The Difference a Day Makes (5 page)

‘I’m not unhappy,’ I tell him. I’m desolate, despairing, desperate and devoid of all hope.

‘This is it!’ He beams at his new estate with proprietorial pride. ‘This is what I’ve always wanted. My own land as far as the eye can see.’ This from a man who couldn’t even be bothered to do his own gardening in Notting Hill, a man who’d much rather pick up a book of poetry than a spade. ‘Now we’ll be living the dream!’

The only thing is, that it’s my husband’s dream and not mine.

 

 

 

O
ur home, it turns out, is the place where all the spiders in England come on holiday. It’s a good job that I haven’t seen
Arachnophobia
recently or, indeed, suffer from it otherwise I’d be in a permanent state of terror. Some of them have hairier legs than Will and are wearing hobnail boots.

Our furniture eventually arrived as darkness fell and - all credit to the removal men they unloaded the van in double-quick time.Two charming young men, Paul and Daniel of ShiftIt - movers to the clearly insane - worked frantically until midnight to make sure that we all had beds for the night. The rest of the furniture has been arranged haphazardly in more or less the appropriate rooms.

Despite still being in a state of shock that my husband is happy to swap what we had for
this
, I have forced myself to get out of bed even though I was tempted to stay there with the covers pulled over my head, hiding from bitter reality. From the wealth of packing cases, I’ve somehow managed to locate my oldest, skankiest clothes. Now, the next morning, Maya and I are setting to in the vast farmhouse kitchen with mops and buckets and gallons of pine-scented disinfectant. Mr and Mrs People Who Lived Here Before were clearly strangers to Mr Muscle. I haven’t yet risked opening the Aga as I feel there might be a body in it. Same reason I’m not going anywhere near the cellar.

Maya is still weeping gently as she mops.

‘It’s not so bad,’ I try to reassure her. ‘Once we get it cleaned . . .’ I falter as I realise that this could take about three years. There are mouse droppings everywhere and I didn’t actually think that I knew what mouse droppings looked like. The glass in the windows is opaque with years of grime.

What I don’t like to bring to Maya’s attention is that she could simply - and justifiably - walk away from all this, whereas I’m trapped by marital duty. When I said ‘I do’, frankly, I had no plans to be ‘doing it’ in the country. My nanny could, on the other hand, tell me and Will and the kids to get stuffed and head back to London to find another less mad family to nurture. I hope against hope that she doesn’t think of this. She is a girl after my own heart and has the city in her veins. And, like me, she probably feels like slitting one of those veins right now.

Inside, the house is spacious with large, airy rooms - for that read ‘draughty’. Maya and I have already cleaned out two of the six bedrooms which have now been designated the children’s bedrooms and they’re quietly unpacking their toys and games, too shocked to think of squabbling. Never have I seen my offspring so subdued.

We should have got a company in to give the house a thorough clean before we moved in, but I had no idea that it would be so bad. Plus, the truth of the matter is, we are now officially broke. Virtually all of the money from the sale of the house in Notting Hill has been poured into this place. It means that we don’t have a mortgage - thankfully - but it also means that we have very little left for day-to-day expenses now that we’re both officially unemployed. My husband is convinced that I’m going to be able to get freelance work to top up the pot, possibly at Yorkshire Television or at Granada in Manchester. But I’m not so sure. At best that would be a three-hour round commute for me. Could I do that on a daily basis?

Will, from what I can gather, is planning to turn his hand to country pursuits - whatever they might be - and the words ‘bed and breakfast’ do still keep slipping into his conversation rather more frequently than I’d like.

My husband is wandering round the house, his rich baritone voice soaring through ‘Oh, What a Beautiful Morning’ very loudly. And I can honestly say that I’ve never heard him sing songs from
Oklahoma
before. He’s in his element here. This is his dream. Whereas it’s my living nightmare.

Of course, his delicate condition now precludes him from doing anything too strenuous and he isn’t, therefore, involved in the messy end of cleaning. He’s taking on a more supervisory role.

He’s moved on to
South Pacific
and the strains of ‘Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair’ come ever nearer. ‘Missed a bit.’ Will points out a dirty patch on the floor as he enters the kitchen. See what I mean?

