‘Whoops, thanks.’ After the shrinking pastry of the morning, she’d resolved to do better and had been more focused, following Adrienne’s instructions more carefully, running her hands under cold water, taking care when she rubbed the butter into the pastry, taking her time with each step. But once again, her mind had drifted. It was a puzzle. Why had the man with the shotgun been so irate? And while she’d been working the pastry, something else had also come to mind. Conor had said something about a rickety old fence. The fence she’d climbed had been brand new. It had that freshly sawn wood smell. That blond colour. She might not be a country mouse, but she knew unweathered wood when she saw it.

‘Hannah.’ Bronagh nudged her.

Oops. This time she focused on her pastry and when it came to the final stage, she even used a ruler to score the pastry in neat lines, rather than attempt it by freehand in the confident way Alan and Meredith were doing. When she came to lay out her rectangular tart cases with their neatly pricked bottoms, she was pleased to see that they looked quite acceptable, and by the end of the day she felt she’d achieved something, even if her finished raspberry tarts didn’t look as professional as Jason’s. For her they were actually quite good.

‘Better, Hannah,’ said Adrienne as she did her rounds.

‘Thank you.’ She beamed with satisfaction.

‘Just imagine how good they could be, if you put some love in.’

Chapter Nine

The rest of the week fell into an easy pattern. Hannah quickly grew to love the chickens and their individual personalities, and each night she collapsed into bed with aching feet and her brain whirling with all that she was learning. By Friday night she was more than ready for the trip to the pub proposed by Jason, who was living up to her suspicion that he was a born ringleader of trouble.

At his first suggestion, Fliss had been the only one who’d seemed reluctant but Jason’s teasing, ‘Too posh for you,’ had clearly needled her into responding.

It was arranged that they’d meet outside Larkspur Cottage, but fifteen minutes after the appointed time they were still waiting for Fliss.

‘Where is the daft cow?’ muttered Jason, pacing up and down. ‘We’re missing drinking time.’

He paced another length of the cobbled courtyard before saying. ‘Let’s just go without her.’

‘She’ll be here soon,’ said Meredith, who’d already carved out her role as the placating mother hen.

‘At last. What kept you? Didn’t have enough Polyfilla?’ asked Jason, grinning at Fliss, who looked immaculate with freshly blow-dried hair and perfect makeup that highlighted her high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes.

‘Very funny, but don’t give up the day job. I don’t think stand-up is for you.’

They moved off with Jason leading the way.