The Difference a Day Makes (10 page)

‘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.

 

 

 

W
hen 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.

Hamish is also fast asleep at Will’s feet and is clearly going to make a wonderful guard dog as he hasn’t batted an eyelid at the noisy arrival of the Land Rover or the sound of my feet crunching across the gravel. Come to that, neither has Will. I tut to myself and smile, Sleepy Head!

My smile slips slightly when I see that in my absence William has taken delivery of two pygmy goats - one black, one brown - who are now in the penned-off part of our garden, chewing contentedly at the grass.They look adorable, but I bet like everything else in this place, they have ‘hard work’ stamped all over them.

I sigh. Scene of contentment it might be, but it looks like I’m going to have to do everything myself round this place. All warm thoughts of illicit afternoon delight dissipates. There’s so much stuff to do that I daren’t even start to think about it or I’d have a panic attack. I realise that this constitutes an ideal lifestyle for many people - my husband included - but I wonder why couldn’t we have found a smaller, less dilapidated house with central heating that works and not enough land to start our own petting zoo? It’s no good complaining though. This is my lot and I’ll just have to get on with it.

Anyway, the kids will have to be collected soon. I hope after a few weeks they’ll be able to walk home on their own sometimes but, for now, I’m enjoying the routine of taking and collecting them from school. I check my watch.That’ll teach me to stay so long at Poppy’s Tea Room flirting with what seems to be the only piece of local talent.

Maybe I should go straight down there now and get them. Then I remember that school is a five-minute stroll away and, even if I’m a few minutes late, it’s highly unlikely that they’re going to be abducted or troubled with a drive-by shooting in this neck of the woods. I have more than enough time to spare to make Will a cup of tea and to have a chat.

That is another good thing about living here. The children should be able to have more freedom and a better quality of life - at least while they’re young. What happens when they’re teenagers and there’s nothing for them to do is anyone’s guess. Spend their lives on Bebo, no doubt. But we’re a world away from that yet. Perhaps we should raid our dwindling funds to buy them some bikes and get out together as a family if Will gets a clean bill of health from the quack tomorrow. Even though I don’t much fancy tackling those hills on two wheels. Our doctor in Notting Hill said that William should take gentle, regular exercise. I’m not sure walking that damn dog can be classed as gentle exercise. It’s more like hanging on to a speeding train.

I wonder if I should leave Will asleep. He looked so tired this morning. Clearly he’s needed an afternoon nap. Bless. His newspaper is folded up next to him, untouched. I think we’re the only people in the village who read the
Guardian
. I do worry about him now in a way that I never did before. I’ll leave him for a few minutes longer and make him that cup of tea.

In the kitchen, I put the kettle on, find the tea caddy - which still hasn’t yet been given a permanent home - and fuss with some mugs. It was nice to spend some time with Guy Burton. A bit of excitement to liven up an otherwise fairly disastrous day. He seems like a decent chap. Plus he’ll be able to give us some good advice on how best to look after our new charges. I hope that in time he’ll become a good friend. I think we’ll need a few round here, as the neighbours haven’t exactly been beating a path to our door yet. But then I’m used to London and we didn’t speak to either of our next-door neighbours in all the years we were there. I expected the country to be different but, so far, we’ve been given quite a wide berth.

The kettle takes its time to boil and I stand and wonder what we might have for dinner. I could whip up some omelettes with the eggs I bought at the market and there’s some salad in the fridge. That will do.

Putting the tea things on a tray, I carry them out to the garden. Will is still lolling on the bench, but Hamish wakes with a start and wags his tail. Then recognition shines in his crazed eyes as he realises who I am.

He jumps up and careers towards me. ‘No, Hamish!’

Cannoning into my legs, the dog knocks the tea tray clean out of my hands, smashing the cups, the teapot brimming with scalding water and the sugar bowl on the path with a crash that shatters the still of the countryside. ‘You stupid bloody animal! Look what you’ve done.’ I take a swipe at him, but he’s too quick for me and bounds off again round the garden, barking joyfully.

‘Have you seen what this animal’s done now?’ I shout at Will. ‘I’m lucky that I haven’t got third-degree burns.’

Then I realise that despite the kerfuffle, my husband is still fast asleep. ‘Will?’ I go over to shake him, and his Panama slides from his head.

