March was obviously working hand in hand with the little ditty ‘in like a lion and out like a lamb’. Into its third week, the month felt positively spring-like. Even Harry Trotter, regardless of his reputation as the local molester of innocent walkers appeared to Juno, as she banged shut her back door and made her way round to the front of the house, a calm and sunny presence. She’d had complaints from both the local council as well as Footpaths UK that Harry Trotter had been jumping out at walkers – like some sort of demented highwayman, Juno assumed – and, as it was a public footpath that went through her paddock, she was responsible for his behaviour and walkers’ safety.
‘Yes,’ she shouted pointedly at the pony as she stooped to pick the last of a tiny bunch of snowdrops carpeting the edge of the garden path. ‘Don’t you dare look at me as if butter wouldn’t melt. You’ve cost me almost five hundred quid having to fence you off from terrified villagers. You’re like a bloody troll waiting to pounce.’
She paused, breathing in the almost balmy morning air, a sudden picture of a favourite book from her childhood coming to the fore as she continued to watch Harry graze. ‘I’m a troll, fol-de-rol, I’m a troll, fol-de-rol, I’m a troll, fol-de-rol and I’m going to eat you up for my dinner,’ Juno sang operatically at the top of her voice towards Harry, almost shouting the word ‘dinner’ in his direction. He momentarily lifted his head, gazed balefully at the daft woman singing her heart out, before resuming his grazing once more.
‘Thinking of what to have for your dinner already, love?’ Doreen, dressed as usual for whatever meteorological conditions she might have to battle, was walking determinedly up the drive in her sturdy winter boots, purple rain-mate atop her reddish hair. ‘I’ve got a nice bit of corned beef for me and our Brian.’ She paused as she reached Juno. ‘Now, talking of food, you’ve fed the hens, haven’t you? Our Brian said to make sure.’
‘Of course.’ Juno frowned, insulted that Doreen should think her capable of leaving her girls to starve. ‘It’s Tilda’s job, but I make sure she’s done it properly. We must be doing something right – we had four beautiful eggs this morning.’ Juno raised her eyes in the direction of the hens over in the paddock who, following Mrs Thatcher’s lead, were making tentative steps on ballerina legs towards Harry Trotter. Taking their lives in their own hands – wings – Juno thought idly as she breathed in the spring-like air and watched the daffodils bobbing slightly in the breeze.
She loved spring with all its promise of warmth and the summer yet to come; the almost rampant feeling of nature preparing itself to get its rocks off. Was her own sap rising, she wondered as she jumped into the Mini and set off for the surgery? She was feeling decidedly frisky, but whether that was down to hormones, the time of year or, more than likely, the time of a certain man, it was, she thought almost sadly, nothing to do with her absent husband.
Fraser had been gone almost three months now and it felt like he’d been gone forever; that thirteen years of married life were in the past and they’d all moved on. Fraser rang dutifully once a week, usually on a Sunday evening when Juno was in the middle of sorting PE gear that hadn’t been washed and Gabe’s homework he’d assured her had been done but, when she’d demanded the evidence, wasn’t forthcoming. Conversations with husband and father were always a bit stilted and both Juno as well as the kids would, after rather long silences, end up saying, I’ll just put Tilda/Gabe/Mum back on for a word. It wasn’t a good feeling to know she was failing as a wife, that she was relieved when the call ended and they could all get back to doing whatever they’d been up to before Fraser rang.
*
Izzy certainly wasn’t in any spring-like mood that morning. Her face was set like thunder so that even Marian wasn’t about to take her on about the late payment of the electricity bill, having second thoughts about wafting said bill in her boss’s direction. Instead, Marian pulled a warning face in Juno’s direction as she crossed reception and headed for her stock-cupboard practice room. ‘Don’t know what’s up with her.’ Marian lowered her voice, nodding towards Izzy who was in the process of pinning up new surgery notices at the far end of the room. ‘Argument with Declan,’ she added almost gleefully, for once taking Juno onto her side. ‘Avoid, avoid, or you’ll have your head bitten off.’
Juno went down into the Dungeon, as she’d christened her new practice room, peering into Scott Butler’s room as she passed. He’d not yet arrived. Juno did hope he wasn’t late because of some woman in his bed he couldn’t tear himself away from. She did all the initial tasks necessary for the smooth running of a Wednesday morning surgery and, with a good fifteen minutes to spare, made her way across to the kitchen for coffee and hopefully an eyeful of Dr Butler. Izzy was in there, banging cupboard doors and rattling cups, her face set.
‘Whoa, what’s up with you? You’ve even frightened Marian this morning.’ Juno put up both hands in mock alarm in Izzy’s direction.
‘That pillock of a husband of mine, that’s what’s up.’
‘What’s he done now?’
‘Oh, only arranged the most wonderful weekend away in London next week.’
‘And that’s a bad thing?’ Juno laughed, trying to recall a time when Fraser had ever thought to come up with such a weekend away for the pair of them.
‘It is when the daft sod’s double-booked it. We can’t go – it’s his sister’s wedding up in Newcastle.’
