Appleby Farm (22 page)

I wrapped one arm around his neck and he picked me up effortlessly. The skin on my arm grazed the soft hairs at the back of his head and I involuntarily inhaled the smell of him: grass, fresh laundry and lemons. I felt my face heat up. Harry and I were friends, just old friends, but I couldn’t help feeling a frisson of electricity at being in a handsome man’s arms.
I’m only human
, I thought;
this is a perfectly natural reaction.
Our faces were millimetres apart and we were both still grinning at each other.

‘This is why I should stick to jeans,’ I giggled, breaking the moment. ‘Now, let’s see if I can …’

I stretched behind me but couldn’t quite reach the lever to free the fabric.

‘Move closer to the seat, Harry,’ I suggested.

‘Sure. Hurry up, though, you weigh a ton,’ he sniggered.

As I finally managed to release the hem of my dress, I heard a car door slam and the sound of small feet running towards the farmhouse.

‘Quick, put me down,’ I said excitedly, wriggling in his arms, ‘that sounds like Ollie. Charlie must be back.’

‘All right, keep your hair on,’ he chuckled and released me from his arms.

A low voice made us both spin round. ‘Too late, I am back.’

Charlie, arms folded, was standing at the end of Harry’s truck. He looked from me to Harry and back again. My heart sank. To an outsider that must have looked really, really bad.

‘Oh dear,’ Harry murmured under his breath.

‘Charlie! Hi!’ I gushed, smoothing down my dress. ‘This is Harry Graythwaite, my mate from Willow Farm next door. Harry, this is Charlie. My boyfriend.’

Harry raised a hand in greeting but Charlie ignored him.

‘Looks like you’ve had a fun morning,’ said Charlie coolly, scanning my face.

‘Not really, we’ve been discussing fields until I got my dress stuck and Harry came to my rescue,’ I said, feeling flustered, which was ridiculous because I hadn’t done anything wrong other than be completely useless at exiting vehicles gracefully. ‘Anyway, tea, anyone?’

‘Blimey,’ said Harry, pointing towards the black Range Rover, which was now reversing out of the yard, ‘the vet’s been here a long time.’

We exchanged worried looks.

‘And there’s Eddy,’ I murmured, pointing to where he had appeared from the handling pens at the back of the cowsheds and was now striding purposefully towards us, his lips pressed into a grim line.

‘Looks like there might be a problem.’ Harry frowned. He slammed the passenger door shut and began to walk across the yard. I followed close behind him.

Eddy wasn’t alone; my uncle and aunt, hand in hand, walked behind at a slower pace. Auntie Sue looked on the verge of tears and Uncle Arthur was ashen.

A surge of fear ran through my body and I rushed over to them.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ I cried, leaping forward to take Uncle Arthur’s arm as he stumbled over a loose cobble.

He looked at me and shook his head, his chest rattling noisily. I met my aunt’s worried gaze as I waited for him to catch his breath.

‘The Herefords have got TB.’ His eyes were moist as he leaned against me and his shoulders sagged. ‘Nearly half the herd. They’ll have to be slaughtered. We’re finished, lass.’

‘No!’ I gasped, feeling my knees go weak.

That couldn’t be true, not after all we’d already been through this year.

I felt Harry’s hand grip my shoulder and despite being in full view of Charlie, I didn’t push him away. If I was going to help Auntie Sue and Uncle Arthur get through this new crisis at Appleby Farm I would need all the support I could get.

How could we possibly survive this?

From the spinning gallery of the barn – the barn that with any luck would soon be the most amazing vintage tea rooms ever to open in the history of the Lake District – I had a bird’s-eye view across Appleby Farm.

It was mid-June and two weeks since the hideous day when forty cows had to be slaughtered because the vet found they had bovine tuberculosis. It was also the day when Uncle Arthur descended into what Auntie Sue termed ‘one of his glooms’ – he was still in it – and Charlie left the farm a day early, saying that he didn’t belong and that he felt as though he and Ollie were in the way.

To an outsider the vista from here wouldn’t have changed much from then to now. But things
had
changed at the farm. In a massive way. And I wasn’t sure that Appleby Farm or the people who loved it would ever be the same again.

