TODAY WE WELCOME RAVEN McALLAN WRITING AS AUTHOR, KATY LILLEY, WHO IS SHARING AN EXCERPT FROM HER NOVEL, 'NEW BEGINNINGS FOR BRYONY BENNETT'
- Eva Bielby
- Jun 14
- 11 min read
Updated: Jun 15

Blurb
When Bryony Bennett's god-mother dies and leaves her a huge inheritance, Bryony jumps at the chance to get away from it all and start again.
She packs up her life and moves into the (almost) idyllic Cliff Cottage - only to find that starting over is never quite as simple as you imagine.
Faced with grumpy neighbours, hostile locals and more than her fair share of disasters, Bryony embarks on a mission to make sure her new life is everything she wants it to be.
But will she ever win over the locals and truly be happy in her new life...
Excerpt
The damned green transit swayed down the lane past her entrance - still semi closed with the three barrels but not with the chain between them - that had fallen into a heap of rusty bits after the post van nudged it a few days earlier - to the field gate a bit further down the lane, where the ruts were even deeper. Someone got out, opened the gate and did the ‘get back in, drive through, get out, shut the gate and drive off’ thing. Something Bryony had seen at least twice a day, each way since she’d arrived, plus a couple of noisy times in the wee small hours. As on every other occasion, she’d been inside and by the time she got to the window to be nosy, the van was driving away. She’d never yet managed to suss out who the driver was.
This time the flipping sun was in her eyes. So, was it a farmer checking his wheat or sheep were okay, or was it smugglers or booze makers? The possibilities were endless. They made for a humorous mind set as she turned in the opposite direction to the van and headed up the lane on foot. She might just start a green van sighting logbook.
3 am… overloaded. That was if she ever woke up and the van was driving past and not just invading her dreams.
7.37…stuck in mud. Those ruts would be horrendous when it rained.
7.59… tractor pulled it out. Bobble hats galore.
12 noon…playing Bob Marley… Bloody hell her mind was full of rubbish. Not Bob Marley, she loved his music, but the rest.
A pheasant squawked and whirred up out of the long grass on the verge. Bryony squeaked in surprise, a bit like the pheasant, and dropped her bag.
‘Sheesh, no need to startle the natives. I’m not about to put you in the pot, as much as I am a carnivore.’ Bloody hell, as if Mop and the cats aren’t enough, now I’m talking to a bird.
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘Argh… shit…’ Now the birds were answering back.
Get a grip.
It wasn’t a bird but a bloke. The ‘drop dead, play your cards right and you can have me,’ arsy Mr Grumpy bloke of the other day. This time, his longish curly hair was tucked behind his ears and helped to anchor the sunglasses pushed up onto his crown. In one earlobe a tiny silver stud winked in the sunlight.
A stud for a stud? Oh shoot, next I’ll be drooling. Where the hell had he come from? Did that van belong to Mr Grumpy then? If so, he deserved his nuts cracked for being so bloody dangerous.
‘You’re a liability,’ she snapped. Best to get in first with the accusations just in case he was the driver.
‘Who says?’ he snarled back.
‘Me, if you drive recklessly like that.’
‘Like what? What planet are you on, woman? I’m on my bloody feet, no driving involved.’
He spread his arms out as if to show that. Sadly, or happily, it showed off his more than okay physique.
‘Where have I hidden a steering wheel? No, don’t bloody answer that.’
Bryony bit back the smart and non-pc answer she’d been going to give. No point in riling him further. Not without good reason, anyway. Dressed in what she decided was hot as hell denim cut offs, a black t-shirt, and deck shoes almost as disreputable as the ones she had discarded, he could have been the sort of man hot dreams were made of. If he wasn’t such a class one irritant.
‘I do. You need your licence torn up into little bits. Is it normal to scare the pants off newcomers?’ Bryony demanded, annoyed she must seem a complete wussy female. ‘You know hello, welcome, and now drop dead?’ She bit back ‘and scare them shitless and give them sleepless nights with your sodding van’. She’d said enough along those lines already.
He shrugged. ‘I’ve never scared anyone.’
Bollocks.
‘Who are you anyway?’ She’d get his name out of him whatever else she didn’t manage. ‘Apart from the non-friendly-neighbourhood whatever, who is allergic to people.’
He shrugged. ‘Only some. Get over your paranoia.’ His face was a blank canvas. Bryony itched to do something - anything - to change that.
Grief did he never smile? Had he had fillers or whatever and ended up with a frozen face? Didn’t things like that happen sometimes if you over did the stuff? With her hatred of needles, Bryony would rather go for a week without wine and chocolate, than contemplate voluntarily being injected with anything, thus her knowledge of such procedures was a bit sketchy to say the least.
‘Well?’
‘Very thank you.’
‘Oh for…’ If there had been anything to stamp her foot on and make a noise she would have done. Bryony clenched her hands into fists and was rewarded by the tiniest hint of his mouth twitching. Not a proper smile but maybe a softening of his bottom lip? However, he still didn’t offer his name.
