Appleby Farm

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘That’s because everyone else your age is already retired,’ I laughed, hoping to cheer him up. I tucked my arm through his and we began to walk again. ‘Like Harry’s parents, living it up on the south coast. Taking it easy and enjoying themselves.’

  He chuckled. ‘All right, then. Come on, last one to the top is a donkey. I’ve still got to show you the view before it rains.’

  The top of the hill, where Colton Woods met the field, was the furthest point from the farmhouse and also, on a good day, had the best view. Today the visibility wasn’t great but the view was still spectacular.

  ‘There’s more rain on its way.’ Uncle Arthur nodded to the sky behind me and sure enough an army of charcoal clouds was marching towards us, urged along by a sharp wind.

  ‘We should go back,’ I said.

  Too late.

  Seconds later the heavens opened and we had to flatten ourselves against the hedge while we pulled up our hoods. Mine only partially covered my hair. I touched the ends tentatively; it would have quite possibly crocheted itself into a blanket by the time I was back inside.

  ‘Can you see that hut?’ Uncle Arthur shouted above the deluge.

  I scoured the landscape until I spotted a dilapidated wooden hut tucked into the corner against the drystone wall (a misnomer at this precise moment if ever I heard one). I nodded. We both lowered our heads to protect ourselves and made our way towards it.

  As we reached the hut, I helped him clamber up and we stumbled, relieved, out of the rain. There was no door and the roof was riddled with holes. But it was much drier than outside and there was even a wooden bench to sit on.

  ‘What is this place?’ I asked, out of breath from heaving Uncle Arthur up the step. ‘I remember playing inside when I was small. I always wondered why it was here.’

  ‘Shepherd’s hut. Left over from when we farmed sheep. Derelict now, of course. The shepherd used to spend the night out here during lambing season.’

  It was derelict. But it was also very sweet. There were windows at each end and a door in the centre. One half appeared to be for sleeping, or sitting as we were, and the other half was the kitchen end. There was even a little stove, although the chimney was missing. The hole in the roof was still there, though, and the rain was bucketing through it.

  ‘Is this the only shepherd’s hut you’ve got?’ I asked, feeling a tingling of excitement along my spine.

  He wiped the raindrops off his face with a dry handkerchief and passed it to me. ‘No. There’s one other at the far side of the woods. Why?’

  My brain had a new idea zipping about. Forget the cider. This was huge.

  I grinned at him. ‘Uncle Arthur, have you ever heard of glamping?’

  For the next few minutes I told him all about glamorous camping and how amazing this little hut could look if it had a facelift. He told me that Eddy was a dab hand with wood and if anyone could restore the old relic it was him. Before we knew it I’d imagined the opening of the Appleby Farm Glampsite and the rain had almost stopped.

  What better place to wake up in the morning with these views? So romantic! I almost wished I’d known about this when Charlie … I exhaled quickly, blowing away my daydreams.

  ‘Hey!’ I grinned, slapping the bench as a thought occurred to me. ‘Is this the most romantic spot on the farm, then?’

  ‘No, lass.’ Uncle Arthur groaned as he stood – a sharp reminder that he was supposed to be taking it easy and not hiking uphill in the rain, gulp – and beckoned me to the window. There was no glass in it and the wind blew spray into my face.

  The view from the window looked straight down the valley and although the day was wet and wild, it was pure ‘Lakes’, from the grey stone walls criss-crossing the landscape to the shiny slate roofs, vivid green and yellow fields, and the tiny ribbon of road snaking into the distance.

  It completely took my breath away.

  ‘See that little lake?’ he said. ‘Right at the far edge, near the boundary with Willow Farm?’

  I nodded. Harry and I had spent many a summer’s day fishing in that lake. ‘I see it.’

  ‘That’s where I met your auntie. She came up from the next village with a group of her friends. Middle of winter it was, the trees were laced with thick frost and the lake had frozen over. Now that’s the most romantic place on the farm.’

  His face had glazed over with a warm smile. He had such a friendly face, my uncle. I’d have loved to have known him when he was a young man. I bet he would have been quite a catch.

  ‘Sounds absolutely magical.’

