The Sister Surprise

by Abigail Mann

  ‘Your ma?’ asks Kian, glancing to the side as though he’s misread the situation. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise it was a dodgy subject, like.’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘I’ll stop going on about it. It’s fine.’

  ‘What’s this then?’ I say, drumming my fingers on the bench. I point to the mess of papers that I now believe to be an attempt to keep track of orders. Kian ignores me.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, I know what it’s like to have a, errr … complicated family dynamic.’

  I’m brain-weary from tiptoeing around subjects I’m not used to verbalising. It feels like swimming upstream in a baggy T-shirt and trainers, similar to the swimming lessons we had at school. They culminated in a ‘safe’ simulation of what it feels like to drown, which involved Mrs Hillier plunging you below the surface with her shot-put arm whilst you tried not to inhale chlorinated water.

  ‘Egg delivery, isn’t it?’ I say, flicking through the notepad. Ten pages back, the handwriting changes. Kian’s scrawl is pressed into the paper with a thick blue biro, the letters spiky and clear, but the writing underneath is a mess of a crossings out, smeared ink, and words so illegible it looks like a series of tiny spiders crawling over the page. ‘Five minutes with a highlighter and I could sort this out, no problem. Speaking of which, if you fancy letting me have a go at the stack of papers in the kitchen, just say the word. No offence, but it’s like a scene from Britain’s Biggest Hoarders.’

  ‘Aye, knock yourself out, though I could find some more interesting things for you to do.’

  ‘Trust me, I’ve got itchy fingers already.’

  ‘Suit yourself, I’ll not stop you.’

  Kian flicks through the clipboard, a slight smile in the corner of his mouth. ‘This was Granddad’s system. He left school at eleven and didn’t see the point in all the literacy stuff. As long as he could read the name of the guest ale down at The Wailing Banshee, he was happy. He nearly keeled over when I said I was going to do Anthropological Geography at Uni. “Nothing interesting about humans after you’ve untwisted a sheep’s testicles using just your pinkie fingers,” that’s what he said.’

  ‘I guess that’s a skill in itself, although not something I’d put on a CV,’ I say.

  ‘No, quite. He accepted IOUs instead of payment far too often, so I wouldn’t take his business advice to heart.’

  I glance at my watch, keen to start deliveries so I can snatch half an hour with my laptop before dinner. According to a one-sentence email from Duncan that reached my phone in the early hours of this morning, my first diary entry went down well, so now I’m pressed to write another in covert snatches between the seemingly endless jobs on the farm. I tried to pitch a new article about the generational divide between the urban young and rural old, but Duncan’s criticism was constructive, in as much as ‘sounds drier than a camel minge in the Sahara Desert’ can be. He wants click-worthy content. The more personal, the better.

  Kian slaps the clipboard down beside me. ‘Write a name down on the label, stick an elastic band round the box, and stack them in the crate. Crack on, I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Kian stomps across the yard, the sound of his footsteps softened by the well-worn rubber of his boots. I look down the list. The rumours are true. There’s a worryingly poor circulation of last names, like the whole county got half a dozen to share between them, all ending in ‘son’: Wilson, Thomson, Robertson, Anderson, and one Macaulay. I look at the name again, squinting at the scrawl. Jacqui Macaulay. She doesn’t seem the type to give a second chance at a first impression, but I’ll give it a good bloody go.

  Chapter 14

  I walk around the house, holding my phone aloft like a water diviner. I need height. With the farmhouse in a dip, a cliff edge on one side and half a mile of cow fields on the other, demand for a phone mast isn’t particularly high on the telecom agenda. Still, I’ve got to find enough signal to send an email to Duncan, otherwise my next diary entry will be handwritten and sent via the ankle of a crow chucked into a southerly gust of wind.

  Borrowed wellie boots on, I pull my sleeves down over my hands and march across the yard, clambering over a fence into the sheep field. The sight of another signal bar makes my stomach bubble with glee. A short way off, Miranda chews a hunk of grass in a grinding semi-circle. Another bar! I squeal. Miranda looks up and acknowledges me with a guttural bah. She blinks slowly and drops onto her front elbows, reducing the distance between her mouth and the ground. Do sheep have elbows? Or two sets of knees? If I get up high enough, I might be able to Google it. Kian said the signal can improve if the wind’s blowing in the right direction, but I’m not so sure. So far, I’ve found it impossible to detect sarcasm, humour, or straight neutrality in Kian because he delivers all three with the same intonation.

