by Katie Fforde
‘Amy has paid upfront for six months,’ said Fran, hoping this information wasn’t secret. ‘So with luck I’ll have got a grip on things by then.’
Mrs Brown looked doubtful. ‘It’ll take more than luck and it won’t be easy for you, you being a townie. But you’ve got a very good herdsman.’
‘Oh? What do you know about him?’
‘Quite a lot. He’s my son.’
‘Goodness me!’ said Fran, thinking that Mrs Brown really was a woman who kept things close to her chest.
‘Amy thinks the world of him,’ the herdsman’s mother went on.
Fran took a sip of tea. ‘I don’t know her well but I’m willing to bet she’s a very good judge of character.’
Mrs Brown relaxed just a little. ‘She is.’
‘And you’ll be around? I can ask your advice?’ Fran’s life experience told her that people were more likely to be kind if you asked their advice. People liked that.
‘Not as much as I used to be for Amy. I made a point of it for her or she wouldn’t have managed at all. But I’ve got my sister to think of and she’s not local.’
‘Oh. Maybe I’d better ask you everything I need to know now!’ Fran sounded and felt a bit desperate.
‘Go on then.’
Although Mrs Brown’s expression was not encouraging Fran felt fairly sure she’d know the answer to the question uppermost in her mind. ‘Can you tell me about my neighbour? What is so wrong with him? Amy was just about to tell me when she fell asleep.’
Issi refilled Mrs Brown’s cup and Fran proffered the shortbread. Mrs Brown took a sip, a bite and then a breath. ‘Well … it all goes back to his father. No, his grandfather.’
There was a frisson of excitement at the knowledge that good gossip was going to be shared.
‘Amy’s never told me in so many words but I got the strong impression – when she was talking about him – that there was an understanding between her and old Mr Arlingham.’ Seeing Fran and Issi looking confused she explained: ‘You know, romantically?’
‘Ah!’ said Fran, in the picture now.
‘Anyway, it came to nothing.’ She paused for dramatic effect, possibly enjoying the rapt attention of the two younger women. ‘Now, I don’t know what happened but it was something to do with the land. Maybe she suspected that old Mr Arlingham only wanted her so he could get his hands on the farm. I don’t know if you’ve seen it on a map but Hill Top Farm cuts into the Park House Farm land – that’s owned by the Arlinghams – like a thumbnail. I reckon it’s always irked the Arlinghams that they don’t own all this bit of the valley.’
Fran refilled Mrs Brown’s teacup, anxious lest this outpouring of very useful information should dry up.
Mrs Brown accepted another bit of shortbread and carried on.
‘I do know that young Mr Arlingham – Antony – came to see Amy a couple of years ago. I happened to be here working in the kitchen. She let him in with a welcome but he went out again looking like thunder. She had her feathers ruffled too. She didn’t go into details but I gather he wanted to buy the farm.’
Fran bit her lip for a second before speaking. ‘But really, she had no one to leave the farm to. Why didn’t she want to sell it? She may need the money, after all, to keep her in her care home.’
‘It’s what he wanted to do with the land that so upset her,’ Mrs Brown explained.
‘And what was that?’ said Issi.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘Could have been factory farming, or raising birds for a shoot, or maybe a place to ride motorbikes. Amy would never see her precious cows sold to make way for motorbikes.’
‘No, that would be awful,’ said Fran, although she wasn’t quite as horrified as she thought she ought to be. ‘Amy mentioned vineyards.’
‘Whatever the thing is,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘this land has never been ploughed, not during the war, not ever. That makes it very special.’
‘Oh my goodness!’ said Issi. ‘That is incredibly rare. No wonder Amy doesn’t want it used for anything else. That’s an outrageous idea!’ She paused and then obviously felt obliged to explain her passion. ‘I’m doing a PhD on land conservation. There’s less than two per cent of this sort of land left in the country. It must be preserved at all costs.’
‘But I thought everyone had to “Dig for victory” in the war,’ said Fran.
