Chapter Twenty-Nine
I spent the following morning getting the place looking as welcoming as I could. There was still no sign of Joe. What should I do? I was developing a gnawing hunger to see him again. What was he doing? Where was he? I should tell him I was here.
Then I went out to stock up my cupboards. Running out of milk no longer meant a quick stroll around the corner to buy some more; now it would mean a car trip into Stokeley. The glossy row of Sally’s cookery books had also been taken away so along with my trolley full of groceries I bought a couple of recipe books with what looked like straightforward instructions in them. By the checkout were a lot of leaflets about local attractions and activities and one of them was offering chickens for sale, chicken huts and things for ‘all your poultry needs’. Marvellous!
Apparently you could even board your hens when you went away on holiday at a place called The Eggcelsior. Not wanting to let the grass grow I phoned the number, spoke to an elderly lady and ordered six chickens and a henhouse that I was assured was the finest and securest they had.
‘Will they try to escape?’
I received a wheezy chuckle in reply.
‘No ’ems quite happy to stay in there, missus; it’s them as wants to get in you has to watch fer.’
Ah, yes of course.
‘I’ll bring ’em over as soon as, or, maybe now I think about it I’ll get Amos my old man to pop over.’
What was it with Devon people and their habit of ‘popping’?
*
I got home about midday and as I was unpacking the shopping from my boot I heard the sound of hooves coming up the lane behind me and some excited yelping.
‘Lulu! Lulu! It’s you!’
I turned to see Ivy coming towards me, proudly perched on a pretty grey pony and bouncing up and down in her stirrups with delight. Next to her on a glossy brown horse was Ellie, who didn’t look delighted at all. In fact, her expression brought to mind sucked lemons and smacked arses.
‘Hi,’ she said as they slowed to a halt beside me.
‘What are you doing here?’ Ivy said, giving her reins to Ellie and sliding down from her pony.
She came running across towards me, her legs spindly in jodhpurs, and hugged me round the waist.
‘I’m so glad you’re here. I asked Daddy millions of times if you were coming back and he said he didn’t know but he didn’t think so. He’ll be so pleased when I tell him. I’ve been asking and asking to ride up here but Ellie always said it was too muddy and I’d have to spend ages picking stones out of Smoke’s feet. Have you seen Smoke? I’m having a try-out on him to see if we get on.’
I put an arm around her shoulders. It was a nice feeling. She grinned up at me and I smiled. She really was a cute child.
Ellie gave me no such welcome but sat pulling irritably at Ivy’s pony when it tried to start eating grass.
‘Another holiday?’ Ellie said from the lofty heights of her horse.
I felt a tiny moment of triumph. ‘No actually. I’m here for good this time. I’ve bought Barracane House and this is my home now.’
Ivy gasped, her eyes round with excitement. ‘Really?’
‘How lovely,’ Ellie said in a tone that said the complete opposite. ‘You’ll find it a bit of a change from London. A bit too much for someone like you, if you ask me.’
I wasn’t asking her.
‘No, I liked it so much I thought I’d stay,’ I said. ‘I’m happy here.’
Ellie muttered something and jerked at her horse’s bridle so it tittuped around like a ballerina, snorting and huffing.
‘Come on, Ivy, think of the horses; Smoke will be getting cold and if he’s going to stand around eating grass it will be me who has to clean his bit,’ Ellie said.
Ivy gave me another hug and darted back to the pony, hitching one foot into a stirrup and hopping around when the pony fidgeted.
‘Stand, Smoke, stand,’ Ellie growled.
Eventually Ivy was back on board and Ellie dug her heels into her horse and they went back down the lane, Ivy turning around to yell, ‘You must come and see my kittens – they’re so naughty!’
They disappeared at a brisk trot, Ivy waving all the way.
Well Joe would know I was here now.
*
Two days later and I still hadn’t seen him. What was I imagining; that he would turn up to see me within minutes? He had work to do. He wasn’t able to mess around like I did, straightening cushions and pretending to write.
