Now I can’t wait to collect them, to see how they’ve fared. The school is the size of a Wendy House and has windows just like those in the Gingerbread Cottage. I have to admit there’s something quite nice about being able to walk to meet Tom and Jessica. This is a duty that Maya’s always performed – out of necessity – as I’ve always been at work.
This school has the grand sum of twenty pupils and they’re all disgorged at once on the stroke of 3.30 p.m. Is this the sort of place though that’s likely to turn Jessica into a lawyer and Tom into a plastic surgeon? I bend down to kiss Jessica while Tom, skilfully, skirts my embrace.
‘How was school?’ I ask cheerily.
‘Small,’ Jessica says. ‘Very small.’
‘Did you make any nice friends?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘They all talk funny and I can’t tell what they’re saying. But they say we talk funny.’ My daughter looks outraged at that.
‘Give it a few days and you’ll love it,’ I reassure her.
‘No,’ Jessica says. ‘Don’t think so. I’d like to go back to my old school.’
‘Me too.’ Tom kicks at the playground.
‘We’ll talk to Daddy,’ I say as a diversionary tactic.
The Headteacher comes out to talk to me. She’s called Mrs Barnsley and is dumpy and is dressed in clothes that my dear mother, even when she was alive, wouldn’t have been seen dead in. Mrs Barnsley takes in my designer labels. ‘Welcome to Helmshill, Mrs Ashurst,’ she says. ‘The children have settled in really well.’
‘We haven’t,’ Tom corrects her.
Mrs Barnsley ignores him. ‘We hope you’ll all be really happy here. This is a small school and we trust that we’ll see you on some of the various committees we have. We depend on the enthusiasm of our parents.’
I quite liked it when all I had to do was throw vast quantities of cash every year in fees at the matter. Then I’d felt that I’d done my best by my kids. In all the years that I’ve had children, I’ve managed to avoid school committees on the grounds that I’ve been way too busy. I plan on continuing it that way. In my mind it’s one small step from being on a committee to making jam and baking cakes for the summer fayre. If William wants this life so much, then he can be on all the bloody committees. And make the jam. ‘Yes, lovely,’ I say – two-faced bitch that I am. ‘I’d really like that.’
Mrs Barnsley, clearly contented at my malleability, smiles and walks away, task completed and lines of authority drawn.
I hold Jessica’s hand as we walk home and, for the first time in our weeks here, start to take in our wider surroundings. Tom idly pulls leaves off the hedges that we pass. My daughter chatters inanely about nothing in particular and I half-tune out.
The village is nestled in a bowl of rolling green hills, crisscrossed with drystone walls at vertiginous angles. Today the sky is impossibly blue and the clouds mimic the white fluffy fleeces of the ubiquitous sheep. Only the sound of bleating and the occasional burst of birdsong breaks the silence. This is a little different to the relentless noise of traffic on Ladbroke Grove outside our previous home. Could I learn to love it here? Would it be so bad to lead a small life in the middle of nowhere with time on my hands to look at the sky? Maybe I’m starting to soften towards this place, after all. Could we all live a life of blissful contentment here? It wouldn’t be too bad, would it . . .
‘I hate it here,’ Tom says, breaking into my musing. ‘I want to go home.’
‘Me too,’ Jessica agrees. ‘It smells funny.’
I sigh to myself. My daughter’s right. Wherever you go there’s the faint lingering smell of manure in the air. Perhaps my happy-ever-after ending still needs more work.
Chapter Thirteen
We cross the green to Helmshill Grange and the sight of its dilapidated exterior takes even more of the spring out of my step. In the drive there’s a shiny new Range Rover that I don’t recognise.
Then I hear a bleating noise rather close to home and my springless step grinds to a halt. I know exactly what that means. We’ve got sheep. Despite my hope that Will would change his mind and would be kept sufficiently busy with the blind chickens not to have time to consider any other farmstock, the sheep, it seems, are now ensconced in my garden.