  ‘That was exactly what she said. She told me that she’d never been ice-skating before and would I mind holding her hand. So I helped her on to the ice.’

  ‘What a gentleman.’ I smiled, pulling him back from the window and making him sit down.

  ‘Sue clung on to me and chatted nineteen to the dozen all the way round. She told me that she used to pass Appleby Farm on her way to school and always thought how lovely it was. And then she looked at me with those beautiful blue eyes and smiled, and I was a goner.’ He sighed wistfully.

  ‘Love at first sight,’ I breathed dreamily.

  ‘It was,’ he said proudly. ‘And that’s why the lake is my favourite spot.’

  Where would my special place be? I wondered. And who would be The One, now that Charlie was no longer in my life?

  ‘I was a farmer’s son and not used to chatting up pretty girls,’ Uncle Arthur was saying. ‘I don’t know what came over me, but I asked her to go to the local dance. I couldn’t believe my luck when she said yes.’

  ‘Tell me about the secret sign,’ I urged. I’d heard this story a hundred times – it was part of family folklore – but I loved hearing it.

  ‘Again?’ he chuckled, scratching his chin. ‘All right.’

  My heart was melting as he told me again me how he had fallen in love with Auntie Sue at that dance and even though he had been quite shy, he had decided that he had to tell her how he felt. So he squeezed her hand three times.

  ‘What was that for?’ she’d asked him.

  So he’d squeezed her hand again saying, ‘I love you’ – one word with each squeeze.

  ‘Arthur Moorcroft,’ she’d replied, ‘you are the sweetest man I have ever met.’

  ‘We were married a few months after that and from then on whenever we wanted to tell each other how we felt, we used our secret sign and no one around us knew a thing. And I’ll let you into another secret,’ he leaned towards me and winked, ‘we still do it.’

  ‘Such a gorgeous story.’ I pressed a kiss to his whiskery cheek. ‘You were so in love and so happy.’

  He looked away quickly but not before I saw a flicker of sadness cross his face.

  ‘We have been happy but …’ He swallowed. ‘Not having any children has been a great sadness. For us both.’

  My heart twisted for them and I remembered how Auntie Sue had said that it hadn’t mattered so much to him. It seemed as if his pain was just as great but perhaps he’d kept his feelings hidden from her over the years. I scooted closer to him on the old wooden bench.

  ‘Auntie Sue showed me the nursery. It must have been heartbreaking for you both.’

  He tucked my hand into his and we both stared at the floor.

  ‘We lost three babies, you know. Two boys and a girl. All buried at the church over the hill.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Three! I pressed a hand to my mouth as tears sprang to my eyes. ‘Auntie Sue never mentioned that, she just said “baby”. I can’t begin to imagine how awful that must have been.’

  ‘Each time your auntie fell pregnant we were so excited, so hopeful that we’d have a family. This time, we thought, this time it’ll work out all right. But each time the loss got bigger, the desperation worse. And the terrible thing was that no one could give us a reason.’

  ‘That’s so unfair; you’d have made brilliant parents,’ I said, tears streaming down my cheeks. I stopped and flung my arms round his neck. We stood an
d hugged, each wrapped in our thoughts.

  ‘I know it’s not the same,’ I said finally. ‘But you’ve got me.’

  ‘And I thank my lucky stars every day that we do,’ he said softly, wiping my tears away with his rough thumb.

  I smiled and took a deep breath. ‘Now unfortunately, I think we’d better brave the weather and make our way back to the house or Auntie Sue won’t be telling either of us that she loves us.’

  Back out in the field, the rain had died off but the grass was wet and slippery underfoot. We were both wet too and I was worried that Uncle Arthur would catch a chill if I didn’t get him home soon. I tucked his arm through mine and forced myself to slow down to his pace.

  ‘Look at that,’ he tutted, pointing down to Bottom Field. ‘Part of that barley crop is as flat as a pancake. The rain must have really given it a battering. That won’t please Eddy.’ He chuckled. ‘He’s been boasting that this will be the best yield yet out of that field.’

  ‘Won’t it spring back up when it dries?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, it’ll stay like that. So we’ll get a lower yield. Oh, well. Not a lot we can do about it.’

