Aidan eventually returned in a squeal of tyres and a rash of expletives. He was in a foul mood. Rommel didn’t help by hurtling up to him and barking his head off.
‘Get this bloody dog off me!’ He yelled. ‘Whose is it anyway, bloody thing?’
He’d obviously clean forgotten all about Rommel. I think he’d forgotten about the sheep too as he looked at me as if I were a mad woman when I said that a tiny woman who looked about twelve had herded them down the lane, single-handed (apart from two skinny sheepdogs who obeyed her soft whistles). I tried to invite her in for a cup of coffee after they were settled but she’d shaken her head furiously and revved up the quad and vanished in a haze of exhaust (the two dogs perched precariously behind her, ears streaming in the breeze).
‘Oh yes. Sheep. Right. OK.’
I took his laptop bag from him and tried asking him about London but he obviously didn’t want to talk about it. So I thought I’d chatter on about what had been going on here – cheer him up a bit by showing I was trying my darndest to get into country life. But he looked vague when I told him about the Knitting Circle and didn’t even smile when I described the women and their peculiarities. Usually he laughs his head off at my possibly unkind observations. Not this time. Not even when I told him the weird woman from the church was thought to be a witch!

He even glazed over when I started telling him about Ben. Then, all of a sudden, I think it dawned on him what he was doing and he suddenly pulled me towards him and gave me a hard kiss.
‘Sorry, darling. I was miles away. C’mon, I’ll put the kettle on and you can tell me everything.’
Actually I was pretty excited about the kitchen. Ben had dropped the plans off the day after we’d met and I was over-the-moon. Firstly because he’d been so prompt and secondly because they were truly gorgeous. I thought Aidan would be impressed but he just thumbed through them and asked how much he’d quoted. It was incredibly reasonable, by any standards, but Aidan just rolled his eyes.
‘Bloody cowboys. Out to get you all the time.’
I couldn’t believe it.
‘That’s not fair. It’s a very good quote and you damn well know it.’
It descended into a spat which dropped even further into a horrible argument and I found myself in the very strange position of defending a man I’d met twice (if taking an envelope counts as a second time) against my husband. Suddenly he stopped shouting and frowned.
‘How old is he?’
‘What?’
‘Your cowboy chippie. How old is he?’
‘I don’t know. Mid-thirties, late thirties?’
‘Oh I get it. Shagging the workmen?’
I was so shocked I took a step back and then, before I really knew what I was doing, I slapped him, sharp round the face.
He grabbed my wrists and pushed me against the big dresser. Pinned my arms against the wood and kissed me so roughly it hurt. I fought back and before I knew it we were half-fighting, half-making love. We’ve always gone in for make-up sex, but this was much rougher, more angry, than anything we’d done before. When we were done, I felt a bit weird. This wasn’t baby-sex, or passion-sex, or even make-up-sex really. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more it felt like nearly-hate-sex.


I was so angry with Aidan that I whistled to Rommel and marched out the house. Instead of heading towards the village, I turned onto the left-hand path and walked briskly down the lane. I must have looked like a total lunatic as I played out what I wanted to say to the bastard, muttering furiously under my breath. Luckily I was unobserved, other than by a few morose cows peering over the hedge and a stoat which shot across in front of us, sending Rommel into a frenzied chase. The stoat plunged into the hedgerow and Rommel hurtled after it, sending up a spray of earth as he frantically tried to dig it out.
‘Rommel! Come!’ And, bless his terrier heart, he did. Reluctantly and casting daggers at having his fun interrupted but, Lord, he’s an obedient dog. Comes of being owned by a military type I suppose.

We walked for about five minutes I suppose, before we came to a building, squatting low beside the road, crumbling stone with a corrugated iron roof. Someone had poked ‘CLEAN ME’ in lopsided capitals out of the grime on the small beady windows. Dark green paint blistered on the window-sills and curled and cracked on the front-door. There was no knocker, no bell. White paint had been daubed on a stone by the verge. It said, simply, FARM in lopsided capitals.
I didn’t like to bang on the door, but I felt I ought to introduce myself. After all, these were the neighbours. A few chickens were pecking hopefully at the road. A cockerel strutted, fixing me with a malevolent eye. On the opposite side of the lane, someone had fixed loads of bird feeders in the low slung bushes. I wandered around the side and noticed the most peculiar thing. A fence, but not the kind of fence you’d expect on a farm.
It was one of those wrought-iron types, all arching fleur-de-lis and curlicues. Once upon a time it had been painted white but now it was peeling badly; the kind of peeling you itch to pick. Hanging over several of the spikes were hoops of wire attached to plaster casts of feet. They were all small, some touching toes, some turning their backs like children who’ve fallen out with each other. Weeds and grasses poked themselves through the fence, tickling the soles of the feet. There must have been about twenty of them, ten pairs, dangling in all. Baby feet, toddler feet, child feet. Toes wide apart, bent toes, toes clambering up over one another. You’d have thought feet were all the same until you looked at these, chopped off at the ankle, some pitted by the rain; most padded with moss like everything else around here.