‘These fields are too small to plough and too steep,’ said Mrs Brown proudly. ‘That’s what makes this farm unique. So don’t you go having anything to do with Mr Antony Arlingham, not on any account!’
‘I won’t,’ said Fran, feeling much more in the picture.
‘Anyone who’d even consider – even for a moment – ploughing up fields that have never been ploughed to turn them into a motorbike track is beyond the pale!’ said Issi passionately. ‘It would be a desecration.’
‘That’s the word,’ said Mrs Brown, satisfied. ‘Desecration.’ Then she got up. ‘I’ll leave my number in case you need any more information about things but I expect you’ll manage just fine.’
‘I hope so,’ said Fran, not convinced.
‘That was very nice shortbread, I must say,’ said Mrs Brown.
‘Oh, I’ll just wrap up the rest and you can take it with you,’ said Fran, running to the kitchen before Mrs Brown could decline the offer. She felt she needed to keep Mrs Brown on side.
After Mrs Brown’s outer garments and boots had been returned to her and she had been ushered out with as much gushing as Fran thought they could all cope with, Fran looked at Issi. ‘Let’s put on our wellies and inspect the farm. I need to know what I’m facing. Although I know it’s still raining.’
‘Are you feeling a bit overwhelmed?’ asked Issi.
‘Mmm. I’m determined to do it but it is a big thing.’
‘It’s a massive thing,’ Issi agreed. ‘But if anyone can do it, you can.’
Fran handed Issi her parka. ‘Thanks, Is. It would be a lot easier if you didn’t have to go home tomorrow, but your faith in me makes it seem possible. Now pass me my boots, there’s a love.’
As they went out of the back door Issi said, ‘I don’t expect this yard has seen Cath Kidston wellies before.’
Fran looked at her feet. ‘Maybe I’d better get some proper farmer boots.’
‘Not until those are worn out,’ said Issi.
‘True. I’ve only got that thousand pounds from Amy to live on, and run the farm. Apart from a bit of money of my own that’s all there is.’
They walked out of the small enclosed yard that Fran had already furnished with flowers and decorative items in her head. Now she could properly inspect the outbuildings. They peered through the dirty windows.
‘The buildings seem in fairly good order,’ commented Issi. ‘But nothing’s happened in them for years.’
Fran tried a door and found it opened. ‘Absolutely full of stuff,’ she said after a few seconds. ‘And I bet if I did gussy up the farmyard, I’d find everything I’d want as decorative items right here.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Issi, pointing to something that looked like a press of some kind. ‘Do you think it’s for cider?’
‘If it is it explains why it hasn’t been used for years,’ said Fran. ‘The nurse in the care home told me Amy was a strict teetotaller.’
‘Look at those wonderful scales!’ said Issi. ‘This is fascinating.’
‘Let’s not get sidetracked,’ said Fran. ‘I really want to see Tig before he disappears off somewhere.’
‘Let’s do that,’ said Issi. ‘This stuff will wait, after all.’
They went through the gate out of the yard and into the short lane that led to the cow byre. Fran looked for Tig, keen to introduce herself, but there was no one about, only the cows.
‘We’ve missed him,’ said Fran.
‘We might find him later,’ said Issi. ‘In the meantime, there are the special, aristocratic cows with the wonderful pedigree.’
Fran looked at them dubio
usly. They were in a large, chilly barn and they were chewing and looking at her. They were very large and had horns.
‘No prizes for guessing what they’re thinking,’ said Fran. ‘That we’re two right old townies wearing really silly wellies.’
‘They’re very handsome though, aren’t they?’ said Issi. ‘I love the way the red and the white mingle. Would you call that that “dappled”?’
‘They’re Dairy Shorthorns,’ said Fran. ‘Amy told me. I must google them, when we get back in, see what I can find out.’
‘That might be a bit difficult,’ said Issi. ‘There doesn’t seem to be an internet connection at the farm. I tried when you were visiting your old lady.’
The thought of being without an internet connection gave Fran a nasty pang. ‘Oh God, well, I’ll have to sort that out. But let’s carry on round. I think the rain is easing off a bit.’
