The Country Escape - Jane Lovering Page 0,18

Gabriel had his coat collar turned up and Keenan was holding a macintosh spread out over his head, like a tiny portable tent.

‘You should have rung,’ I said, opening the front door. ‘Said you were coming, and I’d have been in.’

‘It’s fine.’ Keenan dusted rain off the top of his thinning hair. ‘I really wanted to look at the outside anyway, get a feel for the place, do a bit of logistics work. I think it will be great, but we’ll need a small crew, maybe bring the minibus down. We won’t get the lorries down this lane – in fact, the minibus might be a squeeze.’

‘And Larch won’t walk in.’ Gabriel was looking around at the walls now. With the recent drop in temperature and increase in humidity, they’d assumed a kind of slickness that the woodlice were using to stage team luge competitions. ‘We might have to form a human chain to carry her down from the main road.’

Keenan sighed. ‘Yeah, for a nature lover, she really doesn’t like being outside much, does she?’

‘Or getting wet, getting cold, wind, too much sunshine, noisy seagulls and most other wildlife. Are we actually sure that it’s nature she likes and not just photographs of fields?’

Gabriel gave me a sideways grin and I realised that I was being included in this insider talk for a reason. It was an introduction to the cast in a roundabout way, presumably so that I wouldn’t be all star-struck and breathless when I met them.

He needn’t have bothered. I’d met famous people before and, essentially, they were mostly just wallies who were good at one particular thing. Actors wouldn’t be any different, just better looking.

‘So, can I have a tour?’ Keenan carefully draped the wet raincoat over the back of a chair. I’d led them through to the kitchen, which was marginally warmer than the rest of the house, although the damp air clung more in here. The flagstones shone with the water, and condensation was making little net curtains over the windows.

‘Of course. Gabriel, I’ve ordered some hay for Patrick. They’re going to deliver it tomorrow. You might want to tell… Granny Mary.’ It felt awkward, giving a personalised name to a woman I’d never met, although, the way Gabriel used it, it was more as if Granny Mary were her actual name than an honorific.

‘Good thinking. I’ll text her later. I’m going over to see her tomorrow, so, no doubt, she’ll have things to tell me then. I think she’s been quite worried about Patrick, so it will be a relief.’

‘How is she doing?’ I put the kettle on the stove. Keenan was lurking about in the doorway as though he was trying to urge me on with the house tour. I couldn’t really blame him – until the stove really got going it was a bit like being at the bottom of a well in here.

‘She’s coming on nicely. Thank you.’

‘And Patrick is the horse?’ Keenan asked, still hovering.

‘Yes. He’s just out there.’ I pointed to the streaming window.

Keenan looked towards it and jumped back with a little scream. ‘Oh, dear God, it’s like something out of a horror film!’

Patrick had his nose right up against the window and was looking in with his pirate eye. He blew a long snort, which sent a spray up the glass, and then shook himself impressively. He’d got a full winter coat now, which made him look twice as wide, and a series of muddy patches where he’d been rolling under the trees.

‘Are you sure that’s a horse? It’s not a cow doing impressions?’ Keenan asked, with nervous apprehension in every word. ‘Because I’m beginning to think the pig idea was maybe better.’

‘He’s fine,’ I said, leading Keenan off to show him the rest of the house. As I ushered him through the depressingly short series of rooms, I realised that I’d actually grown quite fond of Patrick. Although probably in the same way as one would grow fond of an occasional stalker, or a nasty fungal infection – they were a presence that you got used to.

‘And that’s pretty much Harvest Cottage.’ I concluded the tour with us traipsing back down the still bare-floored staircase, our footsteps rattling in competition with the rain on the roof.

Keenan bit his lip. ‘You’re right, Gabe!’ he called. ‘Pretty much has serial killer written all over it.’

‘Thanks,’ I muttered. ‘I do have to live here, you know.’

Gabriel came out of the kitchen with mugs. ‘The kettle boiled,’ he