The Sweetest Thing (15 page)

I assume he means her second child.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, unsure how to react. I can’t imagine not having children.

‘I expect Fifi’s told you how my wife left me for my brother,’ he goes on bitterly. ‘I felt completely betrayed. I loved her … and I thought she felt the same way about me. I’d have done anything for her.’

It appears from the sadness in his voice that Guy’s loss is still very raw.

‘David left me for a work colleague,’ I say, wanting to let him know that I’m here for him as a neighbour and a friend. ‘I know where you’re coming from.’

‘Did you know her – before, I mean?’ Guy asks.

‘David’s lover? I knew of her. She wasn’t the first.’ I smile darkly. ‘The first one I excused because he was in a state over the death of his mother. The second one was married. David thought she was going to leave her
husband, but she changed her mind the night he was all packed and ready. Why did I take him back?’ I rest my chin on my cupped hands. ‘I sound like a complete doormat.’

‘Or a fighter,’ Guy says, looking at me with those hypnotic grey-blue eyes.

‘He took me for such a fool. That was one of the hardest parts to deal with – the duplicity, and how public it all was.’

‘Tell me about it. I felt so humiliated. It turned out that half of Talyton knew Tasha had been with my brother the night before our wedding. One of my then friends even saw them together in a car down by the river, but couldn’t bring themself to mention it to me …’ Guy’s voice grows husky as he stares into the bottom of his wineglass. ‘I would have been gutted, but I wouldn’t have spent the next three years living what turned out to be a complete lie.’

‘You poor thing. I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ he sighs. ‘I’m big enough and ugly enough to look after myself. I should have been able to read the signs, but Tasha could do no wrong in my eyes. I was infatuated.’

‘I don’t know how long David was lying to me,’ I say, ‘but I recall the night he came clean all too clearly … We were together on the sofa when he told me he was sorry, he was seeing someone else. I was livid. In fact, I lost it and threw a wineglass at him.’

‘Did you hit him?’ Guy asks.

‘I missed, unfortunately. It smashed into one of our wedding photos which I suppose was symbolic. I never did like it – I was holding the bouquet strategically across my bump, and David looked like a ghost because no amount of airbrushing could hide the fact
he’d been out on the lash three days running before the wedding.’

‘You were pregnant before you married?’ Guy says.

‘Are you really that old-fashioned? It’s almost normal, being pregnant out of wedlock nowadays.’ I’m amused to see that he’s blushing.

‘How long were you together then?’ he asks.

‘We were a couple for seventeen years, married for fourteen. We met at university. David was studying for a maths degree. I was doing English lit.’

‘So we have more in common than I expected,’ Guy says. ‘I’m not talking about English lit, although I do have a degree in agriculture and land management. No, I’m referring to a broken marriage.’

‘It’s hardly something to shout about, is it?’ I say. ‘Why didn’t your ex marry your brother in the first place then?’

‘Because Oliver – my brother – isn’t, or wasn’t, the marrying kind. Everyone loved him. He was the golden boy of the family … sociable and funny, irresistible to women, better looking than me—’

I almost blurt out, But how can he be?

‘He was also irresponsible. He left a sixteen-year-old girlfriend to bring up his baby when he was seventeen. And then he carried on with my wife behind my back.’ Guy hesitates before going on, ‘As the elder brother, I was always going to inherit the farm. Oliver would have received his fair share financially, but I think Tasha fancied herself as a farmer’s wife. She wanted the farm – as a status symbol, or just somewhere she could keep her horses for nothing. I don’t know.’ He shrugs.

‘Unfortunately she was a townie – I met her when she came to a Young Farmers’ do – and didn’t under
stand what was expected. What I mean is, I didn’t expect her to muck in with the farm work and cook and run the house like my mother used to, but with her deciding to pack in her job – she was a nurse – we couldn’t afford to hire help in. When Mum was diagnosed, I looked after her, and Oliver came to help run the farm …’ His voice fades, then returns. ‘It’s all been so bloody upsetting.’

