Country Loving

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘He’s just being friendly,’ Adam says, but the little boy is unconvinced.

  ‘It’s got butters,’ he cries.

  ‘Butters?’ Adam scratches his head.

  ‘I think he means horns. He doesn’t like the horns,’ the boy’s mum says.

  ‘I don’t like amamules.’

  ‘He means animals,’ his mum explains, but her translation gets lost in more screaming.

  ‘You’d better take him away,’ Adam says, ‘you’re frightening the goats.’

  ‘Adam,’ I warn him. I wish he’d be more tactful, otherwise it’s going to be him, not my dad, who’s going to frighten the visitors. ‘Where’s Rosie?’

  ‘She and Maddie are with the rabbits.’

  ‘Together? I’ve asked them not to work together – they’ll only chat.’

  ‘There’s quite a crowd. The rabbits and guinea pigs are very popular,’ Adam says brightly. ‘In fact, you might want to get rid of the goats in future and concentrate on the small furry animals.’

  When I reach the rabbits, there are lots of visitors queuing up to pet them. I suggest to some people that they move on to do the Nature Trail while the weather’s better and come back to the rabbits later. I wonder if there’s going to be a welfare issue with some of the animals having to work harder than others. I can’t help smiling to myself at the thought of the rabbits working to rule, but I soon lose my sense of humour when an irritated parent accosts me to complain their child has been savaged by one of the guinea pigs.

  ‘It was Bernie,’ says Maddie. ‘She scratched the boy because he was rough with her.’

  ‘That is rubbish,’ the father says. ‘She was squeaking and struggling to get away – clearly she isn’t suitable for handling by children. She’s dangerous.’

  She’s a guinea pig and she’s been chosen especially for her temperament and been trained, I want to say. I bite my tongue. Isn’t it the case that the customer is always right?

  ‘I’ll radio for our trained first-aider,’ I say, calling for James.

  ‘Code blue,’ I say, using our pre-planned code so as not to cause alarm among our guests.

  ‘I’ll be right there. Over and out.’

  James arrives within half a minute, screaming up on the quad bike with a first-aid kit, a beaming smile and a cock-and-bull story of how he was once bitten by a crocodile.

  I touch his shoulder as he squats down beside the boy and chats to the dad. ‘Thanks, James. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ I move on to the far end of the rabbit housing – I used to call them the small furries but today small furies would be more appropriate. In the end pen, two of the rabbits are mounting each other.

  ‘Granny, those rabbits are gay.’

  ‘They are just playing, darling.’

  ‘They are mating with each other. I’ve seen it on a nature programme.’

  ‘Sh, Hannah, not in front of your grandmother,’ her mum says.

  ‘Don’t you worry about me,’ says the older woman. ‘I’m seventy-eight and I’ve seen it all before.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think it should be allowed. It’s so embarrassing and awkward trying to explain it to the children.’ The mum directs her complaint to me. ‘It isn’t appropriate in front of young children, especially when it’s two boy rabbits. I mean, it isn’t natural, is it?’

  I don’t apologise. ‘Far from going into the nature versus nurture debate, it’s what animals do. I want to show life down on the farm as it is, not some sanitised version that doesn’t reflect reality. I don’t see what I can do, apart from offer to separate the offending animals, but they’re friends. They need company of their own kind.’ I pause. ‘Why don’t you come along and see the chickens?’ Inwardly I’m hoping they’re not squawking and pecking each other as they were the day before, maintaining their social hierarchy.

  I escort them to the chicken coop where, to my surprise, I find my brother and his two girls.

  ‘You came,’ I say, as Ray and I kiss each other’s cheeks. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s so cool,’ says the younger girl, Christiane, who’s come prepared in spotty wellies and a matching fleece. ‘I’ve stroked a sheep and a rabbit.’

  Alisiana wrinkles her nose. ‘It’s all a bit smelly,’ she says.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s her age,’ says Ray. ‘She’s hit puberty early.’

  ‘Please don’t talk about me like that, Ray,’ she says. ‘I shall tell Mummy.’

  ‘Why don’t I buy you an ice cream?’ I say, finding some cash. ‘Mary is selling ice creams in the Shed.’

