Since Christmas he’d tried not to think about it. He’d been aided considerably in that process by having the majority of animals in Scarsby and the surrounding areas fall ill all at once. Then his assistant, Stephen, had compounded the problem by getting the flu himself, leaving Guy to cope single-handedly at one of the busiest times of the year. As a result, he’d been in the practice shortly after six every morning and was rarely getting home before ten at night. Then there were the call-outs that punctuated the night. It didn’t leave a lot of time for courting, as he pointed out regularly to Cheryl, who was continually berating him for not making time to see more of Amy. Guy felt that he had a perfectly good excuse. Cheryl said he was using it as an avoidance technique. And, much as he hated to admit that his receptionist and self-styled lifecoach might be right, perhaps Cheryl had a point. What was he to say to Amy now, after he’d blurted out his feelings to her like a gauche schoolboy? Let’s face it, even gauche schoolboys probably did better than that these days. Amy hadn’t said anything in return, but then he’d scurried away, mortified by his unrehearsed and spontaneous outpouring of emotion – unaccustomed as he was to sharing his feelings with anyone these days. The other side of the coin was that by the time he had pinged his microwave dinner for the night he was virtually incoherent with tiredness and more than once had spent the night fully clothed on top of his bed, unable to stay awake long enough to go through the tedious procedure of getting undressed. Whenever they had snatched a moment together, they had never been alone or the timing had been wrong to have anything more than a cursory conversation. The opportunity to pour out his heart to her, or to find out how she felt about him had never happened – and perhaps it was just as well.
The two removal men, tasks completed, came and gazed over the fence too.
‘Come on, girl,’ Alan gently coaxed Delila. Guy had to say that it wasn’t looking good. The ewe was straining but nothing was happening. ‘You can do it, lass.’
The sheep turned doleful eyes on him and let out a complaining baa. Guy pursed his lips. ‘How long has she been going?’
‘Nearly an hour now. Want to take over, Vit?’
‘I’ll have a look.’ He scrubbed up under the tap in the yard, before sliding his hand inside the ewe. All he could feel was a little tail and bottom. It was clear that the lamb was presenting breech. ‘She needs a bit of help here.’
Guy felt for the lamb’s hind legs and then, holding them tightly, he pulled the youngster out backwards. A grey slithery mound plopped lifelessly to the floor. Alan cleared the mucus from its mouth, then he swung the lamb backwards and forwards, trying to get it to breathe.
‘Nothing, Vit,’ he said, alarm in his voice.
Guy held the lamb and rubbed vigorously at its chest to stimulate breathing. Still the tiny creature didn’t move. ‘Water,’ Guy said over his shoulder. ‘I need water.’
Amy quickly put a bucket down next to him and Guy flicked the cold water all over the lamb which, thankfully, gasped its way into life at the shock. It seemed a brutal way to make your entry into life, but it usually did the trick.
‘Oh,’ Jessica cried. ‘It’s lovely!’ The little girl and her brother were crying and if Guy wasn’t mistaken, Amy was shedding a tear too. Perhaps even the removal guys were a bit watery eyed as well. When you were so used to delivering lambs it was hard to remember the miracle of watching your first birth.
It was a tiny lamb and weak. Its breath laboured in its little chest. The animal vainly tried to stand on its sticklike and wobbly legs, but couldn’t support its own weight. Guy didn’t rate its chances much. He looked at Alan and the man nodded his agreement without him having to speak. To get some warmth for the lamb was paramount. ‘We need to get it warmed up. Can we put it in the Aga, Amy?’
She looked at him in horror. ‘You’re going to cook it?’
He laughed. ‘Not intentionally.’ Then he was serious again. ‘It might not last otherwise. We need to get it warmed through. It’s totally against health and safety regulations and there’s probably an EU directive against it, but nothing does the job better than a night in the stove. Right, Alan?’
The man nodded. ‘Aye, Vit.’
‘I thought that was a country myth.’
‘No.’
Amy shrugged her acceptance. ‘Then let’s do it.’
