by Jodi Taylor
‘True. Although it will be a bit of a giveaway if you don’t have a shower before he gets back.’
I wandered over to talk to Joy who was clashing two bricks together and laughing, while Kevin put away the empty cans.
His voice drifted out from the shed. ‘Is it OK to let Marilyn out now?’
‘Yes, fine. I’ll put the kettle on.’
I brought tea for us and juice for Joy, and we sat peacefully together, admiring our handiwork. Marilyn skittered over to check us out for custard creams. I snapped a carrot in half and handed her a piece. She took it gently, as she always did, her soft lips tickling my palm. Kevin gently fondled her ears, which she loved. Joy clapped her hands and squealed. Marilyn was too short to look over the side of her playpen, but lowered her head and peered in at her.
‘It’ll be great when Joy can walk,’ said Kevin. ‘The two of them will be running around the yard together.’
‘Mmmm,’ I said dubiously.
‘They’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘She’s in no danger. And even Boxer, big though he is, wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
True enough. Boxer is amiable, dim, and far from hurting a fly is regularly terrorised by them. Russell swears he once saw him strafed by a butterfly.
‘And the cat will stay well clear in case she wants to dress him up in doll’s clothing or whatever. Really Jenny, she’ll be fine. She’ll get horribly dirty, of course, but that’s not a problem. And you have to remember it was running around this place that made Russell what he is today.’
I stared at him suspiciously as he sipped his tea.
A clatter rather similar to that of three hundred sewing machines in an echo chamber announced the arrival of Russell and his Land Rover. He swung into the yard, did a double take, and missed the water trough by inches.
Swinging open the door, he turned off the ignition and leaped out. The engine continued running for some time afterwards. Kevin says it’s not supposed to do that.
Russell was regarding his wonderful new hen house with less than wonder.
‘What the hell...?’
He had to break off to attend to Marilyn who knew on which side her bread was buttered. Or carrots in this case. He found one from somewhere. I have long since accepted that I am married to a man who, in times of crisis, can always produce a carrot. He fended her off. ‘No. Just the one. You’re getting fat. Go and bully Boxer.’
Next, of course, he had to greet his daughter who was laughing and lifting her arms to be picked up. ‘Hello you. How’s my gorgeous girl? One of my gorgeous girls,’ he added belatedly, realising too late he possibly hadn’t given quite the right impression there.
He sat beside me on the bench, jiggling Joy up and down. Marilyn, for whom the word ‘no’ did not exist, pestered him for another carrot. Joy wanted to play with the zip on his jacket and what with one thing and another, he was fully occupied for some time.
I waited quietly. Russell has the attention span of a door hinge. It was very possible that he would forget the multi-coloured extravaganza standing in the corner of his quiet farmyard.
‘What the hell have you two been up to?’
Or not.
‘Surely you haven’t ... forgotten. It’s your hen house. Really, Russell, I ... know you’re busy, but you must ... try to concentrate more.’
‘But what happened to it?’
‘I painted it.’
‘How are they ever going to lay in that? All the articles I’ve read say that a peaceful environment is essential for optimum egg production. I was going to play them Mozart and you’re housing them in something that looks as if it came last in a paintball competition, while simultaneously suffering some dreadful skin complaint. Why is it glowing?’
‘It’s the orange. Yes, it’s a little ... bright at the moment, but I’m sure it will ... weather.’
He stared at me. ‘Orange paint? Off the top shelf?’
I nodded.
‘No!’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘It’s glow in the dark paint.’
‘What?’
‘It’s paint that glows in the dark.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, you wouldn’t see it during the day, would you?’
‘No,’ I said patiently, because I had no choice, ‘I mean why did you ... buy ... glowing paint?’
‘I was going to paint the corner of the water trough. You know, after Andrew fetched it a wallop last year.’
‘No, you fetched it a wallop when you were ... driving Andrew’s car.’
‘Not important. The point is I thought I’d paint the corner of the trough to prevent it happening again. As the most responsible person on the premises, it’s up to me to prevent these little accidents occurring.’
