Country Loving

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘You stole a strip of my land.’ Guy is incandescent with anger. ‘If it weren’t for Jennie, I’d have come round and torn a strip off you and stood over you while you moved it back.’

  It’s no wonder people aren’t happy about our plans when my father’s been antagonising them for years, I think.

  My father turns to me. ‘I did a proper job, Stevie.’

  ‘I don’t care. You shouldn’t have done it.’

  ‘Now you can tell us what really happened to the Christmas trees, the ones on the north side of my wood which you chopped down and sold to Fifi for the Garden Centre,’ Guy goes on. ‘Fifi, come over here,’ he adds, calling Fifi and her husband across to join our conversation.

  ‘I never,’ says my father, but I no longer know if he’s telling the truth. ‘I never sold any trees to you, Fifi.’

  ‘You sold some to me,’ says her husband. ‘There were about—’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Guy cuts in. ‘There were about ten of them, all around so high.’ He holds out his hand to demonstrate the height, about five foot.

  ‘That’s right. They were good-quality trees, a nice shape with plenty of needles, non-drop. We kept one back for Santa’s Grotto.’

  ‘Those trees were on my land. Ray planted them,’ says my father.

  I push in between Guy and my dad.

  ‘We farmers should stick together. We have enough to contend with without fighting amongst ourselves.’ My heart sinks when I see Guy set his mouth in a grim, straight line. This isn’t going well and I have the feeling we’ve made it worse.

  ‘This project will go ahead over my dead body. It’s ridiculous.’ Guy storms off, taking Jennie with him.

  ‘Sorry, Stevie,’ she mouths as she leaves. Everyone stands silent. All you can hear is the grandfather clock in the hall, ticking loud and slow.

  ‘That went well,’ I say ironically, trying to make light of it. ‘Anyone for more sherry?’ I grab a bottle from the side table and carry it around with me, topping up glasses while the guests start looking at the plans.

  ‘For a building that’s supposed to be designed by a good architect, it is in reality nothing but an oversized shed. We could do you one much cheaper off the shelf at the Garden Centre,’ Fifi says.

  ‘Thank you for the sarcasm, Fifi.’

  ‘I don’t think we have anything to worry about. Who is going to want to eat or drink in a shed when they can come to our gorgeous tearoom? You can’t get that kind of ambience in a shed,’ she adds to emphasise her point. ‘The rest of the farm is a mess too. Stevie, you have no sense of reality.’

  ‘It needs a lot of work,’ I concede.

  ‘It will take years to turn this place around.’

  ‘It’s a tinpot enterprise,’ Fifi’s husband says.

  ‘And a crackpot one,’ Fifi goes on. ‘I should stick to dairy farming if I were you, not that you’ve been making a very good job of that I hear. When are you expecting to open?’

  ‘Easter,’ I say.

  ‘You’ll be lucky,’ laughs Fifi. ‘Well, I can see we don’t need to stay any longer. The cupcakes are too sweet and the sherry far too dry.’

  It’s funny how it all disappears though, I think half an hour later, as I check the last bottle, which is empty, and make sure the cupcake I’ve saved for Leo is safely hidden away. I feel pretty empty too, temporarily drained of energy and enthusiasm, as I watch everyone leave, their opinions – I suspect – unchanged.

  ‘I’m going too,’ I tell my father. ‘I’m going to leave you to think about how you’re going to make it up to me. That was a complete bloody disaster.’

  ‘Where? Where are you going?’

  ‘To get the cows in. What did you think? That I was abandoning the farm, you silly old fool.’

  ‘What did you call me?’

  ‘You heard. Have you any more little secrets?’ I ask him. ‘Is there anything else I should know about?’

  ‘If there was, I wouldn’t tell you, the way you speak to me,’ my father says crossly. I don’t respond. Whistling for Bear, I walk out.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Don’t Feed the Animals

  It’s early August when James starts work on building the accommodation for the animals. The plans for the farm haven’t been approved, but here’s hoping, I think when I leave the dairy, smelling of milk and cleaning chemicals from where I’ve been scrubbing out the tank. Crossing the drive to the field opposite the house, I greet James, who is already hard at work with a hire truck – his van is away for repairs – and a load of wood and fence panels. On the hard-standing that has set at last – the concrete mix wasn’t right the first time and had to be dug out – are the three sides of a long, narrow shed made of breezeblocks.

