The Difference a Day Makes (27 page)

‘Don’t get too carried away, Cheryl. It’s not likely to be happening again any time soon. This was definitely a one-off.’ It couldn’t even be classed as a one-night stand, given the outcome.

His matchmaker looked aghast. ‘You can’t have scared her off in one weekend. Not even you could have done that.’

‘I managed to accidentally drug her so she slept for about fourteen hours straight and then Hamish also accidentally knocked her into the stream at Staincliffe Cove. It wasn’t as romantic a reunion as it might have been.’

‘You really are a hopeless case,’ Cheryl chided. ‘Even for a bloke. What am I going to do with you? You’re going to end up a sad old bachelor.The sort of man who wears socks with sandals.’

‘Thank you for that charming insight into my future. Now I have so much to look forward to.’

‘I hear the Widow Ashurst has sold her house.’

‘What is this? Some sort of Jane Austen story? “The Widow Ashurst”?’

‘Well? Has she?’

‘Yes,’ Guy conceded with a slumping of his shoulders. ‘She has.’

Cheryl tutted. ‘That’s another one out of the running then.’

Guy sat down on a chair in the waiting room, beneath the new tropical fish tank, and said wistfully, ‘I don’t want this all round Poppy’s Tea Room or on the Mrs Tilsley Telegraph, but I really liked her.’

‘I know,’ Cheryl said. ‘I’m not stupid.’

‘What do I do?’ he asked, realising even as he did so that it was probably not wise to entrust his lovelife to his well-intentioned but exceptionally nosy receptionist. ‘She’ll be gone in a matter of weeks.’

‘Then you’ll have to find a way of stopping her.’

‘It would take a minor miracle.’

‘Despite your lack of success with the female of the species to date, I believe that you’re a very enterprising man.’

‘I think your faith in me might be misplaced.’

‘Have you told her how you feel?’

‘In a stupid, clumsy, roundabout way.’

‘Not a good start.’

‘No.’>

‘Then you must become the real-life romantic hero. Sweep her off her feet. Take her roses. Lavish her with compliments. Read her poetry.’

‘Poetry? Is that what your husband does for you?’

‘Don’t be daft. A woman can dream though. That’s what we like. All the slushy stuff.’

‘I think Amy would run as fast as she could in the other direction if I turned up with roses, spouting poetry.’ He also suspected that William Ashurst was the type of man who’d be comfortable reading poetry and he couldn’t possibly compete with that. ‘I’d rather do things my own way.’

‘Stupid, clumsy and roundabout.’ Cheryl raised her eyebrows again. ‘And I quote . . .’

Then, thankfully, the practice door opened and in shuffled a very miserable-looking pot-bellied pig and his equally pot-bellied master. Why was it that pets always resembled their owners?

‘This is Pork Chop,’ the man said.‘He’s a bit under the weather.’

The pig looked up and sighed heavily. Guy knew exactly how he felt.

 

 

 

A
tall, thin man stands at my back door. He’s wearing a smart tweed jacket and a tie. His flat cap is clutched in his hands and he’s uncomfortable meeting my eye. Hamish is going wild behind me, eager to give our visitor a welcoming chew.

‘Vit sent me,’ he says curtly.

‘Ah. You must be Mr Steadman.’

‘Aye.’

‘You won’t believe how pleased I am that you’ve come to help.’ A feeling of relief floods through me and the poor chap hasn’t even done anything yet. I shove Hamish away with my leg as I hang onto his collar. ‘I’m not managing terribly well.’

‘Aye. Vit said.’

My new helper is a handsome man even now despite his craggy, careworn skin, and would have been quite the looker in his day, I’m sure. He’s as neat as a new pin and his whole body exudes calm and containment.You can’t ever imagine him being moved to get up and sing in a karaoke bar, or even frequent one. It seems as if a smile doesn’t come easily to his lips, but I like Mr Steadman already. ‘How do you want to play this? Shall I show you round the place? Write you a list?’

‘Tell me what you want, Miss, and I’ll get on.’

‘I don’t even know where to start. You probably know more about this stuff than I’ll ever do.’ How can I begin to explain that I’m exhausted by the sheer process of getting animals out of barns, feeding them, putting them in again, feeding them, getting them out, feeding them, mucking them out, putting them back in the barn so that they can poo all over where you’ve just cleaned?

