Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Two

  Back in Neville’s kitchen, steam had opaqued the windows, and Cilla now slept patiently on her stool as the dinner bubbled towards perfection. Neville sat at the table enjoying a glass of French red wine. The insistent light of the answerphone caught his attention at last. Reluctantly he reached over and pressed the button.

  The first message was from his sister, Sandra.

 ‘Hello, Neville? It’s me.’ For Neville, her knowledge that he had so few young female callers that he would correctly identify ‘me’ was both depressing and irksome.     ‘Hope you are well, not suffering too much with your hay fever. Brian and the twins are off swimming, so I thought I’d grab a moment for a natter. You must still be at work. Anyway, I wanted to invite you for lunch on Sunday. Wendy’s coming over. You remember Wendy? From my Aerobics class? You met her at our New Year’s do. Tall girl. Big smile. Nice nails. Remember? Anyway, say you’ll come. I’m at a PTA meeting tonight, so ring tomorrow. OK? Bye.’

  Neville was fond of his sister, and knew she cared about him, but he disliked her clumsy attempts at matchmaking. She seemed unable to accept the fact that a man of forty-five could be perfectly fine living on his own. Neville was not lonely. He was used to his bachelor existence. Since his fiancée decided against marrying him and moved to Australia five years ago, there had been no romantic interest in his life, and he was content to leave it that way. He had no desire to have his world turned upside-down again. On top of which, he liked his life the way it was. He was able to indulge his passion for cooking without bothering anyone. He enjoyed the simplicity and orderliness of his existence. He also enjoyed peaceful, solitary Sundays, particularly if the alternative was a noisy few hours at his sister’s house, chewing his way through unyielding beef. Still, he would probably go. If the fine weather continued at least he could enjoy the bike ride into Barnchester.

  The second message was much more disturbing. It was from Cynthia Danby. The very sound of her voice made Neville nervous.

  ‘Neville, darling boy!’ she boomed from the machine. ‘Cynthia here. Just wanted to have a word with you about a little idea of mine for the Nettlecombe Hatchet summer fund-raiser this year. It’s something culinary. Right up your street. I thought cuisine, then I thought Neville. I know you’re the man for the job. Do ring, so we can put our little heads together. I’ve such exciting plans. A bientôt, mon cher!’

  Neville took a large swig of wine. The last thing he felt like doing was ringing Cynthia Danby, but if he didn’t she would probably turn up, and then he would have to deal with her in person. A thought terrible enough to kill anyone’s appetite. But she wouldn’t come at night. He could leave it until the morning. He really didn’t want the woman in his evening any more than she already was. There was something about her that made him behave like a sickly rabbit about to be devoured by an oversized fox. Although they had lived in the same village for four years, he had mercifully escaped her notice until quite recently. But, the previous winter, he had attended a French cookery weekend at the Hardy House Country Hotel, and the benighted woman had been there too. For reasons Neville would never understand, she had developed an instant, and to his mind insane, crush on him. He had spent most of the course sidestepping her advances. Had it been anyone else, he might have been flattered, but being pursued by a widow approaching sixty, apparently constructed entirely of tweed, reeking of lavender, carrying a stone or two more than was healthy, and with a tendency to become verbally incontinent after two glasses of wine, was an ego booster he could have done without. 

  He erased the messages, wishing Cynthia was as easy to get rid of, and picked up the Barnchester Echo. He needed to have his mind on other things by the time dinner was ready, or he wouldn’t feel like eating anything at all.

  At  3 Brook Terrace, Fliss was also attempting to distract herself with the local paper. She turned the pages slowly, trying to summon up enthusiasm for the misdemeanours of unemployed youths, the recent wedding of Miss A to Mr B, the success of the Echo’s raffle in aid of retired postmen, and the delights on offer in the way of evening classes at the village hall. None of it really held her interest, but at least it prevented her from looking at the clock or her phone.

  Daniel had still not arrived. He was often late for their dates, but it was unlike him not to at least text to reassure her that he was on his way, and not dead in a ditch somewhere.