  As I crest the hill, my clock flicks onto 10.32, but already the sun is dwindling as though it got up for work, looked outside, and decided it couldn’t be bothered with the rest of the day. I turn around, trying to find a sweet spot, and … yes! My phone pings. I send my diary entry out before looking at anything else from yesterday. A quick look on Instagram tells me that Rory is still racking up a huge gyoza dumpling debt, Max is yet to wear a shirt that doesn’t feature tropical palm trees, and Pickles has once again been featured on the page @FatCatsOfInstagram. His legacy continues, if not his low-cal dry food.

  When an email comes through featuring the interlocked DNA icon of The Ancestry Project, I press it:

  Would you like to change your privacy settings to start talking with your DNA matches?

  I hover over the button. I could do it. Messaging Moira would mean that this whole charade of a ‘farming holiday’ is rendered unnecessary (that and the obvious fact that holidays shouldn’t involve labour, unless it’s the strain that comes from holding a chunky paperback aloft on a sun lounger), but something is holding me back.

  How do you start a conversation like that? The only thing we have in common is a man who performed a handful of naked push-ups at some point in the Nineties and a bunch of other things left to chance. However you look at it, it’s still a risky way to announce yourself, especially when I’ve got no idea how Moira feels about having a sister. What if the circumstances were dodgy? Was our father married, with a family, or more children?

  I lock my phone and slide it in my back pocket. Today’s egg delivery has come at the right time. I need to get off the farm. I need to start asking questions. I need to find a way around these sheep, who have blocked me in a semi-circle, eyes wild and yellow.

  I half expect them to start clicking their feet, heads hung low in an ovine version of the opening scene in West Side Story, but as I head back down the hill, the herd follow me in Pied Piper fashion. I speed up, worried that they’ll headbutt me to the floor. Death by slow chewing is not the way I want to go.

  By the time I get back to the kitchen, Kian is draining the last of his coffee, his eyes bloodshot and manic.

  ‘All right, let’s go.’ He unhooks a set of keys from a nail tacked into the wall, the wallpaper below stained tobacco yellow.

  Outside, I squint as the sun cuts behind the house, glistening on the slick concrete forecourt. We load the Jeep with trays of eggs and a piece of machinery that looks like it’s been dredged from a river, yet Kian claims it just ‘needs a new bolt’ before it’s put back in the tractor. I strap them in, keen to avoid a scenario that involves a sharp corner and 150 crushed eggs. I walk around the passenger seat, but Kian’s already there. He tosses me the keys and they hit my left boob, which would have hurt if it weren’t for the three jumpers I’m wearing. I fumble and catch hold of a thistle-shaped key ring before they bounce to the floor.

  ‘You can drive, right?’

  ‘Well, I can drive, technically. I know recent events might suggest otherwise, but I have a license. Actually –’ I put on the facade of smugness ‘– I can drive a minibus up to a capacity of fifteen people. Not to brag.’

  ‘Great! You�
��ll be fine in this.’ Kian opens the door and settles into the passenger seat, one leg pulled up on his knee.

  ‘I don’t think you should trust me with this.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because … I’ve not driven in Scotland before. With hills and sheep in the road and potentially mowing down Jacqui because I can’t find the brakes.’

  ‘If you mow down Jacqui, I’ll know it’s not an accident. You’ll be fine. Anyway, I’ve got to see John about this engine. If you deliver the eggs whilst I’m there, you can pick me up on the way back. Might be a good way to introduce yourself to people.’

  I can feel my heart pulsing up into my throat. The beans on toast I had for lunch are threatening to make a reappearance. The alternative is that Jacqui has poisoned me with a lemon drizzle she left on the kitchen table. A possibility.

  I shift the keys from one hand to another and bite the inside of my cheek.

  ‘All right. But if I take this one off the side of a cliff as well, don’t blame me.’

