‘A horse? At their age? For God’s sake. All right, tell them there’s a rural property surveyor coming to value the farm tomorrow morning. If they’ve got a problem with that, they’ll have to call me.’
‘Hold on a minute. We’ve still got two weeks,’ I fumed.
‘For what? A miracle? The buyer wants to get things in motion; plans have already been drawn up. They’ve waited long enough and I can’t … I mean, Arthur can’t afford to lose this deal.’
Plans? That sounded ominous. What did a farmer need plans for?
‘Is there anything in the world more important to you than profit, Julian?’
‘Don’t be naive.’
The line went dead. I headed back through to the kitchen, collected the cakes and stepped out into the cobbled farmyard. I was instantly calmed by the autumn sun on my face.
Perhaps Julian was right. Maybe I was naive and maybe I’d never be rich but I knew how to be happy. And I was pretty sure that true happiness had somehow passed my brother by.
Chapter 32
Later that evening, I pulled on my wellies and overalls, and joined Auntie Sue out in the milking parlour as she led Gloria and Gaynor in for milking.
There were fourteen stalls in all, seven down either side of the parlour, each with their own milking equipment connected up to a big milk tank left over from the days of dairy farming. The two cows swayed amiably into stalls next to each other and plunged their heads straight into their feeding troughs.
The parlour was, of course, a bit pongy, but its walls were made of the same moss-covered stone as the barn. If it didn’t have all this paraphernalia in it, it could have just as much potential as the barn I’d converted for the tea rooms. A farm shop, perhaps, or—
‘Ooh, I’m stiff tonight,’ Auntie Sue groaned, breaking into my daydream as she bent towards Gloria’s undercarriage and wiped her udders.
‘I’ll help.’
I jumped down to the lower part of the floor that ran down the centre of the milking parlour. Auntie Sue turned the pump on and I attached the cups to each teat on both of the cows. It was easy enough to do – the suction in the cups did most of the work, I just had to aim straight.
Auntie Sue came and stood next to me, and for a couple of minutes we stayed silent. It was mildly hypnotic listening to the ‘suck-release-suck-release’ of the pump and watching as the ivory milk squirted thinly through the plastic tubes on its way to the tank.
‘So, come on.’ I nudged her. ‘Spill the beans about today.’
Relations between her and my uncle had been a bit strained when they’d arrived back from their house-hunting at lunchtime. This was the first time I’d got her on her own since then and I wanted the full story.
‘Well, that was a disaster,’ Auntie Sue had huffed, flipping up the bin lid and dropping the Oaklands Retirement Development brochure into it. ‘Rabbit hutches, the lot of them. And the kitchens, Freya! You couldn’t swing a cup let alone a cat. Where would I put my Aga? No storage inside and barely enough room to sit in the garden. Where would we put all our furniture?’
I’d been about to point out that downsizing meant moving to a smaller house until I caught sight of her face – fierce. I’d kept my opinions to myself.
Uncle Arthur hadn’t been so sensible. ‘I was pleasantly surprised.’ He’d picked up another brochure, this time for ‘Sunset Living Luxury Residencies’ and sunk into his armchair.
Auntie Sue had begun slicing bread for sandwiches with unnecessary force. ‘Yes, well. I could see that. We’d only been there five minutes and you were off playing dominoes in the social centre with some other old reprobates.’
Uncle Arthur had winked at me and shown me a handful of coins: ill-gotten gains, presumably.
‘And talk about busy!’ she’d ranted. ‘It was right on the main road, cars hurtling past every second of the day. I’d never get a moment’s peace. No,’ she’d shaken her head firmly, ‘it wasn’t for me.’
‘What about this one?’ Uncle Arthur had suggested, holding up the brochure. ‘They’ve got an indoor swimming pool and sauna.’
She’d tugged it out of his hand and replaced it with a cheese and pickle sandwich.
‘I want to live in a nice quiet bungalow, not a bloomin’ holiday camp.’
At that point I’d told them about Julian’s phone call and the appointment with the surveyor in the morning, and all talk of retirement homes had been instantly forgotten.
Now, in the milking parlour over the throbbing of the machinery, Auntie Sue checked over her shoulder furtively and took a step closer.
