Appleby Farm

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘But she lives …’ I frowned.

  ‘In Bournemouth, yes, I know. I think Hilary in the post office phoned her.’

  We were still giggling about everyone knowing everyone else’s business when I stopped in my tracks and touched his arm. ‘It’s just dawned on me, I can show you which fields are included in the contract. No need to wait for Eddy.’

  I turned and walked back to his pick-up truck.

  ‘What about the tea?’ he called.

  ‘Come on,’ I laughed. ‘You can earn it first.’

  Chapter 20

  Climbing up into the pick-up truck in a dress and heels was no more difficult than getting into my own vehicle, except that Harry was doing the gentlemanly thing by holding the door for me and I was doing my best to look ladylike and not launch myself into the seat as I normally would.

  We set off out of the yard, with me clutching the list of fields that were to be included in the contract and Harry drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, like he’d always done, to some song that only he could hear.

  It was odd and yet easy being with Harry again after such a long time. I’d missed him, I realized. Funny how someone can be such a big part of your life one day and gone the next. But that’s what happens, I supposed. At eighteen we leave school and our world changes; we go off to work or uni or travelling and life takes a new path. There was only a handful of people I was still in contact with from school these days. Harry was different, though. I should have made the effort to stay in touch with him but those last few weeks of summer had been strained between us for some reason and then I flew to somewhere or other on my round-the-world trip and eventually when I did want to contact him I felt like it was too late.

  ‘What’s this one called, then?’ said Harry, breaking into my thoughts as we drove slowly along the field behind the orchard.

  ‘Clover Field,’ I answered, pleased that I’d memorized all their names. I consulted the sheet of paper. ‘And it’s not on the list.’

  ‘Sorry, Clover,’ he called out of the window, ‘you’re not on the list.’

  I giggled. ‘Hey, do you remember Uncle Arthur giving us a driving lesson in this field in his Land Rover?’

  Harry aimed the truck for the gap in the drystone wall into the next field and grinned. ‘I do. You were rubbish if I recall and Arthur said he’d have to take us to one of the bigger fields next time.’

  I punched his arm. ‘That is so not true. I was just a more confident driver than you.’

  He threw his head back and laughed. ‘For confident read speed-demon. I think you aged your uncle ten years that summer when you turned seventeen and could start learning to drive.’

  I tapped the tip of my finger on my cheek. ‘Um, now, which one of us passed their test first? Let me think …’

  I laughed as Harry rolled his eyes.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued more seriously, ‘it was good of him to teach me. My dad’s arthritis was getting worse by then and he wasn’t up to giving me lessons.’

  ‘I know, poor Jim.’ I reached across and touched Harry’s arm. ‘How is your dad? Auntie Sue said he’s better now he’s down south.’

  ‘He’s doing OK, thanks.’ He smiled and rolled his eyes. ‘Still manages to boss me about, though, even from hundreds of miles away.’

  Ten minutes in his company and it was like we’d never been apart. That’s the beauty of a true friendship, I mused, glancing at his profile as he concentrated on the bumpy path across the farm, you can just pick up where you left off. We might have been ten years older but inside we were still exactly the same.

  ‘Hey, please tell me you’re not still into moody man bands?’ I teased.

  Our conflicting musical tastes had always been a standing joke between us. Whereas I was the world’s biggest Backstreet Boys fan, he was into what I used to call ‘music to break up to’.

  ‘And I’m guessing you still have absolutely no taste whatsoever?’ Harry raised a dark eyebrow.

  ‘For your information, I’m a Take That fan these days.’

  Harry snorted. ‘I rest my case.’

  ‘What happened to your drumming career, then?’ I quipped. ‘I thought you were going to be the next … what was his name?’

  He grinned and shook his head. ‘Dave Grohl, from Nirvana. And for your information, Miss Moorcroft, I am a drummer. Me and a couple of mates are in a band called The Almanacs.’

  ‘Are you?’ I beamed at him. I was all for people fulfilling their dreams. ‘Good for you. Head down there, by the way, towards Bottom Field.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he nodded nonchalantly, ‘we don’t do many gigs, but our stuff goes down pretty well.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it’ll be my cup of tea, will it? All rock stuff? You’re right, I am still a pop fan.’

