The Something Girl

by Jodi Taylor

  By children she was referring to her two sons – both enormous. One was still at school, and the other who was at agricultural college had arrived home for the summer holidays suspiciously early.

  ‘Let’s face it, Jenny, where better to conceal a body than a building site?’

  ‘So have you met this Mrs Balasana? What’s she like?’

  ‘I haven’t seen her face to face but we’ve had her on the phone, bitching about everyone and everything. We’ve had complaints about the noise, the mess, moving the sheep up and down the lane, all sorts. Has she not been down to see you about Marilyn?’

  ‘No,’ I said, startled.

  ‘She will. And you just wait until Cogburn learns to crow.’

  ‘But you’re a farm. Noise ... and animals happen.’

  She shrugged. ‘Not in Ananda Balasana’s world.’

  I paused with my cake half way to my mouth. ‘Ananda Balasana?’

  ‘Obviously an alias, don’t you think? To escape justice. Although I have to say, if I was running from the law I’d choose a better name than Ananda Balasana. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Where on earth ... did she get Ananda ... from?’

  ‘No idea. Sounds like a yoga pose, don’t you think?’

  ‘So have you actually seen her at all?’

  ‘No, but I can imagine what she’s like, can’t you? You see it all the time these days. People retire and think they want to live in the country because it’s pretty, and when they get here, they hate it. They think it’s going to be like a giant theme park with pretty lambs and calves and orchards and thatched cottages and actually it’s all muddy fields in winter, manure in the spring, flies in the summer, and rain all the time, and the entire agricultural community lurching from one crisis to the next, and moaning their socks off down the pub.’

  She paused for breath and more tea.

  ‘Do you know anything at all about her?’

  ‘She pursued a career in advertising, met and terrified Mr Balasana into marrying her, then sold her agency and came to live here. Rich, successful, and determined to mould us all into her idea of “the countryside”.’

  I sat quietly and thought about this. Can there be anything sadder than achieving a dream and then wishing you hadn’t. I gave a little shiver.

  Monica hadn’t finished. ‘And you just wait till she turns up on your doorstep whinging because the sky is the wrong colour or there’s too much grass. You won’t feel so sorry for her then.’

  ‘No! Seriously?’

  She smiled and continued more calmly. ‘Well, not quite, but you get the drift. It’s a working farm, for God’s sake. Does she expect me to waft around like Little Bo Peep?’

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. She scowled at me for a moment and then joined in, and we laughed so hard we woke up Joy.

  Mindful that Russell had probably dealt with the chickens by now and it was safe to return, I stood up to go.

  ‘I had better warn Russell.’

  ‘Oh, he knows all about her. They had a bit of a set to about his Land Rover.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About a fortnight ago.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything to me.’

  She hesitated. ‘I hope I’m not speaking out of turn but he did ask me if you were worried about something. He probably didn’t want to upset you. Is there anything wrong?’

  ‘No,’ I said, being careful not to be too bright and cheerful. ‘Nothing at all. Apart ... from the roof, of course. And I think Joy’s teething. And we ... still haven’t signed that stupid contract. But otherwise...’

  She smiled. ‘These things will work themselves out, Jenny. Signing the contract will give you the money for the roof and everything will be easier after that. Try not to worry too much.’

  She looked so kind that I did hesitate for one moment and wonder if I should tell her what I thought I’d seen. What would she say? Was it better or worse to imagine I’d seen Christopher or know that I actually had? Once upon a time, I’d had someone to whom I could tell everything, but my beautiful golden Thomas had left me. He still came to visit me from time to time, but not recently. I sighed. I really missed him.

  *

  Joy and I drifted back down the lane singing ‘Ten Green Bottles’, only to discover that not only were our chicken difficulties far from settled, but during my absence, a whole new raft of problems had emerged.

