What She Wants (22 page)

suggested she got some, she just hadn’t felt ready for livestock just yet.

‘They’re very easy to look after. Just throw in a bit of feed and sure, you’ve got your own eggs. You could even sell the eggs and make a few bob. The tourists are mad for eggs in the summer. And the winter,’ he added hastily. ‘I know just the man you should see.’

The six baby chicks tweeted maniacally all the way back into Redlion. Muffled thumps from the big cardboard box in the back of the car made it sound as if they were clambering hysterically over each other, falling off and landing painfully on each other’s fragile yellow feet. Slowing down, Hope peered in the back. The chicks were clambering hysterically all over each other and were making desperate, upset baby noises at being separated from their mother. Oh God, what had she done, Hope wailed out loud. Matt would kill her. It had sounded like a brilliant idea for saving money when Emmet, the man from the shop, had explained it.

All she’d need now was a feeding trough, some hen meal and maybe to put a light bulb over the box to keep them warm at night. The chemist was also the animal foodstuffs provider, Emmet’s brother, Paddy said happily as he waved her off, her cheque in his hands. It seemed a lot of money for six little birds but Paddy insisted they were pedigree.

The kind-looking woman in the chemist, who introduced herself as Mary-Kate and who, like Emmet, seemed already to know who Hope was, was sceptical: ‘Pedigree, my backside. That old rogue Emmet Slattery sold you his brother’s runts. Nobody else would buy them at this time of the year. It’s too cold to have them outside for months unless you put central heating into the hen house. You’ll have them killed with pure temper long before you’ve got an egg to your name. What are they?’ she relented. ‘Speckled or Rhode Island Reds?’

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Hope said. They both peered into the cardboard box in the car.

Mary-Kate’s hard face softened at the antics of the tiny balls of yellow fluff.

‘I love chicks but they’re not always easy,’ she sighed.

‘I thought they were no trouble at all,’ Hope said anxiously. ‘Finula said they weren’t. So did Paddy.’

‘Finula Headley-Ryan has killed more pullets than the chicken factory,’ snorted Mary-Kate. ‘Don’t mind her. She thinks farming is so easy a child could do it but she hasn’t a clue. She’s a city girl born and bred and until she landed here, the only time she’d ever seen a hen was in an illustration over the frozen chickens in the supermarket. And as for that pair of old bandits, Paddy and Emmet, I wouldn’t listen to a word they said. Come on in. I’ll make you a cup of coffee and tell you what to do with your hens.’

Smiling guiltily at the thought that the spectacularly efficient Finula wasn’t as brilliant at everything as she thought, Hope opened a window in the car for the chicks and followed Mary-Kate, not thinking that it was unusual to be asked in for coffee when you were shopping. This was Redlion: everything was different here. Talking to total strangers seemed bizarrely normal.

Mary-Kate’s office at the back of the chemist was a cosy nook complete with a comfortably worn couch, portable television and a sophisticated looking Italian coffee machine. Three darling kittens played in the corner, taking turns to mangle a knitted mouse. While Mary-Kate began the complicated business of brewing coffee, Hope sat down and watched her hostess. She was tall, thin and on the wrong side of forty. Soberly dressed in a grey dress with her brown hair cut in a neat, shining bob, she was as far removed from the flamboyant Finula as it was possible to be. She also had an intense, clear gaze. ‘What you see is what you get,’ said Mary-Kate’s honest expression.

‘Are you settling in?’ she asked.

‘Well, it’s a bit difficult,’ Hope said, wanting to be loyal to Matt. ‘The house is a bit of a mess and I have to admit that it wasn’t my idea to come here,’ she amazed herself by revealing.

‘I’m not surprised the house is a mess. Your husband’s uncle was a complete nut,’ Mary-Kate remarked, handing Hope a cup of coffee. ‘He used to say he couldn’t get married because he was too eccentric for any woman to live with. The truth was he lived like a pig. I had to throw him out of the shop on many occasions because he’d put the other customers off with the smell of him.’

Hope laughed. ‘So far, everyone I’ve met has claimed he was a misunderstood genius who deserves a statue erected for him.’

‘Genius doesn’t mean you can’t wash your clothes,’ said Mary-Kate, proffering biscuits. ‘If they erect a statue to old Gearoid, I hope it’ll have a scratch ‘n’ sniff bit to get the whole effect.’

