Kitty's Countryside Dream Read online

  I’d barely torn open the packet of food before Alfie began nudging my hand, trying to eat the contents. Once he had finished, his wide eyes were willing me to give him more. I too demolished my lunch quickly; the ache in my stomach began to diminish. Hugging a mug of tea, I relocated to the sofa and pondered my next move. The directions to Bluebell Lodge lay mapped out on the piece of paper in front of me. That was it – just directions, nothing more. I had already been informed that Bluebell Lodge was a farmhouse, the family home of the Porters and since Agnes Porter, my grandmother, had passed away, the estate was being managed by Tom Drew. The route didn’t look difficult and judging by the map it was less than five minutes from the house, which was ideal because I had never owned a car. I had no idea what I was going to find, but I was intrigued to find out.

  Chapter Three

  Grasping the directions that the solicitor had provided in my hand, I set off on my bicycle for the second journey of the day. The map indicated I should bear right and carry on up the street. It was only a short journey and I suppose I could have walked but I felt nervous and wanted to discover what was waiting for me as quickly as possible. Looping to the right at the top of the high street, I followed the directions to a white house that was situated on the corner of a bridle path. I continued down a narrow dirt track, which was just about wide enough to drive a car down. Given my atrocious map-reading skills, I questioned the path. Hanging on to the handlebars, I wobbled the bike along the thin gravel trail. Only a stone’s throw away from the village centre, the scenery all around me was breathtaking. There was nothing for miles except fields that stretched further than the eye could see and ponies that grazed on the round bales of hay dotted over the bare field.

  I guessed that I must be near now, and as I swung around the bend, there, in front of me, was a wooden farm gate. I braked in front of the gate and glanced down at the map. Yes, this looked like the place. The gate was unlocked; a combination padlock was tossed to the side, lying on the ground. Stuffing the map into my pocket, I felt apprehensive. Looking beyond the gate, I could see a tarmacked driveway; it was much smoother than the path I’d just travelled along. There was a row of bare trees adorning the driveway; I imagined they would look extremely picturesque in the spring when they enjoyed their full bloom once more. Leaning the bike against my body, I kicked open the gate, my heart pounding and my hands sweating; I felt like I was trespassing. Pushing the bike beyond the gate, I walked slowly along the tarmac, taking in my surroundings.

  Reaching the end of the road, I turned the corner and the pedal somehow managed to hit the back of my leg, throwing me off balance. I stumbled then heard a loud squawk and a mass of white feathers flew up in the air. I squealed, realising I had run over something. I was still off balance and fell to the ground with a bump. I let go of the handlebars and the bike toppled on top of me.

  ‘Oh my gosh, are you OK? ’

  I was yanked to my feet by two strapping arms. Startled, I looked up. The arms belonged to the man standing before me. He was staring at me, waiting for a response.

  Clearing his throat, he thrust his hand forward. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m Tom. Tom Drew.’ Hearing the name, I knew this was the man managing the farm according to the notes from the solicitor.

  Bewildered and feeling like a fool, I swallowed, hoping some words would escape my mouth. I grasped his hand and shook it shakily. ‘Kitty’ was the only word I could muster up.

  I had no idea where he had sprung from. He was wearing a lumberjack shirt, the sleeves rolled up over his forearms. At a guess he was a little older than me, but not by much, maybe early thirties. He raked his hand through his floppy brown fringe and pushed it to one side, revealing the blue eyes that were looking down at me.

  ‘Don’t worry about Dotty. She’s always had a mind of her own that one; you didn’t hurt her.’

  ‘Oh my, I am so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’ There was a bulk of feathers floating around, as well as a ball of fluff pecking at the grass to the side of the driveway. I thought it was a chicken, but the strange fur-like feathering gave it an unusual and somewhat comical appearance. The creature had feathered legs and, just for good measure, a powder-puff-like crest resembling a pompom on top of its head. I’d never seen a chicken close up before, except a roasted one on my dinner plate, usually covered in gravy.

  Tom smiled and acknowledged my hesitation. He swept Dotty off the ground into his arms.

