Needless to say I barely slept. I kept all the lights on and had Rommel on the bed, fleas or no fleas. I even locked the bedroom door tight. When I did eventually doze off it was only to awaken moments later (or so it seemed) from a horrific nightmare.
I was told I had to go to the attic because my coffin was there and in it my corpse was holding a casket. The casket was important (I don’t know why) and I had to get it. I crept slowly towards the coffin, telling myself it would be OK, that I hadn’t been there that long and wouldn’t have decayed. But, as I got closer, a horrible scent hit my nostrils (how can you smell in a dream?). I looked in and my body WAS decaying, skin like a multi-coloured bruise puckered over my skull. The casket was held in hands with bits of bone showing through the rotting flesh. I prized the box (it was the one I’d bought from the antique place) out of my brittle fingers, hearing bones snap, watching skin sloughing off. Then, praise be, I woke up, shaking, my mouth dry.

But everything feels different in the morning. Sure enough the sun was shining as last night had promised, bravely pushing through the inch-thick dust on the windows. I got dressed feeling much better. We’d investigate the attic by daylight – and trounce the demons!
But first breakfast. I was standing by the Aga in my dressing gown (bright red silk with a dragon embroidered over the back), hair sticking up wildly (it’s about shoulder-length, thick and wayward), when I heard a clatter at the door. For Pete’s sake, it was only 6.15am. Rommel set up a frenzy of barking and I slung him into the pantry (possibly not a good idea), unsure of how he’d react to strangers.

The door was filled by a man, a large man, in his late forties I’d guess. Bulky, thick-set, heavy-muscled like a bull. His hands like shovels, his face florid, inclined to irrational bouts of rage I’d guess.
‘I’m here for the sheep.’
‘Sheep?’
‘Your old man. Told ‘im I’d put some sheep on yer willowbank field.’
Oh right, the bloody sheep.
I stuck out my hand and introduced myself. He looked as if I were suggesting something indecent. I stood there like a lemon for a few minutes, hand outstretched. He seemed galvanised by my dressing gown and I realised, with horror, that it was coming slightly adrift around the breast area. Did I take away my hand and make myself decent (drawing more attention to it) or did I brazen it out. I decided on the latter and eventually he tore his eyes away from the show.
‘Ah….. Awright.’ He clamped my hand in his. ‘Badger.’
Badgers? Now what? What have badgers got to do with sheep? Then I realised – it was his name.
‘I’ll get the missus to bring ‘em over later like. Hers the one’s good with sheep.’ And off he stomped.

I took Rommel for a walk, down to the river. The water is still high, still tipping over the banks, submerging the bottoms of the willows, hazel, blackthorn and holly that line it. As we came back via the outbuildings, Rommel suddenly hurtled off. No! He couldn’t go. He was my only ally, my only friend. But, as I turned the corner to the cobbled yard, there he was, tail thumping, pleased as Punch, with a big fat juicy rat.
‘Oh clever boy!’ He was delighted with himself, and threw it in the air a few times for sheer joy. So he IS a ratter.

That reminded me. No more putting it off. I felt a bit shaky as I climbed the stairs but the sunlight was pouring through the skylight and the whole room looked bright. No shadows. No coffins.
I almost thought I’d dreamed the cradle too but there it was. A solid wooden crib – old, definitely old. I had a horrible lurch in my stomach as I got closer. What if there was some demonic baby inside? But of course it was empty, save for a thick layer of dust.

It was a beautiful thing. I’m no antique expert but it had to be several centuries old. The basic design was plain, almost austere, but for a line of carved words around the hood – Suffer Ye Little Children.

I fought the urge to bring it downstairs. It felt like tempting Fate. It could stay up there for now.

The rest of the morning passed without incident. I ordered a skip and eventually managed to speak to the window-cleaner. Turned out his ‘great grandmother’ was his wife. Oops.
I managed to put in an order for an organic box (that’ll please Aidan) but none of the supermarkets will deliver to us as we’re ‘too far’ from their ‘core branches’. Ah well, it’s Grace and her turkey twizzlers until my dear husband deigns to return.