Still, silver linings and all that, this place is amazing. When I feared that, literally, all hope was lost, Shelby stepped in and found us this fantastic replacement. Thanks to him, we have a beautiful slice of Buckinghamshire countryside which we now call home and, dare I say, it’s probably better suited for our purposes than our previous home.
We need somewhere tranquil and private, a sanctuary away from the prying eyes and interference of neighbours. Our kids need peace and quiet while they try to overcome their individual challenges. We attempt to cater for all needs and the kids learn through interacting with our animals. Our daily activities teach them teamwork and allow them to flourish at their own pace in a safe environment. Some haven’t had the best start in life or have come from chaotic backgrounds. They need stability and a place to grow.
The downside of providing this idyll is that it all costs – handsomely – and we’re a teeny-tiny charity always struggling for funds. This new farm was only made possible by our patron and my other half, Shelby Dacre, but we need to raise the money to keep it going.
As I said, at the grand age of thirty-eight I fell in love for the very first time with someone who – given his reputation for dating ludicrously young and beautiful starlets – I’m still astonished even looked my way. Some days, I have to pinch myself to check that Shelby’s actually here and in my life. Except, at the moment, he isn’t. Well, not very much. The soap is filmed every weekday and is, more often than not, starting early and finishing late. Recently there have been a lot of meetings in London, too. Many things, it seems, conspire to keep him away from the farm and, consequently, from me.
Because he’s got so much on his plate, I don’t want to always be calling on Shelby for help to keep this place running, so I know that finding extra cash is essential. Bev is our chief fundraiser – as well as everything else she does to help me out. I just wish that she hadn’t come up with something so . . . exposing. She’s already got us going into care homes with our alpacas and I’ve barely got used to that. The residents, of course, love to see them. On paper, it’s a great idea. But, as you’ve probably already gathered, those guys love to look for trouble and I don’t want to be responsible for having a bunch of traumatised pensioners on my hands.
My default setting is to hide away; I just want to be alone here with the students, my needy animals and my heart-throb boyfriend. Is that too much to ask?
Apparently so.
Chapter Four
‘I’ll be back to see you later,’ I tell the alpacas. ‘I won’t forget.’
In unison, they hum innocently at me. Not buying it.
It’s a bright, sunny day and, even though it’s frosty underfoot, it’s the kind of day that makes you feel warm in your heart. The kind of day that makes you wonder why everyone can’t live on a farm. I take a quick tour of our animals to make sure they’re all OK. As dawn is a little later in the winter, we all have a bit of a lie-in and the animal part of the Hope Farm team are just rousing themselves.
All the animals here have been rescued for one reason or another. They’ve been neglected, sometimes abused, or they’ve outgrown their welcome or their cuteness. Most have sad stories in their past. But they’re here now and are treated with care, kindness and respect. Some might say they’re spoiled and pampered. But why not? We all deserve a bit of TLC in life, whether human or animal. The students who come here are taught how to look after the animals and, together, can make the world seem like a better place. Half the kids have never even seen a real hen, let alone cuddled one.
As well as taking on the new donkeys, I’ve adopted another dog to add to my growing pack. I know. But what could I do? Betty Bad Dog has been in and out of various rescue homes as she proves to be too much of a handful for one family after another. She’s also here as a last resort and, my goodness, is she living up to her name. We’ve tried to re-christen her as Betty Good Girl in the hope she’d turn over a new leaf, but I’m not sure that she’s fully embracing it. She loves to tip over the food bins and tries to lick sheep inappropriately whenever she can. But she’s cute with it – which is a good job. Betty’s still young – an indeterminate age – and has all the ‘exuberance’ of youth. She’s huge, but that doesn’t stop her from trying to sit on anyone and everyone’s lap. She’s pale like a golden retriever, sturdy like a Rhodesian Ridgeback. She permanently has one ear up and one ear down and looks as mad as cheese. Mischief seems to be the only thing on her mind. Her favourite misdemeanours include drinking unguarded cups of tea, chewing tissues, particularly the used variety, and weeing on everything when she gets over-excited, which is quite often. Still, she gets along very well with Little Dog and three-legged Big Dog, so I’ll take that.
Accompanied by my doggie companions, I carry on with my morning round. I’ve brought some pig nuts for Teacup our giant ‘miniature’ pig and I lean over the door of his stall to say, ‘Morning, big guy. How’s it going?’
Teacup heaves his substantial bulk to his feet and I throw him some breakfast and scratch his ears. Our lovely pig came to us when he’d outgrown his owner’s pocket-size garden in Hemel Hempstead. He’s enormous and built like a tank. Not even one of his trotters would fit in a teacup and I’d like to string up any breeder who sells these monster animals to tiny homes. My advice is never, ever get a pet pig unless you live on a farm.
Teacup’s closest companion is our dear little lamb, Fifty, who can often be found sleeping alongside him in his stall. This morning, Fifty is still out for the count, snuggled into the hay, and shows no signs of being ready to face the day. Fifty has the run of the yard. He seems to self-identify as a human or a dog rather than a sheep and we’re happy to go along with that. Gender and, apparently, species are more fluid these days. Fifty is a very handsome sheep with a brown face, doe eyes and large, flappy ears – a sheep made by Aardman. We indulge him, not only because he’s cute, but he was an orphaned lamb with damaged legs who we thought would never make it. He thrived through sheer will and determination, plus daily massages of lavender oil and being fed only the finest of foods. He still limps a bit, but that doesn’t stop him controlling the dogs in the yard – even Betty, to some extent. Occasionally, before I had a soap star sharing my bed, I used to let Fifty sleep with me alongside Big Dog and Little Dog. Now, because Fifty got fed up of being squashed by excess of dogs, he’s happier in Teacup’s quarters, but I do miss him sometimes.
In the next pen along are the other sheep. I don’t even like to count them now as we take on too many waifs and strays. I know it’s more than thirty. I hope it’s less than forty. Our main guy is Anthony the Anti-Social Sheep who has to have his own specially reinforced pen as he is a grumpy, middle-aged man of a sheep and will head-butt anyone he can of any species – humans are a speciality. Many a time, Anthony’s horns have made contact with my rear end, to my detriment. He’ll take any chance to catapult man or beast across the farmyard or field. Even when he’s outside we have to put him in his own paddock for the safety of all concerned. Anthony has to be handled with iron resolve and kid gloves, but I still love him dearly despite his curmudgeonly tendencies. We took away his ‘gentleman’s playthings’ in an attempt to make him less testy – with only limited success. He is more cross with the world than a pampered sheep needs to be.