‘Me too,’ said Dan, fighting to contain his mirth. ‘And for what it’s worth, you’ve got a lovely bottom.’
‘Ugh, Dad, I don’t want to think about you thinking about Mum’s bum, thank you very much.’ Poppy shot him a withering look. ‘Auntie Naomi was good, though, wasn’t she? I hope I’m as confident as her when I’m older. Mum? Mum, are you crying?’
My eyes burned where I’d pressed my palms against them and I fumbled in my cardigan pocket for a tissue.
‘Come on, Hetty, it doesn’t matter what you said.’ Dan patted my leg. ‘You helped Naomi promote the shop and you’ve been on TV. Not many people can say that.’
Poppy squeezed herself in beside me and added her love to the hug. ‘The pie looked amazing, and they showed the one with my letters on. Told you it was a good idea. There’s no need to cry, Mum, you did a good job.’
‘Dad didn’t wash his hands after chopping chillies,’ I said, half laughing. ‘And then he rubbed the chilli juice on to mine. That’s why I’m crying.’
Sort of.
The truth was I was fed up of not being taken seriously by anyone. I’d had enough of just helping other people; I wanted to do something for myself. Something had to change. The question was: what?
Chapter 8
‘Hup, hup, hup!’
Dan walked behind the last few ewes, waving his arms to get them to move from the meadow into the paddock and whistling to the dogs. Fern and Jake rounded up the stragglers, alert to Dan’s every command. Finally, the ewes and their lambs were all in safely and I lifted the metal gate and swung it towards the post in the wall.
The ewes called frantically for their lambs and once everybody was paired up again, they got stuck into feeding on the new green grass.
‘Look at them munching away,’ I called over to Dan, securing the gate firmly. ‘The grass has doubled in height in here since the last time I looked.’
It was the end of May and halfway through the half-term holiday and everything seemed to be growing at a rate of knots: the grass, the young plants in my vegetable garden and, of course, the lambs. They’d stay with their mothers, getting fat on milk until they went to auction. We’d keep a few back as usual to replenish the flock and once the majority of the lambs had gone, the rest would be weaned and the ewes would be free to get themselves in tip-top condition, ready for tupping again in November.
Dan bent down to give Fern a scratch on her head. ‘A bit of rain followed by a bit of sun and everything grows like the clappers. If this warm weather holds for June, we might need to clip them early or they’ll be keeling over in the heat.’
The weather had been fine for the last week, which meant being outside was more pleasant to work in. But only a couple of weeks ago, the weather had been really wet, which unfortunately was the perfect breeding conditions for maggots. Awful for the sheep, and not pleasant for the shepherd either.
We wandered through the flock, checking for any illness or injury. Dan spotted a lamb that appeared to be limping and grabbed hold of it to look at its front feet; he examined the gap between its hooves and sprayed it with a can of antiseptic he kept in his pocket.
‘Scald?’ I asked, joining him. Scald was nasty, an infection between the two hooves. If you didn’t catch it in time it could lead to foot rot, which was even worse.
He nodded. ‘We’ve had a few in this lot. I’ll have to tell Cameron to check the ones in Top Valley too.’
‘You’ll do,’ he said, releasing the lamb, who sprang back to its mum with evident relief.
There was always plenty of shepherding to do at this time of year: vaccinations, flea and worm treatments, rescuing daft animals from slippery rocks in the middle of the beck or those stuck head-first down trenches, not to mention rounding up some of our regular escape artists from roads and rivers. But there was a calm and happy busyness to it, quite different to April’s ‘up and out all hours of the day and night’ activity. Some of our earliest lambs had almost reached sale weight and would be heading off to market before long. The ewes – in most cases – were good mothers and although we’d had an unusually high proportion of triplets this year, we’d managed to get almost all of our single-lamb ewes to foster a spare and the few cade lambs we’d ended up with were doing well too.
‘That old girl will be leaving us this year; she’s barely got any teeth left.’ Dan pointed at a mule with a dappled brown face and a round belly who, much to Jake’s frustration, was resisting his attempts to get her to join the rest of the flock. She stopped to tear up some grass and ignored him.
