by Abigail Mann
I don’t deny that they’re sweet to look at (nothing on Pickles, obviously), but when it comes to sheep-related business advice, I’m completely out of my depth.
I slip through the kitchen door and slam it closed behind me in a rash attempt to trap the heat inside.
‘I can’t sit down or that’ll be me done for the day,’ says Kian, rubbing his chin as he splits into a yawn. He shoves a Snickers multipack in his pocket, pulls his hood up, and opens the back door. ‘Take the afternoon off, all right? We’ve got a lot on tomorrow.’
***
I drag my attention back to my laptop screen, where the cursor blinks at me from a near-empty page. I can’t write anything decent when my fingers are inching towards the stacks of letters spread across the table like a patchwork tablecloth. Maybe if I spent five minutes organising them … Just a light touch. And if I’m doing that, I may as well put them in date order. Kian did say I could ‘knock myself out,’ but does he know he’s dealing with the kind of person who travels with an emergency pack of coloured tabs?
Laptop forgotten, I next look up when the radio pips for the three o’clock news bulletin. If anything exists beyond the kitchen table, I wouldn’t know, so engrossed am I in this menial but oh-so-satisfying task. I lift my third cup of tea to my lips, pausing to read a letter heavily stamped and underlined in bold red lettering. My spending habits are questionable at times, but novelty cat socks at fifteen pounds don’t seem quite so bad with the farm’s outgoings spread in front of me. Guilt lines my stomach like cold soup. I’m not sure Kian would want me to see this. Between the endless errands, debt, and uncooperative animals, it’s no wonder he’s stressed.
I had a feeling things were a bit ropey from the snatched reference Kian made to Braehead being a ‘poisoned chalice’. Although my knowledge of agriculture comes from evenings spent half-watching Countryfile whilst sugar-waxing my legs, I know of one key business principle that could be applied here: money needs to come in more frequently than it’s going out. From the looks of things, Kian’s granddad kept things ticking along through a refusal to open incoming mail.
Despite us being the same age, I’m barely reaching adolescent levels of responsibility in comparison to Kian. Discovering I’m not an only child was a shock, but at least I haven’t had to quit my job to revive a family business. Personally, I’d sell up and be done with it. At least then he can go back to building fertiliser farm bombs, or whatever he was researching back in Edinburgh.
The back door swings open and Kian stomps his feet on the mat, his cheeks ruddy and red.
‘Hey, what have you done here?’ he says, tucking his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.
‘I … umm. I got a bit carried away, but don’t thank me. I find this kind of thing far too enjoyable to count it as work,’ I say, zipping up my pencil case. I used up my chisel-tip highlighter on Braehead’s last financial year, so I’m hoping he’s a tiny bit grateful. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t read anything. Nothing much.’
‘Oh, aye. No bother,’ says Kian, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I’m not so good with the numbers stuff myself. I’m more of a “do first, think later” kind of guy.’
‘Excellent, because I’m a “think too much and never do it” kind of girl.’
‘Except for now, right? No one travels 500 miles to dish out chicken feed on a whim,’ he says, a dimple appearing in his cheek.
I jump. Both our phones go off in overlapping bleeps, mine inside my pocket, his skitting across the table.
‘Told you, you can’t predict when the wind will blow this way,’ he says, his voice unusually upbeat. He fills the kettle with one hand and opens his messages with the other. I wiggle my phone free. This is a nod from Out There, back where there are chicken shops and nail salons on every high street.
When I open my message app, my stomach drops like someone’s cut the counterbalance in a lift. Of the many notifications that have pinged through, one name stands out: Duncan. A caps-lock-filled text draws my eyes to a message sent at 9.21 a.m.
I slip outside and shoo a hen off a mucky, upturned bucket so I can sit down.
Duncan’s text loads, each shouty, double-spaced word of it.
AVA. SISTER UPDATE PRONTO. IF YOU HAVEN’T FOUND HER, START DOOR KNOCKING. CUT THE EGG CHAT. EGGS ARE A HARD FUCKING SELL. THNX.
A scratching sound comes from the hen house, as Babs, aka The Bantam Menace, strides down the ramp, her eyes sharp and mean. Chicken memories must last longer than I thought.