‘Go and say hello to Maya,’ I tell the children, giving them a gentle shove in the direction of the house. ‘She’s been baking some cakes.’ At least, I hope she has. When I finally steeled myself to risk the Aga, it’s taken days to fire up the wretched thing and now the kitchen is as hot as Hades.
I head toward the sheep. There are only three of them, but that seems like more than enough.
‘Hello, darling.’ Will kisses my cheek distractedly. ‘This is the vet.’
‘Hi,’ the vet says. ‘Guy Burton.’
‘Hi.’ I shake his hand. The vet’s very handsome, I have to say. We’ve met very few of our neighbours yet, but most of them have been ancient, gnarled and unfriendly. Guy Burton very definitely doesn’t fit into that category.
The vet is fairer than Will, taller too and more rugged-looking. His eyes are brown, soulful and look like they’ve seen a bit of life. His face is bronzed and weather-beaten. How old must he be? My age – thirty-eight – or maybe a bit younger? There’s a hint of designer stubble around his chin, but it’s probably not designer at all; it’s likely that he just hasn’t shaved today. He looks like a man who wouldn’t hog the bathroom mirror. Even so, I bet he makes the hearts of the single girls in Helmshill flutter – if there are any. His accent doesn’t sound local and I wonder what someone like Guy Burton is doing in a place like this. Apart from looking at our livestock, of course. Hmm. If I wasn’t a happily married woman, perhaps Guy Burton would turn my head. Wonder if he’s unattached? Perhaps I could fix him up with Serena. It’s about time my sister dated someone who wasn’t a married lawyer.
‘Welcome to Helmshill,’ he says, breaking into my matchmaking thoughts.
‘Thanks.’
‘I hope you’ll be happy here.’ You and me both, I think.
Then I point at one of the bedraggled chickens who is currently walking round in a circle, pecking blindly at the ground. ‘Are they going to live?’
‘I’ve called that one Christopher,’ my husband tells me with loving pride, causing my mouth to gape.
‘They’ve been badly kept in deep litter,’ Guy says with a shake of his head. ‘We’ve told that farmer a dozen times. Doesn’t listen. The ammonia from their own waste makes them blind. He’s lucky that you’ve taken them off his hands.’
Will says nothing about the large sum of Queen’s shilling that has changed hands.
‘With a lot of love and some well-aimed antibiotics,’ the vet says, ‘they’ll be fine in no time.’
‘How often do they need the antibiotics?’ This sounds expensive.
‘Daily,’ Guy answers.
‘You have to come every day?’
‘No,’ he laughs. ‘You put them in. It’s just a few drops for their eyes. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Oh.’ My husband will have to put drops in their eyes.
‘And they’ll need to be shown where their food is and be lifted up on their perches until they learn to do it themselves again.’
‘If you buy healthy chickens, presumably they do all this for themselves.’
‘They do,’ Guy confirms. At which point I glare at Will. ‘It’ll be for a couple of months. Maybe a while longer. That’s all. Feed them right and they’ll perk up in no time.’
‘What about the sheep?’
‘You’ve got three very nice old ladies,’ the vet says.
Will looks sheepish again – no pun intended.
‘Old ladies? Is that a good or a bad thing?’
‘They were going to be slaughtered,’ my husband volunteers. ‘Look at them.’
I do. They’re standing in a line, staring straight back at me. They do, in fact, look just like three old ladies; all they’re short of is felt hats and handbags. Not only
have we got blind chickens, but we’ve got menopausal sheep.
‘How could I let that happen?’ Will wants to know.
Spoken like a true townie.
‘I thought we’d look after them too,’ he continues. ‘The farmer told me they’d got a touch of black bag. Or was it blue bag? Some colour bag.’ My husband shrugs away the need for technicalities. ‘He assured me it wasn’t contagious.’
‘Blue bag,’ the vet confirms. ‘It just means that the ewe can’t feed her offspring. I don’t think you have to worry about that with this little trio, they’re not much good for breeding anyway.’ Guy Burton addresses me, clearly thinking I’m the more rational of our couple. ‘Too old.’
