Appleby Farm

by Cathy Bramley

  Auntie Sue chuckled but did as she was told. She steepled her fingers together and watched me blow on a forkful of fluffy egg before she began to speak.

  ‘I want him to retire,’ she said, glancing over her shoulder to check no one was in earshot.

  ‘Is there any chance of that?’ I picked up a pottery chicken and sprinkled a cloud of pepper on my eggs. It was the white dusty sort rather than black pepper. It flew up my nose and made me do that hovering sneeze thing that never actually turns into a sneeze but makes you look ridiculous. And burns your nasal passage.

  She shrugged. ‘He’s not got the strength for the job any more.’ Her blue eyes blinked sadly at me. I laid my knife down and reached for her hand.

  Uncle Arthur must be seventy-five at least. Did farmers actually retire, or did they just plod on until … I sniffed to dislodge the pepper. No point going down that road. If only they’d had children, things would have been much easier for them. I’d always presumed they couldn’t have them, although nothing had ever been said.

  ‘And I don’t think he’s safe to drive. Take that accident yesterday. He got off lightly, really. Thank heavens he had his walkie-talkie; at least he could call for help. But imagine if it had been more serious. He could have been lying there injured for hours before anyone spotted him.’

  I abandoned my brunch, moved to Auntie Sue’s side of the table and gave her a hug.

  ‘Would more staff help?’ I meant proper farm staff who called animals by their proper names, not like me who called everything a cow regardless of its sex, age or reproductive capabilities.

  Auntie Sue rubbed her thumb and fingers together. ‘Money, Freya, that’s the problem. We’ve enough trouble paying—’ The kitchen door opened and she jumped up with a yelp, nearly flinging me off the bench. ‘Eddy! Ready for your lunch?’

  Eddy nodded to me. ‘It’s pouring with rain and looks like it’s set for the day.’

  ‘Is it?’ I murmured, not really paying attention. I was miles away. Auntie Sue was right: Uncle Arthur should be able to retire if he wanted – or needed – to. And in the meantime, an extra pair of capable hands was needed. This problem was way too big for me to solve on my own.

  While Auntie Sue clattered about the kitchen heating soup, buttering bread and slicing cheese, I nodded to Eddy to join me at the far end of the room near the fire.

  ‘Auntie Sue wants him to rest. She’s persuaded him to stay in his office today but you know what he’s like.’

  Eddy and I grinned at each other knowingly.

  I had a plan of sorts forming but I needed his help. ‘Can you do me a list of jobs that will need doing in the next couple of weeks?’

  He nodded. ‘I can, but with respect I don’t think you could—’

  I shook my head. ‘I know, we need reinforcements. I’m going to make a call. On my mobile, so Uncle Arthur can’t hear me.’

  There was only one phone in the house, in the office. And I didn’t want to be overheard.

  ‘Oxtail soup, Eddy,’ Auntie Sue called. ‘Your favourite.’

  Eddy’s eyes rolled back in his head in a distinctly unfavourite-like manner. ‘You’ll have to go up the bridle path between us and Willow Farm to get a signal. Right to the top of Knots Hill.’

  Willow Farm. Now there was a blast from the past! ‘Thanks for tip, Eddy, I’ll go now.’

  It was the sort of rain that drenched your body in seconds. Relentless big splodges of it. My thighs were soaked and cold, and the ground was really slippery as we climbed the bridle path up Knots Hill. I’d decided to take Skye and I was glad I had; the path had long grass on one side and wet hedgerow on the other and I would have been even more miserable climbing uphill on foot. Skye, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind the mud, which was just as well because it would be even worse on our descent.

  By the time I emerged into open ground and approached the spot Eddy had directed me to, I was feeling pretty fed up. And to my annoyance there was already a man on horseback sitting at the top of the hill, hogging all the signal and shouting into his phone in a bid to compete with the pounding rain. I couldn’t see his face or catch what he was saying but I heard him laughing. He was wearing a wide-brimmed waterproof hat and one of those long wax jackets with a cape thing around the shoulders. I was wearing my jacket with a fur trim around the hood. A bit daft really, but in my haste to catch the train yesterday, it was the first thing that had come to hand. Now the fur had gone all soggy and forlorn, and water had started to drip down my face and neck.

