The Difference a Day Makes by Carole Matthews Page A

Guy says.
    ‘Well. That’s life.’
    ‘This place has a lot to offer.’
    ‘You sound like . . .’ I was about to say ‘my husband’ and I stop myself.
    ‘You might see it differently in a few months’ time.’
    ‘I hope to be long gone by then.’
    ‘People round here will be sorry to see you go.’
    I doubt it. I’ve hardly spoken to anyone since I’ve been here. With cleaning the house and unpacking boxes, I’ve barely ventured out. I’m certain that I won’t be missed. Besides, I need my old friends around me now.The friends who I had to struggle to find time to see when I was working. I must let Maya know what’s happened too. She’ll be devastated. Perhaps she’ll come back to us.
    ‘I’d better put the sheep in for you,’ Guy says, seeing that I’m distracted, deep in thought. ‘I’ll come back later with some hay, but I won’t disturb you. I’ll go straight to the barn.’
    ‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
    ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to do the hens too?’
    Shaking my head, I say, ‘It will be better if I’m busy.’
    Then, as he clearly can’t think of anything else to say, or has any crumb of comfort to offer, Guy heads back out into the rain and I watch him go.
    But will it be better if I’m busy? I currently can’t think of anything that will fill this hole inside me. If it wasn’t for the children, I’d lie down in this luxury henhouse and let the chickens peck me to death.

Chapter Twenty-Four
     
     
     
    T he funeral car is here. And it’s waiting, engine burbling softly, exhaust fumes puffing into the air. We’ve managed to capture Hamish, who was bolting round the garden, frothing at the mouth. Now he’s safely locked in the scullery, but he’s howling the place down. Clearly, he knows that something is happening and, equally clearly, he doesn’t like it.
    This morning Hamish has had a chewing frenzy - a tea towel, a dishwashing sponge, Jessica’s favourite slippers and a pile of clean, folded towels from the scullery have all had the Hamish treatment. I haven’t had the time to clear up after him. I haven’t walked him for days either as I just couldn’t face going out and about in the village and now the dog’s a roiling mass of pent-up energy.
    ‘Are you sure he’ll be all right in there?’ my sister asks nervously.
    ‘We don’t have any choice,’ I say. ‘We’ve got to go.’ I have a quick hunt round the kitchen. ‘I can’t find my mobile phone.’
    ‘You’re not going to need your phone at the church.’
    ‘I’m sure I had it this morning. Now I can’t see it anywhere.’
    ‘The vet called again earlier,’ Serena tells me. ‘He asked if it was okay if he came to the service. I told him it was.’
    I nod, gratefully. Despite my continuing guilt when I think of him, it would be good to see him there, to see at least one friendly face. Guy Barton has been quietly slipping in and out of the yard tending to our animals, stealthily making sure that I’m remembering to take the hens in at night. More than once he’s saved them from the clutches of the wily foxes who are only looking for the slightest excuse to help themselves to a free lunch.
    People I don’t even know from the village have been calling me all week to express their condolences - people who didn’t even know Will. Which is in sharp contrast to our oldest and supposedly closest friends.
    Serena called round all our colleagues from the British Television Company for me, those that we treasured, friends from years ago who have been through all our trials and tribulations with us, and no one - not one single one of them - has been able to make it to William’s funeral. Without exception, they cited a whole host of plausible reasons why they were unable to attend the funeral of someone who had once seemed so dear to them, like childcare considerations, work commitments (how often have I used that one myself?), travel difficulties. And I just got the impression that if