I know how they feel.
‘So we can’t eat them either?’
‘They’ll make nice pets,’ Will ventures. ‘Three lovely old ladies.’
I bet he’s got names for them already.
‘I should be going,’ Guy says. ‘Mr Dawkins’s cat’s not very well. I said I’d call in on the way back to the surgery.’
‘Thank you,’ Will says. ‘Thanks for coming out here.’
‘No trouble,’ Guy says. ‘Have this one on me. I’ll just charge you for the drugs. I’ll send the bill through.’ He hands over boxes and boxes of chicken eye-drops. Yes, he’s probably going to go and put a deposit on a new Porsche after seeing the state of this lot. ‘I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of you.’
I’m sure too, if Will keeps bringing these ramshackle, no hope animals home. Who does he think he is? Bridget Bardot?
We watch as Guy Burton strides to his Range Rover, climbs in and backs out of our drive.
‘Seems very nice,’ Will says. ‘Capable. The sort of chap you could rely on in a crisis.’
‘Yes,’ I agree.
‘Gave me some great tips on keeping chickens.’
I wonder if our vet reads Audrey Fanshawe at bedtime. I somehow doubt it. ‘Is that it?’ I say wearily. ‘There’s not a three-legged goat you’ve forgotten about? I don’t think I could cope with any more surprises.’
‘Ah,’ Will says.
And, with perfect comedy timing, the children come hurtling out of the kitchen.
‘Mummy,’ Jessica cries ecstatically. ‘We’ve got a kitty!’
Tom adds, ‘And a dog!’
Behind them, a big black and brown dog lollops towards me at full tilt. His tongue is hanging to the ground and there’s two trails of drool flying in the whirlwind he’s creating. He looks completely insane. I hate dogs. They smell and leave hair everywhere. The cat follows him, mincing over the gravel. It’s sleek, black and looks as mean as hell. I hate cats too. They’ve got bottoms like pencil sharpeners and try to eat babies while they lie sleeping in their prams.
The dog bowls into my knees and nearly knocks me clean over.
‘This is Hamish,’ my husband says, grabbing the dog before it does any more damage and roughing up its ears. This sends the hound into a frenzy of shaking, sending gobs of spit flying all over my lovely Joseph trousers.
I look at my husband and my eyes well up with tears. ‘Oh, William,’ I say. ‘What on earth have you done?’
Chapter Fourteen
‘Bloody hell!’ I mutter as I get out of bed and step in mouse entrails. I’ve long since stopped screaming when I do that, so things must be improving. Right?
The cat, Milly Molly Mandy – Jessica’s choice of moniker – is the only animal we’ve acquired that seems to have all her faculties and physical attributes working as they should. However, Milly Molly Mandy also exhibits tendencies that any prolific serial killer would be proud of. ‘Hannibal Lecter’ would have suited her better as a name.
Our sleek feline friend – or do I mean fiend? – is sitting licking her paws with satisfaction as she surveys the three decapitated and disembowelled rodents she’s brought in for our delectation.
‘Is this what I have to look forward to every morning?’ I ask as I hop towards the bathroom. ‘Tortured mouse?’
‘If she keeps going at this rate, the few remaining members of the mouse population of Helmshill Grange will soon be packing their bags and seeking safer territory,’ my husband observes. ‘Isn’t that right, Mols?’ The cat, needing little encouragement, jumps on the bed and snuggles down in the warm space I’ve just vacated. I hate animals in the bedroom. I’m not that fond of them in the lounge or the kitchen either.
‘Who’s a good girl?’ Will coos as he caresses her fondly. ‘Who’s the best mouser in Yorkshire then?’
It’s taken very little time for Milly Molly Mandy to worm her way into Will’s affection. It will take a damn sight longer with me.
‘It’s nice to have a home filled with animals and love,’ he says dreamily.
Will wouldn’t even let the kids have a hamster in Notting Hill. Tom begged for years – every birthday and Christmas – but Will’s heart was stone. How times change. And not always for the better.
