The Accidental Life Swap

by Jennifer Joyce

  The curtains have already been thrown open and I can see somebody pottering around in one of the downstairs rooms. I haven’t got a clear view from here, but I can tell it is neither Oliver nor Stacey from the short, curvy build. Deciding it’s time I stopped hovering, I push my way through the gate, jumping at the sudden sound as it clangs shut behind me. Turning to shush the inanimate object, I don’t see the front door open.

  ‘You came then.’

  I jump again, my hand thumping against my chest as I turn around. Stacey is standing on the doorstep, eyebrow quirked as she watches me scuttle along the path towards her.

  ‘Of course.’ My voice is a squeak, so I clear my throat and throw my chin into the air, channelling Vanessa. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  Stacey gives a lazy shrug before she opens the door wider and steps aside so I can follow her into the house. ‘Cleaning out chickens isn’t for everyone, and from what I know about you, I’d say it’s as far away from your comfort zone as you can get.’

  My brow furrows as I close the front door behind me. ‘We only met briefly yesterday. What could you possibly know about me to make that judgement?’

  Okay, fair enough, I’d been wandering around the countryside in a pair of unsuitable boots the previous day, but that doesn’t mean anything. I came to the village in a professional capacity. I wasn’t expecting to be volunteering at the local animal sanctuary. I’d have rocked up in my old, saggy jogging bottoms and greying trainers if I’d had an inkling.

  ‘This is a pretty small village.’ Stacey leads the way along the hallway, turning to make sure I’m still following. ‘There’s no such thing as a private life around here. Gossip is rife. It’s a local pastime.’

  ‘But there’s nothing for people to gossip about when it comes to me.’ We’ve reached the end of the passageway, which has broadened to form a small entryway. There’s a shoe rack full of wellies below a row of waterproof jackets. ‘I’m really not that interesting.’

  The corner of Stacey’s mouth flickers up before she presses her lips together to stop the smirk from fully forming on her face. ‘If you say so.’ She gives another shrug before she eyes my footwear. ‘What size are you?’

  ‘Five.’

  Stacey is wearing the cherry-red wellies again. She selects a pink pair with white hearts from the rack and hands them to me before turning towards a set of drawers and opening the top one. ‘Thick socks. Don’t worry – they’re clean. We always have plenty of spares.’ She opens the next drawer and pulls out a yellow bobble hat. ‘You might need this. It’s pretty nippy out.’ She reaches into the drawer again and hands me a pair of chunky gloves. ‘I’ll meet you outside when you’re ready.’ She points at the back door before she slips out of it. There’s a chair against the wall opposite the shoe rack, so I sit down while I pull on the socks and wellies. I’m not sure about the bright yellow bobble hat, so I wedge it into my coat pocket and make my way out into the back garden, yanking on the gloves as I go. The chickens are already out of the coop, stalking around the small lawn and scratching at the ground.

  ‘How many chickens have you got?’ I only saw a couple yesterday, but there are at least half a dozen out here now.

  ‘Eight.’ Stacey rolls her eyes. ‘We only started off with two. Ex-battery, in pretty poor condition. Bianca and Patty.’ She points out a couple of the chickens. ‘Poor girls. I didn’t have a clue how to care for them, but you learn quickly, and Oliver put together the coop for me. It helps having someone handy with wood and nails on hand, believe me. Saves a fortune.’ Stacey hands me a wicker basket and leads me towards the open coop. ‘We’ll collect any eggs first. Mrs McColl will be starting her cake baking soon, so we’d better be quick. You don’t want to get on her bad side.’ Stacey grins at me and I’m not sure whether to be reassured or not. I have no idea who Mrs McColl is but I’m keen to get the eggs in the basket ASAP.

  The coop is wide, with a closed house-like structure at one end and a long, meshed run at the other. There’s a box attached to the side of the wooden house, which Stacey lifts open. Nestled in the straw are five eggs, which we gently place in the basket. I’ve never handled an egg so fresh and as long as I don’t think about where it has just come from, I’m fascinated.