‘I’ll tend to the ewe, Alan,’ Guy said. ‘You see to the lamb.’
Alan tenderly picked up the scrap of a lamb and carried it towards the house.
Jessica ran behind him. ‘We can’t leave Delila with a sick baby,’ she said to her mother. ‘We’ll have to go to London another day.’
Amy looked at him for support.
‘She’s right,’ Guy said. ‘Can you stay another day or so?’ It was wrong, he knew, but he’d clutch at any straw that kept Amy here for even a minute longer.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
I call Serena and arrange for her to be at the new flat to meet the removal lorry and I give her the men’s mobile numbers in case of emergency. She can’t believe it when I say that our delay is caused by a crisis with a newborn lamb. My sister definitely thinks that I’ve gone soft in the head. I tell her that we’ll see the lamb through the night – hopefully – and that we’ll be in London tomorrow without fail to be reunited with our furniture.
While I’m doing this, Alan and Guy are making a bed for the little lamb and are slotting him into the front of the Aga. Grief, I just hope they can work this bloody oven better than me otherwise he’ll be medium rare in no time. I wonder whether I should shove some rosemary in next to him just in case. Just kidding.
‘A lamb,’ Jessica intones reverently. ‘We have a little baby lamb in our kitchen!’
I must admit that it’s a first for me and it seems so right and fitting for this place to be nurturing the struggling newborn.
Thankfully, I rescued the box with our kettle, mugs, toaster and the last few bits from the fridge in it from the removal van before the men drove off taking the rest of our worldly possessions with them. It’s late for them to be leaving and it will be well into the evening by the time they get to London, even if they have a clear run. I might not have much money left, but I’ll make sure that they’re well compensated for their inconvenience.
There’s nothing else left in the kitchen or the rest of the house for that matter. Not knowing what else to do, I put the kettle on. I’m tired and we’ve got no food and I’m beginning to wonder whether this was a wise idea.
‘I’ll run Alan home,’ Guy says into my reverie. ‘Then I’ll pick us up a Chinese take-away in Scarsby and I’ll collect some bedding on the way back.’
I wasn’t sure what we were going to do about sleeping arrangements. Looks like the kitchen floor is going to be our bed for the night.
‘Is that okay?’ he asks. ‘You and the kids can stay at my place while I sit here with the lamb, if you’d prefer.’
My heart surges at the thought of this big, strong man sitting here to tend to this tiny scrap as it clings precariously to life. ‘You think I’m going to get these two away from this little wretch?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Definitely not,’ I tell him.
‘Sit tight until I come back,’ he instructs. ‘Call me if the lamb shows any signs of worsening.’
I’m not sure that it could look much worse than it does. The poor thing is shivering like mad despite being wrapped in a fleecy towel that also escaped the clutches of the removal men, and being slowly roasted on a low heat – though the oven door is open, so hopefully he can’t come to too much harm.
Guy and Alan head to the door and as they leave, Mr Steadman turns and doffs his flat cap to me before he disappears. It occurs to me that it could be the last time that I see Alan and I want to run after them. I had plans to say so much to Mr Steadman, to pass on my heartfelt thanks for all that he has done for us, how I now consider him a family friend, how the children will miss him like mad, but there never seemed to be an ap
propriate moment. I wanted to hug that rough brown tweed coat to me and tell him how much we all care for him. But with a man like Alan, perhaps it was best that these things went unsaid. I’m sure he knows how much he has come to mean to us without me going all slushy on him. I should write to him when I get home. I should write on a regular basis. I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to him and us not knowing. Then I think ‘home’? Am I already viewing London as home?
I fold up the children’s coats so that they can sit on them by the warmth of the Aga, then I crack and go into the scullery to fire up the central heating once more. During all this Hamish has been the model of good behaviour – well, if you consider full-on barking and trying to strangle yourself with a rope good behaviour. Now he’s clearly getting bored and hungry. I hope that Guy remembers to bring some dog food back with him when he gets the Chinese take-away as we’ve nothing else to feed Hamish on; The removal men are now heading down the M1 with his bowl and tins of meaty chunks. Though I’m sure Hamish wouldn’t object to dining on spare ribs and pork balls tonight.
