Page 12 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

Sammy watched, in slow dawning horror, as the chickens – all nine of them – made a collective, enthusiastic decision and waddled out into the flower beds beyond.

‘No, no,’ she hurried after them, trying for calm authority. ‘Ladies . . . ? Chickens . . . ? That’s not . . . Please don’t . . .’

They fanned out across the immaculate flower beds, scratching, pecking, clearly delighted with their newfound freedom. Sammy clapped her hands lightly. ‘Back. Back in. This is . . . not your area.’

One of them flapped onto a low border, scattering soil onto the gravel path below with cheerful disregard.

‘Oh, brilliant,’ Sammy muttered.

Another trampled straight over a delicate flower, flattening it.

A male voice. ‘What’s going on?’

Four

Sammy spun around.

A man was striding towards her across the lawn, scowling.

As he drew closer, something clicked. The way he moved. She’d seen him before. The garden party. The man who’d been half-hidden behind a hedge and helped capture the dog.

‘Hi,’ she said, with a small, hopeful wave. ‘I think I’ve . . .’

‘Let them out,’ he finished, looking past her at the chaos. ‘Yes. You have.’ He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. She noticed it was even longer than at the party; it had been brushing the boundaries of respectability a month ago, and it looked as though he’d avoided the barber ever since. Stubble shadowed his jawline. The combination gave him the rugged, windswept appeal of a man more at home on cliff paths or wild moorland than in front of a mirror.

‘Go on . . . back inside . . .’ Sammy waved her hands at the birds, willing them to respond. ‘Come on. Back you go.’

‘They’re not meant to be out here,’ he said. ‘They’ll ruin the beds.’

As if on cue, one chicken kicked up a neat spray of freshly turned soil.

Sammy winced. ‘Yes. I’m seeing that now.’

Action – do something Sammy. She made a grab for the nearest chicken. It dropped low – suddenly squat, wings slightly out – before darting sideways with surprising speed, setting off a ripple of alarm through the rest. A chorus of indignant clucks rose as they scattered, zigzagging in every direction.

‘No, no . . . come back . . .’ Sammy lunged after them; they fanned out even further.

‘Don’t chase them,’ he said. ‘That’ll make it worse. Food, it’s the only way.’ He disappeared.

Moments later he returned with a bucket, shaking it to make the feed rattle inside.

As one they turned, advancing on the bucket.

‘Oh . . . that’s slightly unsettling.’ Sammy said.

‘They’re motivated,’ he said, walking backwards scattering feed in a careful trail towards the open door.

Sammy hovered, then darted ahead to prop the door wide with her body; the man passed her, the flock streaming in after him.

The last chicken paused, giving her a look she was certain was judgmental, then bustled inside. She held the door ajar for the man to exit, before shutting it firmly.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘About the chickens . . . and the flowers. I didn’t realise, I thought . . .’ She stopped herself. ‘Sorry.’

He bent to examine the flower beds. ‘You were there, weren’t you?’ she said. ‘At the house . . . doing the parking. When the dog . . .’

He coaxed a flattened flower upright, tucking earth around the stem. ‘Yes.’ He said, addressing the plant.

‘Right. I thought so.’ She smiled. ‘I’m Sammy.’