  ‘Meet Dotty, age four. She’s a silkie.’

  ‘A silky what?’

  He grinned at me.

  ‘A silkie chicken.’

  He had completely lost me now; I had no idea what he was referring to.

  ‘It doesn’t look that silky to me; in fact it looks covered in mud and very bedraggled, but I’m glad I didn’t hurt her.’

  The chicken began pecking at his shirt buttons. The beak looked lethal to me and very sharp; he was braver than me.

  He raised his eyebrows then grinned. ‘It’s a breed of chicken, just like a spaniel is a breed of dog.’

  ‘I knew that,’ I mused. ‘A bit like a packet of crisps? They have different flavours, ready salted …’

  I had no idea chickens came in different flavours, so to speak. A chicken was a chicken and they laid eggs. However, I nodded, trying to give the impression I was knowledgeable on such matters. Somehow I don’t think Tom was fooled.

  ‘Look, she’s harmless enough; she has an extremely friendly nature. Have a hold.’ Without warning, he thrust the chicken at me.

  Hastily taking a step back, I lost my balance again and tripped over my bike for the second time today; before I knew it I was back on the ground with a hefty bump. This wasn’t going well. I instantly wished I hadn’t brought the bike.

  By this point, Dotty had flown out of Tom’s arms with a great deal of commotion and was safely minding her own business doing what chickens do best, scratching amongst the soil in the flower bed at the side of the pathway. She seemed happy enough.

  ‘This is beginning to become a bit of a habit,’ Tom said, laughing, and helped me to my feet again. ‘I’ve never had a woman fall at my feet twice in less than five minutes.’

  I smiled and brushed myself down, yet I was conscious my face was burning a deep red colour.

  ‘How can I help you?’ Tom enquired.

  ‘I’m looking for a place called Bluebell Lodge, have you any idea where I might find it?’

  ‘Look no further – this is Bluebell Lodge,’ he replied, making a sweeping gesture with his hands. He eyed me up cautiously whilst wiping his brow.

  ‘I’m the manager of the Lodge,’ Tom proudly announced. ‘The old bird left us recently – Mother Goose we called her – and she ran a tight ship for many years, highly respected in this area.’

  ‘Mother Goose?’

  ‘Agnes Porter. This place was her life; she ran it like clockwork for more years than anyone can remember.’

  ‘Did she have any family?’ I wasn’t sure why that question suddenly slipped out of my mouth, as I knew what the answer was, but I wanted to work out what Tom knew.

  ‘She was married to a man called Arthur. They owned the farm together, but he died of lung cancer many years ago. He smoked like a chimney, or so she told me. She was a kind lady, owned a little flat on the high street, but she biked here every day, come rain, shine or snow.

  ‘I began working here after Arthur died. Agnes threw herself into this farm after he passed away. She was a private woman, didn’t like to socialise, and a hard worker. This farm was her life.’

  He paused for breath and, remembering my manners, I thrust out my hand again. ‘Let me introduce myself properly: I’m Kitty Lewis, and you might be surprised to hear that Agnes Porter was my grandmother.’

  Tom’s eyes widened and his eyebrows waggled. I could see he was trying to process the information I had just shared. ‘Wow, that was not what I was expecting.’

  ‘To be honest it was a bit of a shock for me too.
My parents never spoke of any living relatives. I was under the impression my grandmother had died before I was born – well that’s what my parents told me – and now it seems they may have been a little economical with the truth. Back in November I learned that she had left me a flat in Rosefield, where I’m now living, and this place – Bluebell Lodge. What is this? A farm?’

  ‘You best come with me and I’ll show you around. Have you got time for a cuppa?’

  ‘Go on then, a hot drink would be lovely.’

  ‘I’d best take the bike; I don’t want to be picking you up off the floor for a third time today.’ Tom grinned at me, grabbing the bike from the ground and wheeling it alongside him.

  As we turned the corner at the top of the driveway, I gasped. Tom was looking at me, waiting for my response. I blinked, taking in my surroundings. Take deep breaths, Kitty, deep breaths.