‘Sit down, Hamish,’ I tell him. ‘Your pacing about is driving me nuts.’
‘Come here, boy,’ Tom says, slapping his leg, and the dog goes to settle down next to him, half-smothering my son with his bulk.
Fluffy, having won a brief reprieve from going back to his home in the veterinary surgery, is keeping himself amused by shuffling happily round the kitchen floor. The children can’t take their eyes off the lamb and I don’t know what to do with myself so I wander through the empty rooms of Helmshill Grange. I wonder what the Gerner-Bernards will do with the house. Will they countrify it? Will they turn it into a minimalist shrine to Dulux matt white emulsion? There’s been a lot of builders striding about here with tape measures, tutting.
The days are so short now that already the moon is up and shining through the French windows in the living room.
‘If only you’d left us with some dosh,’ I say out loud to Will. ‘I might have been tempted to stay here. Despite everything, we’ve had some good times.’
I sit in the middle of the floor in a patch of bright moonlight. ‘I don’t want you to think that I’m leaving you here,’ I tell my husband. ‘We’ll come back to visit. I think I’m doing the right thing for the kids.’ Though that argument somehow sounds so hollow now. ‘And I have to work. I have no choice. There’s nothing here for me and Gavin’s so keen to have me on board at the BTC again. It will seem funny, but I’m sure that we can pick up our old life. It’ll be just like having you back.’ The tears roll down my face. ‘I really have enjoyed my time at Helmshill Grange. Thank you for dragging me out to this beaten-up old place in the country. If only you could have stayed here with me.’
Then I cry and cry and cry. I cry because I don’t want to leave here and because I can’t stay. I cry because I want to do the right thing by my kids and because everything I do turns out wrong. I cry because I still love my husband and because if I stay here I might just fall in love with someone else too.
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Guy lifts the lamb tenderly out of the Aga. On his trip he has somehow managed to find some formula milk for the poorly infant.
‘I’ve got some colostrum from one of the other farmers,’ Guy tells me and I assume that this is a good thing. ‘I’ve brought some glucose to give it too.’ He certainly came back to the house laden down with carrier bags.
Now he produces an empty wine bottle and fixes a teat to it. ‘Mix up some of the formula and put it in here.’
I do as I’m told and minutes later hand the bottle of formula milk back to him. Snuggling it in tightly to his chest, he tries the lamb on the bottle and the tiny animal sucks hungrily on the teat.
‘Come on, you two,’ he says to the children. ‘You can do this.’ They sidle up to him and Guy gives the bottle first to Jessica and then to Tom. Their eyes are alight with delight as the lamb continues to feed undaunted.
‘Oh, Mummy,’ Jessica breathes, gingerly holding the big bottle in her small hand. ‘When I grow up I want to be a vet too.’
Marvellous. I’d always hoped that she’d be a lawyer or an astronaut. Now I’m looking forward to a lifetime filled with the scent of animal wee and fur all over my best clothes. Though I have to say the lamb does look incredibly cute. I only hope that it survives the night. If the way it’s drinking that milk is anything to go by, then it’s going to give life its best shot.
‘Mummy, come and feed the lamb,’ Tom urges, and Guy holds out the wine bottle for me. Not to be the killjoy, I go over and take the bottle, slipping it into the hungry, searching mouth. The lamb tugs eagerly, its scrawny body wriggling in Guy’s arms and, for some silly reason, my eyes fill up with tears.
‘I’m going to call him Stuart Little,’ Jessica says, voice still laced with wonder, ‘because he’s little like Stuart Little.’
‘Stuart Little’s a mouse, stupid,’ my son points out helpfully.
‘Don’t call your sister stupid,’ I say.
‘I don’t care.’ Jessica is defiant. Hands on hips, chin jutting. ‘That’s his name now.’
That’s all I need. Now we’re naming animals that we’re going to leave behind.