That afternoon the chicken woman’s old man Amos arrived, jaunty in a Man Utd bobble hat with a huge, silent companion who was introduced as his son Reub. They arrived in a filthy old van with the back doors lashed together with rope. Several lengths of wood and rolls of chicken wire were protruding from the back. I don’t know why but I’d expected it to come ready made like a doll’s house that would be lowered into my garden with a crane. As usual I hadn’t thought it through.
After refusing my help and offers of tea, they set to on the corner of the garden. Hammering and shouting punctuated the rest of the morning as Amos berated Reub for being a ‘danged fool’.
‘What are you doin’ you … for heaven’s sake boy! Call that straight? It’s bent as nine roads to Cullompton! Give it ’ere.’
I kept out of the way.
At last there was a brisk rap on the back door, and Amos stood there red in the face, Reub skulking about behind him, putting a toolbox back into the van.
‘Well there ’un is, missus,’ he said, ‘’un’s all ready. Come and see.’
I followed him round to the garden and there was my henhouse, bigger than I’d imagined with wire netting sides, on the floor and over the top. Amos pointed it out proudly.
‘Stops old foxy from digging in, see. And the magpies gettin’ in over the top.’
‘Where are the chickens?’
Amos turned and shouted. ‘Reub! Reub, you useless … mother, give me strength!’
Reub shuffled up to us, carrying a wire crate containing six white and very bedraggled specimens of chicken-hood. The chickens looked as though they had all been in a particularly vicious brawl. None of them had a full complement of feathers and patches of pink and unpleasantly scaly skin shone through.
‘Goodness me,’ I said wondering how tactfully I could refuse them.
I had wanted some fat, sleek, picture-book hens. Stout Buff Orpingtons perhaps or Cuckoo Marans with their bright orange eyes and smart white legs. I had imagined them clucking and preening, following me around the garden, or pecking in the lawn for insects, having dust baths in the flower beds, not cowering unattractively like survivors of some awful punch-up.
Amos must have sensed my reluctance. ‘Well ’em may be not what you expected, but they’ll soon fatten up and the feathers’ll grow back good as new soon enough. It’s a kindness you’ll be doing as well. Battery rescue hens, them is. Poor things.’
‘Yes, of course it would. Poor things,’ I said at last, looking bleakly at one of the hens, which returned my gaze, looking equally sad.
‘Then I’ll leave you to it,’ Amos said.
‘Um, you couldn’t help me get them in, could you?’ I said, panicking slightly. ‘I’ve never actually handled a chicken before. I mean, how do you catch them?’
He gave me a withering look. ‘Look at them poor critters. They’m not exactly going to take much catching are they? Reub!’
Reub took the cage into the hen enclosure, tutting and grumbling all the way, and then he opened a hatch in the top and scooped out the scruffy hens and deposited them onto the ground where they stood, blinking and clucking for a few minutes.
Amos closed the henhouse door and rubbed his hands down the front of his coat.
‘There,’ he said, pleased. ‘Water in there and grain in the feeder – don’t chuck it all over the shop or you’ll get rats.’
‘What else?’ I said, following Amos to his van.
He looked puzzled, his mouth turned down thoughtf
ully.
‘Nothing, far as I know. They’m not pets, you know. They don’t expect bedtime stories,’ he said, and chuckled at his own wit.
‘And when can I let them out? I mean, into the garden?’
‘Leave ’em be for a fortnight, then they should be all right,’ he said, a little more kindly.
‘Thank you. How much do I owe you?’
Amos looked thoughtful and leaned on the side of the van.
‘Well now, I don’t know. You’ve paid for us to put up the hen run. What do you think they’m worth?’ he asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I said, desperately trying to remember how much a chicken cost in Waitrose.
‘Me neither!’ Amos said and he got into the van and drove off without a backwards glance.
The chickens were beginning to cautiously move out from their initial defensive huddle, and then one, bolder than the rest, found the grain feeder.
‘Happy birthday to me,’ I said.