  Her mother had always had people dead in ditches at twenty minutes late, and that was before the days of mobile phones. To Fliss’s certain knowledge, she had not once been right. Perhaps, had they lived in Norfolk, she would have stood a better chance. In any case, there weren’t too many ditches between Docklands and Nettlecombe Hatchet. Daniel had probably got engrossed in something at work and lost track of time, that was all.  Fliss tried to focus on the paper once more to glean information about the area she had so carefully chosen as the best place to bring up Rhian. She was already beginning to question the wisdom of this choice. It had seemed so right, so sensible, so necessary. London was full of terrors and temptations for a young girl, and Rhian was not easily controlled. Maybe if she had had a father’s influence things would have been different. But Fliss had felt her connection with her daughter slipping away, each day bringing more complaints from her teachers, arguments with her friends, and minor dramas of all shapes and sizes.  A move to the country seemed the only possible solution.

  Fliss’s thoughts were interrupted by the muffled ringing of the mobile. She recovered it from beneath the sofa cushion, where she had hidden it so she couldn’t keep looking at it, and tried to answer in an unconcerned but somewhat pissed-off voice

  ‘Hello? Yes?’

 ‘Fliss? Babe! A thousand apologies. Had my head in a mess of figures and completely lost track of time. What can I say?’

 ‘Sorry, perhaps?’

 ‘Of course. You’re right. I am sorry, gorgeous. I’ll make it up to you, promise.’

 ‘Never mind,’ Fliss fell well short of the tone she had aimed at, hitting the mark somewhere around feebly miffed.

 ‘Hope you didn’t go to too much trouble. You have eaten, haven’t you? Tell me you didn’t wait supper.’

 ‘I didn’t wait supper,’ she lied. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter now, I’m just glad you’re OK.’

 ‘Oh God, you were worried. Now I feel terrible.’ 

 ‘No, no. Don’t be silly.’

 ‘Really? You weren’t sitting there imagining me dead in a pile-up on the M3?’

 ‘Pile-up? No, absolutely not. I’ve been reading the paper. Didn’t realise it was so late, actually. Wasn’t worried a bit.’

 ‘Oh.’

 ‘So,’ she tried to forget the whole thing and start again, ‘are you going to make it down tonight, or…?’

 ‘Can’t see it, Babe. Traffic will be hell by now. I’ll come down in the morning. That OK?’

 ‘Of course. That’ll be fine.’

 After this exchange, Fliss fought to quell doubt as it grew in a fertile plot in the back of her mind. She had no reason to think Daniel was lying to her; he often stayed late at the IT Consultancy where he had worked since long before she met him. In the two years they had been seeing each other she had known him bring huge amounts of work home for the weekend, too. He had a demanding job, and he was conscientious and hard working. She had never seen him so much as notice other women when they were out together. Indeed, she knew him well enough to be pretty certain he didn’t have the spare time to cheat on her, even if the thought chanced to enter his head. No, her fears were more to do with herself than him, and deep down she knew this. She had been let down once too often. She had trusted too readily in the past, and she had been hurt. Still she continued to think the best of people. It was just that sometimes she lacked the self-confidence needed to believe that she could be 

enough for any man. Particularly a good-looking, successful, wealthy, popular one, who had the female population of London on his penthouse doorstep. And now she had moved herself so far away from him. Had he ever really meant to drive out and spend weekends with her, as they had discussed? 

  In the kitchen she opened the oven and peered unenthusiastically at the patiently waiting veggie casserole. With a sigh she shut the door again, turned off the cooker, and went to bed.

CHAPTER TWO

  Saturday morning saw a quiet breakfast in the Behr household. Baby Behr sat happily gurgling in his reclining chair on one end of the kitchen table. Ryan silently read the Echo. Rose Behr busied herself grilling bacon. She was accustomed to the lack of conversation. Particularly on a Saturday morning. She was content to satisfy herself with the background music of Baby’s babblings. As Ryan folded the paper inside out a discreet notice caught her eye. 

  Beautiful Baby Competition, the banner read. 

  She leant closer, spatula in hand.

  Is your baby the bonniest in the Barnchester area? £100 and the title of Barnchester’s Beautiful Babe await the winner. Send photos.

 ‘Don’t do that,’ Ryan shook the paper. ‘I hate it when you read over my shoulder. Wait till I’ve finished, can’t you? You’ve got all bloody day to read the thing. That bacon ready yet?’

  Rose loaded her husband’s plate and set it before him.

 ‘Are you going in to the office today?’ she ventured to ask.

 ‘Isn’t it Saturday? Don’t I always go in on Saturday mornings?’

 ‘Well, most Saturday mornings…’

 ‘And this is just like most Saturday mornings, so, yes, I will be going in to the office today.’ He ate noisily for a minute, then added, ‘I’ve got an important client to show round a five-bedroom in Trenthide at twelve. Could go on to lunch. Expect me when you see me.’ 

