The Difference a Day Makes (7 page)

‘If you buy healthy chickens, presumably they do all this for themselves.’

‘They do,’ Guy confirms. At which point I glare at Will. ‘It’ll be for a couple of months. Maybe a while longer.That’s all. Feed them right and they’ll perk up in no time.’

‘What about the sheep?’

‘You’ve got three very nice old ladies,’ the vet says.

Will looks sheepish again - no pun intended.

‘Old ladies? Is that a good or a bad thing?’

‘They were going to be slaughtered,’ my husband volunteers. ‘Look at them.’

I do. They’re standing in a line, staring straight back at me. They do, in fact, look just like three old ladies; all they’re short of is felt hats and handbags. Not only have we got blind chickens, but we’ve got menopausal sheep.

‘How could I let that happen?’ Will wants to know.

Spoken like a true townie.

‘I thought we’d look after them too,’ he continues.‘The farmer told me they’d got a touch of black bag. Or was it blue bag? Some colour bag.’ My husband shrugs away the need for technicalities. ‘He assured me it wasn’t contagious.’

‘Blue bag,’ the vet confirms. ‘It just means that the ewe can’t feed her offspring. I don’t think you have to worry about that with this little trio, they’re not much good for breeding anyway.’ Guy Burton addresses me, clearly thinking I’m the more rational of our couple. ‘Too old.’

I know how they feel.

‘So we can’t eat them either?’

‘They’ll make nice pets,’Will ventures.‘Three lovely old ladies.’

I bet he’s got names for them already.

‘I should be going,’ Guy says. ‘Mr Dawkins’s cat’s not very well. I said I’d call in on the way back to the surgery.’

‘Thank you,’ Will says. ‘Thanks for coming out here.’

‘No trouble,’ Guy says. ‘Have this one on me. I’ll just charge you for the drugs. I’ll send the bill through.’ He hands over boxes and boxes of chicken eye-drops. Yes, he’s probably going to go and put a deposit on a new Porsche after seeing the state of this lot. ‘I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of you.’

I’m sure too, if Will keeps bringing these ramshackle, no hope animals home. Who does he think he is? Bridget Bardot?

We watch as Guy Burton strides to his Range Rover, climbs in and backs out of our drive.

‘Seems very nice,’ Will says. ‘Capable. The sort of chap you could rely on in a crisis.’

‘Yes,’ I agree.

‘Gave me some great tips on keeping chickens.’

I wonder if our vet reads Audrey Fanshawe at bedtime. I somehow doubt it. ‘Is that it?’ I say wearily. ‘There’s not a three-legged goat you’ve forgotten about? I don’t think I could cope with any more surprises.’

‘Ah,’ Will says.

And, with perfect comedy timing, the children come hurtling out of the kitchen.

‘Mummy,’ Jessica cries ecstatically. ‘We’ve got a kitty!’

Tom adds, ‘And a dog!’

Behind them, a big black and brown dog lollops towards me at full tilt. His tongue is hanging to the ground and there’s two trails of drool flying in the whirlwind he’s creating. He looks completely insane. I hate dogs. They smell and leave hair everywhere. The cat follows him, mincing over the gravel. It’s sleek, black and looks as mean as hell. I hate cats too. They’ve got bottoms like pencil sharpeners and try to eat babies while they lie sleeping in their prams.

The dog bowls into my knees and nearly knocks me clean over.

‘This is Hamish,’ my husband says, grabbing the dog before it does any more damage and roughing up its ears. This sends the hound into a frenzy of shaking, sending gobs of spit flying all over my lovely Joseph trousers.

I look at my husband and my eyes well up with tears. ‘Oh, William,’ I say. ‘What on earth have you done?’

 

 

 

‘
B
loody hell!’ I mutter as I get out of bed and step in mouse entrails. I’ve long since stopped screaming when I do that, so things must be improving. Right?

The cat, Milly Molly Mandy - Jessica’s choice of moniker - is the only animal we’ve acquired that seems to have all her faculties and physical attributes working as they should. However, Milly Molly Mandy also exhibits tendencies that any prolific serial killer would be proud of. ‘Hannibal Lecter’ would have suited her better as a name.

Our sleek feline friend - or do I mean fiend? - is sitting licking her paws with satisfaction as she surveys the three decapitated and disembowelled rodents she’s brought in for our delectation.

