Copyright © Jodi Taylor 2017

The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with Copyright, Designs and patents Act 1988.

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

First published by Accent Press Ltd 2017

This ebook edition was first published by Headline Publishing Group in 2019

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

eISBN 978 1 4722 6436 7

Cover by Zoe Foster

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About the book

The Nothing Girl has grown up…

It’s life as usual at Frogmorton Farm – which is to say that events have passed the merely eccentric and are now galloping headlong towards the completely bizarre.

Once again Jenny struggles to stay afloat in the stormy seas of matrimony with her husband, Russell Checkland, together with an unlikely mix of Patagonian Attack Chickens, Jack the Sad Donkey, and Mrs Crisp’s mysterious boyfriend. The old favourites are still around, of course. There’s Marilyn the Omnivorous Donkey, Russell’s ex-girlfriend Don’t Call Me Franny, and the neurotic Boxer, currently failing to deal with butterfly trauma.

So nothing much is new … except for the mysterious figure dogging Jenny’s steps and who, if she didn’t know better, she would swear was her sinister cousin Christopher, last seen being hurled from the house by her wayward husband. He couldn’t possibly be stupid enough to come back and try again … Could he?

About Jodi Taylor

Jodi Taylor is the author of the bestselling Chronicles of St Mary's series, the story of a bunch of disaster-prone historians who investigate major historical events in contemporary time. Do NOT call it time travel!

Born in Bristol and educated in Gloucester (facts both cities vigorously deny), she spent many years with her head somewhere else, much to the dismay of family, teachers and employers, before finally deciding to put all that daydreaming to good use and pick up a pen. She still has no idea what she wants to do when she grows up.

By Jodi Taylor and available from Headline

The Chronicles of St Mary’s series

Just One Damned Thing After Another

A Symphony of Echoes

A Second Chance

A Trail Through Time

No Time Like the Past

What Could Possibly Go Wrong

Lies, Damned Lies, and History

And the Rest is History

An Argumentation of Historians

Hope for the Best

The Long and Short of It (short-story collection)

The Chronicles of St Mary’s digital shorts

The Very First Damned Thing

When a Child is Born

Roman Holiday

Christmas Present

Ships and Stings and Wedding Rings

The Great St Mary’s Day Out

My Name is Markham

A Perfect Storm

Christmas Past

Battersea Barricades

The Steam-Pump Jump

And Now For Something Completely Different

Elizabeth Cage novels

White Silence

Dark Light

Frogmorton Farm series

The Nothing Girl

The Something Girl

Little Donkey (digital short)

________________

A Bachelor Establishment

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Jo Hobbs for the chicken chat. An eye-opening glimpse of the bizarre world of the chicken.

Author’s note

I should say, right here, that anyone who feels that enormous, invisible golden horses are not for them should stop reading now, because Thomas is the most enormous, the most beautiful, the most invisible golden horse you will never, ever see. And he’s very definitely real.

Prologue

Three years ago, I was nobody. I was nothing. That’s what they called me – The Nothing Girl. Because that’s what I was. I had no life, no parents, and no friends and, when my stutter was very bad, I had no speech either.

Everyone around me seemed to have it all. My cousin Francesca was a successful actress/model and her brother Christopher owned and ran the local bookshop. Then there was Russell Checkland, the up-and-coming artist, setting London on fire with his work. My uncle, Richard Kingdom, one of Rushford’s most successful solicitors, lived with his wife, Julia, in the best part of Rushford. They gave me a home after my parents died, but very little else. I lived in the attic. Solitary, friendless, and afraid of nearly everything.

Looking back, I don’t know how I survived and there were two occasions when I very nearly didn’t. When my story nearly came to a premature end.

The first was at what I thought at the time was the very lowest point of my life. I was thirteen. My road hadn’t been very long but it hadn’t been very smooth either. I was entirely alone and contemplating something awful and then I looked up to see an enormous golden horse standing in the corner of my bedroom.

No one else could see him. No one else could hear him. Only me. Sadly I wasn’t transformed instantly into a fashion princess with a mobile phone that never stopped ringing or a queue of wannabe boyfriends but, with his help, I faced down the bullies at school. With Thomas standing behind me, enveloping me in his smell, like warm ginger biscuits, I could string words together if I took things slowly. I could make my voice heard.

