by Abigail Mann
‘Ava?’
I spin, trying to push my hair out of my face (a futile act), and shift from one foot to the other. A man stands by the exit wearing an old hoodie and two-tone trousers that unzip at the knee. I can’t imagine a single scenario that would necessitate such a rapid transition into shorts, but it takes all sorts, as they say.
‘Ava Atmore?’
‘Hi. Yes. Kian?’
‘Yeah, that’s me. Ah, you threw me a bit there, against the wall, like. Are you all right?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. I’m great. I was just … trying to do up my coat.’
I bite hard on my bottom lip and will a change of subject. Kian, who is much younger than I thought he would be, rubs his palms down the front of his trousers and extends a hand to shake.
‘Nice to meet you. Glad we can put you up at the farm. Seemed like you were getting a bit desperate from your email.’
I smile through clenched teeth and shrug my heavy rucksack up onto my shoulders again. Taking sole responsibility for a farm at barely thirty years old would be terrifying. A few weeks ago, I’d rescued a shell-shocked Pickles from the roundabout near our house during a torrent of rush-hour traffic and that was stressful enough, let alone having a whole farm’s worth of animals to look after.
‘I’ve been up to my neck in it since I started running the place at Easter. Bad time to be called back, if I’m honest, but can’t do much about that. Can I take your bag off you?’
I instinctively clench the straps of my rucksack and jerk to the side when he reaches for my shoulder. ‘God, sorry. That’s my London muscle memory kicking in.’
‘If I was going to rob you, I wouldn’t have gone to the effort of driving across the firth in that thing to do it.’ Kian thumbs over his shoulder to where a neglected, rust-eaten Jeep straddles two parking spaces. ‘She runs, but only just. In warning: the roads aren’t great around Kilroch, but if you can see the tarmac through the hole in the foot well, we shouldn’t go too far wrong.’
Kian heaves my suitcase into the boot like he’s loading a sack of potatoes. It bounces off the back seat, already scuffed with muck.
I climb into the passenger seat and try and look for a space on the floor that isn’t covered by food wrappers, dried mud, or scrunched tissues. When it becomes apparent that this isn’t a possibility, I swallow and wedge my rucksack between my knees. Kian settles in next to me and tries to smooth his hair down, smiling in apology.
‘I didn’t have time to clean up. Sorry.’ Kian glances over at me as the engine whirrs lethargically to life.
‘Don’t apologise, it’s fine,’ I say.
I open Google Maps on my phone and try to make subtle glances out of the window to check that we’re heading in the right direction and not to a dodgy lock-up unit round the back of an industrial estate. I glance at Kian, who uses a screwdriver jammed behind the steering wheel as an improvised lever for the windscreen wipers. Despite the mucky clothes and faint, earthy smell of animals, Kian doesn’t seem like a farmer. Mind you, my only frame of reference comes from happy days spent watching Matt Baker herd sheep with his border collie on Blue Peter. There’s something about chequered shirts, a shrill whistle, and big arms holding tiny lambs that’s incredibly alluring.
‘I had to come straight from the sows,’ says Kian. ‘Some of the breeding stock aren’t producing enough milk, but I can’t figure out why. I’ve tried massaging their mammary glands, but it isn’t easy as it sounds.’ Kian sighs, exhausted. ‘The vet can sort it out, but I don’t want to call her. It costs a fortune.’
One: it doesn’t sound easy at all; and two: Kian has crushed my farmer fantasy in an alarmingly short time.
He winds the window down and sticks his arm out, motioning at the oncoming traffic to stop. ‘Indicators don’t work,’ he says as he pulls out, the engine whirring in protest.
‘Oh, right.’ I tuck my hands between my thighs to try and warm them up.
‘Know much about pigs?’
‘Err … I’ve seen Babe a few times. It’s the only film that makes me cry.’
‘Oh, aye? Bit soppy, are you?’
I openly scoff. ‘Ha. I wouldn’t say so.’
‘Each to their own. But give me The Notebook and I’ll be howling for days.’
Our laughter fades into titters, then silence, as the wipers hurl themselves from one side of the windscreen to the other. Kian taps on the steering wheel and sucks his teeth.
