The Difference a Day Makes

by Carole Matthews

  ‘You’ve done more than enough,’ I tell him thankfully. ‘It’s your turn to relax now and let me look after you.’

  ‘And what about you, Amy?’ He rests his hand lightly on my shoulder and I can feel the warmth of it searing through my sweater. ‘Who will look after you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I assure him. But my voice is more wobbly than I would have liked. I turn to face him and we’re inches apart. I can feel the warmth of his breath on my face.

  ‘I wouldn’t have been able to bear it if anything had happened to the children or to you.’

  ‘Thanks to you, we’re all fine.’

  I’m thinking that if we were alone, if we weren’t in a room full of people, that he might just take me in his arms and kiss me.

  Instead he looks at me sadly and says, ‘I’m going to miss you when you go away, Amy Ashurst. I’m going to miss you more than you’ll know.’

  And I have a horrible feeling that I’ll feel exactly the same.

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  ‘Why did the turkey cross the road?’ Tom reads out his cracker joke. ‘Because it was the chicken’s day off.’

  After too much booze we all find this hilarious and laugh uproariously.

  ‘I don’t get that,’ Jessica complains.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, sweetheart.’ I kiss her hair. ‘It’s not really that funny.’

  ‘Then why are you all laughing so much?’

  ‘Because we’re all glad that you’re safe and well.’

  ‘I don’t get grown-ups either.’ She slumps forward at the table, head in her hands, perplexed by the mysteries of the world. To be honest, even if I understood them myself, I’ve had way too many glasses of champagne to be able to explain them to her.

  Outside, the snow is falling again, but inside we’re all warm and snug and happy. Only thoughts of my dear husband are marring the enjoyment of the day. How different this Christmas has been to the one before where Will was, as far as we were aware, fit and healthy; there was no heart problem looming large, no mention of a better life in the country. I push my mind away from dwelling on this, but raise my glass and silently make a toast to Will, telling my husband how much I miss him and that I’ve never stopped loving him.

  Across the table, Guy catches my eye and he gives me a melancholy smile, raising his glass too as if he’s reading my mind. This has certainly been a Christmas Day to remember.

  The omelettes were a resounding success and, frankly, I’m not even sure that I’ll bother with a turkey in years to come. Though, judging by the way Milly Molly Mandy has stuffed her face all day, the turkey is pretty good too. I wonder whether Fluffy might like some and then I realise I’m behaving like a big, old animal softie once again and wonder what happened to the hard-bitten, pet-hating, cynical me. Where on earth did she go?

  I turn to my children who seem to think I’ve forgotten it’s past their bedtime. ‘It’s about time that you two went off to bed.’

  ‘It’s early yet, Mummy,’ Jessica whines. ‘And it’s Christmas Day.’ Then she stifles a yawn.

  ‘And you spent half the night out on the moors rather than in your beds. You should be tucked up again by now.’

  ‘But I want to stay with Guy and Uncle Alan.’ She curls into my side in supplicant pose.

  ‘We’re going now too,’ Guy says diplomatically. He’s persuaded Alan to spend the night at his home, so that the man could enjoy a few glasses of Selbies Strong Ale and not have to drive home. Alan is looking pleasantly contented. ‘We’ll probably see you tomorrow.’

  ‘But what about when we move to London?’ Jessica says. ‘Then we’ll never see you again.’

  ‘We’ll come to London,’ Guy assures her. ‘Won’t we, Alan?’

  Alan doesn’t look too sure about this turn of events.

  ‘All of our friends said that when we moved here,’ my astute child points out. ‘But they never did.’

  ‘Enough chatter,’ I tell her, not liking the way this conversation is progressing. ‘Bedtime. Kiss Guy and Uncle Alan.’

  My child slips away from my side and does as she’s told, throwing her arms round both of the men for good measure. ‘You are the closest thing I’ve had to a grandad,’ Jessica tells Alan solemnly and his eyes fill with tears. Neither Will’s parents nor mine were alive by the time Jessica was born and you just assume that they don’t miss what they’ve never had. Seems I was wrong again.