That wasn’t to say I didn’t still absolutely love every chicken, cow, horse, dog, cat, ancient stone wall, rickety building and dear person here. I adored them. And I was so glad I was going through this traumatic time with them, to support them. I just wished I didn’t need to. While Benny and Björn hadn’t turned a whisker since all the shenanigans, Madge had taken to sitting at the gate in whichever field the Jersey cows were in during the day like a small bristly sentry. I was convinced she was trying to protect them from unwanted guests – like infected badgers, for instance.

I leaned on the smooth wooden railings of the spinning gallery, filling my lungs with sweet summer air and watched the tractor pulling a wide mower through the long grass in Beech Field. It made its way methodically in straight lines from one end to the other and back again, leaving a mounded row of cut grass in its wake. It was like watching the slowest tennis match ever.

That was new for a start. The tractor wasn’t ours and neither was the driver. They had come from Willow Farm next door. And although I hadn’t seen him arrive, I presumed it was Harry at the wheel. The grass wasn’t being cut to make silage for Appleby Farm either; Harry was taking it in payment for doing the job.

Because silage is animal feed and with only half the Hereford herd remaining we wouldn’t need so much feed this winter.

The depleted herd was up to my left in Crofters Field. Uncle Arthur, Eddy and even Ross, bless him, had taken the slaughter of the infected animals very badly. Only two weeks ago the herd had been split into three groups and spread across the farmland. Now there was one group and the cowshed had pens of orphaned calves inside it.

The calves had cried and cried that first night after they had lost their mothers. It was the most heartbreaking sound I’ve ever heard. I’d had a good cry myself that night.

Strictly speaking, I had loads to be getting on with and no time for daydreaming up here on this nineteenth-century version of a balcony. I gazed out over the fields and ran through my options.

I could write down all the things I needed to do before opening up the tea rooms. That would keep me busy for an hour or two. Or I could do a mood board for the interior décor; I was thinking rustic, mismatched and shabby chic (i.e. cheap). Or maybe I could take the campervan out for the day, drive around the beauty spots of the Lake District and have tea and cake in as many of them as I could manage. And in case you’re thinking that sounds greedy, it’s not – it’s market research.

Anything. Anything would be better than tying myself in knots thinking about Charlie and our long-distance relationship, which was feeling more distant by the day. He had left before I’d had chance to properly explain how I’d managed to hook the bottom of my dress on the seat adjustment lever during my ungainly descent from Harry’s truck. And then with the whole TB business, mine and Auntie Sue’s priorities had been to prevent Uncle Arthur from getting too stressed. While we had made him a cup of tea and comforted him, Harry had helped Eddy and Ross to segregate the affected cattle from the healthy ones and Charlie had packed his and Ollie’s bags. What had started off as such a lovely day had ended up disastrously …

‘Freya, Freya, Freya!’

Aaannnd I was back in the room – or gallery – as Lizzie, dressed in jodhpurs and a strappy vest, her glossy dark fall of hair flying behind her, came scooting across the yard towards me, pulling me out of my thoughts.

She scrambled up the slate steps, trying to miss out the most worn ones, squeaking, panting and groaning simultaneously.

‘So unfit!’ she gasped. ‘Listen to this.’

She had a little radio in her hand and turned up the volume so we could both hear.

‘My sister is interviewing Harry Graythwaite on the radio.’

‘Really? I thought he was in that field.’ I glanced back over to the tractor in the distance. It must be one of his staff, then. Shame. I quite enjoyed bumping into him and having a chat.

Lizzie shook her head. ‘He can’t be; this is live. Shush.’

Sooo, you’re listening to Radio Lakeland and I’m delighted to welcome farmer Harry Graythwaite from Lovedale into the studio. Good morning, Harry, and thank you for joining me.

‘Listen to her. All gushy. She
so
fancies him,’ Lizzie whispered. ‘I knew she’d got her eye on someone. Poor sod. We
have
to save him.’

Hi, Victoria. Thanks for inviting me.

I couldn’t help smiling when I heard Harry’s voice. I could just imagine him in the recording studio, tugging at his shirt collar nervously and dropping dried mud and bits of straw from his boots all over the floor.

Victoria laughed in a tinkly way and Lizzie tutted.
So you’re bringing your family’s traditional Lakeland farm right up to date, isn’t that right, Harry?

I suppose so
, he said.

Do tell us more
, trilled Victoria.
I’m fascinated!

