Free The Difference a Day Makes by Carole Matthews

it.’
    ‘Thank you,’ Will says. ‘Thank you so much for bringing him home.’
    My husband had trailed through the fields for hours looking for Hamish, but with no joy. Unfortunately, it’s bad luck for us that he was found playing with sheep. Probably trying to mount them, if I know Hamish. And I feel I’ve got his character marked quite well.
    ‘I’m very, very sorry,’ Will continues. ‘I can only apologise. And pay for any damage.’
    What’s the going rate for a shagged sheep, I wonder. Later today, I seriously have to bash the phones to see if I can put out some feelers for a new job. I’ve already tried the two main television stations in the area, but there was nothing going. Everyone, it seems, is tightening their belts. The best they could offer was to tell me to send in my CV and they’d put me on file. It makes me feel like a teenager again, having to scratch around for work. Surely someone must be able to use my expertise? Will was so sure that we’d be able to get freelance work, but where? There’s nothing round here. For the moment, replacing our healthy income has proved steadfastly elusive. The bills are mounting here as the cost of feeding and caring for our growing farmyard brood is not inconsiderable.The money that Will raised from selling our lovely, lovely Audi has already been eaten up - literally. One of us needs to start pulling in some serious cash before what little is left of our savings is completely gone.
    The farmer grunts. He’s wearing a raincoat, flat cap and wellies and a big scowl.
    Hamish, thick with mud and smelling like a pigsty, is wagging his tail in our drive, seemingly unaware of his brush with death. There’s a piece of orange nylon twine round his neck and Will is clutching it as if his life depends on it.
    My husband holds out his hand to the taciturn man. ‘William Ashurst,’ he says in his friendliest tone. His hand remains unshaken. ‘And my wife, Amy.’
    At this moment, I’d like to deny that I even know Will, but how would I explain being here? ‘Hello.’
    He glowers at me too.
    ‘We’ve just moved here,’ Will continues brightly.
    ‘I know,’ the farmer says, unimpressed. ‘You’re the posh incomers.’ He looks at our designer chicken coop and our three ageing sheep with disdain.
    ‘We’d love to know our neighbours better. Perhaps we could entertain you one evening. And your good lady wife. If you have one . . .’ Will’s attempt at bonhomie trails away.
    Hamish, clearly mobilised by his master’s attempts at friendship, tries to nuzzle the farmer’s nuts. It doesn’t go down well. The man’s hands go to protect his testicles and he lashes out a kick at Hamish, who nimbly scoots out of the way.
    ‘Keep that bloody dog off my property or I’ll bloody shoot it.’ With that our neighbour turns on his heels, stamps back to his Land Rover - which is in better condition than ours - and screeches off.
    ‘That went well,’ Will observes with a sigh.
    ‘I thought Londoners were supposed to be the miserable bastards,’ I mutter.
    ‘Hamish,’Will says,‘we’re in trouble with our neighbours now. You’re a very naughty dog.’
    ‘You’re a menace to society,’ I add. ‘You’re going to have to do something about him, Will. He’s like a wild animal.’ He certainly smells like one.
    ‘I will. I will,’ my husband promises.
    ‘Get the hosepipe on him,’ I instruct. ‘Or better still, I’ll do it.’
    ‘I can manage,’ Will insists. ‘He’ll sit still for me.’
    Yes, I think, in the same way he came back when you called him.
    ‘I don’t want you to over-exert yourself,’ I say. ‘The next job on my list is to phone the doctor’s and make you an appointment for tomorrow. I’m worried that you’re still so tired all the time.’
    ‘I’m fine.’ Will flexes his muscles like a old-fashioned circus strong man. ‘You worry too much. I’m feeling as fit as a flea.’
    ‘Promise me that you’ll take it