  ‘Actually,’ Harry cleared his throat and rubbed his nose, ‘we do some pop stuff. We play at weddings and birthday parties; cover-versions, you know, a mix for all ages. You should hear us belt out “Valerie” – you can’t move on the dance floor, believe me.’

  ‘Really?’ I smirked. ‘You’ll have to tell me when your next gig is, I’d like to hear you play.’

  He shoved his sleeves up above his elbows as he drove. ‘Steve, the guitar player, and his wife have just had a baby so we’re having this year off, but I’ll let you know. Anyway, tell me about you.’

  We caught up on ten years’ worth of news. His took ten seconds – Harper Adams University studying agriculture for three years and then back to Willow Farm so that his dad could retire. Mine took ages. Mainly because he kept interrupting with silly anecdotes from our teenage past.

  ‘OK,’ said Harry, stopping the truck fifteen minutes later, ‘have I seen all the fields that need mowing?’

  ‘Er, hold on.’ I consulted the list. ‘All except Crofters. Follow the line of the tree at the edge of Colton Woods,’ I said, pointing ahead, ‘and that’s Crofters Field. It’s our biggest, I think, nine acres.’

  ‘Ah, the wonders of Lakeland farming,’ said Harry, rubbing a hand over his stubble. ‘A mate of mine further south has got fields of twenty acres or more. These small fields are so restrictive.’

  ‘Oh, but they’re all so pretty with their little walls and wooden stiles. It’s what makes Cumbria so special.’ I sighed, enjoying the view all the way down the valley towards Lake Windermere.

  ‘Aye, true enough, young Freya,’ said Harry, doing an impressive impression of Eddy and making me laugh.

  ‘Although last time I was up here it was to remove a dead badger from the edge of the field and that was not a pretty sight, I can tell you,’ I added.

  ‘Really?’ Harry flashed his brown eyes at me sharply. ‘They carry TB, you know, badgers. Have the cattle been in here?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ I shrugged. ‘Not for a while, I don’t think. Harry, it’s our vet visit today about TB, we should be getting back. Plus I want to tell everyone the good news about my planning meeting.’

  ‘Sure.’ Harry nodded, turned the truck around and set off in the direction of the farmhouse.

  A few minutes later we arrived back in the yard and Harry turned off the engine and climbed out. As he wasn’t looking, I decided to jump to the ground rather than climb out daintily.

  Big mistake.

  As my feet hit the cobbled yard I felt my dress tighten around my thighs and I knew instantly that I was stuck. I glanced behind me and my heart sank. The hem of my dress was caught on a lever at the side of the seat. The dress, or should I say, Lizzie’s dress, didn’t have a particularly full skirt and the fabric was so strained between me and the seat that when I tried to yank it free I heard it tear slightly. I could hear Harry’s footsteps coming round the truck towards me. I looked down. The fabric had ridden up and my thighs were inappropriately bare. I tried jumping up and down and wriggling to free the hem but it didn’t work. It was no use …

  ‘Harry!’ I squeaked, my face bright red as he appeared from the back of the truck. I tugged t
he front of the dress down to preserve what little shred of my dignity remained. ‘Help, I’m stuck.’

  He took one look at me and burst out laughing. Hands on hips, shaking his head, eyes crinkling with amusement.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ I remonstrated, ‘and it’s not even my dress.’

  He seemed to find that even funnier and laughed harder. He leaned on the side of the truck, helplessly trying to speak, at which point I joined in and the pair of laughed until tears streamed down our faces.

  ‘Sorry,’ he spluttered. ‘Not funny at all.’

  ‘Not in the least,’ I replied breathlessly, wiping away my tears. ‘Now don’t just stand there, do something!’

  He tucked his phone in his pocket and walked towards me. ‘OK,’ he said, doing his best to keep a straight face and failing dismally. ‘I’ll lift you in the air and see if that does the trick.’

  ‘Good plan,’ I agreed, taking a deep breath to calm myself.