  ‘Go on, girls,’ says Ray. ‘I’ll catch you up. You’ve done well, Stevie. I can’t believe you did it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I respond. ‘Have you spoken to Dad?’

  ‘He made me pay full price for our tickets,’ Ray says with a rueful smile. ‘Stevie, I know what you’re doing, trying to get us all together again, but it won’t work. I’ll be civil to the old sod, but that’s as far as it goes.’

  ‘Well, that’s great because that’s more than I expected, Ray.’ I pause. ‘Have you seen your baby niece yet?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Come with me. She’s with Mary.’

  ‘What’s that saying again?’ I ask Mary, once Ray and the girls have cooed over Holly – and Christiane has tried to feed her ice cream – and they’ve returned outside to see the rest of the farm, Ray promising to make more effort to keep in touch.

  Mary looks up from where she’s supervising Georgia, who’s doing some waitressing during the school holidays. ‘What was that, my lover?’

  ‘What’s that saying,’ I repeat, ‘the one about never working with children or animals? There’s a lot of truth in it.’

  She smiles. ‘Sit down, Stevie. I’ll fetch Holly’s bottle and a cup of tea.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Don’t look round, but Fifi is here – she’s eating Jennie’s cider cake. Can you believe it after all she said?’

  The rest of the day runs smoothly. I spend the last half an hour topping up the soap and paper towels for hand-washing and reuniting a family who managed to get themselves separated somewhere along the Nature Trail. We have signs everywhere, reading, ‘Children, if you lose your parents, ask the nearest member of staff and we’ll put out a message to find them.’

  By four-thirty, the last of the visitors go home, and we have a small celebration for the staff in the tearoom, with food and drinks – a chance to say thank you and relax. I hold Holly in my arms, making up for the time we missed out on during the day.

  My father raises a glass of bubbly and makes a speech that touches my heart.

  ‘A toast to my daughter and lady farmer, Stevie. I doubted her, but she didn’t give up. Thank you for bringing the farm back to life.’

  ‘Thank you, Dad, for letting me get on with it in the end.’ I walk up to him and kiss him on the cheek, waiting for the applause to die down before continuing. ‘Thank you for everyone’s help today and over the past few months. I couldn’t have done this without you.’

  ‘Let me have my granddaughter,’ Dad says, and I willingly hand her over.

  ‘We’ve enjoyed every minute,’ says Cecil, joining in. ‘Almost every minute.’ I wonder if he’s a little tipsy when he continues. ‘It isn’t what you’ve done in life that you regret. It’s what you didn’t do. And our Stevie will have no regrets. Cheers, Stevie.’

  ‘Thank you, Cecil.’ I give him a hug. ‘I owe you so much. You’re a very special man.’

  ‘We’ve got something for you,’ Adam says, interrupting. He hands me a package. I open it to find a sweatshirt with ‘Nettlebed Farm, The Boss’ embroidered on it. I put it on straight away.

  ‘Perhaps you’ll all listen to me now,’ I tease.

  It’s been a brilliant day, exceeding all expectations, and I reckon with the takings as they are and the fact that Nick has finalised the purchase of my London flat, it won’t be very long until we can afford to buy that new tractor I’ve had my eye on, but the
re is never a moment when my thoughts are not with Leo. I miss him more than ever.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Home Is Where the Heart Is

  I wrap Holly up in layers of vests, babygros and a furry onesie with floppy rabbit ears attached to the hood – we sell them in the gift shop – before I tuck her into the sling, hugging her to my chest and wrapping my coat around her. She’s three-and-a-half months old now, yet I feel as if I’ve known her all my life.

  ‘You’ll be as snug as a bug in a rug,’ I tell her as she wriggles to find the most comfortable position and then I begin to worry that she’ll overheat. ‘I have never worried about anything so much in my life,’ I tell Mary, who’s slaving over a hot Aga. ‘It’s all-consuming.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Dad asks. He is up and dressed and shaved, with a bloody nick on his chin.

  ‘You’ve cut yourself.’ I hand him a tissue from the box on the dresser. He takes it and sticks it in his jacket pocket more intent on protecting his granddaughter from the perils of the great outdoors.