‘You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to,’ I say, pleased that he feels able to confide in me, yet sad for him too. Up until now, Guy’s seemed quite cool and self-contained. Tonight, he’s revealed another side of his character: deeply caring and compassionate.

‘I don’t normally mention it,’ he says, ‘but somehow you make it easy. I don’t feel as if you’re judging me. And you’re not like Fifi – telling me to snap out of it and get on with my life.’ A shadow of sorrow darkens his eyes. ‘She can say what she likes, I’ll never get over it. I’ll never trust anyone again.’

That wasn’t how Fifi put it, I muse as Guy drains his glass and places it back on the table.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard enough of me going on for one day.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say, finding that I’d be more than happy to listen to him talking for as long as he wanted. I like listening to the warm tones of his voice. I like sitting here with him, and not because there is no one else.

I go on to tell Guy how I’d expected – no, wanted – to grow old with David; for us to celebrate our Golden Anniversary, surrounded by our children and grandchildren. I’d dreamed of retiring with him to a place like Uphill House, in the country, with honeysuckle and roses growing outside the front door.

‘That’s exactly how I felt about Tasha,’ says Guy,
and for a while we’re both lost in our own separate worlds.

Eventually, I try to pour him more wine, but he puts his hand over the glass.

‘No, thanks, Jennie,’ he says. ‘I should get going,’ he adds, but I notice that he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave my cosy kitchen. I’m aware that his gaze lingers on my face for a little longer than necessary before he eventually stands up and says that he really must go now.

I accompany him back through the snug to the hallway.

‘Thanks for dropping by,’ I say, when he hesitates with his hand on the front door. I can hear a pulse beating in my head. Am I reading more into the situation than I should? Is he …?

‘Thanks for the wine, and your company, Jennie.’

I tilt my face towards Guy’s. It’s the slightest move but he responds, leaning towards me and touching his lips to mine, before muttering, ‘Goodnight,’ and disappearing into the darkness as if he’s running away.

What does it mean? How am I supposed to feel? Flattered? Over the moon? As it is, Guy leaves me feeling elated and more than a little confused.

It’s Sunday morning and the children are still with David. Sharing a breakfast of toast and honey with Lucky, I wonder what they’re doing. Guy goes past – the cows are going out again after milking. He raises his stick and waves. Touching my lips where he kissed me last night, I wave back and watch him stroll down the drive. I see him return, then go out again in his Land Rover about an hour later.

I’m not being nosy. I happen to have a great view of the shared drive from the kitchen, and Lucky barks at anything that moves.

Where does Guy go on these expeditions of his? To visit his mother? To see a girlfriend? He didn’t answer when Sophie asked him that question, and I find it hard to believe he isn’t romantically involved. He’s obviously still upset about his wife running away with his brother, but that was some time ago now and I know for a fact that time really does heal. He kissed me last night – clearly intended it as a kiss too because he almost ran away afterwards, as if he’d suddenly
realised what he’d done. Was it an impulse he instantly regretted because he’s going out with someone else?

I use the time to cook a cottage pie and bake a lemon drizzle cake – Adam and the girls will want something when they get home. I whizz up a sponge mix, add the fragrant zest of a lemon, and spoon it all into a loaf tin before sticking it in the Aga.

Lucky hears the Land Rover returning before I do. Instead of passing by, it stops outside the house. Guy gets out in his smart trousers, brown brogues and a pale blue V-neck sweater over a white T-shirt, and comes over to knock on the kitchen window. I open it, wondering with a frisson of longing if he might kiss me again, properly this time. However, I’m disappointed – and too shy to do anything about it, especially in broad daylight and without being fortified with a glass of red wine.

‘Jennie,’ he says without a trace of embarrassment or any hint that he remembers our conversation last night, ‘I’ve got you those chickens.’ He sounds excited, much like Adam did when we collected the dog.

‘Today? But it’s Sunday.’

‘I got them from a friend of mine. Ruthie’s a farmer, so, like me, she works every day of the week. She’s more than happy for me to turn up any time.’

