by Abigail Mann
I open Instagram on my phone and search the Edinburgh geo-tag for an innocuous picture of a flagstoned street gleaming with rain – something I can legitimately claim I snapped on a lunch break from my fictional sabbatical. I screenshot it, crop the edges, and send it over to Mum with the caption ‘Wish you were here!’ I’d like to think that she’d worry if I left it any longer without replying.
Once I know it’s delivered, I flick through the gallery on my phone, not quite ready to drive back to the farm. I linger on a picture of Pickles on my window sill, his legs tucked beneath his pendulous belly. A dull ache twists between my ribs as my thoughts jump to various images of home: Pickles snoring on the back doorstep in the brief winter sunshine; the smell of sweet potato simmering in the slow cooker; and Mum in her faux fur coat, a plastic tub of craft materials balanced on her hip. I bite my lip and swallow. I’m not used to this feeling. In fact, the last time I was this homesick, I was watching a live feed of the road I’m now sitting on, the same seagulls plaguing the sky, and the same ache in my stomach.
Chapter 29
The noise of a landline ringing cuts through the hyperventilating honks of the farm’s two geese, Penelope and Princess Bianca. Christened by Kian’s grandfather, they make the perfect guard dogs because of their keen desire to attack all other creatures. I wave my arms and they lift their wings in retaliation, hissing as I open the back door to retreat inside. I snatch at my laces to undo my mucky boots, then stride across the kitchen in slippery socks to catch the phone on the last ring.
‘Braehead Farm. Ava speaking.’
‘Hi, is Kian Brody there at all?’
‘No, he’s out until –’ I lean backwards to read the kitchen clock ‘– about four or five. He should be back for the evening rounds on the farm.’
‘Ah, we were hoping to catch him. Do you work on the farm?’
‘Yeah, I’m a volunteer. For the time being.’
‘A volunteer? He must have forgotten to put that on the form. That’s great! It’s nice to hear that farms are taking on outreach work already. It’s better than starting from scratch. Sorry, I’m getting ahead myself. I’ve just come off paternity leave and I’m on my third coffee today. I’ve got a four-week-old baby at home who sleeps in forty-minute blocks. Where was I? Outreach! Yes. I’m from the school of Geosciences at The University of Edinburgh. We had a grant application come through for a partnership project, but unfortunately Kian’s application reached us just after the deadline.’
I stand up and start paying attention, looking around for a pen and something to scribble on. Dammit. I could do with that mess on the kitchen table now.
‘That’s such a shame. He’ll be gutted. He’s really keen on eco-agricultural science stuff. Like, really keen. He won’t buy proper washing-up liquid because it does something dodgy to the waste water. There’s a list of approved products on the back of the cupboard door that we buy from instead.’
‘Well, I might have some good news for you. The McCulloch farm over in Moray pulled out of the programme. We did a survey and found some undeclared produce in a polytunnel behind the main farm. I can’t say what it is for legal reasons, but it’s not supermarket produce if you catch my drift.’
‘I’m with you. As far as I know, Kian toes the line of the law. He’s more into drones and truffle hunting.’
‘That’s great! We’d like to send a couple of representatives up at the weekend to do a survey, talk logistics, that sort of thing. If it suits, will you ask him to let us know in the next couple of hours? I’m going through our back-up list, so if he’s changed his mind, I’ll move on to the next application.’
I say goodbye, hang up, and break into jazz hands whilst slipping across the kitchen doing the running man, my socks fluffy with dust by the time I’ve completed my third circuit. The fact that the university want to progress Kian’s funding application kicks thoughts of The Big Chat to the side, if only for a little while.
An hour later, I spot John bouncing up the farm track, his hand-painted taxi sign rattling against the grille of his car, I open the front door in anticipation and grin as Kian plods across the yard.
He looks awful, like he’s just attended his own funeral. His shirt is half tucked in, the collar bent beneath his chin, his shoulders sloped like he’s carrying a bucket of water in each hand for the pigs.