  ‘You aren’t taking Holly out in this weather? It isn’t right. She’ll get pneumonia.’

  ‘She’ll be fine with me.’

  ‘What are you doing, though? Cecil’s milking the cows.’

  ‘I’m hiding the eggs for the Easter egg hunt.’

  ‘Can’t somebody else do that?’

  ‘I want to do it.’ I smile. ‘I know all the best hiding places.’

  ‘You don’t have to do everything. You’ll wear yourself out, Stevie.’

  ‘I want everything to be perfect. I don’t want to disappoint anyone.’ I pause, stroking the top of Holly’s head. ‘I wish Holly was old enough to be excited about an Easter egg hunt.’

  ‘Don’t wish her life away, my lover,’ Dad says. ‘She’ll be grown up soon enough and then you’ll wonder where the years went.’

  I leave the house, crossing the yard to watch the last batch of cows enter the parlour, looking happy and healthy. I head for the beautiful new building which will forever be known as the Shed, unlock the door and go inside to fetch the box of Easter eggs, putting them on a trolley so I can move them while carrying Holly at the same time.

  As I walk back outside, James and Adam appear in the doorway, ready for work.

  ‘Hey!’ I say, as James snatches a creme egg from the top of the box. ‘Go on, Adam, you can have one too, but no more. Don’t go looking for eggs because I want some left for the other little kids.’ I grin. At last I feel confident. I feel like the boss.

  ‘I hope people turn up today,’ James says. ‘It’s pretty cold outside. There’s ice on the donkeys’ trough and the goats’ water buckets.’

  ‘We’ll just have to hope it warms up. Thanks for your concern, guys, but I’m supposed to do the worrying around here.’ I go outside and start hiding eggs among the bales of hay in the barn. Someone is watching me and, when I turn round, I find Bear standing beside the trolley, sniffing the air for the scent of chocolate.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ I tell him, and he slopes off with his tail between his legs, casting me backward glances.

  Once I’ve finished, I return the trolley to the shop, just as Holly decides she’s worked up an appetite. I take her to the house to feed her and myself.

  ‘I see your appetite’s come back,’ Mary observes. ‘You look much better.’

  I smile to myself. I know she means well and I know what she’s trying to do – make me realise I can live without Leo and be happy.

  James radios through to me. ‘Hi Stevie, one of the ewes is lambing. She needs some assistance and my hands are too big, my father’s greatest disappointment,’ he says with humour. ‘Can you pop straight over?’

  ‘Okay,’ I sigh. ‘I’m on my way’.

  I leave Holly with Mary and join James in the sheep pens. One of the mule ewes – we call her Erica – is lying in the straw, straining to give birth, the water bag hanging from her rear end.

  ‘Have you any idea how long she’s been like this?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s been down for twenty minutes or so. Cecil said she was all right when he checked on the ewes before milking.’

  I wash my hands and don a pair of latex gloves. ‘Hang on to her for me, will you?’

  James moves around to the ewe’s front end and kneels in the straw, restraining her in a headlock so I can examine her. I can feel a pair of feet in the birth canal. I slide my fingers gently past them, waiting while the ewe strains before groping for the rest of the lamb.

  ‘I can’t feel a head.’

  ‘Is it coming backwards?’ James asks.

  ‘It’s coming forwards as it should be, but I think its head’s turned back and caught on the bones of the ewe’s pelvis. Or it could be its rump.’

  ‘Do you think you can sort it?’

  ‘I’ll have a go.’ I’ll have to be careful though. It’s a delicate manoeuvre and the last thing I want to do is cause the ewe any pain or, even worse, long-term damage.

  ‘Should I call the vet or fetch the Land Rover? We can put her in the back and rush her over to Talyton Manor.’

  ‘Give me five minutes. If I can straighten the lamb out, we’ll be all right. If not …’ I close my eyes, ignoring James and concentrating on saving mum and baby. Between contractions, I push the lamb back into the womb before I can identify which leg is which. ‘I think it’s a front leg I’ve got hold of,’ I say, frowning. ‘I’ve got the fetlock, which is connected to the shank which is joined to the knee or wrist.’

  James starts singing ‘Dem Dry Bones’.