  ‘Hi there, Stevie.’ James is up on a ladder, hammering in tacks to hold the roofing felt to the timber struts. The front of the building isn’t finished yet. We’re going to have chicken wire and wood frames to divide the shed into four separate areas.

  ‘That’s looking great,’ I say, shielding my eyes from the sun. ‘It looks like five-star accommodation.’

  ‘It’s a lot of money and work for what is just a giant rabbit hutch.’ James’s voice is filled with doubt. ‘I could save you a bit by getting rid of those double doors on the plans. Do you really need that kind of security for rabbits and guinea pigs?’

  ‘They’re to stop the children escaping,’ I say, smiling.

  ‘Would you mind passing me the bigger hammer? It’s in the toolbox. No, that’s a mallet,’ James goes on as I pick up the wrong tool.

  ‘I’m a farmer, not a chippie.’

  ‘By the way, I was wondering about the carnival. I fancy building a float this year and I was wondering if you’d mind if I borrowed a corner of the barn for it.’

  ‘Not at all. You’re welcome to, James.’

  ‘If you like, I could enter it in the name of Nettlebed Farm.’

  ‘Well, thank you.’

  ‘And if you wanted to, you could join in.’

  I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I can fit it all in. ‘That would be great. It sounds like a lot of fun. I’m sure Leo will be up for it.’ I notice how a shadow crosses James’s eyes at the mention of Leo. ‘We could ask Adam, Sophie and Georgia from next door if they’d like to help too.’

  ‘The more the merrier,’ James agrees. ‘Do you remember how we used to build a float with Young Farmers’ every year? Your dad would let us use the end of the barn and we’d get completely ratted on scrumpy.’

  ‘I remember how someone topped up the barrels with lemonade. A dissatisfied customer sent a pair of Trading Standards officers out, but by the time they’d been here half an hour, Ray and I had convinced them we’d done nothing to break the Trades Descriptions Act. I reckon one of them had a pretty severe headache the following day.’

  James grins. ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘Ray did a swap with Guy – a barrel of Uphill Farm cider in return for a bottle of Dad’s whisky. It was a risky strategy, as you can imagine, but although Dad accused Ray of stealing it, he never had any proof.’

  ‘Are you up for giving me a hand today?’ James asks.

  ‘Not today, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘I’m going to scrape the yard, have another meeting with DJ to discuss his quote for the visitor centre—’

  ‘The Shed, you mean?’ James interrupts, amused. ‘Just because it’s drawn up by an architect doesn’t make it less of a shed. I could have designed and built it for you for half the price.’

  ‘You might have to yet – build it, I mean. DJ has put in a ridiculous figure for contingencies.’

  ‘I’m not surprised to hear that. Have you checked his references?’

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about him.’

  ‘Surely that should be enough to put you off. I’m not sure he finished the job at the Sanctuary for Talyton Animal Rescue.’

  ‘But he’s available almost immediately.’

/>   James grins. ‘Really, Stevie, where’s your common sense? DJ makes a pig’s ear of whatever he does. I could do so much better for you.’

  ‘But you’re a one-man band. This is a big undertaking – even if it is just a shed,’ I add wryly.

  ‘I have a cousin who’s in the building trade. He’ll help me out.’

  ‘Let me see what DJ has to say for himself, then if you want to give me a quote for the work, I’ll look at it.’

  ‘Thanks, Stevie. Much appreciated.’

  ‘Anything for some peace and quiet.’

  I meet with DJ who is intransigent over the contingency fund. It makes me wonder if he has another building project in the pipeline or whether he’s booked an extended holiday, because he isn’t exactly putting himself out. I drop in to Jennie’s to talk it through with her.

  ‘What would you do?’ I ask her.

  ‘I’d take a risk and go with James if he can match the quote,’ she says. ‘That’s if you want to guarantee it’s ready for the spring.’

