The Difference a Day Makes (11 page)

‘It wasn’t your dream,’ she reminds me. ‘Now you have to do what’s best for you and the children.’ She sits in the chair next to me and pours herself another cup of coffee. ‘You should come home. You need family around you. There’s just the two of us now, sis. We need to stick together. Move near to me so that I’m there to help you with Tom and Jessica.’ Serena lives in a swanky flat in the Docklands. She works from seven in the morning to ten at night. My sister takes in the run-down kitchen. ‘You can’t possibly stay here. It’s far too much work for one person.’

‘You’re right,’ I agree, thinking again of the chickens, sheep and the two new goats that are awaiting my ministrations. Everything seems to be taking twice as long. The responsibilities here are too daunting. I could barely dress myself this morning, so how can I suddenly become responsible for a couple of dozen living things? Things that I know nothing about. Serena’s right. We can’t stay here. ‘As soon as the funeral is over I’ll put the house on the market. We should look for somewhere in Notting Hill again so that the children can go back to their old school.’

Serena pats my hand. ‘I think that would be the sensible thing to do.’

‘Perhaps I can get my old job back. Or something similar.’ The thought pushes a bright spot into the gloom. ‘I’m sure the BTC will appreciate the situation.’

Hamish comes over to me, tail wagging, lead in mouth. ‘Not now,’ I tell him and he drops the lead on the floor with a miserable look. I feel guilty that I haven’t fed him yet and go to the scullery cupboard where we keep his doggy food and mix him up a bowl. He wolfs it down gratefully, chasing the bowl round the floor and decorating the walls with chewed biscuits, splatters of meaty chunks and slobber.

‘You have disgusting table manners, dog.’

He woofs at me and spits food across the room. One of my first jobs when I’m up to it will be to take this damn animal back to the rescue place where he came from. I can’t handle him and, at the moment, I can hardly bear to look at him because he was here when Will died and I wasn’t. It was the dog’s fault that I was in Scarsby in the first place. If he hadn’t sniffed Maya’s bottom maybe she wouldn’t have left us. If he hadn’t chewed up all our underwear then I wouldn’t have had to go into the town at all. I could have dropped Maya at the station and come straight back. If I’d done that, maybe I could have saved my husband’s life instead of it gently ebbing away while he was here on his own.

‘You’ll be okay,’ Serena tells me as I head back into the kitchen.

‘Yes,’ I say dully. People cope. Life goes on. Others depend on me. If it weren’t for the children, I’m sure I’d just want to lie down on the floor and die myself. Guilt kicks in. I can’t desert Will’s charges now. ‘I’d better go and feed the chickens and stuff.’

‘Need any help?’ My sister looks horrified at the thought. In fact, her expression looks exactly like mine.

‘No,’ I assure her. ‘I can manage.’ And, pulling on my newly acquired waterproof jacket and Wellingtons, I head out into the downpour.

 

 

 

I
’m trying to wrestle antibiotics into Christopher’s beady chicken’s eyes and I’m wondering why I’m bothering. They’ll all be going soon. Will’s dream has died along with him and I don’t care if I never set eyes on another chicken again. Though now that the antibiotics are starting to work the hens have more of a chance of setting eyes on me before they go. It looks like I’m never going to have the joy of collecting my own eggs now. It’s probably another one of those country experiences that’s vastly overrated.

The rain is pounding down on the henhouse and I cry gently as I work. Despite it being morning, the sky is as dark as night. Through the heart-shaped window and the gloom, I see the headlights of a vehicle as it pulls into the drive. I give it scant attention. Whatever it is, Serena is more than capable of dealing with it. I carry along the row of chickens. As they can’t see, they all sit on their perches facing the wall which, this morning, makes me feel interminably sad.

Behind me, the door to the henhouse opens.‘Amy,’ a voice says.

Looking up, I see Guy Burton standing in the doorway. He’s soaked to the skin, hair flattened to his head. ‘I just heard.’

‘Isn’t it supposed to be good news that travels fast?’ My voice catches in my throat.

‘I’m so sorry.’

I stand, chicken in hand, and don’t know what to say. Neither does the vet. It looks like he might want to give me a hug, but I don’t think that I could bear it.