‘Mind you, we’ve had six crops of lambs out of her so I can’t complain. And with mutton getting fashionable again, she should fetch a tidy sum.’
Giving birth six times would make her seven years old. Not a bad life, I supposed, glancing round the paddock, over the drystone wall to the fields and fells beyond. She’d been free to roam over our hills with her family all that time, to do as she pleased, just coming back down for a bath and a haircut now and again.
She finished chewing and with a spurt of energy rejoined the flock. One of her lambs sought her out and buffeted against her, almost knocking her off her feet in its haste to get to her milk. She bleated so loudly in protest that Dan and I laughed.
‘She’s a feisty mum,’ I said, ‘with a pretty face.’
He gave me a sideways look. ‘My favourite sort.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ I smiled back. I didn’t class myself as pretty and as far as I knew I didn’t think I’d ever been particularly feisty either. Unlike the person just pulling into the yard.
‘Anna’s here,’ I said, nudging Dan.
‘Again? Tell her I’ve given Bart a chainsaw and told him to fell some mighty oaks by himself.’
I chuckled. Each time Bart came to work on the farm, Anna called by on some pretext or other, checking up on his safety; I’d never seen so much of her. ‘I wonder what today’s excuse for dropping in will be.’
‘Tell her she can help with worming,’ said Dan. ‘That should put her off.’
‘I don’t think she’s dressed to work on a farm,’ I said, watching as she got out of the car and began picking her way over the clods of mud in her high-heeled boots. She wore a tiny black leather jacket and had a leopard-print bag over her shoulder. ‘I’ll go and see what she wants and make lunch for us all while I’m at it. Will you go and shout to the kids?’
Anna was leaning on the drystone wall scanning the fields when I reached her.
‘Cameron has taken Poppy and Bart over to Beck Field, if that’s who you were looking for,’ I said, ‘with the mobile scales. Dan reckons some of the early lambs are ready for the off.’
Anna’s brow furrowed. ‘He won’t be using any dangerous machinery, will he?’
I gave her a pointed look. ‘No. Dan would never allow it. Anyway, look at you, all gorgeous!’ I kissed her cheek, keeping my hands well away from her jacket. ‘Don’t tell me: date with Mr Purkiss from school?’
She flapped a hand as we walked towards the farmhouse. ‘No. Too young and too easily intimidated. I’ve found a real man. And why are you holding your hands away from me like that?’
‘Lanolin. Very sticky,’ I replied. ‘And not a good mix with leather and leopard print.’
We went inside and she took mugs from the cupboard while I washed my hands and filled the kettle.
‘Bart says there’s a dog called Nancy in the village having puppies in eight weeks, he’s already asked if we can have one,’ said Anna, spooning coffee into mugs.
I opened my mouth to say that an exuberant Border collie at home all day while she was at work wasn’t a good idea but she shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve already said no. The last thing I want is a woof-machine. But have you thought about maybe …?’
Her eyes flicked to the spot in front of the Aga which until recently had always been occupied by Rusty.
‘No,’ I said quietly. ‘I can’t explain it, but Rusty and I grew up togeth
er and now he’s gone it feels like the end of an era.’
‘Enough said. Hugs.’ Anna wrapped her arms around me. ‘You’ll know when the time is right.’
I gave a small sigh; I hoped so. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but change was in the air and I felt uneasy and out of sorts. A new puppy was not on my radar at the moment.
‘And instead of it being the end of an era,’ she continued, ‘how about thinking of it as a new beginning, and focus on something positive in your future?’
I squeezed my friend and managed a smile. ‘Thanks, lovely chum. And talking of the future, you were saying something about a real man?’
‘Wilf,’ she said with a wicked gleam in her eye. ‘And he is snog-on-a-stick delicious.’
I opened the fridge to get the milk and she told me about the gorgeous Aussie she’d met in the village on Sunday. He was here for a few days sorting out contracts and accommodation for his team ready to start shearing next month.
‘I might have met him at the farm shop, ask him if he drinks rhubarb juice.’
