by Jodi Taylor
Shortly after his return, I was sitting at the kitchen table with Russell, watching him feed Joy with one hand and juggle his phone with the other, when someone knocked at the door. The front door.
Life stopped.
‘There’s someone at the door,’ said Mrs Crisp, in wonder.
No one comes to our front door. For a start, it doesn’t open properly. Everyone walks around, opens the gate into the yard, assumes the position so Marilyn can frisk them for foodstuffs, negotiates the chickens, kicks their way through muddy shoes, wellies and old coats in the mudroom, sticks their head around the door and, having made it this far, says ‘Hi,’ and demands a cup of tea. Or something stronger.
We all stared at each other. Even the cat woke up. I think the last people through the front door were my Aunt Julia and Uncle Richard on the night Russell threw them out of my life for ever. I think that thought must have been what brought Christopher to my mind. Surely, he wouldn’t dare ... Russell looked at me, handed me Joy’s spoon and said, ‘I’ll go.’
He shot into the sitting room, and seconds later, I could hear him shouting, ‘You have to push from your side. No, harder. That’s it. Give it some welly.’
I exchanged glances with Mrs Crisp. Who on earth could it be? Even on the several occasions we’d entertained the police, Sgt Bates had known to come around the back.
Eventually, with a dreadful scraping sound that set everyone’s teeth on edge, the door was dragged open. Out in the yard, Rooster Cogburn immediately set up his own response and then Marilyn, not one to brook opposition of any kind, trumpeted her own window-rattling retort. Between the livestock around the back and the door at the front, there wasn’t a great deal of difference.
Mrs Crisp muttered something and went out to deal with Marilyn. I wiped off as much of Joy’s egg as I could and tried to look like a responsible householder.
Russell bounded into the kitchen, trailing a strange woman behind him.
‘Jenny, it’s our new neighbour. Come in, come in. Mind you don’t stand on the cat. He’ll have your leg off as soon as look at you. Let’s see if we can find you a chair. Jenny, chuck those paint catalogues on the floor, will you? No, not that one – the leg’s wonky. Here you go. If you sit down slowly, you’ll be fine. Now then, let me introduce you. The one covered in egg is my wife, Jenny, and the one covering her in egg is our daughter, Joy. Mrs Crisp is ... not here for some reason ... for which dereliction of duty she will have her pay docked, and I’m...’
‘I know who you are, Mr Checkland.’
‘Jolly good,’ he said brightly, ‘but I’m afraid I don’t.’
She blinked. ‘Don’t what?’
‘Know who you are,’ he said cheerfully, and I could see immediately that he didn’t like her
‘You have just introduced me as your new neighbour.’
‘Yes, but I don’t know your name. I know we spoke on the phone but you were so busy complaining about something or other, that I forgot it. Do sit down.’
‘No, thank you. I shan’t be staying long.’
She stood in the middle of the kitchen and my first thought was that she must be related to Aunt Julia. They were the same type. She was tall and immaculately presented, and completely accustomed to getting her own way. She looked around our untidy kitchen. The cat was sprawled, upside down, in front of the range. The table was littered with Russell’s paint catalogues, today’s unopened post, quite a lot of Joy’s breakfast egg and a large biscuit tin. Through the open door, we could hear Mrs Crisp shouting at Marilyn, who obviously wanted to come in and meet our guest.
I sighed, remembering what Monica had said. This was obviously the legendary Ananda Balasana and here she was, dressed for Country Walking. Or Country Visiting. Or Country Shopping. Country something, anyway. Her Barbour jacket was top of the range and immaculate, belted tightly at her narrow waist. It was easy to see her pockets weren’t stuffed with tissues, carrots, odd bits of string, or lumps of sheep’s wool pulled out of the hedge and forgotten. Her Hermès scarf was knotted around her neck in the casual way that only top stylists and French women seem able to achieve. Her cord trousers had a crease down the front, for heaven’s sake, and her quilted wellies were mud- and dust-free. She couldn’t possibly have walked down our lane. She must have driven. Her cottage was only a quarter of a mile away. I tried to tell myself she might be going shopping afterwards. In the West End, perhaps. She looked like someone who had opened a catalogue entitled ‘Country Clothes’ and placed a blanket order for everything. I remembered the overdressed cottage up the lane. Like cottage like owner, obviously. Suddenly, Monica’s joke about too many sheep and the grass being the wrong colour made perfect sense. And something told me this wasn’t a social call.