  I wrapped one arm around his neck and he picked me up effortlessly. The skin on my arm grazed the soft hairs at the back of his head and I involuntarily inhaled the smell of him: grass, fresh laundry and lemons. I felt my face heat up. Harry and I were friends, just old friends, but I couldn’t help feeling a frisson of electricity at being in a handsome man’s arms. I’m only human, I thought; this is a perfectly natural reaction. Our faces were millimetres apart and we were both still grinning at each other.

  ‘This is why I should stick to jeans,’ I giggled, breaking the moment. ‘Now, let’s see if I can …’

  I stretched behind me but couldn’t quite reach the lever to free the fabric.

  ‘Move closer to the seat, Harry,’ I suggested.

  ‘Sure. Hurry up, though, you weigh a ton,’ he sniggered.

  As I finally managed to release the hem of my dress, I heard a car door slam and the sound of small feet running towards the farmhouse.

  ‘Quick, put me down,’ I said excitedly, wriggling in his arms, ‘that sounds like Ollie. Charlie must be back.’

  ‘All right, keep your hair on,’ he chuckled and released me from his arms.

  A low voice made us both spin round. ‘Too late, I am back.’

  Charlie, arms folded, was standing at the end of Harry’s truck. He looked from me to Harry and back again. My heart sank. To an outsider that must have looked really, really bad.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Harry murmured under his breath.

  ‘Charlie! Hi!’ I gushed, smoothing down my dress. ‘This is Harry Graythwaite, my mate from Willow Farm next door. Harry, this is Charlie. My boyfriend.’

  Harry raised a hand in greeting but Charlie ignored him.

  ‘Looks like you’ve had a fun morning,’ said Charlie coolly, scanning my face.

  ‘Not really, we’ve been discussing fields until I got my dress stuck and Harry came to my rescue,’ I said, feeling flustered, which was ridiculous because I hadn’t done anything wrong other than be completely useless at exiting vehicles gracefully. ‘Anyway, tea, anyone?’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Harry, pointing towards the black Range Rover, which was now reversing out of the yard, ‘the vet’s been here a long time.’

  We exchanged worried looks.

  ‘And there’s Eddy,’ I murmured, pointing to where he had appeared from the handling pens at the back of the cowsheds and was now striding purposefully towards us, his lips pressed into a grim line.

  ‘Looks like there might be a problem.’ Harry frowned. He slammed the passenger door shut and began to walk across the yard. I followed close behind him.

  Eddy wasn’t alone; my uncle and aunt, hand in hand, walked behind at a slower pace. Auntie Sue looked on the verge of tears and Uncle Arthur was ashen.

  A surge of fear ran through my body and I rushed over to them.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ I cried, leaping forward to take Uncle Arthur’s arm as he stumbled over a loose cobble.

  He looked at me and shook his head, his chest rattling noisily. I met my aunt’s worried gaze as I waited for him to catch his breath.

  ‘The Herefords have got TB.’ His eyes were moist as he leaned against me and his shoulders sagged. ‘Nearly half the herd. They’ll have to be slaughtered. We’re finished, lass.’

  ‘No!’ I gasped, feeling my knees go weak.

  That couldn’t be true, not after all we’d already been through this year.

  I felt Harry’s hand grip my shoulder and despite being in full view of Charlie, I didn’t push him away. If I was going to help Auntie Sue and Uncle Arthur get through this new crisis at Appleby Farm I would need all the support I could get.

  How could we possibly survive this?

  Where the Heart Is

  Chapter 21

  From the spinning gallery of the barn – the barn that with any luck would soon be the most amazing vintage tea rooms ever to open in the history of the Lake District – I had a bird’s-eye view across Appleby Farm.

  It was mid-June and two weeks since the hideous day when forty cows had to be slaughtered because the vet found they had bovine tuberculosis. It was also the day when Uncle Arthur descended into what Auntie Sue termed ‘one of his glooms’ – he was still in it – and Charlie left the farm a day early, saying that he didn’t belong and that he felt as though he and Ollie were in the way.

  To an outsider the vista from here wouldn’t have changed much from then to now. But things had changed at the farm. In a massive way. And I wasn’t sure that Appleby Farm or the people who loved it would ever be the same again.

