Fourteen
‘ B loody hell!’ I mutter as I get out of bed and step in mouse entrails. I’ve long since stopped screaming when I do that, so things must be improving. Right?
The cat, Milly Molly Mandy - Jessica’s choice of moniker - is the only animal we’ve acquired that seems to have all her faculties and physical attributes working as they should. However, Milly Molly Mandy also exhibits tendencies that any prolific serial killer would be proud of. ‘Hannibal Lecter’ would have suited her better as a name.
Our sleek feline friend - or do I mean fiend? - is sitting licking her paws with satisfaction as she surveys the three decapitated and disembowelled rodents she’s brought in for our delectation.
‘Is this what I have to look forward to every morning?’ I ask as I hop towards the bathroom. ‘Tortured mouse?’
‘If she keeps going at this rate, the few remaining members of the mouse population of Helmshill Grange will soon be packing their bags and seeking safer territory,’ my husband observes. ‘Isn’t that right, Mols?’ The cat, needing little encouragement, jumps on the bed and snuggles down in the warm space I’ve just vacated. I hate animals in the bedroom. I’m not that fond of them in the lounge or the kitchen either.
‘Who’s a good girl?’Will coos as he caresses her fondly. ‘Who’s the best mouser in Yorkshire then?’
It’s taken very little time for Milly Molly Mandy to worm her way into Will’s affection. It will take a damn sight longer with me.
‘It’s nice to have a home filled with animals and love,’ he says dreamily.
Will wouldn’t even let the kids have a hamster in Notting Hill. Tom begged for years - every birthday and Christmas - but Will’s heart was stone. How times change. And not always for the better.
I shower in an ice-cold drip. The water knocks, shudders and clonks through the pipes. The plumbing is so ancient that by the time the hot water has worked its way reluctantly through the house to the bathroom I could have grown a beard. Unfortunately, even after six weeks or so here, I’m resolutely locked into London speed and haven’t the patience to wait that long. Shivering as I towel myself down vigorously, I think, it’s still only September - and a ridiculously mild one at that - so what will this place be like in winter? The windows already have proved worthless at stopping even the mildest of breezes. How will they cope with a full-on gale which I’m told that Helmshill is frequently battered with? Come to that matter, how will I cope?
For reasons best known to myself, I’m trying to make a valiant stab at sophistication despite my reduced circumstances, and choose a Diane Von Furstenberg dress to take the children to school. When else am I going to wear the damn thing now?
My husband looks tired again this morning. His face is pale, and dark shadows ring his eyes. Unusually, Will’s still lying in bed when I’ve finished my ablutions. ‘Didn’t you sleep well?’ I ask.
‘Like a log,’ he says. ‘Could just do with a few more hours.’
‘Probably all the frenzy of the move is finally catching up with you. It wouldn’t hurt to rest for a few days.’ I still haven’t got round to registering with a GP. Our nearest one is in Scarsby and every time I’m over there I forget to go into the surgery and pick up the forms. ‘Why don’t you stay there for another couple of hours?’
‘Things to do,’ he says, and yawns as he throws the covers back, sending the cat scuttling from the bed.
‘Did you take your pills yesterday?’
‘Hmm . . .’ Will scratches his chin.
‘Well, don’t forget to take them today. That can’t be helping. You’re getting very absent-minded now that you’ve become the country squire, William Ashurst.’ I have to nag him every day otherwise he’d never remember to take those damn tablets.
‘Oh, yes,’ he says with a nod. ‘Must do. Can you put them out for me?’
I’m going
‘ B loody hell!’ I mutter as I get out of bed and step in mouse entrails. I’ve long since stopped screaming when I do that, so things must be improving. Right?
The cat, Milly Molly Mandy - Jessica’s choice of moniker - is the only animal we’ve acquired that seems to have all her faculties and physical attributes working as they should. However, Milly Molly Mandy also exhibits tendencies that any prolific serial killer would be proud of. ‘Hannibal Lecter’ would have suited her better as a name.
Our sleek feline friend - or do I mean fiend? - is sitting licking her paws with satisfaction as she surveys the three decapitated and disembowelled rodents she’s brought in for our delectation.
‘Is this what I have to look forward to every morning?’ I ask as I hop towards the bathroom. ‘Tortured mouse?’
‘If she keeps going at this rate, the few remaining members of the mouse population of Helmshill Grange will soon be packing their bags and seeking safer territory,’ my husband observes. ‘Isn’t that right, Mols?’ The cat, needing little encouragement, jumps on the bed and snuggles down in the warm space I’ve just vacated. I hate animals in the bedroom. I’m not that fond of them in the lounge or the kitchen either.
‘Who’s a good girl?’Will coos as he caresses her fondly. ‘Who’s the best mouser in Yorkshire then?’
It’s taken very little time for Milly Molly Mandy to worm her way into Will’s affection. It will take a damn sight longer with me.
‘It’s nice to have a home filled with animals and love,’ he says dreamily.
Will wouldn’t even let the kids have a hamster in Notting Hill. Tom begged for years - every birthday and Christmas - but Will’s heart was stone. How times change. And not always for the better.
I shower in an ice-cold drip. The water knocks, shudders and clonks through the pipes. The plumbing is so ancient that by the time the hot water has worked its way reluctantly through the house to the bathroom I could have grown a beard. Unfortunately, even after six weeks or so here, I’m resolutely locked into London speed and haven’t the patience to wait that long. Shivering as I towel myself down vigorously, I think, it’s still only September - and a ridiculously mild one at that - so what will this place be like in winter? The windows already have proved worthless at stopping even the mildest of breezes. How will they cope with a full-on gale which I’m told that Helmshill is frequently battered with? Come to that matter, how will I cope?
For reasons best known to myself, I’m trying to make a valiant stab at sophistication despite my reduced circumstances, and choose a Diane Von Furstenberg dress to take the children to school. When else am I going to wear the damn thing now?
My husband looks tired again this morning. His face is pale, and dark shadows ring his eyes. Unusually, Will’s still lying in bed when I’ve finished my ablutions. ‘Didn’t you sleep well?’ I ask.
‘Like a log,’ he says. ‘Could just do with a few more hours.’
‘Probably all the frenzy of the move is finally catching up with you. It wouldn’t hurt to rest for a few days.’ I still haven’t got round to registering with a GP. Our nearest one is in Scarsby and every time I’m over there I forget to go into the surgery and pick up the forms. ‘Why don’t you stay there for another couple of hours?’
‘Things to do,’ he says, and yawns as he throws the covers back, sending the cat scuttling from the bed.
‘Did you take your pills yesterday?’
‘Hmm . . .’ Will scratches his chin.
‘Well, don’t forget to take them today. That can’t be helping. You’re getting very absent-minded now that you’ve become the country squire, William Ashurst.’ I have to nag him every day otherwise he’d never remember to take those damn tablets.
‘Oh, yes,’ he says with a nod. ‘Must do. Can you put them out for me?’
I’m going
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