‘You go back inside,’ he said, as I eased myself up from the straw, ‘I’ll shout if I need you.’
I gave the ewe and her lamb one last look before letting myself out of the pen.
‘Hetty …’ Dan turned quickly. ‘I was talking to Ian this morning.’
‘Oh yes?’ Ian Kirk was a friend and fellow farmer. He owned Woodside Farm on the other side of the valley and kept sheep and cattle. His flock shared the same common areas on the fells as ours.
‘He thinks his dog Nancy is pregnant.’
‘Ah, that’s nice.’
He chewed his lip. ‘I was just thinking, if Rusty—’
‘Don’t say it,’ I blurted quickly, shaking my head. ‘I’m not ready to think about that.’
Dan gave me a sympathetic look. The sound of rapid footsteps closed the discussion down as Poppy came into view, holding my mobile phone in front of her like a relay baton.
‘Mum!’ she yelled. ‘It’s the vet!’
Thirty minutes later, I stood in the vet’s consulting room, resting against the examination table, reeling from Sally’s words. Rusty was lying in front of me, in a sphinx position; his bony head pressed against my stomach, still woozy from his biopsy. The fingers of my right hand were threaded through his fur, my left hand swiped at my tears. My brain felt as if it was throbbing with the new knowledge. I suppose I’d known deep down that Rusty was very ill. But I’d been shutting it out, hoping that I was wrong. His prognosis was even worse than I’d imagined.
‘It’s the kindest thing, Hetty.’ Sally managed a smile, her chin wobbling with the effort of remaining professional. She’d been looking after all the animals from Sunnybank Farm for years and I knew she had a soft spot for my dog.
I nodded. My throat was so tight with emotion that it hurt. I knew she was right: Rusty was old, the tumour in his throat was huge and getting bigger. There were no guarantees that surgery would be successful at his age, or save his life. And even if he survived that, the biopsy on the lumps on his flank had proven them to be malignant too. In short, Rusty was riddled with tumours, his life would be painful and difficult. But even so …
I looked at my beloved Border collie lying passively on the examination table and he returned my gaze, his wise old eyes filmy now and cautious, but as trusting ever. This was one of the hardest days of my life.
A sob welled up and out before I could stop it. Sally pressed a gentle hand to my arm and tactfully turned away to tap into her computer. I knew what she’d be typing and I couldn’t bear it.
I leaned over him and hugged him tightly. His thick red and white fur made him seem such a big dog, but his muscles had been wasting away since Christmas and I could feel every rib along his precious body, every nobble of his spine. His breathing was wheezy and laboured and every in-breath was an effort for him. I lowered my head to his, hoping he could feel the strength of my love, my sorrow, anything but my guilt at being the one to make the decision.
‘Goodbye, Rusty, old boy,’ I whispered. ‘We’ve been through a lot together you and me. What am I going to do without you?’
I stroked his one white front paw with my thumb, remembering so clearly the day when Dan bought him into the kitchen fourteen years ago. His little ears pricked, his pale blue eyes taking everything in, his plump body wriggling to be set free. I’d only just moved in with Dan and his mum and the transition from living in a normal semi-detached house to a sprawling, smelly farm on the side of a steep hill was proving harder than I’d anticipated. I was blissfully in love, excited for the future and full of ideas for my new role, but even so, I was only eighteen and for a girl who’d planned on doing a three-year maths degree, with nothing and no one to think about but herself, this sudden change of direction had taken some getting used to.
‘To welcome you to the farm,’ he’d said, placing the bundle of fur in my arms. ‘Your very own sheepdog. A redhead, just like you.’
The farm had black-and-white Border collies, who slept outside in kennels, but they weren’t pets, they were workers and responded to Dan’s every word and gesture. This puppy was just for me.
It had been love at first sight and Rusty and I had been inseparable ever since. Incidentally, his aptitude for sheep herding was a perfect match to my talents as a shepherdess – poor. But with Rusty by my side I’d explored every nook and cranny of the farm: where the best blackberries grew, where the skylarks nested in spring and even, to Dan and his mum’s delight, a gully where a ewe and her twin new-borns had fallen and couldn’t get back up to freedom. Finding a role for myself alongside Viv had been tricky to begin with, so I’d taken a job in the village post office and gradually, as she eased herself into life without her husband, I’d taken on new responsibilities: the vegetable garden, the orchard of damson and apple trees, helping out with lambing and, later, looking after Poppy. And Rusty was always beside me, my lovable, dancing shadow.
