Kitty's Countryside Dream (10 page)

This was definitely a job for two people.

I hummed happily while we worked alongside each other.

‘We'll have this space transformed in the blink of an eye,' I said, amazed.

‘I was just thinking the same thing,' Lucinda said, smiling warmly.

Once all the plants were potted, the climbers planted in the large wooden barrels and the shoots tacked to the fence, we stood back and admired our work.

‘Drumroll please. I now declare Kitty Lewis's yard fit for purpose,' Lucinda joked.

‘It looks perfect.'

‘It will do once spring arrives; the overall effect will be truly magical.

‘We need a toast, a small tipple to mark the occasion.'

Hearing clapping behind us, startled, we both jumped out of our skins. Spinning around, we came face to face with Tom and Robin peering over the back fence like naughty schoolboys.

‘Not bad at all, ladies. Looks like you've both been busy,' Tom mused.

I caught Robin's eye. I hadn't seen him since I ran out of the pub, leaving him stranded by the bar. He seemed fine and not at all put out.

‘Looks very inviting,' Robin hinted. ‘I think we should christen all your hard work with a beer.' He tilted his head, smiling, and as luck would have it … he lifted a carrier bag full of beers up over the fence.

‘This is definitely how Sunday afternoons should be spent, drinking beer with friends,' Tom said.

‘OK, if we must!' Lucinda and I answered at the same time, laughing and holding up our hands for a high five.

A
few weeks
later my daily routine was more established and I usually left the house for the Lodge at 8.30 each morning. Tom and Jeannie were extremely kind and took care of the early mornings and late shifts between them until I felt a little more confident around my new feathered friends.

Springtime was creeping in fast. The sugar-coated, frosted grass had now been replaced by green shoots swaying in the morning breeze. The daffodils nodded their heads in delight, bees surfed from flower to flower and the flute-throated dawn chorus of birds erupted into song every morning as I cycled up the long path towards the Lodge.

I began to appreciate why it was named Bluebell Lodge – either side of the driveway, bluebells had burst from the earth, covering every spare piece of ground. The outstanding beauty was breathtaking and the scenery all around was truly idyllic.

Glancing over in the direction of Brambleberry Cottage, I saw that too had burst into colour. It was so beautiful with the champagne and pink climbers already in full bloom, twisting their vines around the old wooden arched doorway of the 1850s cottage.

Suddenly pulling my brakes, I dragged my feet along the ground and stopped pedalling. Placing both feet firmly on the ground, I watched the window. I was sure I'd spotted a shadowy figure lingering behind the curtain. I watched for another minute and then realised there was nothing unusual about this; Tom had probably nipped home for something he'd forgotten. I stared for a moment longer and there it was again. The curtain twitched – there was a small gap between the draperies – but I couldn't see anymore. I was certain there was someone standing there.

Suddenly I could hear the sound of Tom whistling from the courtyard outside the office. I knew it wasn't him inside the cottage now.

‘Good morning, Kitty,' an enthusiastic Tom shouted over in my direction.

‘Shhh,' I hissed back, not taking my eyes off the cottage.

Tom wandered over to me. ‘Whatever are you doing?' He raised his eyebrows in wonder.

‘I could have sworn I spotted a shadow hunched behind your curtain; it moved and the curtains twitched. There's someone in your house.'

‘Don't be so melodramatic. I suspect it's more likely to be the faulty catch on the upstairs bathroom window blowing a draught through the cottage.'

We stared at each other.

At that very moment the office phone rang. Tom hurried to answer it. I followed him and leant my bike against the stone wall.

‘Don't worry, Jeannie, we hope you feel better soon,' I heard him say.

I wandered inside the office to see Tom hanging up the receiver.

‘Is everything OK?' I asked.

‘It's Jeannie, she won't be in today – she's been struck down with a stomach bug.'

‘Poor thing, I hope she feels better soon.'

Tom walked towards the back of the office.

‘Aren't you at least going to take a look at what's going on in the cottage?' I asked, jerking my head back towards the door.

‘No, I'm going to switch the kettle on and then you're going to help me bath and prune Paddy for the upcoming show,' Tom said firmly.

‘You're going to do what to Paddy?'

‘
We
are going to bath him.' He looked sideways and smirked at me.

