The Difference a Day Makes

  ‘He does that to everyone.’ It’s one of his traits I might not have mentioned. Every time you bend over in this house you feel the bump of canine nasal passages between your buttocks. The only person’s bottom I haven’t seen him try to sniff is Mrs Barnsley’s and I’d say that it was a rare moment of wisdom on Hamish’s part. ‘It means he likes you.’ Good grief, I’m defending him now. This is how desperate I am for Maya to stay.

  ‘Well, I do not like him. I not like finding dead mouses in slippers either. This house very windy and cold. What will I do on days off?’

  I note that my nanny hasn’t actually had a day off since we arrived. She hasn’t uttered a word of complaint – until now. That makes me feel terrible. ‘We’ll sort it all out, Maya. I promise you.’

  Maya shakes her head. ‘I am too young to live in country.’

  Me too.

  ‘Don’t do this.’ I feel like dropping to my knees. ‘Please don’t do this.’

  She rubs her red eyes. ‘My friend telephoned this morning. There is job for me. Back in London. More money and Mercedes Benz.’

  Well, that’ll sway the loyalties of many a nanny, but I had thought that Maya was different. I thought she was with us because she’d come to love us – as we love her. She’s more than a nanny, she’s my friend. Here, she’s my only friend. ‘Take your coat off,’ I beg. ‘Let me speak to William. We could get you your own little car, perhaps a pay rise. We need you here.’

  ‘I have been on internet,’ she says sadly. ‘I can catch train this afternoon. I have to call taxi now.’

  ‘Please wait. Don’t go without saying goodbye to the children. They’ll be devastated. They love you.’

  ‘I cannot see children. That will be too sad. I must go now.’

  My husband comes through the door, presumably in search of his wellies to give the dog his hosing down.

  ‘Maya’s leaving,’ I cry in anguish and grab his arm. ‘Tell her not to, Will. Tell her how much we love her. I said that we could buy her a little car. She’s not a Land Rover kind of girl.’ Any more than I am. I have complete sympathy with her. ‘Perhaps we can give her some more money.’

  Will sighs and pulls me to him. He lowers his voice when he speaks. ‘To be honest, Amy, I’m not sure how long we’ll be able to afford to keep Maya on. Things are tight. Now that we’re both at home, can’t we take care of everything ourselves?’

  ‘The children will be distraught. Maya’s been with us for years.’ Since Jessica was just turned two.

  Will’s voice becomes a whisper. ‘Perhaps it’s time to let her go.’

  Turning round, I realise that Maya has heard every word. ‘I should call taxi,’ she says, head hung low.

  If we wanted to, I’m sure that we could find the money from somewhere. Perhaps I should plead more with her, but how can I beg her to stay here with us when I’m not even sure that I want to be here myself? ‘I’ll drive you to the station,’ I say resignedly.

  I take the keys to the Land Rover from the hook, fighting down my anger, disappointment and frustration. ‘While I’m out, I’ll go into Scarsby to try to find some replacement underwear.’

  That will get through some more of the money we haven’t now got.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I wave Maya off from Scarsby station, then sit in the Land Rover and cry. Big, fat tears. My once lovely and ordered life has changed beyond recognition and I’m not sure that I want it any more.

  When I eventually stop sobbing and feeling sorry for myself, I crunch the Land Rover into gear and rattle my way into the centre of town. When I say town, don’t think urban sprawl, think little little parochial excuse for a town.

  Scarsby is a tiny market town with an equally tiny population – none of them under the age of eighty. I’ve halved the average age just by turning up. There’s one main street with a cluster of attractive, traditional Yorkshire stone buildings. The poshest restaurant is a pizzeria and their answer to Starbucks is Poppy’s Tea Room. I park in the main square – the only advantage to being in Scarsby as opposed to, say, Knightsbridge, is that you don’t have to trawl around for hours looking for a parking space. And it’s free as opposed to legalised mugging.