‘But what fun and adventures we’ve had, boy, eh? You have been the best dog. The best.’
Sally cleared her throat softly. ‘Shall we get this over with?’
I took a deep breath and met her gaze with a nod. This was possibly the bravest and worst thing I’d ever had to do.
After I’d stopped crying long enough to string a sentence together, Sally showed me out via the staff exit so that I wouldn’t have to walk back through reception with a tear-stained face and no pet. Rusty would come back home to be buried on the farm, but there was no way I could be the one to drive him.
Back outside I walked to the car, head bowed. It seemed impossible that less than an hour had gone by since I’d arrived; dusk had begun to fall, a cool May breeze was tickling the cherry blossom from the trees and a football match was taking place on the field behind the village primary school. I sat in the car for a few minutes to pull myself together and I was doing really well until I spotted Rusty’s tartan blanket on the back seat. I pulled it towards me and folded it up small, stuffing it back behind my seat out of sight. There were reminders of him everywhere at the farmhouse; I’d text Dan, I decided, he could prepare the way for me when I came home without him …
A wave of anxiety rose up inside me. Poppy would be devastated – she had never known life without Rusty.
Losing animals was part of farm life. In its simplest terms it was our business. A stillborn lamb, a poorly ewe, a fatal injury – it happened and we mourned every loss; but a dog was different, even Dan had welled up when I’d called him to let him know the results of the biopsy. Rusty was as much a part of the farm as the house itself. I took a tissue from a packet in the glove box and wiped my eyes.
On the other hand, although Poppy was an animal lover, she was pragmatic; she might even deal with it better than me. Either way, I’d show her that expressing your emotions was perfectly okay, whatever they were.
I flipped down the vanity mirror, checked my face, wished I hadn’t and then turned the keys in the ignition. It was the end of an era; Sunnybank Farm without Rusty was going to feel very different indeed and for once I was in no rush to get home.
Chapter 4
The next day dawned just as any other: the birds began their twittering symphony as soon as the light eased its way in stripes through the curtains; the cockerel made his harsh presence felt at about six and below us in the valley bottom, the lowing of Ian’s cows provided a baritone bassline to the sounds of the morning. I made Dan some breakfast while he showered and once he’d gone out to check on last night’s new lambs Poppy staggered down, school shirt untucked and tie askew, at seven fifteen. She was too late for breakfast but just in time to catch the school bus as it passed the end of the lane. I stuffed a packet of breakfast biscuits in her bag and pressed a hurried kiss to her cheek as she stomped out of the door, only to run back and collect the egg boxes for her teachers.
And then it was just me.
I propped the kitchen door open and clasping a mug of tea, gazed from the fields intersected with their zigzag of drystone walls up to the fells whi
ch rose to the east at the back of the house, green then brown then a smoky blue at the summit. This precious time, this breathing in the sharp morning air, had been my ritual as long as I could remember. Rusty and I, dog and mistress, sizing up the day ahead together. All of a sudden Rusty’s absence hit me like an avalanche, and I felt heavy under its weight and the tears appeared soundlessly on my face. I whisked myself back in and shut the door. There was no use sobbing again, at least not all day anyway.
Last night had been bad enough. Poppy and Dan had eaten by the time I’d got back. Dan had watched over the delivery of the second lamb while Poppy had cooked the sausages. She’d left some for me in the bottom of the Aga, but I couldn’t eat. Instead, she and I curled up together on the sofa for a good cry and Dan took himself outside on the pretence of checking the sheep before bed and came back blaming a touch of hay fever for his red eyes. He hadn’t fooled me for a moment; he was a big softie underneath that tough, nothing-gets-to-me Cumbrian exterior.
But back to today; my eyes roamed the kitchen looking for a job I wanted to do. I’d keep busy, do something I loved doing rather than the usual Friday chores, I decided. I flung the kitchen door open again and set off for my potting shed.