‘Is this what I have to look forward to every morning?’ I ask as I hop towards the bathroom. ‘Tortured mouse?’

‘If she keeps going at this rate, the few remaining members of the mouse population of Helmshill Grange will soon be packing their bags and seeking safer territory,’ my husband observes. ‘Isn’t that right, Mols?’ The cat, needing little encouragement, jumps on the bed and snuggles down in the warm space I’ve just vacated. I hate animals in the bedroom. I’m not that fond of them in the lounge or the kitchen either.

‘Who’s a good girl?’Will coos as he caresses her fondly. ‘Who’s the best mouser in Yorkshire then?’

It’s taken very little time for Milly Molly Mandy to worm her way into Will’s affection. It will take a damn sight longer with me.

‘It’s nice to have a home filled with animals and love,’ he says dreamily.

Will wouldn’t even let the kids have a hamster in Notting Hill. Tom begged for years - every birthday and Christmas - but Will’s heart was stone. How times change. And not always for the better.

I shower in an ice-cold drip. The water knocks, shudders and clonks through the pipes. The plumbing is so ancient that by the time the hot water has worked its way reluctantly through the house to the bathroom I could have grown a beard. Unfortunately, even after six weeks or so here, I’m resolutely locked into London speed and haven’t the patience to wait that long. Shivering as I towel myself down vigorously, I think, it’s still only September - and a ridiculously mild one at that - so what will this place be like in winter? The windows already have proved worthless at stopping even the mildest of breezes. How will they cope with a full-on gale which I’m told that Helmshill is frequently battered with? Come to that matter, how will
I
cope?

For reasons best known to myself, I’m trying to make a valiant stab at sophistication despite my reduced circumstances, and choose a Diane Von Furstenberg dress to take the children to school. When else am I going to wear the damn thing now?

My husband looks tired again this morning. His face is pale, and dark shadows ring his eyes. Unusually, Will’s still lying in bed when I’ve finished my ablutions. ‘Didn’t you sleep well?’ I ask.

‘Like a log,’ he says. ‘Could just do with a few more hours.’

‘Probably all the frenzy of the move is finally catching up with you. It wouldn’t hurt to rest for a few days.’ I still haven’t got round to registering with a GP. Our nearest one is in Scarsby and every time I’m over there I forget to go into the surgery and pick up the forms. ‘Why don’t you stay there for another couple of hours?’

‘Things to do,’ he says, and yawns as he throws the covers back, sending the cat scuttling from the bed.

‘Did you take your pills yesterday?’

‘Hmm . . .’ Will scratches his chin.

‘Well, don’t forget to take them today. That can’t be helping. You’re getting very absent-minded now that you’ve become the country squire, William Ashurst.’ I have to nag him every day otherwise he’d never remember to take those damn tablets.

‘Oh, yes,’ he says with a nod. ‘Must do. Can you put them out for me?’

I’m going to have to get one of those boxes with the days marked out on them and fill it with Will’s medication - just like you do for old people. What would he do without me? I smile at him indulgently. Still, now that I’m not working I can afford the time to spoil him a bit more. That’s taking some adjusting to as well. I only get a pang of longing for my old job about ten times a day and have studiously avoided watching television as it only makes me worse. Plus the reception here is so rubbish that it’s like watching every show through a snowstorm.

‘The hot water’s probably just about to make an appearance,’ I tell him.

‘A nice long shower might liven me up.’ He squeezes me round the waist as he passes. ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’

‘Love you,’ I say, as he disappears into the bathroom, but I don’t know if he hears me.

 

 

 

F
astening on some diamond earrings, I head for the kitchen. Maya, being her efficient self, has - amid the packing boxes we haven’t yet got round to sorting - already laid the table for breakfast. I think she’s starting to settle in here now as I only catch her crying once a day now.

She comes out of the scullery, weeping.

‘Maya, what’s wrong?’ Our newly acquired dog, Hamish, is at her heels and is wagging his tail furiously, clearly very pleased with himself. He comes over to me and brushes against my legs, depositing hair and slobber on my dress. His tail thumps against me and it’s like being repeatedly hit by a mallet.

‘He has tried to eat all of underwear again,’ she tells me tremulously. ‘He has opened tumble dryer all by himself and has ruined it completely.’

‘No,’ I laugh. ‘He can’t have.’

‘He has. He is very naughty dog, Amy.’