‘Leave it wi’ me,’ he says.

‘I can hardly believe that I’m getting a grant for all this.’

Alan Steadman studies his feet. ‘I’ll take t’dog if it suits.’

‘He’s mad,’ I tell Mr Steadman as I try to dislodge Hamish’s nose from my anus. ‘Quite mad.You’ll never get anything done with Hamish around.’

‘Come, boy.’ Alan Steadman gives a high-pitched whistle through his teeth. Hamish, looking very confused, wriggles away from me and drops to the floor at Alan’s heel.

I’m speechless.

Before I can make my brain say anything else, Mr Steadman strides away, Hamish meekly in step beside him, the picture of obedience. I must be hallucinating.

‘Keep him away from the sheep,’ I shout after him helpfully. ‘He likes to try and roger them. And the goats too.’And anything else that breathes. Or even things that don’t.

Mr Steadman raises a hand in response, but doesn’t turn round. I watch them go across the yard, my uncontrollable, lunatic hound looking like he’s a contestant on
One Man and His Dog
.

Guy was right - my new saviour is a man of few words, but I am eternally grateful that he’s here.

Milly Molly Mandy is up on the breakfast-table, licking the remains of the milk out of my bowl of cereal. She complains with an abusive miaow when I swipe her off the table. Are the kids going to want to take the cat with us too? Of course they are. This is shaping up to be a complete nightmare. Tom and Jessica were still quiet this morning when they ate their breakfast, but I hope that they’re slowly coming round to the idea of moving back to London.

I should start to think about packing some of the things away, putting our home back into boxes for the second time.The very thought fills me with dread. I’m looking forward to going back to London, getting back to work, in the thick of it again - but it terrifies me in equal measures too. I suspect I’ve slowed down a lot in the time I’ve been here. It’s going to take some doing, to get back up to speed again. And, while I’m standing here vacillating and working myself up to tackle the chores ahead, I hear the crunch of tyres on the gravel so head to the door instead, glad of the distraction. I’m even more pleased - more than I should be - to see that it’s Guy’s car parked in the drive.

‘Hi,’ I say, as I go outside to greet him. It was lovely to have him here last night. He’s great company. After dinner, Jessica managed to persuade him to read her a story.
Stories 4 Cool Kids
might not be his cup of tea, but he executed his reading with an impressive degree of enthusiasm. I think my daughter’s now his biggest fan. Guy also helped Tom with his homework too. I don’t think that my son actually needed any help, but was just feeling a bit left out. He seems to miss Will more keenly than Jess does, or perhaps he just can’t hide it as well.

Guy jumps out of the Range Rover. ‘Don’t be mad,’ he says. ‘This is purely a temporary measure.’

‘What?’

He goes round to the back of his vehicle and opens the door. ‘Did Alan turn up this morning?’ he asks over his shoulder.

‘Yes. He’s here now. He’s somehow put a spell on Hamish and has turned him into a proper dog rather than a whirling dervish.’

‘Then you won’t have to do a thing,’ Guy promises.

‘About what?’

He lifts a small, disgruntled-looking and very wriggly pig from the boot. The vet and the pig look at me earnestly. ‘About Pork Chop.’

‘Oh no,’ I say.

‘It will be for a couple of weeks. A month max,’ Guy says too quickly. ‘He’ll be really easy to rehome. How could anyone fail to fall in love with this adorable little thing?’

‘I’m not falling in love,’ I say. Then I flush. To make me feel even worse, Guy flushes too.

‘He’s a Vietnamese Pot-Bellied Pig,’ Guy informs me. He’s black with a cute little snout, chubby legs and, of course, a cuddly pot-belly. And while
I
might be resistant to the creature’s obvious charms, I know two small and very impressionable young children who won’t be.

‘He was brought in this morning.The owner had bought him for his kids as a piglet, thinking that it wasn’t going to grow any bigger. Poor old Pork Chop has spent all of his life in the tiny back yard of a terraced house, and now they’re bored with looking after him.’ Guy lowers the pig to the ground. ‘I wish people would think more carefully before they buy these animals.’

I’m absolutely adamant that I don’t want any animals, yet I seem to keep acquiring them by default.

‘Alan can throw him in with the sheep,’ Guy says. ‘He’ll be fine. No trouble.’

