by Abigail Mann
I walk along a track behind the farmhouse that leads to a copse, then a scraggly moor, and finally a public bridleway that runs alongside a field sporting a crewcut of wheat husks. On every fourth or fifth step I have to shake my boots as mud clods build up around each foot like I’m taking part in a solo rendition of the Hokey Cokey.
The walk has given me time to think. At first, I found it difficult to sit with my own thoughts, instead choosing to drown my internal monologue with podcasts and music. But slowly I’ve replaced my distraction techniques with a different focus: confronting my situation with Moira, however uncomfortable, whilst plodding in wellie boots.
Deep down, I knew the chance of unearthing anything akin to a love story between my parents was slim, but my half-formed speculations about my father had clearly set the bar too high. How can I tell Moira that we’re sisters now, knowing it will send a bulldozer through her already fragile family?
I climb the stile to the church grounds and wriggle between the gravestones, superstitious enough to avoid walking over the mounds, and quick march past the windows of the church hall. Inside, a small group of elderly locals play cards, each with a Thermos of tea on the table in front of them. I reach the back door to the rectory, knock, and peer through the porthole window, my breath steaming up the glass while the building creaks and moans as Ross moves around inside.
I stumble forwards as the door is roughly pulled open. In my haste, I’m halfway over the threshold by the time I realise that it’s not Ross at all. I stand, blinking, trying to match the woman in front of me with the Kilroch Guess Who? that I mentally flick through in my head. Older. Clip-on earrings. Mean eyes. Could be a few people I’ve come across.
She steps back as my foot slaps onto the flagstone.
‘Hi. Sorry, I was expecting it to be Ross,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t have just barged in like …’ I catch myself, not wanting to appear over-familiar.
‘I’m afraid he’s rather busy at the moment,’ she says. ‘Do you want me to give him a message?’
‘No, I needed his advice on a, err … an issue.’
The woman blinks, signifying that this does not meet the threshold of information required.
‘It’s of an ecclesiastical nature,’ I say, holding my hands in front of me.
‘Oh, lovely. It’s nice to see the youth engaging with the church. I’m Eileen, one of the wardens.’ She taps her front teeth and squints at me. ‘Although I haven’t seen you on a Sunday. I sit at the back, so I know who comes and goes.’
What’s her role, specifically? Crowd control at Sunday worship?
‘Do you know when he’s free? Because I can wait,’ I say, glancing over her shoulder to a wood burner set in the corner of the room, its grate glowing with amber coals.
‘Well, he’s in the middle of a clear-out, you see. I’ve got to prepare the house for—’
‘Ava!’ says Ross, appearing at Eileen’s shoulder.
‘Hi,’ I say, on an outward breath.
Ross is wearing a thick cable-knit jumper with the sleeves rolled up, a week’s worth of facial hair sharpening the edges of his jawline. I’m not sure how, but it seems like the more layers he puts on, the more attractive he gets. I can’t imagine what would happen to my resting heart rate if he put on a hat.
‘This young lady has a question of faith to talk through with you, Minister.’
‘Does she? Well, we can’t let that stew. Eileen, you’re an angel, truly. I can’t thank you enough.’
Eileen pats her hair and clutches Ross’s wrist. ‘Oh, but the study is a mess with the treasury files. I best finish that off, don’t you think?’
‘Please, you’re making me feel terrible. She won’t even let me make the tea,’ says Ross, looking to me with a glint in his eye. ‘I insist you take a break. Glen’s playing bridge next door.’
‘Oh, I can’t play with Glen,’ says Eileen, her hands aloft in protest. ‘He’s an awful cheat. In God’s house, no less. I’ll be over tomorrow, Minister. Does seven o’clock suit?’
‘Seven it is,’ he says. Eileen pulls on a sheepskin coat and heads round the corner, Ross and I waving until she’s fully out of sight.
‘Seven? In the morning?’ I ask.
‘Don’t. I’m exhausted. I sent her off so I could have a nap. Might have to unplug the main line, too, because she’s bound to call. Anyway. You didn’t come here about Jesus, did you?’
