Short Stack

by Lily Morton

  I leave him in peace, and I’m just folding his clothes and putting them neatly on a hay bale when there’s a sound at the door, and Bill appears, carrying a tray.

  My nose twitches. “That smells nice.”

  He grins. “Flora’s made coffee and tea. There are bacon sandwiches and some of her homemade apple cake.”

  “How lovely.” I take the tray from him so he can wander over to Silas who’s just emerged from the stall rubbing a towel over his arms. I look judiciously at the sleeves of his scrubs which are marked already and make a note not to let him touch me without a bath.

  “Everything okay?” Bill asks.

  Silas nods. “It all looks good so far, Bill. She’s not in any distress and birth looks okay at the moment.”

  Bill sags slightly. “That’s good. She’s the grandchildren’s horse. I don’t want to ruin their Christmas with bad news.”

  Silas pats him on the shoulder, and I make a moue of disgust at the mark that’s now on Bill’s shirt, but Bill doesn’t appear to care.

  “We’ll stay anyway,” Silas says calmly. “I don’t think she’s that far off. Did you say labour started at teatime?” Bill nods, and Silas grins at him. “Are the grandchildren here? I remember you saying your son and his husband were coming for the holidays too.” The farmer nods again and Silas smiles. “Well then, clear off.” Bill makes as if to argue, but Silas shakes his head. “We’ll be fine. We’ve got food and drinks. You go on and be with your family, Bill, and I’ll let you know when it happens.”

  “But what about you?”

  Silas smiles. “I’ve got my family with me. Oz is here.”

  I swallow hard and smile at him and Bill as he makes his escape.

  I take a seat on a hay bale and pour the tea into the thick white enamel cups. “Wash your hands and then come and have a drink,” I instruct him.

  I hand him a sandwich after he obeys. We sit together on the hay bale companionably, sharing the food and sipping the tea while listening to the Christmas carols playing in the background.

  Silas gets up after a bit and heads into the stall with the mare, and I settle back on my hay bale, pushing my coat behind me as it’s warm in here. I pull out my phone and, seeing that it’s one in the morning, I start to text Christmas greetings to family and friends.

  A flash of red catches my eye, and I reach over to my coat pocket and pull out the Santa hat left there from the estate Christmas party. I palm it and head over to the stall.

  When I peep in, Silas is patting the horse. “Here,” I say, tossing him the hat. “Put that on.”

  “I don’t think Nutmeg is feeling particularly festive at the moment.”

  “It isn’t for Nutmeg,” I say, pulling up the camera on my phone. “This is for the men and women of Cornwall.”

  “What?”

  “I want a photo of you doing vetty things.”

  “Vetty things?”

  “Don’t point your nose in the air like that. Try to look like a vet.”

  “Oz, I am a vet,” he says faintly.

  “Well, look more like one,” I instruct him. “Put the hat on and roll your sleeves up a bit more so I can see the veins on your forearms.” I pause. “Would it be okay for you to be bare-chested?” At his look of horror, I dismiss that. “No, you’re right. Shirtsleeves up and try to look moody rather than sleepy and grumpy.”

  “I wasn’t aware when we set out tonight that I’d be re-enacting Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.”

  “I love it when you think you're funny. Okay, smile.” I hold up the camera and snap a few pictures. Then I pull up my gallery. “These are great,” I say happily. “They’ll love them.”

  “Who will love them?” he asks, sounding fairly alarmed.

  “The men and women who are your customers on your practice’s website.”

  “Oz, the customers are the animals.”

  I wave a careless hand. “I don’t think so. Theo and I had a look at your website the other week when he came for supper, and we agreed it was boring, so we did something.”

  “Did what?” He definitely sounds alarmed and pulls his own phone out. I know he’s found it when he groans. “Oh my God, what is that photo?”

  “Which one?” He holds up his phone, showing the picture on the homepage. The image is of Silas in jeans and a green polo shirt smiling down at a red setter. “Oh, that’s a good one. I didn’t know whether it was the one of Theo dealing with the kittens.”

  “There’s one of Theo too?” he says faintly.

