COUNTRY LOVING
Rural life isn’t always idyllic, especially when it comes to dating…
‘Woman seeks man who knows how to say sorry (with a kitten)’
I HAD A SURPRISE LAST WEEK. Some straw bales were delivered from up-country, and right in the middle of the stack, looking startled, were four kittens – all with grey fur and wide green eyes. It was sad to think of their poor, bereft mother but I couldn’t help being delighted. They soon made themselves at home in the kitchen, our elderly terrier watching mournfully as they took over his basket. Ever since, they’ve been exploring: startling the cows in the parlour, falling into water troughs and sneaking into cars. I’ve already had to cancel two shopping trips because of a stowaway purring in the back.
This morning, when the hedge-layer arrived, I warned him to keep an eye on his van – I’m starting to think that the kittens can walk through walls, they’re so good at getting everywhere. After milking I went to help him in the field beside the road. He can work much faster with me dragging sawn-off branches out of the way. I had another motive, too: since my attempts at romance with my neighbour, Matthew Antiza, have stalled, my sister-inlaw has been urging me to start dating again. And the hedgelayer is single and attractive, in a sweet-faced, rural way, with golden hair and deep smile lines. He’s known locally as Frank Pudding, because he once had a pudding-basin haircut at school. As he says, “A village never forgets!”
Another thing a village never does is ignore you when you work beside the road. While Frank talked about his favourite subject – squirrels – passing cars tooted approvingly at us. Just as I was learning that if you put your finger into a drey, a baby squirrel will grip it tightly, the postman came over to critique what we’d done. A number of walkers also wandered up to watch as Frank chopped wood, bending and laying down saplings as if weaving a giant basket round the edge of the field. I sensed one walker studying me as I dragged brushwood to a bonfire. His dark eyes were oddly familiar. I realised why when he introduced himself as Matthew’s older brother, Carlos. “How’s Matthew?” I asked. “Awkward – as usual,” he said, laughing. “He’s so prickly that I don’t think I’ll ever really get to know him,” I said. “Don’t be so sure about that,” Carlos replied. “The men in our family take a long, long time to make up their minds. But once they do, it’s for ever.”
It was suddenly a very serious conversation. I’d have liked to know more, but just then I saw a grey, furry shape flit across the road, and had to devote the next half-hour to catching an escaped kitten. When I got back, Carlos had gone, and Frank was bent over, clutching his thigh as blood welled from a chainsaw cut. He refused to be driven to A&E, and instead hobbled into my kitchen, tore off his trousers, asked for a needle and thread, and proceeded to sew himself up. He was only showing what a tough survivalist he was, but any interest I might have had in him died right then: I don’t enjoy shuddering with horror, hands over my eyes, as someone mashes fresh garlic into an open wound to sterilise it. It was a relief when the doorbell rang. It was Matthew.
“We need to talk…” he began, looking agitated before he noticed there was a trouserless man in my kitchen. “First you kiss the vet, then this!” he exclaimed. “I give up! I’ve never met such a hardened flirt!” He left, slamming the door behind him. Frank left, too, and I began to feel rather annoyed. Why did Matthew always assume the worst about me?
The doorbell went. To my astonishment it was Matthew again, looking shamefaced. “What do you want now?” I said, crossly. He opened his hands to reveal… a purring ball of fur.