‘There have been many firsts in my life over the last six months, but bathing a rooster has to top the lot,' I said, laughing nervously.

Grabbing a mug of tea off Tom, I strolled towards the barn to find Paddy. Sneakily I glanced back over my shoulder towards the cottage, but there was no movement. I felt uneasy, but there was nothing to see – the curtains hung still.

I
was trapped
in the barn with a beady-eyed rooster who was constantly clacking at me. Despite being here a while now, neither of us had really warmed to the other.

There were only two thoughts running through my head: either I was going to be eaten for his lunch or seriously injured in the next five minutes. My money was on both.

Tom had asked me to retrieve Paddy from the barn with a simple set of instructions. However, things were proving rather tricky. I'd already failed the first instruction: keep your voice soft and calm in order for the chicken to feel secure in your presence.

My heart was pounding against my chest and I was petrified, rooted to the spot. My feet suddenly weighed heavily inside my wellington boots. My educated guess would be that the chicken show would be well and truly finished by the time this rooster had been caught, never mind bathed. Shaking my head in disbelief, I wasn't sure whether this was a wind-up – who baths chickens? Apparently, according to Tom, it was a very competitive arena out there. I was yet to be convinced – and trust Jeannie to be sick today of all days!

There was a good chance this was going to end in a fight. I had visions of the local news showing pictures of a poultry farmer in combat with a rooster. Biting down on my bottom lip, I decided I needed to set some ground rules with Paddy.

I hesitated.

Do not attack me was the first rule for him.

By the look in his eye, we were not singing from the same hymn sheet.

I swallowed.

I needed to be assertive and show him who was boss. Namely me – or so I had to convince him.

‘I'm warning you, Paddy, play nice.'

I couldn't believe I was actually conversing with a chicken, but needs must – my life was hanging in the balance.

Perhaps I should turn around and pretend he wasn't in the barn. Tom could go and fetch him later.

Paddy flapped his wings.

There was one door – the only way in was the only way out and Paddy was patrolling it like the best of guard dogs.

I flinched; there was no escaping this.

I can do this, I can do this, I repeated over and over again in my head.

Softening my voice, I began calling his name. I wasn't sure whether he actually knew his name, but anything was worth a try.

Edging forward slowly, one step at a time, I made a tentative approach towards my great feathered friend, who was still not particularly friendly.

He stood up.

‘Come on, Paddy, let's go and win some prizes.' I continued to talk in a low, soft voice.

He didn't look like he was enjoying our chat as he stretched his neck and didn't take his eyes off me.

I was so close to him now, another few steps.

I remembered Tom's instructions. ‘Once you've caught the chicken, gently but firmly grab him with both hands and place each hand over each wing, so he can't flap.'

That instruction was simple enough to follow; it was the catching of the chicken I was having difficulty with.

Taking a deep breath, I realised it was now or never.

Reaching forward, slowly looking Paddy directly in the eye, I leant towards him and cupped my hands around his feathered body.

With an almighty squawk, he jumped up in the air, flapping his wings with manic force. Taking me by surprise, I fell forward and landed on top of a hay bale. Picking myself up and brushing myself down, I turned towards him and prepared myself for round two.

With a shake of his tail feathers, he hopped across the room, still watching my every move.

I followed.

Walking slowly towards him, I was even more determined not to be made a fool of. Slowly I backed him into a corner – he had nowhere to go. Crouching down, I gradually stretched my arms out wide, ready to cup his wings in my hands, when the barn door suddenly flew open.

‘Hey, what the heck is keeping you?' Tom hollered.

His sudden arrival startled me and I fell back on my heels, my hands thrust to the floor to steady myself and now they were caked with dirt from the ground. Paddy leapt into the air with speed and perched comfortably back on the hay bales at the far end of the room.

I let out a huge sigh. ‘Calm and steady you said and you come thundering into the barn frightening the life out of the pair of us.'

Tom began to laugh.

‘It's not funny,' I muttered, standing up and wiping my dirty hands on my overalls.

‘You forgot to manipulate Paddy so he was facing the opposite direction to you!'

Scooping a handful of chicken corn from the open sack by the door, Tom threw it down towards the corner of the room. Without hesitation Paddy hopped from the bales and began pecking away. Very carefully, Tom bent down and picked up Paddy without a flap or a cluck. Tucking the rooster between his ribs and upper arm, he held his legs between the fingers of the hand that was pinning him to his body. With his other hand, Tom was gently petting Paddy's feathers.