  I rarely lose my temper but as the seconds ticked by, my sense of humour began to desert me. Skye was getting fidgety too. I checked my phone for signal: one bar, no – no bars, ooh one bar and … damn, gone again. There was no point trying to make a call yet, I would just have to wait my turn for the top spot.

  What was this chap even talking about for so long? And why did he seem so cheerful about it? And why hadn’t I waited for the rain to stop …?

  For goodness’ sake. ‘Oi, there is a queue, you know!’ I shouted.

  I felt guilty as soon as I’d said it. How rude. Couldn’t help myself, though. I was wet, shivery and absolutely dreading making this call.

  The man turned briefly towards me, raised a hand, then jerked on his reins and rode off in the opposite direction, still apparently talking.

  OK, then. Deep breaths. I nudged Skye with my heels to walk on, picked up a measly two bars on my phone and called Julian.

  ‘Freya, I’m at work. Whatever it is, it had better be important.’

  My brother and I had never been close. He is fifteen years older than me. We share a set of parents, a surname and for three years after I was born until he’d gone to university we had shared the same address. But that was it. We were as different as two siblings could be. Julian wasn’t married. He had a partner, not that I’d ever met her. Apparently he’d looked into marriage but – and I quote – it didn’t stack up financially. Oh, the old romantic.

  ‘Hi, Julian, I’m at Appleby Farm.’

  ‘And?’

  I knew better than to indulge in small talk with my brother. He liked to get straight to the point; beating about the bush was strictly prohibited. I launched straight into the problem.

  ‘Uncle Arthur’s had an accident and he needs extra help. Auntie Sue wants him to retire. I wondered if you could advise him. You know, financially? Maybe come up for a few days and lend a hand?’

  There was a snort from the other end of the line. My heart sank. Why, why, why had I thought he might be inclined to help me out? Without some financial incentive, that is. Julian was some sort of business angel, which I think meant that he sorts out finances for businesses. Which in turn should imply that he was in a better position than I was to help Auntie Sue and Uncle Arthur. In my heart of hearts I hadn’t really thought he would come up from London and roll up his sleeves, but it was worth a shot.

  ‘Yes, Freya, here’s some advice for him. Sell up. He should have got out of farming years ago. And there’s no way I’m coming to help. You’re the one without a career; you stay and sort it out. The old duffer has always preferred you anyway.’

  ‘I just thought—’ I moved the phone from my ear and stared at the screen. He’d gone.

  I looked down to Appleby Farm, at the farmhouse surrounded by fields, bordered with century-old drystone walls, the green squares of grassland dotted with cattle, and the fields with their spring growth of barley bending under the force of the April showers. My heart squeezed at the sight of it.

  It looked like I was in this one alone.

  Chapter 6

  It took me until seven thirty that evening to cheer up and thaw out. I had Auntie Sue’s cottage pie to thank for that. It was like a big hug. Right there on the plate. There should be a law, I decided as I scraped up the last delicious morsel, a cottage pie law. Everyone should be made to eat it at least once a week. It would solve a lot of the world’s problems. Although come to think of it, as comforting as my dinner was
, the how-to-run-Appleby-Farm-without-Uncle-Arthur dilemma remained.

  Eddy had pressed a to-do list into my hand earlier this afternoon, as requested. There were some big jobs in the fields – like fertilizing and spraying – plus the daily maintenance of the herd: feeding, bedding and clearing the yard and cowsheds, moving them round from field to field and bringing them in at night. And the vet would be making his routine monthly visit in a few days.

  I wasn’t particularly well up on my animal husbandry, but I was pretty sure that you needed two good arms for most of it. It was all very well saying that Uncle Arthur needed to rest, but unless I could come up with a solution that he both approved of and could afford, I couldn’t see how Auntie Sue and I were going to keep him from going wandering off round the farm in the morning.

  I slid along the bench and collected everyone’s plates from the table, while Auntie Sue delved into the Aga for pudding. Pudding! Yet another reason why I loved being at the farm. Madge jumped up optimistically and followed me to the sink.

  ‘Sorry, dog.’ I ruffled the short fur behind her ears. ‘No leftovers, I’m afraid. That was a-ma-zing, Auntie Sue, thank you. If it’s OK with you, after I’ve washed up I was going to pop over to the White Lion. Fancy joining me for a pint, Uncle Arthur?’

