by Abigail Mann
I nod, seeing this as a green light.
‘I’ve looked through budget policy documents from Scottish government briefings made in the past twelve months that relate to innovation and investment in the Highlands. They’re actually looking for ways that universities can partner with farms.’
Kian nods slowly. I wanted to give him an hour to read through the documents I’d printed off, but it’s clear I’m going to have to whistle through the key points aloud. Honestly, what’s the point in highlighters if they’re given no authority?
‘What do the green tabs mean?’ says Kian.
‘Oh, I just wanted to emphasise the fact that I took one for the team because those were the bits that were especially boring to read.’
‘So humble,’ says Kian with a laugh.
‘I think it’s worth submitting. If you don’t get through this round, you can try again next year and you’ll already have done most of the work.’
‘Hmm.’ Kian taps his knee and looks at me. I can all but see the cogs turning behind his eyes. ‘When’s the deadline?’
‘Quite soon … We need a three-year business plan and the conservation status of all the livestock, then they’ll send a team round to do a biodiversity survey,’ I reply, reading from the cover page with stilted intonation. I’ve got less than half a clue as to what those phrases actually mean, but I say them with confidence.
‘How soon is quite soon?
‘Umm, like … tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?! There’s no way—’ Kian breaks off and blinks profusely.
‘Sure there is! I’ll help with the writing part. It’s basically what I do in my day job, so you give me the content, and I’ll chuck some proverbial glitter on it. Everything else is in here.’ I flop the file up and down and don a manic smile in an attempt to distract him from the intimidatingly large task at hand. Kian looks back to the document, his eyes narrow.
As I’m about to launch into another motivational speech, the back door clatters open and Moira steps in.
‘Oi, oi, what’s all this?’ she says, squatting down to untie her boots.
‘Ava’s got a crackpot idea to get money for the farm.’
‘Crackpot idea? That’s your favourite kind, isn’t it?’
‘All right, cheeky,’ says Kian, flicking her waist when she comes to stand behind us. I roll my eyes with feigned irritation and try to rub warmth into my hands. Waiting another week to have The Chat with Moira isn’t going to undo any affair that our father had, but I also want to give our news the space it deserves to become a happy memory. Getting ready together before Friday’s ceilidh is as good an opportunity as any. Until then, I’m going to channel my efforts into making sure that Kian fills out this bloody application so that he and Moira can one day stop passing through Kilroch like trains running on separate tracks.
‘The bank’s already expecting repayment on the gargantuan loan that Granddad never bloody told me about. There’s still a chance I can keep things going if I start up the eco-tourism side of the farm; getting folk truffle hunting. That way, I won’t need to jump through all these hoops for funding.’
‘Surely that’s riskier? You’ll have to deal with groups of southerners turning up in off-the-rack Barbour, swilling two-hundred-quid whisky like they’ve just discovered the stuff whilst trying to mount Big Bertha.’
Kian scoffs. ‘They could try. Can you imagine an Oxbridge posho trying to put their dobber in Bertha’s mouth? She’d bite it down to a stump.’
‘Gross … but see! Here’s where the grants come in! It’s regular income and you don’t have to worry about one-star TripAdvisor reviews for accidental loss of genitalia due to maniacal swine. Consider it my leaving gift to you.’
‘Why, are you going?’ asks Moira.
‘Well, at some point they’ll want me back at work,’ I say, leaving the details vague. I gesture to the file, refocusing attention towards the grant. ‘It’s worth a shot, right?’
‘I can’t see any downsides to this. Think of the bragging rights you’ll have if Braehead is university accredited,’ says Moira, putting on a plummy English accent.
‘You needn’t have troubled yourself with this,’ says Kian.
‘Ah, it was nothing. It was all on the internet, I just pulled it off.’
‘And doused it in highlighter. I’m surprised you didn’t fumigate yourself,’ he says, sniffing the page.
‘Well, I did feel a bit heady.’
‘Seriously, though. Thanks. There’s been a lot on and this bloody loan feels like a puncture in the last lifeboat. I underestimated what I was taking on here. I would have sorted it all before now, but there always seems to be so much to do. Fixing things—’
‘Chasing sheep,’ I interject.