  ‘I’ll get these inside to Mrs McColl so she can get started on her baking.’ Stacey takes the basket from me and starts to head back towards the house. ‘Can you gather the water containers and give them a quick scrub at the tap?’ Stacey has reached the back door and she points out the tap further along the building. I give a thumbs up, my smile bright and confident, but it slips as soon as Stacey disappears inside. What if one of the chickens sees me messing around their coop and comes to investigate? What if all of them suddenly become interested in the stranger on their property? I’ve never been up close and personal with a chicken (unless I’ve been sticking one in the oven) but they seem very beaky and scratchy and I don’t fancy my chances going up against one of them, let alone eight of the feathered beasts. I think about channelling Vanessa again to bolster my confidence, but there is no way Vanessa would be in this yard cleaning out chickens. For now, I will have to make do with being Rebecca Riley. She is capable. She is reliable. She is also actually quite terrified of chickens, it seems.

  With a yelp, I’m across the yard, stumbling in my unfamiliar wellies. One of the chickens, a scrawny-looking, rusty-coloured one, is stalking towards me, its evil intentions clear in its small, beady eyes.

  ‘That’s just Chow Mein.’ Stacey steps through the door again as I reach it, a bemused look on her face. ‘She’s curious, that’s all. She won’t hurt you, will you, sweetie?’ Bending, Stacey scoops up the chicken and brandishes it towards me. I fight the urge to leap away and instead hold out a slightly trembling finger, touching it briefly to the chicken’s soft feathers. I clocked the look of bemusement on Stacey’s face as she caught me cowering by the door and I won’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me spooked again. For some reason, Stacey seems to be trying to push my buttons, testing me to find my limits.

  ‘Chow Mein?’ I take the opportunity to look away from the feathery beast and focus on Stacey instead. ‘Chicken Chow Mein?’

  Stacey rolls her eyes. ‘Oliver named her. Thought it was amusing.’ She shrugs, the corners of her lips flicking briefly into a small smile. ‘Which it is. A little bit.’

  ‘She’s lovely, really, isn’t she?’ I don’t dare stroke Chow Mein again, but I do stoop to look her in the face. Her eyes don’t look quite so beady now she isn’t chasing me across the yard. ‘Quite cute for a chicken.’

  ‘She’s gorgeous. I’ve had her since she was a chick, so she’s extra special to me.’ Stacey releases the chicken and leads me back to the coop, where we gather the plastic water containers. Once they’re clean and full again, we sweep out the old bedding, replacing it with fresh handfuls. I’m warm from the exertions of cleaning out the coop but my ears feel as though they’re about to pop off through the cold. I’m itching to snatch the bobble hat from my pocket, but I’m sure Stacey would chalk that down as another victory.

  Giving a satisfied nod at the clean coop, Stacey starts to wander back towards the house. ‘Let’s wash up and then Mrs McColl will make you a breakfast to die for.’

  She leads me back into the house, indicating a small downstairs loo near the shoe rack. I give my hands a thorough scrub with the coconut-scented handwash before joining Stacey again, changing back into my own footwear while Stacey washes. I’m quite glad to be out of the wellies, but my feet are already mourning the thick socks as I slip on the ballet flats.

  ‘We run a small café for our visitors.’ Stacey emerges back into the hall and leads the way along the passage. ‘Mainly tea and cake and the odd bit of veggie soup or stew. Mrs McColl is one of our volunteers who mans the kitchen. I don’t know what I’d do without her.’

  ‘You’d get along perfectly fine and you know it.’ The booming voice comes from within one of the rooms leading off the passageway
and Stacey turns to roll her eyes at me.

  ‘I can barely boil an egg. Wait until you try Mrs McColl’s freshly baked bread. You’ll be in heaven.’

  ‘Hardly. I just throw a bit of flour and water in the oven.’ We’ve reached the café now, which I guess was once a regular dining room but is now filled with four round tables. Mrs McColl is standing by the doorway, her arms folded across her ample chest. ‘Anyway, what can I get you? I could probably stretch to a poached egg today, but only one each, mind.’

  Stacey reaches for a chair at the nearest table and pulls it out. ‘We try to use our own produce as much as possible, but Mrs McColl has first dibs at the eggs for her cakes. Not that anyone complains about that. Mrs McColl puts Mary Berry to shame.’