‘Oh, Will,’ I say. ‘My darling, darling Will.’ My fingers touch his heart.

Standing there, I stare at my husband. I can’t cry, I can’t scream, I can’t breathe, I can’t move. The world has stopped turning.

Then I fall to my knees and rest my head in his lap. All of my worst fears have been realised. It seems that my husband isn’t asleep after all.

 

 

 

L
ying in our bed, I stare at the cracks in the ceiling and there are many of them. Tom, at long last, is fast asleep. But in the next room I can hear Jessica crying softly. I’ve nursed her all evening and I know that I should get up and go to her again, but I can’t move because I, myself, am paralysed with grief.

I can’t believe that William has gone. He’s left me here in this rambling house - the house that was his choice, his dream - all alone. Helmshill Grange has never felt bigger or more empty. When I realised what had happened, I called 999 and the paramedics came immediately.They confirmed that Will was, indeed, dead.

Then one of the men spoke to our new GP on my behalf. Dr Redman came and made his first house call to us. He was brisk and sympathetic. It seems that my husband has suffered a fatal heart-attack. I could have told the good doctor that much. Despite the pills and potions that were supposed to let William live to a ripe old age, he wasn’t getting better. All we had was a brief stay of execution.We both thought that he’d had a reprieve. We were both wrong.

Dr Redman also told me that William wouldn’t have felt any pain. I am, it seems, feeling enough pain for the two of us. Then he called the funeral director, and Drake & Sons came and whisked my love away with a practised efficiency and professional courtesy that I wished I had never experienced, but which I’ve seen far too much of.

Down in the kitchen I can hear Hamish howling and the regular thump of his body as he hurls himself against the kitchen door in anguish. I haven’t fed him tonight or the chickens or the sheep or the goats or myself. While my life spiralled downwards around me, my dear son, Tom, made some toast for himself and Jessica. Then we all cried quietly at the table together while they choked it down.

William has gone and I can see no future ahead. What will happen to us now? We were living my husband’s dream and it has suddenly and most unexpectedly turned into a complete nightmare. I know no one here and have no idea what to do. Earlier, I managed to call my sister and she’s heading up here first thing in the morning. Serena will sort me out. She’ll know exactly what needs to be done.

I hear the splintering of a doorframe and then moments later, heavy, doggy footsteps pounding up the stairs.The bedroom door catapults open and Hamish bounds in. He stands by the bedside, whining.

‘Missing your master, boy?’ I ask tightly. ‘You’re supposed to be a man’s best friend. Where were you when he was dying? Fast asleep at his feet. What sort of a best friend is that?’

Hamish lays his head on the bed and wriggles forward. His crazed eyes look all doleful and he whines pitifully.

‘Haven’t you ever seen
Lassie
? You’re supposed to know these things instinctively and run for help so that you can save the day in the nick of time.’

The dog nuzzles my hand, covering it in slobber.

‘Get away from me,’ I say, curling into a ball and turning my back on him. ‘However you’re feeling, I’m feeling worse.’

And the reason is, I’m thinking,Where was I when my husband was dying? I was having tea and flirting with another man.

 

 

 

I
t seems that Serena couldn’t sleep either. So she drove up here at some ungodly hour and now her sleek black Porsche is parked incongruously next to the rusting old Land Rover in the drive. She’s fussing round me in the kitchen as only big sisters can. I’m being forcefed a boiled egg even though my stomach is keen to repel it.

‘You have to have something inside you,’ Serena says sensibly. ‘You can’t deal with all this on an empty stomach.’

‘I can’t deal with this at all.’ The tears, which are never far from my eyes, start to fall again.

Outside, the rain is pouring down, pounding on the windows and splashing back on itself from the ground. The sky is dark and brooding and it looks as if there’s still plenty more rain where that came from. Winter has suddenly come with a vengeance. I should be doing something with the animals, but I can’t make myself think what that might be. I don’t know if the chickens are in or out of their coop and, what’s more, I don’t really care.

My sister comes and puts her arm round my shoulder. ‘You have to be strong for the children. I’ll help you with it all.’

Tom and Jessica haven’t yet stirred this morning and I haven’t thought to wake them. It’s probably best if they sleep as long as they can. I’ll get Serena to call the school shortly to tell Mrs Barnsley what’s happened.

‘Will you come back to London?’ Serena asks me.

‘This was Will’s dream for us,’ I say.