The Difference a Day Makes

by Carole Matthews

  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 the internet, 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.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Lying 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. ‘Ho
wever 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.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It 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.

  ‘It wasn’t your dream,’ she reminds me. ‘Now you have to do what’s best for you and the children.’ She sits in the chair next to me and pours herself another cup of coffee. ‘You should come home. You need family around you. There’s just the two of us now, sis. We need to stick together. Move near to me so that I’m there to help you with Tom and Jessica.’ Serena lives in a swanky flat in the Docklands. She works from seven in the morning to ten at night. My sister takes in the run-down kitchen. ‘You can’t possibly stay here. It’s far too much work for one person.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I agree, thinking again of the chickens, sheep and the two new goats that are awaiting my ministrations. Everything seems to be taking twice as long. The responsibilities here are too daunting. I could barely dress myself this morning, so how can I suddenly become responsible for a couple of dozen living things? Things that I know nothing about. Serena’s right. We can’t stay here. ‘As soon as the funeral is over I’ll put the house on the market. We should look for somewhere in Notting Hill again so that the children can go back to their old school.’

  Serena pats my hand. ‘I think that would be the sensible thing to do.’

  ‘Perhaps I can get my old job back. Or something similar.’ The thought pushes a bright spot into the gloom. ‘I’m sure the BTC will appreciate the situation.’

  Hamish comes over to me, tail wagging, lead in mouth. ‘Not now,’ I tell him and he drops the lead on the floor with a miserable look. I feel guilty that I haven’t fed him yet and go to the scullery cupboard where we keep his doggy food and mix him up a bowl. He wolfs it down gratefully, chasing the bowl round the floor and decorating the walls with chewed biscuits, splatters of meaty chunks and slobber.

  ‘You have disgusting table manners, dog.’

  He woofs at me and spits food across the room. One of my first jobs when I’m up to it will be to take this damn animal back to the rescue place where he came from. I can’t handle him and, at the moment, I can hardly bear to look at him because he was here when Will died and I wasn’t. It was the dog’s fault that I was in Scarsby in the first place. If he hadn’t sniffed Maya’s bottom maybe she wouldn’t have left us. If he hadn’t chewed up all our underwear then I wouldn’t have had to go into the town at all. I could have dropped Maya at the station and come straight back. If I’d done that, maybe I could have saved my husband’s life instead of it gently ebbing away while he was here on his own.

  ‘You’ll be okay,’ Serena tells me as I head back into the kitchen.

  ‘Yes,’ I say dully. People cope. Life goes on. Others depend on me. If it weren’t for the children, I’m sure I’d just want to lie down on the floor and die myself. Guilt kicks in. I can’t desert Will’s charges now. ‘I’d better go and feed the chickens and stuff.’

  ‘Need any help?’ My sister looks horrified at the thought. In fact, her expression looks exactly like mine.

  ‘No,’ I assure her. ‘I can manage.’ And, pulling on my newly acquired waterproof jacket and Wellingtons, I head out into the downpour.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I’m trying to wrestle antibiotics into Christopher’s beady chicken’s eyes and I’m wondering why I’m bothering. They’ll all be going soon. Will’s dream has died along with him and I don’t care if I never set eyes on another chicken again. Though now that the antibiotics are starting to work the hens have more of a chance of setting eyes on me before they go. It looks like I’m never going to have the joy of collecting my own eggs now. It’s probably another one of those country experiences that’s vastly overrated.

  The rain is pounding down on the henhouse and I cry gently as I work. Despite it being morning, the sky is as dark as night. Through the heart-shaped window and the gloom, I see the headlights of a vehicle as it pulls into the drive. I give it scant attention. Whatever it is, Serena is more than capable of dealing with it. I carry along the row of chickens. As they can’t see, they all sit on their perches facing the wall which, this morning, makes me feel interminably sad.

  Behind me, the door to the henhouse opens. ‘Amy,’ a voice says.

  Looking up, I see Guy Burton standing in the doorway. He’s soaked to the skin, hair flattened to his head. ‘I just heard.’

  ‘Isn’t it supposed to be good news that travels fast?’ My voice catches in my throat.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  I stand, chicken in hand, and don’t know what to say. Neither does the vet. It looks like he might want to give me a hug, but I don’t think that I could bear it.

  ‘Let me finish that for you.’

  ‘I can manage,’ I say. ‘I’m just about done.’

  ‘The sheep should be brought inside while it’s raining like this,’ Guy tells me.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Shall I take them into one of the barns? Have you got any hay?’

  Shaking my head, I say, ‘I don’t know.’ Will was supposed to look after the sheep. Even though they’re old ladies, I’m too frightened to go near them.

  ‘I’ll organise some,’ Guy says. ‘I’ll put the goats in with them. They don’t like the rain either.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Amy,’ he says, ‘if there’s anything you need, anything I can do – tell me. Don’t be alone in this. Will wouldn’t have wanted you to be isolated.’

  How does this man, this stranger, think he knows what Will wanted when I, his wife, was struggling to come to terms with it myself? I push away the thought before it makes me weep again.

  ‘I can’t stay here,’ I tell him. ‘Now that Will’s not here. The house will be going up for sale. As soon as I can, I’ll be taking the children back to London.’

  Now it’s Guy’s turn to look surprised. ‘Isn’t it a bit too soon to make a decision? I thought you were starting to like it here.’

  I think back to the afternoon we spent in the tea room together when I was laughing into those dark brown eyes while all the time Will was slipping quietly out of my life. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I hate it.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Guy says.

  ‘Well. That’s life.’

  ‘This place has a lot to offer.’

  ‘You sound like . . .’ I was about to say ‘my husband’ and I stop myself.

  ‘You might see it differently in a few months’ time.’

  ‘I hope to be long gone by t
hen.’

  ‘People round here will be sorry to see you go.’

  I doubt it. I’ve hardly spoken to anyone since I’ve been here. With cleaning the house and unpacking boxes, I’ve barely ventured out. I’m certain that I won’t be missed. Besides, I need my old friends around me now. The friends who I had to struggle to find time to see when I was working. I must let Maya know what’s happened too. She’ll be devastated. Perhaps she’ll come back to us.

  ‘I’d better put the sheep in for you,’ Guy says, seeing that I’m distracted, deep in thought. ‘I’ll come back later with some hay, but I won’t disturb you. I’ll go straight to the barn.’

  ‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to do the hens too?’

  Shaking my head, I say, ‘It will be better if I’m busy.’

  Then, as he clearly can’t think of anything else to say, or has any crumb of comfort to offer, Guy heads back out into the rain and I watch him go.

  But will it be better if I’m busy? I currently can’t think of anything that will fill this hole inside me. If it wasn’t for the children, I’d lie down in this luxury henhouse and let the chickens peck me to death.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The funeral car is here. And it’s waiting, engine burbling softly, exhaust fumes puffing into the air. We’ve managed to capture Hamish, who was bolting round the garden, frothing at the mouth. Now he’s safely locked in the scullery, but he’s howling the place down. Clearly, he knows that something is happening and, equally clearly, he doesn’t like it.

  This morning Hamish has had a chewing frenzy – a tea towel, a dishwashing sponge, Jessica’s favourite slippers and a pile of clean, folded towels from the scullery have all had the Hamish treatment. I haven’t had the time to clear up after him. I haven’t walked him for days either as I just couldn’t face going out and about in the village and now the dog’s a roiling mass of pent-up energy.