  ‘A pint.’ He sighed, untucking his napkin from his shirt collar and rubbing a blob of gravy off his chin. The look of longing on his face was a picture. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

  Auntie Sue stopped spooning apple crumble into bowls. Her eyes flicked back and forth between us like she was watching a mini tennis match.

  ‘The lane will be treacherous and it’ll be dark soon.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘And I don’t think you should drink, Artie.’

  ‘But I’m delivering the ice cream, remember?’ I added. ‘And I don’t fancy walking in on my own.’ Besides, I wanted to get him to open up a bit more and I reckoned a pint in his hand and a change of scene might do the trick.

  Auntie Sue gave him her stern look. ‘One, Arthur Moorcroft. Just one pint.’

  Half an hour later we were on our way. Recalling Lizzie’s ‘flame-haired beauty’ comment from this morning, I’d taken a bit more care with my appearance than an ice-cream delivery should truly warrant. I’d changed into a long yellow and black stripy jumper, donned some black leggings and a pair of boots, zhuzhed up my hair to make it look tousled and flicked a mascara brush over my lashes. Uncle Arthur had changed his flat cap.

  Auntie Sue was right: the track was über-treacherous. The rain had stopped but it was very blustery. However, Uncle Arthur was practically running along in his eagerness, waving the torch in front of us while I staggered under the weight of the cool box. It was one of those large plastic ones with a complicated locking handle and Auntie Sue had topped the three cartons of ice cream with about six industrial-sized ice packs and issued strict instructions to remind Bill, the landlord, to stow it straight in the freezer. Despite the bracing wind, a line of sweat beads had popped up on my forehead.

  ‘Can you manage, lass?’ my uncle shouted over his shoulder.

  ‘Sure,’ I panted, swapping the cool box to the other arm. The ground suddenly fell from under me.

  ‘Arrghhhh!’ I screamed, dropping to my knees and splashing into a deep puddle. I immediately lifted my arms to save the ice cream, fell forward and bashed my lips on the cool box. ‘Owwwch.’

  I could taste blood. My knees stung and my mouth throbbed.

  ‘There’s a pothole there,’ said Arthur, shining the torch in my face.

  The best that could have been said about my arrival at the White Lion with sodden muddy knees, wild hair, a fat lip and mascara tracks left by a couple of escaped tears was that at least I made an entrance.

  The pub was heaving with people, all available space was filled with jostling bodies, and there was a line of customers at the bar.

  ‘Emergency!’ I cried, pushing my way to the front of the queue with my cool box. I could see Lizzie pulling two pints at a time behind the bar.

  ‘Brandy for shock, please, Bill!’ shouted Uncle Arthur, pressing his good hand into the small of my back to propel me forward. ‘Coming through!’ he added with too much enjoyment at all the drama for my liking.

  ‘Arthur!’ called a squat bald man in a polo-neck jumper, wearing one black and one green wellington. ‘Heard you had a brush with death yesterday. Let me get you a pint.’

  The hand fell away from my back and my uncle was gone.

  ‘Bleedin’ Nora.’ Lizzie relieved me of the cool box and handed me a bar towel to wipe my face and dab at my knees. A brandy appeared on the bar. I smiled my thanks at Bill, the landlord, a balding man in a very snazzy waistcoat, and swigged at the glass. I squeezed my eyes shut as the fiery liquid burned the back of my throat. My lips felt bee-stung and not in a good way. I swiped at a bit of dribble.

  That was better, sort of. I took a deep breath and a second mouthful.

  ‘Oi, there is a queue, you know,’ a voice chuckled in my ear, mimicking my stroppy outburst from the bridle path earlier this afternoon.

  I swallowed the brandy and whirled round to locate the source of the jibe. A man, elbowing a path away from the bar while balancing three pint glasses in his hands, turned back and winked at me. I gasped for air and a hand flew to my mouth. Was that …? It must be. It was. Harry from Willow Farm. And it must have been him on the phone shouting away at the top of the hill.

  Wow! I almost didn’t recognize him. He hadn’t changed a bit. That didn’t make sense. He was bigger. Obviously. And older. Duh! My heart was thumping. What was it – ten years? It must be. Ten years since I’d seen him. Blimey, where had the time gone? Same cheeky smile, though. Fancy that.