With a wide grin, Tom smiled in my direction. ‘All very simple when you know how.'

‘Everyone dislikes a show-off,' I muttered crossly.

T
he weather was warming
up and it was a very sunny end to the week. With Paddy bathed, clipped and pruned, we would rise the following day at the crack of dawn, like Paddy himself, to register him in the annual poultry show in a nearby village. This was all a revelation to me.

‘Morning, Kitty,' called Tom from the open window of the van that had just pulled up alongside me.

I had awoken at first light and was currently standing on my tiptoes outside my front door, watering my new hanging basket.

I waved.

‘I'll just grab my coat, give me two minutes,' I shouted before dashing inside. With a quick ruffle of Alfie's fur, I closed the front door and plonked myself down next to Tom in the front of his van.

‘Are you ready?'

‘I can't think of a better way to spend my Saturday than at a poultry fair. What a lucky girl I am!'

‘OK quit the sarcasm, otherwise we're in for a long day,' Tom said, grinning.

‘How's Jeannie, have you heard from her?' I was genuinely concerned for her health. She had been off work all week now but a part of me was enjoying my time alone with Tom.

‘According to Robin, she won't make today either; she's still tucked up in bed and very much under the weather. Even her dad's home-made chicken soup isn't agreeing with her. I'll call in on her later to see how she's doing.'

Wide-eyed with horror, I looked at Tom. ‘You don't mean actual home-made chicken soup?'

Tom sniggered. ‘Of course I don't. Jeannie's father, Ted, he's a lovely man, has always been a keen gardener and grows all kinds of fruit and veg on his land. It'll more likely be vegetable soup if I'm honest.'

‘That's a relief! What about Jeannie's mum, does she work at their farm too?'

Tom looked stricken. ‘That's another story.'

‘What do you mean?' I asked.

Tom hesitated.

‘Jeannie and Robin's mum died during her third pregnancy. I can't remember what the condition is called, but Bea, their mum, and the baby didn't make it. They never really knew their mum.'

I was so shocked by the story. How awful for Robin and Jeannie. At least I had known my mum; Jeannie and Robin had never even had that opportunity.

‘Did Ted ever remarry?'

‘No, his children were his main priority, and after Bea died he was never the same again.'

We spent the next few moments in silence; Jeannie and Robin were on my mind. I felt saddened by such a tragedy – their mother taken away without any warning. I was unsure what I would say to either of them. I knew the circumstances were different with my father; I'd built a relationship with him, I had memories to treasure, but Jeannie and Robin had nothing.

‘Look, here we are,' Tom said, following the arrows from the cardboard signs hammered into the ground, leading us to a makeshift car park in a field. The grass was already unrecognisable under all of the mud that had been churned up by the cars, tractors and vans that had arrived at the fair.

‘Wow, it's certainly busy,' I exclaimed.

‘This event is huge; it's important for everyone, villagers, farmers and suchlike. There isn't much to do around here and this type of fair is a massive event – people feel proud showing their livestock and the kids love it.'

Tom retrieved Paddy, who was sat inside his show cage waiting patiently, from the back of the van.

‘I'm just going to fill in the paperwork for Paddy and notify the judges of the categories we want to enter him in. I need to check the times too.'

‘What do you do with Paddy now?'

‘I leave him in the show tent. It can be very noisy in there with a large number of birds gathered in one room until they settle down,' Tom replied. ‘The chicken show is usually first. I'll be two minutes. You have a wander about and I'll catch you up.'

Whilst I waited for Tom to come back, I studied the fair. It was full of activity everywhere I looked. Despite the crowds and the hustle and bustle, good humour prevailed.

Over at the far end of the field, there was a live band playing, villagers dressed in gaudy clothes dancing to the beat of the drums. They merrily weaved in and out of each other, skipping and laughing. There was a great stir and excitement all around them.

