Pink Wellies and Flat Caps by Lynda Renham Page A

left and sigh with relief. My heart beats faster knowing I am getting near to the estate. Feeling tired I do so hope the other staff members are nice and they won’t mind me taking a hot bath when I arrive. Passing more fields I turn a corner and the house comes into view. I gasp and brake so sharply that I am thrown forward. I stare wide-eyed and I am sure, wide-mouthed. It is such an astonishing sight that I find myself stepping out of the car in a dream. I don’t know what I was expecting. In my wildest imaginings I could never have visualised anything like this. I take a few tentative steps closer and gawp like a mad woman. I close my eyes and open them again and yes the vision is still there. I barely feel the light rain shower or the wind as it whips delicately at my ankles. I can barely think. Well no, that isn’t strictly true because I am most certainly thinking of ways I can murder Lady Fairfax-sodding-Mason and let me tell you, they are gruesome thoughts indeed. Norman Bates is a pussycat compared to these thoughts. Grimly and with gritted teeth I venture forward towards the run-down farmhouse where I feel quite certain no dinner awaits me. There are tiles missing on the roof and an upstairs window is broken, the gutter is leaking and water runs down the side of the house and the window frames and door are flaking paint. The house looks as if it has been pebble-dashed with mud. Surely this isn’t the house. I’m jumping to conclusions. This is most likely one of the cottages belonging to a farmhand or something. Yes, that would explain it. I breathe a sigh of relief. Most likely the person living here will be able to give me directions to the main house. In fact, they can let the staff know I am on my way. How awful of me to think such terrible things about Lady Fairfax-Mason. I then see the sign on the rickety gate. It clearly says Trenowyth . Okay the paint is peeling off the sign, and it is covered in grime, but it definitely says Trenowyth . I’m going to kill that bloody bitch, but not until I have tortured her first. What the hell was she playing at? Right, I’m not staying here. I might look silly but I’m not stupid. Well, you know what I mean. God, I’m so angry that I can barely think. I turn to march back to my car and fall over a sheep that bleats like crazy and then starts to eat my skirt. Where did that come from?
    ‘Away, come on away now, you can’t eat that ,’ I say, turning and stepping on it. It lets out a small whimpering sound.
    I pull away to the ripping sound of my skirt and the barking of a dog, as a collie comes bounding towards me. Christ almighty, I am going to be eaten alive by a wild dog and a sheep. This could only happen to me.
     
    There I was thinking I would be the victim of a psychopath when instead I will be ravaged by wild animals. The collie skids to a halt, looks quizzically at me, lets out a howl and then excitedly sniffs my crotch. I mean, for heaven’s sake. The sheep meanwhile has run away, but not without ripping a hole in my skirt first. I’ve never had so much attention in my life. Oh my goodness, the dog is trying to push my skirt up. I swear if this wasn’t a dog I’d be pressing charges.
    ‘ I’m so sorry,’ I shout to the sheep,
    What am I doing, talking to sheep? I’ll be three weeks in the country and then they will have to section me if I go on like this. With the dog pawing my thigh and his nose permanently stuck to my crotch I run into the farmhouse and slam the door behind me. The smell of shit is everywhere and I pull my shoe off and throw it outside to a mad scrambling from the dog. I only need birds to start pecking at the windows to feel I am most certainly in an Alfred Hitchcock movie. What have I done? I’m standing in a dark hallway and to the right is the kitchen. There is not a single member of staff to be seen, in fact there is not even a bloody kitchen table to be seen unless you count the four legs. I can’t see any more of it