‘No …’
Ross leans against the door frame and lifts an elbow to let me in. I duck and step into the kitchen, shivering with the sudden change of temperature, despite the flames licking at the stove door.
‘Do you want to take your coat off?’ asks Ross.
‘No.’
‘OK.’ He pauses, his hands in his pockets. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Not really.’
‘I didn’t think so.’
He steps forwards, tucks me into his chest, and rests his chin on the top of my head. The contact feels immeasurably good, like sinking into a bath so perfectly warm you can’t feel where your body ends and the water begins. ‘Can I check that this is definitely not a church thing, because I don’t include hugs as part of my parish duties, as a rule.’
‘It’s not a church thing. It’s a what-the-fuck-am-I-doing kind of thing?’
‘Ah, one of those. Will tea help?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Shall we start with tea and if you still feel bad after one, we’ll move onto a bottle of McCallister’s.’
A few minutes later, I’m sitting in the corner of a brown velvet sofa, ugly enough to be ditched at a roadside, comfy enough to sink into due to its sagging frame and excess of cushions. Ross moves a stack of boxes half-filled with books and pulls out a blanket from a Jenner’s bag tucked under the coffee table. He throws it over my legs and sits down, seemingly unconcerned that I’ve railroaded his day. I slide my toes underneath his leg to try and thaw out, the cold tacked tight to my bones. It’s quite possibly the most intimate I’ve ever felt, in the proper sense of the word. He rests an elbow along the back of the sofa and waits for me to get halfway down my mug before asking me what’s wrong.
When I start, I can’t stop. I tell him everything, from the live stream, to finding out about having a half-sister, and why I’ve come to Kilroch. I speak in guilty half-sentences that tumble together.
‘So, it’s Moira? She’s your half-sister.’
‘I hadn’t reached that part yet,’ I say.
‘It’s kind of obvious.’ Ross props his head on his hand.
‘Is it? How?’
‘I’ve got two younger sisters. The way they go about with each other – I don’t think you can replicate that kind of dynamic anywhere else, even if you grow up apart. They had their moments, though. They scratched each other’s eyes out as teenagers. It’s something about the way their brains work; they’re hardwired to band together. Also, you have to have noticed this …’ says Ross, drawing a circle in front of his own face.
‘We’ve both got massive chins,’ I admit.
‘Not my words,’ says Ross, quickly. ‘You have a great chin.’
‘Thanks.’
‘How did you tell Moira?’
‘Hmm. That’s the thing.’
‘Ah. You haven’t told her,’ he says, putting his mug down on a tiled end table.
‘No.’ I scrunch my face up and tuck my knees in, scratching at an embroidered dove on the cushion that I’ve pulled onto my lap. ‘I’ve left it too late. It’s like forgetting someone’s name at the beginning of a party, except fifty times worse. If you ask again as you’re heading out the door, you look like a right twazzock.’
‘So, what are you going to do instead?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know. I’m delaying the inevitable, aren’t I?’ I bite my thumbnail and look at Ross.
‘What is the inevitable?’
He lets his question hang in the air and rubs his bristled chin with a curious look in his eye. It’s not the neutral
expression I’ve seen him use with parishioners, like an ITV weatherman unfazed by gale force winds. I draw in a deep breath and exhale until my lungs feel small and empty.
‘I think that … I worry that Moira will see it as really underhand that I’ve come up here to “see what she’s like” before telling her that I’m her half-sister. I didn’t have a clue what I was walking into when I got the sleeper train at the start of the month. Oh, and as well as that, I’ve got no idea how I’m going to convince my boss to let me stay up here longer, especially if I keep leaving Moira out of my diaries. Snooper wants the whole trip tied up with a happy family reunion, which isn’t likely, is it? How’s that conversation going to go? “Oh, nice meeting you. I’ve been called back to London. By the way, we’re sisters. I think your mum hates me because I’m ninety-nine per cent sure your dad had an affair, of which I am the result. Also, I’ve been writing diaries since the day I got here and soz, but your village sounds about as appealing as the toilet block at Reading Festival.” Whichever way you look at it, it’s shit. A pile of shit with a fly on top that probably did another shit whilst it was there, just to put the shitty cherry on top of the cake.’