‘That ... particular little accident occurred last year.’
‘I would have got around to it quite soon. It’s on my list of things to do.’
‘You should ... probably take it off again. I used all the ... paint.’
Noting my heroic use of the word ‘I’, Kevin got up quietly and prepared to slope off.
‘You stay put,’ said Russell without even turning around.
‘I don’t see the ... problem,’ I said.
‘Well, it won’t be a problem for us. We’ll be inside with the curtains drawn in self-defence. For people using the lane at night or low-flying aircraft, it’s going to be a big problem.’
Mrs Crisp appeared briefly in the doorway, summed up the situation, and disappeared, reappearing seconds later wearing sunglasses.
‘That’s ... really not helping,’ I said and turned back to Russell. ‘I think you’re overstating the ... problem. The only people who could ... possibly see it are the ... Braithwaites and they’re not ... going to say anything. They’ll think it’s a good joke.’
‘What about the new people?’
‘They’re ... new. They won’t say anything,’ I said, rather relishing the novelty of being the one in trouble for a change.
I honestly don’t think Russell was that bothered. I think he was more annoyed he hadn’t done it himself.
His phone rang. He dragged it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, looked at me, and stuffed it back again. Francesca, I guessed. I’d noticed he often wouldn’t speak to her in front of me.
Joy was bouncing up and down, demanding attention. I looked at my watch. ‘Time to start ... dinner. Is everyone hungry?’
We trailed inside to find that the cat, despite being fast asleep all afternoon and not going outside in any way, had managed to get orange paint all over himself.
‘Oh great,’ muttered Russell. ‘We have a cat with a glow in the dark arse.’
Chapter Four
I made sure I wasn’t around when Russell finally released the ladies – as he persisted in calling them – from their imprisonment in our bathroom and into their new multi-coloured abode. I wasn’t anticipating any difficulties with the chickens, you understand, but I’d been married to Russell for three years and, not only are there some situations it’s best not to be involved in, I also had a very good idea who would be lumbered with restoring the bathroom to its pre-chicken standards of cleanliness.
Accordingly, I strolled up the lane to have a chat with Monica Braithwaite and check out my horse, Thomas.
It was a lovely day. The summer had been good this year and even though we didn’t have long until September, the hedgerows still looked green and fresh. It was going to be a good year for blackberries. I took Joy with me and we stopped to look at flowers, point at birds and wave at passing clouds.
The afternoon was quiet and peaceful and after the last few chicken-crammed days, I was able to use the slow stroll up the lane to have a good think about Christopher. Which was worse? Actually seeing him or only imagining I’d seen him? Was I in any sort of danger or was I just mad? These were not easy questions to answer. There were several occasions when I’d drawn breath to tell Russell what I thought I might have seen, but my family, Chr
istopher included, had very nearly ruined his life. We’d put all that behind us and I really didn’t want to bring it up again. I didn’t want anything to mar this perfect summer. His work was going well – he said – and it was true that no half-completed canvases had come flying out of his studio window recently, so I was inclined to believe him. I had no idea where Sharon and Kevin were heading but they seemed happy together. Mrs Crisp no longer peered blearily at the world through a bottle of sherry, and I had a happy family life. I’d stopped being slightly odd Jenny Dove living in her aunt’s attic. Now, I was Jenny Checkland, with a family who loved me and listened to me. There was no way I would do anything to jeopardise that. I decided I would remain silent and keep my eyes open. Quite honestly, I had already half convinced myself I had imagined it. That a man who happened to bear a close resemblance to Christopher had happened to peer in through the window and his expression happened to be a trick of the light, no more. He’d probably been as taken aback as I was to find a strange woman staring back at him and had made off as quickly as he could, which was why I hadn’t been able to see him leaving. I told myself this was a very reasonable explanation.