I watched them for a few minutes but I had the feeling I was putting them off so I left them to it and went to have a proper look around the garden. My garden! I’d wanted a garden and here it was. It was very neglected, that much was obvious, but there were a couple of trees in one corner. From the evidence on the ground they were apple. Maybe I could make pies, if I got to the fruit before the wasps did.
There was a scrubby and weed-riddled lawn stretching around to the back of the house and a massive compost heap overflowing from a wooden enclosure in one corner. Perhaps there had once been a vegetable patch or other stuff? I couldn’t think what. But there was a huge bramble hedge full of ripening blackberries. Remembering how expensive such things were in London I felt quite excited. My delusions of myself as a countrywoman bottling fruit and making jam were boosted for a moment until I remembered I didn’t have a clue how to do either. But I could find out. It couldn’t be rocket science.
I went across to the other side of the lawn, which was thick and spongy with some sort of grassy stuff, almost knee high. Head back I revelled in the warmth of the sun on my face, thrilled at the blueness of the sky, feeling for the first time in years absolutely content. I briefly imagined how horrified Benedict would be at the prospect of rescuing this garden. Or even sitting in it. And then I fell in the pond.
I swear I didn’t even know it was there. In fact, it was so well camouflaged with green stuff and plants that I’d missed it entirely. Until I trod confidently over the edge and pitched full length into it.
The weeds and whatever the plants were parted helpfully so I could see the murky depths and for a moment I panicked, lost one of my shoes and floundered around splashing and yelping. The thought flashed across my brain: would this be reported in the local press as suicide?
Well-known author Lulu Darling drowned herself yesterday, the day after her fortieth birthday. Friends said Ms Darling had been acting strangely in recent months and possibly showing signs of depression. Her sister Jasmine was too upset to speak to us, but her agent Sally Gardener commented, ‘She still owes me a book. I’m fucking furious.’
I suddenly found a foothold on something solid and tried to stand up, whilst shouting, ‘I’m not bloody depressed!’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said a voice behind me. And then he started laughing. ‘What on earth are you doing now?’
I turned, wiping weeds from my face.
‘Oh hello, Joe,’ I said relatively calmly under the circumstances, ‘could you give me a hand out of here?’
‘You’re mad,’ he said, still laughing. He stretched out a hand towards me and in a few minutes, with an inelegant slurping noise, the mud at the bottom of the pond released me after claiming my other shoe.
‘Quite possibly,’ I said, trying to maintain some dignity while squeezing water out of my hair, ‘and if not I soon will be. They’ll have to take me away to a place of safety.’
Joe pulled out a handkerchief and I wiped my face with it.
‘Now then,’ I said, ‘can I offer you a cup of coffee or tea?’
‘No, I think you should get into the shower before you get chilled,’ he said, his mouth tightening as he tried to stop laughing.
‘I think you’re right. Was there anything particular …?’
‘I was on my way to the top field and thought I’d drop in. Ivy told me she’d seen you back again. She’s very excited.’
‘Is she?’ This made me feel very happy. ‘She’s a lovely little girl.’
He grinned. ‘She’s great. You must come over and see her again soon.’
‘I’d love to.’
‘I see you have some hens?’ he said.
‘They’ve just arrived. Rescue hens,’ I added quickly to explain their appearance.
‘Ivy will be thrilled. She’s been asking for hens for her next birthday present.’
By now I had squelched my way to the back door and was pulling my wet socks off. My jeans, never exactly loose, were shrinking onto my legs and covered in some sort of slime. My hair was plastered to my head and felt very unpleasant. I had the awful feeling I smelled pretty vile too.
Joe helped me off with my cardigan, which clung to my arms and needed a significant amount of tugging on his part.
I held out my hand to take it away from him, thought briefly of hanging it up and then thought better of it and dropped it on the ground. What was the point? It was probably ruined.
‘Every time I see you I’m busy making a fool of myself. Food splatters, mud, gorilla slippers, now this. God, what’s the matter with me?’ I said, my shoulders slumping despondently.
Joe stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at me for a second, his expression unreadable.