  The market is on today. A couple of dozen pensioners amble around the scattering of stalls. A posse of invalid buggies choke the pavements. I wander aimlessly along, taking in the wares for sale. When I looked this place up on the internet – shortly after Will dropped the bombshell that we’d be moving here – the page on Scarsby Tourism said that there was, and I quote, ‘a thriving market selling a wide range of desirable and designer goods’ and that revived my troubled soul. What the piece failed to say was that Scarsby market carries a wide range of desirable and designer goods – so long as you want them in Crimplene. There are orthopaedic shoes, slacks with elasticated waists and floral blouses that even building society employees wouldn’t be seen dead in. It doesn’t look like I’m going to be able to replace my black lace La Perla underwear here.

  From a stall selling CDs, Louis Armstrong’s ‘Wonderful World’ not so much blares out as seeps out at an inoffensive volume. Next to it, I buy a dozen eggs from The Hen Hut in view of the fact that it could be several years before our chickens see fit to lay a bloody thing. There are too many shops selling sturdy footwear and none of them selling heels. In one of the dozens of outdoor clothing shops, I buy a bright red waterproof jacket that’s on sale. What it lacks in style, it makes up for in practicality. The jacket makes me look like a Guide leader or a lost rambler. But, very soon, the winter will be upon us and I realise that I don’t have suitable clothing for it. If it rained in London, then I simply didn’t go outside. Now I don’t have that option. Reluctantly, I pick up some green wellies as well. See what I’m reduced to?

  Purchases paid for and wrapped in plain brown paper, I then head off to the doctor’s surgery and fill in the required forms to register the whole family. Then, having done that, I make an appointment for Will for tomorrow afternoon. That takes a weight off my shoulders. The sooner that he’s under the doctor here, the better.

  After doing that, I walk over to Poppy’s Tea Room to seek succour in a toasted teacake and some hot Yorkshire Tea. I can’t face going back to Helmshill Grange yet. I’m cross with Will, I’m cross with myself and, most of all, I’m cross with that wretched dog. If Hamish hadn’t kept trying to sniff Maya’s bottom, perhaps she would have stayed. But then I realise that our dog is only one small contributing factor to the sum of all parts.

  The tea room is buzzing. A veritable crowd of three old ladies, our sheep in human form, huddle together in the corner. They have hats on their heads and patent leather handbags at their feet and give me a sideways glance as I enter. I sit at a table for two by the window and order tea and a teacake from an indifferent waitress – the only teenager I’ve seen so far.

  As I’m waiting for my order, the vet’s Range Rover pulls up outside and Guy Burton jumps out.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Ashurst,’ he says to me as he comes inside, his smile widening.

  ‘Amy, please.’ He leans over to shake my hand.

  ‘How are things?’

  Ridiculous, stupid tears, unbidden, rush back to my eyes. I scrabble for a tissue. ‘Fine,’ I say with a sniff. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘That good. Anything you want to talk about?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m fine really.’

  ‘Mind if I join you anyway? You’re not waiting for anyone?’

  ‘No, no.’ I don’t know anyone here to wait for.

  He pulls out his chair and I realise how tall he is as he folds himself into it. The waitress comes over and she looks decidedly happier than she did when she took my order. The women in the hats watch intently. Well, let them.

  ‘Our nanny’s left,’ I tell him when the waitress has cleared off again and I’ve composed myself. ‘She’s been with us for years. I’ve just dropped her at Scarsby station so that she can head back to the smoke.’

 
‘Is that the end of the world?’ he asks, but not unkindly.

  I shake my head. ‘No. But it feels like the end of a world that I previously knew very well and rather enjoyed.’

  ‘Finding it difficult to adjust to life in the country?’

  ‘Somewhat,’ I say, and manage to find a laugh from somewhere. Then, bravado failing, I let out a shuddering sigh.

  Guy waits and studies me and, for some reason, that prompts me to carry on. ‘It wasn’t exactly my choice to come here,’ I explain. ‘I did it for Will. He’s convinced it’s what we need. I packed in a great job and a wonderful city lifestyle. And there are times, lots of them, when I wonder if I did the right thing.’

  ‘You must love him very much.’

  ‘I do,’ I say.

  Our humungous pot of tea arrives, along with my teacake and Guy’s toasted cheese sandwich.