There were all kinds of different stalls, ranging from sweets and candyfloss to toys and books. Children were crowded around the old-fashioned sweet stall, anxious to swap their money for a white paper bag full of penny chews. A group of excitable toddlers were running and squealing. They were being herded along by their mothers whilst grasping tightly at their colourful balloons, which were bouncing along in the air. I spotted jugglers and stilt walkers who amused the villagers with their tricks and acts. In the opposite corner was a small funfair, including a helter-skelter, the children giggling whilst they slid down the winding slide on their hessian mats. Merry-go-rounds twirled and whirled with delighted riders. The words ‘faster, faster' could be heard being screamed hysterically from the waltzers and teenagers could be seen stumbling over their own feet with dizziness once the ride was over. Donkeys were also in on the act, plodding up and down, providing rides for the youngsters. The whole field was a medley of sights and sounds.

I was beginning to feel hungry and blamed the tantalizing wafts pouring out from the hotdog stalls and burger vans. Digging deep, I turned out my pocket hoping to discover enough loose change to purchase either.

At that moment I spotted Lucinda; her stall was abundant with the most delicious-looking cakes laid out on a very pretty duck-egg-blue floral tablecloth. Standing in front of the stall was a queue a mile long, excited children tugging on their parents' arms, pointing at the scrumptious cakes, all eagerly waiting for a taste. I gave her a friendly wave and she looked over in my direction, relief flooding her face whilst she mouthed ‘help' at me.

‘I'm coming!' Walking briskly, I headed over to her, rolling my sleeves up; I was ready to give a hand.

‘Am I happy to see you! It's been bedlam.'

‘Would you like some help by any chance?'

‘Right at this moment, Kitty Lewis, I could kiss you, thank you so much.'

We spent the next five minutes slicing cakes, popping them into paper bags and handing them over to the waiting customers. Within no time, the entire stall was nearly empty.

‘You're running out of cake,' I exclaimed.

‘Extra supplies will arrive any minute now. I've sent the cavalry back to the shop. I've been up all night baking but I left the rest of the cakes in the fridges at the bakery. I didn't think I would sell out so soon.'

‘I'm hoping you have more of those flapjacks; I'm partial to a bit of flapjack.' I swore Lucinda's flapjacks could win awards. It also amazed me how slim Lucinda was. I knew for a fact if I was in her profession I would be nibbling away all day, and as for the licking of the chocolate bowl, I wouldn't delegate that job to anyone else.

‘Where's Jeannie? Is she with you?' Lucinda asked.

I shook my head. ‘No, not today. She's under the weather and still in bed.'

‘I hope it's not too serious?'

‘I think it's some sort of food poisoning. Hopefully she'll be as right as rain very soon. On our way here, Tom briefly filled me in on Jeannie and Robin's mum – what an awful situation.'

Lucinda nodded. ‘Awful doesn't come close; it was absolutely tragic. Robin told me the circumstances. Do you know the full story?'

‘Tom just gave me the gist, that their mum died during her pregnancy.'

‘Yes, it's true. Soon after Jeannie was born, Bea, her mother, was pregnant with another child. Ted was overjoyed with the news. He'd always yearned for a large family; he was one of five children. But things didn't go smoothly – during the late stages of the pregnancy, Bea was suffering with severe headaches, blurred vision and an acute pain below the ribs. It happened in the middle of the night during the lambing season. Ted was helping to deliver the lambs in one of the fields furthest away from the farmhouse. In the distance he heard muffled shouting, and in the dark of the night he spotted a torchlight meandering towards him across the field. Then it suddenly stopped dead and the light lay still on the ground. He thought it was strange and his gut instinct told him something was wrong. He abandoned the lambs and ran towards the light and found Bea lying collapsed on the ground, her arms and legs, neck and jaw jerking. She'd lost consciousness. There was nothing he could do except race back to the house, where he phoned for an ambulance, but by the time he got back to her it was too late. He held her tight, his arms wrapped round her body, praying. The doctor at the hospital confirmed that Bea had suffered from eclampsia, but her fit was so severe that their baby suffocated during the seizure and also didn't make it.'

‘That is absolutely heartbreaking,' I managed to say, blinking back the tears.

‘Jeannie and Robin never knew their mother – Ted brought them both up as a single parent. It's been a struggle for him, but he's dedicated his life to that pair.'

It was so sad that I couldn't find any words to say.

‘Let's change the subject quick.' Lucinda nodded in Robin's direction. ‘Here he is now, my knight in shining armour.'