‘Come down The Banshee tonight, Kian,’ calls John, who hovers by the gate, his window rolled down. Kian nods and raises a hand. When John drives off, Kian rubs his forehead and frowns at me.
‘What’s up?’ he mutters, looking between me and the floor, where I hop from one foot to the other.
‘The floor is really cold.’
‘You’re letting all the heat out of the house.’
‘Come in then. I’ve got some news.’
‘No offence, but if it’s another theory about the cockerel being gay, I’m not in the mood for it.’
‘It’s not. But I stand by that theory. Quick, come on,’ I say, chivvying him through to the kitchen. He pulls out the end chair, slumps into it, and rubs his temples.
‘Someone called whilst you were out,’ I say. Kian says nothing. After a moment, he swallows hard.
‘The bank are refusing to extend the loan repayments,’ says Kian. He looks at me, his eyes bloodshot with fatigue. ‘They want full payment by the end of the year or they’ll repossess.’
I rearrange my expression, taken aback.
‘Why?’
‘They said the business plan I wrote was “too speculative at this stage to confidently support with financial backing”. The lad who held the meeting couldn’t have been older than eighteen. He had a script next to him, so my responses were fucking pointless, because they didn’t fit with what was on his shitty piece of paper. They’d made the decision before I got there. Two hundred years we’ve had this land and it stops with a wee bawbag in a short-sleeved shirt on work experience. It wasn’t a meeting at all, it was a total fucking farce.’
‘That sounds really unfair,’ I say, wanting to sound sincere but bursting to tell him about the university.
‘If Granddad had been honest about our cash situation, I would have moved back earlier to help turn it around.’
‘He might not have wanted you to worry. Even before he got kicked in the head, didn’t you say he was a bit … umm …’
‘Senile?’
‘Mmm.’
‘He tried poaching an egg in the kettle, so I’d say he was the wrong side of eccentric, yeah.’
I tap the kitchen counter impatiently. ‘You got a phone call whilst you were out. I picked it up just in case it was important.’
‘If it was PPI, tell them that yes – I have had an accident that wasn’t my fault – taking on this fucking farm.’
‘It was the University of Edinburgh. They wanted to talk about the partnership grant we put together.’
‘Great. Another one to add onto the list of rejections.’
‘They want to come and do a survey this weekend to assess our application.’ I lean forward in my chair to pull out the receipt I scribbled on with a blunt pencil. ‘They used these words, but I can’t remember what order they were in. You might be able to make sense of it. “Saturation”, “hummocks”, “accommodation”, and “quick turnaround”. I only understand the last one, but I looked up “hummocks” on Urban Dictionary and it’s quite perverted, so I hope for your sake it doesn’t involve pick-up trucks and a gimp mask. They want to get things going because their initial partner dropped out. If all goes well, you could have that grant money in the next couple of months.’
Kian doesn’t say anything but lifts his head slowly like he’s heard an unfamiliar noise. He pushes back his chair and reaches for a box file on the shelf, flips it open and flicks through a section marked with blue tabs. He runs a finger down the page, his eyes darting across each line.
‘How much was the grant for?’ he asks.
‘£92,000 over six months, with another £15,000
if you can provide accommodation facilities for students who need to stay for research.’
Kian bends over the table and scribbles down a few figures as though he’s adding paint to a canvas, stepping back to analyse the result from a distance.
He looks up and points at me with the end of his pencil. ‘We might – and it’s a huge might – be able to pull this off.’
‘Might?’
‘It’s going to be tight. This barely covers basic running costs.’
‘But it might buy you some time.’
Kian nods, biting his lip.
‘Better start training those pigs to truffle hunt if you wanna top up the ol’ income,’ I say, grinning.
‘Come here.’ Kian walks around the table and pulls me into a hug. A few seconds later, he stands back, his once drained cheeks flushed with their usual pink. ‘Thanks.’
I dither on the spot and hold the back of a chair, relieved that a black cloud has drifted out of the room.
‘I was acting like a prick this morning,’ says Kian.
‘I wouldn’t say you were being prickish, just a tiny bit … sullen.’