‘I see.’ My stomach knots up with a sensation of envy. I don’t know why. So what if Guy has friends? He had a life before I arrived on the scene. I probably shouldn’t analyse it unduly, I know, but maybe he’s not the lonesome farmer who’s been let down in love that I took him for. I’ve even felt sorry for him, yet it seems I didn’t have to be. He has longstanding links with the local community. He was born here.

‘It’s very kind of you to go to so much trouble,’ I
continue, ashamed that I read too much into Guy’s confiding in me over the wine last night. I resolve to suppress my imaginings in future – he’s an attractive guy and, in spite of my family and friends, I sometimes feel very alone here. These are not sound reasons to enter into a relationship, serious or otherwise.

‘I was going right past her door, so I dropped in and picked them up,’ Guy says. ‘Where do you want them?’

‘I haven’t got a henhouse. Where will I put them?’ I wipe my hands with a tea-towel. ‘I was going to order one of those plastic henhouses. I saw them in Overdown Farmers and took a fancy to a bright green one.’

‘They’ll have to lay an awful lot of eggs to pay for it. They’re chickens. They don’t need five-star accommodation. All you need is something to keep Charlie out.’

‘Charlie?’

‘The fox.’

‘Are there a lot of foxes around here? We used to see lots where we lived before – they seemed to thrive on leftover fast food.’ And chickens, I think, recalling the fate of Summer’s birds.

‘The odd one tries its luck now and again,’ Guy says.

‘Oh, now I shall worry about them all the time.’

‘That’s the problem with keeping animals.’ He smiles. ‘You never stop worrying about them. You can lock them in one of the stables at night, and let them out during the day. Like my hens. Go on – go and open the gate for me and I’ll bring them into the yard.’

I shut Lucky in the house – I’m not sure how he’ll react to chickens – and go round the back, through the yard where the weeds which we’d cleared are
beginning to grow back up between the bricks and cobbles, and open the gate. Guy drives in and parks with the back of the Land Rover facing one of the empty stables. He jumps out and opens the tailgate with a flourish.

‘There you go,’ he says, revealing two open-sided crates with feathered occupants. ‘Ten ladies ready to lay.’

‘They look a bit …’ I’m trying not to sound ungrateful ‘… scraggy.’

‘Ah, they’re ex-battery. They’ve been locked up in cages for the past eighteen months. Ruthie runs Hen Welfare – she rescues them. Don’t worry, they’ll soon pick up and lay eggs for a few years yet.’

Guy lifts the crates out and carries them one at a time into the stable, placing them on the floor that is covered with a layer of old straw. He shuts the lower half of the door, then lifts the lid on the first crate and takes out one of the birds.

‘She’s a thin one,’ he says, assessing her. ‘A size zero, I reckon. What do you think?’ he adds, passing her over to me.

‘Oh,’ I say, backing off. ‘I don’t … I wasn’t expecting to have to handle them.’

‘Hold her wings against her sides, so she doesn’t flap,’ Guy says, his fingers brushing against mine as he lowers the hen into my hands.

‘It’s me who’s flapping.’ I relax, smiling, as the chicken grows still. ‘She feels so light. And warm. And she’s lost almost all her feathers, poor thing.’ The feathers she does have are light brown with hints of cream. Her skin is pale, rough and pimply, and she has a red, rubbery comb on the top of her head and wattles under her beak. She’s watching me warily with one
eye. A round orange eye. ‘What’s that that keeps flickering across her eye?’ I ask.

‘Chickens have a third eyelid. She’s blinking.’ Guy smiles again. ‘She’s blinking lucky, too, to have found a luxury home like this. Pop her down on the floor.’

I lower her very gently to the ground and let her go.

‘Watch,’ he goes on. ‘Remember, she’s been living on wire slats all her life, sharing a cage with a couple of other hens. She’ll never have seen straw or daylight before she arrived at Ruthie’s.’

‘Poor thing …’

The hen stands hunched for a minute or so then shakes, stretches her pathetic, bald wings and hops towards the light that comes through the top half of the door. She hesitates, tilts her head to one side and caws softly. She taps tentatively at the straw with her beak, retreats as if startled, then taps at it again. Apparently reassured, she scratches at the straw with her feet, reverses then pecks at the ground again.