Free Twelve Days of Christmas by Trisha Ashley

particularly attached to Lady,’ she said. ‘She was his mother’s horse, you know, so he’s bound to worry about her. But of course you can call me if you’re concerned about anything, I’ll leave you my phone number. Not that you can always get through, because the lines are hanging loose from the poles like limp spaghetti and a good wind can cut the connection to Old Place for a week or more.’
    She said this as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
    ‘Couldn’t the lines be repaired?’ I would certainly have had it sorted out in no time, if I lived here!
    ‘Apparently all the poles need replacing and they’ll get round to it eventually, but there’s only Old Place and Hill Farm up this road until you get to Great Mumming, so it’s not exactly high on their priority list when it comes to allocating resources.’
    ‘Oh yes, I saw the farm when I walked Merlin up to the red horse earlier and I noticed the sign on the main road pointed two ways to Great Mumming, so presumably it carries on past Hill Farm?’
    ‘That’s right, but the road beyond the farm isn’t much more than a track with tarmac over it that goes round the side of Snowehill – a bit of ice and you don’t even want to think about trying it,’ she said, then gave a deep laugh. ‘One of those SatNav things keeps sending motorists up here as a short cut to the motorway – and it might be, as the crow flies, but not by car!’
    Billy’s plaintively protesting bleats rose to a crescendo. We let Lady out into the paddock and he followed her, butting against her legs.
    Becca picked up a fork. ‘Come on – now I’ll help you muck out. You bring the barrow.’
    She must have been in her seventies, at least, but she could still wield a fork with the best of them and gave me what was essentially a very useful masterclass. Under her direction I trundled the used bedding over to the manure heap, then spread a thick layer of clean straw in the loosebox, padded out at the sides and round the washed and filled bucket.
    ‘You don’t need to do this every single day – just pick up the manure and put down a bit of fresh straw if it isn’t too bad.’
    ‘How cold does it have to get before I keep her inside during the day?’
    ‘Oh, she can go out even if it snows, but you might need to double-rug her,’ she said breezily.
    ‘Right . . .’ Jude Martland and his aunt seemed to have two different views on just how fragile Lady was!
    I was glowing by the time we’d finished mucking out, and probably steaming gently in the chilly air, just like the replenished manure heap.
    ‘There – that’s fine, all ready for bringing her in before it goes dark. Did you manage her warm mash all right last night?’
    ‘Oh yes, it was just a matter of following the recipe. And thank you very much for showing me what to do, it’s been invaluable,’ I said gratefully.
    ‘I’d better pop back in a day or two and give you a few more pointers,’ she suggested.
    ‘That would be great, if you can spare the time.’
    ‘Noël says you’re from West Lancs, near Ormskirk? What do you shoot over there?’
    ‘Shoot? I don’t shoot anything!’
    ‘Pity – there’s not an awful lot up here either, bar the odd rabbit and pigeon,’ she commiserated, ‘but you’ll find some of those, and a few pheasants and the like, in one of the freezers.’
    While I’ve cooked an awful lot of game over the years for house-parties, I think killing something simply for pleasure is a bad thing – but when working I just cook, I don’t give opinions!
    ‘I’m a town girl, really, brought up in Merchester,’ I admitted, ‘though my work usually takes me into the country from late spring to early autumn when I cook for large house-parties. The rest of the year I take home-sitting assignments, like this one.’
    ‘Oh, you cook? It’s a pity we can’t have a house-party at Old Place over Christmas, then,’ Becca said wistfully. ‘I call it a bit selfish of Jude to