  It would seem that the ladies had become accustomed to their bath, and they had taken a very dim view of being removed to the great outdoors. Russell was sitting on the bench by the back door, a can of beer in his hand, eyes closed, ignoring the appalling racket coming from the hen house as six ungrateful chickens and a rooster protested vigorously at this supposed improvement in their housing conditions. There was no sign of Mrs Crisp. She had, apparently, been collected by Bill the Insurance Man and they’d gone out.

  ‘It’s not Thursday, is it?’ I said, confused.

  ‘No, it’s Tuesday. I think the noise might have been getting her down. She did shout something, but I couldn’t hear over all the racket. What on earth is the matter with them,’ he said gloomily, raising his voice over the din. ‘They’re out of the bath, aren’t they?’

  ‘Why are they so unhappy?’

  ‘I don’t know. Their food is in there with them, and I gave them some golf balls so I don’t know what the problem is.’

  I mentally replayed that last sentence.

  I was determined not to ask but it didn’t make any difference because he told me anyway.

  ‘For the ladies.’

  I had wild visions of him trying to teach them golf.

  ‘They’re never going to let them ... into the golf club. Not until ... Francesca shaves her legs at least.’

  ‘What?’ He stared at me. ‘What are you talking about?’

  I shook my head wearily. ‘I don’t know.’

  He stared at me for a moment and then said, ‘You look tired, Jenny. You should take things more slowly.’

  ‘I’ve just spent the afternoon with ... Monica, lolling around, playing with Joy and eating ... cake. I don’t think I could go any ... more slowly. Golf balls?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes. To make them lay.’

  ‘Do you throw golf balls at them until they ... produce eggs in self-defence?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t ruled that out, but hopefully it won’t come to that. No, you put a few in the nesting boxes and they think they’re eggs and start laying eggs of their own.’

  I couldn’t think of anything less likely, but held my peace, plonking Joy on his lap and sitting down beside him. She was immediately attracted to his empty beer can. He tilted it backwards and forwards for her, showing her the colours.

  ‘Red. Go on, Joy, say, “red”. The thing is, Jenny, there weren’t any perches in the bathroom.’ He paused and brooded on the lack of basic roosting amenities offered in the Frogmorton abluting facilities. ‘They need to learn to roost. We might have to show them how.’

  ‘How?’ I said, with more visions of Russell crouched on a perch every night, folding his wings and lowering his undercarriage. He ignored me. I suspected he didn’t know.

  ‘And we have to keep their food and drink inside at all times. Say, “green”. Rats, you know. And then after a week or so, we can let them out to scratch around in the yard. Although we might have to teach them to use the ramp.’

  ‘How?’ I said again, with yet more visions of Russell walking a series of buxom hens up the ramp three or four times a day. He ignored me again.

  ‘Say, “Carling”.’

  The cat strolled across the yard to investigate the noise from the hen house; and Marilyn was nearly dislocating her neck trying to see what was going on in her yard.

  ‘I had to put her back in the field,’ said Russell, following my gaze. ‘She does tend to regard the yard as her own personal domain so I thought it would be easier for everyone if she wasn’t traumatising the ladies by sticking her head through their door or chasing th
em around the yard or standing on them or trying to eat them...’

  He trailed away, leaning back and closing his eyes. It’s not really in his nature to be despondent. I took his hand.

  ‘Russell, what’s the problem? What’s wrong?’

  He sighed. ‘I’m waiting to hear whether I’ve got some exhibition space at a place in London. There are several people being considered, apparently ... and I should have heard by now.’

  ‘You will,’ I said, ‘I know you’ll ... struggle with this, but try to be patient.’

  ‘Do you think I should ring them?’ he said, a note of anxiety in his voice.

  It wasn’t like Russell to suffer a lack of confidence. I knew, suddenly, that I’d been right to keep quiet about thinking I’d seen Christopher. The whole thing had been just a trick of the light. Russell had enough on at the moment – unruly chickens, exhibition anxieties, Francesca and whatever she kept ringing him about, to say nothing of the fabulously named Ananda Balasana and her possibly murdered husband living only just up the lane. Monica had told me she’d complained about his Land Rover and he hadn’t said anything to me, so we were both sparing each other anxiety.