‘You could do something useful,’ I suggest. ‘Go to Scarsby and buy us some food for tonight.’ Don’t suppose there’s a friendly take-away locally.

‘Right,’ Will says, in between refrains and he grabs the car keys and leaves.

Sighing, I lean on my mop, just as our nanny gives a blood-curdling scream as the tail of a mouse pops out from underneath one of the cupboards. I close my eyes. This will all turn out fine. I won’t miss my job. I won’t miss wearing Jimmy Choos every day. I won’t miss sending out for a latte every five minutes. I won’t miss the respect or the power. I won’t miss hobnobbing it with celebrities from the sporting world. I won’t miss my big sister popping round a couple of times a week. All of this I can cope without, as long as this makes my husband happy and keeps him fit and healthy.What would be the point in staying in London if I constantly worried that William wouldn’t come home that night? So this is much, much better for us. Right?

I burst into tears.

‘Don’t cry, Amy.’ Maya abandons her mop and puts her arms round me.

‘I’m not crying,’ I sob, and sniff louder.

I really hoped that work would refuse to accept my resignation, that my boss would hurl himself to the floor and beg me to stay. But he didn’t. Gavin Morrison wished me well and waved a fond farewell without a squeak of protest. Even before I went, my assistant, Jocelyn, had been promoted. And, after years of loyal service, made it clear that she couldn’t wait to see the back of me so that she could try on my shoes for size.

‘We will all adapt,’ my nanny tells me firmly.

‘I’m sure we will.’ I search my pockets for a tissue. While I sniffle, I wonder what I would have been doing in my old life right now. ‘Yes.Yes. We’ll all adapt. We’ll become country bumpkins and love it. It will just take time.’

And I have an eternity at Helmshill Grange stretching ahead of me.

 

 

 

W
hen William returns from Scarsby - several hours later - he’s bearing two carrier bags overflowing with shopping and there’s a definite spring in his step.

‘Let me,’ I say. ‘Should you be carrying that?’ His face is pale. Will still tires easily and that worries me. Shouldn’t he be on the mend by now if there was really nothing wrong with him? His work/life balance is definitely now more in favour of life - shouldn’t that be helping? We haven’t signed on with a local GP yet, and I vow to make it my priority. I’ve been meaning to do it since we got here. He should have someone to keep an eye on him, just to be sure. My husband says that I worry too much. He’s decided that he’s the picture of robust health now that we’ve moved to the country. Arteries that were once clogged have miraculously cleared themselves, cholesterol that was high has fallen through the floor of its own volition, apparently. His blood pressure is that of a nineteen year old. Or so he tells me. I’d like a slightly more professional assessment.

‘Light stuff,’ he assures me. ‘The rest is in the boot.’

I take the carriers from him, risking a quick peek to check that he’s bought all that we might need. Sure enough there’s a couple of cartons of milk and a loaf of bread in there, so I can relax a bit. On the rare occasion that Will ever did the shopping in London, he could come home with absolutely nothing that was on the list but two kilos of wonderfully smelly cheese that he’d fancied and maybe some olives.

Today, he seems to have catered for our more practical needs. The other bag contains loo rolls.

‘Why are you grinning like a mad thing?’ I want to know as I eye my husband warily. ‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing, nothing!’ He’s fidgeting like a five year old.

‘Sure?’

I get a giggle in response.

‘What’s Scarsby like?’

‘Wonderful,’ he tells me.

Bet it’s not.

‘I’ll go and get the rest of the shopping then,’ I say, trying not to sigh.

Plodding out through the kitchen, I go to the car. When I hit the drive, I manage to stifle the half-sob, half-scream that comes to my throat. Now I know what William has been up to in Scarsby. I spin on my heels to find him standing behind me, grinning.

‘Like it?’ he asks.

My jaw has locked. ‘Where’s the car?’

‘This is it.’

‘The
real
car, I mean.’

‘There’s a great dealership in Scarsby,’ he tells me. ‘Thought this would be better for us. Now we’ll look the part.’

Now we’ll look like the Wurzels.

In the drive, in the place where our sleek, black Audi should be, there is the most battered Land Rover that I’ve ever seen. I think it’s supposed to be blue, but there’s so much rust on it that it’s quite hard to tell.

