Kitty's Countryside Dream (5 page)

A
lfie was sitting
on the front doorstep waiting for me to arrive home. I dismounted and bumped the bike up the steps towards him. He was up on his feet, arching his back. Raising a smile, I squatted beside him and stroked his furry body whilst he purred happily. His presence was reassuring and heart-warming.

The removal men were already parked up outside the flat and they jumped out of their van as soon as they spotted me opening the door. Within no time at all they had stacked my worldly possessions in the living room and driven off.

For the next couple of hours while I unpacked the boxes, thoughts of Tom kept creeping into my mind. Feeling fuzzy and warm inside, I whistled to myself as I entered the bathroom and let the water from the taps rush into the bath, swirling the luxury bubble bath into a mass of foam.

I was beginning to feel a little peckish. Teatimes were never adventurous since Mum had died; I barely ever prepared or cooked a meal, unless you counted peeling back the plastic covering on a ready meal for one and placing the white tray on the piping-hot middle shelf of the oven. Tonight was no different; I had mushroom stroganoff to look forward to.

Pouring myself a glass of cool, crisp Pinot from the fridge, I took a sip. Feeling the warm rush of alcohol run through my veins, I relaxed instantly. For the first time in a long time I felt a sense of happiness.

Sinking into the soothing warm waters of the bath, the bubbles glistened in the darkened room from the candles I had lit. I began to feel warm again but felt a sudden tiredness wash over me. Laying my head back, I lapped the water over my body and the scent from the candles began to fill the room. The fragrance of lavender made for the most magnificent peaceful aroma. Closing my eyes, the sound of silence surrounded me.

I must have drifted off for a moment and was suddenly awoken by a soft tapping sound. The water had become rapidly cooler. Reaching for my towel, I dried myself and snuggled deep inside my warm dressing gown, lifting the lapels around my ears. Rubbing my hair dry, there it was again: tap, tap, tap.

Who would that be knocking on my front door?

Pulling my dressing gown tighter around my body, I headed for the front door and held on to the lock. Clearing my throat, I said, ‘Hello, who's there?'

‘Hi, sorry to bother you, Kitty, it's only Tom,' came the voice from the other side of the door.

My breath caught in my throat; what was Tom doing here?

Opening the door, he was indeed standing on the other side, showered, shaved and dressed in a shirt, with an open top button that revealed a smidgen of chest hair. The scent from his aftershave wafted in my direction. I inhaled and it was more desirable than the farmyard eau de toilette he'd been wearing earlier.

‘Good evening. Oh, I'm sorry, did I get you out of the bath?'

I knew I was flushed, bright red to be more precise, and not just from the steamy bathwater. I wanted to come up with a witty reply but all I could manage was, ‘Hi, I wasn't expecting you. How did you find me?'

I was standing on the doorstep dressed in a fluffy pink dressing gown, still resembling a drowned rat. I felt nervous and completely tongue-tied.

Tom was grinning. ‘Mother Goose's old place.'

‘Oh, yes, silly me, I was just taken by surprise.'

Just then a white van drove past and beeped its horn. We both looked up to see Lucinda waving frantically at us; she must have been finishing her rounds for the day. Tom raised his hand and saluted in her direction. Marvellous – this would set tongues wagging. Tom dressed up to the nines and me, well, wearing next to nothing, standing on the doorstep.

‘Why are you here?' I quizzed.

‘Because I don't have your phone number and it's a six o'clock start in the morning. I'll pick you up, be ready.'

‘Six o'clock start, why so early?'

‘We are off to market.'

‘Market? What are we selling, cows in exchange for magic beans?' I queried, smirking.

‘Something like that.'

‘OK, I'm game.'

‘Be ready. And Kitty?'

‘Yes?'

‘Make sure you're wearing overalls and wellies.' He winked and his blue eyes sparkled teasingly. I playfully went to shoo him away. Rolling his sleeves up, he brushed his hand against my arm.

‘See you bright and early.'