  Rose sat down opposite him and sipped her tea. 

 ‘You on another diet?’ he asked, nodding at the absence of a plate.

  She shook her head.

 ‘Just not very hungry,’ she said, leaning over to squeeze Baby’s hand and smile at him.

  Ryan mopped up egg with fried bread.

 ‘For someone who is often ‘not very hungry’ you never seem to lose any weight. How d’you suppose that works?’

 Rose offered no explanation.

 He finished his food, stood up, and removed his tie from the back of his chair. 

 ‘Right, I’m off,’ he announced. He turned to Baby and grinned, as if noticing him for the first time that morning. ‘Alright, mate? Daddy’s off to earn loads of dosh.’ He made the little seat bounce more and the baby gave a happy squeal in response. ‘Mind your mother doesn’t get up to anything when I’m out, OK? Good man.’

  He left his wife unkissed and uncherished as usual, whistling on his way to the garage and his warmly stabled Subaru Impreza.

  Rose waited until she heard the engine start, then reached for the Echo. She read the details of the competition again, and smiled at her little boy. How could she not enter him? She went quickly to the sitting room and fetched the album, determined to find the very best photograph she could.

  Nettlecombe Hatchet was bathed in a gentle spring light beneath a Constable sky. As Rose pushed Baby in his chariot down the garden path prodigious butterflies performed an erratic fly-past. An early flowering Honeysuckle perfumed their progress. Small birds flitted busily, or trilled from the blossom-filled branches of the old apple tree by the gate.  Wheeling carefully onto the narrow pavement, Rose headed towards the Post Office, Baby’s competition entry tucked safely under his quilt. It was only a short walk past the duck pond and around the green to the village stores and Post Office.

  Rose pushed the button on the pelican crossing and waited a few seconds for the lights to change. As she stepped onto the road it was clear of traffic, but before she could reach the safety of the opposite pavement a large lorry steamed around the bend at the top of the village, saw the red light, and noisily airbraked to a halt. For Rose time froze on an in-breath. The silence which followed the clamour of the truck’s emergency stop was filled with what could have happened. Her heart thudding beneath her cardigan, Rose shakily guided the pram up the kerb. She regarded the driver coldly as he put the vehicle into gear and moved off at a more suitable speed. As it passed Rose read the words ‘Withy Hill Farm Enterprises’, proclaimed in large red letters above a gaudy chicken logo. 

   Baby Behr had slept peacefully through the whole event, and dreamed on undisturbed.  Rose parked him in front of the shop window where she would have a clear view of him at all times, and went inside. 

  Behind the counter Sally Siddons stood listening, grey curls nodding politely, as Cynthia Danby maintained a ceaseless current of loud chatter while paying for her purchases. 

 ‘We must not rest on our laurels,’ Cynthia insisted, ‘or should I say, our Lobelia. Just because Nettlecombe has won the Village in Bloom title twice running does not make this year’s result a foregone conclusion. I know for a fact Upton Maytravers have enlisted the help of a garden designer. From London, if you please. How that sits with the spirit, if not the letter, of the rulebook I wonder, Miss Siddons, I really do. Oh, I’ll have a packet of mints too. Thank you. Ah, Mrs Behr. How is Baby?’ she squinted out of the window. ‘There, slumbering happily. They are so sweet when they’re asleep, aren’t they?’

  Somehow Rose communicated to the Post Mistress her need for a stamp, and the transaction was made without interrupting Cynthia. In fact, she was able to accomplish her mission wordlessly, wave goodbye, and hurry back to Baby. 

  As she released the brake she glimpsed Neville as he entered the shop. She was aware of him pausing on the threshold, as if changing his mind, and then she heard Cynthia greet him enthusiastically. She wheeled away towards the snugness of her home, secretly excited at the thought of Baby being publicly acknowledged as Barnchester’s Beautiful Babe.

  For a fraction of a second Neville considered turning on his heel, but the unexpected sight of Cynthia at close range rooted him to the spot.

  ‘Just the man I was hoping to see!’

  Cynthia moved towards him with such purpose that Neville flinched.

 ‘Did you get my message? I have such exciting plans. I just know you’ll want to be involved. This year’s Nettlecombe Hatchet fundraiser will be the culinary event of the season.’ Excitement tinged Cynthia’s powdered visage with an unbecoming pinkness.