‘I’ve found a bungalow,’ she hissed. ‘Converted stables on the edge of farmland. It’ll be perfect for us when it’s finished. I knew it as soon as I saw the details. Two bedrooms, a big kitchen with room for an Aga. Only two miles from here. On a bus route for if … when, you know …’
I nodded. I knew. If anything happened to Uncle Arthur, she would be stranded without access to public transport.
‘I only took him to that Oaklands Retirement place as a sort of test. Show him somewhere he’d loathe and then he’d be so grateful not to live there that he’d agree to anything. That backfired, didn’t it?’
She smiled at me wanly.
I stuck my arm round her. ‘You silly sausage. He loves you so much that he’ll agree to anything.’
Her eyes twinkled. ‘I know.’
We both laughed.
‘So you’re happy to move somewhere smaller, then?’
She nodded. ‘And I’m tired of all these stairs.’
‘What about all your, you know … furniture?’ I stared at her.
In the nursery was what I meant. The hand-painted characters on the wall and the old wooden cot.
I think she understood because her eyes softened. ‘It’s time to let go of our old life and start enjoying a new one. Things that weren’t meant to be, well … Artie always says if we’d had a son this, if we’d had a son that … But nothing’s for certain, is it? We could have had a son or daughter who’d wanted to be a doctor or join the army. And we could still have ended up like this with no one to take over the farm.’
But I want to take over the farm.
My latest business idea was brilliant – though I said so myself. It would make money, it was bang on trend and it would use the farm and buildings, and some of its land sympathetically. But two things stood in my way: it wasn’t farming and I didn’t have a lump sum of money to buy the farm from my aunt and uncle.
Which probably meant that my brilliant idea was a non-starter.
‘That’s the end of that, I think,’ Auntie Sue said briskly.
‘What?’ How did she know? ‘Oh, the milk!’ I laughed, as Auntie Sue switched off the pump.
I released Gaynor from the milking machine, Auntie Sue did the same for Gloria and we led them back across the yard to the field.
‘I’ll miss the girls when we’re in our new bungalow,’ said Auntie Sue, fastening the gate behind us. ‘And the hens. But it’ll be nice to pop back and see them when the new owners have moved in.’
My heart sank. As far as she was concerned, the farm sale was as good as complete. She was ready to move out and had already begun to imagine life without the farm.
Funny how things turn out. Six months ago, Appleby Farm was a place of sepia-tinted childhood memories for me and now it was my entire world. And I so couldn’t bear the thought that that world might end.
I took a deep breath and painted on a smile. ‘Fancy a walk down to the honesty box with me?’
She nodded and looped her arm through mine. ‘I’ve still got to finish up in the milking parlour, but go on then.’
We headed across the yard, me slowing my pace to match hers. The arthritis in her knee caused her to favour one side so we waddled rather than walked down to the road.
The honesty box had done really well this summer. During July and August we’d done a roaring trade in salad potatoes, fresh peas and soft fruit, and now we we
re selling big bags of apples alongside cobs of corn and, of course, our eggs.
‘Do you think the new owners will let me keep the tea rooms at Appleby Farm?’ I asked, emptying the money tin into both our pockets.
Auntie Sue blinked at me. ‘Of course, lovey! We’ll make it a requirement of the sale. I expect the new farmer will love to have visitors to the farm, just like we do. Why wouldn’t they?’
I shrugged, feeling tearful all of a sudden.
Because Julian was involved and for some reason I couldn’t envisage him having lined up a tweedy farmer with an apple-cheeked wife as buyers for Appleby Farm.
She patted my hand. ‘Anyway, we’ll see what tomorrow brings, Freya.’
I couldn’t help shuddering. We would indeed.
Mr Turner, the surveyor, arrived at nine fifteen the following morning in a smart estate car. Auntie Sue invited him into the kitchen for a cup of tea, introduced everyone and gestured for him to join Uncle Arthur and me at the table.
Madge was lying under the table and she gave a low growl as Mr Turner took a seat. I was with Madge; there was something sinister about him. He had hair the colour of mushrooms, one eyebrow permanently raised and an odd tendency to jut his chin out before speaking.
‘Have you come far?’ trilled Auntie Sue.