  ‘I have to say he got me worried when I asked him how long he thought he’d take to complete the build and all he could confirm was that it would take as long as it took.’ I pause, recalling what James said about the carnival. ‘James and I thought we’d build a float for the carnival in September,’ I continue.

  ‘You’re a glutton for punishment, Stevie. Are you sure you aren’t taking on too much?’

  ‘James will do most of the hard work. I’ll be creative director and supervise. Are you interested in joining in? As James says, the more the merrier.’

  ‘Can we do a float with you?’ asks Sophie, coming into the kitchen. ‘It sounds fun,’ but when Jennie raises the idea with Guy as he comes indoors, he isn’t impressed.

  ‘No way. Share with Nettlebed Farm? Absolutely not.’

  ‘But Guy—’ says Sophie.

  ‘We are not fraternising with the enemy.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to join in,’ says Sophie.

  ‘You can choose to do what you like, but I’m not getting involved. Anyway, carnival is so passé.’

  ‘You run the tar barrels,’ Jennie points out. ‘That’s a pretty ancient tradition too.’

  ‘It’s different,’ says Guy. ‘You don’t have to dress up and look like a complete prat.’

  Jennie apologises for her husband, not for the first time.

  ‘I don’t know what’s got into him,’ she says as he leaves the kitchen with a mug of coffee and hunk of fruitcake. ‘I know he’s worried about me and the baby, just like any other first-time father.’

  ‘He really doesn’t like the idea of the petting farm.’

  ‘I’ve told him he’ll have to get used to it – he will in the end.’

  ‘I’m going upstairs,’ Sophie says.

  ‘You should be outside,’ Jennie says. ‘It’s a lovely day. You could pop Bracken over a couple of jumps to keep her hoof in, so to speak. The final selection for the Pony Club showjumping team is this week. Sophia Fox-Gifford, the district commissioner, is choosing the final four. You and Georgia have a very good chance.’

  ‘Oh Mum, I don’t want to go.’

  ‘Well, we’re going and that’s that.’

  As Sophie ignores her mum’s advice, I pick up a gingerbread farmer from the plate on the kitchen table and nibble the icing from his foot – he’s wearing green wellies.

  ‘To think I could be bringing another Sophie into the world,’ Jennie sighs as Sophie stomps off upstairs.

  ‘I doubt it,’ I say wryly. ‘I think she’s a one-off. Didn’t you want to know the sex of the baby?’

  ‘I want it to be a surprise.’

  ‘How much longer have you got?’

  ‘Another month or so,’ Jennie says. ‘I’m as big as a house this time.’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do to help you out, just shout.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’m already very spoilt. The girls are taking it in turns to make breakfast, Adam’s been helping decorate the nursery – he’s moved his bedroom downstairs – and Guy’s been doing the shopping.’ She smiles. ‘I love being pregnant.’

  ‘I don’t envy you,’ I say, yawning as I rest my elbows on the table. ‘I think I got up too early.’

  ‘You look tired,’ Jennie observes.

  ‘I’m exhausted.’

  ‘I know it’s none of my business, but have you considered you might be pregnant?’ At first I think she’s joking, but her expression is serious. ‘I mean it, Stevie. I was going to say something before, but I didn’t feel I knew you well enough. I can usually tell these things – you have a certain look about you.’

  ‘There’s no way, unless it was an immaculate conception.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jennie says. ‘My mistake. Forget it.’

  The trouble is, now Jennie’s brought the subject up, I can’t. I lost weight and developed some muscle when I started working back on the farm, but I’ve started having to loosen the belt on my jeans.

  ‘I’d be pretty far gone if I was pregnant,’ I mutter.

  ‘You’d just finished with your ex when I first met you,’ Jennie says.

  ‘That was ages ago and Nick and I hardly ever …’ I pause and think.

  Jennie raises one eyebrow. ‘You didn’t fancy him all that much then? Guy and I couldn’t keep our hands off each other.’

  Jennie, too much information, I groan inwardly.

  ‘What about Leo?’ Jennie asks. ‘Have you and him … you know, been intimate?’

  ‘Not that intimate. Not yet,’ I say bashfully.

  ‘How long were you and Nick together?’

  ‘Eighteen months.’

