Bridge big-eyed back: What fecking interview?

Thankfully Gill was in full flow, grumbling that Compton Magna Manor – just visible beyond its high honey stone walls beside them – was still lying empty a year after going on the market because no buyer was willing to pay several millions for a mouldering, impractical piece of history. ‘Madly overpriced, with no land, listed up to its medieval oak-framed eaves – you’d think it would be perfect for some foolish celeb or banker.’

‘Don’t forget it’s haunted,’ Mo panted cheerfully as she wrestled the gate over thistles. ‘The Woman Bricked Up in The Walls howls all night, every night, between Hunter’s Moon and Frost Moon, they say.’

‘I know how she feels,’ Petra groaned, also breathless from the canter. ‘Cabin fever is pure hell. I don’t know how I’ll survive the next few weeks, trying to keep the Gunns fully loaded while I stay locked in the garden shed.’

Petra wrote a historical trilogy a year, customarily retreating from village life between deadlines. The chestnut mare was having her shoes off later today and would be taking a sabbatical with her pony pals so that her mistress could devote herself to the second instalment of a Civil War epic.

‘You need a mother’s help,’ Bridge said, an idea forming.

‘Mum lives near Leeds.’

‘Not your own mother’s help, a Mother’s Help. A Girl Friday who tidies the teenagers’ pits and mucks out the horses, maybe does some school runs so you can work uninterrupted a couple of days a week.’

‘That sounds heaven, but we can’t afford it.’

Behind them, Mo clanged the gate shut, still chatting to Gill about village ghosts.

‘A few hours a week is cheaper than you think,’ Bridge told Petra, a chalk pentacle forming in her mind. ‘Imagine writing uninterrupted, without worrying about changing the beds or washing skips full of sports kits. Imagine someone there to order the heating oil if it’s low and make packed lunches, walk the dog and take over driving hundreds of miles taxiing Charlie and the children around?’

‘Far too ruddy self-indulgent.’ She was doing her chippy northerner thing.

‘C’mon, Petra, you’re trying to fit a full-time job around four children with no concessions.’ Mo kicked alongside while Gill walked out ahead. ‘Mo! Tell Petra she needs a Mother’s Help.’

‘Bloody good idea,’ panted their red-faced friend. ‘Especially with another little one on the way.’

‘Whaaat?’ Bridge gaped at her. Petra already had four and had to be mid-forties.

Petra pointed down at her chestnut mare. ‘Gill scanned her yesterday: baby on board.’

‘She’s in foal,’ Mo clarified.

‘Why am I always the last to know these things?’ demanded Bridge. ‘Are you going to sue?’

When the notoriously hormonal mare had come unseasonally into season just before Christmas, Ronnie’s hot-headed stallion had found her irresistible, the resulting public display of affection one the village would take a long time to forget.

‘You’re kidding!’ Petra patted her mare’s neck. ‘It’s equi-yoga and wellness all the way for my girl. This foal is going to be worth a fortune.’