Chapter 4
FOUR
The next morning Rita headed out to a grey March sky which suddenly gave out rain in thick, unyielding sheets.
Even Henry wasn’t moving from his bed by the Aga.
With a heavy sigh, she headed back inside, pulled on her trusty old raincoat, the one with the frayed hood, swapped trainers for wellies, grabbed her wicker egg basket and set off into the downpour to tackle her early morning chores.
Noticing the light on in Hilda’s annexe reminded her that she still needed to drop off the laundry she’d recently done for her.
With a sack of dried food over her shoulder, she scurried across the courtyard towards the goat field, where she could hear them kicking their cans for food. Whinnies of protest drifted on the wind from the horses at neighbouring Hawthorn Acre, displeased by the sudden precipitation.
On seeing Rita approaching, the goats’ comforting, soft maas soon changed to high-pitched, demanding bleats that filled the rain-fresh air with energy.
In a hopeless attempt to shield her face from the rain, Rita tugged her hood down until it nearly met her nose.
‘Morning, your majesties,’ she trilled, squinting through the torrent. ‘Breakfast is served.’
The goats stared at her, unblinking, their rectangular pupils giving an unsettling, almost alien expression.
No matter how many times she’d fed, herded, or wrestled them out of the vegetable patch, and as much as she’d grown a fondness for them, she still couldn’t get used to that eerie, side-glancing stare.
The four, Elizabeth, Camilla, Mary and Anne – were all does of a similar age.
Now climbing over each other in hungry anticipation, the drenched quartet snuffled eagerly at the goat pellets in their tins, their beady eyes already fixed on the apple pieces Rita had begun scattering around their enormous grassy pen.
She had never known animals so greedy, but their ridiculous antics and constant humour more than made up for their mischievous traits.
Not having the head space, time, or money at the moment to breed them, they had become expensive pets – pets that Rita could barely afford but just couldn’t bear to part with.
Rita held up the pellet bag and shook its final contents into the pen. As she was folding it up ready to dispose of, her eyes were suddenly drawn to a sharp streak of red, a fresh-looking cut, just above one of her girls’ ankles. ‘Aw. Camilla, what have you done now, sweetheart?’
Realising she’d have to go in and investigate, Rita hoisted herself onto the top of the splintered wooden fence and with a whispered, ‘You can do it,’ she swung one leg awkwardly over.
As she tried to balance, she felt herself wobble.
Arms flailing for dignity, she let out a sharp cry and half fell into the pen.
Ignoring both her antics and the worsening weather, the goats continued chewing lazily.
She managed to steady herself, just as her boots touched the earth, when a sudden flash of lightning split the sky, followed instantly by a deafening crack of thunder. The goats scattered in all directions, bleating in alarm as they tore around the pen.
In the chaos, Mary clipped the back of Rita’s ankle, sending her sprawling backwards with a spectacular squelch.
She landed hard on her bum, instantly drenched in a cocktail of mud, manure and rain.
Her fingers went instinctively to her neck, searching, panicked, as though her necklace might simply have slipped to the side.
But Archie’s sapphire and diamond gift – the thirtieth birthday talisman she had clung to like a tether – was gone.
Maybe she’d misplaced it before. She frantically tried to find it.
But deep down she knew. Another loss. Another piece of him slipping from her grasp.
She sat there stunned, before the tears came: hot, snotty, unrelenting – born not of pain, but of bone-deep frustration and the long, raw ache of grief.
The storm vanished as swiftly as it had arrived. With a gust of sea-damp air at her back, Rita stepped into the coat-filled hallway, slammed the front door, and pulled off her filthy wellies.
The farmhouse was quiet, but as with all old homes never truly silent. Floorboards creaked. The Aga ticked. Somewhere above, a gull cried out as it wheeled past the chimney.
With a deep sigh, she headed through to the warm and welcoming heart of the farmhouse.
The flagstone floor, smoothed by decades of footsteps, stretched beneath a much-scrubbed pine table scarred with knife marks and ringed by mismatched chairs.
Copper pans hung from a rack above the Aga, which radiated a steady, dependable heat.
A vase of bright daffodils added a splash of much-needed spring sunshine to the windowsill.
Stripping off her muddy clothes, she put them and her old raincoat straight into the washing machine and pushed the hot cycle button. As she flicked on the kettle, she stood naked for a moment, staring out of the back window over the orchard, where a post-storm mist eerily clung low to the ground.