‘Let me finish that for you.’

‘I can manage,’ I say. ‘I’m just about done.’

‘The sheep should be brought inside while it’s raining like this,’ Guy tells me.

‘Oh.’

‘Shall I take them into one of the barns? Have you got any hay?’

Shaking my head, I say, ‘I don’t know.’ Will was supposed to look after the sheep. Even though they’re old ladies, I’m too frightened to go near them.

‘I’ll organise some,’ Guy says. ‘I’ll put the goats in with them. They don’t like the rain either.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Amy,’ he says, ‘if there’s anything you need, anything I can do - tell me. Don’t be alone in this. Will wouldn’t have wanted you to be isolated.’

How does this man, this stranger, think he knows what Will wanted when I, his wife, was struggling to come to terms with it myself? I push away the thought before it makes me weep again.

‘I can’t stay here,’ I tell him. ‘Now that Will’s not here. The house will be going up for sale. As soon as I can, I’ll be taking the children back to London.’

Now it’s Guy’s turn to look surprised. ‘Isn’t it a bit too soon to make a decision? I thought you were starting to like it here.’

I think back to the afternoon we spent in the tea room together when I was laughing into those dark brown eyes while all the time Will was slipping quietly out of my life. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I hate it.’

‘That’s a shame,’ Guy says.

‘Well. That’s life.’

‘This place has a lot to offer.’

‘You sound like . . .’ I was about to say ‘my husband’ and I stop myself.

‘You might see it differently in a few months’ time.’

‘I hope to be long gone by then.’

‘People round here will be sorry to see you go.’

I doubt it. I’ve hardly spoken to anyone since I’ve been here. With cleaning the house and unpacking boxes, I’ve barely ventured out. I’m certain that I won’t be missed. Besides, I need my old friends around me now.The friends who I had to struggle to find time to see when I was working. I must let Maya know what’s happened too. She’ll be devastated. Perhaps she’ll come back to us.

‘I’d better put the sheep in for you,’ Guy says, seeing that I’m distracted, deep in thought. ‘I’ll come back later with some hay, but I won’t disturb you. I’ll go straight to the barn.’

‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to do the hens too?’

Shaking my head, I say, ‘It will be better if I’m busy.’

Then, as he clearly can’t think of anything else to say, or has any crumb of comfort to offer, Guy heads back out into the rain and I watch him go.

But will it be better if I’m busy? I currently can’t think of anything that will fill this hole inside me. If it wasn’t for the children, I’d lie down in this luxury henhouse and let the chickens peck me to death.

 

 

 

T
he funeral car is here. And it’s waiting, engine burbling softly, exhaust fumes puffing into the air. We’ve managed to capture Hamish, who was bolting round the garden, frothing at the mouth. Now he’s safely locked in the scullery, but he’s howling the place down. Clearly, he knows that something is happening and, equally clearly, he doesn’t like it.

This morning Hamish has had a chewing frenzy - a tea towel, a dishwashing sponge, Jessica’s favourite slippers and a pile of clean, folded towels from the scullery have all had the Hamish treatment. I haven’t had the time to clear up after him. I haven’t walked him for days either as I just couldn’t face going out and about in the village and now the dog’s a roiling mass of pent-up energy.

‘Are you sure he’ll be all right in there?’ my sister asks nervously.

‘We don’t have any choice,’ I say. ‘We’ve got to go.’ I have a quick hunt round the kitchen. ‘I can’t find my mobile phone.’

‘You’re not going to need your phone at the church.’

‘I’m sure I had it this morning. Now I can’t see it anywhere.’

‘The vet called again earlier,’ Serena tells me. ‘He asked if it was okay if he came to the service. I told him it was.’

I nod, gratefully. Despite my continuing guilt when I think of him, it would be good to see him there, to see at least one friendly face. Guy Barton has been quietly slipping in and out of the yard tending to our animals, stealthily making sure that I’m remembering to take the hens in at night. More than once he’s saved them from the clutches of the wily foxes who are only looking for the slightest excuse to help themselves to a free lunch.