I grew up with Thomas always at my side. Advising, guiding, giving me the courage to face each long, dreary day as my life stretched out in front of me, going nowhere very slowly.

They said there was something the matter with me. That there was something wrong with Jenny Dove, as I was then, and I, believing this was true and grateful not to be sent off to one of those ‘special homes’, hid from the world, kept quiet, and did as I was told.

It was Thomas who pushed me to go the party where I met Russell Checkland again. We’d known each other since we were both children. I still don’t know how Thomas managed to persuade me to accept Russell’s ridiculous proposal of marriage, but he did. I married Russell, escaped the stupefying boredom of life with my aunt, and jumped straight from the frying pan into the fire.

Life became difficult again. I was completely out of my depth and there were people who wished me ill. My world grew darker and, just when I needed him most, Thomas left me. That was the second worst time of my life. I can see now that it was his version of tough love, because now that I was married I needed to stand on my own feet and move out of his shadow. I needed to realise that far from being isolated little Jenny Dove, I was now Jenny Checkland, and people were relying on me. People needed me. He had to do it, but at the time it nearly finished me. I couldn’t comprehend a life without big, golden Thomas at my side. But of course, being Thomas, he didn’t leave me quite alone. He couldn’t stay – so he sent.

He sent another Thomas. A real horse. The first thing that was truly mine. Russell’s birthday gift to me. A turning point in our rocky relationship. This Thomas brought me a different type of freedom. I can’t describe the sense of achievement I gained from learning to ride. From finding that there was something in this world that I could do. And do well.

Sadly, my life wasn’t peaceful for long. The people who wished me harm gathered for one last try and there was a dreadful night when our feed store was on fire and I thought I’d lost everything, including Russell. Matters were resolved, however, and we were left in peace.

For a while.

Chapter One

‘Buff Orpingtons,’ said Russell, bounding through the back door, shedding his jacket in one direction and a wellington in the other.

His household, familiar with his habits, regarded him without dismay.

‘Braised Onions,’ said Mrs Crisp, his housekeeper.

‘Blunt Object,’ said Andrew, his cousin.

‘Blood Oranges,’ said Kevin, his handyman.

‘Black Olives,’ said Sharon, his handyman’s girlfriend.

‘Blind Optimism,’ said I, his wife.

‘What?’ he said, staring at us in puzzlement. ‘What are you talking about? Jenny, what are they talking about?’

‘Isn’t it a game?’ asked Andrew. ‘I thought it was a game. Your turn.’

‘Why are you here again?’ said Russell, crossly, hopping across the kitchen floor with one welly on and one welly off. ‘You’re always here. Every time I look up you’re sitting at my kitchen table, making eyes at my wife.’

Andrew winked at me and I grinned back.

‘Stop that,’ said Russell, finally divesting himself of his recalcitrant wellington. He tossed it out through the door into the mudroom and stared disapprovingly around, his gaze finally alighting on the cat, who sprawled on his back in front of the range, presenting something that Russell could legitimately complain about. Strictly speaking, the cat had been forbidden the house on several occasions, Russell stoutly maintaining he could stay only if he earned his keep by battling the rodent population outside. Typically, the cat ignored him for most of the time but, every now and then, he would underline his dominance by presenting Russell with a spectacularly gruesome dead rat, lovingly laid across his trainers in the mudroom. Job done, he would return to his spot on the old rug in front of the range, leaving Russell to deal with the disintegrating corpse.

Russell put his hands on his hips and frowned heavily. ‘I’ve told you before Mrs Crisp, that cat is not an attractive sight in a food preparation area.’

Mrs Crisp looked at me. ‘Do you think it would help if I covered him with a tea towel?’

Russell nodded. ‘Excellent idea. Cover away.’

She draped a tea towel over Russell’s head.

Sharon, mashing potatoes as if her life depended on it, giggled, and the rest of us fell about.

‘Very funny,’ said Russell, the tea towel puffing slightly with every word. ‘Your sense of humour will be reflected in this month’s wages. And may I remind you all – again – that I’m the head of the household and as such...’

The cat sneezed and woke up.

Russell, who had learned to keep his distance, pulled off the tea towel and stepped back.

