The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [91]
At the sound of my car door shutting, Megan, the old sheepdog, spayed and fat now, came lumbering up. As I stroked her bony head, I made out Tim's pick-up, coming, sure enough, back through the mist in the distance, from the few cows he kept as a nod to auld lang syne: rather like Caro's pigs, I thought, as I passed Harriet in her stable, curled up in a bed of straw, snout in trotters. I smiled. They'd be surprised to see me so early. But then, I hadn't been able to sleep anyway; had lain awake half the night, so I might just as well be here.
Sounds of activity were coming from a stable further along the row of loose boxes. I put my head over a door in time to see Phoebe putting the finishing touches to Pepper's immaculate bed.
‘Morning, Phoebs.’
‘Oh, hi.’ She turned from where she'd been patting down some clean sawdust with a pitchfork. ‘You're here!’
‘I am indeed.’ I grinned. Oh, ye of little faith.
‘I put Hector out for you with Pepper 'cos he'd have got all stressy on his own. I was just going to start on your stable.’
‘You will not! Look, I'm all wellied up and ready.’ I raised an immaculate pink boot with two hands above the door for her to see.
She blinked. ‘Cool. Well, I've filled a hay net for you, but I might go in, if you're OK. I've still got some homework to finish. You're next door, by the way. You know where the muck heap is, don't you?’
‘Of course. Don't forget I lived here, Phoebe!’ And flashing her a bright smile I opened the adjacent stable and went in.
A moment later her face appeared over the door. She grinned. ‘Right.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. It's just I've never seen anyone go in a stable with a handbag before. Mum will be pleased you're here. I'll go and tell her.’
And off she went, bounding away to tell Caro. I thought what a sweet girl she was as I popped my Chloé bag outside the door – or maybe in the car, bit grubby there – and how I didn't know her well enough. Caro was right. I came back across the yard from the car. We should get the children together more. All five of them, now. I seized a pitchfork and steadied myself on it. Took a moment. Yes, how would the cousins take to Stacey? With alacrity, I should imagine. I could just see Jack's eyes lighting up, Phoebe's jaw dropping with admiration as this prospective Storm model sashayed into their yard. Well, good. That was good, Evie, wasn't it? Excellent. Taking the fork firmly in both hands, I marched off to muck out.
My, what a lot of muck. I looked around the stable in dismay. An awful lot of dung one way and another, and all sort of spread around the place. Not in neat piles. It was as if the wretched horse had tap-danced in it. Oh, well. I set to work, wrinkling my nose in disgust as I balanced one load of ordure after another on the end of a wobbly pitchfork – jolly heavy stuff – and plopped it in the wheelbarrow. Yuck. Urgh… I tried not to retch. Lift, wobble, urgh, plop. Lift, wobble, urgh, plop.
I began to get used to it. My arms were aching, but I'd stopped retching and I gazed around, panting. My barrow was full, but the stable still didn't look anything like Phoebe's. I popped next door. Nothing like. Hers was neat and tidy, a flat bed of sawdust banked up slightly around the walls and finishing in a neat line about three foot from the door, revealing a strip of clean concrete. Right. I beetled back, banked up the sawdust around the walls and swept a clear strip of concrete between the bed and the door. There. I stood back. But no, because – there were still lumps of doo-dah everywhere. Small lumps that – I seized my pitchfork – fell through these wide prongs. I hastened next door. Did Phoebe's stable have…? I rooted around in her sawdust with my fork, feeling treacherous. No, no little lumps. I patted her sawdust down. So how…? Ah. I hastened to the tack room: found a smaller fork with narrower prongs. Hurried back. No. The little bastards still dropped through.