House Swap

by Olivia Beirne

  The goose squawks loudly at me from across the pen, and I narrow my eyes, fighting the urge to make a run for it. Or throw my shoe at its stupid head.

  It turns out that I completely wasted my energy earlier wondering whether or not this was a date. Who knows who I bothered flicking my eyeliner to perfection and applying subtle lip liner for, because it certainly isn’t Isaac. It turns out he was just after some free labour. About ten minutes after we arrived, he started delegating chores for me to do, like some doleful old maid and then proceeded to swan off and leave me to it. Though not before smugly saying over his shoulder: ‘You’ll be fine, right?’

  And now, an hour later, I have collected eggs, swept the courtyard (I mean, really) and am supposed to be feeding the chickens. That is if this goose doesn’t kill me first.

  I mean, yes. I spent a lot of time here as a teenager, but not doing this. We used to go horse riding or pet the piglets, and in spring sometimes we’d help feed the lambs with milk bottles. That was fine, lovely even. This is just manual labour.

  I carefully drop another handful of seeds onto the ground, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the goose, which keeps stretching its wings into the air like it’s challenging me to a duel.

  Where did it even come from? Geese aren’t a farmyard animal, are they? Did Old MacDonald have a goose?

  I stick my hand back into the bag of seeds, my mind still racing after my phone call with Rachel. She sounded different, a bit jittery and nervous where normally she’s completely calm and in control. That can only mean one thing. Fiona must have said something to her about the disaster I caused at the auction, and confided in her about how she’s going to have to let me go.

  She was definitely hiding something.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  I snap out of my thoughts as I hear Isaac behind me. He’s leaning over the fence and smiling, that smug look back on his face. I try not to scowl at him.

  I lift my chin. ‘Fine!’ I say, tossing another handful of feed into the pen.

  The goose honks loudly.

  ‘Good,’ he says, hopping over the fence. He steps towards me and dips his hand into the bag. ‘Sorry about that.’ He gestures over his shoulder. ‘I just needed to call one of our suppliers.’ His smile is so genuine I almost feel my annoyance slip. ‘So,’ he says, ‘what would you usually be doing now, if you were at home in London?’

  I step over a splat of chicken poo.

  Hmm. It’s just gone 8 a.m. on a Wednesday, which means I’d be helping Jasmine and William get dressed before going on the school run with Fiona.

  Not that I’ll be admitting that.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘you know, I’d probably be having breakfast with some friends.’

  Isaac shoots me a look. ‘You go for breakfast before work?’

  Ha. Perfect.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I say, ‘we do that all the time in London. Sometimes we even go to the Shard.’

  I’ve never been to the Shard in my life, but good to throw it in there. It impresses virtually everyone.

  ‘You go to the Shard, casually, before work on a Wednesday?’ Isaac says slowly.

  I feel my face pinch and turn away.

  Hmm, okay. Maybe the Shard was a bit much. But you know, can’t back down now.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I say again. ‘It’s just a casual London thing, you know, just to have a latte and perhaps some—’

  HONK!

  Fuck.

  I trip over my feet as the goose launches itself behind me, desperate to get at my bag of seed. I clutch the seed close to my body and turn my back, but the goose continues to squawk loudly and starts to jab me with its beak.

  What is this animal’s problem?

  ‘Aargh!’ I shriek, trying my best not to gallop around the pen like a terrified Shetland pony. ‘What is it doing?’

  ‘It’s calling bullshit,’ Isaac says as he leans back against the fence, not bothering to help me in any way with this wild animal that looks as if it’s about to eat me.

  ‘What?’ I say, skirting away from the goose as best I can.

  ‘Oh come on!’ he laughs. ‘Breakfast at the Shard on a Wednesday? Why won’t you tell me what life is really like in London? Why are you so desperate to convince me that it’s that much better than living here?’

  I catch his eye, my grip loosening on the bag of seed. I feel my cheeks flare as his question cuts through my bravado.

  ‘I told you what it’s like,’ I say, my voice wavering. ‘You just can’t imagine it because you’ve never been to London,’ I add, fixing his steady eyes. ‘You’ve barely left Wales, it’s just not like you.’