  Neville fought for sensible words under the chemical warfare that was her perfume.

  ‘Mrs Danby, I…’

  ‘Cynthia, please…’

  ‘Cynthia, I’m sure you don’t need my help…’ he began to edge past her towards the relative safety of the cold cabinet.

  ‘Oh but I do, mon cher.’

 ‘I’m really very busy at work at the moment.’ He focused on selecting semi-skimmed. ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t have the time to make a commitment, I wouldn’t want to be forever having to send apologies and put you to extra work covering for me, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Forget about such details, dear boy, put them from your mind. No, what I need you for is your infallible instinct for what is right when it comes to food. Please, don’t try to be modest,’ she held up her hand, ‘I have seen you in action in the kitchen.’ Here she lowered her voice. ‘I often think of the time we spent together at the Hardy House Country Hotel.’

  Neville shot a nervous glance in the direction of Miss Siddons, but she was fully occupied shuffling yesterday’s Bath Buns. He knew what lay ahead if he allowed himself to be dragooned into helping Cynthia – hours of meetings, all involving her, probably at her house. He must stand firm.

 ‘It’s very kind of you to consider me, but I really have to say no. As I said, I’m having to do lots of overtime. It wouldn’t be fair to say yes and then never be available.’ He stepped sideways towards the newspaper stand, but Cynthia gripped his arm.

  ‘Work is all very well, Neville, but one must have balance. One cannot afford to neglect the heart, the soul. I know you share my passion. I see in you a kindred spirit. Do not deny your true self.’

  Neville was horribly afraid the conversation was getting away from him. He opened his mouth to protest further, but Cynthia was in full flow now. He listened to her, his eyes beginning to glaze, unable to interject. Just as he began to feel the blossoming of a huge and vulgar yawn, the mention of a name brought him to his senses.

  ‘What did you say? Who is going to be present?’ he demanded.

 ‘Claude Lambert. I know, isn’t it thrilling! It’s all down to a cousin of mine who knows a niece of his. Or her daughter was at school with his niece. Or something. Anyway, Sylvia, my cousin, mentioned to him at some do or other that I was looking for a chef of some renown for our humble little event, and voila, he agreed to take part. In fact, the whole thing has escalated. I met him in London last week…’

 ‘You’ve actually met Claude Lambert?’ Neville was seriously impressed.

 ‘Such a charming man. We talked about ideas he has for his new book, and how he might make the fundraiser a tie-in, as he is launching a new venture with our very own Withy Hill Farm. Their produce is top notch.’

  Suddenly, as far as Neville was concerned, the whole project had taken on a golden glow. Claude Lambert, his chef of choice, his hero, was coming to Nettlecombe Hatchet, and he, Neville Meatcher, had the opportunity not only to meet the great man, but to work closely with him. Cynthia Danby or not, this was an experience far, far too special to miss. 

  ‘Well, of course, if I really can be of some use…’

 ‘So you’ll do it? Marvellous! I knew I could count on you. It’s going to be such fun! Now, there’s a great deal to be done. I shall set up a meeting; we’ll need a committee. I’ll be in touch very soon.’ 

  Scooping up her purchases Cynthia departed the shop a little breathless, leaving in her wake the smell of lavender and efficiency.

  Back in the sanctuary of his kitchen Neville depressed the plunger on his cafetiere. He found it hard to believe that Cynthia could actually have secured the involvement of the chef of the moment, and yet he knew it must be true. Whatever the woman’s peculiarities, she was not given to making up such things. Neville’s head teemed with questions he would ask the great man, had he the chance. Of course, he had all his books, and had followed his recent TV series as an assiduous student. He poured himself a cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain and resolved to steep himself in Monsieur Lambert’s recipes over the next few weeks. Sipping his coffee he wandered into the living room and looked out of the window. The sun was already warm and looked settled, and he decided a bike ride up to Bulbarrow Hill would make best use of the day. Below he saw a woman he didn’t recognise walking lightly across the green, his attention caught by her splendid chestnut hair. He watched her disappear down Brook Terrace, newspaper in hand. 

  Fliss, as always, found her mood lifted by the sunshine. She had slept well, the self-doubt of the night before had melted away under the sun’s rays, and she was looking forward to Daniel’s visit.

  As she turned into the narrow street that was her new home she smiled to find his car parked outside number three.

 ‘Dan? You in there?’ she called from the front door.

 ‘In the kitchen, Babe. Kettle’s on.’

  She found him ferreting in a cupboard.

