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.
‘Thank you,’ said Elliott, adjusting his grip on the chicken.
‘Was it recent? Her dying?’ Why did asking sound so crass?
‘Four months ago.’
‘That’s tough. Did she live with you?’
Elliott looked uncomfortable. ‘This is my childhood home. Since Dad died last year it’s been just me and Mum running the place. With Lee’s help and a lot of sound advice from Horace we’ve muddled through.’
‘Geez, that’s tough, losing your mum and dad so close together; that’s really harsh.’
There was a moment where Elliott looked like grief was weighing him down. His eyes were full of sadness and his lips pressed into a hard line. ‘Thanks. It has been tough.’ He swallowed hard and Darla thought he was going to open up some more but he seemed to perk up and returned to methodically checking everywhere for something to put the chicken in. ‘How about this?’ he asked, pulling a string bag from a drawer.
‘Perfect,’ said Darla.
She quite liked the odd looks she received from some hikers as they bounded past her with a jolly ‘Good morning!’ and did a double take at the head of a chicken sticking out of the string bag as it swung at Darla’s side.
‘And to you,’ she said with a smile.