  ‘Night, lass,’ Alan manages.

  ‘Thank you for bringing Hamish home,’ she says, before a yawn overtakes her again. I turn her round and aim her in the direction of the stairs.

  ‘I’ll be up in a minute to tuck you in,’ I tell my daughter.

  Tom also hugs the men and follows his sister without a quibble. He must be completely exhausted. I bet they’ll both be asleep before I even get up there. I feel a yawn coming on myself.

  ‘Can we help you to clear up?’ Guy asks. ‘We can’t leave you with all this mess.’

  I shake my head. ‘Wouldn’t hear of it. Serena and I can take our time. The dishwasher is, thankfully, one of the few things here that works properly.’

  ‘Then we’ll take our leave now,’ he says, ‘and you can put both of the kids to bed.’

  Both Alan and Guy rise and we all hug and kiss before they leave. Alan, voluntarily, takes Serena in his arms, though he flushes when he does so. Amazing what several glasses of Selbies Strong Ale can do in lowering a man’s defences.

  I see them both to the door. The snow is thick again and now that my children are safely inside I no longer see the menace in the scenery. The flakes drift lazily down, blanketing the ground, covering the tracks of Alan’s sledge. Perhaps we can take the kids out on it tomorrow if they’re up to it – then, I think, they’re not the ones who are likely to be suffering.

  ‘Thanks, lass,’ Alan says gruffly and he sets off down the drive, cap pulled down on his head. ‘Thanks for a grand day.’

  I think that’s the only time I’ve heard him utter two consecutive sentences and I’m genuinely touched. That’s the equivalent of Alan stripping naked and doing a happy dance on my lawn.

  Guy lingers, then shouts after his companion, ‘I’ll catch you up.’

  Alan waves a hand in acknowledgement.

  ‘I’ve had a grand day too,’ he says to me. Snowflakes are landing on his hair making it curl madly and, irrationally, I want to reach out and brush them away.

  ‘It was you that made it turn out all right,’ I tell him gratefully. ‘I can’t thank you enough. After losing Will, how would I have coped with losing the children too?’ My eyes fill with tears.

  ‘Don’t think about it,’ Guy advises. ‘They’re home now, that’s all that matters.’

  ‘I hope Hamish will be okay.’

  ‘He seems just fine,’ he reassures me. ‘I’ll leave him in your capable hands tonight. Have a look at him every couple of hours if you can. If there looks to be any problem, anything at all, then give me a call and I’ll be right back. I’ll be over anyway to check on him first thing in the morning,’ he promises.

  I don’t tell Guy that I plan to get my duvet and curl up on the floor and sleep next to Hamish. Well, you can’t be too careful, can you?

  ‘Despite everything,’ I say quietly, ‘I have enjoyed today. I’ve enjoyed having you around and Alan.’

  ‘And I’ve enjoyed being here. You have a lovely family, Amy. It’s nice to feel like a part of it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Guy looks deep into my eyes. ‘Oh Amy,’ he breathes. ‘I could so easily fall in love with you.’ Then, before I can say anything, he turns and runs down my drive, chasing after Alan and leaving me to stare after him, mouth agape.

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Barely a month after Christmas and I’m packed up and ready to go. I’ve taken the bull by the horns as I haven’t yet exchanged contracts on the house with the Gerner-Bernards, but I feel that I can’t delay the move any longer. I want a few weeks to get myself s
orted before I start back at the BTC. The children have already missed a couple of weeks of the new term at Queensway and I want them to settle into their new school as soon as possible. I’m sure everything will be fine with the sale. The conveyancing has been done and the solicitor says that everything is moving along very well, and the Gerner-Bernards have already had a stream of builders coming through to look at the place to ‘knock it into shape’.

  The removal van is parked on the drive and two accommodating young men are loading up my life’s possessions to cart them all the way back to our new pad in London. That’s not strictly true, since some of the furniture and stuff is having to go straight into storage as there isn’t anywhere near enough room in the flat we’ve rented for all this junk we’ve accumulated over the years. Some of the boxes I haven’t even opened since we moved into Helmshill Grange all those months ago. If I put them into storage it means that I can go through the boxes a couple at a time and get rid of anything that’s now surplus to requirements – that’s the theory, anyhow.