‘Is it true? You’ve bought this place? Ivy told me you had. I wanted to check she had it right.’
I took a deep breath. Seeing him again I knew I’d made the right decision. I was so filled with happiness I felt I might burst.
‘It’s true. I’ve bought Barracane House. I’ve sold the flat in London and made the move.’
I wondered what he was thinking.
Please don’t let me be stupid enough to ask.
He nodded. ‘Go and get cleaned up and I’ll be seeing you soon. Now I know where you are for a change.’
I waited until I heard his Land Rover rumble off down the lane and then darted upstairs, towards a hot shower. Peeling off sodden clothes is no fun at all, particularly when they are rather whiffy, covered in random bits of weed and green slime and even a couple of things that wriggled. I didn’t look too closely but found a bin liner and dumped everything in for the time being. I’d worry about them later. Or maybe not at all. I had other things to think about.
Chapter Thirty
The following day for the first time at Barracane House I received some post. A welcome to your new home card from Sally, paperwork from the local council, things to do with electricity and water supplies, documents from my solicitor to sign and a handful of flyers. Included in the bundle was one for a new country store some ten miles away. Fired up with my new involvement with chickens I drove there straight after breakfast. Perhaps I would buy them some special grain that would restore their feathers in double quick time. Or some toys. Were there such things? I mean it wasn’t as though they were puppies or hamsters. What would a chicken find amusing?
The country store was filled with huge bags of dog chow, horse things, vicious-looking tools and a great many articles I didn’t recognise. It was very exciting. I made my way to the poultry section and browsed with what I hoped was an intelligent expression. There were all sorts of things. Several different sorts of grain and grit, Smart coloured rings for their legs, shining grain scoops, cages, feeders that dispensed grain when the chicken stood on a pressure pad, even some nail clippers. Was I expected to clip their nails? Hmm, I’d have to work up to that. The only sort of chicken entertainment was a peck block made of compressed grains and seeds that hung up on a rope like a giant Weetabix. Guaranteed to beat boredom. Did chickens get b
ored? I suppose it was possible.
I spent more on the chicken accoutrements than I usually did in Waitrose and lugged my trolley back towards the car, which was so monumentally unsuited to the job that I vowed my next task would be to swap it for a Land Rover.
I pushed the trolley back and noticed another stand full of leaflets. I saw with great excitement that there was a village fete coming up. And there were competitions! Fruit, vegetables, miniature gardens, bric-a-brac, and cakes! Best Victoria sponge!
I read through the details with mounting determination. Plain sponge cake, eight-inch diameter sandwiched together with buttercream and jam. First prize a five-pound voucher to spend in Beth’s Bakery, courtesy of Mrs B Ford. I didn’t know anything about miniature gardens or how to grow four carrots identical or otherwise, but I could do this! I would take part and cement my place in the local community as a skilled baker.
Having given the chickens their new amusement and scooped out their grit with a sparkling new metal scoop, I read a bit more of the hen book.
All the chickens in the book were really fat and feathery and glamorous, while mine were still plodding about looking a bit battered. Still the book assured me they would pick up in a few weeks. I got to the bit about putting Vaseline on their combs in the winter to avoid frostbite and then I gave up.
My phone rang.
‘I’ve been meaning to come and see you,’ Isobel said, her voice strong and jolly down the phone. ‘The girls were asking if you would come and talk to us about writing again. There’s something Connie was going on about: reading like a writer. Or was it writing like a reader? Anyway, what do you say?’
‘Of course I would.’
‘Lovely! So what have you been doing? How are the hens? I heard from Amos that you’d got some.’
Ah, the country drums had been beating.
‘Yes they’re rescue hens. They’ve just arrived.’
‘Excellent! That’s a great thing to do. How are they?’
‘Looking a bit bedraggled, no eggs yet.’
‘Oh give them time, you’d be looking a bit bedraggled if you’d spent the last year in a cage no bigger than you are. Utter bastards. I mean the battery farmers not the hens! And Ivy tells me you’ve bought Barracane! How marvellous!’
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