Jut. ‘Lancaster. Straight up the M6.’
He placed a small laser beam measuring device, a camera and a clipboard on the table in front of him.
‘Where does the farmer live now?’ Uncle Arthur asked.
Jut. ‘Farmer?’
‘Yes, the potential buyer. Is he or she local?’
Mr Turner dipped his chin to consult his clipboard. ‘It’s not so much a “farmer” as a farming organization.’
A wave of dread washed over me. I knew it. This was classic Julian. There was no jolly farmer; it was just a ruse to get Uncle Arthur to sell up. I glanced at my uncle; his thick eyebrows were bunched up warily.
‘What sort of organization?’ I asked rather more aggressively than I’d intended.
Mr Turner paled. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t have the details.’
By which he meant he wouldn’t reveal them.
‘Thank you for the tea, Mrs Moorcroft.’ He stood up and gathered together his equipment.
It was a damp, cold day and Uncle Arthur looked quite relieved when Mr Turner requested that he be allowed to ‘get on with it’ unaccompanied. The three of us watched him leave in silence.
‘What do you think Julian’s up to?’ Auntie Sue asked, wringing her apron between her fingers.
Uncle Arthur grunted. ‘Don’t know, Sue. We’ll have to wait and find out.’
I sprang up off the bench, darted to the door and pulled on my wellingtons.
‘I’m not waiting,’ I said and ran out into the yard after Mr Turner, Madge scampering beside me.
I spotted him by the dog kennel with his back to the chicken run, taking pictures of the cowsheds.
‘Mr Turner,’ I yelled, ‘I want to talk to you.’
The next moments flashed by in a blur and everything seemed to happen at once. A chicken flew out of the kennel and pecked the surveyor in the back of the leg. Mr Turner leaped into the air with shock. He clung on to his camera but dropped his clipboard. Madge, presumably thinking that this stranger had designs on her freshly laid egg, which was no doubt waiting for her in the kennel, began to bark viciously. Then she flew at him and tore a chunk out of his trousers – at least, I think it was only his trousers. The startled man stumbled backwards, landing in a sprawling heap on the kennel.
‘Ow, my back,’ he yowled, rubbing his spine. ‘Call this bloody dog off.’
Luckily Madge didn’t need calling off: she’d obviously remembered the egg and slunk off into the kennel to retrieve it. Which was just as well because the papers on Mr Turner’s clipboard had come loose, an architect’s drawing unfolding on the yard. I was so shocked by what it revealed that words completely failed me.
I knelt down on the cobbles, pinned the drawing flat to the damp ground with both hands and stared. The large piece of paper depicted a very different-looking Appleby Farm to the one I saw before me now. Gone were the barns, the tea rooms, the lovely old stone buildings, the fields nearest the house with their ancient drystone walls … In fact, with the exception of the farmhouse itself, this new layout was almost unrecognizable.
Mr Turner clambered to his feet and tried to prise the drawing from my fingers. ‘You have no business looking at that,’ he bellowed.
‘Actually, I have every business,’ I said indignantly.
At that moment Auntie Sue and Uncle Arthur appeared and the tractor chugged into the yard with Eddy at the wheel.
‘What’s all the commotion?’ cried Auntie Sue from the farmhouse gate.
‘Don’t speak to my niece like that,’ barked Uncle Arthur at the same time over her shoulder.
Eddy climbed off the tractor seat and marched towards us. His boots made such a clatter on the cobbles that I looked up. New boots and clean jeans. I blinked. Unheard of!
Anyway, I ignored Mr Turner and held my ground. As I tried to make sense of the drawings I could literally feel the blood drain from my face. Four long cattle sheds, a maternity unit, a hospital unit, two huge milking parlours, offices …
‘This isn’t farming, it’s …’ I floundered, searching for the right word.
Mr Turner jutted his chin out as far as it would go. ‘It’s intensive dairy farming,’ he finished for me.
There was a collective gasp.
‘Is that right, Arthur?’ Eddy glared at his boss, his face puce. ‘You’re selling out to an intensive dairy – where cows never feel the sun on their backs, never get to graze in paddocks?’