  ‘Is that Eddy, there?’

  Coming towards us, rolling across the grassland was the Land Rover.

  It stopped beside us. Harry was in the passenger seat and Eddy was at the wheel. Harry waved at me.

  ‘You’re soaked.’ He grinned. ‘Get in. I’ve brought you a dry towel.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, with a shiver. The cold had seeped through my clothes and I was covered in goose pimples.

  Eddy wound the window down as I opened the door. His eyebrows were knitted together and he looked even more dour than usual. ‘The barley in Bottom Field is buggered. It’s always the best crops that g’down,’ he grumbled.

  And he glared at us when Uncle Arthur and I bent double laughing.

  We climbed into the back and Eddy drove the Land Rover towards Oak Field. Harry produced a bar of chocolate from his pocket and offered us all a piece.

  I broke off a square and let it melt on my tongue, starving all of a sudden as well as freezing.

  ‘Harry’s asked for a look at Dexter,’ said Eddy.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about pedigree cattle, Arthur,’ Harry said, turning round to face us. ‘Perhaps rather than buy calves, I could buy your Hereford bull from you once the movement ban has been lifted in November. Start my own herd?’

  Uncle Arthur beamed. ‘I’d like to think that there’d still be Herefords in Lovedale from my herd. And I’m sure we could do you a good deal on price, eh, Eddy?’

  Harry gave him a stern look. ‘Market value, Arthur, or no deal.’

  Uncle Arthur chuckled. ‘You’ll do for me, son.’

  I caught Harry’s eye and he winked at me. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I got the feeling he was doing this to help us out, just as he’d promised. I felt a warm rush of affection and smiled my thanks back at him.

  What a difference from Julian’s way of doing business.

  Eddy slowed the vehicle down and pulled alongside the cows.

  ‘Not that I can see too much when they’re all lying down, but they’re looking healthy to me. What do you reckon, Eddy?’ asked Uncle Arthur, winding his window down and leaning out.

  Without exception all the remaining cows were pregnant. Everyone was holding their breath that the next TB test in July would prove negative so that no more of these lovely animals would have to be destroyed.

  ‘One’s got a touch of mastitis and the daft ’un who made it as far as the petrol station got a sore foot for her trouble. Apart from that they’re fine,’ Eddy agreed.

  ‘And Dexter looks a very fine chap,’ added Harry.

  Uncle Arthur sat back, drew a deep breath and reached for my hand.

  ‘This is what Appleby Farm is all about, lass. A Lakeland farm – the land, the animals, even the flat barley.’

  I heard Eddy harrumphing at that.

  ‘And I’d give my right arm for it to stay just the way it is,’ he continued. ‘Not with some bloody hotel on it, or a holiday village or the other thing.’

  ‘Country retreat.’

  ‘That’s the one.’ He shot me an anxious look. ‘Your posh camping stuff is all right, though.’

  ‘Posh camping?’ Harry raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Our Freya reckons people will pay to sleep in our field in the shepherd’s huts,’ Uncle Arthur explained.

  ‘I do,’ I said, ignoring Eddy’s snort of mirth.

  ‘Interesting.’ Harry nodded thoughtfully, furrowing his dark eyebrows.

  ‘I think so, too,’ said Uncle Arthur.

  ‘Thanks.’ I squeezed his hand and met his eyes. Just for a second. And then I looked away and made a silent promise that if I, Freya Moorcroft, had anything to do with it, Appleby Farm would stay exactly as Uncle Arthur wanted it to.

  Chapter 25

  Auntie Sue and Uncle Arthur lifted their breakfast mugs in unison. ‘Happy birthday, love!’

  A whole thirteen days had whizzed by since Charlie and I split up, and a showery June had given way to a warm and sticky July. This morning was no different, except it was my birthday and despite my protestations that I was too busy to be doing with birthday bother, nobody had listened.

  ‘Thank you, both.’ I scooped up a mouthful of pancakes (served American-style with crispy bacon and maple syrup – Auntie Sue had insisted on something special and even Uncle Arthur was excused his muesli for the day) and turned my attention to the stack of birthday cards.