‘So, is Braehead a family farm?’ I ask. Kian nods vigorously, delighted that I’ve found a way to kick-start the small talk.
‘Yeah, yeah, I guess it is. My granddad ran the place until now. Some of the wholesalers in the area have been dealing with him for the best part of fifty years. I don’t think he ever thought it’d be me coming back to take up the reins, not when I moved to Edinburgh, mind. It should have been Dad, but he passed away when I was wee, so … yeah. Didn’t have much choice really.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry. That must have been tough.’
‘Ah, I was young. Can’t remember it. Granddad’s in an old folks’ home now. You couldn’t take him off the farm for love or naught, but he’s eighty-seven with a dodgy back, so it was only a matter of time before something happened. Get the window, will you? Wave your hand a bit so they know we’re turning left.’
‘Right, got it.’ I do as I’m told and stick my hand out into the drizzle. We turn onto a road that takes us out past the town and onto a suspension bridge that runs over the rippled waves of the North Sea.
‘What happened?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘To your granddad.’
‘Got kicked in the head by a bull. The concussion was bad and he never fully recovered.’
‘Oh my God, that’s awful.’
‘You’d be surprised how common it is,’ he says. Kian catches my eye and breaks into a smile. ‘Don’t worry about the bulls. I sold them when I took over the farm. It’s just pigs, chickens, and sheep now. And trout when we get the lake stocked.’
‘I bet you host a killer barbecue in summer.’
‘You’d think so, but I’m not a meat eater myself. Can make a crackin’ hummus though.’
‘You’re a vegetarian farmer?’ I ask, twisting in my seat to face him.
‘Yeah, I know. It makes small talk with the fellas over at the cattle market a wee bit awkward.’
‘I can imagine. I am too. Well, most of the time. Except for fish and chips. And sometimes cocktail sausages, but only if they’re part of a Christmas buffet.’
We climb uphill through a pine forest and emerge between undulating fields speckled with Highland cows who glance at the rattling Jeep from beneath an ombré forelock.
‘They’re cute,’ I say, cringing at how simple I sound. When I glance at Kian, it’s clear I don’t need to worry.
‘Aye. It’s why I can’t eat them,’ he says, his face soft. ‘I used to hate it when Granddad loaded them onto the truck for the abattoir. They knew what was happening, no doubt. I switched as soon as I left home.’
Kian chews the side of his cheek.
‘The farm isn’t my business. I mean, it’s my business in that I care about it, but it’s not my business career-wise. I was working on a post-doctorate research project back in Edinburgh before the bull incident.’
‘What was your research about?’ I ask. Kian sits taller in his seat.
‘I was testing a drone-based solution to variable weather patterns and its impact on crop development. Basically, we use drones to deposit nutrients in the right part of a field.’
‘This might sound dim, but it sounds like a drone strike, except … with fertiliser?’
Kian scoffs. ‘I wouldn’t use that wording, but yeah. Sort of.’
The Jeep starts making a loud rattling noise like a penny in the washing machine as we accelerate downhill. Kian smacks the dashboard until it stops and shakes his head. ‘Ignore that,’ he says.
I grip the seat tighter and try to keep a neutral exp
ression.
‘Anyway, the project’s on hold now,’ he says.
‘For how long?’
‘No idea. I didn’t plan on taking up the farm, but it’s not like you can ask sheep to look after themselves whilst you finish a post-doc, especially the breed I’ve got. It’s like Shawshank Redemption. Lady Susan got stuck in the brook for two days last week.’
‘Aren’t brooks shallow?’
‘They are. She went down for a drink and her fleece soaked the water up like a kitchen sponge. She was so heavy by the end of it that she couldn’t stand up again. See what I mean? It’s a wonder they get through a day.’
We turn onto a coastal path, where pockmarked sea defences break waves before they have a chance to claim more of the coastline.
‘Sorry for the mental off-load,’ says Kian, glancing at me. ‘I don’t get to speak to many people during the work week. No water cooler to stand and have a moan at, y’know?’
