The Difference a Day Makes (8 page)

Maya helps them to pour out their cereal, while I pull Will to one side. ‘That’s it,’ I whisper fiercely. ‘This isn’t a home filled with animals and love. It’s filled with an eating machine, a serial killer and a variety of chewed things.You’re not Doctor flaming Doolittle. No more animals. None. I’m serious.’

‘That’s fine,’Will says, chastened.‘I hear you. No more animals.’

‘Promise me on your children’s lives?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘After the goats arrive today, that’s absolutely it.’

 

 

 

W
hile the children finish their breakfast, Will and I head outside to tend to our steadily growing flock. With a distinct lack of enthusiasm, I take the chicken duty, while my husband goes to look after the elderly sheep who’ve been christened Daphne, Doris and Delila.

I’m trying to ignore the fact that the toes of my favourite Kurt Geiger boots have obviously been given a tentative chew by our new dog. Though I’ve quickly realised that, even given their less than pristine state, they’re not the ideal footwear for animal husbandry. It looks as if we’re staying here for the duration, so I ought to invest in some decent wellies for us all.

I jump and give a scream as I lift the lid off the feedbin and a mouse scuttles out. Grief. My heart’s pounding in my chest like a hammer. Will might think that this place is going to be the panacea for his dodgy heart, but I think it’s going to
give
me a dicky ticker. At least I’m not having to scoop out the bloodied remains of one of Milly Molly Mandy’s ‘playmates’. Getting back to nature is all very well, but sometimes you can just be
too
close to it. I sigh as I measure out the grain for the chickens. Will I ever get used to the amount of small, scary and fast-moving creatures that nature harbours?

Our henhouse is enormous - industrial-sized probably - with room for many more chickens than our scabby dozen. The door has a heart-shaped Perspex window in it - which is a nice touch, but one that the chickens couldn’t care less about as they’re blind. There’s a long, enclosed run next to it where Will has - rather hopefully, I think - installed a large rabbit hutch. Despite my husband’s leanings, I have no intentions of having rabbits too.

Working my way along the chickens, I grab each one with a reluctance I previously hadn’t known possible. I can feel the expression of extreme distaste on my face. Oh, I so don’t like chickens! Particularly not these nervous, moth-eaten ones. I try Christopher first as she looks the most docile. Clearly my husband hasn’t got to the bit in
Keeping Chickens
where Audrey points out that all hens are female. Chris wriggles underneath my hands and squawks as if I’m trying to murder her as I struggle to drip the antibiotics into her unseeing eyes. This makes the rest of the hens scatter, flapping blindly round the chicken coop and scrabbling vainly for the door.

‘I’m doing this for your own good,’ I tell Christopher firmly. ‘Stop fidgeting. You’re frightening the others.’ To think that in my former life as a television producer of the UK’s favourite sports quiz, I used to find the demands of Premiership footballers difficult to deal with.

When I’ve managed to catch them all - a not inconsiderable feat - and have worked my way through them all administering medicine, my Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress is thoroughly covered in chicken shit. I then carry each chicken carefully over to the bowl of food and point it in the direction of its breakfast. It’s taken me for ever. And I’ll have to do it all again later. And tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that.

When I get back to the kitchen, exhausted, my husband is sitting drinking tea. He has fared much better with the sheep. ‘Lovely old things,’ he declares with a contented smile.‘No trouble at all. I think they’ll really enrich our life.’

Three menopausal sheep? Can’t wait to see how. It’s a bright, sunny day today. Wait until we’re struggling out in the wind and snow to deal with them. Might not be such an attractive proposition then.

Before I’ve had time to enjoy a cuppa, the children are ready for school.

‘Hamish has had his breakfast too,’ Jessica informs me, and it’s then that I spy the pile of cornflakes on the floor plus the shredded box. I feel my forehead. It’s becoming feverish, I’ll swear.

‘I will clean it all up, Amy,’ Maya says with a tut and then she disappears to find the dustpan and brush - which, frankly, has never seen so much action. I don’t know how she’s putting up with all the extra work she’s having to do: if I was her, I’d go on strike. And then I wonder why
I’m
not on strike.

‘Can we take Hamish to school with us?’ Tom asks.