I woke up to find everyone looking at me, obviously expecting some sort of response. I wiped my hands and stood up. ‘How do you ... do? Would you ... like some ...’
‘Tea?’ she said briskly. ‘No, thank you.’
I saw Russell’s lips tighten. He hates it when people do that. I’m not keen on it myself.
‘It’s Mrs...’ Dammit. The word wouldn’t come out.
‘Balasana. Yes. Ananda Balasana.’
To be quite fair, I don’t think she was being deliberately rude. I think she was one of those people who moves through life as speedily as possible. Always hurrying from one moment to the next. As if the current one is never quite good enough.
I heard a slight sound from Russell who was spooning down the last of Joy’s egg as fast as she could go. She was still chewing the last mouthful as he yanked her out of her chair, saying hastily, ‘I’ll change her upstairs, Jenny.’
She was already changed, but in the interests of neighbourly harmony, he was better off out of the way. Russell has no filter and he can be quite impolite to people he doesn’t like. And he didn’t like Ananda Balasana.
Neither did I, but with Russell upstairs and Mrs Crisp abandoning her post, it was all up to me. I gestured regally to our big living room. Shabby, yes, but shabby chic in a good light.
Typically, of course, the bright sunshine only emphasised the faded curtains and carpet, and the scratched table. She glanced briefly at our shelves of paperbacks, sniffed and came back to me.
‘I shan’t keep you long, Mrs Checkland. I can see you’re very busy. I wanted to say...’
She was interrupted by Russell clattering back down the stairs, the light of battle in his eye.
‘Well, Mrs Balasana, we meet at last. Always nice to put a face to a voice, don’t you think? And I have to say you look exactly as I imagined you would. It’s always gratifying to be right, as I’m sure you will find one day. So do tell us – what’s today’s complaint? Wrong sort of sunshine? Too many trees around the place?
She did not, for one moment, allow this to throw her. ‘Actually, Mr Checkland, that’s for another day. Today’s complaint is about that garish monstrosity.’
His face was a picture of blank incomprehension. ‘Sorry – not with you. Which garish monstrosity are we talking about here? Yours or ours?’
‘Mine?’
‘OK. Thanks for making that clear. Well, I wasn’t going to say anything, but since you’ve brought up the subject – I hope you shot your architect afterwards. I mean – all those gables – and that rat-ridden thatch – and those stupid little windows. It’s not as if life in the countryside isn’t tough enough without some lunatic with more money than sense dropping a chocolate-box fantasy on our doorstep and frightening the living daylights out of Martin Braithwaite’s sheep.’
In the silence that followed, I could hear Mrs Crisp pressed up against the door, listening ... She could have had my ring-side seat with my goodwill, because I had a sudden feeling that Mrs Balasana was a more than worthy opponent. I thought – hoped – she would rise up in wrath and stalk from the room, but I’m not that lucky.
‘Strange though you may find this, Mr Checkland – and I do beg that you at least make an effort to struggle with a diff
icult to understand concept – but my cottage received full approval from all the appropriate planning committees which is, I am convinced, not a claim that you can make.’
‘Why would I want to? The obscure and irrelevant policies of local government are of no interest to me. I can, however, understand the appeal they might have to a certain type of person.’
‘I think you will not be so dismissive when you receive the first of a barrage of complaints I intend to file with the appropriate authorities.’
‘While I am sure you can imagine the reluctance with which I feel compelled to disappoint you, Mrs Balasana, I can assure you that even if the appropriate authorities are so misguided as to listen to such trivia, my dismissiveness will be enormous.’