People I don’t even know from the village have been calling me all week to express their condolences - people who didn’t even know Will. Which is in sharp contrast to our oldest and supposedly closest friends.

Serena called round all our colleagues from the British Television Company for me, those that we treasured, friends from years ago who have been through all our trials and tribulations with us, and no one - not one single one of them - has been able to make it to William’s funeral. Without exception, they cited a whole host of plausible reasons why they were unable to attend the funeral of someone who had once seemed so dear to them, like childcare considerations, work commitments (how often have I used that one myself?), travel difficulties. And I just got the impression that if we’d still been living in Notting Hill and had suffered this tragedy, then I’m sure that they would have been the first to come around. But in Yorkshire we’re now out of sight and out of mind. Not even Maya is coming. She says that her new employer won’t give her the day off. Old friendships clearly count for nothing when there’s a long stretch of motorway in between. My sister tried to convince me to bury Will in London, but I know that this is where he’d want to be. We’ve been here for such a short time, but I know that he’d want his soul to settle here.

Our friends and colleagues have all sent floral tributes to assuage their consciences. I feel like throwing them on the fire. How could they do this to Will? Did my husband mean so little to them? What a meagre party we’ll make for Will’s send-off. How can someone who has been so popular in life be so neglected at his death? The people that we cared for have turned out to be nothing more than fair-weather friends. It’s at times like this when you find out who your true pals really are.

Hamish howls some more. I give up the search for my phone. ‘Let’s go. Are the children ready?’

Serena nods. ‘They’re being very brave.’ More than I am. I feel like lying down on the floor and never getting up again. My sister shouts to the children and they come into the kitchen.

I bend down and hug them. Jessica is crying silently. ‘I love you both very much,’ I tell them. ‘Daddy would be so proud of you.’

Then I take their hands - for once Tom doesn’t object - and we go out to the funeral car.

 

 

 

I
’ve wanted to come to this lovely little church since we arrived in the village; I just didn’t imagine it being in these circumstances. The day is incongruously bright and warm. In the churchyard the trees are hanging onto the last of their autumn coats, their few remaining leaves tinged with gold and raspberry, the rest of them forming a colourful carpet in the churchyard. Will would have loved a day like this. He’d have taken the children by the hand and kicked through the leaves with them, shouting happily. I blank out the image.

We follow the coffin into the church and I find it hard to believe that my husband is lying in there. I keep having to say it over and over to myself -
he’s gone and he’s not coming back
. I squeeze the children’s hands and they look up at me with tearful eyes.

The church has been decked with white lilies and the scent is beautiful. But that’s not what takes my breath away. Inside, the pews are filled with people from the village, people that I’ve barely glanced at over the last few months.Yet they’ve all turned out to say goodbye to Will. I’m touched that they’ve taken the time to find space in their busy lives to be here when our friends could not.

We walk down the aisle, our sad little procession, and the sun streams through the stained-glass windows, casting kaleidoscopes of rainbow colour across the floor.This is very beautiful in its own poignant way.

The vicar comes to the front of the altar and the undertaker’s bearers place the coffin on its stand. I don’t know the vicar, but he called on me yesterday and discussed what I’d like him to say, what readings, what hymns. How could I tell him that I couldn’t care less? Now he starts to speak and a respectful hush falls on the congregation. ‘We’re gathered here in the sight of God,’ he says solemnly,‘to celebrate the life of William Ashurst . . .’

I feel my legs start to shake. How will I be able to get through this?

Then, all of a sudden, behind us there’s a terrible howling noise. I turn in terror. The shout is out of my throat before I have time to consider where I am or what the occasion is. ‘Hamish! No!’

Through the church doors, the dog charges. I dread to think how he’s got out of the house, but he has. He barrels down the aisle, knocking us all out of the way and showering the congregation with spittle.

‘No!’ I shout as I make a futile lunge for him. ‘No!’

I see Guy Barton dive forwards, but he’s too slow for Hamish. In a masterly body swerve, the dog evades the vet, but loses his footing on the flooring worn smooth by the feet of many worshippers. He slides down the aisle, paws scrabbling against the stone as he goes careening towards the coffin.