by Anna Martin
“Hulk! Down!” Ryan shouted, grabbing hold of the scruff of the dog’s neck and hauling it back. “Sorry, mate, he’s a bit of a nightmare. Hulk!”
The dog turned several circles, then insinuated himself between Ryan’s legs.
“Is that a sheepdog?”
Ryan gave him a lopsided sort of smile. “It’s a cross between a purebred English sheepdog, belonging to my mum, and whatever mongrel fucked the bitch down the park and knocked her up.”
“That explains it.”
“It’s a fucking pain in the ass, is what it is. Sorry. Want a cuppa?”
“A cup of what?”
“Tea.”
“Oh. Yeah, sure.”
Following Ryan through to the kitchen, Henry had time to solidify his initial impressions of a house that had to be huge. They passed several rooms, although many of their doors were shut, before entering a sun-drenched kitchen that looked out onto the countryside Henry had been admiring.
“Nice view,” he commented as Ryan filled a kettle and set it on a wide stove to boil.
“It’s hard to find a bad one around here. Sit down.”
Henry did and found the mongrel-sheepdog’s head on his knee within moments.
“Do you not like dogs? I can kick him out if you like.”
“He’s okay. My mother had a poodle that she was in love with. It died a few weeks before I moved out here.”
“Ah, it’s hard to lose a pet. I swear this one answers to Hulk more than he does his proper name, but I wouldn’t do without him.”
“Do you actually have sheep?”
“Fuck, no. They’re stupid fucking animals, sheep.” Ryan moved around the kitchen with ease, selecting two striped mugs from a cupboard, milk from a large fridge. There was a matching teapot on the counter that had tea leaves dumped in it, then the boiling water, which was allowed to steep before being filtered into the mugs.
“The only tea I’ve ever drank before was Lipton’s,” Henry admitted as Ryan passed him a mug and pushed the sugar pot toward him.
“Get used to it, then,” Ryan advised. “Everyone around here will offer you tea.”
“No coffee?” Henry asked, somewhat hopefully.
Ryan snorted. “Yeah, we’ve got coffee. It comes out of a jar, though.”
“I’ll stick to the tea.”
“It’s probably for the best. What can I do you for?”
As they settled for the first time since shaking hands, Henry was suddenly struck with how impossibly handsome this man was. Sure, he was wearing a cream knitted sweater which was absolutely hideous, but his eyes were a rich, dark brown that contrasted with the lightness of his hair. Ryan’s jaw was chiselled, and he wore a fairly healthy beard over it. His hands were strong but rough—expected, given his profession.
For a tiny moment, Henry stuttered. Then he composed himself.
“I’m Nell Richardson’s great-grandson.”
“Yeah,” Ryan said, smiling. “I’d heard.”
“She’s agreed to invest in the renovation of the house, and I want to reopen it for events.”
“Weddings?”
“Yeah, partly, and conferences, maybe put a little restaurant or café in there as well.”
“Wow. You know you’re not in New York any more, right? This is a small community, Henry.”
“I know,” Henry said, stung. “It’s probably got a bigger catchment area than you’d think. You’re close enough to a couple of big towns to be able to pull people down here. Plus, you’ve got the tourist trade.”
“Hey,” said Ryan, putting his hands up in a defensive gesture, “it’s your money, mate. Do what you want with it. I guess you’re wanting me to supply for you?”
“If you’re interested, yeah.”
“Don’t see why not. Do you have a chef yet? Any idea of menus?”
“I’m working on it,” Henry said stiffly. “I used to do this for a living. I know what I’m doing.”
Ryan shrugged, seemingly unaffected. “If you say so. Local, organic, sustainable—that’s what I do. And I do it well. And you’ll pay well for it, but you can charge well for it, so it’s worth the price. So,” Ryan said, standing and dumping his mug in the sink. “Do you want the grand tour?”
“Sure,” Henry said and tried not to be annoyed.