  ‘So there was plenty of time to make a baby.’

  ‘I was on contraception.’ Something clicks in my brain as I bite the gingerbread farmer in half with a loud snap. ‘I put the odd bout of sickness and other changes down to stress. It didn’t occur to me …’ I glance down at my stomach. It’s impressively hard, but not entirely flat.

  ‘It isn’t impossible,’ Jennie says. ‘Some women don’t know they’re pregnant until they’re in labour. If you ignored the early signs or put them down to another cause … Oh look, I’m being daft. Let’s talk about something else.’

  I look at the gingerbread farmer, afraid that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew in more ways than one.

  That evening, I walk slowly back across the yard in my vest top, shorts and wellies, having fed the calves one last time. The sun has already slipped behind the hills above the house, the upstairs windows are gleaming with persimmon light and the front door is lost in shadow. Across the yard, a cow bellows for her friends – it’s either Poppet or China. I kept them indoors after milking because they’re both due to calve and I like to keep an eye on them, even though they’d probably manage perfectly well out in the field without me as midwife.

  ‘Hi, Stevie. Is that you?’ My heart misses a beat at the sound of Leo’s voice emerging from the dusk. Bats flit about overhead. ‘Do you want to come in for a coffee?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ I say. I could do with a break from Dad, Cecil and Mary. The conversation at teatime ranged from the price of wheat to the best way to treat corns, with all three of them opting for calling Mrs Wall, the woman who wishes away not only warts but corns and other blemishes for a small fee. More than that, though, I could do with a break from the nagging worry Jennie has implanted in my head. ‘Would you like me to fetch you some cider?’ I ask, sorely tempted to drink myself senseless.

  ‘No thank you,’ he says quickly. ‘That stuff is too rough for me. I haven’t the stomach for it.’

  It’s odd, but neither have I at the moment. Since I’ve been back, I’ve lost my taste for it.

  By the light of a single lantern, Leo makes coffee – decaff – and cuts up one of Jennie’s cakes, a chocolate sponge, into slices to share before he sits down beside me on the sofa.

  ‘How was your day?’ I ask, snuggling up against him.

  ‘Not so bad. Bu
sy …’ He wraps his arm around my shoulders.

  ‘So this isn’t the best time to talk about animals? I need to pick your brain.’

  ‘It is my specialist subject, so fire away, unless it’s about one of the cows, in which case I can stick my boots on and come and have a look.’

  ‘It’s about the project. I thought you might be able to give me some advice on the mix of animals on my list and about sourcing them.’ I flash him a smile. ‘I have to keep my vet bills down any way I can.’

  ‘You could have some meerkats – they’re popular at the moment,’ Leo says.

  ‘They’re zoo, not farm animals.’ I give him a nudge. ‘Call yourself a vet?’

  ‘Well, why not have some exotics? You’ve already said you want rabbits and guinea pigs. They don’t fit in terribly well on a farm. You farmers are usually out shooting rabbits.’

  ‘I’m concentrating on having a small flock of ewes, goats and a pair of pigs, preferably unusual or rare breed, like Gloucester Old Spot or Tamworth.’ I continue, ‘Whatever we choose, I need to make sure the animals are healthy, aren’t carrying any diseases that could harm the visitors – and I’d like to offer a home to as many rescues as possible.’

  ‘The public will like the idea of you taking on pre-loved animals.’

  ‘I thought I could use their stories as part of the displays outside their pens.’

  ‘So you need animals that are suitable for handling – individuals that have been handled before or are at least tractable with a good temperament,’ Leo says. ‘Much like me.’

  ‘And they should be photogenic and personable,’ I add.

  ‘Much like me too. How do you decide a sheep is personable?’ He chuckles. ‘What are you going to do? Interview them all?’

  ‘I thought you could assess them for me. I’ll pay you, as part of your vet duties.’ The words I’ve been trying to hold back come tumbling from my mouth. ‘If you’re still here …’

  ‘If I’m still here,’ he echoes.

  His expression is soft, yet there is a hunger in his eyes that undermines me. There’s something about Leo that gets right under my skin.

  ‘Do you think you’ll ever settle down?’ I ask tentatively.