His dark red hair flopped over his forehead as always. He pushed it out of the way and returned to his original grievance. ‘So Andrew, why are you here? Again.’

‘You invited me for Sunday lunch.’

‘No, I invited the very beautiful Miss Bauer. You’re just a by-product. Where is she by the way?’

‘Shopping.’

‘Well, she can still come to lunch, can’t she?’

‘In Berlin. With her mother.’

‘Oh.’ He scowled at his cousin. ‘Well, we’ll just have to put up with you, I suppose, but we’re only doing it out of the goodness of our hearts. You’re hardly an acceptable substitute for the lovely Tanya.’

Andrew ignored this comment. ‘I have to ask, Russ, why are you crashing through the door shouting, “Buff Orpingtons”? Is that like a rural “Open Sesame”?’

Russell came to sit next to me, putting his hand over mine for a moment. His hands were warm and steady as usual. He smiled at me. Most people would say that Andrew, with his conventional dark good looks, was the more handsome of the two cousins. Russell’s face was longer and thinner but I always thought him the better looking. ‘All right, Jenny? Where’s the young madam?’

‘Upstairs, asleep after ... her lunch.’

‘Speaking of which...’

‘Possibly ten minutes,’ said Mrs Crisp, crashing things onto the draining board, ‘but since it would appear I’m not being paid this month, who knows?’

‘I pay you every month,’ he said indignantly. ‘I can’t believe this ingratitude.’

‘Mrs Checkland pays me,’ she said calmly, emptying vegetables into a serving dish.

‘Buff ... Orpingtons?’ I said, trying to get him back on track.

My stutter is much better these days. Sometimes it’s barely noticeable. Especially when I’m with friends. There’s the odd hesitation occasionally and I’m never going to be a chatterbox but – and I can’t tell you what this means to me – when I speak, people listen. Only someone whose voice was not heard for years can possibly know the importance of that. I would struggle, hot with embarrassment, and embarrassing those around me as well, and after a while, people just stopped listening. Because, of course, if you can’t speak properly then it follows that what you say can’t be important. Conversations would wash around me. Any contribution I might make was always four or five sentences behind everyone else. After I while, I stopped contributing. A while after that, I stopped even socialising. The horizons of my life closed in around me. My world grew smaller and smaller and, in the end, it was just Thomas and me.

And then one day, Russell Checkland erupted into my life and listened to me. Actually listened to what I had to say. As if I was a real person. And he made the world listen, too. I married him. Of course I did. He was handsome, talented, charming and a complete idiot. Who wouldn’t marry him?

Well, my cousin Francesca, for a start. She’d ditched Russell for someone more useful to her career and it had nearly finished him. I think he sees now that the two of them would never have worked but when I first met him he was enthusiastically drinking himself into a state nearly as dilapidated as his old farmhouse. As if that wasn’t bad enough, no sooner had Russell married me than Francesca decided that she did want him after all. After a series of shattering scenes, the dust settled and they both realised that they’d made the right choice. Their relationship these days is usually Francesca wanting Russell to do something for her, and Russell making her work for it. It had been a rocky road for all of us, but Russell and I were now the proud owners of a rundown farmhouse, Frogmorton; a daughter, Joy; a donkey, Marilyn; two horses, Russell’s Boxer and my Thomas, currently on loan to the Braithwaites up the lane. And the cat with no name.

Quite a large menagerie, and if Buff Orpingtons were what I thought they were – it was about to become even larger.

Russell turned to me, restlessly fiddling with his cutlery because he can’t sit still. ‘Chickens, Jenny. We should have some chickens.’

‘Why?’

‘Why not? The benefits are endless. Fresh eggs every day. And Joy can help feed them and look after them. It’ll be good for her.’ He gestured expansively but inaccurately at the downstairs toilet. ‘All this will be hers one day. She should start to learn responsibility.’

‘She’s eight ... months old,’ I said.

‘Given her father,’ said Andrew darkly, ‘the sooner she starts taking a run up at responsibility, the better.’