  “There is.” I click a few buttons on my phone. “Done. ‘A Very Happy Christmas from Silas Ashworth.’ I could have said ‘from one of The Hunky Vets’, as you and Theo are being called, but that’s overkill.”

  “Oh my God,” he says faintly. “You’re doing that right now?”

  “Yep. And Theo reports that traffic is up on your site by seventy-five percent.”

  “Why did nobody tell me?”

  “Because you have the IT ability of a caveman.”

  He considers that for a second and then nods. “Okay, that’s fair.” He looks down at his phone. “Up by seventy-five percent, eh? We might be able to afford a holiday after all.”

  “Okay, Rockefeller. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

  He comes and hugs me. “That’s never going to happen when I have you by my side. I know I’m going in the right direction when I’m with you.”

  I kiss him back. “The same for me,” I say softly, but when rustling sounds in the stall behind us, I push him gently. “Go make some money, baby. Oz needs something pretty.”

  He shakes his head in disgust, and I settle happily back on my hay bale, pulling up the Kindle app on my phone and going back to the book I’ve been reading this week.

  The barn settles into a silence broken only by the howl of the wind outside and the low murmurs of Silas in the background, and I only realise that I’ve fallen asleep when Silas calls my name and I jerk awake.

  I stumble over to the stall, massaging my neck which is stiff after sleeping at an awkward angle on a hay bale. “What is it?” I ask sleepily.

  “The foal’s coming,” he says. “I didn’t want you to miss it, Pika.”

  Nutmeg is lying on the floor, looking agitated. Silas is next to her. He looks tired and hot but also very calm. He strokes the horse, his big hand looking somehow comforting. The horse whinnies and strains and her tail raises and all of a sudden I see it.

  “Ooh look, I can see tiny hooves,” I say.

  He smiles. “Here he comes.”

  Steadily, two long legs appear, and then as the horse pushes, more of the foal appears, ensconced in the birth sac, which looks very similar to a white bag. Silas immediately pushes his fingers into it, freeing the baby foal’s face from the birth sac. “Easy, girl,” he says in a low, kind voice. “Nearly done.” The mare gives one last heave, and the foal slithers out.

  “Ugh!” I say decisively as a gush of fluid emerges.

  Silas grins at me. “Do you need to go and sit in the waiting room and smoke a cigar?”

  “I need to go and hurl,” I say, but I watch curiously as he eases the foal gently out of its birth sac. The baby foal starts to move and struggle to get up, its skinny legs quivering, and as Silas attends to the mother, she sniffs curiously at the baby, nosing him until he stands unaided.

  “One new little boy,” Silas says.

  “That’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen,” I say. “He’s so pretty.” His coat is the same rich brown as his mum’s, but he has a white flash over his eyes and the most ridiculously long eyelashes. I grin at Silas. “You’re so bloody clever.”

  He wrinkles his nose. “I didn’t do much.”

  “But you did it looking very clever,” I say soothingly, and he laughs.

  There’s a noise at the door, and we turn to see the farmer. “Now, that’s a pretty sight,” he says with a smile of relief.

  “Mother and baby are doing well,” Silas says, standing up and
pressing his fists into his back. I make a mental note to give him a massage later on.

  “So, Bill, what are you going to call him?” Silas asks.

  Bill shrugs. “I reckon seeing as Nutmeg and I ruined your Oz’s Christmas Eve, he can have the honour.”

  “Really?” I ask delightedly. “I’ve never named a horse before. Okay, let me think.” I tap my fingers against my teeth for a second, eyeing the tiny horse before nodding. “Michael Bublé.”

  Silas bites his lip with humour in his eyes.

  “What?” Bill sounds startled.

  “Michael Bublé after the singer,” I elaborate. “It seems appropriate. His career always has an unfortunate rebirth every Christmas.”

  “Oh, okay,” Bill says somewhat unconvincingly. “Michael Bublé it is then.” He seems to drift off for a second and Silas’s mouth quirks, but the farmer rallies. “I can’t thank you enough, Silas,” he says. “Flora’s got the kettle on. You’re both to come down to the kitchen and have some breakfast with us, and you can have a wash.”