‘Really?’ said Issi, obviously not convinced.
They had walked for half an hour and were standing at the top of a field that swept down to a stream. Beyond the field was a row of trees, more trees and hills past that, and then the river, and beyond that the mountains of Wales.
‘I know I’m sounding boring now,’ said Issi, ‘but I think this is the most beautiful spot on earth. The view is great from the farmhouse but up here, it’s even better.’
‘We’ve both said it a few times and we’re right,’ Fran agreed. ‘It is beautiful. And the thought that someone is thinking of spoiling it, turning it into a scrambling course for trail bikes or something, is terrible.’ A movement by the farmhouse caught her eye. ‘Look! I think that must be Tig. Let’s go back down and say hello.’
As they walked down the muddy track to the house and round the back to where the cows were kept, Fran felt nervous. It was terribly important that she got on with Tig. If he despised her for being a townie (and Fran felt it was inevitable that he would) this farming thing would never work. She was dependent on him, just as Amy had been. Although at least Amy had knowledge and experience; she, Fran, had nothing. If this farm fell apart he could always get another job.
‘Hello!’ said Fran, hoping fervently that she didn’t sound like an overenthusiastic Labrador greeting a friend. ‘I’m Fran, Amy’s – Mrs Flowers’ – um – relation.’
Tig nodded. He was younger that she’d imagined him, well dressed up against the weather. He wore a hat the same as his mother, with a wide brim. A cracked old Barbour jacket was done up closely and his waterproof-trouser-covered legs ended in muddy boots. He looked the part.
‘I’ve just met your mother, and I’m really pleased to meet you.’ She offered her hand. ‘This is my friend Issi who’s staying for a couple of days to help me settle in.’ Now she was near she noticed that he had very bright blue eyes as if he spent a long time looking at the sky.
Tig nodded again.
‘I’d love you to tell me all about the cows,’ said Fran. ‘They’re so – so pretty.’ She knew this wasn’t the word she was looking for but desperately wanted Tig to like her. No – she needed him to, but, although she had plenty of charm and confidence with people, he wasn’t like anyone she’d ever met before.
Unexpectedly, she saw the weather-beaten face move and the blue eyes crinkle at the corners and she realised he was smiling. He nodded. ‘They are pretty. So, what do you want to know about them?’
Issi shivered beside her; they were both freezing to death in their townie clothes and Fran wished she knew the right questions. She smiled.
‘What do you think is the most important thing about them?’
Tig inclined his head. ‘This herd goes back a long way, longer than most herds. That’s important. They give good rich milk and they’re good mothers.’
He went on to tell her about milk yields, how much they ate and the different temperaments of individuals.
As Fran stood there listening, her feet turning to ice, she realised he loved his cows, the herd, with a passion. He didn’t actually say as much but it was obvious in the way he looked at them, told them the names and personal characteristics, described how they were related and who their mothers and grandmothers were. None of them would suffer as much as an insect bite without Tig noticing, and doing something about it.
Fran asked a question she hoped was intelligent. ‘Do you – we – they have large vet’s bills?’
Tig shook his head. ‘Not if I can help it.’
Which didn’t really answer Fran’s question.
‘I must go in now,’ she said. ‘I need to make a phone call. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Tig nodded and turned back to his cows.
It was hard saying goodbye to Issi at the station the next day. She was going back to London to continue her studies. It was raining and quite cold and it made the parting seem more poignant, somehow.
Although they’d had a very positive conversation on the drive, Issi saying that with Tig Fran could learn about it all slowly, get to know what he did and why. Fran realised this was true, and that Amy would never have left the farm in her hands if she felt Fran’s ignorance was in any way a problem. But having Issi there had made it an adventure. Knowing she was going to be alone in the farm, with no internet, and only a landline as a method of communication, was a bit daunting. Still, she’d found a whole bookcase full of old novels, and Fran knew, if things got too tough, a book was a wonderful place to escape to.