  ***

  I look like an owl blinking over the steering wheel, elbows tucked in, eyes scanning the road for hazards that have so far included a portly rook that I swerved around as it pulled squashed rabbit innards from the middle of the road.

  Kian waggles his hand out of the window as we reach the high street, so I turn in towards the green and pull up. In fear of the eggs sliding into the footwell, I let the car’s momentum run out naturally before squeezing the handbrake on. I wonder if I should shove a wooden block beneath the back wheel before leaving it on any sort of incline?

  ‘God, that was exhausting. I feel like I need a lie-down.’

  Kian unclips his belt, gets out, and slides the rusted machinery off the back seat, his hands streaked with oil. He taps on the window, mouth tight with strain. I wind it down.

  ‘You got the addresses?’

  ‘Yep,’ I say, tapping the clipboard that I’ve rearranged and highlighted in order of delivery.

  ‘Great. I’ll be a couple of hours, but if you finish before me go into the post office and tell Jules to send Dot round the back. She’ll give us a yell over the fence. And don’t crash the car.’

  Kian slips down an alleyway as I scan the list on my lap, low-key anxiety fluttering in my stomach at the thought of meeting so many people without Kian acting as my social crutch. Back in Dulwich, Mum scans the neighbourhood for new additions and pulls them into her inner circle, where they debate the politics of intimate waxing, swap tagine recipes, and organise fundraisers so that the kids can have reindeer in the playground at Christmas. The husbands? Entirely surplus to requirements.

  Mum has novelty eyelashes on the front of her Vauxhall Corsa, sunbathes in the front garden, and knows the best spots in Trafalgar Square to be seen with a placard. It’s a bit much for London, let alone somewhere as small as Kilroch. Her time here with The Earth Mamas signalled the end of teenage rebellion and the start of adult responsibilities that I can’t imagine dealing with myself. Did I take her away from that?

  I lock the car and look down the cobbled high street, my clipboard in hand. Something here drew a line in the sand that she couldn’t step back over. The question is, what did Moira’s family have to do with it?

  Chapter 15

  It’s pushing four o’clock and I’ve only gotten round to a measly three houses. Honestly, all this to shift a few dozen eggs, and I’ve only collected six quid off the punters. Most of them claim to have a tab going with Kian and gave me the odds and sods from their larders instead of actual money. On the seat next to me is my hoard: a roll of butter that looks like pre-packed cookie dough; three tins of pilchards; and half a leg of lamb roughly wrapped in butcher’s paper and quite possibly leaking blood onto the upholstery.

  I look up from my clipboard and peer out of the window. If people put house numbers on anything round here, it would make delivering the bloody eggs they’ve requested a lot easier. After ‘Arbuthnott Farm’, ‘Merry Meet House’, and the choicely named ‘Bushy Gap Cottage’, I’m now outside a house that Kevin McCloud would describe as ‘handsome’ with an ‘ergonomic outlook that wrestles with a chaotic vista’.

  I leave the car in first gear, as instructed by Kian, and walk up to the house, which is joined to the church on one side and a village hall on the other. Ivy links all three together, snaking in a lattice between bricks and wound across window panes. The doorway is only just visible behind a curtain of vines that haven’t managed to squeeze their roots into cracked mortar. Although my experience of religion is limited to church hall jumble sales and amateur pantomimes, I gather that this cottage must be where the priest lives. Or is it a vicar? Parson? God, who knows. Actually, that’s exactly who would know.

  Going by the state of upkeep, I don’t bother with the bell and rap my cold knuckles on the door instead. Whilst I wait for an answer, I kick the heels of my wellie boots together like a bumpkin version of Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. Unless a village of this size is fanatical enough for two priests, it’s got to be Ross who lives here.

  ‘Coming!’ says a voice from behind the door, throaty and low. He doesn’t sound like a priest.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t find the keys. Hang on.’ There’s jingling, scraping, and I hear a word that sounds very rude but can’t be, because priests don’t swear. They’re bashful and a bit awkward. When they were young, they were probably the kid who ate paper at the back of the classroom and cried when thunder and lightning struck over the school.