He looks like a whole heap of trouble to me. The pig grunts and shuffles forward to snuffle at my feet. He even gives me a little piggy smile. Oh God. The kids will adore him. My heart sinks. As if I’m not having enough trouble getting them away from here, just wait until they meet Pork Chop.

 

 

 

A
lan Steadman has been with me for little more than a week now and already my animals, barns and home are unrecognisable. The yard is swept daily and looks like the sort of yard they have in television period dramas on a Sunday night. The goats, sheep and hens all look happier, healthier and more shiny since Alan arrived. The chickens have indoor daylight which keeps them laying vigorously instead of snoozing the day away. Pork Chop has settled in well and doesn’t seem to mind all that much when Hamish, who adores the little pig, tries to mount him on a tediously regular basis.

My windows have been washed inside and out. My garden gate now has two hinges, the fence has had all its missing struts restored, the hedge has been cut, as has the grass. Surprisingly, there wasn’t a previously undiscovered tribe of pygmies living in there as I suspected there might well be. In short,Alan Steadman has done all the things that my husband intended to get round to one day but never had the chance to. If Alan wasn’t about thirty years older than me, craggy and had an unhealthy attachment to all things tweed, I might just consider falling in love with him. No home should be without a Mr Steadman.

The children have fallen in love with him too. Despite his curt manner, Alan has infinite patience with them and has spent hours instructing them in the ways of animal welfare. It makes me smile to see my slight daughter staggering across the yard with a big bucket of pig nuts for Pork Chop, tongue out, concentration creasing her face.Tom strides round the yard in his wellies in Alan’s wake, sticking to his heel like glue and looking every inch the country boy. It’s good to see.

Only Milly Molly Mandy is immune to Alan’s charms. She is an unreformed character and brought in a headless blackbird this morning and dropped it on the kitchen floor with a smug feline grin to prove her point. Months ago I’d have run screaming from the room; now I just get the dustpan and brush out and give whatever unfortunate creature that Mils has decapitated a solemn burial in the swingbin.

In some ways I feel terrible that Alan has done so much to the house when it’s all going to be for the benefit of the Gerner-Bernards, but if the EU are paying for it all - which they seem to be happy to do - then sod it. The Gerner-Bernards might as well benefit.

I stand back and admire Helmshill Grange in the winter sunshine as we get into the Land Rover. Everything is looking just so spruce. Which gives me a pang of something pathetic - irritating, as today I’m dragging the kids down to London to look at rental flats. Hamish is fussed within an inch of his life by Tom and Jessica.

‘We’ll miss you, Doggy Woggy Doodles,’ my daughter coos into Hamish’s neck. I’ll swear there’s a tear in her eye. ‘Be good for Uncle Alan until we come back.’

Hamish sits there wagging his tail, looking like the model pet. I am, as yet, unconvinced by this hound’s personality transplant. I view Hamish suspiciously and he wags his tail harder. Grief. If the kids are going to miss him this much on a day trip, what will it be like when we eventually leave him behind?

I’ve got a list of flats - or apartments as they’re now called - to look at this afternoon. I haven’t told either Tom and Jessica’s Headteacher or Guy of our mission today. Mrs Barnsley doesn’t know because she was very keen to tell me last week how fabulously the children have settled into the little school, how they’re perfect students and a delight to teach. It makes me feel like a complete heel that I’m even contemplating taking them away from her tightly run educational establishment and throwing their lot in with an inner-London primary school and not a swish public school given our reduced financial circumstances. Once I’m earning good money again, perhaps I’ll be able to afford to upgrade them.

I haven’t told Guy we’re going to London for a whole host of different reasons that I daren’t even begin to address.

But I wanted to take the children with me today so that they can gradually become accustomed to our imminent change of lifestyle and I really hope that they’re going to enjoy our outing.

‘We’ll stay the night with Aunty Serena,’ I tell the children as we pull away from Helmshill Grange, which is insisting on sparkling in the sunlight.

‘Yay!’ Jessica shrieks. ‘This is so exciting!’

Tom, who is older and clearly wiser to my cunning plan, says nothing as I shoot off down the lane, later than I’d intended to catch the train without stressing. I want the day to run like clockwork. I want us to find a new home in London that we all love. I want my children to be bowled over by the city again and to realise that I’m doing all this for them.