory so strong she half expected to see a replay of a five-year-old Bea disappearing around a corner. But there was no movement. No sound. Nothing.

      Heaving in a breath she realised she’d been so caught up she’d been moving through the building by rote and now she was standing in the largest of the main rooms on the ground floor – the one that Trudie used for productions because you could erect a stage at one end and still have space for at least twenty rows of seating for the audience.

      Kate’s gaze wandered from the soothing eau de nil paint on the walls, up to the high white painted ceiling with its ornate coving and now-naked ceiling-rose. At one time there’d been a Phantom-of-the-Opera-worthy chandelier hanging from the rose. Kate had seen photographs of it from when the building had belonged to Old Man Isaac’s great-grandfather – a famous clockmaker who’d settled in the village and built this place. If she did get to open this place as a spa she was determined to bring back a little of that opulence for customers to appreciate.

      It was sad Old Man Isaac didn’t have anyone left in his family to pass the building on to, but given the chance, she’d make him proud with what she wanted to turn it into.

      With the memories she’d been so worried about facing starting to fade, Kate walked back through the large open foyer and into the next main room. This room was slightly smaller because of the kitchenette. Kate knew that contained within the Formica cabinets were topsy-turvy towers of teacups with matching saucers and plates in what she was fairly certain Farrow and Ball would name ‘Catering Crockery in Hospital Blue’.

      In the far corner of the room there was a lonely spinner of leaflets, their print faded with time and the sunlight that poured in through the floor-to-ceiling double doors. Soft-play mats in primary colours were stacked in the corner. Evidence that the local nursery still used the room.

      Kate was going to need to work out how to zone the areas so that there was still plenty of space for village functions. Her mind drifted to thoughts of building regulations. What if there was some sort of covenant on the land that meant you couldn’t use the building for a commercial enterprise?

      She thought of Bea’s box files. Ever since Kate had come up with the hare-brained scheme to open a day spa one day, Bea had got fixated on opening it in The Clock House. Not that they ever envisaged having the funds to buy the building. But still. The dreams had had to be corralled somehow and so Bea had collated files of research and made business plan after business plan.

      If Kate was going to do this, she’d need to ask Oscar if he’d kept all of Bea’s files.

       If she did this?

      It hit her then how big a thing this was to do. And who was she, with her zero experience, to have a go?

      The doubt she’d managed to bat away the moment she’d put that pebble in her pocket gathered and swooped, to peck at her.

      What on earth had she been thinking? Had she even been thinking? If she really wanted to resurrect past dreams, she should do it in a place that didn’t know her. Somewhere where if she failed, that failure wouldn’t strike at the heart of those she loved.

      Needing air, she unlocked one of the patio doors and stepped out into the walled garden. She walked towards the intricately carved wrought-iron moon-gate in the wall, overwhelmed with feeling.

      She hadn’t realised how much she yearned for the opportunity to settle and