Russell ignored him. ‘Picture the scene, Jenny. Half a dozen pretty little chicks scratching around the yard making those comfortable clucky noises. You and Joy standing together scattering...’ he paused, a victim of his own ignorance. ‘...some sort of chicken food for them, doing your bit for the rural economy. Mrs Crisp will collect the eggs every morning and we’ll all sit down to a golden-yolked miracle for our breakfast.’ He glowered at Andrew. ‘Well, those of us who actually live here will.’

‘Where will ... we keep them?’

He sat back. ‘I shall build them a hen house.’

‘You?’ said Andrew, incredulously.

‘Well, not actually me, obviously.’ He held up his hands. ‘These are not hen-house building hands. I’m an artist.’

We all looked at Kevin, who helped out with odd jobs around the place and who almost certainly was going to discover he had hen-house building hands.

He grinned amiably. ‘Never made one of those before. What colour do you want?’

‘Green,’ said Mrs Crisp, banging down the roast potatoes.

‘Purple,’ said Sharon, following through with the vegetables.

‘Blue,’ said Andrew, spearing the biggest Yorkshire pud.

‘Gold,’ I said.

Kevin nodded, ‘OK.’ And before Russell could interject and issue instructions that his hen house was not to be any girlie pastel shade, but a manly, rufty-tufty, rural brown, Mrs Crisp brought the beef, which took his mind off things nicely.

All Sunday lunches at Frogmorton Farm are lovely and this one was no exception. We sat in the big kitchen, discussing football, the new people who had moved into the cottage further up the lane, the impending opening of Sharon’s cupcake shop, and the pedestrianisation of the new shopping precinct: something to which Russell and I were greatly looking forward, because we were waiting for an offer on Christopher’s old bookshop. He’d signed it over to us on instructions from his father, my Uncle Richard. Uncle Richard had done it to keep us quiet. It’s a long story and we don’t talk about it.

The sun shone through the windows, highlighting the plates on the big dresser along the back wall and sending shafts of light across the warm terracotta tiles. We were gathered around the old kitchen table and sitting on mismatched chairs, but the cloth was spotless, the cutlery gleamed and the atmosphere was happy and friendly.

I remembered the first time I had seen this room, and reflected on the change. Yes, that day had been dark and rainy and today the sun was shining, but it was more than that. There had been an air of hopelessness about the house then. Of unhappiness. The rooms were dreary and empty. Like my life. Like Russell’s too, at the time. Neither of us had a future to look forward to. Nor had Mrs Crisp, lost in a maze of guilt and cooking sherry. Our plans to do up the house had so far come to nothing and most of the rooms remained almost as I’d first seen them, but these days the house smelled of sunshine, furniture polish, home-made pot-pourri, oil paints and baby powder, not dust and despair. It was a proper family home now, filled with light and love and laughter.

It was only after Andrew had spooned up the last of his Eton Mess that contentious poultry issues raised their heads again.

‘That was fantastic, Mrs Crisp,’ he said, dropping his spoon into his dish. ‘Why don’t you give Russell the old heave-ho and come and live with me and Tanya.’

Mrs Crisp has been with Russell for ever. She brought him up after his mother died in a car crash. She’s his Aunty Lizzie. She would never leave him and we all knew it.

‘If only I could,’ she said, ‘but I couldn’t possibly leave poor Mrs Checkland to struggle on alone.’

Poor Mrs Checkland grinned at her and got up to make the coffee.

‘There’s no poor Mrs Checkland,’ said Russell indignantly. ‘Jenny’s lucky to have me and she knows it.’

Joking aside, I did know it. My life was lovely. Yes, we were still broke. Yes, the roof still leaked. Yes, Russell was still struggling to re-establish himself as an artist, but my life was wonderful and I never made the mistake of taking it for granted. I looked around the table, full of empty dishes and contented people and felt a small chill. Can life be too good? The gods dislike hubris and sometimes it pleases them to tear down what they have built up. I shivered, suddenly nervous. If anything were ever to happen to Russell. Or Joy. Or any of us. I don’t know what brought on this sudden fit of heebie-jeebies. Was it that now, because I had a baby, I was vulnerable?

I carried the tray of coffee to the table where the conversation had reverted to chickens again.

‘Well,’ said Mrs Crisp, ‘we’ve heard all about your plans for when they start laying, but what happens when they stop?’

‘Stop what?’ said Russell, spooning sugar.

