Chapter 6 #2
Willow lowered Jemima to the floor and pointed at the henhouse.
‘They’re in here,’ she said. ‘The hens will only lay somewhere they think is safe. As I said, we shut them in at night, but even if we didn’t they’d most likely come in here to roost and lay their eggs.
It’s quiet and dark, which is what they like.
The nest boxes are on the side here. They have lift-up lids so you don’t need to go inside to fetch the eggs, and it makes the boxes so much easier to clean out, too.
’ She checked her watch. ‘Shall I leave you to it? I need to get back to the house as we’ve got a delivery coming.
Once you’ve checked the boxes, would you mind having a look under the hedges as well?
A couple of our ladies turn their backs on the luxury accommodation we’ve provided and like to rough it sometimes. Is that okay?’
Gemma nodded. ‘Sure. No problem. And I just leave the door to the run open, do I?’
‘That’s it,’ said Willow. ‘I’ll meet you back at the house. No rush.’
Gemma turned up the collar of her jacket as she watched Willow walk away.
A fine drizzle had begun to fall and the clouds had lowered to such an extent that the view across the fields had all but disappeared.
She eyed the chickens nervously. Would they mind her taking their eggs?
She looked down at the filthy mess covering her boots and wondered whether she ought to be wearing gloves as well.
The first nesting box revealed a clutch of four eggs, which she gingerly lifted from their resting place using the tips of her fingers. It hadn’t occurred to her that they wouldn’t be clean. Or that they’d be warm. A fact she found strangely repulsive.
She squinted up at the sky where dark clouds rolled.
She was cold and desperately wanted another cup of coffee, but that would have to wait.
For now she had better get used to the idea of working outdoors all day and in all kinds of weather, too.
Clearly, that’s what her life would entail from now on.
Picking her way through goodness knew what, Gemma stepped warily around the chickens and left the enclosure, following the line of hedgerow.
She’d only collected ten eggs so far, so presumably the other two would be somewhere underneath it.
By the time she reached the apple trees, however, and searched under them too, she still only had ten eggs.
She looked around her wondering where the others might be.
Not out in the open, obviously, but perhaps under the bushes she could see on the other side of the field.
There didn’t seem to be any alternative so, pulling her coat around her, she began walking.
As she neared, the bushes revealed themselves to be huge clumps of brambles, wildly overgrown, and although later in the year they might offer a wonderful crop of blackberries, today they were a jumble of bare, thorny branches and looked very uninviting.
Surely the hens would have more sense than to lay there?
She looked back across the field. Would they even come this far?
Somehow she didn’t think so. There was nothing for it but to return to the house and tell Willow she’d been unable to find any more eggs.
She gave the area underneath the nearest bush a desultory prod with her foot, but all that did was get the leg of her jeans in a tangle.
Tutting, she bent down to free it, cursing when one of the sharp thorns tore at her skin, but realising as she did so that what had caught at her trousers was not, in fact, a bramble, but instead a long whippy stem from what looked like an old rambling rosebush.
Laying the basket of eggs on the ground, she bent, peering closer to see where the stem had come from.
It was hard to judge, given the riot of bramble which had smothered most things in its path, but there was definitely some sort of a rose growing there.
Gemma was right behind the old farmhouse now, still a little distance away, but in an area which conceivably could have been its back garden at some point.
Recalling what Willow had said when they’d first met, it would make sense, and she straightened, trying to untangle herself so she could get a better look.
A shout claimed her attention, and she turned around to see Willow waving from a short distance away, having already walked halfway across the field. Gemma raised her arm in greeting, grimacing as she pulled away from the brambles and heard the unmistakable sound of cloth tearing as she did so.
‘Sorry I took so long,’ she called as Willow approached. ‘I got a bit stuck.’ She bent down to pick up the basket of eggs. ‘I should have known the hens would never lay their eggs under here, but I’ve only found ten so far.’
Willow smiled in apology. ‘I should have said… Ten’s a pretty good number. Not all the hens lay every day, so this is probably all there is.’
‘Ah… I did wonder.’ Gemma rolled her eyes at her behaviour, feeling a little foolish. But how was she supposed to know? ‘I think I’ve found the garden you mentioned,’ she added. ‘There’s a rose here underneath all this bramble.’