  ‘My husband recently had a health scare,’ I go on. ‘It was a terrible shock to us.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘It made him completely reassess his life,’ I continue, suddenly unable to stop myself from unburdening my troubles. ‘It should have made me do the same, but it hasn’t. And now I feel we’re singing from a different song-sheet.’

  ‘But you’re giving this a go for him.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Sounds very noble to me,’ Guy observes.

  ‘I don’t feel very noble. I feel bereft, bad tempered and, to be honest, bloody trapped.’

  ‘It’s early days yet,’ Guy says sympathetically. ‘It took me a long time to learn to love this place.’

  ‘But you do now?’

  He nods. ‘I’ve been here five years. Now I wouldn’t go anywhere else.’

  ‘Not even for love?’

  The vet laughs at that. ‘I came here to get away from a broken heart and I don’t know that I’d be in a rush to chase another one.’

  ‘Where are you from originally?’

  ‘Surrey. It took them three years to stop calling me an incomer. It took me two to understand what they were saying.’

  ‘And now you’re a pillar of the community.’

  ‘I like to think that I perform a vital role here.’ I think Guy flushes. ‘Speaking of which, how are the chickens coming along?’

  ‘I loathe them,’ I confess. ‘But I’m giving them their medicine every morning and evening. They reward me by crapping on me.’

  He laughs again at that and I join in. ‘They’ll thank you for it one day.’

  ‘I wish.’

  ‘Just wait until those lovely, organic eggs come rolling in every morning.’

  ‘And, believe it or not, I ought to be getting back for the chickens.’ I glance at my watch and then call the waitress over, adding ‘That’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear myself utter.’

  ‘It’ll get better,’ Guy says. ‘I promise you. Just give it time.’

  ‘You’ll make me cry again.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to do that.’ At which I blush like a schoolgirl.

  The waitress comes with the bill. ‘I’ll settle that,’ Guy insists.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Amy,’ he says softly, and his gorgeous brown eyes look deep into mine. His hand covers my fingers and it sends an unexpected wave of tingling through my skin. I should pull away, but I don’t. Wrong as it is, I like the feel, the strangeness of his skin on mine. ‘If there’s anything that you need – you, or William – you only have to call me. You’ve got my mobile number. Don’t hesitate to use it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’ll remember that.’ Finally, I extricate my hand and we exchange an uncertain smile. As I rush out of the tea room, I see the old ladies’ heads together, gossiping, fussing with adjusting their hats. That will have made their afternoon.

  And, as I head back to my rickety old Land Rover, I can imagine that – if I wasn’t a happily married woman, of course – Guy Burton is someone I could definitely come to depend on.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Who was that you were with in Poppy’s?’ Cheryl leaned back against the wall of the staff room and folded her arms.

  ‘How do you know about that?’ Guy asked as he washed his hands in preparation for the afternoon consultations.

  ‘I am the all-seeing oracle and know everything,’ she told him.

  ‘Then why are you having to ask me?’

  ‘News travels fast here. It was the new incomer, Mrs Ashurst.’

  ‘You really do know everything, don’t you?’

  Her smile returned. ‘Does that mean I get a pay rise?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re late for surgery,’ the receptionist chided. ‘You must have been having a good time. You’re never late for surgery.’

  ‘Sorry. It won’t happen again.’ It was true, the reception was stacked with people sitting with cardboard boxes and travel cages on their laps, eager to bring him their pets. Thanks to Amy Ashurst he was, indeed, going to have a nice backlog. Still, it had been a very pleasant way to make his clients and his receptionist irate.

  ‘So? Is she nice?’

  ‘She’s lovely,’ Guy said. More lovely than he liked to dwell on. ‘So are her husband and children.’

  Cheryl wrinkled her nose at him. ‘I know, I know.’

  There wasn’t a lot Cheryl didn’t know. She’d been his receptionist since he’d bought the practice five years ago and, also for the last five years, she’d been trying her best to fix him up with every woman in Scarsby and surrounding districts – whether they were eligible or otherwise. They’d once had a tricky conversation about whether he was gay or not. Cheryl claimed that you could never tell these days, and it was fair to say that there wasn’t a thriving gay community in Scarsby – as far as he was aware. So, having ascertained that he was, indeed, a red-blooded male despite his lack of interest in dating her dubious friends, she had redoubled her efforts to make his lovelife more interesting. Sometimes he wished he’d invented a boyfriend called Cecil – it would have made life so much easier. The fact that Cheryl had recently married and had a small child herself didn’t stop her from looking longingly at him on occasions – something he found exceedingly embarrassing. His favourite employee definitely had a soft spot for him. And he often wondered if her acute interest in getting him fixed up was simply to put him out of harm’s way.

