‘Perhaps you should think of something else to do with the land.’
‘Diversify, you mean? I can’t see Nettlebed Farm without cattle.’
Leo tips his head to one side. ‘You’d be mad not to consider the alternatives.’
Honeydew limps into the crush quite happily while Leo puts on a waterproof gown and I fetch a bucket of hot water from the dairy. She’s a good girl, obliging Leo by picking up her back foot.
‘What is it?’ I say when he’s scrubbed it clean.
‘It’s a mild case of slurry heel.’
My heart sinks because – again – it’s something that could have been avoided if the yard had been kept clean.
‘Hey, don’t feel bad about it,’ Leo says, as if he’s reading my mind. ‘We’re seeing a lot of it because it’s the end of the winter and the cows have been housed for months.’
‘We’re going to turn them out for the first time before the weekend. I can’t wait to see their faces.’
‘They’ll go mad. I love seeing them gambolling about,’ Leo says. ‘I’d suggest that when they come back indoors for next winter, that you set up a weekly foot bath. Prevention’s always better than cure.’
‘Thank you, Leo.’
‘It’s no problem, Stevie.’ He clears his throat. ‘I hope you don’t go rushing back to the big bad city too soon.’
‘It isn’t all that bad,’ I say, smiling. ‘I like the people and the buzz you get from living in London.’
‘You sound as though you’re missing it.’
‘I am a little,’ I admit. ‘In fact, I’d be torn if I had to decide between my life in the city and life on the farm.’
When Leo leaves, I go back and separate Pearl from the rest of her friends, penning her off a small section in the shed so she can still see them. I shake out some fresh straw, giving her a clean bed and bottle-feeding her so I know what she’s taking. She’s reluctant at first, and soon there’s more milk down my overalls than down her throat.
‘Now, Pearl, I won’t cry and make a fuss over spilt milk as long as you promise me you’ll get better.’ I go and clean the bottle before returning to the yard where Cecil is drawing up in the Land Rover.
‘I’ve got them,’ he mutters, struggling out of the vehicle with his cap over his eyes and his pipe in his mouth. ‘A cockerel and a baker’s dozen from Ruthie at Hen Welfare.’
I move round and open the tailgate, finding two open-sided plastic crates of light-brown hens and a cardboard box containing the cockerel, which is making a noisy protest over being confined.
‘The cock’s from a local smallholding, surplus to requirements, while the hens are ex-battery, but they’ve got a lot of eggs left in them, according to Ruthie,’ Cecil observes. ‘Mind you, they do look a bit scrawny.’
Cecil and I carry the crates to the run, placing them inside on the ground. We lift the lids and wait for the hens to hop out to investigate their new surroundings.
‘There are fourteen hens,’ I say, counting them.
‘Ah, Ruthie gave us one for luck. Actually, she has so many she doesn’t know what to do with them all, so I said we could take an extra.’
I pick one out, holding her wings close to her body. She’s very light and she’s lost almost all her feathers. Her skin is pale, rough and pimply, and she has a red, rubbery comb on the top of her head and wattles under her beak. I let her go on the ground and she stands blinking at me with one orange eye before deciding it’s safe to stretch her wings.
Three more hop onto the edge of the crate and survey the scene, tilting their heads and cawing softly, before joining the hen on the ground where she’s tapping at the straw with her beak. She scratches at it with her feet and reverses to see if she’s unearthed some hidden treasure, a worm or a morsel of layers mash.
‘I’ve got some treats.’ Cecil sticks his hand in his pocket and pulls out a handful of mealworms, live ones, scattering them for the hens, at which more emerge from the crates. There is a lot of noisy squabbling before they settle down, continuing their search for mealworms, while the cockerel, a proud and elegant specimen, decides to join them, stalking among his new girlfriends.
‘Thank you, Cecil.’
‘It’s a pleasure to have chickens on the farm again,’ he says. ‘I’m looking forward to a fresh brown egg for breakfast, not a shop-bought one.’
‘Don’t you buy eggs from Jennie and Guy next door at Uphill Farm?’