  Mrs McColl snorts and shakes her head. ‘Excuse me a moment while I climb down from that pedestal you’ve put me on. I need to go and get that to-die-for loaf out of the oven.’ She tuts as she passes by, heading across the room to another doorway and disappearing from view.

  ‘She isn’t a fan of compliments, no matter how deserved they are.’ Stacey sits down and grabs a menu from the middle of the table, handing it to me once I’m seated opposite. ‘I’m going to go for the toast with jam. The jam’s homemade too, using the fruit from our allotment.’

  ‘That sounds great.’ I pop the menu back into its little wooden holder in the middle of the table. ‘I’ll have that too.’

  It turns out that Mrs McColl really does deserve all the compliments. The thickly-cut bread is divine, while the blackberry jam is the perfect balance between sweet and tart. I wolf down both wedges at lightning speed, washing them down with strong, sweet tea. I’m usually content with a small bowl of cornflakes in the morning, so it must be the fresh, country air making me so ravenous.

  ‘I’d better be getting back over to the house.’ I have no idea what time the builders usually start, but I’m hoping to be there before them. I reach for my purse but Stacey holds up a hand.

  ‘Breakfast is on me. As a thank you for helping out with the chickens.’ She takes a sip of her tea before setting it down gently on her saucer. ‘Same time tomorrow then?’ She raises an eyebrow in challenge, and although I have no idea why Stacey has decided to test my willingness to muck out chickens, I find my chin jutting out in defiance.

  ‘Why don’t we make it a bit earlier? That way I can help out with Franny too.’

  Stacey’s mouth stretches into a wide grin while I mentally kick myself. ‘Great idea! Shall we say six-thirty?’

  I must be a fan of self-flagellation because I find myself giving a curt nod. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.’

  Chapter 11

  The silence of the lane is broken by the rumbling of an engine as I make my way back to the house, and I’m both glad of the familiar sound and afraid of the narrow track at the same time. I press myself as far into the bush running alongside the lane as I can as the van nears, somehow entangling my hair in the prickly branches. I’m trying to extricate myself when Oliver toots his horn and waves cheerily from the van’s driver’s seat. I wave back, yelping as the bush attempts to scalp me as soon as I release my grip. I resume my battle with the bush as the van turns onto Arthur’s Pass and disappears from view, but my phone ringing in my pocket pauses my endeavours again. I manage to reach into my pocket without tearing out my hair and leaving a brunette mop on the branches like a badly-crafted bird’s nest, and jab at the answer button while trying to untangle myself with my free hand.

  ‘Vanessa! Hi!’ I’m aiming for a bright and breezy tone, but the task of freeing myself from the badly-behaved bush is taking its toll and it comes out strained and raspy. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Better than you by the sounds of it. Is everything okay?’

  I’m shocked by my boss’s concern; she’s never once asked after my well-being, not even the time I dragged my aching carcass to the office while in the full throes of a bout of the flu. ‘Everything is …’ I tug at a twig and hear it snap, leaving a small spike behind like a cave woman’s hair grip. ‘Fine. Great, in fact.’

  ‘Then why do you sound like you’re battling the crowds at a Primark Boxing Day Sale?’ Vanessa sniggers at her own little joke. The woman has never ventured a designer-clad toe inside a Primark store, so how would she know what it’s like?

  I try to change position but wince in pain as my hair is pulled tighter. ‘I’m, erm …’ I move slowly back to my original position. ‘Jogging! I’m jogging. The countryside is so beautiful, I thought I’d make the most of it.’

  ‘Right.’ Vanessa doesn’t seem convinced but I’m too busy trying to dislodge a twig that’s doing its best to penetrate my scalp. ‘Whatever. The reason I called is to apologise for my behaviour yesterday.’

  The sharp twig scrapes the palm of my hand as I finally disentangle it from my hair, but I barely feel it as I’m so shocked by Vanessa’s words. ‘You want to apologise? To me?’

  Vanessa never apologises to her staff, and even when she brings herself to apologise to clients, she’s never sincere, despite the sugary tones she adopts for the purpose.