‘Is there a chance that the thought of telling Moira is worse than the reality?’
‘If anything, I think I’ve downplayed it.’
‘Does that mean you shouldn’t tell her? This feeling you have – the guilt – it’s not going to go away. You said yourself that you wish you’d known you had a half-sister before the DNA test. I don’t want to oversimplify about what you’re facing, but this isn’t just about you anymore. Try imagining this exact scenario, but with positive outcomes instead of the shit storm you’re imagining. How might Moira feel when you tell her?’
‘I’ve imagined it on a loop and that’s what’s making me feel sick. She’s already had the burden of dealing with our dad not being around, I don’t want to make it worse by suggesting that he shagged about as well. That would be my fault.’
‘If that was your positive version, I’m dreading the negative one,’ says Ross.
‘OK … positive scenario? That she’s … happy. That’s she’s understandably angry with me for keeping it to myself, but that she can forgive me in some way. That we’re able to see each other, both of us knowing everything. It’s not like I can lie about my age.’
‘Exactly. If your first reaction is to assume the worst set of consequences, you also have to believe that there’s an equal chance for good ones.’
‘How should I tell her? Perhaps if I burst a party popper and did a little dance, she might not be so angry at me?’
Ross laughs, shaking his head.
‘I can’t give you specific advice on that. But as long as you’re honest and understanding of how she might react, you’ll make the right choice. I’m sure of it.’
I nod slowly and allow my fingers to drift up towards his hand, which dangles from the sofa cushion. He slides his fingers between mine and smiles. My stomach swoops.
‘You sound far too logical for a Christian.’
‘I’m not talking as a Christian. I’m talking as someone who cares about you and Moira.’
‘Be honest. Did you want to throw in a cheeky Bible quote?’
‘Eh, I could have chucked in Luke 6:31,’ he says, pondering. ‘But you’re not ready for the Psalms. The language is a bit more … fire and fury.’
‘Isn’t that a Game of Thrones book?’
Ross grins. ‘An unfortunate coincidence. Shall we crack that whisky open now?’
Chapter 26
I use my sleeve to wipe away a spiderweb from the locked letterbox built into farmhouse wall. Inside are two envelopes and a postcard shaped like Prince William’s head. No prizes for guessing who it’s from. I kick my shoes off in the porch and head through to the living room, where Kian sits with his legs hanging over the arm of the sofa.
‘Oh, glad you’re here. I want to show you something,’ I say, dropping the two envelopes on Kian’s stomach.
‘What’s that?’
‘I need my file, hang on.’
I take the stairs two at a time and hover on the landing to read Rory’s postcard before slipping it under the mattress with the others. They’re getting more and more abstract. Do I need to be worried? Perhaps the Wagamama crawl is pickling her brain with katsu sauce and sake. This time, she’s drawn a dumpling on the back, featuring bulbous eyes and a biro speech bubble that states: ‘the dipping sauce is suspiciously fishy’. Weird.
I hover on the landing and yawn so widely my body shudders. I didn’t switch the lamp off until three-thirty this morning because I had enough reception to use my phone as a hotspot, meaning an uninterrupted deep dive down the rabbit hole of Google. Somehow, I went from watching videos of drag queens recreating iconic Met Gala looks to scouring the internet for ways to bring more money into the farm; a task so dull I should have drifted straight off to sleep. I printed a dozen relevant web pages and stuck them in an old ring binder I found covered in dust and Jurassic Park stickers, which I now tuck under my arm as I head downstairs.
In the living room, Kian sits back in an armchair, shoulders round, hands limply resting by his sides. He looks at me with utter defeat.
‘Jesus, what happened? I was only gone five minutes.’