‘Stop laying. They don’t go on for ever, you know.’

He paused in astonishment. ‘Don’t they?’

‘No, they don’t, and then...’ she made a graphic gesture.

As one, his household stared at Russell.

‘I’m the man of the house,’ he announced. ‘I’ll take care of that.’

I personally was convinced that the man of the house would bottle out when receiving a non-laying chicken in one hand and a hatchet in the other. It seemed safe to assume that the man of the house would hide in the pub, along with his part-time handyman and his cousin. The women of the house, meanwhile, would be forced to hide the underachieving hen behind the barn and gallop into the village to buy the shrink-wrapped equivalent from Tom Kasap, Quality Purveyor of Meats etc., all ready for triumphant presentation to the probably quite unsteady man of the house on his return home.

I sat quietly while others voiced similar opinions and at the height of the debate, with a tap on the back door, Bill the Insurance Man walked in.

Bill the Insurance Man is Mrs Crisp’s boyfriend. After our feed store caught fire, he turned up to assess the damage, and came back on so many occasions and with so many trivial questions, that Russell began to suspect the insurance company was trying to weasel out of the claim. Since it remains unpaid, this seems very likely. Russell’s hostility was scarcely lessened by the discovery that it was Mrs Crisp and not the charred remains of our feed store that was the attraction for Bill and, for a long time, was barely even civil to the poor man.

With true heroism, Bill turns up every Thursday and Sunday, collects Mrs Crisp, and off they go. No one knows where they go or what they do when they get there. Russell is terrified he’s going to have to do the ‘What are your intentions?’ speech.

‘Hello Bill,’ said Andrew, politely.

‘Where did you come from?’ demanded Russell. He turned to Mrs Crisp in sudden suspicion. ‘Have you been chaining him to your headboard again? I thought I had instructed you to release all your lovers back into the wild. Must I remind you – all of you – of the presence of an innocent young child in our midst and the need to behave with decency and decorum?’

Andrew made a rude noise. ‘There’s only one person around here not behaving with decency and decorum.’

Russell ignored him.

Mrs Crisp disappeared to her own room to get ready. Bill seated himself in her chair and, apparently oblivious to Russell glaring at him over the blue and white striped milk jug, placidly said good afternoon.

‘Nice to see you,’ said Andrew.

‘Again,’ muttered Russell.

I asked Bill if he’d like a coffee.

He looked at his watch. ‘I don’t think we’ll have time, Mrs Checkland, but thank you.’

Russell shifted in his seat. ‘Busy afternoon planned?’

‘Extremely.’

Silence fell.

I saw Russell take a deep breath to enquire what exactly, in relation to Mrs Crisp, a busy afternoon entailed, and said quickly, ‘How ... are you?’

‘Very well, thank you.’

We sat in silence. Bill did silence very well.

‘So,’ said Russell, approaching from another direction. ‘Where are you off to this afternoon?’ and at that moment, Mrs Crisp came back into the kitchen, looking very smart and wearing lipstick.

Bill at once got to his feet. ‘Ready?’

She nodded, snapped her handbag shut, said, ‘See you all later,’ and the two of them disappeared out of the door leaving a very dissatisfied silence behind them.

‘White slaver,’ said Kevin solemnly, and Sharon nodded agreement.

‘I have to say, Russ,’ said Andrew, severely, ‘I’m really not at all sure you should let Mrs Crisp waltz off with the first insurance assessor who crosses her path. They’re a feckless bunch, you know.’

‘Why are you still here? You’ve eaten. Now go.’

Andrew poured himself another coffee.

Russell pushed his chair back. ‘Ready, Jenny?’

‘Yes,’ I said, excited, because Sunday afternoon is Driving Lesson Afternoon.

‘Where are you going?’ said Andrew. ‘It’s hardly polite to abandon your guest.’

‘You’re not a guest, you’re only a cousin, and it’s time for Jenny’s driving lesson.’

‘Oh, well done, Jenny. Who are you going with?’

‘Me,’ said Russell with dignity. ‘I’m teaching her to drive.’

‘Are you insane?’

‘Which one of us are you talking to?’

‘Well, both of you, actually. Isn’t it well known that spouses should never teach each other to drive?’

