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 sadnesswashed 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 inThe 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 abeautifulcouple. 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 fromAbsolutely Fabulousafter 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 theWhite Lotusprogramme 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 evenpay 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.
FIVE
There was something about a Sunday, even on a farm where animals still needed feeding and chores never truly stopped, that felt different. Softer somehow. The air seemed quieter, the light gentler, as if the day itself were asking for a pause. Rita called it her ‘Sunday feeling’. It wasn’t about rest, especially when there were chickens squawking for their breakfast and the goats were kicking their tins. But there was a slowness to it, a rhythm that invited reflection.
The sunshine that had drenched the farm all week had been replaced by a dull grey sky. The hens clucked and rustled like gossiping aunties the moment Rita unlatched the gate. Nigel, the resident cockerel, strutted forward like he owned the place. With his glossy feathers, ridiculous swagger, and a comb that flopped to one side like a drunken hat, he gave her the usual once-over before letting out a proud, unnecessary crow.
Archie always said that, since they were only after eggs and not chicks, Nigel wasn’t strictly needed. ‘He’s only really there to keep the ladies company and protect them a bit,’ he’d argue, threatening to get rid of him. ‘They’re perfectly safe in the covered pen from foxes and the like, and as long as you keep collecting the eggs, you won’t end up with chicks.’ But Rita liked Nigel’s unpredictablepresence on the farm, strutting about like a feathered lunatic and picking fights with his own reflection. She also liked using him as a free, albeit noisy alarmcock.
The Barred Rock hens were a striking bunch, their plumage patterned in smart, tidy stripes of black and white, like they’d been dressed in old-fashioned pinstripe suits. From a distance, they looked almost grey, but as they clucked and scratched through the straw, the detail in their feathers caught the light, crisp, orderly bars running from neck to tail. Their bright red combs bobbed cheerfully as they moved, a splash of colour, and their yellow legs stamped with purpose. Their eyes, sharp and knowing, missed nothing.
Rita had initially worried she wouldn’t be able to name them as they looked so similar to one another, but as she got to know them, their characters soon emerged. Verawas the boss, a no-nonsense hen with a stare that could put anyone in their place. She was the one who wasted no time strutting forward to claim the first handful of feed, pecking with confident authority. Maviswas quieter but steady, the dependable type who liked to keep an eye on everyone else’s business. Deirdre was the dramatic one, her feathers a little ruffled and her eyes wide as if every meal was a performance demanding attention. And then there was Blanche, sharp-tongued and cheeky, always ready to steal a morsel from the others when they weren’t looking.
Rita scattered grain across the ground, smiling at their familiar chaos. She topped up a water bowl, added apple cider vinegar to a water bottle that poked through the steel wire fence, gently retrieved four warm brown eggs, then cleaned out their coop, laying down fresh, soft hay.
Rita smiled as Nigel picked, poked and strutted between his ladies. ‘I should have called you Mick Jagger with that swagger.’ Rita had a sudden sad pang that her beloved rooster was probably around the same age as Mick in human years. Nigel crowed again, loudly as if denouncing the absurdity of taking the moniker of a legendary rock icon.
She was just about to head back to the farmhouse when she noticed out of the corner of her eye a white streak darting up the High Meadow. Her heart lurched – it was Camilla with no sign of a cut leg now, running fast and wild toward the cliff’s edge. Knowing how senseless her favourite goat could be, a cold knot of panic rose within her.
‘Shit! Shit!’ Rita shouted, the urgency sharp in her voice.
She set off in hot pursuit as Camilla raced ahead, little hooves skittering dangerously close to the drop.
By the time Rita had reached the top of the meadow and rounded the thick hedge of gorse, bristling with needle-like thorns and bright yellow blossoms, the goat had slowed, exhausted, and was peacefully grazing.
Relief flooded through Rita, quickly replaced by curiosity as her eyes caught sight of a faded two-man tent nestled half in the tall grass at the field’s edge. A camping stove sat in front of it, a black cauldron-like pan bubbling gently on it. Archie would bellow at random campers to get off his land, but now Rita had so much on her plate, if they weren’t getting in her way, she tended to just ignore them. They rarely stayed for more than a couple of nights anyway.
Then a woman appeared, crawling out of the tent as if she’d been expecting company. No make-up, no shoes, a wild tangle of blonde hair. And jeans and a sweatshirt that looked like they hadn’t seen a washing machine for weeks. Despite the rough edges, her face was striking, pretty, but with sharp, sculpted angles that gave her a fierce beauty. She looked straight at Rita with dark, unreadable eyes that seemed to see through things,past the clothes, past the weather, past pretence.
‘You’ve got a restless energy,’ she said quietly, her Mancunian accent soft but steady. ‘The earth feels it. I can feel it. People’s pain leaves a scent on the wind. Do you understand?’
Rita blinked, caught between disbelief and an aching resonance deep inside her.
‘I’m Zenya, by the way,’ the woman added.