  There’s still piles of Will’s stuff that I haven’t been able to face going through. I still have all of his clothes, his sports equipment – even the squash racket that has never been used although he was always going to get round to it – his collection of Queen memorabilia and a stack of dusty biographies that have yet to be thumbed and now probably never will be. I don’t suppose that I’ll be needing the excellent volume Keeping Chickens by Audrey Fanshawe now either. And, though it seems stupid to take it all with me, that’s exactly what I’m doing.

  It’s not a bright, sunny day for our departure from Helmshill. There’s a cruel bite to the wind, miserable clouds hang low over the moors and even the sky looks depressed. I was up and out before the kids woke up this morning and I went to visit Will’s grave. I put a new wreath of twigs interlaced with acorns on there that I bought in Scarsby because I knew that it would last for a while. It gives me a pang to think that we might not get here for several weeks. Who will look after Will while we are away? The reality of all that I’m leaving behind is starting to hit home.

  I stood there for ages, but I just didn’t know what to say, so I came home and collected my hens’ eggs for the final time, packing them in polystyrene boxes ready to take in the car with us. I only hope that the rattly old Land Rover will make it all the way down the motorway; the first thing I’ll have to do when I’m in London is get rid of it and buy something more suited to city driving and less covered in cow poo.

  I’m due to start my new job on the arts programme in the middle of February, which will give us a couple of weeks to settle in before I go out into the big, bad world of work again. Gavin Morrison is proving very elusive as he’s tied up with this massive sweep of redundancies that’s all over the media at the moment. I haven’t had my employment contract either, despite hassling the HR department twice a week. But then I remember how useless they were when I worked there before, with three women trying to do the work of ten. Plus I know that they’re also snowed under with extra work at the moment – probably too busy firing to think about hiring. I’m so grateful that they’re even taking me on when they’re getting rid of so many people. If it wasn’t for the lure of this job, I really would be having serious second thoughts about this.

  In some ways I wish there was another solution, but I know that I can’t stay here, so we just have to get on with it. Now I’m standing and watching the lads load the last of the boxes and waves of nausea keep washing over me. I pull my jacket around me but it fails to keep away the chill.

  The children are helping with the packing up and Jessica is sobbing quietly while doing it. Do you know how much of a heel that makes me feel? Hamish is tied up to the tree closest to the yard with a sturdy rope. He’s barking manically. Apart from the Frankenstein-style fixator on his hind leg which he keeps trying to chew, our demented dog appears to be none the worse for his ordeal. Unfortunately, his brush with death hasn’t helped to calm him down any. I thought it might have taught him some sense, but no such luck. How on earth we’re going to manage to get him all the way to London without disaster is beyond me. And quite what we’re going to do with him when we get there is another matter altogether. With his fracture, he’s confined to short walks on the lead and is supposed to be kept calm. Fat chance. Guy has promised to pop by and give me a sedative for him before we set off. I might take one myself. But it’s really great that Guy is coming here because at least it gives me a chance to say goodbye to him – something I’m not exactly looking forward to.

  The vet and I haven’t managed to be alone together since Christmas Day. Nor has he mentioned what he said to me, and I wonder whether he’s regretting it now and it was purely down to a heady mixture of the heightened emotion of the day and the drink talking – always a lethal combination if you ask me. We’ve both been maniacally busy. Me with packing up. Guy with keeping the practice going single-handedly as his partner, Stephen, has the flu. I think, in some ways, we’re both avoiding each other.

  ‘Nearly done, missus,’ one of the removal men tells me and I pull myself away from my reverie.

  ‘Right. Thanks.’ We need to set off soon, I know that. As it is, it will be dark by the time we get to London.