Chapter 17
Date: Friday 18th October
Location: Back against the Aga for warmth, laptop on knees
Sleep: Six hours and twenty-three minutes. Not bad.
Cups of tea: Three
Sister sightings: 0
Three hundred people doesn’t sound excessive for a village, but I think I’d quickly get a reputation if I went up to every woman under forty asking if she’s my long-lost sister. Thus, my main investigative tactic involves observing people from afar to see if I can recognise my own features on someone else’s body. Unless I want to further ostracise myself, I’ll keep my pocket binoculars out of sight. The milk-churning, prairie-dress-wearing fantasy I entertained before has curdled like cottage cheese, but village life hasn’t passed me by entirely unnoticed.
Five Misconceptions of the #FarmcoreLifestyle:
No one meanders through a forest picking mushrooms with a wicker basket hooked round their elbow. I value my kidneys too much to risk eating anything growing from a tree stump, whatever the guidebook says.
If you leave a freshly baked loaf of bread on the window sill, the crows will have decimated it by the time it’s cooled down.
Drying clothes outside sounds wholesome but be prepared for them to freeze on the line.
Little old locals are cute until they bark indecipherable insults at you in the street for walking on the wrong patch of pavement.
Don’t bother asking for the following items in the corner shop unless you want to be laughed at: avocado, hummus, oat milk, halloumi, guacamole, or anything gluten-free.
***
Kian asked for a hand with something this afternoon, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was. At the time, I was only one coffee down and at the very least I need two before my senses work in unison. At Snooper, ‘lending someone a hand’ usually meant they wanted me to check their content piece for grammar, but at Braehead Farm it’s far more literal. Kian suggested that I dab surgical spirit into my blisters because ‘the calluses harden up quicker’. Depending on how well my search goes, I might not be around long enough to put that theory into practice.
In a series Duncan is indelicately calling ‘Just My Loch’, my diary entries have jumped up the ‘most viewed’ bar on Snooper, settling into second place below a listicle featuring Gigi Hadid’s best bikini pics of the year. I understand the need to feed the fire whilst it’s hot, but it’s a struggle to keep up. It might be because I barely last twenty minutes tapping away on my laptop before I’m asleep with my mouth slack and a trickle of drool on the pillow. It’s the emotional tightrope that’s most exhausting, not to mention how physically demanding farm work is.
Guilt from lying to Mum flares up like eczema I’m not allowed to scratch. Combined with the anxiety of bumping into Jacqui again, it’s safe to say I’m not exactly feeling mellow.
Every time I pass someone in the village, I scan their features for similarities in case I accidentally walked past a cousin, aunt, or grandma. I never thought I looked much like Mum, but perhaps that’s because I look so much like him, whoever he is. Does he have the same chin dimple as me? Is he to blame for my strawberry blonde hair?
First impressions tripped off my fingers easily, but now I’ve been here for a while, things are different. The only developments I’ve made in the quest known as ‘My Long Lost and Likely Deceased Family’ have involved failed trips to the village, either side of feeding animals, counting animals, and keeping those same animals alive in a
place where the weather is clearly telling everyone to fuck off. So far, I’ve completely failed to segue talk towards dolphin activism in the Nineties, which is my only jumping-off point into a bigger, far more complicated conversation.
I walk out to the middle of the courtyard and stand still, listening. It’s like tuning an old radio; every so often the wind picks up and noises from the farm are blown in and out of frequency. There’s the distant sound of waves fizzing against the cliff edge, the shed door whining on rusty hinges, and the throaty grunt of pigs. Pigs!
I pull my gloves on and head down a track to the left of the farmhouse until I reach an open-sided barn that defies physics by standing up at all. The roof sags like the waistband on a pair of old jeans. Nearby, the back door of a shipping container swings open. Kian emerges, a paper mask hanging from one ear. He raises a hand, a grin set on his face as though he’s just told a joke that went down well.
‘All right?’ he calls. ‘I did come up to the house earlier, but I didn’t want to disturb you. You had this … dreamy look on your face.’
‘Ha. I guess so. I was just re-sorting those papers on the kitchen table. I’m not sure whether a chronological or category-based system would work best for filing. There’s compelling arguments for both.’