‘What a good idea,’ Will says. I’d rather leave the damn thing here, preferably locked in a small room with nothing for him to eat other than the rest of the cornflakes box. Mind you, he’d probably gnaw his way out through the door.

‘Come on, boy.’ My husband tries to lasso him with the lead while the dog bucks like a bronco. ‘I might try to find some dog-training classes,’ Will pants as he wrestles with Hamish. This can’t be good for his heart.

Ten minutes later and after a great performance the dog is finally harnessed and we set off, rushing as now the children are in danger of being late.Will is yanked down the lane by Hamish, to whom rushing is second nature. It’s like trying to take a charging bull for a walk.

‘Whoa, boy! Whoa, boy!’ Will cries in vain as we all head to the school in double-quick time, my husband’s feet being dragged along the pavement as he scrabbles to keep a purchase. No one can be in any doubt about who’s taking whom for a walk. I don’t think the children have ever had to run to school before.

We arrive in time to see Mrs Barnsely in the playground, giving Will plenty of time to assail the Headteacher with his sob story about Tom’s chewed jacket. The redoubtable Mrs Barnsley eyes Hamish warily while, oblivious, he wees on the school gate, and her look says that she hopes our children will be better behaved than our dog.

Leaving Tom and Jessica to their day, my husband and I - and dog - head back to Helmshill Grange. I still can’t quite bring myself to call the place home.The hills around us, lush and green, stretch to the sky. The roads are empty - in fact, the only vehicles I’ve seen this morning have been ones carrying hay. Even though it’s now gone nine o’clock there’s not another sign of life in the village. This could possibly be the most peaceful place on earth. Or the most dull.

Hamish drags us along the lane, straining at the lead.Will links his arm through mine and I’m not sure if he’s trying to be romantic or whether he’s trying to get some extra stability.

He turns to me. ‘Do you think you can be happy here?’

What can I say?

‘I don’t know, Will,’ I answer honestly. I fail to tell him that I’m having to fight the urge to phone the British Television Company every five minutes to find out what’s going on and whether they’re missing me. If they begged me to come back, what would I do? Is my husband’s health more important than my sanity? Could I go back to my high-powered job, get a place in London during the week and come back here at the weekends? Don’t plenty of families live like that these days? I didn’t realise that a part of me was defined by my ability to produce great television programmes, but it is. I can’t deny it, sad as that may sound. I was proud of what I did. Is anyone going to give me praise or a huge pay rise for nursing some scraggy hens back to good health?

Then I think of Will lying on that station platform as I watched, terrified that his life might be ebbing away from him. Isn’t it more important that I’m here with him rather than fretting about the loss of my career and a decent six-figure salary? I don’t want to be away from him or the kids during the week. We’re a family. We have to do what’s best for all of us. And my husband is utterly convinced that we’ll all be given a new lease of life by opting out of the rat race. ‘Give me time,’ I tell him. ‘I’m sure it will work out fine.’

‘I hope so,’ he says. ‘I love it here. So do the kids.’

I’m not sure that the kids love it any more than I do, but I decide to let that thought remain unspoken.

Will looks at the crazed hound lurching down the road in front of us. ‘You love it here too, don’t you, boy?’ Hamish yelps in delight. ‘I think I’ll let him off the lead. Just for a minute or two.’

‘Do you think that’s wise?’

‘I think this dog’s brighter than you give him credit for,’ Will chides. ‘He’ll come back when I call him.’

William slips the lead from Hamish’s collar and, immediately, the dog bolts for freedom. ‘Hamish,’ Will shouts optimistically. ‘Heel!’

Hamish gives him a look that says not-on-your-nelly, mate. Then he vaults a four-foot wall and heads off into the surrounding hills, barking manically.

‘Hamish!’

The dog barks some more and runs faster in response.

‘Hamish!’ Will sounds very stern now. ‘Come back here at once!’

Hamish is rapidly becoming a small black dot in the distance. The deafening noise of his bark recedes.

And I say nothing.

 

 

 

‘
I
f I find that dog worrying my sheep again,’ the farmer says in an accent so broad that I can barely understand it, ‘I’ll bloody shoot it.’

‘Thank you,’ Will says. ‘Thank you so much for bringing him home.’