‘And of course I’ll be down as often as I can,’ insisted Issi, having given Fran an enormous hug. ‘I love it down here. And now I know how unique the pasture is, I could even call it work! I won’t be the only one of your friends who comes either. You’ll be the weekend spot of choice.’
‘Hmm, not sure I want a lot of townies coming down here expecting me to cook for them while they lie about looking at the view. I’m a working farmer, you know.’
Issi laughed. ‘You’re also a chef, and quite sociable. You’ll need to get friendly with the locals or get your mates down here.’
Fran imagined her London friends in this rural, old-fashioned setting and decided she’d invite them later, when she’d brought the farmhouse up-to-date.
‘I think I’ll do a supper club,’ she said as if that was a plan and not an idea that had suddenly popped into her head. ‘I bet people would be curious to see Amy’s house.’
‘If they can get up the lane, that is,’ said Issi. ‘But I suppose the locals all drive farm vehicles that can go anywhere.’
‘And there’s somewhere to park halfway up. I’m getting quite keen on the idea now.’
After another long hug, Fran left Issi, got into her car and set off home. As she drove she tried to think of the important questions to ask Amy when she next saw her. She wanted to make some notes before she went again, so if Amy was awake, she could get some information. Did the farm actually make money seemed the most important one. And by the time Tig had had wages and the cattle had been fed, was there any left over?
Preoccupied, Fran missed the turning to the farm and found herself driving up the hill and along a road that took her quite a way from Hill Top Farm. Confident that she’d be able to find her way back as long as she got home before dark, she allowed herself to carry on driving. She fancied a little local exploration, in spite of the rain. And she might find a bit of coverage for her phone.
The high hedges suddenly turned into beautiful stone walls and Fran realised she was driving past a very valuable property. Although it was raining harder now, she was curious and wanted to see if a mansion would suddenly reveal itself. It didn’t, but a gateway with a large pair of electric gates did. The name of the property, Park House Farm, was etched on to a piece of stone. It all looked new and prosperous.
Fran decided to use the gateway to turn in and pulled into the side of the road to see if there was any coverage. She’d just opened the window so she’d hear any traffic before getting her phone out when a car sped up the road towards her. It shot past, far too fast in Fran’s opinion and obviously went throu
gh a puddle because water jetted in through her window, soaking her and the car.
Fran shook herself like a dog and growled like one too. She then swore loudly and impotently at the driver who was probably miles away by now. She hadn’t seen the car in detail but knew that it was large and flashy. She was certain he – she’d glimpsed that the driver was male – belonged in the property with the Cotswold stone walls and equally certain she hated him. And by the time she’d got home and her dripping self inside, she was almost as certain that this was her neighbour whom Amy hated so much and had warned her against.
Righteous indignation warmed her as much as her cursory bath did. (Installing a shower was a priority, she decided, just as soon as she knew if she could afford it.)
She made herself hot chocolate and lit the fire, all the while planning a hideous end for the driver of the car who wanted to turn Hill Top into a motorbike scrambling centre or whatever. Somehow she would make a fortune and buy his farm and turn it into grazing for rare cattle. That would serve him right!
She had just made herself a plate of pasta with chilli oil and garlic and was about to sit in front of the fire with it when she heard a knock on the door. More significantly, it was the front door. She may be pretty much 100 per cent townie but by now she had confirmed no one used the front door in the country.
She put her plate of pasta down and got up from the sofa. Should she open the door? Who would be calling at this time of night?
Rather wishing she had a dog to protect her, she opened the door. There was a tall man wearing a rain-spattered Barbour jacket and wellington boots. But although they were both items that Tig wore they were totally unlike Tig’s, in the same way that this man and Tig were both male, but totally unlike each other.
Instinct told Fran who he was. It didn’t make her like him though. And no one really wanted to meet a kind-of attractive man while wearing PJs and fluffy slippers, even if she was perfectly decent.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘Ah – I’ve come to apologise. For drenching you. My name is Antony Arlingham.’
Chapter Three