He kisses his teeth and nods to a ripped envelope on the seat next to him. ‘It’s the bank. They want me to start paying back a pretty fucking substantial loan or they’ll look into repossession proceedings.’
‘Bloody hell. That seems drastic.’
‘Yeah, well, it would have helped if Granddad had told me he’d taken out the fucking loan in the first place.’
‘Ah … yeah, that seems like quite an important thing to mention.’
‘No shit. I’ve got to go in for a meeting the day after tomorrow to “discuss our options”. Our options. Who are they kidding? They don’t give a shit about the farm.’
‘Even if that’s true, can I still show you something?’ I say.
‘Yeah, but only if it’s the folder named “Last Resorts”. I need to slot this letter inside and burn the fucking thing.’
‘We can do that, but would you at least give this a quick look?’ I ask, holding up the file like a tiny shield.
Kian nods wearily. I guide him through to the kitchen with the promise of a coffee and Tunnock’s Tea Cakes, and open the file on the table. By the time I’ve talked him through my plan, his cheeks are pink again despite the pessimism ringing through his words.
‘I don’t see the point.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t have enough time.’
‘All you need is a letter of intent. For now, anyway. Did you read the sections I highlighted?’
Kian lifts a corner and allows each page to pass through his thumb and forefinger like a flipbook, flashing a kaleidoscope of passages that I painstakingly read through well into the early hours of this morning.
‘Which of the many highlighted sections do you mean? I do get the gist of it, but your Hermione Granger approach to research is a bit … complex,’ he says.
‘There’s a key, I put it on the front. If you flick to the pink sections.’
‘Which pink?’
‘Pale pink.’
‘Right.’ Kian glances furtively at me, a smile playing in the corner of his mouth. I override the desire to skip to the right page for him, although my fingers are itching to do so. ‘Research partnerships?’
‘Yep. There are grants up for grabs if you can show potential for a project that combines modern technology with traditional farming practices. This is you!’
‘Ava …’ Kian pushes his chair back and rubs his temples. He looks at me with bright eyes, but his mouth is pencil thin. ‘I appreciate that you’ve done all this,’ he says, gesturing to the stack of papers, ‘but I’ll be lucky to avoid total bankruptcy after my meeting with the bank on Thursday. This is a lot of trouble to go to if we’re going under anyway.’
‘O
K, but consider this: if you are successful with a grant, it’ll mean that you don’t need to sell the farm. Surely that’s the last last resort. There’s no going back after that. Won’t it be worth it?’
I’m about to drive my point further but pull back when Kian hangs his head like a melancholic donkey. He closes his eyes and jiggles his heels up and down.
‘I didn’t want to make you feel bad,’ I say.
‘No, it’s not your fault. I’m grateful, honestly. I was just thinking about how worse off I’d be if you hadn’t come up a few weeks ago. I’ve let all this bottleneck in my head, you know?’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’d have been fine. Moira’s been here, hasn’t she? She’s far more help than I could ever be. I don’t know how to castrate goats, for starters.’
Kian slumps back into his chair with a tired smile. ‘Ah, it’s the outsiders’ perspective, isn’t it? Must be that London business brain kicking in,’ he says.
‘Or years spent watching my mum apply for grants to keep her community clubs going. It is a lot of work, but it’s better than admitting defeat.’ I push my chair back, sit on the edge of my seat, and peer over the pages like a short-sighted academic.
‘Didn’t you say you worked in publishing?’ says Kian, his tone changing.
‘No, online media. Why?’
‘Because you should be doing this kind of thing more.’
‘Nah, it’s just my … productive neurosis. It has its uses. Anyway, it looks like there are three grants you can apply for with different universities that offer agriculture courses. These are all right,’ I say, pointing at arm’s length towards two blue tabs protruding from the margin, ‘but it’s the Edinburgh link that’s the strongest, because it sounds like your fertiliser drone strike thing is right up their street.’
‘Let’s avoid saying “drone strike” in the application. It sets the wrong tone.’