  ‘It’s not like you either,’ he says, raising his eyebrows at me. ‘I may not know London, but I know you.’

  I feel a flash of heat shoot through me and drop the bag to my waist indignantly. As I open my mouth to reply, the goose spots its opportunity and launches at my stomach. I scream and drop the bag, and suddenly all the birds are flapping around me, desperate to get the scattered seeds. Isaac jumps over the fence and grabs the bag off the floor. He goes to take my hand, but I snatch it away.

  ‘Are you happy now?’ I snap. ‘You’ve proved your point. I don’t belong here. I belong in London.’

  He looks back at me, his chest rising and falling.

  ‘That’s not the point I was trying to make.’

  *

  Isaac hands me a steaming mug and I take it, giving him a limp smile as I do.

  ‘I’m sorry about the goose,’ he says, sitting on a bale of hay. ‘I didn’t think he’d actually attack you.’ He looks at me and I notice the corners of his mouth turn up. ‘He’s usually just a bit aggy.’

  ‘Are you laughing?’ I say indignantly. ‘That was traumatising for me! I thought I was going to be pecked to death by bloody poultry.’

  A snigger pumps out of him this time, and to my annoyance, I start to laugh too. He shakes his head and sighs, lifting his tea to his lips. I feel my heart turn over as I recognise the fat clay mug cupped in his hands.

  ‘That’s one of my mugs,’ I say, leaning forward to get a better look.

  Grandma taught me how to make pottery when I was a teenager. Art flowed through her veins and out of her fingers like magic. There was always some large canvas propped up against the wall, splattered in paint or holding the smooth lines of her latest work. The mug Isaac is drinking from isn’t one of my best – the clay is too thick and the handle is fat and wonky – but the paintwork is better than I remember it being. I can’t believe he still has it.

  He looks at it and smiles fondly. ‘Oh yeah,’ he says. ‘This is my mug. I drink all my tea from it.’

  He raises it in a cheers motion, and I notice a small painting of a horse at the bottom.

  ‘Chestnut,’ I say, as the name springs back into my mind. ‘That was supposed to be your horse, that painting.’ I squint at it, leaning forward to get a closer look. ‘It’s not very good, though.’

  He turns the mug to face him. ‘It’s great. Looks just like her.’

  I smile and take a sip of my own tea, which is perfectly sweet with three sugars. I didn’t have to remind Isaac how I like my tea; he remembered.

  ‘I’m sorry for what I said,’ he says after a moment of silence. ‘About you wanting to convince me about London. I’m sure your life there is great.’

  I feel a stab of heat as doubt rolls over me.

  Is my life great in London?

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘it is.’

  We fall back into silence and I shuffle my feet against the concrete, trying to scrape the thick mud off the soles of my shoes.

  ‘Do you want to see her?’ Isaac says. ‘Chestnut, I mean.’

  I look up from my tea.

  ‘Is she here?’ I ask, looking around as if the horse is about to creep up behind me.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘She didn’t run off to flashy London.’

  I flinch.

  He hasn’t let that go then.

  He looks down
at his tea and we fall back into an awkward silence.

  ‘She’s getting old now,’ he says eventually, as though he’s decided to answer my question properly, ‘but she still loves going out for a ride, if you want to see her . . .’

  His question trails off, sounding more like it came from a fourteen-year-old boy asking a girl to the cinema.

  I haven’t been horse riding since we broke up.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, smiling at Isaac properly for the first time since I’ve been back, ‘I’d love to.’

  He grins and gets to his feet, downing the last dregs of his tea. I quickly do the same and follow him across the courtyard. There is a light drizzle of rain peppering the farm, but I don’t really care. I take a deep breath, the salty sea air filling my lungs, and smile into the sky. Isaac gestures me round a corner and I pick up my pace to walk alongside him.

  ‘Here she is,’ he says as we reach the stable. ‘You met Roberta earlier.’

  I scrunch up my nose and Isaac laughs.

  ‘Felix named her,’ he says.

  ‘Oh.’ I smile.

  Chestnut is standing at the back of the stable and lifts her head as we arrive.

  ‘Hey, girl,’ Isaac says gently, holding out his hand to say hello. ‘Remember Kitkat? She used to come here a lot.’