‘Crashing quad bikes,’ says Kian playfully.
‘God, I still feel bad about that.’
Moira must be reading my hungry mind, because she emerges from the pantry holding half a loaf of soda bread and a stick of butter wrapped in greaseproof paper. I tear off a chunk as Kian blinks at the application on my screen. I’ve got no idea if my suggestions will come to anything, but I’ve done more research in the past couple of days than I’d done in the past five years at Snooper. If we pull this off, it will have been worth it.
Things feel different now. I’ve stopped thinking about my days here in Kilroch within a London timeframe. Up until last week, I’d catch sight of the station clock in the kitchen, the minute hand ticking round to 8.15 a.m., and imagine myself stuffed beneath someone’s armpit on the Tube. Now mornings start with the sunrise, often before. After I’ve refilled the water troughs, fed the chickens pigs, and checked the fences, I head inside to fill up my Thermos with coffee and can’t believe it’s only nine o’clock. The day is bookended by feeding times, with a brief midday reprieve, which I usually spend in my bedroom, trying to get warm beneath two snoods and oversized fleeces.
I don’t feel like I’m wearing someone else’s shoes anymore. I mean, I am literally wearing someone else’s shoes. My trainers lasted six hours before I stepped into a bog and came out stinking like rancid eggs. It lingered so badly that Kian politely asked if he could put them on the compost heap.
Mentally, I’m not in London. I can recognise dissenting sheep by the markings round their nose. I worry when Babs hasn’t laid an egg. I know how to use a pitchfork (you have to wiggle and stab at the same time. Making a ‘harumph’ noise helps). Last week I saw pink clouds reflected on the bay in a pastel mirror image of the sky and it was so fucking beautiful that I wanted to ask Mum if she remembers a similar landscape, the same view. I want to swap stories with her, but I can’t. Not yet. I haven’t got control over much, but I can decide when to press the detonator. At least that way, I can minimise who gets hit in the blast.
Chapter 27
When my alarm goes off the next morning, I reach for my woolly hat, sit up, and scrabble for my laptop under the bed. The deadline for my next diary submission has crept up far too quickly and this one needs careful thought. I’ve had to use some creative licence to retrospectively explain how I found Moira. If I pretend that I’ve only just met her, there’s a good chance I’ll buy myself some time and be able to stay for longer. If not, Duncan will insist I cut my losses and head back down south.
Date: Wednesday 30th October
Location: In a Jeep, waiting for a herd of cows to cross the road. They are slow. Very slow.
Cups of tea: Five hot, three cold
Sleep: 4 hours and 16 minutes
By the time you’ve read this, my undercover mission will almost be over. After cross-analysing every female I’ve encountered against my mental Rolodex of potential sisters, I’ve finally found her. She’s the ruddy-cheeked, fast-talking, pig-wrangling version of me, and I couldn’t be happier about it.
So, how did growing up at opposite ends of the country make a difference to the adults we are now? Well, we both seem to catch sunburn through thick cloud, so it’s a comfort to know that
we can split the cost of factor fifty if we ever go on holiday together. Aside from that? It’s something I was sceptical about before, but it’s there in each shared laugh, look, and lunge for the last Tunnock’s Tea Cake. A Bond. I feel like it’s been tucked deep down, waiting to come out of hibernation at the right time.
Speaking of which, I’m sure you’re dying to know how she reacted to the news. Spoiler alert: she hasn’t … yet. After this long apart, I can’t risk getting interrupted by reports of Miranda the Sheep attempting to parkour by the cliffside again. A reunion requires a celebration, so you’ll have to wait for that. There’s no party in Kilroch without a ceilidh to accompany it, so if I can drag Moira away from the thigh-slapping, skirt-spinning chaos for long enough, all will be revealed.
***
‘I think my fingers are sweating,’ I say, bent double over my knees.
‘My ears definitely are. Is that possible?’ says Moira, blinking. ‘I feel like I’ve opened my eyes underwater, it’s so salty.’