‘Okay, if there’s time between all the kissing.’
I grinned, shaking my head. ‘But you do know he’ll only be here for a few weeks and then he’ll be gone? I thought you were ready for a serious relationship?’
‘I know, but I couldn’t help myself. He hypnotized me with his testosterone, I was powerless to resist,’ she said with a giggle. She twirled a lock of her hair around her finger. ‘He said he was at a loose end tonight and I said so was I since my best friend stole my son.’
‘Although Bart will be finished at four,’ I reminded her.
The kettle came to the boil and she made us both a drink while I got sandwich materials out of the fridge.
‘Exactly, he’s coming round for a drink first. So would you mind keeping Bart for dinner?’ she asked.
‘Not at all. He and Poppy are getting on a lot better now she’s realized she can boss him about.’ I chuckled until I noticed Anna pursing her lips.
‘It’s fair enough,’ I said, defending my daughter. ‘She’s been helping on the farm all her life and Bart seems happy to follow her lead.’
Too happy, according to Poppy, who thought he was trailing after her a little too much and had tried to fob him off on to Cameron.
‘Good for Poppy, I suppose. I’m all for girl power. Bart’s loving it here; I thought he might,’ said Anna wistfully.
‘And Dan loves having him,’ I laughed gently, ‘much to Poppy’s disgust.’
She set a coffee mug down on the worktop next to where I was slicing a fresh granary loaf. She sipped her coffee and stood next to me, gazing out of the window.
‘It’s good for him, learning some practical skills. Could come in handy later in life. On another level, it’s nice for him to feel part of a family for a while.’
I put my arm around her shoulders. ‘We are family. Or as good as. What is it you used to say at college?’
‘Sisters from another mister.’ She smiled, leaning her head on my shoulder.
‘Better than sisters,’ I put in. ‘We never had any of the bickering or sibling rivalry to contend with.’
‘You’re so lucky, you know,’ she sighed, ‘having all this, belonging to the farm, having Dan. Sometimes I envy you.’
I glanced sharply at her. Where was all this coming from? Normally she was full of feminism, telling me how fulfilling it was to make her own way in life, unfettered by male egos and opinions.
‘I’ve always envied you too,’ I admitted.
She looked at me in surprise and snorted. ‘Me?’
I nodded. She’d had a tough time training to be a nurse while single-handedly bringing up Bart but she’d never let her circumstances hold her back. I’d love to be more like her.
‘You’re brave and independent, and not afraid to take risks.’ I met her eye. ‘You know what you want and you go for it.’
‘Ah, thanks.’ Anna gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘But that’s not always a good thing.’
‘It’s more than I’ve ever had the guts to do.’
‘Not true,’ she argued. ‘You were brave to give up your university education to move in here with Dan after his dad died. That was a risk.’
I wrinkled my nose at that, unsure whether I agreed. At the time it had seemed the only thing to do, I couldn’t have contemplated any other course of action.
She pressed a swift kiss to my cheek and put her empty mug in the sink. ‘And on that note, I’m off to take another risk: with a sheep shearer called Wilf. Bye!’
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ I called after her.
She stopped at the door and arched an eyebrow. ‘Anything?’
We both laughed.
‘Good point,’ I conceded. ‘Forget I said that, just enjoy yourself.’
Poppy suggested having lunch outdoors in the sun at the picnic bench. It was sheltered from the breeze by my potting shed and once everyone had washed their hands, Bart and Cameron helped me carry the food out while Poppy went to check on the cade lambs and Dan checked his voicemail messages. Cameron was a self-contained young man of few words who wore T-shirts featuring bands I’d never heard of and shaved his own head with clippers. He ate his lunch sitting in the tractor cab listening to grime (very apt given the state of his jeans). But Bart was happy to chat to Dan and Poppy about the jobs for the afternoon. I served them mugs of soup and thick cheese sandwiches and then went back inside to fetch some cake. The phone was ringing when I got to the kitchen and I picked it up, guessing it would be the supplier of our sheep pellets who had been expected this morning and hadn’t turned up. Either them or someone reporting more runaway sheep …
‘Sunnybank Farm, Hetty speaking.’