  ‘Mrs Todd’s here with her bald pussy.’

  ‘I’ve told you before, Cheryl. It’s a hairless cat. A Sphynx cat. A bald pussy is . . . let’s not go there.’

  ‘Whatever.’ She smirked at him. ‘It’s puking up all over the place. ’Orrible little thing. She’s waiting in consulting room one for you and has been for ten minutes now.’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’ Mrs Todd was one of his clients who didn’t always come here primarily out of concern for her animal companion. She wore lots of leopardskin prints and heavy perfume. Her cat was unusually afflicted by ailments. Most of them minor. Mrs Todd wasn’t alone in this. He had a few clients like that. Sometimes in Scarsby, housewives had to create their own fun.

  The practice was tucked away in a snug back street, next to Duggley’s hardware store – a place where you could buy anything from a few penceworth of plastic wotsit to a ten-ton tractor. The veterinary surgery had become too much work for the previous owner, who’d been keen to retire after a lifetime of rootling in cows’ backsides. The price had been right, the timing perfect and Guy had, literally, run for the hills. It was a decision he’d never regretted. Well, only sometimes, in the dead of night when there was no one to hold. But he’d coped brilliantly with all of that lost-love stuff. Or at least he thought he had. Guy pushed away any doubts.

  Work was his succour now. The practice was thriving. He wasn’t only popular with the bored housewives of Scarsby. Over the years he’d gradually won the grudging respect of the farmers round here. No mean task for a ‘soft southerner’. He’d taken out an enormous loan to buy a new, state-of-the-art scanner. He had a new, ultra-
keen assistant – Stephen – who mainly ran the surgery while he was left to go out and about on the farms tending to the livestock, charming grumpy farmers who assumed that all you were trying to do was fleece them of their hard-earned cash.

  It was a good life. One that suited him. He answered to no one. Except, of course, the bank manager. And Cheryl. And, occasionally, Mrs Todd. She’d be unhappy that he’d kept her waiting. Better put on his best bedside manner.

  ‘They say she’s very posh,’ Cheryl called after him. ‘That Mrs Ashurst.’

  ‘No,’ Guy corrected after giving it some thought. ‘She’s not.’ Amy Ashurst was a whole lot of things that stirred up emotions in him that he had thought were long dead, but posh wasn’t one of them.

  Cheryl’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve gone all dreamy-looking.’

  He snapped his attention back to the surgery. ‘Just thinking about that bald pussy,’ he quipped.

  Chapter Twenty

  When I pull into the drive, I can see that my dear husband is fast asleep on a tired-looking wooden bench in the garden under the massive oak tree. Will has attached a birdfeeder to one of the bottom branches and there’s a steady stream of blue tits and other brightly coloured birds that I can’t name flitting backwards and forwards to it.

  My husband is slumped down in the corner of the seat, chin on his chest, arms folded across his tum. Will clearly thinks we’ve moved to the Mediterranean rather than Yorkshire as a lengthy afternoon siesta features heavily in his daily routine now. Not that I begrudge him it. If he needs to sleep more at the moment then he should.

  It looks like William has rooted through all of the packing boxes to find his favourite Panama, which has now fallen forward over his eyes. I always like him in that hat and he looks so comfortable snoozing there – the country gentleman at peace – that it brings a much-needed smile to my lips.

  I slide out of the driver’s seat and brush the dirt from the car off my dress while I look out over the garden. This really is a very peaceful spot. I wouldn’t mind a bit of shut-eye too. Maybe Will and I could curl up in our bed and have a little extended afternoon siesta before the children are due home? The thought sends butterflies to my tummy. Perhaps there are some benefits of living the quiet life in the country. Our sexlife normally has to be fitted in around everything else and is usually conducted in silence in the dead of the night.