‘I'll see you in the morning, cheeky.' I smiled, shutting the front door behind me. My skin tingled; I'd never experienced a feeling like that before. Hearing a constant thud, I realised I was listening to my own heart beating. There was only one thing for it – after throwing my wet overalls on top of the radiator to dry out, I headed straight for the fridge. Reaching for the wine bottle I poured another glass of Pinot to steady my nerves.

I
was exhausted
when the 5.30 a.m. alarm sounded; snuggling deeper into my duvet, I willed the constant beeping to disappear. Who would actually choose to surface at this ungodly hour? It felt like the middle of the night to me.

Fumbling around in the dark and still half asleep, I clicked the switch; bright spots danced before my eyes, the light dazzling my vision for a spilt second, and then my eyes began to readjust. Alfie stretched his paws and peeped through one eyelid; he was too lazy to open both. He was curled up on top of the warm duvet and promptly closed his eye; he was going nowhere so early in the morning. Peering out of the window, the street was silent. There was no activity; it was in complete darkness with not a soul to be seen.

Still half asleep, I stumbled towards the kitchen. Filling up Alfie's bowl with food, I switched the kettle on and grabbed a quick cuppa. By the time I'd drank my tea, eaten a bowl of cornflakes and was dressed in my dry overalls, I heard a van's engine droning outside on the street.

That must be Tom; no one else was daft enough to be up at this time of the morning, I thought. I heard the engine stop, a van door shut and then footsteps coming up the stairs. Racing towards the front door, I grabbed my wellington boots from the hall on the way.

There it was, the light rap on the door. I opened it to find him standing on the doorstep, rattling the van keys. ‘Hey, good morning,' he said cheerfully.

‘Hey back, what's so good about it?' I replied not so cheerfully.

The gust of outside cold air woke me up instantly. I shivered.

‘Grab yourself a hat and a pair of gloves; it can get a bit chilly standing about at the market and there's a lot of waiting around until the auction begins.'

As I climbed into the passenger seat, Tom smiled at me. ‘Are you ready for this? Your first ever experience of the market?'

‘Ready as I'll ever be,' I grumbled back.

‘You don't appear to be a morning person, Kitty.' Tom laughed, patting my shoulder in jest.

Once the engine turned over, the radio in the van kicked in. It mustn't have very good reception because all I could hear was a crackle and it kept switching between stations.

‘Do you mind if I switch off the radio?' I enquired. It was too early for pointless noise.

‘No, not at all,' he replied, leaning forward and twisting the black knob until there was silence.

‘Who does the van belong to?' I asked, trying to make polite conversation.

‘It's mine; it's normally parked in barn five out of the way unless we need it to transport the chickens to market.'

‘You have chickens in here? We're going to market to sell chickens?'

‘Yes, what did you think we'd be selling?' he asked, pulling a comical face in my direction.

I felt myself blush; I wasn't sure whether that was because I'd asked a really stupid question or because every time Tom changed gears his arm brushed against my thigh. I could feel the intense heat radiating from his touch. I wondered if he had noticed it too.

I kept my focus on the road ahead. ‘Why are we taking chickens to sell at the market? I thought we were a chicken farm.'

‘We are. These hens are old birds; they'll either stop laying eggs soon or they have already. They no longer have a use for us, and they'll be replaced by the POLs.'

‘POLs?'

‘Point of lay. The laying performance of a hen changes with its age. All will produce the greatest number of eggs in their first year. They begin to lay at approximately five to six months old – this is what we call point of lay. The second and third year's egg production is normally reduced by around twenty per cent, then after the third year it tails off progressively. In the winter months, egg production slows right down and sometimes stops altogether due to the amount of daylight hours. Egg laying is stimulated by daylight.'

‘Gosh, it's all very technical stuff. So am I right to assume the birds in the van are over three years old?'

‘Got it in one; you are getting the hang of this.' He laughed.

‘Who'll buy them if they're no longer producing eggs?'

I hoped the answer would be that the chickens would be acquired by a little old lady with a fondness for hens and they would see their days out pecking around a smallholding, but judging by the sudden silence of Tom it dawned on me that in reality they would probably be purchased by one of the local restaurants.

