What I don’t like to bring to Maya’s attention is that she could simply – and justifiably – walk away from all this, whereas I’m trapped by marital duty. When I said ‘I do’, frankly, I had no plans to be ‘doing it’ in the country. My nanny could, on the other hand, tell me and Will and the kids to get stuffed and head back to London to find another less mad family to nurture. I hope against hope that she doesn’t think of this. She is a girl after my own heart and has the city in her veins. And, like me, she probably feels like slitting one of those veins right now.
Inside, the house is spacious with large, airy rooms – for that read ‘draughty’. Maya and I have already cleaned out two of the six bedrooms which have now been designated the children’s bedrooms and they’re quietly unpacking their toys and games, too shocked to think of squabbling. Never have I seen my offspring so subdued.
We should have got a company in to give the house a thorough clean before we moved in, but I had no idea that it would be so bad. Plus, the truth of the matter is, we are now officially broke. Virtually all of the money from the sale of the house in Notting Hill has been poured into this place. It means that we don’t have a mortgage – thankfully – but it also means that we have very little left for day-to-day expenses now that we’re both officially unemployed. My husband is convinced that I’m going to be able to get freelance work to top up the pot, possibly at Yorkshire Television or at Granada in Manchester. But I’m not so sure. At best that would be a three-hour round commute for me. Could I do that on a daily basis?
Will, from what I can gather, is planning to turn his hand to country pursuits – whatever they might be – and the words ‘bed and breakfast’ do still keep slipping into his conversation rather more frequently than I’d like.
My husband is wandering round the house, his rich baritone voice soaring through ‘Oh, What a Beautiful Morning’ very loudly. And I can honestly say that I’ve never heard him sing songs from Oklahoma before. He’s in his element here. This is his dream. Whereas it’s my living nightmare.
Of course, his delicate condition now precludes him from doing anything too strenuous and he isn’t, therefore, involved in the messy end of cleaning. He’s taking on a more supervisory role.
He’s moved on to South Pacific and the strains of ‘Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair’ come ever nearer. ‘Missed a bit.’ Will points out a dirty patch on the floor as he enters the kitchen. See what I mean?
‘You could do something useful,’ I suggest. ‘Go to Scarsby and buy us some food for tonight.’ Don’t suppose there’s a friendly take-away locally.
‘Right,’ Will says, in between refrains and he grabs the car keys and leaves.
Sighing, I lean on my mop, just as our nanny gives a bloodcurdling scream as the tail of a mouse pops out from underneath one of the cupboards. I close my eyes. This will all turn out fine. I won’t miss my job. I won’t miss wearing Jimmy Choos every day. I won’t miss sending out for a latte every five minutes. I won’t miss the respect or the power. I won’t miss hobnobbing it with celebrities from the sporting world. I won’t miss my big sister popping round a couple of times a week. All of this I can cope without, as long as this makes my husband happy and keeps him fit and healthy. What would be the point in staying in London if I constantly worried that William wouldn’t come home that night? So this is much, much better for us. Right?
I burst into tears.
‘Don’t cry, Amy.’ Maya abandons her mop and puts her arms round me.
‘I’m not crying,’ I sob, and sniff louder.
I really hoped that work would refuse to accept my resignation, that my boss would hurl himself to the floor and beg me to stay. But he didn’t. Gavin Morrison wished me well and waved a fond farewell without a squeak of protest. Even before I went, my assistant, Jocelyn, had been promoted. And, after years of loyal service, made it clear that she couldn’t wait to see the back of me so that she could try on my shoes for size.
‘We will all adapt,’ my nanny tells me firmly.
‘I’m sure we will.’ I search my pockets for a tissue. While I sniffle, I wonder what I would have been doing in my old life right now. ‘Yes. Yes. We’ll all adapt. We’ll become country bumpkins and love it. It will just take time.’
And I have an eternity at Helmshill Grange stretching ahead of me.
Chapter Nine
When William returns from Scarsby – several hours later – he’s bearing two carrier bags overflowing with shopping and there’s a definite spring in his step.