‘I’ll bet,’ he says, a smirk twitching in the corner of his mouth.
‘I’ll walk you through it later. Trust me, I know it sounds lame but just wait until you see the page dividers.’ I decide not to mention the plastic sleeve I filled with four or five letters stamped ‘final notice’. Not the time, I expect.
‘What’s this for?’ I say, pointing to the shipping container. ‘They’re used for getting sports cars across the Channel, right? Or – if you’re in London – they stack them on top of each other and shove a Michelin restaurant inside.’
‘The pigs get more use out of them up here. One of the local freight companies went bust last year but the owner still owed us money for three lambs that were on the dinner table by the time Granddad got round to sending an invoice. We got this as payment instead,’ says Kian, tapping the unit with a metallic clang. ‘Just remember to stake the door open if you’re going in and out. If it slams in the wind, you’ll know about it.’
‘Noted.’
‘Shall we go for it?’ A woman with a severe fringe and square jaw steps down from the container wearing a waxed jacket twice the size of her, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow.
‘Ah! It’s you! Hi!’ Before I get a chance to reply, she bounds towards me and envelops me in a hug. A clunky something-or-other is wedged between our chests, but my arms are pinned by my sides, so I wince through the encounter. The woman’s hair falls in a curtain and smells of apple shampoo and another scent that I vaguely recognise from the posh girls at school; sweet, hay-like, and musty. Horses. It’s got to be horses.
‘Ouff,’ I utter, rubbing my chest with a forearm. ‘That thing’s got a lot of sharp edges,’ I say, nodding towards the device in her hands. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Sorry! I always do this. My friend – one from college – I go to college in Moray, right? – well, she told me it can be a bit much. The hugging. I can’t see myself changing but I should find out if you’re a hugger first, shouldn’t I?’
‘Bit late for that now,’ says Kian, tucking his chin into the collar of his gilet.
‘You’re right,’ she says, smiling. The girl looks from me to Kian and back again. ‘Let’s reverse it. Brl-rl-rl-rl-rl-rl-rl.’ She mimics a tape on rewind. ‘It’s so nice to meet you. Kian’s told me about the quad bike incident. You poor thing! That was lucky, wasn’t it? We lost our family whippet over those cliffs when I was a lass. He chased a seagull right off the side. Silly beggar. I know it sounds like I’m exaggerating, but she basically burst on impact. Horrible. We couldn’t get down in time to scrape her off the rocks so I expect she’s out at sea somewhere. For the record, what’s your position on hugs?’
‘Err, I guess it depends, if it’s a—’
‘Ah, I’m with you,’ she says, giving me a wink that alludes to some sort of innuendo I’m not sure I’m on board with. ‘It’s so nice to have another person around. I’ve seen the same faces turn into walnuts with walking sticks since I was a bairn. Kian’s back though and that’s been great, hasn’t it, Ki?’
‘Yeah, I’ve coped,’ says Kian playfully, swinging an arm over her shoulders. She beams up at him, eyes wide and doe-like.
Jesus, I’m exhausted. She’s going to keel over from lack of oxygen in a second.
‘We better get on with it. I’m not gonna lie, this is up there with the worst jobs we have to do all year,’ says Kian. ‘Apart from spraying slurry.’
‘Ah, it’s not so bad. It’s the catching part that can be … challenging.’
‘Catching?’ I say. Going by the tone of conversation, it’s like we’re about to play an unconventional game of rounders: something that takes place over three days with loose rules about violent participation.
‘Yeah. Got a pressurised gun for the jabs this year. My buddy in the agricultural department is doing some post-doc research on non-invasive immunisations, so yours truly got his mitts on this bad boy,’ says Kian. The woman passes him the device. He turns it over in his hands, lovelorn. Ah, that’s what was jabbing me in the boobs.
Kian’s excitement radiates off him. Even his arm hair stands on end. Initiating full nerd mode in three, two, one …
‘You take the vaccine and screw it into the base, here,’ he says, tapping the vial and glancing at me to check that I’m following. ‘Then this canister is charged with a pressurised burst of air that pushes through the nozzle and penetrates the skin without puncturing it. Voila! Happy pigs. Cool, isn’t it?’
