‘Stop preaching at me! You didn’t have to pay it. I didn’t ask you to go poking your nose in where it’s not wanted.’
‘Well, somebody has to.’
‘I can’t help it. I’ve been ill.’ Dad bangs the end of a crutch against the floor. ‘I’ve been in hospital.’ A tear drips from the end of his nose; although I’ve never seen my father cry before, I can’t help thinking they’re only crocodile tears. ‘What do you expect?’
‘A thank you and some respect. I’m your daughter. It isn’t too much to ask.’ Unable to continue the conversation without saying something I’ll regret, I head back out into the kitchen, feed Bear a small meal of cold chicken from the fridge and put his blanket through the wash. Bear sits quietly beside the Aga, hardly able to keep his eyes open, and as he nods off, I realise someone is missing and that someone is Nick.
‘Dad,’ I call, ‘have you seen Nick?’
‘Last time I saw him, he said he was going for a walk.’
‘That’s odd.’ I check my mobile. There are three missed calls. I switched it to silent when I went into the vet’s to collect Bear. I listen to the voicemails. They’re all from Nick and getting increasingly desperate.
I’m in the barn. Can you come and find me?
Stevie, where are you? I thought you’d be back from the vet’s by now. What’s keeping you?
I’m stuck. You’ve got to help me get the hell out of here.
I slip back into my wellies and run straight out across the yard to the barn where the cows are indoors resting and chewing the cud. I stand at the gate.
‘Nick, where are you?’
‘Over here.’ He sounds petrified. ‘Stevie, help me. I’m trapped.’
I climb the gate and walk along the first aisle of cubicles. They are pens open at one end and separated by rails; the cows can walk in and out of them at will and feed on silage or lie down. Nick is in the far corner where the walls of the barn are too high to climb, perched on an upside-down metal bucket scoop surrounded by several nosy cows, one of whom is licking his boot.
‘They won’t let me go.’
‘Wave your arms and yell at them. Grow a pair, man. They’ll soon move.’ I start laughing as he waves and says shoo so quietly I can hardly hear him. ‘What are you scared of? They won’t eat you. They’re vegetarian.’
‘It isn’t funny. I’ve read stories about people being trampled to death.’
‘They’re curious about you, that’s all,’ I say, strolling across and moving them away. ‘There you go.’
‘Thanks,’ he says grudgingly. ‘I was afraid no one would find me before it was too late.’
I lean up for a kiss. ‘What were you doing anyway?’
‘I came looking for you. I had a message from work and I really need to get back to the office by tomorrow lunchtime. Is that okay with you?’
‘That’s fine.’
‘I thought we’d make an early start,’ he says, heading rapidly for the exit.
‘We … ? Nick, I can’t go back tomorrow. You can see how it is. I’ve hardly started.’
Back outside in the farmyard, I am reminded of how much the farm has been neglected. The house has sash windows that have seen better days. My father used to repair and paint them every year, but the blue paint has peeled away to leave rotten wood exposed to the elements. A pane of glass in the front door has broken and been covered with tape.
‘Stevie, it isn’t your responsibility.’ Nick runs his hands through his hair as if he’s losing patience with me. ‘The farm belongs to your father. You have a life, a job, a flat, friends … me … of your own in London. You don’t need to take on this place as well.’
‘It isn’t for ever. I want to do what I can, at the very least leave the farm in a manageable state for Cecil and Dad, and I do have a stake in it, remember?’
‘You don’t have to spend your money on it, though. What have you paid for so far? Feed for the cows and the vet’s bill for the dog. It isn’t right.’
‘I have savings. I have a good income. I’m doing it because I want to.’
‘But there’s our future to think about …’
I know what he’s hinting at, the Big Wedding, the one I haven’t agreed to yet.
‘Look, Nick, the more you push me, the less I’m able to decide. I don’t know why, but it’s annoying.’
‘I don’t want you to forget, darling.’
‘As if.’ I try to lighten the mood with some gentle teasing. ‘It’s your memory you should be concerned about, old man.’