  I leaned back as well, and the three of us sat in the sun together while Russell showed us the colours on his can of lager.

  *

  And then we entered a period of ... turmoil.

  Marilyn objected to sharing the yard. She has the run of it for an hour or so each day to keep her hooves in good shape. She was starving and neglected when Russell stole – sorry, rescued – her, and her hooves were dreadfully overgrown. Through weakness and bad feet, she could barely walk. They’re better now, but regular walking on a hard surface is essential to keep them that way, so she spends at least an hour a day in our yard.

  ‘They’re going to have to work it out,’ said Russell, raising his voice over the sounds of outraged chickens and a territorial donkey. And when Rooster Cogburn took up his favourite perch on the water trough he and Marilyn were eye to eye.

  He was doing his best to crow but he hadn’t quite got the hang of it yet. Consulting his chicken book, Russell had announced that, contrary to fairy tales, cockerels don’t always say ‘Cock a doodle doo’. Cogburn’s best effort so far was a kind of AAARRRDLEAAARRRDLE URG, to which Marilyn would respond with EEEEEEAAAWOOOOAAARGHHH, pause as the sound reverberated off the far hills, and then follow through with EEEEEEAAAAWWWWEEEEAAAAWWWOOOORRRGHHH just to show him who was boss around here.

  Boxer, terrified but loyal, would snort and stamp his feet in support.

  ‘It’s like bloody High Noon around here,’ shouted Russell, slamming doors and windows shut. Mrs Crisp, ostentatiously wearing headphones would lift one ear up and shout, ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said it’s like bloody High Noon out there,’ he would bellow.

  ‘I can’t hear you,’ she would bellow back.

  And Joy would clap her hands and laugh.

  Andrew and Tanya refused to come anywhere near us.

  The cat, accustomed to being master of all he surveyed took huge exception to a cockerel with squatting rights on the water trough and we endured several unpleasant encounters with fur and feathers flying while territories were disputed and boundaries imposed.

  I don’t know why Russell thought our chickens would all stay quietly in the yard, either. There were only six of them and yet they were everywhere. Nor did they stay together, either. Agatha, Elfriede and Cleopatra would head for the garden. Considering it was walled and gated we were mystified as to how they got in there, but get in they did. Kevin swore that every time he dug a hole to plant something, he would turn back again to find it occupied by a fat chicken, squatting in the bottom, wings spread, enjoying the dust and the sun. Even turning over the soil led to him being enveloped in a golden-brown crowd of excited chickens frantically hoovering up grubs, insects and God knows what, and he was terrified of accidentally beheading one of them.

  They made one – just one – attempt to perch on the washing line but Mrs Crisp, jaw jutting, seized her tea towel and stumped out into the yard and they never did that again.

  As for roosting on their nice perches in their nice hen house, two of them, Boadicea and Desdemona, preferred to sleep underneath it, and every evening had to be dragged, squawking, from their refuge and forcibly plonked on a perch where they ruffled their feathers and sulked.

  Francesca – that’s the chicken, not my airhead cousin – failed to get the hen-house idea at all. I have no idea what was going on in her mad little brain – or the chicken’s either – but every afternoon she flew/lumbered onto the stable roof, posing elegantly against the sunset in full view of every fox in the western hemisphere; and every evening Russell – and Kevin, too, if he was available – would clamber up there and attempt to chivvy her back down to terra firma. Invariably she refused to budge and one of them would have to carry her, smirking complacently, and thoroughly enjoying the attention. Russell fell off the roof twice, the second time bringing Kevin down with him, leading to Mrs Crisp to enquire:

  a) Were there any eggs yet?

  b) Should he have a safety net?

  c) Were there any eggs yet?

  Leading Russell to enquire:

  a) Why wasn’t she in the kitchen where she belonged and what did she think he was paying her for?

  b) Where did she think he was going to get a safety net at this time of night, for God’s sake?

  c) What was this sudden obsession with eggs anyway?

  d) Was there any chance of one of her special shepherd’s pies that night?

