‘B-b-but why?’

‘Have you developed a speech impediment?’ asked Amanda.

‘N-no,’ spluttered out Ros. She took a breath. ‘I’m trying to understand why you are getting involved when Dad has my support. I could stay here and nurse him if that’s what he needs.’

‘I’m not nursing him,’ said Amanda, looking disgusted at the thought. ‘But I can assess his needs and put strategies in place.’

‘I can do that,’ said Ros. ‘In fact I have done exactly that. For example, I’m here to make dinner.’

Amanda checked her watch. ‘What are we having and what time will it be served?’

Ros took a moment. ‘You turn up after five years and expect me to cook for you?’

‘Can you cook?’

‘Yes, I had to learn at a very young age,’ said Ros, trying to stop her jaw from clenching.

‘That’s a useful life skill.’

‘It does at least mean I can wield a rolling pin, so watch out!’ said Ros and she stomped off to the kitchen.

***

Darla had been avoiding Elliott since yesterday’s great chicken escape. She’d thought getting them back in the coop would be easy but a gust of wind had whipped the flimsy door out of her hand and while she’d been struggling with that the first few chickens had escaped again. They’d then all darted off in different directions and it had taken her and Elliott a while to usher them inside, by which point it was hammering down with rain and she feared Elliott would rupture something from laughing so hard.

She had shut the chickens up, gruffly thanked Elliott and stomped back inside, her feet emitting a squelch with every step. She’d vowed to avoid Elliott for as long as possible.

She’d had a hot bath where she’d focused on the smell of her bath bomb and the gloomy colour of the bathroom and she was warmed and a bit more relaxed afterwards. She pulled on her sweats, settled herself on the sofa and messaged her parents to say that the reason for her rapid departure from the video call was that some chickens had escaped from a nearby market. Thankfully they had bought her story.

There was no lie-in for her on Sunday. The Captain was nothing if not consistent. Darla had barely dragged herself downstairs and made a cuppa when her phone beeped and she picked it up to find a message from Elliott.

You miscounted the chickens. Please collect the last one.

Darla knew she’d got them all out of the house; surely she’d managed to get them all back in the coop. Hadn’t she? She grabbed her coat and stomped outside to find it drizzling and she went to count the chickens, who were either huddled up in the corner having a nap or scratching about happily as if nothing had happened. She counted them up.

‘Bugger it,’ she said and The Captain tipped his head at her. Somehow she had lost a hen. Darla looked at her outfit – she was still in her pyjamas. It wasn’t exactly glamourous but at least she would be wearing more than the last time Elliott’d seen her. She fired back a quick OK, turned up the collar on her coat and huffily headed off towards the farm.

She had her head down and was striding up to the house when Elliott shouted. ‘Stop! Stay where you are!’

She’d had enough of him for one weekend but she did slow her pace and look up just in time to notice that the surface she was about to step on looked different to the rest of the track up to the farmhouse.

‘Wet cement. Wait there!’ called Elliott and he came over holding a chicken.

‘Everything’s wet – it’s been raining!’ she yelled back.

‘Newly laid cement. She’s made a right mess of my new driveway.’ Elliott pointed at the myriad of chicken footprints scattered all over the damp surface.

‘I hope you’re not after compensation,’ said Darla, trying to hide her concerns.

‘No, but it is irritating.’

‘I quite like it,’ said Darla, following the swirly design with her eyes. ‘It’s a pretty pattern and it makes your farm look authentic.’

‘Look authentic? It is authentic. Here, take the culprit.’ He held out the hen but as Darla went to take it from him he pulled it back out of reach. ‘Did you not bring a basket or a crate?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘To put the hen in.’ Elliott was looking exasperated.

This man really did think she was incapable. ‘You’re carrying her in your arms so why can’t I?’

‘You can but I’m wearing overalls so if she poops it doesn’t matter.’

‘Oh, then a crate does make sense. I’ll just have to be quick and hope she doesn’t need the loo between here and The Brambles.’ She went to take the chicken but Elliott wasn’t about to hand her over just yet.

‘What if she’s spooked by something? Like a dog.’

‘Hmm,’ said Darla, thinking it through. ‘Or if the little brown and white creature is about. That thing really put the wind up the animals.’

‘How big was it?’

‘About the size of a long ruler – maybe a bit shorter.’ She showed him with her hands. The action pulled her coat open to reveal her pyjamas and they both froze for a moment before Darla hastily did up her coat and Elliott scratched his head.

‘Probably a stoat or a weasel. If there was no black on it then it was most likely a weasel. Anyway, you need to get a crate from The Brambles.’

‘But I don’t think there are any at the house. Although there were some mesh boxes at the back of the garage. Would that be . . .’ Elliott was already nodding. ‘There’s no way I could get to them anyway with the sofa in there. Have you got something you could put her in?’

Elliott frowned and she assumed he was having a think. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Cardboard box? Nappy? Rain hat?’

Elliott’s eyebrows rose with each suggestion. ‘Do I look like someone who would own a rain hat?’ From his tone she could tell he was getting grumpy now.

‘All right, how about a carrier bag or an old piece of clothing?’

‘Come inside,’ said Elliott, turning his back on her and marching off. ‘Mind the cement!’ he yelled just in time as Darla was about to take the shortcut across the newly laid drive. She tiptoed around it and followed him inside.

The house had a similar feel to The Brambles but with the benefit of more recent decoration and an expensive-looking fitted kitchen. Elliott had the hen tucked under his arm while he opened and closed cupboards with his free hand.

‘Here, this’ll do,’ said Darla, picking up an Isle of Wight tea towel.

‘That was my mother’s.’

‘I’ll wash it,’ offered Darla.

Elliott took it from her and reverently placed it on the back of a chair. ‘It was from the last holiday she went on before she died.’

‘Sorry for your loss,’ said Darla, feeling a bit awkward.