‘Stevie, I’m not that much older than you,’ Nick says, ‘and talking of old men, maybe it’s time you thought of alternative ways of raising money to keep the farm going. Cecil’s well overdue for retirement. If he and Mary moved out of the cottage, your father could tidy it up and rent it out.’
‘Oh no, that isn’t going to happen. My father would never agree to make Cecil and Mary homeless. And nor would I – that would be very cold and callous and I couldn’t have it on my conscience. They’ve lived at Nettlebed Farm for ever. Where would they go?’
‘I don’t know.’ Nick shrugs. ‘It isn’t your problem.’
I stare at him. I’m not sure I like him very much at the moment.
‘I think it’s a rotten idea. Who would look after the cows?’ I go on.
‘Your father can hire a younger person and give them a room in the farmhouse – it’s big enough. Come on, Stevie, you can do the maths. It’s a no-brainer.’
‘You’re right that something drastic needs to be done to bring the farm back into profit, but I have to disagree with your suggestion of how to go about it,’ I say crossly. ‘I don’t want to discuss it any further.’
Unlike the cows, the situation isn’t black and white.
Chapter Five
Chicken Run
Nick goes back to London the day after Jack’s visit to Nettlebed Farm and texts me several times a day for the next couple of days, asking me when I’m coming home. Jack continues to monitor the welfare of the animals on the farm, and he is quietly optimistic that he won’t have to take further action, although he’s still worried about what will happen when I leave.
There isn’t much sign of that being possible at the moment, I think, as almost a week passes and people at work start to hassle me about deadlines and cancelled appointments. Cecil and I do the milking together, which means he has a little spare time. He fills it with other tasks such as repairing the chicken run, because I mentioned in passing that it would be good to have hens around the place again like we used to. I contact Ruthie, who runs Hen Welfare, to arrange for Cecil to pick up a dozen hens and Ray calls me back at last, although he is singularly unhelpful, suggesting we should sell up. When I point out that Dad and I would outvote him, he says he’s happy to remain a sleeping partner in Nettlebed Farm, but he doesn’t want to get involved in maintaining the dairy herd.
The morning after speaking to my brother, I’m washing down the parlour, with Bear watching me from the top of the steps, keeping out of the way of the end of the hose. My thoughts return to Nick, how much I’m missing him and what it would be like to be married. We have similar tastes in music and food, and we have work in common, so there’s no reason not to be married, but neither can I find a reason that we should be. If we did tie the knot, we could afford a really good house close to Wimbledon Common, where we could walk the dog, one like Bear, which we’d have when we had our children, a boy and a girl, and I was working part-time, or not at all. I smile to myself. I could become a yummy mummy.
I check the temperature on the bulk tank, wash my hands and go inside for a cooked breakfast. While I’m waiting for my coffee to cool down, I call India.
‘Hi, how are you?’ I ask, picturing her with the espresso she has to have to give her a kick-start in the mornings. She’s a night owl, whereas I’m an early bird.
‘I’m missing my happy flatmate, of course. When are you coming home?’
‘Soon, I hope. Well, as
soon as I can. Another week should do it.’
‘I really can’t imagine you working on the farm in jeans and wellies.’ India chuckles. ‘You missed a great party for Eddie’s flat-warming on Saturday. Aren’t you bored witless stuck out in the middle of nowhere?’
‘It’s giving me time to think about me and Nick, and what I want out of life.’
‘You sound like you’re about ninety,’ India sighs.
‘Nick wants an answer and it isn’t fair to keep him hanging on.’
‘I know.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘I saw him at the party and when he dropped in to pick up his spare phone charger. He said he left it here the last time he stayed over with you.’
‘Oh? He didn’t mention it.’
‘He didn’t stop for long. Stevie, he’s missing you like mad. He didn’t stop talking about you.’
It doesn’t feel right though, I muse. India’s my best friend – she’s supposed to gossip with me, not with Nick.
‘He adores you,’ India goes on, ‘which is why I can’t understand why you’re taking so long to decide.’