It made sense to start with the stables, since they were closest to the house, although Ryan seemed intent on emphasizing that they weren’t his horses. He had built the stables himself after he’d been approached by someone interested in renting the land from him: a father, with two daughters who wanted ponies.
There was space for paddocks, and the family mostly took care of the stables and the horses themselves, Ryan only stepping in for occasional maintenance. On the building, not the horses. As they walked down the path toward the small building, Henry was hit with the smell of hay and beast.
“They’re friendly,” Ryan said as the two horses ambled over to the fence. “Probably looking for a treat.”
With nothing to hand, Ryan reached down at the edge of the fence, pulled up a handful of long grass, and offered it to the dark chestnut horse, who munched on it appreciatively. Having never encountered a horse before in his life, Henry copied his movements, although warily.
Ryan snorted.
“What?”
“You’re such a city boy, is all. They won’t bite your hand off.”
“That’s what you think,” Henry said grimly.
They moved on.
“We’ve got about fifty chickens, give or take the odd few that escape and usually end up in Foxy.” He gestured to another building about the same size as the stables with the birds pecking at the ground outside. “They’re all free range. I sell the eggs to the pub, or the grocers in town, or sometimes people come to the back door for a tray. I do a pretty good deal for locals. We inherited the ducks. No one brought them here. They just turned up one day and invited themselves in. I don’t really mind. Duck eggs sell pretty well around here.”
“Are those ducks too?” Henry asked, pointing to a smallish pond with a few larger birds floating serenely on it.
“No, they’re geese,” Ryan said with a touch of humour colouring his voice.
“Oh.” They looked nothing like the Canada geese Henry was used to—they were white, for a start.
The farm was split down the middle by a central road… dirt track, Henry corrected in his mind. Although he’d not seen any large machinery or tractors, there was evidence that the latter, at least, must exist somewhere due to the deep tracks in the mud.
The horses and birds were closest to the house, and on the opposite side of the track, Ryan pointed out a mass of wildflowers and herbs, not seeming to grow in any particular order.
“The organic flower industry is still fairly young,” Ryan said, “but there are more conscientious florists starting to crop up. We supply nearly everything to a couple of shops in Bristol and one in Exeter.”
“Who maintains it?”
“Me, mostly,” Ryan said. “But a lot of it takes care of itself. I buy stuff from local markets and stick it in the ground. Some of it grows, some of it doesn’t. The stuff that grows works well. It’s like a cottage garden, really, just on a much bigger scale. Plus, I like the smell.”
“Counteracts the horse manure?” Henry offered.
“That,” Ryan agreed. “And there’s a reason why the pigs are behind it.”
“Pigs?” Henry echoed faintly. Ryan just smirked.
“We keep them for educational purposes, really. After the first four or five school trips I had come through, I realised that there’s a good opportunity to offer tours and the like, and people will buy into it. Pigs are good for that. People like to see pigs on a farm. And the goats.”
They stopped at a gate, and Ryan easily hopped up onto the first rung and leaned over, whistling sharply. Henry edged up to the gate, where five enormous black and pink pigs ambled around a fairly large enclosure.
“These a
re Gloucester Old Spots,” Ryan said. “Not entirely sure what I’m going to do with them. Don’t think I could stand sending them down to the butcher.”
“Do you get attached to them?”
“Sort of. I can’t really kill anything that has a name.”
“They have names?”
“Of course. Victoria, Emma, Melanie, Melanie, and Geri.”
“The Spice Girls?”
“Yup. But we refer to the Mels as B and C.”
Henry laughed and shook his head.
“You know what the sad thing is, though? Children these days have absolutely no idea who I’m talking about. I should have named them after those runty kids in One Direction.”
“Please,” Henry said, shaking his head. “Don’t.”
“Wait till you meet the goats.”
“I take it they’re named too?” Henry asked as they left the pigs and moved to the next enclosure down.
“Yup. Elton and Gaga.”
“Ah. The queens of pop.”