‘I’ll take that. It wasn’t you; it was all of this,’ he says, motioning to the file (excellently arranged, if I do say so myself). ‘John told me at the station that one of the McCulloch lads is planning on asking Moira out, which really rattled me and all. Don’t know why. I’ve had the same problems whirring on in the background for so long that it all turned to white noise. I didn’t think anyone else had a perspective worth listening to. Granddad was fucking terrible with money, but he knew how favours worked round here and managed to get by. Jacqui, too. I always keep a tally in my head of what I need to do for her in return, to pay her back, but she disnae want anything.’
As much as I don’t like her, I can’t dispute how much Jacqui takes on to lighten the load for others.
‘She’s a good egg, isn’t she?’
‘Aye. You’re not so bad yourself. I wouldn’t have applied for this grant if it weren’t for you. I definitely wouldn’t have been this organised,’ he says.
‘Acknowledgement accepted. Just so you know, I would have charged at least ninety quid for a service like this down in London,’ I say, my chin aloft in mock pride.
‘Well, it’s a good job you’ve eaten more than ninety quid’s worth of Tunnock’s Tea Cakes since you’ve been here. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.’
I laugh and eye the pantry door, where I left a half-eaten box this morning, the opening pressed against the wall to disguise my activity.
‘You better phone the university back. They’re going to ask someone else if you’re not keen,’ I say.
‘I know how to hook them in. I’ve been teaching one of the pigs to sit on command. That’ll win them over. I’ll have to lock Babs up, mind. She doesn’t like strangers.’
‘Don’t I know it.’
‘When do they want to come and do the survey?’
‘The day after tomorrow.’
‘Post ceilidh? That’s a bastard. I’ll still come but I’ll have to take it easy. Moira wouldn’t forgive me if I bailed. She’s fanatical when it comes to reeling. It’s sweet, she has this skirt that she only wears to ceilidhs. You haven’t seen tartan ’til you’ve seen this thing.’
My stomach swoops. I pinch my hand under the table. So far as I know, the articles with my name in the byline are still on the Snooper website.
‘Hey, you’ll love it. The band are great, and there’s this fella James, right? He’s ninety-one and is on his feet from beginning to end even though he’s had two knee replacements. Moira’s coming round in the morning to teach you the dances.’
‘Is she?’
‘Yeah. Best be prepared for it.’
‘Aye.’
‘“Aye”? You’re turning Scottish.’
Chapter 30
‘Honestly, it’s not as complicated as you think,’ says Moira, twisting the lid on a tub of chicken feed.
Kian leans against the coop and pushes the sleeves of his jumper up, squinting in the sunshine as it breaks through a cloud. A wave of sunlight crests the hill, stretching our shadows across the ground. I smile from my seat on an upturned bucket, hens crooning by my feet. Babs pecks at my laces and looks up at me with mean eyes when she realises they’re not edible. Some chickens are so hard to please.
‘How come you know all the dances already?’ I ask.
‘PE,’ they say together. Kian grimaces, but Moira is soft with nostalgia. She bumps Kian with her hip.
‘Who still holds the high school title for longest sword dance without falling over?’ Moira raises a hand and jigs on the spot, jumping back and forth over a rake on the floor.
‘Aye, and you won’t let us forget it,’ says Kian.
As I look at Moira, her body angled towards Kian, I see an opportunity to help out a little. I’m sure that Kian has a soft spot for Moira, but if he claims that he’s got no time for a girlfriend ‘until the farm’s sorted’, they’ll both be dancing round each other until the fields learn to plough themselves.
‘Hey, give us a demonstration, would you? Then I can turn up at the ceilidh without being identified as so cripplingly English that I can barely put one foot in front of the other without apologising to someone.’
‘Ah, I don’t know,’ says Kian.
‘Oh, come on. You’re not a bad mover, Ki,’ Moira tells him.
‘There’s no music.’
‘I’ve got it, don’t worry,’ I say, slapping a dull beat onto the side of a bucket.