The Braithwaites lived further up the lane. There was Martin the sheep farmer, his wife Monica, and their two sons, one at school locally and the other currently at agricultural college. Their one daughter, Fiona, had been looking after my horse for me while I was pregnant. I’d wanted to continue riding throughout my pregnancy and Russell had objected strongly, even to the extent of having one of his fortunately very rare hissy fits. The whole thing had coincided with Fiona’s last growth spurt, when she finally and reluctantly had to admit that she’d grown out of her own much-loved pony. He was now pensioned off and living a fat and contented life doing almost nothing, and Russell had offered to lend her Thomas.
‘It’s the least we can do, Jenny. They looked after our animals for weeks after our fire and they wouldn’t take anything for it. I know times are tough for them at the moment, and they can’t afford a horse for Fiona. It’ll do Thomas good to get regular exercise and she’s a cracking little rider. It’s an ideal solution.’
I was unconvinced. Thomas had been Russell’s birthday present to me and I adored him. Thomas, I mean. And Russell too, obviously. He – Thomas, not Russell – was calm and sensible and placid, and we don’t get a lot of that at Frogmorton.
‘It’s only for a year.’
I think some of my anxiety must have bled into my voice. ‘Suppose he forgets me.’
He was sweeping the yard at the time. He put down the broom, took my hand, pulled me into the empty mudroom and cupped my face with his hands.
‘No one who has met you could ever forget you. I certainly can’t.’
I felt tears well up.
‘Why are you crying?’ he demanded, slightly panic-stricken. ‘What did I say?’
‘Something nice.’
He seemed indignant. ‘I say nice things all the time. I’m famed for it.’
I chuckled into his old, holey sweater, he put his arms around me, and we stood quietly for a while, just enjoying the moment. As usual, he smelled of fabric conditioner, linseed oil, and horse. A unique combination that was typically Russell.
He pulled back. ‘You’re very affectionate this morning. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it, but are you quite sure this is the time and place? Mrs Crisp is only feet away.’
We looked down. A small donkey had soundlessly entered the mudroom and, taking advantage of Russell’s momentary distraction, had seized the opportunity to investigate the few areas she could reach on the off chance he might have something edible tucked away.
Hearing her name, Mrs Crisp appeared at the doorway. She looked from me to Russell, back to me and frowned at my wet eyes.
‘Yes?’ he said, haughtily. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Is there a problem?’
I nodded. ‘He’s being wonderful.’
She sighed. ‘I hate it when he does that.’
Anyway, here we were, Joy and I, wandering up the lane, singing snatches of songs and generally enjoying the day. The cat followed us part of the way and then turned off for sinister purposes of his own, which was just as well, because we were drawing near what Russell always referred to as The Chocolate Box Cottage – and not in a good way.
Once upon a time, this had been a tumbledown cottage hiding from the lane behind a jungle of overgrown garden. The roof sagged, the windows had been removed and the door hung askew. Russell said no one had lived in it for years.
And then, about eighteen months ago, we’d woken to the sound of men and machinery. Someone had bought it and, having bought it, proceeded to hurl money at it on an unprecedented scale. The original little cottage disappeared under the weight of gables, extensions, half-timbering, a new thatched roof – ‘They’ll regret that,’ said Russell, in full Cassandra mode – and twee little diamond-paned windows. It was as if someone had said, ‘I want a country cottage – the full works. Here’s a lot of money – get on with it.’ The garden was levelled and landscaped in what an expensive London designer obviously considered to be ‘Country Garden’ style, with hollyhocks, roses, lavender, the complete works, all carefully positioned to give that casual ‘just grown’ look. Kevin, a trainee landscape gardener himself, could barely bring himself to talk about it. Oh, and they called it Pear Tree Cottage. Not a pear tree in sight, obviously.
Once the work was completed, a couple of enormous furniture vans had roared up the lane, and become wedged under low-hanging branches. Their drivers came knocking at the door for permission to lop them off. Russell refused, quite politely for him, they forced their way through somehow, damaging the trees anyway, a quantity of expensive, carefully chosen ‘country furniture’ was disgorged, they drove away again, and silence fell.