  I feel a light tickle in the pit of my stomach. Nobody has called me Kitkat in years. Although I don’t know why anyone would; it was Isaac’s nickname for me.

  A large grin breaks out on my face as Chestnut walks towards us.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, reaching out and stroking her nose, ‘hey, beautiful girl.’

  We fall into silence as we both stroke her, laughing when she lets out a snort and shakes her mane.

  ‘God,’ I say, ‘I hadn’t realised how much I missed horses.’

  ‘Riding them?’ Isaac asks, his question this time free of any innuendo. Thank God.

  ‘Everything about them,’ I say. ‘Riding them, being with them, looking after them. I haven’t been around a horse since I left Wales.’

  Chestnut pushes her face towards me, eager for more attention.

  ‘Come on,’ Isaac says, and begins to walk back across the courtyard.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let’s go for a ride!’ he calls, grinning as he gestures me to follow him.

  As I start to follow him, a large splat of rain hits the crown of my head.

  ‘But it’s raining!’ I say, although I can’t help but laugh.

  Isaac reaches out to take my hand.

  ‘Oh come on,’ he grins. ‘You don’t really care about that, do you?’

  This time I don’t pull my hand away as I realise that he’s right. I don’t care at all.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  RACHEL

  I clip the final sock onto Katy’s washing line. Katy’s new washing line, I should say; I ordered it for her off Amazon along with a real hoover (this was more for my benefit than hers) and a soup maker. I can even show her my favourite soup recipe next time I see her. Whenever that might be.

  I re-peg a camisole to the line and try to ignore the flicker of fear in the pit of my stomach.

  The novelty of running away to London in the dead of night to hide from my problems has worn off, and whether I like it or not, soon my problems will be flexing their muscles ready to carry me back home. Regardless of whether I’ve worked out how to deal with them.

  I feel my phone vibrate in my back pocket and pull it out. Mum’s name flashes up and I swipe open the message.

  Sorry haven’t called! In South of France with the children.

  Several pictures pop onto the screen of Mum with her arms tightly wrapped around her second set of children, who are both under seven. Her new husband, Mark, is standing behind her, flashing a thumbs-up at the camera.

  I get these types of messages about once a month, after she’s let three calls roll into her voicemail and decided not to call me back. They are always quick, flashy apologies where she gives me a ten-second snapshot of how great her life is but never asks me about mine. The older I get, the harder I find it to remember if she was always like this or whether she just stopped caring after Dad had the affair.

  I know Katy speaks to Dad all the time. He’d never ignore a call.

  ‘Hi, Rachel!’ Fiona calls, making her way down the garden, Jasmine and William both skipping by her side. ‘I’ve just got off a call. Longest day ever. How was yours?’

  She smiles as she reaches me, and I grin back at her.

  ‘Oh!’ she cries, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. ‘Something smells nice. Is that you?’

  I look over my shoulder to where the slow cooker I found under the sink (my present to Katy two Christmases ago) is bubbling away happily with a curry.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I thought I’d dust off the slow cooker.’

  ‘Delicious!’ she coos, picking up a scrabbling William and resting him on her hip.

  My heart squeezes as I watch the two of them. William wraps his chubby arms around Fiona’s neck and pushes his cheek against hers.

  Will I have a boy? Will that be me in a few years, blissfully happy with my child perched on my hip as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, and not something I spent nine months pretending was just a weird dream?

  William whispers in Fiona’s ear and she laughs loudly, digging her fingers into his side and making him scream in delight.

  How does she do that? How does she make it look so easy?

  ‘Well,’ she says, ‘we’ll leave you to it. Glad you’re having a relaxing time.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Katy today?’ Jasmine demands as Fiona turns to walk back down the garden path.

  I’m pulled back to reality by the question, and Katy’s snappy voice down the phone rings through me.

  ‘Er,’ I say, ‘yeah. She’s okay, she’s been playing with a goose today.’

  ‘A goose!’ William cries, throwing his arms in the air and almost knocking Fiona off balance. Jasmine peals with laughter, and I can’t help but smile back, a warm feeling flooding me as we all laugh together.