‘Kian’s the only farmer in the county using one of these this year,’ chirps the woman, looking to him with pride so sincere it makes me bashful.
‘Friends in high places,’ he says, tapping his nose. ‘It’s technically a prototype, so make sure you wear goggles if you’re going to have a go with it. The last design had a forty per cent malfunction rate. Just a little kick back when you make contact.’
I take a deep breath. A chunky bacon sandwich is the closest I’ve ever come grabbing a pig with two hands.
The woman bumps Kian with her hip and grins. ‘Let’s get piggy with it!’ She lifts the gun to her mouth and pretends to blow smoke from the barrel.
‘All right, best point that in the right direction,’ says Kian, ‘Don’t think you need protecting against trotter rot.’
‘I might. My hands are looking more trotter-like by the day,’ I say, turning them over.
‘Ha! You’re funny,’ says the woman, laughing. ‘Come on, I’ll show you what to do.’ She goes to hook an arm through mine and as she does, Kian lifts the gun from her like he’s cradling a fragile newborn.
***
‘Go on, Ava! Grab it. GRAB IT!’ I stand in the corner, my front leg bent in a lunge, my back foot squared at forty-five degrees for stability. I’ve only every known this position as ‘warrior one’, but today it’s far more like ‘saluting the swine’, such is the frequency with which my hands slap the floor as I lunge for another sow.
I slump against the gate and toss my second to last jumper over a fence post. The wind cools me down, mainly because I’m sweating so much that it feels like a damp towel is draped across my back.
‘Kian! Have you got a second?’ I say, wiping my forehead with the cleanest part of my sleeve.
‘Can it wait?’ he says, swinging a leg back over a pig. He shakes a canister and sprays a cross on the pig’s backside just before she bolts from between his knees with a high-pitched squeal. What a drama queen. You’d think we were branding them with a hot poker.
‘It’s a quick one,’ I say, straining to be heard above the cacophony of squeals. He unzips his hoodie and makes his way towards me, shoulders slumped with fatigue.
‘I didn’t catch her name earlier. It feels awkward to ask now,’ I say,
nodding towards the woman as she darts to one side and lands on the concrete with a thump. She jabs a pig on the backside, an arm outstretched like she’s on centre court at Wimbledon.
‘Sorry, didn’t realise. It’s Moira. Family friend. Known her for ever,’ he says, turning back towards the pigs. I grab his sleeve. He looks down at my hand, then up at me. I can’t seem to get a breath in.
‘Moira? Moira – Moira?’ I say, my words squeezed from my stomach.
‘Yeah,’ says Kian slowly, taken aback. ‘Moira McCauley.’
I look beyond his shoulder to where Moira sits balancing on her heels, teetering in wait for another unmarked pig to trot past. She catches my eye and waves frantically. That’s my bloody sister. Moira. I’ve found her. I’ve bloody found her.
‘Are you all right?’ asks Kian.
‘Yeah, I’m fine. It’s fine. Super fine.’
‘You sure? You look a bit … weird.’
‘No, I’m just hot. Don’t you think it’s hot?’ I say, fanning myself.
‘It’s six degrees.’
‘Is it?’ I say, my voice an octave higher than normal. I can feel my heartbeat in my neck. I can feel my heartbeat everywhere, like a jellyfish pulsating blindly underwater.
‘Do you … want to let go of my sleeve?’ says Kian.
‘Yep. Sorry.’
‘It looks like you need a tea? With a sugar, or two?’
‘No, it’s OK. Can you cope without me for a couple of minutes? I’ll be back. Just need a … yeah.’
I clamber over the fence, my legs wobbling as I hop down on the other side. I tuck myself out of the wind’s slipstream and press my forehead against the barn’s corrugated panelling until the pressure verges on pain. My breath flutters in my throat. There’s a tickle of something, like a slick of cooking oil coating my stomach. Do I say something now, or wait? Should I go into the whole back story, or just come out with it? I drum my fingers against my leg and try to think clearly, but my brain feels like it’s been replaced with scrambled egg. I don’t know what to do, but I feel like it would be inappropriate to yell ‘I’M YOUR SISTER!’ whilst pig wrestling.