The Difference a Day Makes

by Carole Matthews

  Guy takes me in his arms. Even in the darkness I can see that his eyes are sparkling with tears. ‘That sounds just wonderful.’

  ‘You think it will work?’

  ‘We’ll make damn sure that it does.’

  Excited laughter bursts from my lips. ‘We’re going to be busy, Alan,’ I shout to Mr Steadman. ‘I’ve got lots of plans for this place.’

  His face breaks into an uncertain smile.

  ‘You up for it?’

  ‘Aye, Mrs Ashurst,’ he says, a catch in his voice. ‘Reckon I am.’

  ‘Good. I’m not sure that I could manage it without you.’

  He smiles shyly and returns to forking over the hay, clearly overcome by the emotion.

  The children come and join in our hug.

  ‘Does that mean I can have a pony if we’re staying?’ Jessica pipes up.

  ‘Don’t push it,’ I tell my daughter. But I think that somehow one will turn up here whether I want it to or not.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to Guy. ‘Thank you for making this happen for us.’

  Then Hamish bounds over and sticks his nose up my bottom. ‘Hamish!’ Damn dog. I laugh and tears spill over my lashes. And I know that from now on, everything is going to be all right.

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen

  They say that every cloud has a silver lining and this is ours. Out of terrible grief and upheaval, I’ve come to appreciate a different, kinder, quieter way of life. In following my husband’s dream, I had no idea that it would eventually become mine too.

  I’m turning off the heating in the scullery for the night when I see a glimpse of black lace peeping out of Hamish’s bottom. ‘I wondered where they’d got to.’

  ‘Come here, mad dog.’ Hamish whimpers, legs quivering, as I extract my pants, inch-by-inch from his backside. Holding as little as I can, I fling the pants straight into the washing machine and put them on to boil. I’ve long since given up buying new underwear and simply re-wash those that Hamish has eaten. I find that Marks & Spencer’s knickers are the ones that are least troubled by Hamish’s digestive processes and boil washing, so buy all my pants online from there now.

  When I’ve washed my hands, the dog follows me upstairs. As well as indulging Hamish’s fetish for lacy pants, I’ve also long since given up trying to shut him in the scullery for the night. We were just getting through too many doors. The only way to get any peace is to let him sleep on the bedroom floor. Our hound’s fixator has long gone now and you’d never know that his leg had been broken at all. If his back end is a little weaker than it once was, it certainly doesn’t stop him from doing anything. More’s the pity.

  Poking my head round Jessica’s door, I can hear my daughter breathing heavily in deep sleep. She loves being back at St Mary’s School and Mrs Barnsley is pleased to see both of her star pupils back. The children can walk to school alone now without me having apoplexy, but I still find time to take them most mornings, enjoying the talks we have while we trundle along the quiet, green lanes.

  I close the window in her room, shutting out the cool breeze that’s sprung up. It’s been a long, hot summer here at Helmshill Grange and we’ve all enjoyed the garden. The borders have been a riot of colourful cornflowers, cranesbill, bees and butterflies. Now we’re sliding slowly into autumn once more and the weather is starting to turn.

  Fluffy the hedgehog – now in permanent residence here – pokes his head out from under my daughter’s bed and then joins me and Hamish as we go to check on Tom.

  My son, too, is sleeping soundly in his bed. I draw the duvet over him where he’s kicked it off. My soulful, anxious boy is much more relaxed now that we’re safely ensconced back at Helmshill. He’s made new friends in the village – two lovely boys called Alfie and Zack – and goes out on the moors with them every weekend flying his kite. He too is thriving at school, and to see the children both so content like this makes me realise that, finally, I have made absolutely the right choice. I’m only sorry that it took so long and caused so much pain.

  The sale of the house went through quickly and without a hitch. Guy Barton was the model buyer! Plans for the bed and breakfast are coming on well. I’ve applied to the council for planning permission and we’re just waiting for that to come through, then we’re raring to go. First of all, I’m going to do up three rooms and see how I go from there. I’ve had quotes from builders to sort out the ancient plumbing here and install extra en-suite bathrooms. Alan is going to help with the handiwork – of course. Where would we be without Saint Steadman? Alan rarely goes home now until it’s time for him to sleep. He has dinner with us every night, usually gets roped in to do the children’s homework and then he’s back first thing in the morning in time for breakfast. As a grandad substitute he’s doing a sterling job.