‘Well done, ladies! Same time next week! Alana, you’re on biscuit duty. No ginger nuts or I’ll come out in hives,’ says Teresa, unplugging her CD player from the wall. The pulsing tones of Enya’s ‘Orinoco Flow’ are abruptly clipped short, as static gives way to the chatter that drifts across the room like dandelion fluff. I look out of the windows for maybe the fiftieth time since the aerobics session started, but I can barely see the tombstones, masked as they are by thick condensation and rusty ferns.
‘If he comes from that direction, I’d be a bit concerned,’ says Moira, nodding at the gravestones.
‘Shh!’ I hiss, fumbling with the window latch to disguise my very obvious surveillance of the church grounds. I push it open and cold air slips inside, cooling my damp skin so quickly I start to shiver.
‘He’s a priest, so I don’t know what the rules are about how public we’re allowed to be.’
‘You sound five hundred years old,’ says Moira, jostling me with her hip. ‘He’s not a priest, anyway. Not in the way you’re thinking.’
‘Priests aren’t allowed to get married. Didn’t Reverend Dingwall live alone?’
‘Yeah, but not through lack of trying. Everyone said that church attendance had gone down because our generation have “sold our souls to smart phones”, but I blame his gingivitis. You wouldn’t want to stand within three feet, let alone take Communion off of him.’
‘Let me get this straight. Ross – The Rev – he’s allowed to …’
‘Have sex?’ says Moira, mouthing the word in a whisper. ‘Yep. Pretty sure he is. You’d probably have to get married first. You could do it here! We could train one of the sheep to walk the rings up the aisle, how cute would that be?’
I breathe out slowly and shake my head. Moira grins at me, dimples deep set in her cheeks.
‘Fly me to the moon, Jack!’ she says, yanking my wrist to spin me round in a circle. We burst into laughter and I feel like a kid again, giggling in the back of a school assembly. Moira stops and I spin to one side, stumbling on the edge of my borrowed plimsoles.
‘Ava. Ava!’ says Moira.
‘Gah! I should have bashed these against the wall outside, I’ve left a little Hansel and Gretel trail of muck across the floor,’ I say, inspecting the underside of my shoe.
‘Ava … I’ll see you outside, yeah?’ she says, her eyes insistent.
‘OK, but do you know where I can find a dustpan or something—’
‘Hi,’ says Ross, a few feet away. His hair is fluffy, like he’s towel dried it too hard, and for some reason, seeing him like this – with a black shirt and a little white dog collar – makes me feel on edge in a way that I didn’t before. This time, I have no wine or whisky in my system. Useful for balance, but not nerves.
‘Hi yourself,’ I say, lowering my foot. Moira zips her coat up and leaves so fast I’m surprised she’s not strained her Achilles.
‘I wouldn’t bother with that. There’s going to be about ten wee ones in here for messy play and I can vouch that it’ll be carnage.’
‘Right. We should get out of the way, then,’ I say, as parents start to drift in, their toddlers stumbling from one side of the room to the other like drunk uncles at a BBQ.
‘Egg boxes. I need to give you some back,’ says Ross, pointing at me.
‘Yep, sure.’
‘There are quite a few.’
‘I should come with you. To help.’
‘Yes! Good idea.’
Ross leads me round the side of the building, where flagstones lead to an overgrown cottage garden, the skeletons of herb plants brown and withered beneath the kitchen window. I follow him as he heads towards the back door, my pulse thumping like I’m about to raid a jewellery shop. I tug my T-shirt down, hoping that it covers the waistband of my leggings. They’ve somehow cinched tighter in the past hour, giving me the look of an overstuffed sausage.
Inside the kitchen, evidence of Ross’s morning is cast around the room. On the counter, an Italian coffee pot and half eaten multi-pack of Kit Kats sit beside an open Bible stickered with coloured tabs. The dining table is bare except for a pair of scissors and a half-mangled milk carton.
‘Craft project?’ I ask.
Ross blinks and opens one eye as though he’s been caught out.
‘Shit. Ah, this is embarrassing. I couldn’t find my dog collar so I had to improvise.’
I stand on my tiptoes. It’s only up close that I can see the textured plastic slipped into his shirt, only part opaque.
‘You’ve not done a bad job here.’
‘Cheers,’ he says. I rock back onto my heels but he tilts towards me, wavering.
‘I’m very sweaty,’ I say.
‘You’re not.’
