The Difference a Day Makes (21 page)

‘Perhaps it
is
just too soon to be thinking about this sort of thing,’ Serena advises.

‘It’s
definitely
too soon,’ I concur. ‘But that doesn’t stop my brain from speculating.’

We take sips from our wine and gaze into the gloom. The electric light in here is flickering alarmingly, so I’ve lit a few candles instead. I’m glad of the darkness which is helping to hide my flushed cheeks.

‘The thing is,’ I say to my sister, ‘I have been thoroughly and well loved. I know how great that feels. William, for the best part of our marriage, was a wonderful husband . . .’

‘Apart from the bit where he dragged you up here kicking and screaming.’

‘Apart from that bit,’ I agree. I don’t point out to Serena that I didn’t actually kick and scream, that I accepted Will’s dream with a fatalistic resignation. Perhaps if I’d protested more vociferously, I wouldn’t be here at all. William would have hated to think that he’d made me miserable. All he wanted to do was what he thought was best for us.‘But having had a lovely husband, I think I can spot a good ’un. And I reckon that Guy Barton fits into that category.’

‘Damn,’ Serena says. ‘Why didn’t I see him first? I’ve not even managed to snare
one
decent husband.’

We both laugh at that. It’s fair to say that the course of Serena’s lovelife hasn’t gone entirely smoothly. She seems only to be attracted to married men now, preferably lawyers, having worked her way through a plentiful supply of gay actors, starving artists and permanently stoned rock musicians - despite having a healthy stream of non-married, heterosexual and solvent males attracted to her.

‘He seems very different to Will. I thought you liked your men well educated and erudite - not covered in dog hair.’

‘I’m not thinking of him as a replacement. Not at all.’

‘Then what’s your problem?’

‘He’s become a very good friend, very quickly. Too quickly. What will people think of me?’

‘It’s whether
you
feel comfortable or not with it,’ she tells me. ‘That’s all that matters.’

‘I wouldn’t like them to talk about me behind my back.’

‘I would have thought it was that kind of place. Whatever you do, you’ll be the subject of gossip. No wonder you can’t wait to get away.’

‘So, what shall I do?’

‘Take it really slowly would be my advice.’

‘There’s a hop at the little village hall tomorrow night,’ I say. ‘Guy asked me to go along. Why don’t we all go - the kids too - and you can check him out, see if this is just because my emotions are all over the place, that I’m not thinking straight. Is this just me being pathetically vulnerable?’

Panic flits across my sister’s face. ‘I haven’t brought any party clothes.’ All thoughts of my inner turmoil having been forgotten in the face of a clothing crisis.

That makes me chuckle. ‘I don’t think you’ll need your Dior here, darling,’ I tease. ‘Even in your Rock and Republic jeans you’ll be overdressed.’

‘If you’re sure.’ Serena doesn’t look convinced.

‘I ought to go. Say hello to some of the folks in the village. I don’t want to appear standoffish. They were all good enough to come to William’s funeral and we’ve been kept in home-made pies and puddings by a variety of the village ladies ever since. My neighbours have been very considerate in small, discreet ways. Would that have happened in Notting Hill?’

‘Sounds as if you might be changing your mind about moving away from here,’ she notes.

‘No, no,’ I assure her. ‘That For Sale sign is staying firmly in place. It has to. I’m just resigned to the fact that it may take longer than I hoped to sell up.’ Though we do have a viewing booked for tomorrow which I’m quite hopeful about.

‘And in the meantime, you thought a little fling with the vet might help to ease the pain, you minx?’ My sister nudges me in the ribs.

‘I’ve no idea what’s going on in my head,’ I say flatly. But a fling with Guy Burton wasn’t what I’d imagined at all. Far from it. How can Serena even think that? Yet why can’t I tell my sister what I really feel? Perhaps because I’m not entirely sure myself. In truth, I can’t see anything beyond selling this house. Even if I was available, I don’t see Guy Burton as quick-fling material. He’s too loyal, too steady for that.

What am I even thinking? William has died and I want to honour his memory. He’s the only man I ever loved and that’s how it has to stay.

 

 

 

‘
G
et that dog away from me,’ Cheryl said as Hamish inserted his nose firmly into her ample bottom and had a friendly sniff.

‘Hamish!’ Guy chastised. ‘Don’t do that. It’s not the way to win a lady’s heart.’

‘I hope your courtship technique is better than that,’ Cheryl said to him.