I was lost. Completely at sea. I had no idea what this was all about and I rather suspected the two combatants had rather lost sight of the original topic of discussion as well. I said, turning to Mrs Balasana, ‘I’m sorry, but I really ... don’t have any idea ... what...’
‘What this is all about,’ she finished for me. ‘Of course you don’t, Mrs Checkland, since I haven’t yet been granted the courtesy of being allowed to make my point.’
‘Well, what is your point?’ demanded Russell. ‘We’ve been here for what seems like years and, so far, all you’ve done is maunder on about planning committees and the dire consequences of something or other.’
‘The hen house, Mr Checkland. That bright orange, glow-in-the-dark monstrosity you have erec...’
She stopped suddenly. Russell’s eyes were gleaming and I think she suddenly realised what she was opening herself up to. She turned to me, which did her no good at all, because I’d been struck dumb. This was all my fault. I was the one who’d decorated the thing with neon orange paint and brought us under the scrutiny of some sort of planning committee – or the Forces of Darkness as Russell would almost certainly describe them later – and rendered us liable to some sort of dreadful punishment.
I turned to him, anxiously. ‘Russell, I...’
He smiled sunnily. ‘It’s all right, Jenny, don’t concern yourself. Mrs Balasana is obviously completely unaware of the status of our so-called garish monstrosity, which, I think we can all agree, is astonishing coming from someone who lives in a pink rhomboid, but it’s obviously up to me to explain, in simple terms, exactly how things work in the real world.’
He paused and she gazed at him expectantly. As, I have to admit, did I.
He glanced over his shoulder as if to reassure himself we could not be overheard, and then said in a hoarse whisper, ‘Patagonian Attack Chickens.’
Oh God...
To give Mrs Balasana her due, she hardly blinked at all, saying frostily, ‘Indeed? Patagonian...’
‘Attack Chickens,’ he finished for her, and I was pleased to see she didn’t like it either. ‘It all began during World War Two. As I’m sure you will remember, 1940 was our darkest hour.’
‘Strangely, Mr Checkland, no.’
‘Really? How astonishing. Well, never mind. To continue. The government was encouraging the country to prepare for invasion – you know, taking down signposts, blacking out the names of railway stations, setting up the Home Guard – you know the sort of thing. One of the War Office’s many ideas was the utilisation of livestock as a kind of last-ditch defence. Dogs locally were trained to attack anyone who didn’t speak with a Rushford accent. Geese, as I’m sure you know from your Ancient History, are excellent at defending buildings; and a poultry woman in Rushford hit upon the idea of training up her chickens. She owned some twenty or thirty chickens recently imported from Patagonia, and had already noticed their extremely aggressive qualities. Certain that these could be utilised to good effect, she set about their training. I’m sure you know that chickens can fly, and it was the work of a mere weekend to teach them what was required. According to records, most of which you will appreciate are still sealed, many a fifth-columnist was rendered hors de combat by a Patagonian Attack Chicken coming at him out of the night, and beaking him soundly in both eyes.’
He paused for breath, which might have been a mistake.
‘Seriously, Mr Checkland...’
But he’d hit his stride.
‘Indeed, Mrs Balasana, very seriously, as I’m sure you can envisage. And they didn’t stop there...’
‘What has this to do with your hen house?’
‘It’s their home,’ he said, as one explaining to the intellectually impaired. ‘Painted in their regimental colours. The last remnants of the once notorious Patagonian Attack Chicken Battalion open brackets Rushford Regiment close brackets, living out their days in this obscure part of the world. Always watchful. Always vigilant. Waiting for the call...’
‘I think you forget, Mr Checkland, that I pass your yard every day, and far from being an elite squadron of battle-hardened veterans, one of them always appears to be on the stable roof...’
‘Parachute training,’ said Russell, gravely.
‘One perched on the water trough...’
‘Diving training.’
‘And the others are sprawled in the sun, fast asleep.
‘Bomber squadron.’
She couldn’t help herself and, quite honestly, if she hadn’t asked then I would have had to.
‘Bomber squadron?’
‘They lie in the sun and it bakes their eggs.’
‘What?’
‘Hard-boiled eggs.’