‘Your father wouldn’t countenance it.’ Cecil pauses. ‘I’m going indoors for a sandwich.’
‘I’ll catch you later.’ Having fed the chickens some layers mash and filled up their water, I head for the brick-built outbuilding between the barn and the nursery to check the cows’ records. They should all be on the desktop computer, but as I suspected it’s been untouched since my brother left the farm seven years ago. I can’t even persuade it to switch on.
The details of the dry cows – the ones waiting to calve down, the fertility rates and the medical notes have been scrawled into a dog-eared desk diary or added as notes on scraps of paper. It upsets me because the office used to be so organised. I could have told you instantly how many cows were barren or how many due to calve within the next months.
The accounts are in a muddle too. Receipts stamped with muddy footprints lie across the floor, and box files overflowing with paperwork and piles of unopened mail, bills mainly, I suspect, are piled up on the desk.
I decide to tackle my father, finding him indoors in the sitting room where he’s in his chair, dressed in his tweed jacket, with Bear at his feet and a gun aimed towards the garden. A gun? How has he got hold of a gun?
‘What are you doing?’ I exclaim, but my words are lost in an explosion of rifle fire as he takes a pot shot through the open French windows at a fat wood-pigeon that has dared to waddle its way across the lawn. ‘Dad!’ I shout as the pigeon takes flight, lumbering into the air like a wide-bellied cargo plane.
‘What the—?’ My father turns towards me, holding the gun pointing right between my eyes, which I find somewhat unnerving. ‘What do you think you’re doing, creeping up on us like that?’
‘Put the gun down,’ I say wearily.
‘I’d have got it, if you hadn’t come in and spooked it.’
‘Put it down!’
He lays the gun across his lap and stares out at the lawn. Some of the other pigeons haven’t been so lucky – there are three lying lifeless in the grass.
‘It seems a shame to kill them,’ I observe.
‘They’re a nuisance,’ he says firmly, ‘and I fancy a pigeon pie. Mary says she’ll make it. Go and get them, Stevie. I can’t persuade Bear to fetch them, bloody useless dog,’ he adds, fondling Bear’s head.
‘What do you expect? He isn’t a retriever. And I’m not going to fetch the birds. Get them yourself. And before you say anything, it isn’t because I’m squeamish. I think it’s time you did a little more for yourself to help with your rehab.’
‘You aren’t a doctor. What do you know about strokes?’
‘A bit.’ I’ve gleaned some information from the internet.
‘You can’t know what it’s like, unless you’ve been through it yourself,’ he growls. ‘It’s like dying a little.’ His voice trembles and my instinct to comfort him takes over. I move closer and touch his shoulder. He freezes. ‘I might as well be dead. I can’t do much. I can’t look after myself, let alone the farm. And no one wants to know me any more.’
‘That isn’t true,’ I say, but my reassurances only wind him up further.
‘Where is everyone then? Tell me!’
‘Perhaps they don’t want to disturb you.’ I take my hand away, aware that the contact is unwelcome.
‘Ray never shows his face.’
‘I expect he’s busy,’ I say, not wishing to enter into a conversation about my father and Ray’s rather volatile history.
‘Too busy for an old man with half a body who can’t go out shooting any more and has to wait
for the birds to come to him.’ He pauses. ‘I can’t shave myself properly, let alone do the milking.’ I worry that he’s depressed, but he looks up at me with a wicked gleam in his eye that suggests he’s milking the situation – so to speak – for all it’s worth. ‘Stevie,’ he goes on, ‘will you please get those pigeons and take them in for Mary? I’d hate to think of the foxes getting them for their tea.’
‘Oh, all right. I’ll do it just this once, because there won’t be a next time – you aren’t supposed to be in possession of a gun. In case you’ve forgotten, which I’m sure you haven’t, your licence has been revoked. Wait there. I’ll be back.’ I collect the birds, picking them up gingerly, and take them through to the kitchen where Mary is rolling out pastry. ‘They’re all yours.’ I put them beside the sink. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll do myself an omelette tonight.’