Now I was no farming expert, but I did know from the odd snippet I’d seen in Uncle Arthur’s magazines that intensive dairy farming was highly controversial and a million miles away from the way Appleby Farm had been run since it had been in our family.
‘Now, now, Eddy,’ my uncle countered. ‘I’ve agreed to nothing yet.’
Eddy nodded grimly. ‘But you’re not denying it.’
‘I’m seventy-five, Eddy, and this is a cash offer.’ Uncle Arthur shrugged weakly. ‘What choice do I have? I could have another heart attack and—’
‘Don’t say that!’ wailed Auntie Sue and she clapped her hands over her ears.
What? I blinked at Uncle Arthur. Surely he wasn’t still considering Julian’s offer? Not after finding out what the intensive farming company had planned. Why did everything come down to money? I felt sick.
‘Excuse me,’ interjected Mr Turner, ‘but I’ve still got a job to do and who’s going to pay for these trousers?’
I examined his trousers. One bare white knee was poking through a large hole and a flap of trouser material hung almost to the floor. It was all I could do not to grab it and rip for all I was worth.
‘Your job’s finished,’ I snapped. ‘And you can send the trouser bill to your client. I’m sure he’ll pay up. Now go.’
Auntie Sue looked on the verge of tears. Uncle Arthur put his arm round her shoulders.
Mr Turner jutted his chin. ‘This has got quite out of hand. It was all that hen’s fault.’
‘No, it wasn’t the hen’s fault,’ I replied coldly. ‘It was my brother’s fault. And I’m going to phone him right now and tell him what I think of him.’
I pushed past everyone, leaving them arguing amongst themselves, and ran back into the farmhouse to the office.
Maybe I should have taken a few moments to collect myself, build a rational argument and approach my brother calmly. But I didn’t.
‘How could you?’ I spat, when he answered my call.
‘The surveyor has been, I take it?’ asked Julian smoothly.
‘This intensive dairy farm of yours would ruin the landscape and destroy our beautiful Lakeland farm. And what about animal welfare? What about the lives of those poor cows?’
‘Oh yawn, yawn,’ Juli
an groaned, sounding bored. ‘Wake up, dearie. Farming isn’t all about baby calves frisking about in the meadow. Arthur doesn’t breed pets, he breeds meat. Farming is a form of industry and this development is no different, except it’s investing millions in developing food production for twenty-first-century Britain.’
‘Well, they can stick their millions. We don’t want them.’
I slammed the phone down so hard that the desk shook and I sat with my hand still on the receiver, getting my breath back. The phone rang again almost immediately. I picked it up and braced myself for a further onslaught.
‘Appleby Farm Vintage Tea Rooms, Freya speaking,’ I muttered through gritted teeth.
‘Freya, darling! It’s Mum. Dad and I are at Manchester airport. We’re stopping off for lunch and then we’re making our way to the farm. Will everyone be at home this evening? Your father and I have got some news.’
‘Mum! Right.’ I swallowed. ‘How exciting! Yes, we’ll be here.’
My heart was still thumping as I put down the phone. My father hadn’t visited Appleby Farm for decades. What was he up to now?
Chapter 33
By six thirty, when Mum and Dad’s taxi rumbled into the farmyard, the rest of us had reached some sort of uneasy truce. By which I mean that we had all agreed to disagree.
Auntie Sue had taken my uncle off to the next village in the afternoon to visit the bungalow she’d fallen in love with and he had declared it ‘not bad’, which she took to mean ‘perfect’. It was part of a small development and wasn’t quite finished, which according to Auntie Sue made it even more appealing; they would be able to make some of the final decisions and put their own stamp on it.
Eddy had spent most of the day moping about in the tea rooms, where, between serving customers, I had had a long chat with him, confiding in him how much I really wanted to buy the farm.
‘Aye, well, you’ll need three-quarters of a million pounds for that, lass,’ he’d replied, which more or less put paid to that idea.
And he’d confided that he had a new lady friend who lived on the coast in Morecambe. She had a fresh fish business, selling out of the back of a van, and had started calling in at the White Lion once a week. They’d struck up a romance after he’d complimented her on her potted shrimps and now she was dropping hints that she wanted him to get a Monday-to-Friday job so they could spend more time together at weekends.
Appleby Farm Page 28