‘Fine. Keep who you are to yourself. I’ll just think of you as Mr Grumpy, that’s apt.’ Bryony picked her bag up again and ignored him. He stepped in front of her. She sidestepped. He matched it. And grinned. The sort of grin that would make hundreds of women drop their knickers given half a chance. Not her though, she was made of sterner stuff. She hoped.
But, oh my goodness, that makes him so bloody different. Does he have two personas? Am I in a split dimension? Oh grief, damp knicker alert as Maisie would say.
Then, she remembered, she didn’t actually have knickers on, as she hadn’t been able to find a clean pair and the cheese grater thong her mum had given her for Christmas - ‘to bring you up to date, love’ - which she discovered in with the corkscrew and three dishtowels, was as useful as an ice cream in hell. That had gone on and off in record time and now resided beneath her period pants in her underwear drawer. She wouldn’t throw it out and maybe hurt her mum’s feelings, but she doubted she’d wear it, not even when she was desperate. Like now. Not desperate. She was as they said, commando, and if she were honest, rather liked it.
Three sidesteps, matched movement by movement later, Bryony huffed. ‘This is ridiculous.’
‘Isn’t it?’ He agreed and moved with her again. ‘Fun though.’
‘Rubbish. Why are you doing it?’
He did that sexy shoulder roll that made her tingle. Damn him.
‘Why not?’
‘I want to get to the shop, that’s why not. You’re blocking my way.’ Point out the obvious, why don’t I? ‘I get antsy without coffee. I need you to move.’
‘Nope, you don’t. Lots more lane to use.’
‘Which you seem intent on stopping me using.’
He raised one eyebrow, something Bryony had never managed to do. She had been informed by Maisie it looked as if she were squinting. Typical that on him, it was just darn sexy.
‘My apologies. After you.’ He swept a bow that would do anyone in a Regency drama proud and stepped back. ‘Never let it be said that I, a mere male, stood in the way of progress.’ The twinkle in his eye was almost her undoing. ‘Or a determined woman.’
Almost. She frowned as best she could when she wanted to giggle. Opened her mouth to speak and groaned instead. A familiar doggy outline loped up the lane with excited woofs. And it wasn’t Mr Grumpy’s responsibility this time.
‘How the hell does he do it?’ She grabbed Mop by his collar, thanking all the gods she’d left it on him. ‘You are a bloody menace,’ she informed the dog who wasn’t at all fazed by her semi-annoyed tone. He knew Bryony loved him. ‘I’m gonna rename you.’ She’d forgotten grouchy Mr Grumpy. Who actually seemed to become less grumpy by the minute as he grinned and lost most of his disapproving, constipated expression.
‘Do what?’
‘Get out. I swear that dog would give Houdini a run for his money. I left the window on one of those inch open thingys. The sort that are supposed to be burglar proof.’
‘Nothing’s burglar proof if they set their mind to it.’
‘Okay, Mr Literal. But that gap? Not even Mop should be able to wriggle through it. Now how can I go and shop with him and no lead?’
‘Tie him up. There’s rings outside the post office.’
‘With what? My knicker elastic?’ How she wasn’t as red as the post box outside that shop - or her hair - she had no idea. She’d almost added, ‘if I had any on’.
‘Do you still get that?’
‘Wha…? Oh, for f… goodness sake.’ Change the subject, change the subject. ‘I don’t suppose you’d hold on to him for me?’
‘You suppose correctly.’
Oh hell, back to Mr Grumpy again.
‘I’ve other things to do other than babysitting disobedient dogs. Let me know when you’re ready to sell. And watch out he doesn’t get shot for sheep worrying.’ He nodded curtly and walked off towards the village, ahead of her.
As the only thing Mop ever did was follow her, it wasn’t likely. He wasn’t disobedient, not really. Just scared he was going to be abandoned as he had been before Bryony had come across him, tied to her front door with a note, ‘have him’ wrapped around the rope. Plus, she had no intention of keeping sheep, Mop and the cats were enough for anyone sane. As for the rest?
‘I’m never going to sell, you moron,’ Bryony shouted. If she had her catapult and some dried peas he’d be peppered by now. ‘And if I did, it wouldn’t be to a grumpy old man like you.’
He stopped, turned and looked her up and down. ‘If you think this is where I damn myself and say, typical female emotional response’, think again. I value my hide.’
Argh. She’d secretly hoped he would, so she could throw that at him. ‘Well, I am a bloody female. Look.’ She jiggled her boobs. ‘See? Mammaries and all the other bits. And I’d rather be emotional, than a dried up prune with concrete inside instead of a heart.’
He didn’t even relax his arsy, mean and bloody bored expression.