‘Didn’t he realise?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s her third attempt at a husband. You’d think she’d have learned by now and just gone off and lived in sin with this one, instead of making us all jump through hoops and having us getting our bloody fascinators out once more. She’s even wearing white. Again. Well, I tell you now, I’m wearing the same outfit as the last one… if I can get into the damned thing.’
‘Can’t you just not go? You know, send your apologies, but work has come up?’
‘It wouldn’t actually be a lie – about it being a work thing I mean. It’s a conference we’ve been invited to in London on the problems facing small rural surgeries such as ours.’
Juno frowned. ‘I wouldn’t say our surgery is that small. You’ve had to open another practice room for heaven’s sake – put me in the Dungeon…’
‘Alright, alright,’ Izzy snapped irritably. ‘You’ve made your point about your room. I agree with you, I think the organisers have got the wrong end of the stick with regards to Westenbury, but I don’t care, I wasn’t going to put them right. A lovely weekend away in London? And Declan coughing up for a fab hotel? And instead we’ve got to drive to Newcastle – eat soggy sausage rolls and schmooze with yet another set of new in-laws? Paah.’ Izzy gave a snort of disgust at the thought, shooting a stuck staple from the gun onto the floor with some force. ‘And it’ll be a battle to get Robbie there. There’s some important football tournament on at his club on the Sunday morning. Apparently, your brother-in-law is going to be there giving out the prizes.’
‘So, give your excuses and say it’s work and you can’t get out of it.’
‘It doesn’t work like that. If the whole family doesn’t troop up there en-masse, Declan’s mother will cut him out of her will. Again. We’re only just back in it after last time.’
‘Last time?’ Juno started to laugh again.
‘Don’t ask,’ Izzy snapped shortly. ‘It’s like playing a continual game of Snakes and Ladders with Declan’s mother. One mistake and you’re right back at the bottom once more, with his brothers and step-sisters and half-sisters – there are so sodding many of them – surging ahead up the ladder of inheritance.’
‘Morning.’ Scott Butler, glancing at the clock in reception, hurried past them, a fleeting smile on his face.
‘You’re late, Dr Butler,’ Izzy called through the open kitchen door, punching a new poster on the unacceptability of Violence in the Workplace onto the wall with considerable and unnecessary force.
‘Guilty as charged.’ Scott Butler smiled winningly over his shoulder. ‘Coffee?’
Juno felt her pulse quicken as it always did in Scott Butler’s presence. ‘Already got one,’ she replied, holding up her mug.
‘Thought you’d like to make me one, Juno,’ Scott called, disappearing into his room.
‘Don’t even think about it, Juno,’ Izzy snapped. ‘He should make sure he’s here on time. Leave whichever floozy he’s got in his bed and—’
‘Floozy? Do you think so?’ Juno felt her heart drop more quickly than Izzy’s expectations with her mother-in-law’s estate.
‘Oh, heavens, yes, floozies. In the plural.’ Izzy lowered her voice. ‘Declan said when he was at university with him, women flocked, absolutely flocked, to his bed. Mind you, that could have just been Declan being envious. I’m with you, Juno, don’t see what all the fuss is about. And I’m sorry you’ve had to give your room up for him.’
‘Well, you’ve changed your tune.’ Juno stared. ‘He was the best thing out according to you – well worth turfing me out of my lovely little room for.’
‘Oh, he’s a very good practitioner, I can see that. But… you know, why isn’t he married at nearly forty? How has he managed to stay single when we’ve all had to succumb to it. Given up our fun and games for a life of servitude.’ Izzy snapped her staple gun together and threw it onto the table and Juno giggled. One good thing about Izzy, she was always entertaining.
‘Oh, just listen to you, you ridiculous woman. Are you hormonal? Perimenopausal?’
‘No, I just want a bit of excitement in my life. I want to… I want to explore the Amazon, hike to Machu Picchu… oh I don’t know – go cage swimming with sharks in the ocean.’ Izzy tutted and looked sad. ‘The nearest I’ll get to that is in a supermarket trolley in the Leeds-Liverpool canal.’ She paused and then visibly brightened. ‘Mind you, now I’ve found Jesus, it’s getting me through these winter months. Did you see those tight jeans he was wearing at rehearsal last week? He must have performed a miracle to get those on.’ She began to laugh and then just as suddenly stopped, staring at Juno who was making her way to the door. ‘Listen, why don’t you take our place at the conference, Juno? I know it won’t be the most riveting of weekends, but the hotel is paid for: we can’t get the money back at this late date.’
‘Me?’ Juno turned, surprised. ‘Go to London? For the weekend?’
‘Why not? The practice should be represented now that we’ve been invited. The conference is only on Saturday afternoon; you could go down on the Friday like we were going to do and spend the rest of the time shopping, seeing the sights, go to a musical.’
‘I’m working this Friday. And who’s going to look after my two? And they’re starting on the new bathroom this weekend.’
‘What about that funny couple of yours? You know, the hen-man and his live-in lover?’
‘No, no, I don’t think so.’ Juno realised the waiting room was filling up and set off at a sprint down to the Dungeon. ‘No, sorry, Izzy, can’t do that. That wouldn’t work. Sorry, no way…’