All eyes were fixed on Robin; he was staggering towards us, peering over the umpteen white cardboard cake boxes he was carrying with a huge grin on his face.

‘Hello, Kitty, how are you? Come on, you two, grab these boxes from me.'

‘All's fine with me; let me give you a hand.'

Taking the top two boxes off the pile, I'd no sooner placed the lemon drizzle cake onto the cake stand sitting on the floral tablecloth than it was snapped up.

‘Your cakes are in high demand, lady!' Robin exclaimed.

‘I could murder a drink. How about a free cupcake for the person who goes and fetches me one?' Lucinda gave a pleading smile.

‘No need, look who's coming over with a tray of teas. Tom must have read your mind!' I said.

‘I'd just spotted you, so I thought I'd get the drinks in. Come on, you lot, grab a tea,' Tom offered, holding out four polystyrene cups. ‘There are two cups with sugar and two without; I couldn't remember what everyone had.'

Tom had registered Paddy in his categories and after filling up his water drinker had hurried back over to us via the tea stand.

Lucinda finished arranging her cakes on the table and after serving a couple more customers declared herself on a much deserved five-minute break.

‘Here you go, choose yourself a cupcake; there are three left on the cake stand.'

‘No, there's only two left now,' I corrected.

‘There were three,' she said, puzzled.

‘Who's pinched a cupcake?'

We all looked at each other and then turned back to Tom immediately.

Guilt flickered in his eyes.

‘It wasn't me, your honour!' Tom began laughing.

‘Stop right there! I think the white coating around your lips is very much a giveaway,' I said, laughing.

‘Busted!' Robin grinned.

Lucinda tutted and wagged her finger playfully towards him.

‘You're terrible!' I said.

There's no denying at that very moment in time I felt like I belonged. So far it had been a grand morning; I was really enjoying myself. If only my parents could see how far I'd come, they would be proud.

‘Robin, how's Jeannie?' I asked.

‘Not too good to be honest. Every time she moves, she's sick. We suspect she has a severe case of food poisoning.'

Suddenly I felt a little guilty. There was my friend lying in bed, too sick to move, and I'd been busy flirting with Tom.

Our conversation was interrupted by a voice that boomed out over the crackling tannoy. ‘The chicken show is about to begin. Please make your way over to the show tent. The judging will commence in exactly five minutes' time.'

Immediately the footsteps of the exhibitors could be heard thundering across the field towards the tent.

‘Lucinda, we'll catch you after the show,' I called before being dragged along with the crowd and herded towards the tent.

‘Good luck, everyone,' she shouted after us.

‘Are you ready for this?' Robin grinned at me.

‘As ready as I ever will be.'

All around the edge of the tent there were metal cages, perching on top of trestle tables, enclosing magnificent birds of all different breeds that were more pruned and better looked after than I was!

The cages had been separated into different categories, and there was Paddy peering back at us from behind the bars alongside all the other chickens that were entered in the ‘best in show' category.

There was already a group of eagerly awaiting exhibitors sitting on the rows and rows of wooden church-like pews laid out in the middle of the tent.

At the front of the tent was the judges' table covered in a crisp white tablecloth, with three chairs in a line behind it. Three glasses of water mirrored the chairs, placed next to the judges' names.

We all scanned the crowd and then Tom pointed to a spare bench slap bang in the middle of everyone. We dashed towards the empty seats and settled ourselves down, waiting in anticipation for the results to be revealed. The judges were dressed in white coats and resembled the staff at the local hospital; it all seemed very serious and official.

Inside the tent the poultry farmers were all of a certain age and calibre, with the exception of Tom and Robin, who were miles younger than the rest. A group of them were standing in a huddle at the rear of the tent, poised with their hands clasped behind their backs, waiting for the judges to begin. They all appeared to be wearing the same attire: nattily unkempt tweed jackets, flat caps and green wellington boots.

Abruptly, one of the judges hammered on the table with his fist to attract everyone's attention. One and all in the tent stopped talking and looked up towards where the judges were sitting. Several shushes could be heard all around us. The judges went through numerous categories, announcing the winners, and applause rang out from the onlookers. There was a prize for each winner along with a hefty handshake from the judges, which was followed by the proud pinning of rosettes onto their clothing; each one was worn with pride.