  Milly Molly Mandy – who is also now coming to London with us – has been captured and is sitting in a travel cage awaiting her fate, hissing crossly at the indignity of her treatment. The endangered rodent population of Helmshill are, I’m positive, breathing a collective sigh of relief at our cat’s imminent departure. I’m not sure that I dare go and look at the other animals that we’re leaving behind. The chickens that I nursed back to health are a particular sticking point. I can feel my eyes tearing up whenever I even dare to think about them. Fluffy is also proving to be a tear-jerker. Who would have thought that this prickly little hedgehog could have wormed his way under all of our skins. He’s taken to following Jessica round the house like a shadow and sleeping snuggled up in a pair of her old pyjamas under her bed. Unfortunately, Fluffy is having to stay behind too. How can you have a hedgehog as a pet in London? It’s just not going to happen. Then I see that my daughter has climbed up onto the fence and is peering over in the pen where the sheep and Pork Chop are currently held, and think that I must join her for one last round of goodbyes to the animals that have somehow become an integral part of our lives even though I never wanted any of them.

  Jessica’s standing on the second slat of the fence and is leaning over to feed Pork Chop some pig nuts from the bucket that’s always kept handy for him. The chubby Vietnamese Pot-Bellied Pig has settled in well and has also already charmed his way into the affection of my children, and I have to admit that I quite like him too. He’s a friendly and well-behaved little soul and I hope that Guy is able to find him a good home. The same goes for our other charges. Delila is as fat as a house now and is due to give birth to her lamb at any moment according to Alan and I guess he’d know about these things. Daphne and Doris are out here on their own as Delila is taking a mid-morning nap in the barn.

  Saint Steadman is here and is busy around the yard. He’s also been carefully avoiding me since Christmas – although with Alan it’s harder to tell. I think he’s going to find it more difficult to watch us leave than he’d care to admit and doesn’t want any emotionally loaded conversations or hysterical scenes. The children are very fond of him and I know that he’s grown very attached to them too in his own dour, undemonstrative way. He’s agreed to stay on until the animals have gone and the Gerner-Bernards move into the Grange. I try not to think of it as tears well in my eyes and I don’t want them to. Not today.

  I sidle up to Jessica and slip my arm round her shoulders. ‘All right, honey?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Why can’t Tom and I stay here with Uncle Alan and you can go to London to work and send us money?’

  My daughter says it as if it is such a reasonable proposition that I wonder why I haven’t considered it myself. ‘But Mummy would miss you both s
o much, darling.’

  ‘I’d miss you too,’ she says, unmoved. ‘You could come home at weekends. Hamish likes it better here.’ On cue, the dog woofs his agreement. Never work with animals or children, they say. Now I can see why.

  Tom is climbing in the branches of the oak tree at a worrying height.

  ‘We need to be going soon,’ I shout up to him.

  ‘I’m climbing the tree for the very last time,’ he yells back. ‘Because I’ll never be able to do it again.’

  ‘There are trees in London.’ Not many in the part we’re living in, I’ll admit.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘But you won’t let me climb them there.’

  I sigh. He’s probably right. They’ll never have the freedom in the city that they’ve enjoyed here.

  Then Alan comes across the yard. For Alan, he’s hurrying. ‘Delila’s starting wit’ bairn,’ he tells us, flicking a thumb towards the big barn.

  ‘Yay!’ Jessica shouts. ‘A baby!’ And she charges off towards the sheep.

  Tom scrambles frantically down the tree, scraping the knees out of his jeans as he does and shouting, ‘Wait for me!’ He, too, bolts up to the barn.

  ‘Comin’, Mrs A?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m coming.’ And, despite a thrill of excitement, I think this is all I need. This, of all things, is all that I need.

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Guy arrived just as Alan was delivering a lamb for Delila. Tom and Jessica were watching, rapt. Amy, he noted, was looking decidedly green around the gills. Guy couldn’t help but smile to himself. Try as she might, she’d never make a natural farmer. And that, of course, was why she was heading away from the hills and back to the city smoke. His heart was heavy with the knowledge of her impending departure. By the look of the removal lorry, they were just about ready to go. Time, it seemed, had run out for them.