‘He’s very ... good,’ I said, with more loyalty than accuracy. ‘And he says I’m doing really well.’

Russell had never actually said anything of the sort and we all knew it, but there is a time and a place for veracity and this wasn’t it.

‘This I must see,’ said Andrew, getting to his feet.

‘I’ll go and get Joy,’ said Russell.

‘You’re not teaching her to drive as well, are you?’

‘Don’t be an ass, Andrew. She can’t reach the pedals yet. You can keep an eye on her while Jenny burns up the big field.’

We left Kevin and Sharon loading the dishwasher. Russell appeared with Joy who gurgled happily at the sight of her Uncle Andrew.

Yet another example of my good fortune. Some babies can be fractious, I know. Ours was an angel. Yes, she cried a little occasionally, but not with any great enthusiasm. She did tend to wake in the night, laughing and cooing to herself. Lying on her back holding her feet seemed to be her favourite pastime. She spent hours talking to her feet. According to Andrew, who was two years older, Russell himself had done something similar as a baby, and this did not augur well for Joy’s future.

I picked up the keys and we all trooped out into the yard, currently occupied by a small donkey, loitering with intent to discover something she could eat.

We have a donkey. I don’t know why I’ve taken so long to get around to talking about her. As anyone who has a donkey knows, they tend to be the primary topic of any conversation. And not always for the right reasons.

Our donkey is tiny. Her name is Marilyn. I chose her name because she looks like Marilyn Monroe. She’s a lovely soft dun colour and peers beguilingly out from underneath her bushy forelock, batting huge eyelashes. People instantly fall in love with her friendly nature, not having the slightest idea she’s only checking them over for something edible. She had a tough start – Russell discovered her, neglected and starving in a field, and stole her. Her deeply unpleasant owner turned up shortly afterwards and was seen off by Sharon wielding a Le Creuset frying pan. Just another day at Frogmorton Farm.

Seeing us crossing the yard, Marilyn came skittering over, confident that someone, somewhere would have something for her to eat.

Andrew shunted Joy to one hip and rummaged through his pockets. He’s a vet. He always has something edible in his pockets. He claims his life was once saved by scattering Mars Bars in the path of a charging bull.

‘A bit like Medea, scattering pieces of her brother in front of the pursuing ships,’ said Russell.

‘Exactly,’ said Andrew. ‘I was only sorry I didn’t have a convenient cousin to hand.’

Most of our land is let to our neighbour, Martin Braithwaite, who uses it for his sheep. It’s about the only regular money we have, supplemented occasionally by the sale of one of Russell’s paintings and the income from what Tanya managed to salvage from the remains of my own money, but we’ve kept the two fields next to Frogmorton for our own use. The smaller was usually occupied by Russell’s horse, the perpetually challenged Boxer, currently gazing in alarm at a butterfly; the other had a number of oil drums scattered around at strategic points. They’re painted with letters of the alphabet. Currently, I could see a, b, c, f and then another f, because Russell hadn’t been concentrating. Or had been drunk. Then there had obviously been some sort of oil drum-related catastrophe because from f we jumped straight to p.

The oil drums were laid out just as they were when I learned to ride, although I have to say I found driving slightly trickier. Russell’s Land Rover was in no way as good-natured as a horse.

Russell flourished his clipboard.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Checkland. Please drive to b and then turn left.’

I ignored him, taking the time to adjust the seat and the driving mirror and fasten my seat belt. He twitched impatiently. ‘In your own time, Mrs Checkland.’

I made him wait, making sure I was comfortable before starting the engine, and off we went. Conscious of the audience at the gate, I cut the turn a little close and we shaved an oil drum

‘Sorry,’ I said, flustered.

He leaned back and stretched his long legs. ‘Not a problem – we have another five.’

I clipped another one. It went boing and fell over.

‘Four.’

‘Sorry. Sorry,’ I said, crashing the gears.

‘Stop panicking. Just relax and you’ll find it all comes quite naturally.’

‘All right.’

We bumped around the field while I took another few breaths, sorted myself out, and sought for relaxing conversation. ‘When are ... the chickens turning up?’

‘Tomorrow.’

Boing.

‘Three.’

‘But what about the hen house? Where will we put them?’