‘Moron.’ It wasn’t much of a rejoinder, but it would have to do. Keeping a tight hold on Mop she waited until grumpy guy rounded the corner and went over the bridge before she remembered the piece of rope at the bottom of her bag. It would do at a pinch. As long as she wasn’t away for many minutes and Mop could see her most of that time, it should be fine. ‘It’s only milk and some dog treats, I promise,’ she said as they went over the bridge at the same moment an express went under it. The rattle and roar would have sent a lot of animals running. That didn’t faze Mop at all. Just the thought of losing Bryony did.
Knicker elastic. What era was he from? Maybe he was a pirate, spirited from whenever. Perhaps Little Brindish was a Brigadoon sort of place and she’d been dropped there by aliens. And if she had knicker elastic to use, what the hell would hold her undies up? Willpower? Commando had its plus side, as well as its drawbacks.
By the time Bryony reached the edge of the village, Mr Grumpy was nowhere to be seen. The village dozed, there was no other word for it, in the early afternoon sunshine. At this time of the day she was better able to get a proper look around. The main street was almost empty apart from one car, covered in mud, two women—probably in their early forties, with portable coffee cups in their hands and shopping bags at their feet sitting on a bench—and a disappearing service bus. Maybe it took everyone away so as not to spoil the chocolate box prettiness? If so it missed the mark. The car was slap bang in the middle of what she still thought could almost be a poster for nineteen thirties England, except the double yellow lines didn’t help that yesteryear scenario either.
Progress was not always pretty.
The rings outside the post office were empty. Bryony stared at them doubtfully. Mop stared back at her and visibly drooped. ‘I know, but if you want dog biscuits and I want coffee, I need to go into the shop next door and buy them.’ Mop sat and scratched. ‘That’s not the answer.’ She double tied the rope through the ring in a knot that would hold a boat in a force ten. Whether it would hold Mop, she was doubtful. He pulled and whined. ‘Look, Mop-head do you want biscuits?’ He put up a paw. ‘Then I need to buy the bloody things.’
‘I’ll get what you want.’ Maddie, the tall, friendly, elegant, blonde she’d met on the bus, came out of the village store and smiled. ‘Is the poor thing getting separation pangs? My Sookie does that. She’s a Great Dane and as soft as they come. What do you need? Are you paying for it with cash? Or shall I cuddle this beautiful boy, and you pop in?’ She knelt on the floor, seemingly oblivious to the muck sticking to a pair of trousers that Bryony reckoned cost the equivalent to her week’s food bill. And she didn’t stint. The fact Bryony could now afford trousers like them was irrelevant. She’d no doubt put a hole in the knees on their first outing.
‘I’m not sure if…’
Mop put his head on the newcomer’s lap and slavered. The woman ignored that as well. That was enough for Bryony. Mop’s sense of who was okay had never failed him yet.
‘Yes, okay, thank you. I won’t be long.’ Bryony stroked Mop’s head. ‘Two minutes.’ She wasn’t sure if she was reassuring Mop or the newcomer.
‘Take your time, we’ll get to know each other,’ Maddie said cheerfully. ‘I won’t abduct him. Mrs C will vouch for me.’
‘Mrs C?’
Maddie nodded towards the shop. ‘Shopkeeper. She’s known me since in her words, I was knee high to a grasshopper, and she sneaked me what her Glaswegian hubby called sookie sweets, and my mum called teeth rotters. ‘A few won’t hurt you my lovely, as long as you brush when you get ‘ome’. She might come across as stand offish, but lots of the oldies are wary of newcomers. Like the old sod who keeps the other shop. She’s enough to make a saint swear. You just have to be patient.’
Bryony sorted that jumbled statement out.
‘Yeah how long for?’
‘Oh fifty, sixty years. You know, the, “I s’pose they ‘ave to live somewhere, and who’d want to stop in the city or up north when they could be ‘ere? But seems such a shame for our kiddies.”’ Her voice took on a homely Devon burr, so unlike the elocution diction she’d used before. Bryony guessed it was the tones of her childhood, just as she herself spoke with a much stronger London twang when she got together with Maisie.
‘“No chance of ‘ouses. Pity, that.”’ Maddie reverted to her normal voice. ‘What tends to get forgotten is at least half of local kids can’t wait to get away. Ah well, ignore the miseries and concentrate on the nice ones like me. Now, off you pop and let me get to know this lovely boy.’ She scratched an ecstatic Mop behind the ear. If he were a cat, Bryony would swear he’d purr.
~~~
Katy Lilley is the rom-com alter ego of Raven McAllan, ‘both’ of whom write what Raven hopes are funny, feisty and romantic stories, many set in areas Raven has lived in or visited and loves.
Having moved from Scotland to the East Coast of Yorkshire, there are new places to discover and
explore.
She loves travelling, reading, trying to knit, wine and chocolate.
She’s not keen on midges, liver, and pompous people.
If you like the excerpt from Bryony’s story, you can find it, and the other two books in the series here…
Lilley/dp/B0DJ4NZPV8/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0 (amazon uk paperback)
ebook/dp/B0DC779XR7/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0 (EBook)
COMING SOON: On Monday, 16th June, our team member, Dawn Treacher, shares her short story 'When The Piano Plays'.
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