sound as if they were clambering hysterically over each other, falling off and landing painfully on each other’s fragile yellow feet. Slowing down, Hope peered in the back. The chicks were clambering hysterically all over each other and were making desperate, upset baby noises at being separated from their mother. Oh God, what had she done, Hope wailed out loud. Matt would kill her. It had sounded like a brilliant idea for saving money when Emmet, the man from the shop, had explained it.
All she’d need now was a feeding trough, some hen meal and maybe to put a light bulb over the box to keep them warm at night. The chemist was also the animal foodstuffs provider, Emmet’s brother, Paddy said happily as he waved her off, her cheque in his hands. It seemed a lot of money for six little birds but Paddy insisted they were pedigree.
The kind-looking woman in the chemist, who introduced herself as Mary-Kate and who, like Emmet, seemed already to know who Hope was, was sceptical: ‘Pedigree, my backside. That old rogue Emmet Slattery sold you his brother’s runts. Nobody else would buy them at this time of the year. It’s too cold to have them outside for months unless you put central heating into the hen house. You’ll have them killed with pure temper long before you’ve got an egg to your name. What are they?’ she relented. ‘Speckled or Rhode Island Reds?’
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Hope said. They both peered into the cardboard box in the car.
Mary-Kate’s hard face softened at the antics of the tiny balls of yellow fluff.
‘I love chicks but they’re not always easy,’ she sighed.
‘I thought they were no trouble at all,’ Hope said anxiously. ‘Finula said they weren’t. So did Paddy.’
‘Finula Headley-Ryan has killed more pullets than the chicken factory,’ snorted Mary-Kate. ‘Don’t mind her. She thinks farming is so easy a child could do it but she hasn’t a clue. She’s a city girl born and bred and until she landed here, the only time she’d ever seen a hen was in an illustration over the frozen chickens in the supermarket. And as for that pair of old bandits, Paddy and Emmet, I wouldn’t listen to a word they said. Come on in. I’ll make you a cup of coffee and tell you what to do with your hens.’
Smiling guiltily at the thought that the spectacularly efficient Finula wasn’t as brilliant at everything as she thought, Hope opened a window in the car for the chicks and followed Mary-Kate, not thinking that it was unusual to be asked in for coffee when you were shopping. This was Redlion: everything was different here. Talking to total strangers seemed bizarrely normal.
Mary-Kate’s office at the back of the chemist was a cosy nook complete with a comfortably worn couch, portable television and a sophisticated looking Italian coffee machine. Three darling kittens played in the corner, taking turns to mangle a knitted mouse. While Mary-Kate began the complicated business of brewing coffee, Hope sat down and watched her hostess. She was tall, thin and on the wrong side of forty. Soberly dressed in a grey dress with her brown hair cut in a neat, shining bob, she was as far removed from the flamboyant Finula as it was possible to be. She also had an intense, clear gaze. ‘What you see is what you get,’ said Mary-Kate’s honest expression.
‘Are you settling in?’ she asked.
‘Well, it’s a bit difficult,’ Hope said, wanting to be loyal to Matt. ‘The house is a bit of a mess and I have to admit that it wasn’t my idea to come here,’ she amazed herself by revealing.
‘I’m not surprised the house is a mess. Your husband’s uncle was a complete nut,’ Mary-Kate remarked, handing Hope a cup of coffee. ‘He used to say he couldn’t get married because he was too eccentric for any woman to live with. The truth was he lived like a pig. I had to throw him out of the shop on many occasions because he’d put the other customers off with the smell of him.’
Hope laughed. ‘So far, everyone I’ve met has claimed he was a misunderstood genius who deserves a statue erected for him.’
‘Genius doesn’t mean you can’t wash your clothes,’ said Mary-Kate, proffering biscuits. ‘If they erect a statue to old Gearóid, I hope it’ll have a scratch ’n’ sniff bit to get the whole effect.’
They talked about the trials of doing up old, damp cottages and how terrible the weather was, managing to consume two more cups of coffee while doing it. Hope found it an incredible relief to talk to someone who wasn’t discussing culture, with a capital C, organic food or making your own compost heap. At home, she’d have never let her reserve down in such a manner but Mary-Kate was very easy to talk to.
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