  The door opens, the wood sticky in the door frame. Ross stands in front of me looking flustered in a thick jumper pushed up to his elbows and a black shirt unevenly buttoned to the collar. Holy Jesus. The only ecclesiastical box he’s ticking is that his face is so well chiselled, he looks like a Baroque painting of Jesus, one that nuns would direct their gaze towards during periods of concentrated prayer.

  ‘Hi, you’re … eggs,’ says Ross, his gaze dropping to the tray in my hands.

  ‘Eggs. Yes. These are eggs. I’m not an egg. Obviously. Although I suppose I was one at some point. Depends on whether you believe life starts at conception, or … some other time. Jury’s out. Ha, ha, ha!’ I say, swallowing.

  I stare at a cobweb in the gap between two bricks and feel a simmering heat build from my chest up to my hairline. I’m broken. I need a system restart on this whole encounter.

  ‘Aye, yes. An interesting debate, but not one to have on the doorstep, I’d say,’ says Ross. ‘Do you want to come in?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, far too quickly. It’s only when I step on the doormat that my instincts kick in. ‘I have a clipboard.’ What instinct is that? The instinct to be a complete and utter weirdo?

  ‘Right …’

  ‘Yes. I, err … need to check something.’

  ‘Let me take those off you.’ He pushes his wavy hair behind one ear and reaches over to take the tray from me. I forget to let go and for a moment we both stand, clutching two dozen eggs between us, the memory of why I came here momentarily absent. ‘Or you can keep them?’ he says, removing his hands.

  ‘Shit, no. Sorry. Thanks.’ I push the tray towards his chest and take out the clipboard that I’ve tucked under my arm. The page crinkles as I run my finger down the list and stop over a name I don’t truly believe can belong to him. ‘Reverend Dingwall?’

  ‘Dingwall? No. Reverend? Almost.’

  ‘Sorry, I must have written something down wrong.’

  ‘I doubt it. If it’s a church you’re expecting, this is the only one around for a fair few miles.’

  ‘Oh, right. I’m not familiar with the place yet.’

  ‘Your accent is a bit of a giveaway. Mine is too, according to the locals.’

  He sounds the same as everyone else I’ve met so far, but I’d made the mistake of referring to my Caledonian cabin buddy as having a ‘generically Scottish accent’ and that went down like a sack of spuds, so I’ve learned my lesson.

  ‘How’s it going up at Braehead?’

  ‘
I’ve been demoted to egg delivery after I crashed a quad bike earlier in the week.’

  ‘I see,’ he says, smiling. ‘I shan’t pass judgement.’

  ‘No. That’s, like, your thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘We’re all judged in the end, so I don’t see how doing it prematurely helps.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. It would make talent shows pretty boring.’

  ‘That’s true.’ He holds my gaze for a moment and I realise that I’m staring at him like a weak-willed Labrador.

  ‘The eggs,’ I say, surfacing for air.

  ‘The eggs!’ He looks down at them and scratches his chin. ‘I think we can blame Doug Dingwall for these.’

  ‘I’ll tell him when I see him.’

  ‘You can’t,’ he says, brow furrowed. ‘How shall I say it … He’s moved on to a better place.’

  ‘Oh God. How awful. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise, I—’

  ‘No, no – not like that. Doug has gone in for a knee replacement.’

  ‘Oh! Ha! Good one!’ I say, overcompensating for my excusable gullibility by laughing like a maniac.

  ‘Yeah, I’m on loan. Like a footballer, except –’ he narrows his eyes, concentrating ‘– not like one at all, actually. I mean, we both draw a crowd at the weekend, but their songs use “fucking wanker” a lot more than ours do.’

  I feel like I’ve bitten a lemon, my smile so tight my dimples feel pincered with callipers.

  ‘That’ll be a few more years in purgatory for me. Ava – that’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I reply, already replaying the way he says my name on a loop inside my head.

  ‘Ah, nice. My grandma was called Ava.’

  I smile, not sure what to do with this particular piece of information. From the wall, a clock ticks, the minute hand ticking round to a quarter to three. Ross notices my side-eye and springs towards the kitchen.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve kept you. I’ve clearly been here too long. Couldn’t convince anyone to stick around for a chat back in my regular parish, but I’ve got the opposite problem here. Even the sheep won’t stop baa-ing at you when you run to the shop for a pint of milk.’