  We were out in the garden together today, discussing the first project on the agenda and I realise just how much I’ve come to lean on him. Alan’s going to transform the boggy bit in the corner to a small pond. It will make a lovely spot for a couple of ducks, maybe some geese too. I’m going to do it as a kind of memorial for Will, because I think that he’d really like that.

  Nearly a year has gone by since my husband died and I can hardly believe it. His presence here seems stronger than ever and we all love it, even Guy who never has one moment of resentment for the other man who will always be in my life. He has been a rock for me and for the children. I was so lucky to have been loved by Will, but I’ve also learned in the last twelve months that the heart can heal and can love again.

  I open the bedroom door, Hamish padding behind me, followed by the little tank of Fluffy, who shuffles straight under the bed to curl up for the night. He’s probably the only hedgehog who’s up and about all day, then sleeps at night.

  My darling Guy is already under the duvet. ‘I wondered where you’d got to,’ my live-in landlord says with a stifled yawn.

  ‘Hamish has been at my pants again.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Lucky old Hamish.’

  ‘I’ll be five minutes,’ I tell him. ‘I bet you’re whacked. I’ve just got to brush my teeth.’ The practice has been busy. Stephen has bought into the business now and they’re even thinking of taking on a third partner to lighten the load. Guy wants to be able to spend more time with Tom and Jessica, and you don’t know how glad that makes me feel. After much discussion, he’s rented out his own house to a new GP who’s come to join the surgery in Scarsby, and moved in with us just a few weeks ago. Despite living on his own for so many years, I can’t believe how easily he’s adapted to the hustle and bustle of family life. Guy assures me that he loves every minute of it. Even when I make him do breakfast duty.

  In the bathroom, I shrug out of my clothes and quickly climb into my fleecy pyjamas. Although it’s still mild during the day, the night-time temperature doesn’t allow for filmy negligées, but Guy doesn’t seem to mind. I dash into the bedroom, braving the chilly floorboards and ignoring the shredded mouse remnants which I promise myself to deal with in the morning. Jumping in beside him, I nudge Milly Molly Mandy out of the way, and she miaows her disgust at being so rudely disturbed.

  ‘I spoke to Marty earlier – the pony’s going to be arriving on Monday,’ Guy says as I wriggle in next to him, rubbing my icy cold feet on his legs. I must buy some new slippers when I’m next in Scarsby. Fur-lined ones. ‘Is that okay?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘No,’ Guy admits. ‘But I’m sure you’ll love her.’

  And, you know, I probably will. But not half as much as my daughter will.

  Our ever-growing brood has now been expanded to include two rabbits – a glossy black one for Jessica, a snow-white one for Tom – and some more bedraggled hens which means I’m back on antibiotic duty again. We’re even looking at a couple of alpacas to put in the top field. Not bad for someone who isn’t an animal lover, eh?

  At the foot of the bed, Trouble is already snuggled down for the night. Hamish plods round in a cir
cle on the rug until he finds his maximum comfort spot, then he flops down with a heavy sigh.

  ‘There’s going to be no room in here for us soon,’ I grumble.

  ‘Did you ever think that you’d be sharing a bed with two dogs, a cat, a hedgehog and a vet?’

  ‘No.’ I ease myself further under the duvet until Guy’s warm body is next to mine. He slips his arm round me. ‘Did you ever think that you’d be sharing a bed with a woman whose underwear had been through the digestive tract of a dog?’

  ‘No.’ Guy lifts himself up on his elbow, until he’s leaning over me. He kisses me hotly. ‘Did you ever think you’d make love to a man who’d had his arm up a cow’s bottom?’

  ‘No,’ I breathe sexily. ‘I never thought that.’

  He undoes the buttons of my fleecy pyjamas, slowly, one by one. Already my body is in ecstasy. His hands are warm on my breasts. He kisses my throat, my face, my ear. Then I feel his tongue, hot, probing and . . . slobbery.