  ‘Come on, you two,’ Fiona says. ‘We need to leave poor Rachel alone. God knows what we’ll have for dinner. I don’t even know what food we’ve got in!’ She shoots me a look over her shoulder, laughing gaily. The three of them begin to walk up the path, and before I can stop myself, I call after them, as if I’m the child they’ve forgotten to take with them.

  ‘Wait,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you have dinner with me? There’s more than enough.’

  The last sentence falls out of my mouth in a rushed gabble and I feel my cheeks pinch, my body leaning towards them as if we’re all attached by a piece of string.

  Fiona opens her mouth to answer, but Jasmine gets there first.

  ‘Yes!’ she cries, punching her arm in the air. ‘William, we’re having dinner with Rachel again!’

  William scrambles out of Fiona’s arms and they both start a happy dance on the grass. Fiona peers at me.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she says slowly. ‘We don’t want to put you out, and we’ve bothered you a lot on this trip.’

  I look back at her, a Catherine wheel of anxiety spiralling through me at the thought of Katy finding out how much time I’ve been spending with her boss, doing exactly the thing she told me not to do. But then a stronger feeling takes over.

  I don’t want to be by myself. These past few days have made me feel more part of a family than I have done in years.

  ‘Really,’ I say earnestly, ‘I’ve loved it.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  KATY

  ‘Here we are,’ Isaac grins, stepping back to allow me to climb the steps that lead up to the Sailor’s Ship. My legs ache from riding as I make my way up, and a fresh slice of sunshine peeks through the clouds. Oh now it stops raining, after we’ve got royally soaked galloping across fields and are about to sit inside a lovely warm pub.

  Isaac let me ride Chestnut while he took a larger, younger hors
e out. For a moment, I was worried I’d forgotten how to ride and had flashing visions of being bucked off and landing splat in a puddle of manure. But as soon as I climbed on, electricity shot through me, snatching away any simmering anxiety, and as I galloped through the fields, I felt happier than I’d felt in years. I felt completely free.

  I catch sight of my reflection in the glass of the pub door and try to suppress a shudder. The only issue with this is that I forgot what riding in near-torrential rain would do to my hair/face, and now I look like Worzel Gummidge.

  I tuck my hair behind my ears in a desperate attempt to keep it tame.

  Could I sneak home and have a quick shower?

  ‘So!’ Isaac chirps. ‘What do you fancy?’

  Isaac laughed a lot when we were out riding; we both did. I don’t even know what we were laughing about, but it was as though we caught each other’s eye and realised how ridiculous it was that we were pretending to still be angry at each other. In that moment, we couldn’t help but drop the forced scowls we’d been throwing back and forth for days. We just laughed instead.

  In a friendly way, obviously. Nothing more. I’m sure I’d have the same feeling if I went riding with Fiona. Assuming, that is, that she hadn’t started the ride by firing me and I wasn’t galloping after her in mad desperation for her to reconsider.

  I lean over the bar to peer down at the drinks fridge, ducking beneath the low, mahogany beams that glisten under the dim lights and resting my elbows on one of the towelling beer mats that are spread across the bar, of brightly coloured animals holding up frothy pints.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say quietly, trying to spot a drink I’d recognise.

  I hardly ever drink in London. I don’t really get the chance. Occasionally Fiona and I share a bottle of wine on a Friday night, and about once a month I summon up enough courage to attend the Friday-night drinks with the team from Hayes, where I obediently drink whatever everybody else is drinking in a lame attempt to fit in. But I can hardly order a porn star martini here.

  I think if I said the words porn star in front of the old barman, he might collapse.

  The inside of the pub seems smaller than I remember it, with a wonky tiled floor and framed photos of ships hanging on the cracked walls. A light smell of ale fills the place, just like it always did, except for on Sundays, when the thick smell of roast beef was strong enough to swallow the entire village. Each chair is a different shape and size, and every table is covered in rings, a tribute to the many pints that have been happily guzzled by the locals. I catch Isaac tipping an imaginary hat to a windswept couple perched on squishy sofas by the fire, and feel warmth spread through me. I’d forgotten what it feels like to know everybody in the local pub. It feels like coming home.