‘Let me,’ I say. ‘Should you be carrying that?’ His face is pale. Will still tires easily and that worries me. Shouldn’t he be on the mend by now if there was really nothing wrong with him? His work/life balance is definitely now more in favour of life – shouldn’t that be helping? We haven’t signed on with a local GP yet, and I vow to make it my priority. I’ve been meaning to do it since we got here. He should have someone to keep an eye on him, just to be sure. My husband says that I worry too much. He’s decided that he’s the picture of robust health now that we’ve moved to the country. Arteries that were once clogged have miraculously cleared themselves, cholesterol that was high has fallen through the floor of its own volition, apparently. His blood pressure is that of a nineteen year old. Or so he tells me. I’d like a slightly more professional assessment.
‘Light stuff,’ he assures me. ‘The rest is in the boot.’
I take the carriers from him, risking a quick peek to check that he’s bought all that we might need. Sure enough there’s a couple of cartons of milk and a loaf of bread in there, so I can relax a bit. On the rare occasion that Will ever did the shopping in London, he could come home with absolutely nothing that was on the list but two kilos of wonderfully smelly cheese that he’d fancied and maybe some olives.
Today, he seems to have catered for our more practical needs. The other bag contains loo rolls.
‘Why are you grinning like a mad thing?’ I want to know as I eye my husband warily. ‘What have you done?’
‘Nothing, nothing!’ He’s fidgeting like a five year old.
‘Sure?’
I get a giggle in response.
‘What’s Scarsby like?’
‘Wonderful,’ he tells me.
Bet it’s not.
‘I’ll go and get the rest of the shopping then,’ I say, trying not to sigh.
Plodding out through the kitchen, I go to the car. When I hit the drive, I manage to stifle the half-sob, half-scream that comes to my throat. Now I know what William has been up to in Scarsby. I spin on my heels to find him standing behind me, grinning.
‘Like it?’ he asks.
My jaw has locked. ‘Where’s the car?’
‘This is it.’
‘The real car, I mean.’
‘There’s a great dealership in Scarsby,’ he tells me. ‘Thought this would be better for us. Now we’ll look the part.’
Now we’ll look like the Wurzels.
In the drive, in the place where our sleek, black Audi should be, there is the most battered Land Rover that I’ve ever seen. I think it’s supposed to be blue, but there’s so much rust on it that it’s quite hard to tell.
‘Maya won’t be seen dead in that.’ Me neither.
‘It’s practical,’ my husband points out. ‘You’ve seen how narrow and winding the lanes are – the Audi would have been ripped to bits within weeks. We won’t mind if this gets a bit scuffed.’
I won’t mind if this is blown up by a nail-bomb. ‘We are contractually obliged to provide Maya with a reliable vehicle,’ I remind him.
‘This old workhorse will go on for years.’ Will pats it lovingly. ‘Solid as a rock.’ The wing mirror drops off.
‘Aren’t we embracing this country lifestyle a little too fully? We can still have some creature comforts.’
Will purses his lips. ‘Not sure that we have creature comfort money any more,’ he points out. ‘This has been a very expensive exercise.’
 
; You’re telling me.
‘But I have plans,’ he says. ‘Big plans.’
I hope that those plans involve regaining our sanity, putting this house back on the market at once and heading straight back to London in time for Christmas.
‘I feel at home here already,’ Will says. He slips his arms round me and squeezes. ‘I love you. Thank you so much for doing this. I know that it’s a big wrench for you. But we’re going to live much more simply from now on. Get back to the things in life that really matter.’
‘Which are?’
‘Family, friends. Living without stress. You and me.’ Will kisses my cheek.
And while I appreciate the sentiment, I can’t help thinking that the little bakery at the end of our street that sold seeded Low-GI bread really, really mattered to me too.
Chapter Ten
Two weeks later, deep in the throes of cleaning this place, and I still haven’t yet unpacked half of our boxes. My husband has, however, somehow located the copy of Keeping Chickens by Audrey Fanshawe that he bought from Waterstones in Oxford Street and it’s now on his bedside table. He settles himself in bed, picks up the book with a flourish and flicks open the pages. This is a man I loved for his knowledge of Tolstoy, James Joyce and Thomas Hardy. I shake my head. Keeping Chickens.