It wasn’t as direct, Guy thought ruefully, but it might just be every bit as clumsy.

‘You should shut him in the Range Rover,’ the receptionist advised. ‘He caused chaos last time he was here.’

The aquarium had been replaced, but Guy was sure that the rescued tropical fish weren’t quite the same. One of them swam sideways now and they all seemed a lot more skittish than they’d previously been.While he wondered whether there was a prozac equivalent for fish, he decided not to tell Cheryl that Hamish was just as dangerous when left unattended in a car.

‘I’ll take my patients in room one and Hamish can go in the other examining room.’

Cheryl shook her head, clearly unconvinced that this was a good plan.

There wasn’t a long list for the surgery this afternoon, for which Guy was relieved, as this was the one night that he wanted to get away on time to attend the shindig at the village hall. He didn’t socialise enough in the village - something that was pointed out to him with monotonous regularity. He was also harbouring the hope that Amy Ashurst might turn up. Guy thought that she might have called him this week to let him know that she was planning to come along, but she hadn’t. That made it more of an effort to attend by himself, but he was determined to show his face. He hoped that the good animals of Scarsby and the surrounding area didn’t have other plans for his social life.

In room one, a friendly black Labrador bitch was waiting for some stitches to be put into a cut paw.

‘Hello, Mrs Harris. Hello, Megan.’ The black Lab wagged her tail enthusiastically. Mrs Harris contented herself with a beaming smile. ‘Poor old girl,’ he said to the dog, roughing her ears.

‘I thought you meant me, Mr Barton.’ The elderly Mrs Harris giggled girlishly.

‘Never,’ he said with a wink, flirting back.

His client tittered again.

‘So tell me, how did Megan do this?’ Guy asked her owner.

‘On our walk this morning,’ the woman answered. ‘It was a piece of broken glass. Looks like the teenagers have been drinking in the park again. They don’t think of this when they discard their bottles in the bushes.’

‘Come on then, Megan,’ Guy said, lifting her injured paw. ‘Let me have a look at your foot.’

The dog thumped her tail on the table. She was another pooch who’d been a client for some time and was a lovely-natured dog, soft and docile. He cleaned the cut and there was barely a whimper from her. ‘Good girl.’

Three stitches and the cut was sealed.

Cheryl popped her head round the door. ‘Mrs Harris, I’ve got your husband on the phone. He’s been trying to call you on your mobile, but hasn’t been getting a response.’

‘Oh, my battery’s dead,’ she said. ‘I forgot to put my phone on charge yesterday. Silly me.’

‘You can take the call at the desk.’

Mrs Harris looked at Guy for confirmation. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. Some dogs needed their owners around, but Megan was so placid that she’d be fine without her.

‘I’ll be just a moment.’ Mrs Harris hurried out of the room.

Guy went to the drawer to get some bandages to dress the wound.There were none.‘Hold on there for one second, Megan,’ he said. ‘Don’t move a muscle.’

He went through to the stock room next door and checked in there too. None in there either. Cheryl would need to put an order in on Monday if they were running low. Slipping out into the corridor, he could see that Mrs Harris was still on the phone at reception and so he popped into room two to see if the drawers in there were better stocked.

Guy was taken aback to see that there was no sign of Hamish. He’d tied the dog to his steel operating table with his chain lead. There was no way he could have got free without knocking the table over or causing one hell of a row. Even Houdini couldn’t have done that. Yet, somehow, Hamish had managed it.

‘Hamish!’ he whispered loudly. ‘Where the hell are you?’ He opened the door to the reception area until he could just see through a slit and peeped out. All looked calm out there. Cheryl would have been bringing the place down by now if Hamish had gone anywhere near her. Guy scratched his head absently. ‘Hamish!’

Going through the corridor and back into room one, Guy was even more taken aback to find Hamish there. ‘Oh no.’

Hamish turned and grinned at him. A drooly doggy grin. How the hell had he given him the slip like that? Did the dog have the power of transmogrification?

‘Get down,’ Guy hissed, but Hamish paid him no heed.

And who could blame him. The great lump of Gordon Setter was up on the table doing what dogs like to do best with the hapless Megan as his unwitting partner.

‘Out of there now,’ Guy said, grabbing at Hamish’s joyously pumping rear end. ‘At once.’

‘Thank you, Cheryl,’ he heard Mrs Harris’s voice say. ‘All he wanted was for me to collect a tea loaf from Allinson’s on the way home. Silly old fool.’