‘You won’t say anything to him, will you?’ I ask, hesitant to reveal my innermost thoughts because India, although well-meaning, is also well known to suffer from bouts of ‘foot-in-mouth syndrome’, letting slip secrets to the wrong people.
I gaze out of the kitchen window towards the ash tree that, although upended by the wind over the winter, is springing into leaf in the garden. ‘I’m not sure I can commit to Nick at the moment.’ Like the tree, I feel strangely uprooted.
‘You are coming back?’ India says.
‘Yes, of course. There’s nothing to keep me here, is there?’
‘I don’t know, hun, that’s why I’m asking.’ She pauses. ‘I’d better go – I’m late for work.’
‘You’re always late for work,’ I laugh.
‘I miss you,’ she says.
‘Miss you too.’ I cut the call and begin tidying up. I’m on a mission when Dad turns up half-dressed for breakfast.
‘Did that dog sleep upstairs with you last night?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say, outright denial seeming like the best option. Bear had looked at me with his head cocked to one side when I was about to shut him in the lean-to, and I thought, why not? I let him up on condition he slept on a blanket on the floor, but I woke in the small hours with him lying across my feet.
‘He isn’t a pet, Stevie. He’s a working dog and he needs to know his place – like someone else not so far away from here.’
‘Like me, you mean?’
‘You’ve waltzed in here and taken over, and you speak to me as if I’m as mad as a sack full of ferrets. I’m not stupid.’
It’s true. I probably would treat him differently if he was well. I take a quick guilt-trip around the kitchen to pour the tea from the pot. One of the mugs is chipped.
‘I’m going to throw this away, Dad.’
‘Where do you think I’m going to get another one? I’m not made of money, you know.’
‘I know that, but it’s broken.’
‘It can be mended.’
‘I imagine it can, but by whom? It’s finished. Dad, you can’t keep all this rubbish.’
‘That mug with the sunflowers reminds me of your mother,’ he says gruffly. ‘It was her favourite.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I place the mug on the windowsill, the sudden wave of sorrow at the mention of my mum reminding me to temper my enthusiasm for tidying up.
‘I can see what you’re doing, clearing the house so you can sell up as soon as I pop my clogs.’
‘It’s nothing of the sort. I’m trying to make the house habitable. It’s unhygienic – there are mouse droppings in the cupboard under the sink. It can’t go on.’ My mother wasn’t house-proud, but she would never have let the place get into such a state.
‘We should do something in Mum’s memory,’ I suggest. ‘We could go to the church together and take some flowers.’
‘I don’t want to go and spend time at the grave. I’ll be there with her long enough.’
‘Dad, that’s a terrible thing to say.’
‘It’s true.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, snap out of it.’ Annoyed at myself for saying what I did – because my father can’t help being a grumpy old man – I go outside towards the cowshed to mix up the milk replacer for the calves. They are kept in what we call the ‘nursery’ next door, a breezeblock building with a stable door and deep straw bedding. The calves are hungry, as always, with the exception of the smallest, Domino’s heifer calf – Cecil has named her Pearl. She hangs back in the far corner, her head down and her belly tucked up, while the others crowd me, nudging at my legs and the buckets, eager to be fed. Making my way through the group, I fill the feeder. The calves latch on to the rubber teats and drink, sucking noisily.
‘Come on, Pearl.’ I push her across to the feeder with my arms around her chest and hindquarters, but she isn’t interested. Her nose is dry and her eyes are dull. I check her temperature, which is sky high, and her navel, which is swollen and sticky.
‘Well, Pearl, I’ll have to call the vet,’ I tell her. ‘If I believed in the paranormal, I’d think something was out to get us with the run of bad luck we’re having.’
It’s Leo who calls in to see the calf. He gives me a lecture on the importance of good stockmanship and hygiene in preventing navel ill before stopping abruptly and looking me straight in the eye.
‘What’s that phrase,’ he says, ‘the one about teaching your grandmother to suck eggs? I’m sorry for going on at you – you must be getting rather a complex. I saw Jack earlier today when he brought a badger in for euthanasia. He said you had everything under control.’