They talked about the trials of doing up old, damp cottages and how terrible the weather was, managing to consume two more cups of coffee while doing it. Hope found it an incredible relief to talk to someone who wasn’t discussing culture, with a capital C, organic food or making your own compost heap. At home, she’d have never let her reserve down in such a manner but Mary-Kate was very easy to talk to.

‘Do most people round here grow their own food and kill their own animals?’ Hope asked cautiously.

‘Are you crazy?’ asked Mary-Kate, stunned. ‘There’s a Dunnes supermarket five miles away and there’s Tescos in Killarney. The butcher’s shop is beside the pub. It’s closed now because it’s being refitted but he’ll be open again in two weeks. I’d much prefer to buy my food in the shop than grow it myself. Stay out of Emmet Slattery’s if you don’t want to be fleeced. I have a shampoo in the chemist that costs two pounds and I caught him selling the very same one for three! He’s a crook, rob his grandmother for a shilling.’

Hope grinned. ‘I sort of thought everyone made their own bread and jam and everything.’

‘Only if you’re stone mad, you do,’ Mary-Kate said. ‘Hope, this is the 21st century. What are supermarkets for?’

‘Well, Finula said

‘God preserve us from that woman! We’re modern people who just happen to live in a rural community, not a remote tribe fresh from the pages of National Geographic. We’ve got running water, you know. Not to mention the internet and digital television. Yes, there are plenty of farmers around but they specialize: beef or dairy herds. That’s a hard enough job without growing everything themselves into the bargain. I’m a pharmacist, for God’s sake. I’m not going to spend half a day killing, plucking and cleaning out a chicken for my dinner when I know I can wander into the butcher’s and buy a lovely chicken breast for myself for a few quid with no bother.’

‘My sentiments exactly,’ Hope said, relieved. ‘I was beginning to think that buying food from the shop was a sort of local no-no.’

The shop bell pinged.

Mary-Kate got to her feet. ‘Farming is a tough business,’ she said soberly. ‘Lots of the people round here grew up on farms but it’s hard to make a living out of it nowadays. People had to give up the land and got jobs in industry or tourism. Half the village work in the computer factory in Killarney, the other half are involved in tourism up in the hotel, the Manoir Rouge Leon. Without both of those, this would be a ghost town. People don’t have the time or the patience for growing anything but a few vegetables and geraniums. It’s great if they can grow the odd bit of rhubarb and a neighbour of mine goes to great lengths to grow strawberries but that’s the height of it. The only people who are obsessed with being self-sufficient are the likes of the Headley-Ryans who think they’re better than the rest of us because they play at farming. If they get a bad crop of potatoes, they can go into town and buy them. A real, cash strapped farmer can’t afford to do that.’ Mary-Kate sniffed disapprovingly. ‘You can hear that poor cow of theirs wailing for miles around some mornings because they can’t get themselves out of the bed to milk her. That’s what farming

is about - hard graft and dedication. Not poncing around talking about it.’

Matt was pacing around the kitchen when Hope got home while Toby and Millie were squabbling loudly in the living room.

‘You were gone hours? Matt said accusingly. ‘I was meant to be up at the centre at eleven.’ (He insisted that he if he was to work properly, he had to treat writing like any other job. ‘The plan is to go in every day and write for five or six hours. It’s a silent zone, nobody talks except in the kitchen.’)

‘And what’s that?’ he pointed to the box of baby chicks.

‘Hens,’ said Hope.

‘For eating?’ he said incredulously, peering into the box where the chicks were chirping at their usual high-speed level.

‘For eggs, stupid. Finula told me we should get hens. I thought you’d approve.’ She didn’t want to say that she thought she might have bitten off more than she could chew.

‘Oh well, if Finula said it, she’s probably right,’ Matt shrugged.

‘Tell me, what time do Finula and Ciaran milk their cow in the morning?’ Hope asked suddenly.

‘You’re not thinking of getting a cow, I hope?’

‘No, no, just wondering, that’s all.’

Matt kissed her goodbye. ‘Sorry I was cross. I was worried because you were gone so long. You’re certainly settling into this country living bit very well,’ he added with a smile.

‘Six chicks do not make me a lady farmer,’ joked Hope.