I give up on Zadie Smith and turn to Will. ‘I don’t think that I really want to keep chickens.’ The only chickens that I like are the organic ones that come in plastic trays from Wholefood Market.
‘It will be great,’ he tells me in a voice that I’m coming to dread. ‘They’re wonderful animals. Or are they birds?’
Even I know that they’re birds and I haven’t even glanced at the chicken book.
‘They all have personalities of their own.’
Presumably, he’s also gleaned that from Audrey Fanshawe, as the only experience of chickens that William has is also the organic ones in plastic trays from Wholefood Market.
‘We can have our own organic eggs,’ he continues excitedly. ‘Maybe even sell a few.’
You can also buy them from Wholefood Market, I think, and not have all that fuss – but, as is my way these days, I don’t voice that opinion. Instead, I snuggle down next to Will and say softly, ‘You’ve changed so much since your wobble. I hardly recognise you any more.’
He puts down Keeping Chickens. ‘Don’t you like the new, improved me?’
‘I’m having a bit of trouble keeping up with you,’ I admit, letting my fingers rove over his chest. It worries me that beneath that strong, firm exterior something was going terribly wrong and we were completely unaware of it. Will will have to go for regular check-ups now and will probably be on medication for the rest of his life. That’s another thing that worries me – out here in the sticks, will the doctors be up to the standards of the London one he’s used to? If he has another wobble, will there be an efficient nurse handy to step in and deal with it? ‘In my heart I’m still a hard-nosed television executive with a penchant for killer heels and kickass suits. You just seem to have embraced this whole country thing a lot quicker than I have.’
‘Wait until we’ve got a proper smallholding with chickens and sheep and pigs.’
Sheep? Pigs? No one said anything about sheep or pigs.
‘Why do we need sheep? There are loads out there on the hills. Can’t we just look at those?’
‘The point isn’t to look at them, it’s to rear them and then turn them into tasty dinners.’
‘Eat our own sheep?’ I don’t think so. I like a bit of distance between me and my food. Not that keen on scoffing anything that’s been running about in my own backyard. Once you’d tended them, wouldn’t they be just like pets? That’d be certain to turn Jessica vegetarian. ‘I thought we were just going to have a big house in the country. I don’t remember the conversation about a smallholding.’
‘I took it as a given,’ Will says, sounding offended that I can’t read his mind.
I sigh and give in. ‘If it’s what you want, then we’ll do it. I just want you to be happy and healthy.’
‘I feel as if I’ve been given a new lease of life.’
I feel as if I’ve had mine snatched away from me. But this is it. William loves it here in this big house with its leaking roof and its clanging plumbing and its lights that flicker on and off, so I might as well make the best of it. And I do love this man. I bloody well must do!
‘How’s the heart bearing up?’ I let my fingers walk lower on his chest. He might have been given a relatively clean bill of health – blood pressure and cholesterol notwithstanding – but we still don’t really know why it was that he collapsed that fateful day on the Tube so we haven’t made love since Will’s been ill. We’ve both been too worried about him exerting himself even though the doctor said – with a laugh – that it’s a myth that many middle-aged men die of heart failure while they’re having sex with their younger mistress. I’m still worried. He didn’t mention what might happen if that same middle-aged man was having sex with his equally middle-aged wife. Do I want to risk it?
‘The heart’s fine,’ he says with a grin. ‘Sound as a pound. In fact, it seems to be speeding up quite nicely at the moment.’
‘Then I suggest that it’s about time that we christened this bedroom,’ I say as I fling his damn chicken book to the floor.
‘Be gentle with me,’ Will teases as he takes me in his arms.
I intend to be. Very gentle. I kiss him lovingly.
And, for a short time, I can forget where we are and what we’ve done and chickens and sheep and the vague scratching noises that are coming from the attic, and just love my husband once more.
Chapter Eleven
‘Jesus!’ I exclaim. ‘What the hell are they?’ And I haven’t used the Lord’s name in vain since the kids were born.
‘Chickens,’ Will says.