The vegetable garden had once been Dan’s mum’s domain. It was Viv who’d introduced me to the joy of planting peas and courgettes, come-again salad leaves and tiny outdoor tomatoes, and I’d found great pleasure in watching my seeds sprout and the seedlings grow into edible crops. There wasn’t really a place for flowers on the farm and Viv wasn’t a flowery person. But I loved them and always managed to squeeze a few annuals into pots and borders, like the sweet peas which clambered up the runner-bean plants, and the marigolds in between the rows of broad beans.
The potting shed had been my thirtieth birthday present from Dan. It was my second favourite place after the kitchen and was by far and away the newest building on the entire farm. It was wooden with windows that opened up to let out the summer heat and crammed with shelves made from old pallets, plus one deep shelf at the back where I headed now. On the shelf I found the last of the autumn crop of Bramley apples. Taking the box back to the kitchen, I put on an apron and began unwrapping each large green apple from its layer of newspaper until I had enough for my favourite pie recipe: apple and dark chocolate. The perfect antidote to my melancholy.
I’d peeled the apples and set them to soften in the Aga with sugar and a cinnamon stick and was taking out the ingredients for pastry when the door opened and Naomi came in. She was wearing her fleece embroidered with the Sunnybank Farm Shop logo and smelled vaguely of cheese.
‘Poppy dropped this in my car last night.’ She held up a small key which I recognized as my daughter’s school locker key.
‘Thank you, she’s forever losing that. Coffee?’ I held up the kettle, pleased to have company, although I doubted she’d have time to stay for a drink.
‘Er …’ Her eyes flicked automatically to the square of rug under the kitchen table where Rusty used to sit whenever I was cooking. And then our eyes met.
‘Dan called me. I’m so sorry. How are you coping?’
‘I’m taking my mind off him,’ I said in a wobbly voice. ‘I feel …’
I looked at her kind, caring face; my unflappable, intrepid sister-in-law who inspired my daughter.
She might be an amazing businesswoman, but she was also a dog person and had been in bits when she lost her Lakeland terrier, Bracken, a couple of years ago. She’d understand exactly how I felt – at least about losing my dog, anyway. I didn’t think she’d understand how I felt a failure in the ‘role model’ department, how I always felt a bit of a lightweight next to her. I think she’d have been quite shocked if she knew that I was wondering if it might not be time to start challenging myself, forcing myself out of my comfort zone. She wouldn’t comprehend that because she’d been challenging herself business-wise for years.
So all I said was, ‘I feel empty and lost. I don’t know what to do with myself.’
And that was enough to bring the tears close to the surface again.
‘Oh, love.’ Naomi strode over, removed the kettle from my hand, filled it from the tap and flicked it on.
‘You’re baking,’ she said briskly, rubbing my arm, which was her idea of a maximum demonstration of affection. ‘Good sign. Very therapeutic.’ She pushed her short hair behind her ears and cleared her throat. ‘Did you manage to sleep last night?’
‘Eventually.’ I blinked away the tears, took out a mixing bowl and tipped 250 grams of flour and a pinch of salt into it. I didn’t weigh the flour; I could make pastry in my sleep I’d made it so often.
We’d gone to bed at eleven as usual but by midnight, my juddering sobs had begun to get on Dan’s nerves. I’d murmured my apologies and edged towards him, hoping for a cuddle, but he’d turned away and thumped his pillow, muttering that he had to be up at dawn and at this rate he might as well not bother trying to sleep at all.
Not quite the sympathetic reception I’d hoped for, but fair enough; the poor man needed his sleep. I’d crept out, aiming for the spare room, but had tripped over Rusty’s bed at the top of the stairs which had resulted in a fresh wave of sorrow. I was on the verge of sinking down on to his doggy mattress when Poppy called me into her room. She had been too upset to sleep too. And eventually, after cradling her in my arms, I drifted off, soothed by the thud of my daughter’s heartbeat and the rhythm of her breathing.
‘Good, good,’ Naomi nodded, seemingly mesmerized by the way I was lifting the flour and letting it fall through my fingers as I rubbed in the fat. ‘Listen, you’re probably too busy but I’m going to ask anyway: I need your help.’