  I watched him until his broad shoulders became swallowed up by a noisy crowd of men.

  Harry Graythwaite. My neighbour, my mate, my partner in crime – through my tomboy phase, through my teenage years, every school holiday I spent on the farm. Until I was eighteen and we’d gone our separate ways.

  Bloody hell, it was good to see him. He looked … well … great. I should go and say hello properly. Apologize for my manners earlier …

  I set my brandy glass down on the bar and surveyed the wet patches on my knees. Maybe not tonight. I might not be the most preeniest of girls, but I did have some standards.

  ‘Er, hello!’ Lizzie was grinning at me, arms folded, head cocked to one side. ‘I thought you said you were spoken for.’

  I turned back to the bar and giggled. ‘Sorry, Lizzie. Had a bit of a shock.’

  Understatement. I didn’t know which was worse, falling over on the way to the pub or bumping into Harry again looking like a bedraggled wasp.

  ‘I can see that. Now, do you want a proper drink?’

  ‘Yes. Cider, please.’

  I pulled my phone out of my handbag while I waited for her to come back with my drink. No signal here, either. How did people cope, I wondered, not being able to talk to their other halves? My stomach flipped.

  Like Charlie.

  I hadn’t spoken to him since arriving at the train station last night. I should have phoned him from Knots Hill earlier. He’d be thinking about me. I hoped. I’d been thinking about him, too, in between everything else that had gone on today. I made a mental note to call him from the farm’s landline and slipped my phone away.

  ‘Get your chops round that.’ Lizzie placed a pint of cider in front of me. I sidled round to where it was quieter at the glass collection end of the bar and Lizzie followed me down. ‘So, tell me about this fella of yours, then.’

  Tonight she was wearing a cropped cotton top decorated with white and yellow daisies, her hair was arranged in loose curls and her lips shone with a soft pink gloss. She looked like the Goddess of Spring. I was surprised she’d even consort with me, looking as dishevelled as I did. But I was glad of her company and began to tell her about Charlie – how we met and my job and his allotment. I chatted away for some minutes but couldn’t help noticing th
at she kept glancing over my shoulder. Finally, I could take it no more and turned round to see what was catching her eye.

  ‘Don’t look,’ she hissed.

  ‘What at?’

  ‘I’ll be back in a sec,’ she replied, nodding at a woman who was waving an empty wine glass at her.

  Just as she returned, Uncle Arthur appeared at my shoulder, holding a full pint.

  I frowned at him. ‘What are you drinking, Uncle Arthur?’ That wasn’t his first pint. He was swaying and his eyes were slightly crossed.

  ‘Not for me, lass, thank you.’ He lifted his pint to toast Lizzie and me, and took a long slurp.

  ‘So what brings you to Lovedale, Lizzie? Ha,’ he chortled into his glass, ‘Lovedale Lizzie. Sounds like a boat.’ He raised his glass again. ‘God bless Lovedale Lizzie and all who sail in her!’

  Lizzie and I exchanged amused looks. Actually, mine was more worried than amused. I was going to be in so much trouble with Auntie Sue if I brought the invalid home roaring drunk.

  Lizzie started pouring a pint of Guinness, ripped a bag of peanuts off the card strip next to the optics and popped the lids off two bottles of beer pretty much all at the same time before answering.

  ‘I’m from Ambleside. Split up with my boyfriend just after Christmas. Irreconcilable differences.’ She smiled a sad smile. ‘Three pounds fifty, please,’ she added to a youth who didn’t look old enough to be drinking lager.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I took a sip of my cider and pressed Uncle Arthur’s arm back down to the bar as he tried to gulp at his pint. ‘Slow down! I had enough trouble negotiating the lane on the way here without having to carry you back up it.’

  He shrugged me off and took a deliberately long drink.

  ‘I couldn’t take it any more,’ said Lizzie. She held her little finger in front of our faces and waggled it. Uncle Arthur choked on his pint.

  ‘Oh!’ I said, not knowing quite how to respond to that. I banged my uncle on his back.

  ‘Pinky ring. To start with. I let that one go. Then it got worse. Choker chains, dog tags … A man shouldn’t wear more jewellery than his girlfriend, should he?’