Beyond the pigs and the goats, the farm stretched away into fields where vegetables were grown organically, to the very edge of the property, where there was one final barn and an apple orchard.
“I’m trying to make my own cider,” Ryan said. “Not allowed to sell it yet, though. I don’t have a license. I’m working on it, so keep an eye out for it in the pub.”
“I’ll do that.”
They started to make their way back up the dirt track, and Henry shook his head.
“I can’t believe this place. I suppose, logically, English agriculture had to be around somewhere, but Hollywood tends to make you think that it can’t possibly be real.”
“This is no idyllic dream,” Ryan said, frowning. “It takes a lot of work to maintain.”
“And you run it all yourself?”
“No,” he admitted. “I’ve got two regular workers who mostly take care of the land and whatever grows in it. And I take kids who are travelling through the area for casual work during harvest, and sometimes, if they’re good with the animals, they stay on for a while.”
“Any plans to expand?”
“Not right now. I’ve got my local connections, the pub in town, a couple of grocers, and there’s a pretty big boarding school just a few miles down the road. They get pretty much all their fresh veg from me.”
“Not a bad deal,” Henry said as Ryan opened the door to let him back into the kitchen.
“I can keep up with more, though,” Ryan added. “I mean, if you want to use me, then that’s okay.”
Then he blushed. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” Henry said. “I mean, it looks like you’ve got a good setup here. If you can recommend a good butcher too, I think this could work for us.”
“Excellent.”
They stood in the kitchen for a beat too long, causing an awkward atmosphere to settle heavily around them.
“So, um,” Ryan said and pushed his hair back from his forehead. “Do you know the pub in town? The Dog and Duck?”
Henry shook his head. “No.”
“My sister runs it. They do pretty good food, if you’re looking for somewhere to eat until you get settled into your new place. And Monday nights are quiz nights. And Thursdays is usually a pool tournament.”
“Okay,” Henry said, trying not to smile. “Sounds good.”
“I’ll be there later. If you stop by, I’ll get a round in. To seal the deal, you know.”
“Thanks. I’ll try to be there.”
Chapter Five
Henry fussed and argued with himself and eventually had to stand in front of a mirror and talk himself into it before deciding to take Ryan up on his offer and go to the pub. He hadn’t gone out drinking since he was in New York, and that hadn’t exactly ended well for him.
The only thing was, as he stood in the tiny room that would be his until he got settled into the manor, he didn’t have any idea what people from rural England wore when they went to a pub on a Saturday night. If he were in New York and he was about to head to a bar, he’d wear his favourite distressed Levi’s and a pressed shirt, maybe a Ralph Lauren polo or a T-shirt that he’d paid at least eighty bucks for.
But Ryan didn’t look like he knew what Ralph Lauren was, let alone own any of their clothing. He was nervous about looking out of place, and it was raining. These factors combined meant that Henry was wearing a pair of black Calvin Klein’s and nothing else.
To be fair, he’d worn this out on a Saturday night in New York too.
Time was ticking on, and he didn’t want to be late, even though he hadn’t been given a specified time to be there. Closing his eyes, Henry reached into his duffel and pulled out a pair of jeans (the plain Gap variety), a T-shirt, and a red zipped hoodie. It was casual but fairly stylish, and, on reflection, Henry decided that it wasn’t a bad choice for someone aiming to not look like an idiot.
The pub was within walking distance, only ten minutes away, according to Judith on the desk (does she ever move? He wondered). Henry checked his wallet and his phone, pocketed them both, and locked his door securely before leaving the little hotel.
It really wasn’t that far, he didn’t get lost at all, and from the moment he rounded the corner, the bright light and noise from the pub spilled out onto the street.
Henry’s first impression was that the building was gorgeous. The brickwork had been painted white, and the windows were dark wood. There were a few picnic benches out front where people sat smoking under bright red umbrellas that hadn’t been taken down yet. Clearly, Britain had an indoor smoking ban in place too. Baskets of flowers were hung around the building at various points, bright blooms spilling over the edges.