‘I hardly think...’
‘I can see that, but trust me. A hard-boiled egg dropped from thirty thousand feet isn’t going to do anyone any good at all. And they strive for pin-point accuracy, you know. It’s a point of honour with them. It’s their South American blood, I expect.’
He pushed his hair out of his eyes and seemed not to notice it flopping straight back down again.
‘I take grave offence at...’
‘Makes a change,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘I should imagine you’re usually the donor rather than the recipient.’
She turned to go. ‘You will be hearing from me again.’
‘I never doubted it for one moment,’ he said, gravely.
‘I’ll see you out,’ I said, desperate to get her out before things got any worse.
I took her out through the kitchen where Mrs Crisp was making a great show of being very busy on the other side of the room before exiting into the yard. Mercifully, none of the Patagonian Attack Chickens open brackets Rushford Regiment close brackets, were in sight.
I said quickly, ‘I’m not going to apologise for ... my husband but I’m ... sorry you didn’t enjoy your ... visit this afternoon.’
I thought for a moment her face softened. She paused, as if about to say something and I couldn’t help wondering if she was lonely and like many lonely people couldn’t help pushing others further away? Was this continual criticism and complaint the only method by which she could communicate? I couldn’t help feeling guilty because I hadn’t visited and welcomed her to the village. I wasn’t given an opportunity to think about his any further, however, because at that moment she said, ‘There was another purpose to my visit today, Mrs Checkland. A man called at my door yesterday and asked after you.’
I stopped walking. I think I stopped breathing as well. ‘Oh? Did ... he give his ...?’
‘Name. No, I did ask him, but he changed the subject.’
I felt the familiar clenching sensation. Words were flying away from me. ‘Perhaps ... you could ... describe him?’
‘A little under medium height. Dark. I’m afraid I didn’t notice him especially.’
No – that had always been Christopher’s problem. No one ever noticed him especially. Not until it was too late.
‘He did leave a message, however. He said he’d called here and that you had been out, but that he would see you again, very soon. Good day to you, Mrs Checkland.’
And, having demolished my carefully constructed edifice of self-delusion, she left.
Chapter Six
I lost all track of time standing in the yard as a hundred thoughts whirled around my head. All right, the description – medium height and dark – could apply to a substantial number of men, but it was Christopher. I knew it. He’d come back.
I stared unseeing at my feet, trying to think sensibly, but there’s always been something about Christopher that chills my soul. As a child, I avoided him whenever possible. Not always very successfully, because I remember Russell pulling him off me on several occasions.
I was roused by Russell shouting that he had to go out, and would I put Boxer in his field, please. I heard his Land Rover start up; he roared past, waving and hooting, and disappeared out into the lane.
I collected Boxer, opened the gate, and led him into the field. As always, he kicked up his heels at the feel of grass under his feet and broke into a canter. Tail kinked over his back, he stretched out his neck and increased his speed. It was a wonderful sight. He’s a good-looking horse and he runs like the wind, but, as Russell says, not always in the right direction. Having galloped away his overnight tickles, he dropped his head and began to graze. Lucky Boxer. Not a care in the world. I sighed enviously, shoved my hands in my pockets, let the gate swing to behind me, and went off to see where Russell had left Joy.
She was fast asleep and there was no sign of Mrs Crisp, so I let myself into our walled garden. It’s peaceful there and I wanted some time to think.
I sat on the wooden bench by the fountain, listening to the gentle trickle of water. At this time of year, the garden had a blowsy look that I quite liked. Summer was finishing and autumn was on its way. Yellow leaves were appearing here and there. A few already lay on the ground. There was a nip in the early morning air these days, and enormous dew-hung cobwebs stretched across the windows. Soon we would have the smell of bonfires and fireworks, and Mrs Crisp would be making our Christmas cakes and pudding. This would be our first Christmas together as a real family. Joy was born just before last Christmas and wouldn’t remember any of it. I hardly remembered any of it myself. There had been the snow, and worrying about Russell being lost on the moor, and then she’d been born, and I’d been so happy, and now...