‘A basic hold: left hand by your side, right hand crosses over my front, then I link in at the back,’ says Moira. They face the same way, arms interlocked. Moira can’t see him, but I notice the silly grin on Kian’s face as he looks down at her, unblinking.
‘What do we do now, hop forward four times?’
‘I don’t want to kick the chickens,’ says Moira.
‘They’ll move,’ says Kian. They skip forwards and back, scattering the seed we threw down for the hens moments before.
‘Then you spin.’ Moira pirouettes like a ballerina, her wax jacket flapping as she goes. ‘Hook arms, and you’re on your way with someone new.’
Kian grins whilst Moira bounces from one foot to the other.
‘God, I love a ceilidh. I’m mad buzzing for it. It’s been way too long.’
‘How does the partnering work? Do you have to write people’s names down? Book them out?’ I say, excitement stretching up through my chest like a cat clawing a scratch pole.
‘No, it’s really casual. Chaotic-casual,’ says Moira, zipping her coat up. ‘But Kian always saves me the first waltz.’ Moira smiles at Kian, who raises his eyebrows in admission. ‘After that you end up swapping all the time, anyway.’
It’s got to be tonight. If Moira’s buoyed up about the ceilidh, I’ll be able to tell her that we’re sisters without it being awkwardly intense. I want it to be good news, the kind that deserves a celebration. What’s better than a torrent of foot stamping and ale swigging? Doing it with your sister, for sure.
Once Moira knows, I might finally have the courage to talk to Mum about her time in Kilroch like we’re actual adults. I won’t have to decode Rory’s bizarre postcards in secret anymore. My butchered Snooper diaries? That one I’ve yet to figure out. Baby steps, Ava, baby steps.
***
‘Why can’t you go in your trainers?’ says Kian. I step back out of my room and throw a look down the corridor. Kian stops chewing his toast quite so aggressively. ‘That wasn’t the right thing to say, was it?’
I groan and look down at the crumpled clothes draped over my arm. ‘If I wear any of these I’ll look like bad origami.’
‘As soon as your body gets warm it’ll work out the creases,’ says Kian, grinning through a mouthful of toast.
‘I’m sure that’s not a thing.’
‘It’s like ironing, but from the inside out.’
‘As helpful as you are, this is why Moi
ra should be here.’
‘Weren’t you guys going to do girly stuff before we left? Drink cocktails and gossip?’
‘Yeah. Not got much time for it now. It’s weird for her to turn up so late, isn’t it?’ I say, tapping the bannister. ‘Have you had any texts from her?’
‘Nope. I’ve not had a dot of signal all day.’
‘No, me neither,’ I say, holding my phone aloft. ‘Do you think she’s OK?’
‘Oh, aye. Moira’s fierce independent. That’s no strange.’
‘Hmm. Do you think we should check the animals are safe before heading off? Jacqui said we need to turn the sheep out onto the upper paddock before it gets bogged up.’
‘I was planning on it, but there’s no point doing it tonight. It means taking them onto the road and it’s too dark for it,’ says Kian, ducking down to look at the sky through a narrow window at the top of the stairs. I scrape a hand through my hair and frown.
‘I’m going to check that the coop isn’t leaking,’ I say.
‘It’s fine. I put some tarp over it.’
‘Babs won’t forgive me if I let her nest get wet.’
‘You’ve changed your tune.’
‘She knows what she wants and she wants what she knows. That’s quite admirable.’
Kian rips off another mouthful of toast and yawns, his arms juddering. Inside the bedroom I’ve occupied for nearly a month, I empty my suitcase on the floor. It’s stuffed with newly washed socks and half a tub of Nutella that I’ve been eating by the tablespoon each night before I go to sleep. I’ve got to have packed something that’ll do for a night out in the church hall.
Rolled up beside a handful of loose tampons is a mustard-coloured jumpsuit, which, although inappropriate for the rollicking wind and rain outside, is the only thing I have that I can confidently say is free from straw and faeces. I lay my outfit on the bed and place a belt and earrings beside it in a flatpack version of myself. It’ll have to do.