  ‘Tom what are those?’

  ‘Those, my friend, are fields and fields of chickens.’

  ‘Bluebell Lodge is a chicken farm?’

  ‘Suppliers of the best free-range eggs in Staffordshire. What you see before you are the finest show chickens and that building over there is the hub of this enterprise.’ He pointed to a beautiful old brick building with an old oak door: Bluebell Lodge.

  I followed closely on his heels towards the building whilst I admired the view. Tom propped my bike up against the wall and pushed the door open. ‘Come on, let’s pour that cuppa.’

  If I was honest I had never seen so many chickens and I wasn’t sure how I felt about owning that many of them. My parents weren’t exactly animal lovers and we’d never had any pets when I was a child, not even a fish. Alfie was my first pet and now it seemed I had inherited thousands more.

  I didn’t know one end of a chicken from the other. Well, technically that wasn’t true, I knew one end had a sharp beak and at the other end there appeared to be an awful lot of brown stuff squirting out. I didn’t like either end. I had no idea what running a chicken farm entailed but thanks to Agnes Porter it looked like I was about to find out.

  Chapter Four

  Following Tom through the oak door, I found myself standing in an office. There was a desk situated in the middle of the room, with a high-back, brown leather chair pushed underneath. The walls were pinned with what seemed like thousands of winning rosettes that fluttered in the draught when Tom opened the door. There were numerous filing cabinets and piles of papers, and there on the wall, in pride of place, was a portrait of a smiley woman holding a chicken that looked a lot like the chicken I’d run over with my bike on arrival at the Lodge. I wandered over to the photograph to take a proper look. Pausing for a moment in front of it, I squinted to focus my eyes. I recognised that smile. It was the same smile as Mum’s. Instantly I knew who this was; there was no denying the fact this woman was the image of Mum. This was the first time I had ever seen her – my grandmother, Agnes Porter.

  Tom stood still; he didn’t interrupt my thoughts but watched me whilst I studied the photograph. I could feel his eyes on me and he remained silent until I was ready to speak.

  ‘My grandmother?’ My voice faltered as I said it. It seemed funny calling her that. Where had she been all my life and why didn’t I know she existed? Yet she must have known I did to leave this farm to me.

  ‘Yes, that’s Agnes.’

  ‘She’s holding a silkie.’

  ‘You’re learning fast – I’m impressed. You do have the makings of a chicken farmer; it must be in the blood. That’s Dotty in the photo; she was Agnes’s pride and joy. Dotty has won competitions for the best breed all over the county, nothing less than first prize every time. They were inseparable; she spoke to that chicken like it was human and they even ate their lunch together, can you believe that?’ He laughed.

  Usually I felt socially awkward around new people but Tom made me feel at ease.

  Glancing up at my grandmother’s photograph, a surge of excitement ran through my veins; this was an opportunity to be grasped with both hands – a new beginning for me.

  How difficult could running this place be? Granted, I was a little scared to hold a chicken, but one step at a time – I could learn. Plus I had nothing else in my life; nothing else had ever been handed to me on a plate. This was my chance – it couldn’t be that hard.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve only got apple tea. I’ve been wanting to nip out all morning to buy some proper teabags, hope you don’t mind,’ Tom said, handing me a mug while gesturing for me to sit down in the high-back leather chair behind the desk.

  Taking the mug from him, I sipped the tea and placed it on the coaster on the desk. Never having tasted apple tea before, I concluded it was an acquired taste.

  ‘The solicitor provided me with some paperwork informing me this place is mine.’ The minute I said ‘this place is mine’ I instantly regretted those words, feeling they were a little forceful. ‘I don’t want to step on your toes or anything,’ I quickly added, placing the letters down on the desk. The thought flashed through my mind that if Tom was suddenly put out by my arrival he may decide to leave the Lodge, which would leave me in a complete and utter mess. I wouldn’t have a clue how to run this place.