  ‘Hamish!’ we shout together. ‘Get down!’

  ~ The End ~

  If you enjoyed The Difference a Day Makes, you don’t have to wait for more!

  Read on for a preview of Carole Matthews’:

  The Cake Shop in the Garden

  Chapter One

  I sit on the edge of my mum’s bed and take a deep breath. ‘I’ve booked you in for a week’s respite care,’ I tell her.

  She stares at me, aghast. ‘But I don’t want you to have any respite from me.’

  ‘Things are quite difficult at the moment, Mum. You know how it is. The year’s marching on and I need some time to get the café ready for the season.’

  She folds her arms across her chest, unconvinced.

  I’ve already brought her a cup of tea and a slice of the new coffee cake that I’m trying out, in the hope of softening her up, but my dear mother has turned up her nose at them.

  ‘I’m not leaving here.’ Mum’s chin juts defiantly. ‘No way, lady.’

  For someone who is supposed to be an invalid, my mother has the strongest constitution and will of anyone I’ve ever met. I knew even as I was making the booking that it was overly optimistic. Even a cake fresh from the oven won’t warm my mother’s heart.

  ‘There are loads of things I need to do, Mum. I could just do with a couple of days. That’s all.’ A couple of days without her banging on the ceiling every five minutes, wanting this or that or something and nothing. She has a walking stick by the bed especially for the purpose.

  My family have been blessed enough to be able to live in a beautiful home alongside the Grand Union Canal since my parents, Miranda and Victor Merryweather, were first married. Both my sister, Edie, and I were born and brought up here. One of us is more pleased about it than the other. The house is in the pretty village of Whittan, at one time on the outskirts of Milton Keynes, but now being nudged in the ribs by the thrusting city as it engulfs everything in its path.

  When I became Mum’s full-time carer, I gave up my paid job and, out of necessity, started a small cake shop cum café and tearoom – Fay’s Cakes I’d already started selling cakes from our dilapidated narrowboat, the Maid of Merryweather, which is moored at the bottom of the garden. It was a sort of hobby, I suppose, a bit of an ad hoc affair, but it gave me something to do with all the cakes and jam that I so liked to make. Now I run it full-time and it’s grown to take over the dining room, veranda and garden of our house. The only problem with running a business that’s based in our home is that half of my days disappear with me running up and down the stairs fetching and carrying for Mum while trying to keep things going with the café downstairs. Not that I really mind . . . it’s just that sometimes I do need a break from my caring duties so that I can concentrate on actually bringing in some much-needed money.

  ‘They’ll sit me in the corner with the dribblers and shakers,’ Mum complains.

  ‘They won’t. This is a nice place.’ I hold up the cheery Sunnyside Respite Care Home brochure encouragingly, but she averts her gaze, refusing to even look at it. ‘It’s not a hospital,’ I press on. ‘You get your own room. I researched it really carefully on the internet.’

  ‘Pah.’

  ‘It’s more like a hotel – exactly like a hotel – but with care. They’ll look after you.’

  ‘Just say if I’m too much trouble for you, Miss Fay Merryweather.’ There’s a sob in Mum’s voice and she dabs theatrically at her eyes beneath the rims of her reading glasses.

  ‘You’re not too much trouble.’ Once again, she makes me feel like the worst daughter in the world. ‘Of course you’re not.’

  She pushes the plate of cake away from her, apparently too overwhelmed to eat.

  ‘I love you. You know that. It’s only that I have such a lot to do in the café.’ The list is endless. Even the thought of it is making me feel quite dizzy.

  ‘Oh.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘The café this, the café that. It’s all you ever think about. It’s all I ever hear about.’

  ‘It pays the bills, Mum.’ Just about. The ones that don’t go away just because I’m at home and caring for you, I add to myself but dare not say out loud.

  My mum took to her bed with a bad bout of flu, four winters ago now. The flu became pneumonia and there’s no doubt that she was very poorly at the time. But, several courses of antibiotics later and when the pneumonia had run its course, she was still in no hurry to get up. Then she slipped in the bathroom and broke her hip. When she came back from hospital, she eschewed the physiotherapy programme that she’d been advised to follow and took to her bed again to convalesce. She made herself very comfortable there and, since then, she’s simply refused to get up.

