The Difference a Day Makes (28 page)

The kids wave madly at the barking Hamish until he’s out of sight. And I think that, very soon, we’ll be doing this for real, for the very last time.

 

 

 

G
uy pulled up at Helmshill Grange. Alan was in the yard attending to the goats. The vet jumped out of his Range Rover and bounded over to him.

‘Vit,’ Alan said by way of greeting, and touched his cap.

‘Hi, Alan. How’s it going?’

‘Alreet.’

‘Looks like you’ve worked wonders.’ Frankly, it hardly looked like the same place. Everywhere sparkled like a new pin. You could have eaten your dinner off the cobbles in the yard. And Guy wondered whether he might also get Alan to come round and do some work on his own place, which was looking more than a bit neglected these days. His house was too big for one person, but he earned a decent whack from the practice and had no idea what else to do with his money. Living in Helmshill he didn’t need a designer wardrobe, flash watch or a sports car. It felt good to have the cash to be able to help Amy out while she needed it.

The upright, elderly man stood back and admired his own handiwork. ‘Aye.’

It was rare these days to find someone who took so much pride in their job. ‘Is Mrs Ashurst pleased?’

Alan shrugged. ‘Reckon so.’

‘She still thinks that it’s the EU that’s paying for all this?’

He nodded. ‘Aye.’

‘Good, good.’ Not that she’d be impressed if she found out that it was him rather than the EU that was actually paying for Alan. Then Guy noticed that Amy’s car wasn’t in the drive. ‘Isn’t she around?’

‘Gone to London,’ Alan informed him. ‘Wit bairns.’

‘To London?’ Funny that she hadn’t mentioned it to him. Guy thought he’d sensed that there’d been a renewed closeness between them recently. Perhaps he was wrong.

‘Lookin’ at flats,’ Alan said. ‘Shall I do all this if she’s off?’ He waved his arm around to indicate the work he’d done in the yard and on the Grange.

‘Yes,’ Guy said with a sigh. ‘Hopefully, it will persuade her she might like to stay.’

Alan grunted.

‘Want me to take Hamish with me on my rounds? I’m on my way to Cadugan’s place to geld one of their horses. They won’t mind if I take him up there.’ In these days of Foot and Mouth and Blue Tongue and goodness knows what else, fewer and fewer farms liked you taking a dog on your rounds with you. What was once the norm was slowly dying out. But since Robbie had gone, the truth was that Guy missed canine company during his day.

‘He’s a good dog.’ Hamish rolled over on his back, legs akimbo, presenting his stomach for tickling. Alan rubbed it roughly with his foot. ‘A bit daft like.’

‘He’s certainly taken to you.’

Alan shrugged off the compliment.

‘Come on, Hamish. Alan’s busy.You’re coming with me today.’ Guy slapped his hand against his thigh to encourage the dog. ‘When’s Mrs Ashurst back?’

‘Tomorrow night.’

‘Then I’ll take Hamish home with me,’ Guy said. ‘Save you the trouble.’

To be honest Alan looked a bit disappointed about that, but Guy was sure he’d feel differently when that lethal hammer tail was thrashing round between all the neat little nick-nacks in Alan’s cottage.

‘Come on, dog,’ Guy said. The hound stayed resolutely put at Alan’s feet. Guy hauled him up by his collar, but Hamish wasn’t to be budged.

‘Come, boy,’ Alan said and, clicking his fingers, led an adoring Hamish to the back of Guy’s car. The man failed to meet Guy’s eyes. Hamish jumped in, sat down and curled his tail around him.

Not only had Alan whipped Helmshill Grange into shape, but he’d done the same thing with Hamish. Guy eyed the dog warily. Long may it last.

Before he slipped into the driver’s seat, Alan flicked a thumb towards the field behind them where Daphne, Doris and Delila chewed contentedly at the grass. ‘One of them old ewe’s with lamb.’

‘No way,’ Guy said.

Alan shrugged. ‘Want a look?’

The vet nodded and strode back towards the field. Alan caught hold of Delila - always the more racy of the three - and Guy bent to feel her abdomen. Sure enough, it was swollen. ‘She’s quite a way on,’ Guy said. ‘Must have had a romantic interlude just before she arrived here.’

Mr Steadman nodded in agreement. ‘I’d say so.’