  ‘It is the front leg – I’ve found the head.’ I move it gently to line up with the front legs when the ewe strains again, forcing the lamb back into the birth canal.

  ‘How’s it going?’ James asks.

  ‘It’s on its way, but I don’t think it’s going to make it.’ It won’t suck on my finger. ‘There’s no sign of life.’

  ‘It isn’t the best start to the day. It’s lucky it arrived before any kids turned up to watch,’ James says as the ewe lifts her head to look for her baby as it emerges onto the straw. It’s heart-wrenching to watch her sniff and lick at it, trying in vain to revive it. As I wipe a tear from my eye, James hands me a scruffy handkerchief.

  ‘It’s clean,’ he says, sliding his arm around my back.

  ‘It always gets to me,’ I sniffle. ‘I’ll never make a proper farmer.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be a proper farmer if you didn’t get upset sometimes. It’s gutting to lose any animal.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, thinking of Domino.

  ‘Is there another one in there?’ James asks, looking down at the ewe.

  ‘I didn’t check.’

  ‘I reckon there is.’

  We watch the ewe strain again once, twice and three times, and out drops a second lamb onto the straw. The ewe, giving up on the first lamb, turns and licks the membranes from the second lamb’s muzzle, at which it lifts and shakes its head, as though surprised at its hasty entrance into the world. The ewe nuzzles it fondly and the lamb bleats. Within minutes, it’s on its feet, unstable and shaky, looking for milk.

  Smiling through tears of happiness this time, I watch the second lamb sucking from its mother, as I envision a new life beginning for me and Holly. It’s time I made some difficult decisions.

  As the second lamb continues to nudge at the ewe’s udder, she begins to strain again and a third lamb pops out. This one is alive.

  ‘Hooray,’ I say, cheering up, but my joy is short-lived when Erica nuzzles it then turns away in favour of the lamb’s sibling. I try to encourage her to take an interest in it, holding it in front of her, but she appears more intent on trampling it than nurturing it.

  ‘We’ll have to bottle-feed that one. The visitors will like that. It’s lucky you’re used to getting up throughout the night,’ James says. ‘I’ll deal with the dead one and catch up with you later.’

  I take the rejected lamb indoors and stomach-tube him with some of the fir
st milk from the ewe to make sure he gets as much protection from disease as possible. I pop him in a low oven – with the door open – until he begins to warm up and dry out and pick up his head. I make one more attempt at returning him to his mum, but she charges at him. I rescue him from a serious head-butting and take him back into the kitchen, where I leave him in a cardboard box filled with straw beside the Aga. He looks up at me and bleats.

  ‘You’re going to be okay,’ I reassure him. ‘You’ve had a shaky start, but now you have the chance of a new beginning.’ I call him Colin. I don’t know why. He just looks like one.

  I realise it’s now or never. I could ask James to act as manager of the farm. I’m sure he wouldn’t turn it down. That would leave me free to travel to New Zealand with Holly, but what about my father? He would miss his granddaughter. And what about Nick? He’s bound to put up some argument about how I shouldn’t go, but how many times has he seen his daughter? For all his promises at the start, he’s visited us twice.

  I wash my hands and grab a couple of chocolate biscuits.

  I have to take a chance. I’ve put the farm and family first, and I know everything will be all right here now. Dad was right that I can be flighty and impulsive, but this is something I have to do. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll come home. I’d rather try and fail than not try at all.

  Once I’ve dealt with the lamb, the visitors start to arrive at the gate. Dad is selling tickets and Adam is waving the cars through to the car park. A lump catches in my throat as my dad spots me and waves me across to the sentry box, reminding me how hard it will be to leave all this behind.

  ‘How are you doing?’ I ask him.

  ‘They’re queuing to get in.’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

  ‘I never thought anyone would pay good money to visit Nettlebed Farm.’ Dad reaches out and pats my arm. ‘As I said before, I’m very proud of you, my girl. I didn’t think it was going to work, if I’m honest.’

  ‘Didn’t you? I would never have noticed,’ I say, lightly sarcastic. ‘You don’t need any more change, or a cup of tea?’

  ‘I have my flask.’ Dad taps his coat pocket.