‘We have all day to discuss chickens. Tell me about yourself, Kitty, what's your story?' Tom piped up, changing the subject quickly.

Feeling Tom's eyes burning into the side of my cheek, I found it difficult to talk about myself. There wasn't much to tell – both my parents were dead, I didn't have any friends or a significant other, and I had no social life either.

‘I am, I suppose, what you would call an orphan. My mum passed away recently and most of my time was spent caring for her, and Dad died years ago. I have no brothers, no sisters, and all my life I'd been under the impression my grandparents were dead. I never questioned my parents – why would I? I never had any reason to believe otherwise. It was a shock to discover why I'd been summoned to the solicitors, and I'm still grieving for Mum. It's all very difficult to cope with at the minute. I guess now I'll never find out why I didn't know anything about my grandparents.' My voice began to falter. Every time I spoke of my parents, I missed them. I missed them both deeply. Tears began to fill my eyes. I turned to stare out of the window, hoping Tom wouldn't notice. Taking a deep breath, I swallowed. ‘What about you, Tom? What's your story? Have you got a girlfriend?' What a ridiculous question to ask; as soon as the words left my mouth I cringed. So much for playing it cool.

‘No girlfriend.' He smirked, shaking his head and meeting my inquisitive stare.

‘A wife?' The question seemed to hang in the air. I knew I was staring at him, transfixed.

‘No wife either,' he said, laughing, and I couldn't help but smile shyly at him.

‘Why ever not, what's wrong with you?' I teased.

‘We're here now, cheeky.' Tom grinned.

The market car park was already full to the brim with vehicles, but luckily Tom managed to locate a vacant space towards the back of the car park and swung the van into it. The stillness of the dawn was suddenly replaced by a frenzy of market traders, cars, stalls and crates of animals as far as the eye could see. Opening the van door, the noise became deafening: people talking in all sorts of different languages, constant horns beeping and animals cawing and squawking. There were numerous stalls set out and open, ready for business, and the path between them was lit by lanterns and hanging bulbs. It would be another hour at least until daylight successfully crept through.

A man hollered in Tom's direction. Tom glanced over and waved. I looked round. The man was wearing a blue and white striped apron, a white shirt and grey pants. He was selling fruit – bananas, oranges and apples in particular. I watched him whilst he shouted complete nonsense; well, I couldn't understand him anyway. The customers formed queues, thrusting money into his assistant's hand whilst he filled brown paper bags with fruit, then handed them over.

‘Are you OK? You're looking a little dazed,' Tom enquired with concern.

‘It's the noise; I've never heard so much noise.'

‘It will settle.'

‘And it's freezing.' I shivered, thrusting my hands into my gloves and wrapping my arms around my body.

‘Let's get the birds unloaded and registered, drop the eggs on the stall and we can have a look around before the auction begins.'

Throwing the van doors open at the back of the vehicle, there were approximately ten crates of chickens stacked up. ‘We need to register the birds by our selling number; the number is the same code as the padlock combination back at Bluebell Lodge.'

‘1507,' I confirmed.

‘Good memory that, my girl.'

Tom seized a trolley, which was more like a noisy contraption on wheels, from the side of the car park; hurling the crates of chickens on top of each other, he began to load them up.

‘Are you just going to stand there and watch me hard at work?'

‘That sounds like a good plan to me, and you're doing such a fantastic job by yourself.' I beamed, folding my arms and leaning against the van door.

Once the van was empty we made our way over towards a shed that was an excuse for an office. There was a group of farmers huddled outside, laughing and smoking.

‘What happens now then?'

‘We need to show our identification to the woman behind the desk and inform her how many chickens we're selling and what breed they are. She adds them to the end of the list that's already been registered today and then she'll tag the crates. When the auction starts, the auctioneer will sell the hens by the crate for one price or individually, depending on our preference; today we're selling them by the crate. People bid and the highest bid buys the birds. If they don't sell, they will call out no sale and then at the end of the auction we take them home and try again next week. If they do sell, we collect our money from the office and our empty crates.'