‘Weekenders,’ was the general verdict in the pub that night. We finished our drinks and forgot about them. The hope was that they might never appear at all. And then, one day, about a month ago, I’d seen smoke curling from their twisted chimneys. I hesitated for a long time about going in and saying hello. I’m never sure about the etiquette for this sort of thing, but I think the responsibility rests with the locals to make the newcomers feel welcome. I kept putting it off and putting it off, and then I tried to get Russell to come with me. I did think his nosiness might overcome his hostility, but he hadn’t forgiven whoever it was for the trees and refused.
I’d walked past several times, but even the thought of calling uninvited made my blood run cold. I imagined the inhabitants opening the door and then shifting from foot to foot with impatience as I struggled with ‘Good morning’. And probably going on to die of old age while I tried to comment on the weather. Russell never has these problems – he talks to anyone and anything – but I’m not Russell. I wish I was, but I’m not.
Opinions as to who the occupants could be varied considerably. Sharon and Kevin plumped for a deposed despot, fleeing his vengeful subjects and hiding out in the depths of the English countryside. We vetoed that one because of the lack of black helicopters. Russell plumped for mafia money. Mrs Crisp was of the opinion it was the headquarters of a coven of witches dedicated to cursing the village and its inhabitants. On what grounds she remained a little vague. I had my money on a famous film star whose plastic surgery had gone wrong and, too grotesque to face the world, had retired to a life of isolation. As you can see, the winter nights are sometimes quite long in the countryside, and if there’s not much on the TV and it’s too wet to get to the pub, there’s not a lot to do.
Having said all that, their garden really was very pretty, and Joy and I lingered, staring over the carefully built dry-stone wall (there’d been an old wire fence there before) and admiring the colours. Well, Joy, her father’s daughter, admired the colours. I took the opportunity to have a good stare at the windows on the off chance I might catch some movement inside. Nothing.
After a minute or so, we continued on our way up to the Braithwaite’s farm.<
br />
Monica was crossing the yard.
‘Jenny! How lovely to see you. How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you. Everything ... OK here?’
‘Everything’s fine, thank you. Have you come to see Thomas? Fiona’s taken him up onto the moors. They should be back in an hour or so. Come in. You can be my excuse to put the kettle on. Hello, you beautiful little girl.’
I had long since realised that no one meant me when they said that.
I plonked Joy on the sofa where she played with the tassels on the cushions for a while and then fell suddenly and deeply asleep.
‘Lucky thing,’ said Monica, pouring the tea.
She looked tired and I remembered what Russell had said about times being tough for them. Seeking to distract her, I asked if she had met our new neighbours yet.
She smacked down the teapot. Anyone meeting plump, cheerful Monica Braithwaite would think she was one of the nicest people in the world. And she is, but then I remembered the Nativity play last year when she and Fiona had stitched up the Virgin Mary with a pregnant sheep. She’d given birth on stage. The sheep, I mean, not the Virgin Mary. She’d screamed and fled. The Virgin Mary, I mean, not the sheep. Leaving Fiona Braithwaite as the Angel Gabriel victorious on her celestial hay bale. Life in the countryside is considerably more brutal than town dwellers often realise. Anyway, the vicar, dear Mr Wivenhoe, had had to lie down afterwards, prior to writing a careful letter to the bishop, and now it seemed our new neighbours had managed to get themselves on the wrong side of her as well.
‘Obviously you haven’t.’
‘No,’ I said, puzzled by her reaction. ‘I haven’t.’
‘Well, I have.’ She scowled into her tea.
‘Yes? And?’
‘Her name’s Balasana.’
I blinked. ‘Is there a Mr Balasana?’
She swallowed the rest of her tea. ‘No one knows. Certainly no one has ever seen him. Not in these parts, anyway.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘The children say she’s probably murdered him. That’s why she’s come to live here. He’s walled up in the cottage somewhere. Or buried under the new garden.’