Page 14 of The Twilight Garden

Willow smiled. ‘I definitely couldn’t. My girls all have names, and they all have personalities too, just as we have. Myrtle is a cheeky so-and-so while Eloise has perfect manners. I could never eat them.’

A wave of embarrassment rose over Gemma. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…’

But Willow batted away her apology. ‘I think most people assume we eat them, but that doesn’t seem fair after a lifetime of laying eggs for us. Our old ladies stay with us until it’s their time to go, and that’s bad enough. Besides, we’re vegetarian so…’ She checked herself. ‘I probably should have mentioned that. I hope it’s okay?’

‘Again, not something I have any experience of,’ admitted Gemma. ‘But if last night’s dinner is anything to go by then I’m a happy convert.’

Willow dipped her head. ‘You will say, won’t you? If anything makes you unhappy or uncomfortable. It doesn’t sound as if you’ve had an easy time of things recently, and being here is going to be a big change for you. I’d hate to make it worse.’

Inexplicably, Gemma’s eyes filled with tears and she picked up the jar of marmalade, pretending to study its label further. ‘I think a change could be exactly what I need,’ she replied. She put the jar down again. All the label told her was the variety of oranges it had been made of, and the date.

‘Even so…’

Willow was studying her; Gemma could feel the weight of her gaze. ‘I promise I’ll say something,’ she said, blinking rapidly. Fortunately the toast popped up at that moment and she was saved from having to make further comment. Willow was right, though: the apple butter was delicious.

‘See if you can guess which one is Myrtle,’ said Willow a little while later as they approached the chicken coop. It lay in a field of rough grass to the rear of the old farmhouse which was bordered by a thick hedge to the left and a stand of old apple trees at one end. Willow stood back to let Gemma inside the large wire enclosure which surrounded the hens’ wooden ‘house’.

Gemma was rather more concerned about the chickens in general, than her ability to tell them apart. They were a lot bigger than she thought they would be and there were rather a lot of them. She tried to count them in her head but it was impossible – they never seemed to stand still. She stifled the urge to yelp as several came a little too close for comfort.

‘So the hens are free-range,’ said Willow, joining her. ‘They would generally hang around the house until they’ve finished laying anyway, but after I’ve fed them I let them out and then they wander all over. We only put them inside at night, otherwise Mr Fox is liable to help himself, and he is definitely not a vegetarian.’

Gemma nodded, watching their antics. ‘I reckon that’s Myrtle,’ she said, pointing to the chicken who seemed to be moving the fastest, and who also kept darting straight at Gemma in the most alarming fashion.

Willow grinned. ‘See, you’re a natural.’ She handed Gemma the basket she was carrying. ‘And in no particular order, the rest are… Eloise, Verity, Henrietta, Gertie, Floss, Petunia, Daisy, Sybil, Miranda, Briony, and this little one’ – she stooped to scoop up the chicken nearest to her – ‘is Jemima. There are twelve altogether.’ She held the chicken out to Gemma, who instinctively took a step back.

‘Maybe when I’ve got to know them a bit better,’ she said, hoping Willow wouldn’t laugh at her. She cleared her throat. ‘So where do I get the eggs from?’ she asked.

Willow lowered Jemima to the floor and pointed at the henhouse. ‘They’re in here,’ she said. ‘The hens will only lay somewhere they think is safe. As I said, we shut them in at night, but even if we didn’t they’d most likely come in here to roost and lay their eggs. It’s quiet and dark, which is what they like. The nest boxes are on the side here. They have lift-up lids so you don’t need to go inside to fetch the eggs, and it makes the boxes so much easier to clean out, too.’ She checked her watch. ‘Shall I leave you to it? I need to get back to the house as we’ve got a delivery coming. Once you’ve checked the boxes, would you mind having a look under the hedges as well? A couple of our ladies turn their backs on the luxury accommodation we’ve provided and like to rough it sometimes. Is that okay?’