‘Well, well,’ Guy said. ‘Miracles do happen.’ He only hoped that he could work another one and persuade Amy not to go back to London.

 

 

 

T
he children are aghast. I kick the pile of post away from the door and take the letting agent’s key from the lock. He’s currently sitting downstairs in his car taking a call on his mobile phone, so we’ve been sent up here alone. Just as well, probably.

‘This isn’t so bad, is it?’ I say.

‘We can’t live here, Mummy.’ Jessica’s face does look horrified. Even more horrified than when we first viewed Helmshill Grange. ‘Where would Hamish go?’

Where indeed?

We ease warily into the flat and all take in the pink paisley wallpaper in the living room - I’m sure my parents had this in their hall in the 1970s - and the orange swirly carpet. Not good. Clearly, Linda Barker hasn’t been here with her colour swatch recently. It might not look so bad if the paper wasn’t peeling off the walls and the carpet didn’t have the dirt from a thousand feet trodden into it. Down the hall in the bathroom, the plastic avocado suite is so bad that it makes me long for the ancient, chipped, clawfoot bath at Helmshill.

‘Yuck,’ Jessica pronounces.

Yuck just about sums it up.

To be fair, the rooms are a good size. But that’s where the compliments stop.The rent is astronomical and the area is nowhere near as nice as where we used to live. I can’t believe that I’ll have to pay so much to get so little. My heart sinks. How does anyone afford to rent in London unless they live ten to a room?

The flat is in an enormous block and, to be honest, the public areas don’t look like they’re that well maintained either. The lift isn’t working and half of the lightbulbs are out on the dingy stairs. It might only be a temporary measure, but we’d be committed to a six-month lease and would I really want the kids to be here over the winter months with the dark nights? The answer is a resounding no. I’d be terrified every time they stepped out of the door. What about when I start my job - how will I manage my childcare arrangements so that I know they’re well looked after when I’m not here? I give my fingernail an anxious gnaw.

Only Milly Molly Mandy would like it here as in the grubby kitchen there is plenty of evidence of rodent activity. The cat would be in seventh heaven.

‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘We’ve got plenty more to look at. I’m sure we’ll find the right one.’

Tom says nothing, but he’s gone very pale.

We trail back downstairs before the letting agent has finished his call. ‘Like it?’ he says as we approach.

‘Not a lot,’ I tell him. ‘Let’s hope the next one’s better.’

‘It’s very difficult when you’re on a budget,’ he says.

What he means is a
meagre
budget and I know that I’ll have to cut my cloth accordingly, but neither will I live in squalor. Helmshill Grange might have a lived-in charm, but it doesn’t need to be on the condemned list. Did I really just say that?

 

We’ve now seen five equally hideous flats. It’s late afternoon, pitch dark, cold, and Jessica is just starting to get whiney because she’s hungry. I’m feeling pretty whiney myself. Then, when I think I can bear no more of this torture, we pull up outside Lancaster Court. It’s an uninspiring block of ex-council flats, but it’s in a nice area not far from our old house and the place has obviously had a bit of a face-lift recently as there are new double-glazed window units in each flat and the door of the communal entrance is freshly-painted.

Despite these small uplifting details we still climb out of the agent’s car wearily. I don’t know why he didn’t bring us here first as this seems to be the most suitable. Probably because as well as being the most suitable, it’s also the most expensive on his short list. We troop behind him into the hall that, too, has had a new coat of suitably inoffensive paint. The agent opens the door of a ground-floor apartment and we follow him inside.

‘Wow,’ I say.To be honest, this may be too strong an exclamation, but this late in the day and having viewed too many skanky flats, number 3 Lancaster Court has definite possibilities. Like the outside of the building, the inside has recently been freshened up. It still isn’t anything to write home about, but it’s a long way from being hideous. It’s not damp, it’s not mouse-infested, it’s not in an area where I’d think my children - and me, for that matter - would be mugged for their mobile phones. Will would hate to think of me and the kids squashed in here, but I can’t think of that right now. I have to cut my cloth accordingly.

Is it within our budget? Of course not. But it’s not too way out of it either.

‘This will just be temporary, until Mummy’s working properly again. But do you think that we could live here?’ I ask the kids.