Are you? Right. OK. Well, farming is in my genes, I suppose. I can’t imagine doing anything else. Since I took over Willow Farm when my father retired, I’ve been putting my own mark on the farm, investing in farming for the future to …

‘How did this interview even happen?’ I said to Lizzie. Harry sounded a little bit confused, as though he wasn’t quite sure how he’d found himself on the radio.

‘She collared him in the pub. This will be all part of her master plan to seduce him. She’s starting with flattery. If that doesn’t work she’ll stalk him until he caves in.’

Evidently Victoria didn’t find Harry’s answer all that fascinating because after about three seconds she interrupted him.
So farming is booming, then?

Not exactly, but the population is
, he replied.

Oh, Harry! You are funny.
Victoria gave a high-pitched laugh.
So all those single mums with eight children are just what you rich farmer types need, then?

Lizzie groaned. ‘She is unbelievable.’

Er … British farmers are trying to keep pace with the demands of our customers, produce good quality food on our own soil. Lower imports, lower carbon footprint. Healthier, fresher food. As the population grows, the world needs more food.

Oh, I don’t know, Harry
, Victoria sniggered.
Perhaps if the world had less food then there wouldn’t be so many fat people … ooh, I think … yes, I’m being told to play some music. Don’t go away, peeps, this is ‘All Together Now’ by The Farm!

‘Brilliant!’ Lizzie snapped off the radio and grinned.

‘Was it?’ I blinked at her. I must have been missing something. ‘I was mortified for her and I don’t even like her.’

Actually, that was a fib; I had nothing against the girl, I just said that out of allegiance to Lizzie. It was Victoria who’d unwittingly given me the idea for the tea rooms and I couldn’t help but feel a bit grateful. In secret.

‘She has just dissed virtually the entire world! At least one person is bound to ring in and complain, surely? Then she’ll get the sack, disappear in shame under the cover of night and I won’t have to see her again until Christmas.’

‘Maybe. Or she’ll become infamous for her insults and people will come from all over to hear her and the ratings will go up,’ I suggested.

‘Whose side are you on?’ Lizzie stuck her tongue out and then looked out at the view. ‘What are you doing up here, anyway? Spying on who you thought was Harry?’ She nudged me in the ribs.

‘I came to check out these.’ I ignored her and gestured to the old double doors behind us. There must have been some sort of lowering mechanism here at one time, but now if you stepped through the doors, you’d fall to the floor of the barn about four metres below.

‘I’m going to replace them with glass.’

‘Gorgeous. It’s lovely up here, isn’t it? Very romantic. Romeo, Romeo …’ She began waving her arm over the wooden banister. ‘Talking of romance, heard from Charlie recently?’

‘Charlie? Um, yeah.’ I shuffled my feet on the wooden floorboards and examined my thumbnail intensely.

‘Oh, look, your auntie’s over there.’

I leaned past Lizzie to look across the yard. Auntie Sue was at the farmhouse gate, scanning left and right around the farmyard.

Phew. I wasn’t ready to confide in Lizzie that these days my conversations with Charlie were about as animated as the Shipping Forecast. And that whenever I came off the phone from one of them, I had a physical pain like I’d just swallowed dry bread and it had got stuck somewhere south of my oesophagus.

Charlie and I never used to shut up, each competing to get in there first with our news and funny stories. We still talked: he asked me if Uncle Arthur was OK and about the herd and how my tea rooms were coming on. I asked him about his allotment and Ollie and whether his fire-fighting crew had saved any lives that day. But it was what we didn’t say any more that worried me. He’d stopped telling me that he loved me and I’d stopped promising I’d be back soon. I really needed to see him before the problem became any worse than it already was.

‘Cooeee, looking for me?’ I waved and Auntie Sue beckoned me down.

‘Freya, have you got a minute?’

‘Sure.’

I started to climb down the stairs and Lizzie caught hold of my arm. ‘Invite Charlie back up to the farm. Without Ollie. Just you and him.’

‘I’ve been thinking exactly the same thing myself.’ I sighed.

I carried on down the stairs and smiled at Auntie Sue.

‘What’s up, Suzie?’ I asked, looping my arm round her neck as we headed back indoors.

I’d just see what she wanted and then I’d call Charlie. He might even be able to come this weekend if he wasn’t looking after Ollie.