Gemma nodded. ‘Sure. No problem. And I just leave the door to the run open, do I?’

‘That’s it,’ said Willow. ‘I’ll meet you back at the house. No rush.’

Gemma turned up the collar of her jacket as she watched Willow walk away. A fine drizzle had begun to fall and the clouds had lowered to such an extent that the view across the fields had all but disappeared. She eyed the chickens nervously. Would they mind her taking their eggs? She looked down at the filthy mess covering her boots and wondered whether she ought to be wearing gloves as well.

The first nesting box revealed a clutch of four eggs, which she gingerly lifted from their resting place using the tips of her fingers. It hadn’t occurred to her that they wouldn’t be clean. Or that they’d be warm. A fact she found strangely repulsive.

She squinted up at the sky where dark clouds rolled. She was cold and desperately wanted another cup of coffee, but that would have to wait. For now she had better get used to the idea of working outdoors all day and in all kinds of weather, too. Clearly, that’s what her life would entail from now on.

Picking her way through goodness knew what, Gemma stepped warily around the chickens and left the enclosure, following the line of hedgerow. She’d only collected ten eggs so far, so presumably the other two would be somewhere underneath it. By the time she reached the apple trees, however, and searched under them too, she still only had ten eggs. She looked around her wondering where the others might be. Not out in the open, obviously, but perhaps under the bushes she could see on the other side of the field. There didn’t seem to be any alternative so, pulling her coat around her, she began walking.

As she neared, the bushes revealed themselves to be huge clumps of brambles, wildly overgrown, and although later in the year they might offer a wonderful crop of blackberries, today they were a jumble of bare, thorny branches and looked very uninviting. Surely the hens would have more sense than to lay there? She looked back across the field. Would they even come this far? Somehow she didn’t think so. There was nothing for it but to return to the house and tell Willow she’d been unable to find any more eggs.

She gave the area underneath the nearest bush a desultory prod with her foot, but all that did was get the leg of her jeans in a tangle. Tutting, she bent down to free it, cursing when one of the sharp thorns tore at her skin, but realising as she did so that what had caught at her trousers was not, in fact, a bramble, but instead a long whippy stem from what looked like an old rambling rosebush. Laying the basket of eggs on the ground, she bent, peering closer to see where the stem had come from.

It was hard to judge, given the riot of bramble which had smothered most things in its path, but there was definitely some sort of a rose growing there. Gemma was right behind the old farmhouse now, still a little distance away, but in an area which conceivably could have been its back garden at some point. Recalling what Willow had said when they’d first met, it would make sense, and she straightened, trying to untangle herself so she could get a better look.

A shout claimed her attention, and she turned around to see Willow waving from a short distance away, having already walked halfway across the field. Gemma raised her arm in greeting, grimacing as she pulled away from the brambles and heard the unmistakable sound of cloth tearing as she did so.

‘Sorry I took so long,’ she called as Willow approached. ‘I got a bit stuck.’ She bent down to pick up the basket of eggs. ‘I should have known the hens would never lay their eggs under here, but I’ve only found ten so far.’

Willow smiled in apology. ‘I should have said… Ten’s a pretty good number. Not all the hens lay every day, so this is probably all there is.’

‘Ah… I did wonder.’ Gemma rolled her eyes at her behaviour, feeling a little foolish. But how was she supposed to know? ‘I think I’ve found the garden you mentioned,’ she added. ‘There’s a rose here underneath all this bramble.’

‘Is there?’ Willow looked to where she was pointing. ‘I didn’t realise it extended out this far.’ She gazed back at the old farmhouse. ‘You can see it better if you go directly behind the outbuildings. There’s the remains of what looks as if it might have been a path at one point. Would you like to see?’ She held out her hand for the basket. ‘We can go and get a nice hot drink after.’

Gemma nodded. ‘That sounds like a good idea.’ She licked her thumb and wiped it across the back of her hand where blood was pooling from where the thorn had scratched her.