Trying to push down the familiar wavering panic she had felt since Archie’s death, she took a deep exaggerated breath.
There was so much to do! The orchard was going to ruin; the goat field fence needed repairing.
The vegetable garden was growing weeds on weeds.
The house needed decorating. A complete sadness washed over her.
It was a lot. It had been a lot. This place.
This house. It had seen her through everything.
Her magical courtship in her early twenties, a not-long-enough marriage, the raising of her now twenty-three-year-old twins, the premature death of her father-in-law from a sudden heart attack.
Her parents’ deaths. The laughter of summer guests, and the tears from terrible crop years.
Beloved pets and livestock had come and gone.
Life had come and gone as if in an instant.
Then, six months previously. The accident.
Followed by the insurmountable grief and anger that she hadn’t quite learned how to let go of.
She fed a hungry Henry then made her way slowly upstairs to the bathroom.
As the bath filled, Rita studied her reflection in the full-length mirror.
At five foot six, she was a reasonably toned size twelve.
Her finger traced the faint line of her caesarean scar – a quiet reminder of an exceedingly difficult birth.
Grey roots peeked through her wavy, light brown hair, which just skimmed her shoulders.
Her eyebrows were out of shape. The skin on her cheeks dry.
Oh, to be able to book herself a regular facial like she used to.
She leaned in closer to examine her face and, without warning, thought of Archie behind her.
His strong arms wrapped tightly around her.
His tall, six-foot frame leaning down to kiss the back of her neck, an unspoken invitation that always led to something more.
He had been so handsome, and he knew it, but never in a showy way.
He had got his quiet confidence from his mother, a woman who taught him to stand tall, speak kindly, and never need to boast. That lopsided smile of his always hinted at some private joke, but he was never a flirt.
His dark hair had stayed thick and strong, not a grey in sight, as if ageing had politely passed him by.
And those green eyes, always watching. They’d shared a great sex life: intimate and attentive.
Even when the kids were young, they carved out time for each other.
Their monthly ‘date night’ was a constant.
Even if they couldn’t get a babysitter, they would cosy up in the big lounge, with a bottle of wine and a takeaway.
They had a long-running joke between them: Archie had nursed a not-so-secret crush on Keeley Hawes as Louisa Durrell in The Durrells, and insisted Rita was her spitting image.
Rita would just laugh and say it was a pity he didn’t look like Spiros, Louisa’s ruggedly handsome love interest in the show.
Ironic that, just like Louisa, she was now managing her own dilapidated farmhouse and menagerie, only without the kids at home.
She sighed at her reflection. She hadn’t had her hair cut or coloured once since Archie had passed. As for the facials she used to enjoy, these days her only luxuries were a dab of cheap face cream and a smudge of Vaseline on her lips.
Despite the chaos of farm life, she had always made an effort with her appearance.
People often said she looked young for her age.
She and Archie, without ever trying, had been a beautiful couple.
She’d put it down to fresh air, constant movement, and a life that had once been filled, mostly with happiness.
But today, with her coccyx twinging from the earlier fall and the weight of the world pressing down on her, she felt she looked more like Eddy from Absolutely Fabulous after a three-day champagne bender than the elegant Keeley Hawes.
Turning slightly, she lifted her still perky breasts with both hands and gave a small, approving nod.
She then homed in on the dried mud smeared across her face, hands, and somehow even up her arms, and her thoughts turned to the tranquillity of the health retreat on the White Lotus programme she had watched the night before.
Clearly in need of an escape, she had also recently watched a series about luxurious hotels around the world and how at one of them in the Caribbean, mud wraps were a huge part of their offering as well as pampering their guests with lavender-scented towels, monogrammed slippers, and breakfasts delivered on floating trays in private infinity pools.
Oh, how she could do with a holiday. Or maybe it wasn’t a holiday she was after; she just wanted to run away from this mess.
But running away wasn’t the answer. If she wanted to stay at Seahaven Farm she needed to act, and soon.
Finding an office job of some sort had crossed her mind, but after twenty-five years away she wasn’t sure she had the technical skills, or that it would even pay enough to drag her out of the mire.
She’d also considered sprucing up a few farmhouse bedrooms to offer B&B, renting out the top field…
or even opening a children’s petting farm.
But in the midst of grief, nothing had stuck.
She was stuck.