Guy heard Cheryl mutter some disparaging remark about men. Time was running out. He dragged Hamish from Megan’s back end, causing the dog to yelp in dismay as his impromptu nookie was forcibly curtailed.

‘Get in there!’ He shoved Hamish into the stock room which he realised could be an extraordinarily bad idea. But he had no choice. ‘Eat anything,’ he warned, ‘anything at all and you are one dead dog.’ Literally, if Hamish swallowed half of the stuff that they had in there.

He was trying to settle Megan down again when Mrs Harris breezed through the door.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you’ve waited for me.’

Guy wondered if Mrs Harris had noticed that he was panting as heavily as her dog. If she had, she didn’t mention it. ‘I just needed to pop and get some bandages and I didn’t want to leave Megan alone.’

‘She’d have been fine, Mr Barton,’ Mrs Harris said with a titter. ‘She’s such a good little girl, aren’t you, Meggy-Meg.’

‘I’ll be just one minute,’ he said as he bolted for the door.

‘I need to talk to you about getting her spayed, Mr Burton,’ she called after him. Mrs Harris kissed her pampered pet on the nose. ‘We don’t want you doing the dirty with one of those nasty doggies, do we, Poppet?’

To use another animal analogy, Guy didn’t quite have the heart to tell Mrs Harris that it would be a case of shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted.

 

 

 

I
feed Daphne, Doris and Delila and the two cute goats, Stephanie and Blob, while the kids look after the chickens. The self-sufficient Milly Molly Mandy has fixed herself shrew brains for dinner.

My sister, not surprisingly, made herself scarce when animal duties were being allocated and I realise how quickly I’ve become accustomed to these chores even though I’m not entirely keeping on top of things. There’s a growing list of stuff to do and I make a mental note of it as I head back towards the house.

‘Christopher’s laid an egg,’ Tom tells me, wonder in his voice. My son holds out the little golden oval for inspection. It’s our hens’ first. And it’s a perfect specimen. The egg is still warm and we handle it as if it has been produced by Fabergé rather than a once-scraggy rescue chicken.

All those weeks of squirting them with antibiotics has finally paid off and they’ve grown into plump, fully feathered and now, it seems, fully functioning hens. Their sight is mercifully restored and they no longer bump into trees or fences or sit staring blindly at the walls in their Ritz-style henhouse. This could be the start of a fruitful production line of fresh eggs every morning. We could sell our surplus at the gate and perhaps add a few much-needed pounds to our meagre household income.

I must be emotionally over-wrought since I feel a lump come to my throat as I cradle the egg and carry it tenderly back to the kitchen. ‘We’ll hold a raffle,’ I say, ‘to see who has this for breakfast tomorrow.’

‘I don’t want to eat anything that comes out of a hen’s bottom,’ Jessica states, nose wrinkling in distaste. ‘I only like the eggs they have in Sainsbury’s.’

‘Where do you think they come from?’

‘Not out of a hen’s bottom!’

Oh dear. Our children have become very divorced from their food chain and, when we’re not in such a hurry, I’m going to have to sit Jessica down and tell her the facts of life about how her food gets to her plate.

‘Come on, come on. We’re going to be late for the dance.’ I herd my tribe together. ‘Let’s see what Helmshill village hall has to offer.’

 

The village hall is already full and bustling with activity when we arrive.Today it’s decked out in its Sunday best - even though it’s Saturday. It’s hard not to think about the last time I was here. Then it was a subdued affair after Will’s funeral and the atmosphere tonight is very different. I wish my husband was here to hold my hand. There’s a party mood in the air and the disco is playing the Scissor Sisters’ latest hit so that the village children can strut their stuff. Tom and Jessica eagerly go to join them.

Each of the little tables has been covered with a paper cloth and sports a bunch of rainbow-coloured helium balloons. My sister took my advice on the dress-down option, but still looks chic in her skinny jeans and black cashmere sweater. I’ve dragged out some black Ghost trousers that, miraculously, aren’t covered with snail-trails of Hamish slobber - possibly the only pair in my wardrobe that aren’t - and a silver-grey jersey wrap cardigan that only has a small hole chewed in it. Even the Jimmy Choos are back in service - having been abandoned since I realised that they’re unsuitable footwear for feeding animals. Serena has persuaded me to put on my full war-paint and, for the first time in months, I’m feeling good again.