I nod, but I’m not sure what to contribute. We’ve not been in the car that long and I’ve barely had a chance to mention the weather, which should have bought me ten minutes according to the English rules of small talk. Elsewhere, meaningful conversation with strangers is strictly reserved for pub toilets at 2 a.m. when your beer-addled brain thinks it’s a good idea to gossip and share lipgloss.
As we turn onto the village high street, Kian slows down and pulls up alongside a man whose face is partly covered by a thick scarf.
‘Ross. Ross!’ calls Kian, yanking on the handbrake. Going by the crunch sound, it’s about as effective as sticking a cat to the wall with Blu Tak.
The man bobs down to look inside, a sheen of dew across his brow.
‘No umbrella?’ says Kian, his voice deeper than it was thirty seconds ago.
‘No point, Kian. I haven’t been properly dry since I arrived here. Hi, I’m Ross.’
The man leans into the car to shake my hand, but if time has slowed down up to this point, it now speeds up with horrible velocity. I force my clammy fingers into his palm but my hand is too cold to squeeze, so essentially, a stranger is cupping my squid fingers with no explanation from either side. I feel like I’m hovering outside my own body. Surely you need to give warning before throwing an attractive – if damp – man into someone’s immediate vicinity. I wasn’t bloody well prepared for an encounter like this.
‘Ross takes care of Kilroch’s spiritual needs,’ says Kian. He shuffles in his seat, emphasising the close proximity between us all.
‘Aye, that’s right. Although I still haven’t convinced Kian that Sunday service is a good idea.’
‘You know what it’s like with the farm, always something to sort out. Anyway, Ross, this is Ava. Ava, Ross. She’s come to help at Braehead for a while,’ says Kian.
‘Ah, great! I’ll be seeing you around, will I?’
‘Yes, definitely.’ I nearly bite my tongue off, I say it so quickly.
Kian revs the engine, nodding to Ross, who straightens up and tucks a loaf of bread under his arm, the crust already soggy.
As we gather speed up the hill, I resist the urge to strain against my seatbelt to snatch another look.
‘He’s got a face I’d struggle to slap.’
Kian laughs. ‘He’s caused divisions between the married folk, let me tell you. A lot of the older women have recently returned to church with renewed vigour.’
‘I bet.’
Chapter 10
As we drive through the village, I struggle to imagine Mum in a place like Kilroch: a clipped Londoner with red hair, hemp clothing, and, if the stories are true, a penchant for protest through the medium of an angry tambourine.
We trundle alongside a dry-stone wall, where a gate is held open by a loop of blue string. Two trees, bent parallel to the ground, flank the entrance, as though stuck in a perpetual gust of wind. Beside us, a field holds two dozen sheep, their wool thick and bellies round. As we bounce up the driveway, they break into a chorus of dissonant bleating.
‘They’re only mawing because they think I’m here to feed them,’ says Kian, glancing over the flock with feigned annoyance. ‘Ah, there’s the house. I always think it needs a coat of paint when someone else sees it. Now summer has passed, I won’t get a weather window for months.’
‘Oh, don’t apologise. My house back in London hasn’t been decorated since 1995. My bedroom is a pretty garish combination of lilac paint and flocked wallpaper. There are Forever Friends stickers on the PVC windows that I can’t get off.’
I hesitate, my hand on the door handle. This can’t be the same farmhouse I saw online. If the walls were white at some point, they’re now streaked with mildew, drainpipes bowed under the weight of moss that creeps like gangrene from the eaves.
‘Do you, umm … want to go in?’ says Kian, looking between me and the house.
‘Oh! Yes, sure!’ I say, a little too enthusiastically to hide my disappointment.
When I step out of the car, it feels like someone has squeezed all the breath out of my lungs. Like London, the air here tastes of something, but it’s not the smell of humming pavements and sour bins; it’s the clean smell of earth and animals and water. I look down at my feet, the fluorescent blue of my trainers offensively bright against the concrete driveway. Kian pulls out my suitcase and reaches for my rucksack, but pauses when something catches his eye.
‘Ah, no. Babs is out. Give me a sec whilst I lock her away, she’s not good with new faces.’