‘Of course.’ I looked at her properly; she looked agitated.
She finished making the coffee and set two mugs on the table. ‘I’ve cocked up big time.’
I abandoned my shortcrust pastry crumbs. ‘What is it?’
She flopped into a chair and sighed. ‘The farm shop open day is tomorrow.’
I nodded. It was celebrating its fifteenth birthday this year and Naomi and her small team of staff had decided to hold an event on Saturday as it was a bank holiday weekend. They’d arranged various activities, taster sessions and demonstrations. She’d taken out advertising in the Westmorland Gazette, and there was even talk about the local TV news programme featuring it if their scheduling permitted it. ‘Poppy and I can come and help out if you need us?’
‘No. Well, yes, possibly,’ said Naomi, chewing her lip. ‘But it’s not shop staff we need. The problem is the bakery.’
I frowned. Sunnybank Farm Shop had a deli, an organic fruit and vegetable department, a cheese counter and a bread and cakes section. It didn’t have its own bakery. At least not yet; the rate Naomi was going, she’d be rivalling the supermarket in Holmthwaite before too long.
‘Do you mean one of your suppliers?’ I asked.
She looked at the big map on the wall, her eyes roaming from left to right as she sipped her coffee.
‘Yes, the Crinkle Crags Bakery: a husband-and-wife team. They sent me an email weeks ago to inform me that they are having a month off because they’ve just adopted a baby. And it completely slipped my mind. Totally my fault. I phoned in my order this morning and it wasn’t until I heard the voicemail announcing the arrival of six-month-old baby Maggie that I remembered.’
I hated letting anyone down but I shook my head. ‘I can’t make bread. I really can’t. Mine comes out doughy and full of air holes.’
I stood then, remembering the apples I was cooking for my pie. I opened the Aga and the smell of caramelized apple and cinnamon filled the air.
‘That’s okay. I don’t buy my bread from them.’
‘No?’ It must be cakes then. I raised an eyebrow, mentally working out whether I could realistically produce a Victoria sponge to shop standard. I slid the dish of softened fruit on to a pot stand.
‘I buy pies.’ She looked at my mixing bowl of sifted flour and then peered a
t me hopefully. ‘Shortcrust-pastry pies.’
‘Oh, then your worries are over,’ I beamed. ‘Pies are no problem.’
‘Phew.’ Naomi smiled. ‘I was hoping you’d say that. But you’re going to need a bigger bowl.’
The following morning, I was up at six. The shortcrust pastry for Naomi’s pies was made and had been resting in the fridge overnight. I normally only rested my dough for an hour at most, but needs must and if I was going to deliver twenty-four pies, all perfectly baked, by eleven o’clock, I needed a head start.
But first tea and toast. I opened the back door tentatively, determined not to let Rusty’s absence reduce me to tears again. And there, sitting on the step as if awaiting my appearance, was Birdie, the boss lady of our herd of farm cats, whose skills included terrorizing mice, chickens and even on occasion the dogs. Jake and Fern, Dan’s working dogs, were terrified of her. None of the cats were interested in human affection, no matter how hard Poppy and I tried. However, maybe it was intuition on her part, or maybe today she just wanted to share my patch of early-morning sun, but either way, I was extremely glad of her company. And as I lowered myself down on the step next to her, she inched closer, sniffing my slice of buttered granary toast, her sleek black fur glinting in the light, and I felt, if not the undisguised love of Rusty, a companionable silence in which to absorb the rhythm of the farmyard.
‘Thank you, Birdie,’ I murmured when I’d finished my tea. I offered her my last crust but she simply stared at me as if I’d gone bonkers. I risked stroking her head, half-expecting her to lash out with one of her razor-sharp claws, but to my surprise she butted her head against me and began to purr as deeply as one of Dan’s tractors.
‘Same time tomorrow?’ I said, getting to my feet. She dived into the warm spot I’d vacated and curled into a ball. I was taking that as a yes.
Dan was already out doing the rounds on the quad bike with his dogs. There was a heavy dew on the meadow but it was starting to steam in the morning sunlight. It was going to be a lovely day and Naomi’s farm shop would be heaving with visitors.
Hetty's Farmhouse Bakery Page 4