  “Yes,” I say fervently to the latter.

  Silas smirks at me. “That sounds lovely,” he says calmly. “We’ll follow you in.”

  We watch him go, and as Silas collects his stuff, I wander over to the barn door. The sky is clear again, dawn is breaking with red streaks spreading over the blue sky, and the cold light reveals a stunning view of rolling hills covered in snow like iced cakes. Trees laden with snow stoop and bow before us, and in the distance, is the grey mass of the sea. In the background, “Silent Night” plays on the old radio, and the beautiful carol seems to echo through the barn and out onto the air.

  Silas comes up next to me. “Okay?” he asks quietly.

  I lean into him, loving the heat of his body. “It’s absolutely perfect,” I say on a happy sigh.

  “Really?” He sounds incredulous. “Even though you’ve been dragged out of your bed to spend Christmas Eve in a barn?”

  I smile. “It never did the Baby Jesus any harm.” He laughs, and I rise up to kiss his chin. “Silas, I wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else but here with you.”

  He wraps his arm around me and kisses the side of my head. “Happy Christmas, darling. I love you.”

  “I love you too,” I say affectionately.

  We stand for a second looking out over the valley until he stirs. “Fancy going back to bed and welcoming Christmas Day properly?”

  “Certainly,” I say. “But only if you intend to wash your hands before you touch my nether regions.” I pause. “Extensively and with very hot water.”

  His laughter falls into the soft morning light.

  Milo and Niall

  The Big Four-Oh!

  Milo

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper into the phone.

  “Sweetheart, it’s fine. You can’t help it.”

  “But I was due back today, and it’s your bloody birthday. If only this sodding wall painting wasn’t taking so long, I could be with you.” I pause and say in a small voice, “On your birthday.”

  “Darling, I hope I have many more. You’re talking about it as if it’s my last one. Not planning to do away with me, are you?”

  “Please don’t ever ask me that question after you’ve tracked mud all the way through the house,” I say faintly, and the warm sound of his laughter soothes me a little. “It’s just that this is a special one.”

  “I’m forty, not expecting a telegram from the Queen.”

  I smile at the surliness in his voice. “I know you’re not enjoying the idea of being forty.”

  “Let’s not discuss it,” he says hurriedly. “Tomorrow I’ll be on the wrong side of forty, and I’ll be looking at my teeth falling out and middle-aged spread.”

  “I’m pretty sure the wrong side of forty happens when you’re nearing fifty, not the day after your fortieth birthday. And the only spread you’re likely to have is your legs.”

  There’s an arrested silence on the other end of the phone. “Milo, you naughty boy,” he says, and his voice is full of heat and amusement.

  I shake my head even though he can’t see it. “I’m just saying what you were thinking.”

  “Sweetie, that should worry you far more than it does.”

  I laugh. “I know. Soon I’ll be striding all over the estate throwing orders out left, right and centre, and posing with my hair flying about artistically.”

  “How lovely,” he says silkily. “You make me sound like Biggles.” That makes me laugh even harder, and when he speaks, I can hear the smile in his voice. “Twat!” he says affectionately.

  “Your twat though,” I say. “I do love you so much,” I finish fervently.

  “I love you too, angel. Always will. And don’t worry about the birthday. It’s just another day.”

  “It’s not just any day.” I look over at the pile of carrier bags and the white box bearing the name of a very expensive bakery. “I had everything planned,” I say sadly. “I went out and collected your cake, and I’ve got all your presents here wrapped and everything.”

  “Why are my presents there?”

  I look incredulously at the phone. “Are you kidding me at the moment? Wasn’t it you who found all your Christmas presents the week before?”

  “I told you. I stumbled on them.”

  “In a box behind three packing crates in the attic?”

  There’s a short silence. “I was just having a look for my shaving cream,” he says in a very martyred voice.

  I laugh. “Whatever, Trevor. The presents came with me to stop the same thing happening again. You’ve got a nose longer than Richard Armitage’s.”