‘I’m doing what I can.’
‘What about the dog? Have you got that under control as well?’
‘Bear’s locked indoors, but you don’t need to worry about him biting you – Maz at Otter House has pulled most of his teeth out.’
‘Poor dog,’ he says, surprising me with his sympathy for Bear as he injects the calf and hands me some needles and a bottle of penicillin.
‘I can remember what to do,’ I say, before he can give me another lecture on how to use them. ‘I used to do all the injections on the farm.’
‘I’ll be back in five days’ time to see her. In the meantime, she’ll need some TLC.’
‘Do you need to see her again?’ I don’t want Leo to think I’m not putting the welfare of the cattle first, but I’m finding it hard to justify the cost of another visit. ‘Alex doesn’t normally have to come back.’
‘We work in different ways and I’d rather check up on her.’ Leo’s gaze lingers on my face for just a fraction too long, making me wonder if he’s really intent on checking up on me.
‘I could let you know how the calf is on the phone to save you a trip. Nettlebed Farm’s a bit out of the way.’
‘It certainly is.’ Leo counts out some syringes for me from his box. ‘I’m staying with the Pitts at Barton Farm.’
‘I know them: Stewart, his wife Lynsey and their family.’
‘That’s right. There are supposed to be seven children, but it feels like seventy. The house never sleeps. There’s always something going on, some crisis or other. Last night the little one, Frances, fell down the stairs and had to be rushed to A and E with concussion. The night before that, two of the brothers got into a scrap and I was enlisted to mop up the blood and close a head wound with butterfly strips.’
‘You aren’t keen on children then?’ I smile.
‘They’re a necessary part of life, but preferably not mine. Friends say it’s different when you have your own, but I have no immediate plans.’
Our fingers touch as Leo hands over the syringes. I pull sharply away as if his skin is on fire and a rush of blood sweeps up my neck at the thought of a quick roll in the hay with him. I put it down to an indefinable animal instinct, a pheromone-mediated urge
beyond my control. I’m with Nick, so why am I wondering what it would be like to be up close and personal with someone else, least of all this man who, although in a better frame of mind than when I first met him, doesn’t exactly come across as a warmhearted character?
‘I’ll see you in a few days’ time,’ he says, a spark of amusement in his eyes.
‘If I’m still here.’
Leo frowns.
‘It’s all right. You don’t have to pretend to be disappointed,’ I say brightly. ‘I’ll be going back to London. I have a flat and a job there.’ Maybe it’s because Leo has already met Nick briefly that I decide not to bother to mention the boyfriend. ‘I’m an accountant.’
‘The role of lady farmer suits you,’ Leo says. ‘I can’t imagine you working in an office.’
‘I don’t mind, but I’m going to find it hard to go back to working indoors after this.’ I pause. Leo doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave and I wonder about offering him coffee, but I can’t really spare the time.
‘The cow, Domino. How is she?’ Leo asks.
‘I’ll show you if you like.’ We cross the farmyard together and stop at the barn. ‘That’s her.’ I point to the one lying down in the first cubicle. She flicks a lazy fly from her ear and chews on the cud.
‘She looks better already,’ Leo says, sounding surprised.
‘Actually, there’s another one you could look at today while you’re here, if you don’t mind.’ I noticed her limping slightly this morning, and feel a twinge of remorse that I’d forgotten about her until Leo’s presence jogged my memory.
He’s already lifting the catch on the gate and pushing it open.
‘I’ll get her in the crush,’ I say, marshalling the patient out of the barn. ‘This is Honeydew the third.’
‘Out of Honeydew the second, I assume,’ Leo says lightly.
‘Yes, and I’m very afraid that there won’t be a fourth generation of Honeydews the way the farm is going. I can fix the immediate problems by throwing some money at them, but it’s the long term I’m worried about.’ It’s been keeping me awake at night. ‘There’s so much to put right when you look at the buildings and the land. The farm needs more investment than my father can make from dairy farming.’
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