  ‘Yes, which I know is totally out of character.’ Vanessa gives a self-deprecating laugh while I’m thinking what an understatement that is. ‘But Ty pointed out last night that I may have been a bit … bulldozer-like in my approach.’

  Wow. Tyler Johansson is one brave young man. And he is young compared to his girlfriend. While Vanessa is in her ‘early thirties’ (I’m her PA and privy to her private info. She is only just clinging onto her thirties and it’ll be a downright lie when she reaches her next birthday), Tyler is a twenty-two-year-old part-time model she met at a charity event three months ago. I’ve only met him a couple of times, when he’s dropped by the office to see Vanessa, but he seems decent enough and he’s obviously got balls of steel to go up against Vanessa Whitely.

  ‘I admit I may have been a bit forceful and that threatening to sack you if you didn’t take on the project manager role was wrong of me. It’s just that this project is very dear to me. You’ve seen the house – isn’t it magnificent? So just imagine how glorious it will be once the work is finished. I can’t wait to show it off!’

  ‘It is a beautiful house.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Vanessa breathes a contented sigh down the line. ‘So you see why I’m so determined to stick to my original plans? I need that house finished in time for the party. There is no way I can postpone. You see that, don’t you?’ I open my mouth to respond, but Vanessa ploughs on before I have the chance to utter a word. ‘But I shouldn’t have dropped you in the deep end like I did. That was unfair.’ There’s a pause for me to react to Vanessa’s statement, so I make a slight murmuring sound, neither agreeing nor disagreeing in case I back the wrong horse. You never quite know where you stand with Vanessa and I don’t want to rile her, even when we’re miles apart. ‘I’m going to come over, to do all I can to smooth the transition. Now, I can’t make it today – you of all people should know how incredibly busy I am. But I’ll get Emma to go through my diary and find a slot when I can give you my undivided attention. Is that okay with you, Becky?’

  I ignore the unwanted shortening of my name – I’ve allowed everyone in Little Heaton to think I’m Vanessa since I arrived, so what does it matter? ‘That would be great. Thank you.’

  ‘It’s the least I can do for behaving so terribly.’ She gives that self-deprecating laugh again. ‘Speak soon!’ And then she’s gone. I slip my phone back into my pocket and resume my bid for freedom. Vanessa, I think as I de-tangle a particularly barbed twig from my ponytail, would never find herself being assaulted by a bush. Finally free, I treat the bush to a death glare before I stomp my way to the house, humiliated, irritated and throbbing from numerous scratches and gouges.

  *

  ‘What happened to you?’

  I find the builders gathered on the steps in front of the house, Todd trapped under Harvey’s armpit in a headlock while Vincent is chatting animatedly on his phon
e. Oliver has jumped up from the steps and is heading towards me. He grins as he looks me up and down.

  ‘You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.’

  Funny that. I feel like it too and have the injuries to prove it.

  ‘You happened to me.’ I jab an accusatory finger at Oliver. ‘Do you make a habit of running people into bushes?’

  Oliver huffs out a humourless laugh. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Out there.’ My finger is now jabbing towards the lane. ‘You ran me into the bush and this happened.’ I hold out my arms, which look as though I’ve picked a fight with a tiger and lost.

  ‘Are you blaming me for the lane being so narrow?’ Oliver laughs again and shakes his head. ‘You really are unbelievable.’

  ‘And you’re …’ I want to tell him that he’s a great big knobhead, but that would be unprofessional. ‘… late for work.’ I jab at my watch, wincing as I spot a long, scarlet scratch across my knuckles that suddenly starts to sting like hell. ‘Can you just get to work, please?’ I don’t mean to snap, but I’m really not feeling myself right now. I’ve just gone through what feels like ten rounds with a bush, my hair must be an absolute state, and I’m on the verge of bursting into self-pitying tears.

  Oliver holds his hand up in surrender as he starts to back away. ‘There’s a first aid box in the guesthouse, in the cupboard under the sink. If I’m allowed to tell you that before I clock on?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ I reach into my pocket with my non-injured hand and toss the keys to him. I should apologise for being snippy but I really, really want to get inside so I can patch myself up and maybe have a cry.

  Chapter 12