  There were several with a Kingsfield postmark on them and I opened them carefully, flattered that Tilly, Gemma and Shirley, who hadn’t even known me this time last year, had remembered my birthday. Anna’s card was a rude one, which made me snort, but I passed it round the table anyway. Uncle Arthur choked on his bacon and Auntie Sue asked what funbags were.

  ‘This is from us,’ said Auntie Sue, pulling out a large parcel from one of the kitchen cupboards.

  I tore through the flowery wrapping paper to reveal a pile of folded thick fabrics and oilcloths.

  ‘I know it’s not very birthday-like,’ she said, chewing on her bottom lip.

  ‘They are perfect,’ I squealed, lifting an apron from the top of the pile and holding it against me.

  If someone had told me that I’d be so excited about getting aprons for my twenty-eighth birthday, I wouldn’t have believed them. But these were in pale-blue oilcloth with our new Appleby Farm Vintage Tea Rooms logo (my birthday present from Anna) across them and they were impossibly beautiful.

  ‘That’s good, then.’ Her voice was casual, but her face was beaming with pride.

  ‘Aprons and matching tea towels,’ I said, kissing my aunt and uncle warmly. ‘We’re all going to look fantastic.’ I’d picked out some features in the barn in duck-egg blue paint and the contrast with the oak, the exposed brick and the white tables and chairs was stunning.

  It made it all seem so real. Which was just as well because we opened in less than a month. Eek!

  There was a knock at the door and in trooped Lizzie, a delivery man, Eddy and Harry, chorusing ‘Happy Birthday’. Correction: Lizzie and Harry were singing; the other two shuffled in a bit awkwardly.

  Eddy shoved a posy of roses at me. ‘Many happy returns. From the garden, like.’

  I inhaled them. ‘Oh, they’re heavenly. Thank you, Eddy.’ I grabbed him for a kiss and just managed to graze my lips against his cheek, which smelled of disinfectant, before he escaped.

  ‘Sign here, please,’ said the delivery man, sliding a large wooden crate on to the table and holding out an electronic signing gadget whilst endeavouring to shake Madge off his leg.

  ‘It’s from Paris!’ I cooed and Lizzie gasped.

  The delivery man departed, looking relieved. Eddy and Uncle Arthur disappeared off to the office and Harry, who had been loitering by the door, stepped forward and kissed my cheek.

  ‘Hello, birthday girl,’ he said, pu
lling a slightly creased card from his back pocket. He looked smarter than usual: jeans that seemed too nice for the farm and a bright white T-shirt that set off his tan.

  ‘Hello.’ I flushed. The last time I’d had a card from him was for my eighteenth birthday. He’d kissed my cheek then, too, and at the time it had seemed like a massive turning point in our friendship. From children to young adults in one swift kiss …

  ‘Come on, hurry up and open this parcel,’ Lizzie demanded, bouncing on her toes.

  ‘All right, all right,’ I tutted.

  The four of us gathered around the table and I levered open the crate with a knife.

  Inside was another box and lying on top of it was a birthday card from my parents. Tucked inside that was a handwritten note from my mum.

  I thought you might like these for the tea rooms – just bits and bobs I’ve collected from all the countries I’ve been to. It’s a bit of a passion of mine. I hope they give you as much pleasure as they’ve given me.

  Love, Mum xxx

  ‘Sounds very intriguing. Thanks, Mum,’ I said aloud, tearing open the box.

  ‘Flippin’ eck!’ I gasped. We all hung our heads over the crate, even Harry.

  Inside, carefully cocooned in bubble wrap, were forty or fifty pieces of delicate china: cups, saucers, milk jugs, sugar bowls and I even spotted the spout of a couple of teapots. They were all different colours and patterns, from pinks and reds, to silvers and golds, yellows and greens, blues and blacks. My eyes filled up for the second time.

  ‘Wow,’ breathed Lizzie, ‘these are too good for the tea rooms! What if they get broken?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t believe in keeping things for best. These are too beautiful not to show off.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Auntie Sue firmly. ‘My mother left me her Wedgwood dinner service when she died. A wedding present. She’d never used it once. What a waste,’ she tutted sadly.