  Perching on the side of the desk, Tom picked up the evidence and glanced over it. ‘Yes, this is the same paperwork that was sent through to me here. I knew someone would be coming, I just didn’t know who and when.’ He gave me a lopsided grin. ‘Well, well, well, boss, I will do you the honour of being your right-hand man, if you’ll still have me of course, and showing you the ropes. You’ll have this place running like clockwork in no time at all.’ Tom stood up and, thrusting his arm towards me, shook my hand vigorously. ‘Welcome aboard.’

  I let out a sigh of relief and had the urge to stand up and hug him. I didn’t of course, but I could feel a tingling pulse racing through my body, and knew I was blushing. A handshake would do just fine for now.

  ‘Eek, crikey it looks like I’ve gone and landed myself a chicken farm!’ I laughed, sinking into the leather chair and spinning it around like an excited child.

  I quite liked the idea of Tom being my right-hand man, whatever that entailed. I knew I couldn’t run before I could walk and I was more than happy to leave Tom managing the farm while I learnt everything there was to know, even if it took a while. I was looking forward to the new challenge, learning the ropes from Tom. At school and college I always seemed to get on well with the opposite sex. I smiled, remembering one of my best friends from school, Jeremy Whiteman. He had been my friend in class five of primary school. He wasn’t like the other boys in my class, and he didn’t like football. I’d met him in the library. Every lunchtime after we’d eaten we used to browse through hordes and hordes of books. One day I’d tripped over my shoelace in the dinner hall and catapulted my food straight up into the air, and unfortunately it had landed directly on the head of Miranda snooty nose, the most popular girl in the class (though I couldn’t work out why). Honestly, you’d have thought someone had died by the sound of her anguished cries. I personally thought the tomato pasta did wonders for her appearance, but the wail drew the attention of the headmaster, who demanded the person responsible for this catastrophe make themselves known immediately. Quaking in my untied shoes, I had just been about to step forward when Jeremy Whiteman’s voice had echoed in the suddenly silent hall. ‘It was me, sir.’ He was marched off to be interrogated in the den of what was the headmaster’s office before I could own up. I had the same gut instinct about Tom as I’d had about Jeremy – that he was a genuine person – and I hoped we were going to be good friends.

  At that moment the door opened and a girl walked in. She looked at Tom. ‘Are you going to introduce us?’

  The girl standing before me was wearing olive-green overalls; she was the image of a proper farmer, with the filthiest wellington boots that I had ever seen. Her hair was light brown, piled up loosely on top of her head in a bun with trailing curls, her cheeks were glowing and her face was one of natural
beauty. I wasn’t sure why but I immediately felt deflated and could feel a pang deep in the pit of my stomach. The pair of them looked like the perfect Hollywood couple standing before me, apart from the attire and the wellies. He was handsome and there was no denying she was exceptionally beautiful.

  ‘Jeannie, meet Kitty. Kitty, meet Jeannie. Kitty is our new boss.’

  I took a deep calming breath, and, standing up, I offered my hand.

  ‘Please to meet you, Jeannie.’

  Jeannie glanced in Tom’s direction; he motioned to her to shake my hand.

  ‘New boss?’ Jeannie asked.

  ‘This is Agnes Porter’s granddaughter,’ Tom relayed.

  ‘Oh I see, delighted, absolutely delighted, to meet you,’ said Jeannie, shaking my hand.

  Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by the stench.

  ‘Whoa, what’s that smell?’ I cried, immediately taking a step backwards.

  Tom laughed.

  Jeannie grinned. ‘That, boss, is the smell of the countryside and the sheer hard work of mucking out over a thousand chickens this morning, not forgetting Conker.’

  ‘Conker?’

  ‘The beautiful black Shetland pony – he lives in the field just at the back of the farm. Colourful character he is, to say the least, and quite partial to biting one’s bum through the fence if you aren’t careful.’

  Her aroma didn’t leave me enthralled about my new choice of employment; the stench was one of countryside dung. My nose began to twitch so I wrinkled it, then rubbed the end to try and block out the awful smell.

  ‘I’ve only been here a few weeks myself,’ she said, still with a friendly smile.