  Mum has decided that she’s still ill and infirm, no matter how many times the doctor tells her that she’s just fine. She’s stayed exactly where she is and no one can persuade her otherwise. I’ve coaxed and encouraged her. Doctors come and cajole her. Mental-health professionals turn up, try to counsel her and are duly rebuffed. Antidepressants were prescribed, dispensed and found, by me, hidden down the back of the headboard. In short, my mother has decided she will be permanently bedridden and, quite frankly, she loves it.

  Now, every day Miranda Merryweather sits in her bed, snuggled in a duvet, surrounded by fluffy pillows, holding court like the queen of a very small country. These days, she refuses to let most people enter her domain. Occasionally, our lovely GP, Dr Ahmed, is reluctantly allowed an audience. I think at first she liked the attention. Then, as the months went on, she simply became entrenched until, finally, she was frightened to get up and go out at all. Now it’s simply become a way of life.

  The friends she once had have all gradually fallen away until, now, I’m the sole person at her beck and call. I cook, clean and run the café. While Mum can still get herself back and forth across the landing to the bathroom, she needs my help to shower, and I wash her hair for her too when she requires it. Though some days I don’t have time to wash my own hair. There’s an ever-growing cache of tablets that have to be administered at regular intervals – blood-pressure pills, water tablets, sleeping potions, statins. The list goes on. The longer she stays in bed, the more medicines she needs. I change her nightdress every day and her sheets once a week.

  ‘Your sister would never treat me like this,’ Mum says.

  ‘She wouldn’t,’ I agree. ‘You’d starve before you got tea and cake from Edie.’

  Mum recoils as if I’ve slapped her, then turns her head to stare resolutely out of the window at the garden and beyond at the canal which meanders past. The trees along the bank are coming into full bud and soon the hawthorn will be in glorious blossom. It’s so beautiful out there. Yet she’ll stay in this room and miss it all.

  ‘Edie could teach you a thing or two about caring, madam.’

  She couldn’t. Believe me, she really couldn’t.

  Edie, my younger and only sibling, is the shining girl of the family. Edie, the unemployed, heavy-drinking, recreational-drug user who is curren
tly kept by a married man, can do no wrong in Mum’s eyes. As she lives in New York, my mother is unaware that any of this actually goes on. As far as she’s concerned, Edie is busily working away at a wonderful career and has a boyfriend who is a fabulously wealthy lawyer. As such, she is a far better daughter than I am. My sister is very scant on detail when she speaks to our mother, and Mum only sees Edie through rose-tinted spectacles. Whereas I am so very often cast as the Wicked Daughter.

  The truth of the matter is that Edie rarely rings unless she wants something and never comes home now. She hasn’t been back at all since Mum took to her bed – even when she was actually quite ill. And, let’s face it, New York is just around the corner these days. You can go there for the weekend. It’s not as if Edie’s in Australia or New Zealand or somewhere on the other side of the world.

  Even though Edie can be a complete pain in the backside, I do miss her terribly. I wish she was here, and not just because I could do with some help with Mum. Though being the sole carer for your parent can be an onerous and thankless task, it would be nice to have Edie here just as a friend who’d know what I’m going through, so that we could, perhaps, share the emotional burden.

  I press on, even though I’m beginning to realise that my mission is fruitless. ‘I thought I could decorate your room while you’re away.’

  ‘I’m not going away, Little Miss Cloth Ears. I told you.’

  Goodness only knows this room needs a bit of a makeover. I don’t think it’s been decorated since about 1972. Some of the pastel-pink, flower-sprigged wallpaper is curling and there’s a damp patch on the ceiling that says we may well have a leak in the roof. Not the first. I don’t even dare to go into the loft these days. To be honest, the whole of Canal House could do with a bit of tender loving care. It hasn’t had any money spent on it in years, simply because there hasn’t been any to spare.

  I am forty-one years young and this is the only home I’ve ever known. I was born here, in this very room, and, at the rate I’m going, I will more than likely die here.