Once the chickens were registered and tagged, we delivered them safely to the auction room. Casting my eyes around the dark, dismal room, I witnessed rows and rows of different ‘flavoured' chickens looking subdued in cage after cage; they came in all shapes, sizes and colours. Once the crates were placed in chronological order we transferred the eggs for sale over to a stall in the corner.

‘Kitty, I'd like you to meet Bantam Stan; Stan is the owner of the egg stall.'

Looking up I was faced with a stare from a scrawny man; one of his front teeth was missing and the remaining one was not only black and crooked but jabbing into his bottom lip.

Thrusting my hand forward to shake his, I quickly regretted my action. His hands were thick with grime. I gulped and was trying hard to hold on to the contents of my stomach.

Bantam Stan didn't hide the fact he was looking me up and down. ‘Well, well, well, who's this hot little newbie?' he leered at Tom.

Feeling my hackles rise, I glared at him before shaking my head and walking off in the opposite direction.

Tom was soon hot on my heels. ‘Wow, that was a little frosty,' he exclaimed, waiting for me to calm down.

‘Not only am I cold, tired and hungry, but he was a proper idiot. What sort of man ogles a woman like that these days?' I growled.

‘I agree, Kitty. I'm sorry, that behaviour was uncalled for but you can't blame the man.' Tom gave a shy smile.

I felt my face heat up a notch and my heart was racing.

‘There's never a dull moment with you, Tom,' I murmured, trying to hide my awkwardness.

‘Well, it's not hard to find you attractive amongst this lot; you appear to be the only woman for miles,' Tom said, chuckling softly.

Scanning the market, Tom's observation was very true – this place was dominated by men and in fact I couldn't identify another female, unless you counted the woman behind the reception desk or another couple of humans wandering around the market that I wasn't quite sure about.

‘I'm sure there's a compliment in there somewhere,' I muttered.

‘Come here, silly.' Tom wrapped his arms around me; pulling me in close to him, he gave me a friendly hug. I inhaled; the smell of his oh-so-familiar aftershave sent a tingle through my entire body as he rested his chin on the top of my head.

‘Feeling warmer now?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

At that very moment a loud bell sounded throughout the market and a further two chimes followed.

‘Saved by the bell. Are we ready?'

Pulling away from him, I replied, ‘Ready for what?'

‘The auction is about to begin.'

Grasping my hand, Tom pulled me to the front of a crowd of jovial farmers that were already gathered behind the silver metal bars of the auction room.

We were facing the rows and rows of chickens in crates, all marked with numbers and breeds. The auctioneer blew into the microphone and suddenly the room fell silent.

Then it began.

Looking up at Tom, I was confused but fascinated. The auctioneer was spouting words and sounds so fast I had no clue what he was saying; it sounded more like a religious chant to me. After every rapid-fire, quick-cadence combination of numbers, words and sounds, he would shout ‘sold' then move on to the next crate. I couldn't keep up. There was an excitement in the room, a buzz; hands were flying into the air, noises shouted from the gathered crowd and I was mesmerised by how fast this auctioneer could communicate and keep the auction moving at a steady pace.

Crate after crate was sold and our lot was due up next. Unexpectedly I felt like my personal space had been invaded and was conscious that two men had shoved their way to the front, forcing their uninvited existence next to mine. Luckily Tom's hands stayed firmly in place on the bar, his arms rigid, shielding me from the surge of the crowd.

‘Right, these are the lots we want – the next ten crates are ours. Those birds will keep the restaurant equipped with meat at least until the weekend and at a fair profit too,' said the first man who had just pushed past me.

‘I'm on it, boss,' replied the second man standing next to me.

I was startled, staring at the men – they were going to bid on my chickens. Dread rose through my entire body and the realisation kicked in that my hens would not be seeing out their days clucking around an old lady's farm but would more than likely be diced and served up on a hot plate in the local Chinese restaurant.

The auctioneer's voice bellowed, I listened intently and the first bid on my chickens was underway. The arm of the restaurant owner was punched in the air and his bid was registered. Hearing a shout from the back of the arena, the next bid was recorded. I strained my neck, trying to witness who the voice belonged to whilst the price was rising steadily.