‘You never were that fond of pigeon pie,’ she says, smiling.
‘Do you think Dad’s all right? He seems very down,’ I say.
‘Dr Mackie says it’s quite normal for someone to have depression after a stroke. He’s got some antidepressants.’
‘I heard that,’ Dad calls through. ‘There’s no need to talk about me as if I’m not here. As for the happy pills, I don’t like drugs so I stopped taking them.’
‘That explains a lot,’ Mary says lightly. ‘That’s why you’re even more of a grumpy old beggar than normal. Take them and be happy, Tom.’
I’m surprised at her talking to her boss like that. There was a time when she looked up to him with respect, afraid to cross him in any way. I guess that being his carer has blurred the boundaries of their relationship.
I push the kitchen door up so my father can’t hear.
‘Thank you for all you’ve done for Dad,’ I say as I eat a piece of the pastry trimmings Mary offers me, remembering how I used to love eating them uncooked as a girl. ‘He wouldn’t have managed without you.’
‘Tom isn’t always the easiest of patients, but we’ve made some compromises and I like looking after him,’ she adds fiercely. ‘He was lost after Pippa died. We all were.’ Mary looks down, wringing a damp cloth. ‘I reckon that’s why he had that stroke.’
I feel a pang of guilt for not being there for him, for being so wrapped up in my own grief for my mum that I didn’t consider my dad’s feelings.
‘You mustn’t blame yourself, Stevie. He doesn’t deserve you after how he treated you over the farm. If you’d been our daughter and we’d owned the farm, we’d have—’ Mary breaks off, mid-sentence, as if worried she’s said too much. She and Cecil never had children. ‘Never mind,’ she goes on eventually. ‘It’s a pity Nick had to go home so soon. He’s a handsome young man, just like James Bond with that beautiful car.’ She drops the cloth into the washing-up bowl in the butler sink. ‘He’s a bit weedy though – he could do with feeding up.’
‘He’ll be at the gym now,’ I observe. ‘He worries about his figure.’
‘Oh, I’m not sure I like that,’ Mary says. ‘It has to be a real man for me.’
‘Mary,’ I say in mock surprise.
‘You can tell by Nick’s hands that he hasn’t done a proper day’s work in his life. They’re so clean and smooth, like a baby’s bottom.’ She pauses. ‘I always thought you’d marry one of us, a country lad, someone rough and ready with a warm heart … not that I’m saying Nick doesn’t have a warm heart when he’s with you, like—’
‘It’s all right, Mary,’ I say, stalling her.
‘I’m sorry for wittering on like this. Tom and Cecil don’t do a lot of talking.’
‘Neither does Nick – he prefers to text.’ I return to the sitting room and close the double doors.
‘Where’s the gun?’ I say, turning to my father who merely shrugs in response. ‘I thought you’d had to leave it with the police.’ I pause, watching the sly look on his face. ‘You did leave it?’
‘I certainly did.’
‘But you had another one somewhere in the house. For goodness’ sake, Dad, if anyone finds out, you’ll be arrested and charged this time for unlawful possession of a firearm.’
‘No one is going to find out unless you tell them,’ he says. ‘You wouldn’t grass on your poor old father, would you, especially when he’s so sick?’
‘Not so sick you can’t get up and hide a gun, I notice. Where is it? It can’t stay here.’
‘It’s locked away in the cabinet.’ He waves towards the hallway where the gun cabinet is set into the alcove under the stairs. ‘That dim-witted police constable will never think of looking there. It’s too bloody obvious. And if you insist on handing that one in, I have others tucked away.’
‘You’re going to have to show me where they all are.’ I wonder if he’s calling my bluff. I wouldn’t put it past him. ‘Give me the key.’ I hold out my hand. ‘If you don’t, I will report you to the police and you’ll be sent down for some time.’
‘Oh, Stevie, you are an old shrew,’ he grumbles, but he gives me the key from his jacket pocket. I take it and slip it into my purse. I’ll decide what to do about the gun situation later. ‘I’m going to go through the files from the office tonight.’
‘There’s no need—’ Dad begins, but I cut him off.
