smiled. ‘All turned around, Alf, don’t worry. She will be out in a jiffy.’
Alf’s shoulders dropped as he visibly relaxed. He set the bucket down and lifted up the brandy. ‘And this?’
Ben laughed. ‘That is for you, Mr Jenkins, wet the baby’s head.’
Alf chuckled as he began to fill the tumbler with the amber liquid. Gwendolen began to bellow again and, after a couple more contractions, Ben hauled the calf from its mother, laying it down on the fresh straw nearby. Alf preened and puffed out his chest, a tear in his eye, as he set the bucket of water down in front of Gwendolen. He planted a brandy-soaked kiss between the prize cow’s long lashes.
‘Well done, my girl, well done!’
Ben set to work, cleaning out the calf’s nose with his fingers, tickling its nostrils with a blade of hay to get the calf breathing and moving about. The calf sneezed and, shaking its head, opened its brown eyes and looked straight up at its deliverer. Ben felt the rush of adrenalin, strong as always, as his job gave him another day to be proud of.
‘Welcome to the world, little one,’ he whispered softly, as he patted the calf lightly. He pulled his gloves off, reached into his zip pocket for his phone and snapped a picture of the new arrival with his camera phone.
An hour later, Gwendolen and Ophelia—the latest addition to the Jenkins household—were tucked up in their stall, clean and warm, whilst Alf, Annie and Ben sat around the farmhouse kitchen table, the fire roaring in the hearth. Ben had stripped off his blood-soaked coveralls and was now sat, hay still stuck out of his tussled brown hair, gulping down hot sweet tea and eating a steaming bowl of corned beef hash and Yorkshire puddings, made by the fair Annie. Alf and his wife were eating with him, laughing and joking happily, talking of their new calf and their plans for the upcoming summer county fair. Ben, dressed in a black woollen jumper and dark blue denim jeans, savoured the food and atmosphere. The Jenkinses were such happy folk, and he felt a pang as he thought of driving his jeep home to his own empty cottage.
He lived in the village, next door to his vet practice, and had impressive grounds himself, with space for horses and more, but with running two successful businesses, his dreams of having a little bolt-hole of his own like this had yet to come off as he had hoped. The furthest he had got was to purchase four chickens for his expansive back yard the week before: two black and one white Croad Langshan hens, and a Leghorn cock. He planned to have more animals eventually, but he had held off for some reason, probably due to the time and effort needed to keep them healthy and happy. He had not felt himself lately, and had only taken the chickens on due to another owner becoming unwell. The thought of the chickens being left abandoned had haunted him, so he had galvanised his efforts and stepped in to give them a home. They were still getting used to each other, animal and man, and the notion of how horrified Tanya would have been to share her home with his feathered friends gave him reason to chuckle, which hadn’t happened often recently. Lucky for the chickens that Tanya wouldn’t be sharing an abode with them, although her departure had been more of an adjustment for their owner than he had envisaged, given the circumstances. Who knew that the wife you are indifferent to, leaving with your best friend, would leave such a hole?
The thought of pulling up his drive to an empty house meant Ben wasn’t in any rush to leave, and the Jenkinses were great clients, keeping him in business with their many farm animals and half-dozen dogs. Also, the dogs seemed to be constantly matted from farm life, which meant they often frequented his other establishment, Shampooched. He had bought the dog groomer’s a few months after he and Tanya had moved to Westfield when the lady who ran it for many years retired and moved to Spain to crochet away her twilight days from her veranda. He had bought it for Tanya, hoping to get her more involved in village life, but it hadn’t worked out quite as he had hoped. In fact, not at all how he had hoped, so now he had Tracy, who was sullen and off kilter to some, but she loved dogs and ran the business well, which took some of the pressure from him. Which reminded him, he had to run to the wholesaler’s first thing, as Tracy had left him a list that morning, and he had his regular surgery to attend to as well, so he had an early start.
Having polished off two bowls of hash and enough Yorkshire puddings to fashion a raft on a sea of gravy, he reluctantly said goodbye to the Jenkinses and headed home. On the dark drive, he contemplated two things: whether his new chickens had started laying yet, and whether he would see Amanda tomorrow. He wondered what she had meant by the ‘we’ when she spoke about being open soon. Did she mean the normal ‘we’ as in clients and staff, or did she really mean ‘we’ as in ‘my adorable drop dead gorgeous bodybuilder husband and I’? Ben found himself wondering what sort of bloke she was with. Whoever the poor lad was, he had Ben’s sympathies. She looked like a handful, and a bossy one at that. She was cute though …
As he pulled up to his front door, he smiled to himself at the memory of her flouncing off. He felt sure she was going to be a pain in the neck. He just hoped whatever arty-farty stuff she sold didn’t drive the regular stream of tourists away. Somehow, he just knew he would have to keep an eye on his new neighbour.
Everyone in the sleepy hill-set village of Westfield knew well enough to let Agatha Mayweather have her own way. The unofficial Lady of the small Yorkshire village was a veritable force of nature, and even the strongest characters in the community cowered under her steely gaze. When Downton Abbey had first aired, many villagers, eyes glued to their screens over their latest knitting projects and cups of tea, immediately saw the similarities and soon, unbeknown to her of course, Agatha was nicknamed the Dowager of Westfield. It was unbeknown to her for obvious reasons: she would kill them if she ever found out. It was so obvious to all who knew her though that the name stuck, and even the meekest of the townsfolk had a good titter at the comparison. Agatha had a sharp mind, a mean tongue and a no-nonsense attitude, and had Mr Mayweather not since passed away, he would have guffawed at the notion himself. Agatha and her dear late husband, Henry, were great presences in the community, and since his passing from a long battle with cancer, Agatha had seemed to have coped admirably well, throwing herself even deeper into village life and the many committees and causes she was patron of and involved in.
Their property was on the outskirts of the town, a beautiful, sprawling nine-bedroom Georgian country house that many a Mayweather had resided in over the years. Her gardens were a joy to behold, and she regularly opened them, and indeed her home, to the general public for the summer, donating the proceeds, after the running costs, to various causes in Westfield. As well as this, she also organised most of the events in the village seemingly single-handed (as she often wouldn’t let people get much of a look-in). One such event was the summer county fair, held in the village of Westfield annually and a great kick-off to their summer months as a quiet, understated but beautiful tourist attraction. With the lambing season beginning, all talk was of the hard work to be done, both on the village farms and for the big event. Agatha’s clipboard was poised, primed and ready to go already and the villagers were all steeling themselves for her firm knock at the doors of their homes and businesses.
As acerbic as Agatha’s tongue was, she was dearly loved in the community and had no enemies amongst her kinfolk. She was the type of woman that you were friends with, immediately respected, admired and also, in secret, were a little afraid of.
Agatha’s morning began the same as every morning, with Taylor, her estate manager, gently rousing her with a cup of English breakfast tea. Sebastian Taylor’s family had worked as butlers for the Mayweather family for generations. As soon as the current Mrs Mayweather had become the lady of the household, she had done away with many of the old traditions and promoted Taylor, who was in fact her childhood friend from the village, and quite often her playground tormentor, to estate manager. Taylor, being a traditional fellow, was more than a little surprised to gain this new title at the age of forty-five, and a battle of wills had ensued. Agatha had won, of course, much to the amusement of her new husband at the time, but Taylor had managed to get his own way in upholding some traditions, such as bringing them their morning refreshments. These days, however, Agatha was secretly