Not wanting to loiter, I shoulder my bag and wander around the side of the house to where a handful of frill-necked chickens are clawing at the muck, their downy feathers puffed up round their legs like harem trousers. At the back, beyond a scrubby garden overgrown with snapped, brittle, and browning herbs, endless paddocks blur behind a haze of drizzle. Behind me, the back door opens, my suitcase propped inside out of the rain.
‘I’ve got the kettle on if you want to warm up,’ says Kian from the kitchen. I join him inside. He clicks a stove igniter and a whoosh of a gas sets the stove roaring into flame. ‘I thought you might want to find out a wee bit more about the farm, why I need the help, you know? I don’t spend a lot of time inside. Ah, I should have tidied up a bit more, sorry about that. Tea?’
‘Yeah, please.’
Kian unclips a stiff Kilner jar, pulls out a tea bag, and inspects it under a spotlight by the sink.
‘Coffee works too …’ I say.
‘Yes, coffee. Sorry, I should have checked the hot drink situation beforehand,’ says Kian, embarrassed. ‘If you write down a list of groceries you want from the shop, I’ll pick them up tomorrow.’ He nervously looks around the room, like he’s just noticed his surroundings.
‘Sure, no rush.’
From the paper-strewn table and single dirty bowl left by the sink, I get the impression that Kian is used to his own company. He’s far younger than I expected, and although this is his family’s land, he doesn’t seem the farming type. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. If he hadn’t replied to my email, I might well have sought refuge in an unlocked barn, shoes worn through and reputation in tatters like every single female that features in a Thomas Hardy novel.
I pull off my trainers, the flagstones so cold beneath my socks that the floor feels damp underfoot. Thick clouds mask the sun, so I flick the light switch on, but nothing happens. Kian frantically stacks papers to clear the table, a number of invoices, receipts, and scribbled figures sticking out in a haphazard pile that he shoves on a shelf lined with fluted crockery and waxen candle stubs.
He takes down two mugs branded with the contact details of a silage company, gives them a wipe with a tea towel, and fills them with hot water. ‘Could you grab the milk whilst you’re up?’ he says. I nod, eager to look helpful, and turn to a fridge so clunky and voluminous that I’m sure I could climb inside, close the lid, and survive a nuclear blast.
I take out a glass bottle and give it a shake, but the liquid inside doesn’t seem to move.
‘Is it supposed to be … n
ot white?’
‘Oh, aye. It’s as fresh as it comes. John down the road delivers enough for the week and I give him some eggs in return. We get by on swaps and trades a lot of the time. Saves driving all the way to Glenfinnay for the big shop. It’s not pasteurised, mind. You got a good immune system?’ Kian asks as he slops milk into each of our mugs.
‘Bit late to say no?’
He looks at the coffee and then back at me. ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’
He slides a mug over the scrubbed kitchen table and I wrap my hands around it to show that I’m complying with the yellow milk. We both fall silent, thaw our freezing hands, and let the house talk around us.
‘I don’t mean to sound like I’m counting down the days, but you didn’t mention how long you wanted to stay.’ Kian pushes the sleeves of his hoodie up to the elbow and blows on his coffee, but he underestimates his puff and sprays droplets on the table. Neither of us acknowledge this aloud.
‘Well, I was thinking a few weeks,’ I say, trying to keep it vague. I need enough time to find answers that will either lead me to Moira or give me enough information to continue my research back in London. Duncan has technically given me a week, but if things go well and my articles are good, I can wangle some more time.
‘Are you looking to travel around at all? I don’t want to hold you hostage if Kilroch is a stop on a longer journey. I’m glad for whatever help I can get. At this stage, it would be easier to tell you what doesn’t need doing rather than what does.’
‘I hadn’t planned on visiting anywhere else, no.’ I can feel my cheeks grow hot. Rather than fabricating a reasonable back story as to why I’ve travelled nearly 600 miles to collect eggs and push a wheelbarrow about, I need to go easy on the details. ‘I’m taking a break from my job in London,’ I start. I sip my coffee and am surprised by how silky and deep the flavour is. It’s easy to overlook the insipid colour when it tastes so good. ‘I wanted to be outdoors, you know?’