I hand the lamb and the bottle back to Guy, surreptitiously wipe my tears away with my sleeve and, after giving my hands a good scrub, set about dishing out the Chinese take-away that Guy has collected. He’s also brought four plates and cutlery from his home for us to use. Plus he arrived with two sleeping bags, a couple of double duvets and some pillows to make up our beds for the night. Clearly, Guy is planning to spend the rest of the night with us and I feel so grateful for that.
Not forgetting Hamish, he also brought dog food for our hound and a bowl. Having eaten, our troublesome hound is now slumbering soundly in front of the stove. He looks the very picture of contentment, his ears and paws twitching madly as, no doubt, he gets up to all kinds of mischief in his dreams. I look at the dog and for the first time feel a strong wave of affection for him, maybe even love. It’s taken all this time, but Hamish is finally entrenched in my heart and he really is one of the family now. Milly Molly Mandy, glad to be liberated from her small travelling cage, is stretched out along his belly also fast asleep. Partners in crime, I think.
The lamb, now fed and looking a little stronger, is popped back into the Aga while we kneel down in front of the stove with plates heaped with delicious Chinese food. ‘I wish I hadn’t packed away all the wine now,’ I say.
‘Ah,’ Guy says. ‘Forgot about that.’ He puts down his plate and pads over to another carrier bag by the door. ‘A decent red, two glasses and a corkscrew.’
I laugh. ‘You really did think of everything.’
‘As I’ve got you here for one more night, I thought we’d take advantage of it.’ Then we exchange a glance that’s full of regret for what might have been.
He breaks away first and busies himself with opening and pouring the wine, sloshing healthy measures into each glass. Then he hands me one and clinks his own glass against it.
Guy sits down next to me, closer this time. My cheeks are glowing and not only with the heat from the stove. It seems bizarre in a house that’s so empty that we can feel so cosy.
‘This is very good wine,’ I say as I take a swig. ‘I’ll certainly sleep tonight.’ And that makes me flush even more.
‘To London,’ he says.
‘To London,’ I echo flatly.
Chapter Ninety
The children’s eyes grew heavy the minute they’d finished their food. Too much excitement for one day, I think. They’ve no pyjamas, so I get them to strip off their jeans and jumpers so that they can sleep in their little T-shirts and pants. I wonder what the progress is of our furniture and belongings and vow to give Serena a call just as soon as the children have dozed off.
Guy and I lay out one of the duvets on the floor for Tom and Jessica, then cover them snugly with the other one.
‘I like sleeping in the kit
chen,’ Jessica says with a yawn. ‘Can we do it more often?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I say, hoping that she’ll have forgotten all about it in the morning. I kiss them both and tuck the duvet round their necks. ‘Sleep tight.’
The thumb goes into my daughter’s mouth. ‘Can Guy read us a story?’
‘No books,’ I remind her.
‘He can make something up.’
I glance at Guy with a smile and he shrugs that he’s up for giving it a go. He slides along the floor until he’s next to the children. ‘I could tell you a story about a pretty little girl who grows up to be a vet.’
Don’t encourage her, I think.
‘What about the boy?’ Tom mumbles sleepily.
‘What would a young boy want to grow up to be?’ Guy asks softly.
‘A farmer,’ Tom says. ‘With lots of sheep. And some black and white cows.’
Bloody hell. What have I done to these children? I’ve taken two townies and turned them into a pair of straw chewers. Or perhaps the country gene that lay latent in their father for so many years has simply been released earlier in them. How are they going to like it now, back in our cramped London flat? And my head spins as I wonder for the hundredth time whether I’m doing the right thing.
While Guy starts to tell his story to my children, I turn off the main light so that just the warm glow from the stove and a couple of spots under the kitchen cupboards keep the gloom away. Going into the scullery, I make a quick call to Serena who tells me that the furniture has just arrived and, despite the fact that they must be exhausted, the removal men are cheerfully unloading it. All of the boxes are clearly marked, so all my sister has to do is direct them to the right rooms and I can do the rest when I get there tomorrow. I blow a big kiss down the phone and tell her that I owe her before hanging up. Then I puff out a wobbly breath. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll be in London.