I shower in an ice-cold drip. The water knocks, shudders and clonks through the pipes. The plumbing is so ancient that by the time the hot water has worked its way reluctantly through the house to the bathroom I could have grown a beard. Unfortunately, even after six weeks or so here, I’m resolutely locked into London speed and haven’t the patience to wait that long. Shivering as I towel myself down vigorously, I think, it’s still only September – and a ridiculously mild one at that – so what will this place be like in winter? The windows already have proved worthless at stopping even the mildest of breezes. How will they cope with a full-on gale which I’m told that Helmshill is frequently battered with? Come to that matter, how will I cope?
For reasons best known to myself, I’m trying to make a valiant stab at sophistication despite my reduced circumstances, and choose a Diane Von Furstenberg dress to take the children to school. When else am I going to wear the damn thing now?
My husband looks tired again this morning. His face is pale, and dark shadows ring his eyes. Unusually, Will’s still lying in bed when I’ve finished my ablutions. ‘Didn’t you sleep well?’ I ask.
‘Like a log,’ he says. ‘Could just do with a few more hours.’
‘Probably all the frenzy of the move is finally catching up with you. It wouldn’t hurt to rest for a few days.’ I still haven’t got round to registering with a GP. Our nearest one is in Scarsby and every time I’m over there I forget to go into the surgery and pick up the forms. ‘Why don’t you stay there for another couple of hours?’
‘Things to do,’ he says, and yawns as he throws the covers back, sending the cat scuttling from the bed.
‘Did you take your pills yesterday?’
‘Hmm . . .’ Will scratches his chin.
‘Well, don’t forget to take them today. That can’t be helping. You’re getting very absent-minded now that you’ve become the country squire, William Ashurst.’ I have to nag him every day otherwise he’d never remember to take those damn tablets.
‘Oh, yes,’ he says with a nod. ‘Must do. Can you put them out for me?’
I’m going to have to get one of those boxes with the days marked out on them and fill it with Will’s medication – just like you do for old people. What would he do without me? I smile at him indulgently. Still, now that I’m not working I can afford the time to spoil him a bit more. That’s taking some adjusting to as well. I only get a pang of longing for my old job about ten times a day and have studiously avoided watching television as it only makes me worse. Plus the reception here is so rubbish that it’s like watching every show through a snowstorm.
‘The hot water’s probably just about to make an appearance,’ I tell him.
‘A nice long shower might liven me up.’ He squeezes me round the waist as he passes. ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’
‘Love you,’ I say, as he disappears into the bathroom, but I don’t know if he hears me.
Chapter Fifteen
Fastening on some diamond earrings, I head for the kitchen. Maya, being her efficient self, has
– amid the packing boxes we haven’t yet got round to sorting – already laid the table for breakfast. I think she’s starting to settle in here now as I only catch her crying once a day now.
She comes out of the scullery, weeping.
‘Maya, what’s wrong?’ Our newly acquired dog, Hamish, is at her heels and is wagging his tail furiously, clearly very pleased with himself. He comes over to me and brushes against my legs, depositing hair and slobber on my dress. His tail thumps against me and it’s like being repeatedly hit by a mallet.
‘He has tried to eat all of underwear again,’ she tells me tremulously. ‘He has opened tumble dryer all by himself and has ruined it completely.’
‘No,’ I laugh. ‘He can’t have.’
‘He has. He is very naughty dog, Amy.’
Already, I know this. Hamish has been the bane of my life since the day he arrived. He’s enormous – way too big, even for a house this size. He’s full of energy, full of mischief and now, it seems, full of our underwear. Even in the short time he’s been here we’ve got used to putting anything edible out of his range. He’s had Will’s breakfast off his plate more than once. My husband finds this trait for snaffling other people’s food charming. Dish cloths are a thing of the past. As is anything involving sponge – a particular doggy favourite, it appears.
Now Hamish has apparently moved onto more expensive inedible materials to eat and has learned how to open the tumble dryer. For a dog that dense, I doubt it.