‘There’s every need. When did you last have the books made up?’
‘How can I remember something like that? This year? Last year?’
‘When did you last pay a tax bill?’
‘I really don’t know. Your mother –’ his voice softens – ‘Pippa used to deal with the accountant. What was his name?’ He grinds his fist against his forehead.
‘Never mind, I’ll deal with it.’
‘I can’t believe you took up accounting.’
‘You can criticise all you like, but it’s kept a roof over my head and I’ve done well out of it. I agree it isn’t the most exciting job in the world, but it’s a good career.’
‘It’s like being an estate agent or a banker,’ Dad insists. ‘You must be about as popular as a fart in a phone box.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I can’t help it. I start to laugh. ‘Where did you get that one from?’
‘It’s been around a long time – Andy, the AI man, told it to me.’ (Andy is the artificial inseminator – we don’t keep a bull on the farm any more.) Dad starts laughing too, but his good humour doesn’t last for long.
After a meal and a couple of glasses of scrumpy, I turn my attention to the files, sitting down with Bear and the paperwork at the kitchen table. Dad shuffles in with his stick and slippers, wearing his green plaid robe over his pyjamas.
‘I don’t need your help,’ I tell him firmly. ‘Please go away.’
‘This is my home, Stevie, my farm and my business, not yours,’ he begins.
‘I don’t think you’re in any position to tell me what I can and can’t do. I’ve bailed you out – temporarily, at least. You owe it to me to let me find out about the state of your finances before someone sends the bailiffs in.’
‘Bailiffs,’ he blusters. ‘Don’t talk nonsense.’
‘You haven’t a clue, have you? I bet you’re completely in the dark about what money you have and what you owe.’
As Dad starts to deny it, the lights go out.
‘A power cut? That’s all I need,’ I sigh, switching on the flashlight on my mobile and shining it around the kitchen. ‘Where do you keep the candles?’
‘I don’t know. Pippa used to look after the candles …’
I check the drawers of the oak dresser, finding a stash of matches. Mary lends me three stubby candles, one an advent candle burned down to day twenty-two, which I take back to light the kitchen. Dad says he’s going to bed – I think he’s scared now of what I’m going to find.
I open all the post, throwing away the advertising and keeping the letters and invoices from various people and businesses, such as Talyton Manor vets, the company that delivers the oil for the Aga and, worst of all, an enormous bill from the Inland Revenue dema
nding immediate payment.
I trawl through the paperwork, dividing it into piles and subdividing those into year and then month. I try to cross-reference the documents and receipts – some of which appear to have been chewed by rats – with the ledger entries my father has made, until I have to give up and start again with a fresh sheet of paper. I sit there inputting data until my eyes ache and the figures blur into one.
I can’t believe that someone who used to be so careful with his money – some would say ‘tight’ – has left his financial affairs to chance, and all but abandoned them really.
I take a break to call Nick. I call it a break, but we talk about the farm accounts and how I’m going to approach the enormous task of sorting them out. It’s good to have someone who understands. Occasionally, I hear the sound of talking and the chinking of glasses in the background.
‘Are you out and about?’ I ask him.
‘I’ve got a couple of friends round – Jeff and Annette. You met them at Christmas.’
I remember them, Jeff with the wandering hands and the saintly Annette whose self-professed role in life was to make her husband happy. She was writing a book about it. She said she’d give me a signed copy as a wedding present. I reckon that’s what started Nick on his pursuit of marriage in the first place.
‘I shouldn’t interrupt then, if you have visitors. Why didn’t you say?’
‘Don’t go just yet, Stevie,’ he says quickly. ‘I’m glad to get away for a few minutes – I wouldn’t recommend Annette’s book if it ever makes the bookshelves. She’s carping on at Jeff all the time. I don’t know how he stands it.’
I feel as if I’m on the fringe of Nick’s life, not at the centre. He has these old friends he’s known for years, far longer than he’s been going out with me. I don’t know them. I’m sure they’re nice enough, but they aren’t my kind of people.
Country Loving Page 7