‘Hello, this is the Duck and Feathers pub in Holmthwaite.’ It was a woman shouting at the top of her voice to make herself heard over the background noise of chinking glasses, men’s laughter and music. ‘I’ve got a pie here and I want to put it on today’s dessert menu. How do I heat it? Can I microwave it slice by slice?’
‘Reheat the whole pie in the oven and cut when it’s hot. Never microwave shortcrust pastry,’ I replied. ‘Never. Or it will go—’ I stopped myself from saying ‘soggy’; I’d had quite enough of soggy bottom jokes. ‘The pastry won’t be crisp.’
‘Right,’ said the woman doubtfully. ‘Won’t it burn?’
I told her to cover the top with a piece of foil and to keep the whole pie warm after she’d taken it out of the oven and rang off, wondering whether the Duck and Feathers had in fact got one of my pies, or if I was simply the first person who came to mind for asking this sort of information.
In the past five days since I’d been on TV, I’d had quite a few pie-related enquiries. Most of them had started with, ‘Is that the pie lady from the farmhouse?’ I appeared to have become a shortcrust pastry guru in a short space of time. Which reminded me: this morning I’d had a message on the answerphone from Freya, the farmer’s wife I’d met at the open day, who’d apparently got one of my pies too. I made a mental note to call her later this afternoon, but right now I had a hungry team of shepherds and trainee shepherds to feed so I flicked on the kettle and began cutting a chocolate and cherry loaf into thick slices.
Lunch was never a long drawn-out affair; it was simply a chance to refuel. As soon as Dan swallowed his last mouthful of cake he stood up and the others followed his lead. Dan went back into the paddock and Cameron took the dogs and the youngsters off to finish weighing the early lambs. And for the next couple of hours I sat in the kitchen ploughing through a stack of farm-related paperwork and replying to emails.
‘How these government departments have time to create all these ridiculous forms is a mystery,’ I muttered to myself crossly. I looked longingly at the remains of the cake and wondered if my efforts should be rewarded with a second slice. Most definitely, came back a little voice immediately. I got up to make tea for myself and Dan, and nearly leapt out of my skin when the door flew open a
nd Naomi appeared, breathing heavily.
She braced herself against the door, her tall frame filling the space and winced as she circled the foot with the injured toe.
‘Sorry to interrupt but we need to talk.’
Chapter 9
My stomach swooped.
‘Come in. Everything okay?’
She shut the door behind her and gave a nervous laugh. ‘Yes, fine, fine. Do you remember meeting Freya Graythwaite on Saturday?’
‘Of course. Actually, she left a message for me to call her earlier, but I haven’t had a chance yet.’
‘Good,’ she said, exhaling. ‘That’s good.’
She began pacing the length of the room, twisting her hands in front of her. The suspense was killing me and even though my sister-in-law wasn’t one for physical contact I caught hold of her busy hands and forced her to look at me.
‘Please spit it out, my heart’s hammering here. What’s happened?’
She straightened up.
‘Okay, here’s the thing. And you’ve got to remember that I’ve done what I’ve done because I thought – think – it’s the right thing and once you’ve had time to let it sink in so will you. Although if you really don’t I suppose we can pull out. Nothing’s irreversible.’
‘That might make perfect sense to you, but I’m completely lost,’ I said firmly. I pulled out a chair at the table and guided her to it. ‘Why not start at the beginning.’
Naomi sighed and did as she was told and I fiddled with the teapot so as not to look directly at her while she attempted to get her words out.
‘Hetty, your baking is amazing. The way you can turn out pie after delicious pie, multiply your quantities for bulk orders and make it look so simple; that takes skill, real skill, and the flavours you put together, I mean that sheep’s cheese one …’
‘With the chard? Did you like it?’ I said, beaming as I dropped two teabags in the pot.
‘Everyone did. It was inspired. It was like something off a TV baking competition. Which is why …’
Hetty's Farmhouse Bakery Page 8