  That wasn’t to say I didn’t still absolutely love every chicken, cow, horse, dog, cat, ancient stone wall, rickety building and dear person here. I adored them. And I was so glad I was going through this traumatic time with them, to support them. I just wished I didn’t need to. While Benny and Björn hadn’t turned a whisker since all the shenanigans, Madge had taken to sitting at the gate in whichever field the Jersey cows were in during the day like a small bristly sentry. I was convinced she was trying to protect them from unwanted guests – like infected badgers, for instance.

  I leaned on the smooth wooden railings of the spinning gallery, filling my lungs with sweet summer air and watched the tractor pulling a wide mower through the long grass in Beech Field. It made its way methodically in straight lines from one end to the other and back again, leaving a mounded row of cut grass in its wake. It was like watching the slowest tennis match ever.

  That was new for a start. The tractor wasn’t ours and neither was the driver. They had come from Willow Farm next door. And although I hadn’t seen him arrive, I presumed it was Harry at the wheel. The grass wasn’t being cut to make silage for Appleby Farm either; Harry was taking it in payment for doing the job.

  Because silage is animal feed and with only half the Hereford herd remaining we wouldn’t need so much feed this winter.

  The depleted herd was up to my left in Crofters Field. Uncle Arthur, Eddy and even Ross, bless him, had taken the slaughter of the infected animals very badly. Only two weeks ago the herd had been split into three groups and spread across the farmland. Now there was one group and the cowshed had pens of orphaned calves inside it.

  The calves had cried and cried that first night after they had lost their mothers. It was the most heartbreaking sound I’ve ever heard. I’d had a good cry myself that night.

  Strictly speaking, I had loads to be getting on with and no time for daydreaming up here on this nineteenth-century version of a balcony. I gazed out over the fields and ran through my options.

  I could write down all the things I needed to do before opening up the tea rooms. That would keep me busy for an hour or two. Or I could do a mood board for the interior décor; I was thinking rustic, mismatched and shabby chic (i.e. cheap). Or maybe I could take the campervan out for the day, drive around the beauty spots of the Lake District and have tea and cake in as many of them as I could manage. And in case you’re thinking that sounds greedy, it’s not – it’s market research.

 
Anything. Anything would be better than tying myself in knots thinking about Charlie and our long-distance relationship, which was feeling more distant by the day. He had left before I’d had chance to properly explain how I’d managed to hook the bottom of my dress on the seat adjustment lever during my ungainly descent from Harry’s truck. And then with the whole TB business, mine and Auntie Sue’s priorities had been to prevent Uncle Arthur from getting too stressed. While we had made him a cup of tea and comforted him, Harry had helped Eddy and Ross to segregate the affected cattle from the healthy ones and Charlie had packed his and Ollie’s bags. What had started off as such a lovely day had ended up disastrously …

  ‘Freya, Freya, Freya!’

  Aaannnd I was back in the room – or gallery – as Lizzie, dressed in jodhpurs and a strappy vest, her glossy dark fall of hair flying behind her, came scooting across the yard towards me, pulling me out of my thoughts.

  She scrambled up the slate steps, trying to miss out the most worn ones, squeaking, panting and groaning simultaneously.

  ‘So unfit!’ she gasped. ‘Listen to this.’

  She had a little radio in her hand and turned up the volume so we could both hear.

  ‘My sister is interviewing Harry Graythwaite on the radio.’

  ‘Really? I thought he was in that field.’ I glanced back over to the tractor in the distance. It must be one of his staff, then. Shame. I quite enjoyed bumping into him and having a chat.

  Lizzie shook her head. ‘He can’t be; this is live. Shush.’

  Sooo, you’re listening to Radio Lakeland and I’m delighted to welcome farmer Harry Graythwaite from Lovedale into the studio. Good morning, Harry, and thank you for joining me.

  ‘Listen to her. All gushy. She so fancies him,’ Lizzie whispered. ‘I knew she’d got her eye on someone. Poor sod. We have to save him.’

  Hi, Victoria. Thanks for inviting me.

  I couldn’t help smiling when I heard Harry’s voice. I could just imagine him in the recording studio, tugging at his shirt collar nervously and dropping dried mud and bits of straw from his boots all over the floor.