‘I am.’
‘OK, you are. Can I kiss you anyway?’
I answer by accidentally standing on his foot, but it gives me some extra height to grapple my way upwards and he’s too polite to complain. His hand presses on the small of my back and that’s when my lips land on his, heavier than planned. He softens, I pause, our bodies so close that I can feel the buttons on his shirt along my stomach. We stumble sideways, my hip bumping against the pantry shelf. A bag of flour plops to the floor and splits, a white molehill on the flagstones.
‘Oops.’
‘What?’ says Ross, his lips full, eyes searching my face.
‘Your dog collar has popped out.’
He looks down and laughs, but when he meets my eyes again the intensity is gone, like we’ve shifted into the wrong gear.
Ross steps away and taps my arm like I’m a horse he’s pleased with, frowning at the flour dust settling on the tiles as he buttons his dog collar back into his shirt. I pull my T-shirt straight and swallow.
***
‘What took you so long?’ says Moira, following me down the driveway.
‘I was fetching egg boxes from Ross.’
‘What egg boxes? Did you leave them inside, or—’ Moira grabs my elbow and squints, interrogating my face in a way that reminds me of Jacqui.
‘OH MY GOD,’ she exclaims.
‘Shhhhh!’
‘I will not! You kissed, didn’t you? What was it like? Oh! Oh! Was it heavenly?’
‘Ha, no. Yes. I don’t know!
‘Oh, come on.’
I kick through dry leaves that have gathered in a drift along the wall, the sound crunchy underfoot like Bonfire Night sparklers.
‘He does not kiss like a priest,’ I say.
‘That’s because he’s a minister. A young, fit, highly desirable minister.’
‘Hmm. I don’t know. He was acting weird afterwards.’
‘Oh yeah?’ says Moira, misinterpreting me.
‘Not sexy weird. Like he regretted it.’
‘I’m going to throw one of your lines back at you now. Don’t overthink it. He’s got his own issues to deal with, just like everyone else.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, pulling my scarf tight. ‘That’s about right.’
&
nbsp; ‘What do you think about this?’ she asks, pulling her phone out. ‘I’ve been writing and rewriting this text message to Kian, but I don’t know if it sounds right.’
‘Give it here,’ I say, taking the phone off her. It takes three thumb scrolls to reach the end, which is concerning to say the least. ‘You know this is a text and not a letter, right?’
‘Is it a bit long?’
‘Yeah, I’d say so. One more thing. Do you know what these emojis mean?’ I say, flicking to the bottom of the text.
‘I’m not sure I get you,’ she says, her brow furrowed in confusion. ‘Mum made a peach pie and I said I’d drop some round, so I added them in.’
‘He might get the wrong idea if he reads. “Just wait until you eat this” followed by a string of peach emojis and water droplets.’
‘But … they’re juicy.’
‘Oh, your innocent mind,’ I say, deleting them for her and handing the phone back. ‘Keep it simple. “Hey, would be cool to hang out soon”, you know?’
‘Fine. But you’ll have to press the send button because I don’t have the nerve.’
I’m about to open my mouth when my phone vibrates in my pocket, making me jump. I wiggle it free and squint at the number as Moira crosses the road to greet a woman walking a wiry dachshund. I answer it, my stomach twisting at the name.
‘Hi, Max,’ I say, trying to sound more upbeat that I feel.
‘Ava! How’s the family?’ he says, badly disguising laughter by clearing his throat.
‘Did you call just to wind me up?’
‘What happened, banter buddy? Have your turned feral up there? Olz! Put me down for a kombucha. No, cherry plum, please, mate,’ he says, turned away from the mouthpiece. ‘Sorry, rushed off my feet, seems like we’re both riding off that ancestry video, eh? I did some more digging and it turns out I am related to the Plantagenets, so I’m basically royalty. Not a surprise, eh?’
‘Is there something you needed to tell me? Because I’ve got to get on.’
‘Yeah, sorry. Hang on, let me go somewhere quiet.’
Blood throbs in my temples. I hear the sound of chatter, clacking keyboards, and the rustling of Max’s shirt as he moves through the office. I hold the phone tight against my ear, paranoid that Max’s voice will leak out into the street.