He’s just come back from Scarsby in the knackered old Land Rover, blowing exhaust fumes into the ozone layer. If we’re embracing a newer, greener lifestyle, it clearly doesn’t extend to our choice of vehicle. You could smoke mackerel just holding them near the exhaust for five minutes.
More and more of the scabbiest-looking chickens I’ve ever seen are flying out of the back of the Land Rover and onto my drive. They’re squawking as if they’ve been scalded.
We only had the chicken conversation just over a week ago, and I’d hoped that I’d be able to ease myself into the reality of actually owning any. Will normally takes six months to read a book – at least – and I was sure he wouldn’t rush out and buy any until he’d gleaned all the knowledge that Audrey had to impart about our feathered friends. But I hadn’t bargained on the fact that now he’s not working, he has nothing to do with his time. And, of course, there’s the matter of his personality transplant.
More and more chickens fill the drive. ‘What’s wrong with them?’ I ask. ‘Why are they all bald? Why are they all running round and bumping into each other?’
‘I’ve rescued them,’ William tells me.
‘From what?’
‘They’ve been kept in terrible conditions.’ A bit like this family then. ‘The farmer let me have them for five quid each.’
I can’t help feeling that my naive husband has been robbed.
One runs into my legs and falls over. ‘They’re blind.’
‘Hmm.’ Will scratches his head. ‘I thought they might be.’
‘What are we going to do with them?’
‘Look after them,’ Will says, that offended tone creeping into his voice again.
When I imagined chickens I thought of more exotic-looking breeds – Sultans, Polands, Buff Rocks, Gold Sebrights or even the weird Transylvanian Naked Neck for novelty value – (yes, I have been sneaking a look at Audrey Fanshawe’s very helpful tome) – not these paltry excuses for poultry.
They’re all spreading out now across the garden, banging into things and flapping their wings. ‘Where are we going to put them?’
‘Ha!’ my husband s
ays, and disappears to the back of the Land Rover, lifting out the last remaining chickens as he does. He pulls out a magnificent brochure and points to a building which I take to be a chicken coop. It is the Ritz-Carlton of chicken coops. Yet another person who saw Will coming. ‘Da da!’
‘We’re going to put those manky chickens in that?’
‘I thought we’d give them a nicer home than they had. It’ll be delivered later today. Fingers crossed.’
Definitely fingers crossed as I’m not having these things in the house if it doesn’t turn up.
One of the chickens runs full pelt into the trunk of an apple tree. ‘I think we should get someone to look at them. Suppose they’ve got bird flu or something?’
‘They’ve not got bird flu,’ Will says crossly. ‘They just need a bit of tender loving care, Ashurst-style. Don’t you, my darlings?’
Another chicken falls over.
‘Well, I think we should call someone. Maybe a vet.’
‘There’s a chap in the village,’ my husband tells me. ‘Lives in that modern house up on the hill.’
Wise man. I bet his windows don’t feel as if they haven’t any glass in them. ‘We should get his number. Phone him.’
‘Good idea,’ Will says. ‘I’ll just wait until the sheep arrive and then he can look at them all.’
‘Sheep? Sheep? What sheep?’ At this point, I start to hyperventilate.
Chapter Twelve
Putting on my Joseph trousers and a cashmere wrap cardigan, I wander down to the little school we’ve enrolled the children in.
It’s September, the first day of term and my children weren’t very happy at all this morning about starting a new school. I’ve never seen two kids eat cereal so slowly.
I too am worried about our choice of educational establishment, but for different reasons. Tom and Jessica have been in an exclusive private school until now and I wonder how they’ll cope with the change. We’ve been here over a month now and yet they still haven’t met any of the children from the village. There’s hardly been anyone around. Most people, it seems, have been on holiday to warmer, more sensible places with fewer sheep and, to be honest, my social skills have been so buried beneath a mountain of gloom that I haven’t cared whether we met any of our neighbours or not. So, consequently, we haven’t. This morning we hung around in the playground looking new and uncomfortable while everyone else in their cosy cliques ignored us. We might as well have been wearing signs that said unclean. Then, when the school bell rang, I left my two at the door of St Mary’s with a heavy heart.