‘Maya won’t be seen dead in that.’ Me neither.

‘It’s practical,’ my husband points out.‘You’ve seen how narrow and winding the lanes are - the Audi would have been ripped to bits within weeks. We won’t mind if this gets a bit scuffed.’

I won’t mind if this is blown up by a nail-bomb. ‘We are contractually obliged to provide Maya with a reliable vehicle,’ I remind him.

‘This old workhorse will go on for years.’Will pats it lovingly. ‘Solid as a rock.’ The wing mirror drops off.

‘Aren’t we embracing this country lifestyle a little
too
fully? We can still have some creature comforts.’

Will purses his lips. ‘Not sure that we have creature comfort money any more,’ he points out. ‘This has been a very expensive exercise.’>

You’re telling me.

‘But I have plans,’ he says. ‘Big plans.’

I hope that those plans involve regaining our sanity, putting this house back on the market at once and heading straight back to London in time for Christmas.

‘I feel at home here already,’ Will says. He slips his arms round me and squeezes. ‘I love you. Thank you so much for doing this. I know that it’s a big wrench for you. But we’re going to live much more simply from now on. Get back to the things in life that really matter.’

‘Which are?’

‘Family, friends. Living without stress.You and me.’ Will kisses my cheek.

And while I appreciate the sentiment, I can’t help thinking that the little bakery at the end of our street that sold seeded Low-GI bread really, really mattered to me too.

 

 

 

T
wo weeks later, deep in the throes of cleaning this place, and I still haven’t yet unpacked half of our boxes. My husband has, however, somehow located the copy of
Keeping Chickens
by Audrey Fanshawe that he bought from Waterstones in Oxford Street and it’s now on his bedside table. He settles himself in bed, picks up the book with a flourish and flicks open the pages. This is a man I loved for his knowledge of Tolstoy, James Joyce and Thomas Hardy. I shake my head.
Keeping Chickens
.

I give up on Zadie Smith and turn to Will. ‘I don’t think that I really want to keep chickens.’ The only chickens that I like are the organic ones that come in plastic trays from Wholefood Market.

‘It will be great,’ he tells me in a voice that I’m coming to dread. ‘They’re wonderful animals. Or are they birds?’

Even I know that they’re birds and I haven’t even glanced at the chicken book.

‘They all have personalities of their own.’

Presumably, he’s also gleaned that from Audrey Fanshawe, as the only experience of chickens that William has is also the organic ones in plastic trays from Wholefood Market.

‘We can have our own organic eggs,’ he continues excitedly. ‘Maybe even sell a few.’

You can also buy them from Wholefood Market, I think, and not have all that fuss - but, as is my way these days, I don’t voice that opinion. Instead, I snuggle down next to Will and say softly, ‘You’ve changed so much since your wobble. I hardly recognise you any more.’

He puts down
Keeping Chickens
. ‘Don’t you like the new, improved me?’

‘I’m having a bit of trouble keeping up with you,’ I admit, letting my fingers rove over his chest. It worries me that beneath that strong, firm exterior something was going terribly wrong and we were completely unaware of it. Will will have to go for regular check-ups now and will probably be on medication for the rest of his life. That’s another thing that worries me - out here in the sticks, will the doctors be up to the standards of the London one he’s used to? If he has another wobble, will there be an efficient nurse handy to step in and deal with it? ‘In my heart I’m still a hard-nosed television executive with a penchant for killer heels and kick-ass suits.You just seem to have embraced this whole country thing a lot quicker than I have.’

‘Wait until we’ve got a proper smallholding with chickens and sheep and pigs.’

Sheep
?
Pigs
? No one said anything about sheep or pigs.

‘Why do we need sheep? There are loads out there on the hills. Can’t we just look at those?’

‘The point isn’t to look at them, it’s to rear them and then turn them into tasty dinners.’

‘Eat our own sheep?’ I don’t think so. I like a bit of distance between me and my food. Not that keen on scoffing anything that’s been running about in my own backyard. Once you’d tended them, wouldn’t they be just like pets? That’d be certain to turn Jessica vegetarian. ‘I thought we were just going to have a big house in the country. I don’t remember the conversation about a smallholding.’