Already, I know this. Hamish has been the bane of my life since the day he arrived. He’s enormous - way too big, even for a house this size. He’s full of energy, full of mischief and now, it seems, full of our underwear. Even in the short time he’s been here we’ve got used to putting anything edible out of his range. He’s had Will’s breakfast off his plate more than once. My husband finds this trait for snaffling other people’s food charming. Dish cloths are a thing of the past. As is anything involving sponge - a particular doggy favourite, it appears.

Now Hamish has apparently moved onto more expensive inedible materials to eat and has learned how to open the tumble dryer. For a dog that dense, I doubt it.

I go through to the scullery, still not quite believing Maya’s assessment of the situation. But, sure enough, the tumble dryer door is ajar and there’s a pile of suspiciously shredded underwear on the floor. ‘Hamish,’ I shout. ‘Get here! Did you do this?’

But my anger falls on deaf ears and Hamish, quite sensibly, doesn’t appear to answer for his crime. This dog can never hear his name being called, no matter how loud, but can recognise the sound of a biscuit tin being opened from the bottom of the garden.

‘I think some is missing.’ Maya starts to clear up the mess. ‘Maybe he has eaten it.’

‘Bloody dog,’ I grumble - at which point Will arrives in the kitchen. I bolt from the scullery and greet my husband by waving a shred of black lace at him.

‘What’s that?’

‘The remains of my favourite knickers. He’s had a go at all of yours too.’

‘Oh, Hamish,’Will says indulgently to the dog who is currently hiding behind his legs. ‘Have you been naughty?’ Hamish goes into throes of ecstasy and hurls himself to the floor, tummy up, legs akimbo.

Never in my lifeplan did I imagine getting a full-frontal view of canine genitalia before breakfast. ‘Where exactly did you get this dog from?’ I want to know.

‘He’s a rescue dog,’ he says cagily. ‘I told you. He came from a place over near Malhead. He’d been there ages. No one wanted him. Did they, woofer?’

Hamish, on cue, woofs.

‘Did you ever question why that might be?’

‘They said he was a bit of a handful, admittedly. He’s a Gordon Setter,’ my husband tells me. ‘Fine breed. He’s a pedigree.’

Pedigree? The thing looks half-dog, half-stand-up comedian.

‘Could just do with a bit of training.’

Could just do with a sedative.

‘He’s still in his puppyish stage. He’ll calm down once he settles in.’ The dog’s currently trying to mount Will. ‘Won’t you, boy?’

‘He’s completely destroyed all of the underwear.’

‘No!’ Will laughs in exactly the same way I did.

‘Yes!’

My husband realises that I’m serious. ‘It’s probably a chewing phase. He’ll grow out of it.’

‘I’ll have to drive into Scarsby later to get us some more.’ I tut. ‘That damn vet didn’t fix you up with him, did he?’

‘No,’ Will assures me. ‘In fact, Guy warned me that he might be a bit boisterous.’

‘Fabulous.’

Jessica comes into the kitchen bearing an armful of Bratz dolls - all of them with their heads chewed off. ‘Look what happened to my dollies!’

Hamish hangs his head in shame and tries to slink off. This dog wouldn’t make a poker player.

‘Bloody dog,’ I mutter. Then to my daughter, ‘You’ll have to keep your bedroom door closed, sweetie. Until Hamish grows out of his “chewing phase”.’

‘They were my favourites,’ she whines.

I hate Bratz dolls, I don’t know why I let my child play with them. They wear too much make-up and dress like hookers. If you want my opinion, they actually look better headless. ‘Never mind,’ I say, casting a steely glance at Will. ‘Daddy will buy you some more.’

Tom comes down. He’s wearing his school blazer and a bemused expression. ‘Look,’ he says, holding his arms out. ‘It’s got holes in it.’

Lots of them. Dog-shaped ones. But if that isn’t enough evidence, the silver trails of slime that cover the new uniform condemn Hamish as the guilty party. The dog lowers himself to the floor and tries to look invisible. Quite hard for a great hairy mutt that must weigh at least twelve stones.

‘Never mind,’ I say even more sweetly than the last time. ‘Daddy will buy you another one.’

‘But what will I wear today? Mrs Barnsley will go bonkers.’

‘Daddy will come to school with us,’ I say crisply in Will’s direction, ‘and explain to Mrs Barnsley exactly what happened.’