  “Well, I’m sure he’s at home wishing he had a cock like mine.”

  I smile. “Stop talking now. I’m thinking of Richard Armitage.” I pause. “Okay, I’m back!”

  Niall laughs loudly. “When will you be home?”

  “Tomorrow or the next day. As soon as I can get away.”

  “Take your time. This is your career we’re talking about. It’s important.”

  “Not as important as you. I’ll hurry. Besides, I need to be back for…” I stop talking quickly.

  “Back for what?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I say. “Did you know that Lord Ingram has peacocks on the estate?”

  “Don’t change the subject.” There’s an arrested silence. “Oh my God,” he says slowly. “Please tell me I haven’t got a party.”

  I nod, thinking of the preparations that Oz, Silas, and I have made over the last few months and the fact that all his family are due to arrive at the weekend. “No, of course not,” I say quickly. “We’re all far too busy.”

  “Oh, okay, that’s a relief,” he says blithely, but I grin at the note of disappointment that he can’t entirely hide.

  “So, what will you do tonight?” I ask quickly to change the subject.

  “My fist,” he says and laughs at my splutter. “Not really.” He pauses. “Well, probably. But other than that I’ll wander up to the house and see if anyone wants to give me the bumps.”

  “Make sure they don’t drop you on your head. Your brain’s screwy enough as it is,” I say tartly. He laughs. “I love you,” I whisper. “I’ll be home as soon as I can. I miss you so much.”

  “I miss you too, lovey. More than I can say.”

  I click End on the call and gaze around the extravagant room I’ve been put in. Decorated in reds and golds, it’s lush and expensive, the mahogany furniture polished and shining and the four-poster bed dressed lavishly in Egyptian cotton sheets and a red and gold bedspread. It looks like a film set, and I smile at the thought of Niall’s distaste if he saw it with his love of beige.

  The whole estate is very different from Chi an Mor. Lord Ingram is wealthy, and it ensures that the house and gardens are meticulously well kept and everywhere looks polished and shiny. I prefer home, but it’s actually been a nice stay. The staff are friendly, and I’ve had everything I needed put at my disposal with no expense spared
. The wall paintings in the chapel have been challenging, but I’ve really enjoyed testing myself against them, and my client has been so pleased with the results.

  There’s only one fly in the ointment. I look at the time on the clock which reads seven o’clock and immediately cover my ears, but I know I won’t be able to block out what’s coming. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter as the cannon fire commences and everything on the cupboards starts to tinkle and judder about. I grab a hairbrush as it starts to slide off. I count down the seven booms, and everything falls abruptly silent.

  “Dinner time,” I say, wincing at the ringing in my ears.

  Yes, the fly in the ointment is that Lord Ingram is a trifle eccentric. He’s an older man who used to be in the army, and he still walks with the stiff-backed gait of an officer. He also appears to disregard the century we’re living in completely. He wears velvet smoking jackets and cravats for dinner and parades around in a silk dressing gown that’s got more embroidery on it than a royal wedding dress.

  He’s also highly suspicious of strangers on the estate and imagines that anyone who sets foot off his property will be caught up in anarchy and Armageddon with rioting and lawlessness.

  When I’d realised the work on the wall painting in his chapel would take longer than initially thought, I’d toyed with asking if Niall could come and stay the night, but I’d dismissed that very rapidly as the old man would probably shoot him on sight.

  I sigh, taking another look at the pile of brightly wrapped presents, and then straighten the cuffs on my dinner jacket. Dinner is a very formal affair here. When the meal ends, Lord Ingram and guests retire to the study for brandy, a custom that originated back when men desired to escape pesky women. There aren’t any women around at present, but Lord Ingram is a confirmed bachelor and holds rather a jaundiced air towards the opposite sex.

  “I’ve just got to get through dinner,” I say firmly to the empty room. “Then another day at the most and then I’ll be home.”

  An hour later, I glance at Lord Ingram from across the dinner table and suppress a smile. Attired in formal dress, with his huge moustache waxed and pointed, he still manages to look like a giant baby with his rosy cheeks and big blue eyes.