 ‘Are we out of sugar?’ he wanted to know.

  That ‘we’ further soothed Fliss’s heart. She wanted always to be ‘we’ and ‘us’, rather than ‘I’ and ‘me’.

 ‘There’s plenty of brown in the jar by the coffee. Look.’

 ‘Ah, brown. I meant real sugar. Honest to goodness white tooth rot.’

 ‘You know I never buy it. We only have the stuff in the house if you smuggle it in.’

  Daniel grinned, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her to him.

 ‘And you know I have no greater pleasure than corrupting you, my angel. I live to help you sin.’ He kissed her, long and slow. ‘Did you miss me last night? All alone in that big old bed?’

 ‘What makes you so sure I was alone? How d’you know I haven’t got the hang of sinning, after all your expert coaching?’ she kissed him back.

  Daniel gasped. ‘Tell me you weren’t with that Teddy of yours again!  Furry little bastard! No wonder he always looks so smug.’

  ‘Poor Daniel – replaced so easily by a bit of stuffed fabric.’

  ‘And he’s only got one eye.’

  ‘Hmmm, makes him sort of heroic and romantic, don’t you think?’ She wriggled free of his embrace and finished making the coffee.

  Daniel sat at the table and flicked idly through the newspaper.

  ‘Where’s Rhian?’ he asked.

  ‘Where any self-respecting teenager would be at ten thirty in the morning – under her duvet.’

  ‘God, do you remember what it was like to be able to lie in like that? I just can’t do it any more. Body clock’s screwed by years of nine to five.’

  ‘Don’t give me that – you love your job. I’ve never known anyone who enjoyed working more than you do.’ She sat down opposite him and passed him his coffee. ‘Flapjack?’ she offered, nudging the tin in his direction.

  ‘The ultimate hippy fodder. Will you never stop trying to convert me to yoghurt and lentils?’

  ‘Only when you stop spiking my coffee with poisonous white sugar.’

  ‘Ah, but the difference is I do things like that to you through absent-mindedness. You, on the other hand, would love to change me, to win me over to your highly laudable if somewhat chewy lifestyle. With you it’s premeditated. You hate it that I haven’t had a day’s illness in years. I am walking, talking, living proof that all your careful weeding out of this, and cutting down on that, and raw vegetables on the hour is totally unnecessary.’ 

  ‘I can’t help it if I care about the way you look after yourself. I have a vested interest in keeping you healthy. Teddy’s not available every night.’ She nibbled pointedly on a flapjack. ‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘I think secretly you want to be reformed. Otherwise why would you bother with me?’

  ‘Oh, I can think of one or two activities we enjoy sharing,’ he said, kicking her foot gently.

  ‘I know you. I’ve worked it out. This arrangement is going to suit you perfectly. In London you can have your cutting edge, modern-man-who-doesn’t-give-a-shit life, then down here you can breathe fresh air, eat decent food, play village cricket, and pretend you’re doing it all for my benefit.’

  ‘Clever bugger, aren’t I?’ He leant across the table. ‘What say you we go upstairs and pretend to be teenagers for a couple of hours?’

  Fliss smiled but shook her head.

  ‘Tempting, but I have an interview to go to.’

  ‘On a Saturday? For crying out loud, Babe. Not much point in my coming down here if you’re going to be busy. When did all this happen, anyway?’

  ‘Don’t sulk. It’ll only take an hour or so. I saw an ad in the local rag last night, they need a cleaner up at the big farm on the hill. They asked me to pop up and see them. I could hardly say no. Now put that bottom lip away before someone treads on it.’ Fliss glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘Look on the bright side,’ she said standing up, ‘if you walk with me as far as the Soldier’s Arms they’ll just be opening by the time you get there. I’ll call in for you on my way back. OK?’

  ‘I suppose I could force myself to drink a couple of pints. If it’ll make you feel better.’

  ‘You’re too good to me.’ 

  ‘Hmm, well, I’ve got to win you away from old fluff brain somehow. Come on, I can ruin my reputation in the village on day one by lurking in front of the pub if we’re early.’

  Outside the day continued to outdo itself, and the village was at its most photogenic. A sprinkling of children played on the swings at the far end of the green. From a distance they were timeless and harmonious. Somewhere nearby their parents were watching, but not worrying. Miss Siddons’ elderly Jack Russell stretched his Queen Anne legs – twice round the duck pond slowly, his waddle matching that of the birds. Two teenage boys presented a study of boredom on the wooden bench, neither aware, despite the brass plate, that their backsides rested courtesy of the Nettlecombe Hatchet Soroptimists Society.