The chicks provided great amusement for the children for the first hour while Hope set up their home in the small hall off the back door. Bedded down in a huge cardboard movers’ box with a bigger one outside and a filling of old newspapers for insulation, the chicks chirped happily, basking under the light of two old desk lamps to keep them warm. Soft hay

and newspapers made a cosy nest in one half of the box and in the other, Hope placed their shiny feeding container filled with grain and some water. A covering of chicken wire on the top of the box kept prying little fingers out and when Hope sternly pointed out that the baby chicks were not playthings, Millie got into a huff and scrambled upstairs to pull all her clothes out of the big wooden chest Hope had brought from home. Tidying it up took half an hour and then it was still only a quarter to four. Hope stared out the window. The sky was already growing heavier, a combination of swollen rain clouds and the onset of evening. It looked gloomy and depressing. Just like she felt. She looked into the small back garden. You could barely see the outline of the wall that circled it. Hope had always liked the idea of a walled garden: a sheltered spot where you could laze in the summer in the midst of fruit trees and fragrant flowers, pottering around with a small trowel, digging up the odd weed, then relaxing back onto a charming deck chair to read your book and sip your glass of wine. Gearoid had obviously not felt the same. His walled garden was the jungle variety, full of six-foot-high weeds and brambles no sane person would want to walk past. You’d need to be on mind-altering drugs to want to sit in it and drink wine and the only way to clear it had to be by mechanical digger. She wondered what time Matt would be home at. Soon, she hoped.

Two days later, Matt came home early and took the children for a walk while Hope took advantage of their absence to have a lukewarm bath - the plumbing still needed tweaking. Then, wearing her dressing gown and socks to keep warm, she sat down at the computer to e-mail Sam. She longed to begin by writing how depressed she was and how her picture of bucolic life was vastly different from the reality. But she couldn’t. Sam had warned her against the move in the first place. She couldn’t tell Sam how absolutely correct she’d been. Not yet.

Hi Sam. Greetings from Kerry. That sounded suitably breezy, didn’t it? How are you? We’re all fine. No, that sounded too false. She erased the word ‘fine’ and wrote tired but happy. The cottage needed a good bit of work done but we stayed with this wonderful family nearby while it was being tidied up. Not that the Headley-Ryans were that wonderful - Finula drove Hope mad - but saying that would sound as if she was already in need of Prozac. Let me describe our new home to you: Curlew Cottage is about a mile outside this little village. You drive down a winding track and come to the sweetest cottage which is definitely covered with rambling roses in the summer. It’s like something from the kids’ storybooks. Inside, we’ve got genuine old wooden beams and amazing latticed windows.

Which are hell to clean, Hope thought grimly, remembering the hours she’d spent scrubbing at the tiny panes.

There’s this incredible old stove, they call it a range, in the kitchen-cum-sitting room and it’s very cosy. We’ve even got a walled garden, although it needs some work and this local woman we stayed with suggests clearing it to grow vegetables. That sounded good. No need to mention that when Matt had remarked that Finula had suggested growing vegetables, Hope had looked at him incredulously and said that he could clean out the jungle if he was that keen on home-grown parsnips.

The bathroom is amazing - now that the earwigs, beetles and other assorted creepy crawlies were gone, it was amazing - with this huge old claw-footed roll top bath. The kids love it here. At least that was true. Neither Toby nor Millie appeared to miss all their pals from Your Little Treasures, but that was probably only because everything was so new to them. Give them time and Hope was sure they’d

start wanting company of their own age. She’d have to investigate a local playgroup or somewhere so they could play with other children. And so she could kick-start her own life. She hadn’t thought she’d miss work so much. It wasn’t about having a pay packet at the end of the week: it was about independence and the camaraderie of working with other women. The more she thought about it, the more Hope was determined to find some part-time job locally. If she was honest, she felt a faint tinge of resentment towards Matt that it hadn’t occurred to him that she might be missing her job. We haven’t made many friends yet because we’ve been so busy but Finula - the woman we stayed with - assures us there’s a vibrant social scene. Matt is settled into the creative centre and he goes there every day to write. So far, so good! Write back soon, love Hope.

The rain pelted down all Monday afternoon. ‘Mummy, I’m bored!’ wailed Millie, pulling at Hope’s trousers. ‘Want to do something!’ Mummy’s bored too, thought Hope. This was not the charming rural idyll she’d imagined. Instead of a pretty cottage where she could sit snuggled up with the children and spend quality time with them, she was stuck in a remote cottage with the television not working and none of the creature comforts of home. There was only so much finger painting you could do. The cottage was a lot cosier than it had been when they’d first moved in because Hope had been working hard to brighten it up with little homely touches, but it still needed more work. They were at least a mile from the village, nobody ever came down the lane to visit them, which was unsurprising since they didn’t know anybody yet, and the nearest big