The Accidental Life Swap. Jennifer Joyce

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