My husband had trailed through the fields for hours looking for Hamish, but with no joy. Unfortunately, it’s bad luck for us that he was found playing with sheep. Probably trying to mount them, if I know Hamish. And I feel I’ve got his character marked quite well.

‘I’m very, very sorry,’ Will continues. ‘I can only apologise. And pay for any damage.’

What’s the going rate for a shagged sheep, I wonder. Later today, I seriously have to bash the phones to see if I can put out some feelers for a new job. I’ve already tried the two main television stations in the area, but there was nothing going. Everyone, it seems, is tightening their belts. The best they could offer was to tell me to send in my CV and they’d put me on file. It makes me feel like a teenager again, having to scratch around for work. Surely someone must be able to use my expertise? Will was so sure that we’d be able to get freelance work, but where? There’s nothing round here. For the moment, replacing our healthy income has proved steadfastly elusive. The bills are mounting here as the cost of feeding and caring for our growing farmyard brood is not inconsiderable.The money that Will raised from selling our lovely, lovely Audi has already been eaten up - literally. One of us needs to start pulling in some serious cash before what little is left of our savings is completely gone.

The farmer grunts. He’s wearing a raincoat, flat cap and wellies and a big scowl.

Hamish, thick with mud and smelling like a pigsty, is wagging his tail in our drive, seemingly unaware of his brush with death. There’s a piece of orange nylon twine round his neck and Will is clutching it as if his life depends on it.

My husband holds out his hand to the taciturn man. ‘William Ashurst,’ he says in his friendliest tone. His hand remains unshaken. ‘And my wife, Amy.’

At this moment, I’d like to deny that I even know Will, but how would I explain being here? ‘Hello.’

He glowers at me too.

‘We’ve just moved here,’ Will continues brightly.

‘I know,’ the farmer says, unimpressed. ‘You’re the posh incomers.’ He looks at our designer chicken coop and our three ageing sheep with disdain.

‘We’d love to know our neighbours better. Perhaps we could entertain you one evening. And your good lady wife. If you have one . . .’ Will’s attempt at bonhomie trails away.

Hamish, clearly mobilised by his master’s attempts at friendship, tries to nuzzle the farmer’s nuts. It doesn’t go down well. The man’s hands go to protect his testicles and he lashes out a kick at Hamish, who nimbly scoots out of the way.

‘Keep that bloody dog off my property or I’ll bloody shoot it.’ With that our neighbour turns on his heels, stamps back to his Land Rover - which is in better condition than ours - and screeches off.

‘That went well,’ Will observes with a sigh.

‘I thought Londoners were supposed to be the miserable bastards,’ I mutter.

‘Hamish,’Will says,‘we’re in trouble with our neighbours now. You’re a very naughty dog.’

‘You’re a menace to society,’ I add. ‘You’re going to have to do something about him, Will. He’s like a wild animal.’ He certainly smells like one.

‘I will. I will,’ my husband promises.

‘Get the hosepipe on him,’ I instruct. ‘Or better still, I’ll do it.’

‘I can manage,’ Will insists. ‘He’ll sit still for me.’

Yes, I think, in the same way he came back when you called him.

‘I don’t want you to over-exert yourself,’ I say. ‘The next job on my list is to phone the doctor’s and make you an appointment for tomorrow. I’m worried that you’re still so tired all the time.’

‘I’m fine.’ Will flexes his muscles like a old-fashioned circus strong man. ‘You worry too much. I’m feeling as fit as a flea.’

‘Promise me that you’ll take it easy.’

‘I will.’ My husband kisses my cheek. ‘Of course I will.’

As I go back into the kitchen, I wonder if I can find the contents of our wine rack anywhere. A decent glass of red would go down a treat right now, even though it’s not yet lunchtime. This is what the relaxing life in the country has done to me - turned me into an alcoholic within two months.

With that thought in mind, my step perks up no end. I could even be moved to whistle to myself. I bound into the kitchen where I find Maya standing in her jacket with her case at her feet. ‘I am leaving,’ she says.

‘What?’That stops me in my tracks, and my momentary lightness of spirit is flattened. ‘You can’t.’

‘I don’t like it here, Amy.’ Our treasured nanny begins to cry. ‘I did not want to come. But I did for you, for children. But I do not like it here. I do not like dog. He tries to sniff my bottom.’