As he ventured inside, the sound of the band hit him at the same time as the warmth and chatter of many people. In one corner there was a small raised platform where a band of five people played—a singer with a guitar, a man with a keyboard, a girl on double bass and another on violin, and a male drummer. Their style, from what Henry could tell, was floor-thumping folk music which invited people to dance, not that he would. Not to this sort of music, anyway. On the floor at the front of the stage was what he recognised as a bottle of whiskey and five short glasses. Despite his nervousness, Henry smiled.
Making his way to the long bar—polished mahogany that wrapped around the centre of the building—was a challenge, and getting served when he arrived took time as well, not that he minded much. Eventually, a woman with a ponytail of curls leaned toward him to take his order.
“Gin and tonic?”
He said it as a question. The woman looked at him, then smiled.
“Are you Henry?” she shouted as the band finished their number and the pub erupted in cheers.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding.
“Ryan told me you’d be coming. He’s out back having a smoke. I’m Stella.”
She reached over the bar, and he took her hand to shake. “Nice to meet you.”
“He also told me to get you to try something local.”
Henry winced. “Really? Like what?”
“Well.” Stella gave him another beaming smile that lit up her grey eyes. “We have a range of local ales and ciders. If you’re not used to them, I’d go with a cider first, and you can’t go far wrong with Thatchers.”
“Okay,” he agreed, albeit reluctantly.
“Good boy.” Stella laughed and reached down for a pint glass. After filling it and sending it across the bar to him, she took his note and exchanged it for a few little gold pound coins and some smaller change.
Henry turned back to watch the band and immediately noticed Ryan coming into the building via a back door.
“You made it,” Ryan said as he set himself down on a bar stool.
“Yeah,” Henry said.
“That stuff won’t kill you, you know.”
Tentatively, Henry took a sip. “It’s not bad.”
“Not bad? It’s bloody good. Stell!” he yelled at his sister. “Pint o�
� gold, love?”
“Wait your bloody turn!” she called back good-naturedly.
“What’s ‘gold’?” Henry asked, more to further the conversation with Ryan than out of interest. Ryan laughed.
“That’s gold, mate. Thatchers Gold.”
“And this is cider, right?”
The next time he smiled, Henry watched three little dimples pop in Ryan’s cheeks. He thought the fuzz on the man’s jaw would have hidden any dimples, but no, there they were.
“Yeah, it’s cider.”
“Oh. I’m not used to cider being alcoholic.”
Ryan laughed again. “That stuff definitely is. Thanks, love,” he said as Stella pushed another glass of gold liquid toward them.
“Three forty.”
“Oh, come on, Stell.”
“Three forty, or give me your card so I can start a tab. You’re not running my bar dry again, Ryan Burgess.”
Ryan dug change out of his pockets and slapped the right money down on the bar. When Stella turned away, Henry watched in fascination as Ryan took three deep pulls of his pint, draining nearly half of it in one go.
It was easy to turn his attention back to the band. They were compelling to watch, performing what seemed to be a mix of covers and original songs. From the corner of his eye, Henry occasionally stole a look at Ryan, mostly to check that he hadn’t been abandoned, partly out of good-natured homosexual interest.
It didn’t look like Ryan had changed since that morning, not his jeans, at least. The hideous knitted sweater was gone, and he was wearing a very pale blue shirt made of what looked like incredibly soft cotton, and he’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. He wore no rings or bracelets or even a watch. His forearms were strangely compelling—strong, with thick muscles, prominent veins, and light-golden hairs.
The pint disappeared quickly and was replaced by another while Henry was still making his way through the first. It wasn’t that he disliked the cider; it was rich and sweet and crisp and strong. It was just very different to his usual vodka or gin with tonic. Occasionally, if he felt like splurging, Henry might drink a cocktail, but even then he didn’t go far past a Cosmo.
The band finished their set, bid everyone a good night, and headed promptly to the bar at around the time Henry finally finished his drink. Stella appeared again and nodded to the empty glass.