This is typical of Russell. He’d agreed to the chickens – probably about three months ago, forgotten all about them, and then suddenly realised they were coming tomorrow and he hadn’t told me.

‘We’ll stick them in the stable for the time being. They can roost in the rafters.’

‘You’re locking ... them in with an omnivorous donkey and a ... paranoid horse?’

‘They’ll be fine, Jenny. Stop worrying. Chickens are very robust.’

‘What happens if they ... drop an egg on Boxer.’

‘They’re too young to lay. He’ll be perfectly safe.’

Boxer had been a racehorse in his youth and Russell had lost a great deal of money on him, which, he said, had created a bond. Sadly, although he runs like the wind, he’s neurotic even by racehorse standards and is terrified of almost everything. Wind, rain, hostile telegraph poles, cats, threatening trees and, as I’d recently noticed, butterflies. His previous owners gave up on him and Russell, aware of the fate of some ex-racehorses, took him in. Having Marilyn has calmed him a little and the two of them are devoted to each other. I couldn’t help but feel he wouldn’t react well to having potentially life-threatening chickens living over his head and said so.

‘He’ll be fine. He’s watching you now over the hedge. Look how calm he is these days.’

I craned my neck.

Boing.

‘Jenny, you have to look where you’re going.’

‘You told me to look at ... Boxer.’

‘It was a figure of speech. Third! Third! Change down. You’re going too fast. Brake for God’s sake!’

We skidded to a halt.

‘Well, will you look at that,’ said the world’s worst driving instructor, getting out to inspect the damage to his beloved Land Rover.

‘What?’

‘There. That dent. Look at it.’

I was spoiled for choice. ‘Which dent?’

‘The latest dent.’

‘Told you,’ said Andrew from where he was sitting on the gate. Kevin and Sharon sat alongside. They were passing Joy back and forth between them like an old parcel. She thought it was a wonderful game. Marilyn was peering critically through the bars. An astonished Boxer craned his neck over the hedge. I sighed. No one should have to learn to drive under these conditions.

‘That’s enough for today I think,’ said Russell. ‘A world-class instructor always ensures his students end on a high.’

‘That ... was a high?’

‘Minor bumps happen, Jenny. You have to get used to them.’

We both looked at the Land Rover – living proof that to Russell at least, minor bumps happened all the time.

‘Can you ... teach me to parallel park?’ I asked Russell as Andrew pushed the gate open for us.

‘Parking is dull,’ he said, ushering me through the gate. ‘I could teach you to do handbrake turns instead. Much more fun.’

‘He can’t park,’ said Andrew, latching the gate. ‘That’s why he never bothers. He just stops and gets out. He doesn’t pull over. Sometimes he doesn’t even switch off the engine.’

‘What about reversing? Can you ... teach me to reverse?’

‘I can try, of course,’ said Russell, ‘we world-class driving instructors never baulk at a challenge, but it’s only fair to tell you that, as a female, you will have to prepare yourself for continual disappointment in that area.’

‘Why?’

He remained silent. Baffled, I looked at Andrew, who said, ‘He doesn’t think women can reverse.’

‘Indeed,’ I said icily, and Sharon went to DEFCON 3. Fortunately, there were no frying pans to hand.

‘No, no,’ Russell said hastily. ‘It’s a proven scientific fact. Isn’t it Andrew?’

‘On your own, mate,’ said Andrew.

We folded our arms and waited for him to dig himself deeper.

‘Explain,’ I said.

‘Well, it’s your ovaries, isn’t it?’

I’ve been married to him for three years now and I thought I’d learned to follow his thought processes, but just occasionally...

We stared at him.

‘Look,’ he said patiently. ‘Scientists have proved that when women turn backwards to look over their shoulder to reverse, it twists their ovaries and they lose their sense of direction. It’s not their fault, but that’s why they can’t reverse.’

At this point even Marilyn was glaring at him.

Sharon punched one arm and I punched the other.

‘Ow,’ he said, hurt. ‘I was just trying to lighten the mood. As a good instructor, I didn’t want you brooding on your latest failure to master the art of driving.’

‘By making ... derogatory comments about ovaries?’

He grinned, his stupid fringe flopping down over his forehead. ‘Should have seen your faces. Don’t know about you lot but I could really do with a cup of tea.’