I was intrigued, of course I was. The feet looked like the kind of thing that would belong to some fey arty type, but the rest of the place was a throwback to ancient times.
I remember farms like this when I was growing up. The old ones, eking out a living, barely getting by. It was a hand-to-mouth existence, no room for luxury, no room for the tiniest extra. Plaster-of-Paris would certainly be a luxury.
I called out, tentatively, but nobody answered. Then I heard the whistling, low on the breeze, from behind the farm. I walked round and looked up at the hillside, studded with sheep, shadows falling, like long straight strands of hair, tumbling down the slope.
I recognised the dogs first, the two skinny collies – one all feathered and classic black and white (a beautiful dog), the other close-cropped coat, leggier, more white than black with wild eyes. They belonged to the woman who had brought the sheep by. You wouldn’t have recognised her as a woman though, all bundled up in layers like a parcel. But her height gave her away.

I’ve never seen anyone work dogs like that, like they had a telepathic link with their handler, no need for words.

The dogs saw me and alerted her, and she made her way down, nimble, athletic. Rommel obviously knew his place. He backed off and placed himself on the verge. Wouldn’t budge. Obviously knew the form; that this was the collies’ patch.

She was older than I’d thought, early twenties maybe. Her eyes wouldn’t meet mine though, kept sliding down to the dogs.
‘Sheep alright?’
‘What? Oh yes. Well, I think so. I hadn’t realised where you lived. I didn’t realise…’ I was burbling.
‘This is it. Here we be.’ She shrugged and poked her toe in a clod of mud.
‘Want some tea?’
‘That’d be great. If it’s not too much trouble. If you don’t mind…’ Shut up, Rowan.
She shrugged again and stomped towards the back door, leaving her boots in the porch. I followed suit.

It was dark inside, like being underwater. Not a single light on.
‘Generator,’ she said, catching my glance. I looked quizzical.
‘They took the mains to your place ‘bout four years back. But wanted twenty grand to bring it here, and that was with the grant and all,’ she shrugged again (it was obviously her favoured gesture). Eloquent though. What else was there to say?

She lugged the huge kettle onto the Rayburn and gestured to me to sit at the table. I brushed off a large grumpy grey cat and sat, rather gingerly. The whole place reeked of cat and wet dog and stale cooking fat. It was pretty depressing. But I suppose this is real country living, how it was before we figured it needed to be all gingham and chintz, Cath Kidston and Emma Bridgewater, in order to qualify.

She said her name was Hazel but, try as I might, I couldn’t get anything much else out of her. She just smiled and busied herself with the tea. When I asked her about the fence, she just shook her head and offered me a Digestive, picking it out of the packet with fingernails embedded with grime. I declined and she broke it up and fed it to the dogs which are, apparently, called Erin and Shee (with two e’s).

I noticed a piece of knitting on the settle, what looked like a baby’s blanket in soft fine wool. Lord knows how she kept it white.
‘Do you go to the Knitting Circle? You weren’t there on Wednesday.’
She shook her head violently.
‘Don’t want none of them…. Judith high and mighty Lovett. All that “Judith, The Willows” garbage. Old busybody. I’m alright here.’
I couldn’t help but laugh. She’s a perfect mimic. And she looked me in the eye, just briefly, and laughed back.

As I left, Rommel jumping up as if caught napping on duty, I felt bizarrely happy. I knew my neighbour. OK, so she’s a bit odd and not exactly the chatty type, but she IS interesting. I want to find out what makes her tick. What makes a girl so young bury herself down here. I might even make her the heroine in my book.


When I got home, Aidan was clearly feeling repentant. He’d laid out supper with all my favourites from our old deli in London: Serrano ham; peppered salami; fat black olives; manchego; slivers of quince jelly; stuffed peppers; pickled chillies; roasted garlic; spongy ciabatta. A bottle of prosecco in the cool-jar.

He gave me a rueful look, that sort of look that says: ‘I know I’ve been a bad boy but please forgive me. Give me a pat.’ He held out his hand and I gave it a soft slap.
‘Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa,’ he wheedled. ‘Forgive me, my lovely wife, for I have sinned….big time.’
‘Damn right you have, sinner! But I’m hungry so I forgive you.’

We ate. Lord it was good. REAL bread. REAL cheese. REAL ham. Whenever you talk about farmers’ markets or organic farm shops I have to laugh. There is nothing like that round here.
Those that drive trek to Tesco. Those that don’t make do and mend with Grace’s favours. True, there’s the organic delivery if you’re flush. Or, failing that, the good old vegetable plot. I suppose I may have to bite the bullet and dig.

‘I’ve phoned your Ben chap….’ I bristled and he held up his hands.
‘Look, sorry, OK. Anyhow, he seems a decent bloke. I’ve OK’d the quote and he’s starting next week. Happy?’
Wow.
‘Oh, and someone called Jane called. Something about knitting. Wondered if you wanted to meet up for coffee or a drink sometime. She said you had her number.’

I smiled. I liked Jane. Hazel was interesting – prime fiction material. But Jane might well become a real-life friend. Pure fact.