Pink Wellies and Flat Caps by Lynda Renham

chairs, tops and jumpers in a heap on the floor. Shirts are hanging above the windowsill and outside the wardrobe. Obviously he hasn’t quite worked out how to open the wardrobe door. The bedside cabinets are piled high with books on veterinary practice and old copies of the Sunday Times . The bed is unmade. I turn to leave the room and gasp as I catch sight of myself in an old battered dressing table mirror. I look like Dracula’s daughter. I’d completely forgotten about my make-up last night. Edward Fairfax saw me looking like this and didn’t say anything. My eyes have black rings under them where my mascara has smudged, and there is one of those big sleep creases down my left cheek making me look like a gangster’s moll. Worst of all I’ve got those crusty bits stuck to the corner of my lips and my eyes. My fringe is pointing upwards like someone glued it together with PVC glue. I wince at the memory of facing Edward Fairfax. How must I have looked and with the stupid fly killer behind my back too? I comfort myself that at least no one else saw me like it, and rush to the bathroom before they can. The bathroom is freezing and I take the quickest shower I have ever had. The familiar smell of my perfume relaxes me and I decide I can do this.
     
    Okay Alice, one step at a time. After all, you’re not Superwoman and Edward Fairfax wouldn’t expect you to be. On second thoughts, knowing him he probably would. Fancy accusing me of being on drugs? What a cheek. Still, I suppose it’s no worse than me accusing him of being a mass murderer. Right, what has the day got in store for me then? Knowing my luck some bloody farm animal will charge at me and by the time Edward gets back I will have been devoured by vultures. The police will have to identify me by my dental records. I really should consider a career as a crime writer; I’m wasted at this farm manager dogsbody stuff.
     
    Okay, feed the chickens and collect the eggs. How hard can that be? Harder than you would imagine seeing as I have no idea where the food is kept but more importantly I have no sodding idea where the chickens are kept either and I have no intention of walking all the way to End Field just to text Edward Fairfax to ask him where they are. They must make some kind of noise. I’ll just walk around the farm until I hear them. Even I know a chicken when I see one. The sight on opening the front door is so beautiful it takes my breath away. The view across the fields is magical. There is a mist in the valley and the sun glistens on a rolling patchwork of green and yellow fields for as far as the eye can see. The air is fresh and cool, and it is so peaceful. I walk to the side of the house and in front of me is the chicken coop. Several chickens are running free and pecking at the grass. Well, that was easy enough. There are also dozens of bruised apples on the ground and I look up to see not only one apple tree, but several. I then find myself getting all Mrs Beeton like, and thinking I could bake an apple pie later. Bearing in mind I have never made an apple pie in my life. This is what the country does to you it seems. Further along are the milking sheds, well I presume those things are for milking. Earlier I would have imagined them to be torture chambers. Karen’s voice echoes in my head, Honestly, I’m not being funny but what are you like Alice?
     
    The chickens are all nestled together and look quite harmless. Lugging the huge bag of feed that I found in the house I gently approach the hens. They look at me intently.
    ‘Nice hens,’ I murmur gently bending down to get their feeding bowls, only to get a sharp peck on my hand from the nearest one.
    ‘You bitch. Don’t you forget where you are on the food chain missus. I have seen the likes of you in the freezer section at Tesco’s, and believe me, it’s not a pretty sight.’
    She then proceeds to peck at the other hens as they rush towards the food. A trickle of perspiration runs