  Fliss and Daniel made their way through the centre of the village and began to climb the hill that would lead them first to the pub, a little way beyond the church, and ultimately to Withy Hill Farm.

  Daniel took Fliss’s hand.

 ‘We’ve got to make a decision about where we’re going on holiday,’ he said. ‘We need to get something booked soon.’

  Fliss did not answer immediately. She had always looked forward to their time away together, but after the previous year…

  Eventually she said, ‘Rhian won’t come with us this time. Her mind is quite made up.’

  ‘She’s at that age.’

  ‘She’s only fourteen.’

  ‘Exactly. It’s just not cool to go on holiday with the oldies, is it?’

  ‘Well she can’t stay here on her own.’

  ‘Perhaps your mum would have her,’ Daniel suggested.

  ‘For two weeks? They’d kill each other. One week, maybe, at a push. With the right mixture of bribery and threats. For each of them.’

  ‘One week’s no good, Babe.’

   Daniel’s tone was light, but Fliss knew when he was likely to be stubborn. She sighed.

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ she said. ‘I suppose it’ll be a saving – no point paying all that money for someone who doesn’t want to go.’

 The memory of their tense summer holiday in Greece as one of the longest fortnights of her life still refused to fade.

  ‘You know I’m happy to pay. My treat,’ Daniel reminded her.

  ‘I like to pay my share.’

  ‘Aren’t I allowed to spoil you sometimes? Especially if it’s just going to be the two of us. We could go somewhere really spectacular. Just this once couldn’t you ease up on the whole independent female thing and be a kept woman? Just for a few days?’

  They stopped outside the pub, its doors still solidly shut.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Fliss promised, turning Daniel’s hand in hers to check his watch. ‘I’ll be late. I’ll leave you to loiter.’

  Five minutes later she reached a bend in the lane. Turning, she could see Daniel still leaning against the pub wall, taking a packet of Camel Lights from his pocket. As she walked on she tried to convince herself that the holiday didn’t have to be a big deal. Except… Except she didn’t like the idea of leaving Rhian behind, or of being away from her for two whole weeks. It seemed too soon. She was still a child in so many ways. And Fliss herself would never be completely happy with Daniel paying her way, however well meant the gesture. Her ability to support herself and her daughter was vital to Fliss, and shaped the way she saw herself. It was the reason she was determined to earn her own living, even if that meant cleaning up somebody else’s mess, despite all Daniel’s offers of financial support. She knew he could afford it, but that wasn’t the point.

  Still, she consoled herself, her work as a Crystal Healer would pick up once she got known in the area. And the gem and crystal parties could be good money-spinners. One day she hoped to be able to make a living from doing the things she enjoyed. For now, a job was a job.

  On arriving at the farm she was surprised to find the place buzzing. Two Withy Hill trucks swept passed her, hurrying towards the shiny new warehouses. It struck her as unusual to find so much going on on a Saturday. 

  She paused to steady her breathing after climbing the hill, and watched the activity. From where she stood in the original farmyard beside the house she had a clear view of the new storage buildings and office, but not the barns which housed the livestock. For a farm it was a scene curiously devoid of animals. Not even a solitary chicken, for which the farm was known countrywide, was visible. Not a feather. Fliss could hear the distant humming and drumming of tractors working somewhere in the fields, and glimpsed the human beings busying about, but did not spy so much as a yard cat.

  Forgetting the time, she wandered over to the corner of the old stone hay barn, hoping for a better view of the chicken sheds behind, if sheds they could be called. These were enormous, gleaming, metal constructions, low and slinky, covering acres of ground. Fliss moved closer, curious to know what such buildings could be like inside.

  ‘What in blazes do you think you’re doing?’

   The unexpected volume and ferocity of the man’s voice sent Fliss’s heart sprinting again.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ she smiled weakly, ‘I was looking for Mrs Christian.’

  ‘My wife is in the house.’

  Two Dobermans at his side tracked her smallest movement with piggy eyes. Mr Christian flicked his fingers as he walked on towards the barn.

  ‘Eric, Vinnie, come!’

   Fliss waited until the dogs had stopped staring at her before heading for the house.

   There were days, she allowed herself to acknowledge, when being a kept woman, as Daniel might have put it, seemed extremely attractive.

To be continued….