‘Yes,’ Jessica agrees readily. I think she’s so desperate to stop viewing flats and get to the sanctuary of Serena’s splendid apartment that she’s forgotten that she doesn’t want to move from Yorkshire at all. ‘Hamish would like it here.’

‘He’d love it,’ I assure her. ‘There’s a little park just across the road where we could walk him.’

‘Ah,’ the agent says. ‘One slight snag with that. The landlord doesn’t allow pets - other than goldfish.’

I can see that Hamish would be considerably more trouble than a goldfish. Damn. I want this place. It’s the only flat we’ve seen that’s even remotely suitable for our pocket. What am I to do?

‘Go and choose which bedroom you think you’d like,’ I say to the children, and Jessica - always the wily one - skips off to bags the best one. Tom shuffles his feet along the shiny laminate floor in her wake. My son is worryingly quiet.

When the children are safely out of earshot, I lower my voice and say conspiratorially, ‘I’m not actually planning on bringing our dog here. But my children don’t know this yet. I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention it.’

‘Ah,’ he says, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Mum’s the word.’

Mum’s the bitch, I think, feeling dreadful at my deceit. Despite that, I ask, ‘Where do I sign?’

 

 

 

G
uy pulled into Cadugan’s yard and was met by their efficient nineteen-year-old stable girl, Jade. She flushed as he got out of the car to greet her as she always did, which Guy thought might mean that she had a crush on him. Cheryl would know if it was that or if she was just a shy teenager. If she wasn’t less than half his age, he could have been interested. She was certainly a fine-looking girl. Hamish clearly thought so too, and the minute he was out of the Range Rover, he charged at her, drowning the poor thing in slobber and canine affection. So much for Alan’s calming influence. The effect seemed to disappear the minute the saintly Mr Steadman was out of view.

The wind whipped over the moors, scudding the clouds across the blue sky. Jade brushed the hair from her eyes and tried to retie it with a scrunchy. In doing so, she dropped the scrap of pink material on the floor whereupon Hamish paid her the ultimate compliment of eating it.

‘I’m sorry,’ Guy said. ‘Let me give you the money to get another one.’

‘No, no.’ Jade tried a laugh. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘I’m afraid he’s a bit boisterous.’ In other words, completely out of control. ‘I’m on a tight schedule today. Want to take me up to see the horse and I’ll get on with the job.’

They walked together through the yard to the far end and then into the tidy stables where Cadugan’s fine range of horses were housed. Guy knew them all by name now and he patted the ones who had their noses stuck over the stable doors, murmuring low greetings as he went.

They stopped at the last stall. ‘This is Ladies’ Knight,’ Jade said. She stroked the horses. ‘You’re a good lad, aren’t you?’

In the stall, a fine young stallion stood, pawing the ground nervously. He was a year old and rich chestnut in colour.

‘He’s a fine creature,’ Guy agreed. He patted the horse, letting it get to know him. ‘Let’s do it,’ he said. Then Guy washed his hands under the nearby cold tap and dried them off, before sedating the horse with a hefty belt of anaesthetic straight into his jugular vein. It was wicked stuff which immobilised the standing horse enough for it to be operated on. A few drops of the drug would be enough to knock a man out permanently - and that was why Guy always had to carry an antidote to the powerful sedative in his visits bag, in case there was ever an accident and he somehow managed to inject himself.

Then it was time to wash and disinfect the gelding’s scrotum, never his favourite job. Not surprisingly, a skittish horse could still kick out now and do Guy’s own goolies a severe mischief.

Jade held the other end of Ladies’ Knight and cooed soothingly at him to calm him down. Guy gave the horse a local anaesthetic and then made a bold incision through the skin to each testicle. It was times like this when he wondered why he hadn’t become an accountant or a lawyer. What sane person would want to spend their days up to their elbows in horses’ knackers? There had to be better ways to earn a living.

He then removed the testicles with an instrument that was, quite rightly to his mind, called an emasculator. For some reason, Guy always gave a sympathetic wince as he clamped down. It seemed a shame that Ladies’ Knight’s stud days were over before they’d even started. The testicles were thrown in a bucket for disposal. He gave the horse a pat on the rump for being well behaved. ‘Brave lad,’ he said.

Even after all these years, it made Guy shudder to geld a horse. There was no way that he’d ever be able to consider a vasectomy.