  Eventually, however, the final chicken would be propelled, squawking vigorously, into the hen house, with a protesting Rooster Cogburn bringing up the rear, and hurling challenges at the cat, who would be hanging around in the shadows, gloating. Russell would slam the door and peace – or as near as we could get at Frogmorton – would descend. Realising the show was over for another day, Marilyn would consent to re-enter her stable to check whether anything edible had materialised during her absence. The cat would finish his milk and push off for the night, to get up to whatever he got up to under cover of darkness, and Boxer, reassured that the tiny, mad, feathered horses had disappeared, would negotiate the terrors of the yard and return to the safety of his box.

  As Russell said, while I anointed him with something for his bruises and handed him a glass of something alcoholic, you didn’t just decide to go to bed at Frogmorton, because if you didn’t start shunting animals into their bedrooms at about half past two in the afternoon you’d never be finished before midnight.

  On several occasions, I was the recipient of embittered complaints about him struggling on alone, and I would have to point out that during the time it took him to shut up seven chickens and lead one small donkey and one ex-racehorse to their stables, his wife had bathed his daughter, dressed her for bed, fed her, read her a bedtime story, found Mr Edward from wherever he’d been hiding, washed her own face and hands, laid the table and served up the evening meal. He would become very deaf and change the subject.

  *

  Putting the hens to bed was a little bizarre but not too bad by Frogmorton standards. More to the point, it was nothing compared with letting them out again the next morning. Russell would open the hen house, escort his ladies down the ramp and then have to divert them from their single-minded endeavours to return to the land of their golden youth, the family bathroom.

  Marilyn would stand outraged, watching carefully as seven chickens plodded determinedly across the yard towards the back door, jealous because she thought they were allowed into the house and she wasn’t.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ muttered Russell. ‘We have the world’s first homing chickens. Quickly, Mrs Crisp. Don’t let them into the kitchen.’

  Mrs Crisp, who would have died, tea towel in hand, rather than let a chicken into her kitchen, would slam the back door, locking and bolting it for good measure. Russell would then be forced to re-enter the house throug
h the kitchen window.

  Andrew frequently threatened to film the whole thing and post it to YouTube.

  Mrs Crisp and I endured, in the hope that things would sort themselves out eventually.

  *

  Russell was out in the yard one morning, directing operations, when his phone rang. I took it out to him. He paused with his arms full of buxom chicken. ‘Can you get it?’

  I looked down at the display. ‘It’s Francesca. Again.’

  He looked down. ‘No, it’s not – it’s Agatha.’

  I told him men had been divorced for less and handed him the phone. Clamping Agatha firmly under one arm, he reluctantly took it. ‘Hey, Franny ... I’ve always called you Franny ... Yes, I have ... Why don’t you like it? ... No, never mind, I don’t have time. Make it quick before this chicken shits on me ... Hey, did you know that chickens can shit and wee all at the same time because they only have one...? No, it’s true. It’s called a cloaca and ... What? ... Well I think it’s interesting ... All right, all right ... Did you want something because I really don’t have time to just stand around chatting, you know...’

  It was time to intervene. I rescued Agatha because it doesn’t take much to traumatise a chicken and left him to it.

  When I came back he was just uttering ‘Yes, yes, yes, all right’ before snapping his phone shut.

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t really listening.’

  ‘Russell...’

  ‘Well, you know what she’s like. She bores on and on, and after a while your ears start to bleed, and then your brain turns to cottage cheese and trickles out of your nose. She wants something or other.’

  ‘How do you know if you weren’t listening?’

  ‘Why else would she ring me?’ he said, evasively.

  Why indeed?

  Chapter Five

  Of course, all this sound and fury was bound to attract attention. Martin Braithwaite walked past our gate one day, ostentatiously wearing furry ear-muffs. Russell laughed at him and the two of them ended up in the pub, but not all the complaints we received would be so amicably resolved.