‘Is there?’ Willow looked to where she was pointing.
‘I didn’t realise it extended out this far.
’ She gazed back at the old farmhouse. ‘You can see it better if you go directly behind the outbuildings. There’s the remains of what looks as if it might have been a path at one point.
Would you like to see?’ She held out her hand for the basket.
‘We can go and get a nice hot drink after.’
Gemma nodded. ‘That sounds like a good idea.’ She licked her thumb and wiped it across the back of her hand where blood was pooling from where the thorn had scratched her.
Willow looked instantly contrite. ‘I didn’t realise you’d hurt yourself. Are you okay?’
‘It’s just a scratch,’ replied Gemma, although it was beginning to sting. ‘They got my jeans too,’ she added, holding out her leg where the denim had ripped across the knee. ‘Not to worry though, they’re old ones.’
‘Even so… I’m a master at patching,’ said Willow, pulling a face. ‘I can do you a nice flowery one if you like? It’s a remnant from the dining room curtains I used to make my dungarees.’ She smiled. ‘Or maybe not…’
Gemma returned the smile. ‘I’m not sure I can rock the dungarees just yet, but a patch I think I can manage.’
‘Come on then, let’s go and have a look at the garden before the rain gets any heavier.’ She turned up the collar on her coat. ‘This drizzle can get a bit much.’
Gemma wasn’t overly fond of it either.
Leading her around the back of the farmhouse, Willow pointed to where a line of tumbledown buildings stood.
They were in even worse condition than the house.
‘We think these might have been stables at one point,’ she said.
‘Part of me would like to renovate them, and the house. I’d love to know how it used to look.
’ She shrugged. ‘But we’ve got quite enough to be going on with.
Still, the garden might be a different matter. ’
They’d reached the end of the buildings and were looking out across an area where huge clumps of nettles had long since got the upper hand. As had the blessed brambles, Gemma noted. It was hard to see anything which might resemble a garden.
Willow was scuffing at the ground with her foot.
‘It’s got even more overgrown since we arrived, but there are some old flagstones around here somewhere.
They’re still such a beautiful golden colour, even after being under the weeds for so long.
And if you come this way…’ She walked forward as if following some imaginary path.
‘Somewhere here there’s an old bench. Be careful – it’s hard to spot.
I only know it’s here because I cracked my knee against it once.
’ Gemma watched as Willow picked her steps gingerly, using her leg to part the nettles. ‘Here, look…’
Now that she had found what she was looking for, Willow began to tramp the nettles to the ground so that Gemma could see what she was talking about. It was certainly stone, and big, much larger than she’d imagined.
She joined Willow in flattening the undergrowth and, mindful of the injury she’d already incurred, she bent closer, pulling the sleeve of her coat over her hand to push away the last of the stingers. ‘Oh wow,’ she said. ‘It is a bench. With carved legs, too. It looks Victorian.’
‘I never noticed that,’ replied Willow. ‘Probably too busy nursing my knee at the time.’
‘It’s well-worn, but I guess that’s to be expected, and actually I think it adds to its charm.’
Willow straightened up. ‘So what do you think?’
‘Think?’ Gemma gave her a puzzled look.
‘About restoring the garden,’ replied Willow. ‘It could be a lovely project.’
Gemma gazed back down at the bench. It was lovely, but a bit of old stone didn’t make a garden and, looking around the rest of the area, it was hard to imagine anything else surviving.
She couldn’t even see the rose she’d found from where she was standing.
What she could see, however, was the expression on Willow’s face.
She so desperately wanted Gemma to be pleased.
To take on the garden and make it hers and, while Gemma could see the appeal of having a project to focus on, she wasn’t sure this would amount to anything other than a lot of hard work with little in return.
‘I’d love to,’ she said. ‘But are you sure there’d be time? With everything else there is to do?’
‘I know it wouldn’t be a quick fix,’ Willow replied.
‘But I’m sure we could work things out.’ She paused.
‘It’s quite exciting, wondering what could be here.
’ Again the hopeful look, and Gemma knew she was only trying to help her settle in and feel a part of things.
A trickle of rain found its way down her neck.
‘Then it’s a plan,’ she replied, smiling broadly.