Appleby Farm (5 page)

I opened my mouth to voice my thoughts but Uncle Arthur cut me off with a gigantic yawn. Poor thing, he looked exhausted after his traumatic day.

Auntie Sue was quick to act. ‘Right then, Artie. Bedtime for you after all the excitement you’ve had today,’ she said, brandishing a butter knife in his direction from her position at the kitchen table.

‘I was only allowed to stay up until you arrived,’ he said, with a wink. ‘Ouch.’ His hand flew to his bandaged brow. ‘Must remember not to keep doing that.’

He swung his feet off the stool and I helped him to his feet. ‘I haven’t even heard any of your news,’ he moaned and lifted up my left hand to inspect. ‘But no ring yet, I see.’

‘We’ll catch up in the morning. Promise.’ I kissed his cheek, taking care not to touch his ribs. ‘Anything special you need me to do tomorrow?’

‘Plenty of time for all that,’ he said, batting my offer of help away with his hand. ‘See you in the morning.’

I watched him go out into the hallway and towards the stairs before I dived into a plate of thickly buttered toast at the table.

‘Ooh, thank you,’ I breathed, taking a piping-hot mug of fragrant milk from my aunt.

‘Now, then,’ Auntie Sue’s eyes sparkled as she tipped a generous measure of brandy into our mugs of milk and sat down at the table beside me, ‘tell your Auntie Sue everything, and I mean everything.’

Maybe it was the brandy or the heavy woollen blankets (Auntie Sue didn’t do duvets) or perhaps it was simply that the air here was stuffed with extra oxygen. Whatever it was I slept like a log and it was nine o’clock when I climbed out of my single bed the next morning and pulled the curtain aside.

I’d like to say that a soft blue sky gave me a perfect view all the way down the valley to Lake Windermere from my bedroom window. Sadly, that was not the case. The rain had begun hammering it down by the time Auntie Sue and I had gone to bed after our catch-up, and although it had stopped now, the sky was bulging with fat low clouds that seemed to hover over the landscape, barely skimming the tops of trees and distant scattered rooftops.

Ten minutes later, I’d showered, dressed, scooped my hair up into a ponytail and was helping myself to tea from a blue-glazed teapot I’d found sitting on the Aga. There was no one about, so I slipped into my coat and wellies and took my mug outside.

I meandered down the mossy path at the front of the farmhouse, through the little cottage garden blooming with spring flowers and out through the gate.

Phwoar
! I grinned to myself. What a pong! How had that unmistakeable farmyard aroma sneaked past me last night? I sipped at my tea, crossed the cobbled yard pitted with puddles and took a good, long look around me to remind myself of the farm’s layout. Most of the buildings faced on to the yard: the old three-storey farmhouse, a stout sort of building made from weathered dove-grey stone, was at the heart of the farm. A couple of barns stood on one side of the house and Auntie Sue’s veggie patch and orchard on the other. The cowsheds, the milking parlour and the old dairy opposite were built of the same stone as the farmhouse and I walked slowly past them, noticing the holes in the slate roofs. Yet despite the farm buildings’ slightly tumbledown appearance, there was an irresistible charm to the old place and it warmed my heart to be back.

I paused next to the old dog kennel that had been in the yard for as long as I could remember and peered into the small field beyond, which was fenced off for the chickens. Thirty or so plump brown hens wandered around, pecking purposefully at the grass. A scruffy wooden mobile henhouse complete with windows, a ramp and pitched roof stood in the centre and behind it, a pair of wellington-clad feet were just visible between its wheels.

‘Hello, Auntie Sue! How’s Uncle Arthur today?’

‘Morning, love!’ Auntie Sue’s head popped out from behind the nesting boxes. ‘He’s sulking in his office because I wouldn’t let him come outside.’

‘Oh dear.’ I pulled a face. The ground floor of the farmhouse had a dining room that no one ever used and a small office where Uncle Arthur liked to spend as little time as possible. But then he didn’t like being inside much, full stop.

My aunt held out a wicker basket. ‘Guess what’s for breakfast?’

‘Fresh eggs! Yum. Would you like me to cook? I can boil them, but my poaching needs work.’

And then some. I was actually a terrible cook. My scones regularly lulled people into thinking I was a whizz in the kitchen. The truth was sadly quite different. But what I lacked in skill, I made up for in enthusiasm, which had to count for something.

‘Not today,’ Auntie Sue replied diplomatically. ‘Anyway, we had ours hours ago.’

So much for me coming to help; I was more like a lazy guest. That would have to change.

‘You should have woken me,’ I said, feeling rather sheepish. ‘Never mind, I’ll get straight on with some chores.’

She flapped a hand at me and looked down at her watch. ‘Has that dog turned up yet?’

I turned to see Madge ambling slowly towards me.

‘She’s here now,’ I replied.

‘Watch this,’ Auntie Sue chuckled.

The old dog flopped down in front of the kennel and, as if she’d rehearsed it, an escaped hen waddled past Madge and into the kennel, clucked noisily and reappeared almost straight away. The dog, with sudden stealth, sprang to her paws, stuck her head in the kennel and retrieved an egg, which she gobbled down in two seconds flat. She wagged her tail at me triumphantly and sauntered back off to the farmhouse.

Now that was what you called a fresh egg.

‘Wow. Does that happen often?’ I asked, shaking my head.

‘Every day. Nine thirty sharp,’ said Auntie Sue. ‘You can set your clock by those two. Right, I’ll make you some breakfast while you go on round to the stables, there’s someone I think you’d like to meet.’

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued, but Auntie Sue just jerked her head in the direction of the stables and strode off, limping slightly.
Dodgy knee
, I suddenly remembered Eddy telling me last night, as I walked down towards the stables.

I used to have my own pony called Bailey years ago but I outgrew her and my uncle sold her. I’d cried myself to sleep for a week. But once I’d left school I’d only been back to the farm for a few days at a time and it hadn’t been worth getting another. I know it was a childish sort of ambition to hold, but one day I’d have my own horse. Fact.

The stable block was further along the yard, set at a right angle to the cowsheds. I rounded the corner and came to an abrupt stop. A girl roughly my age was leading a skewbald horse out of the end stall by its head collar.

I made a whinnying noise of unbridled joy, not unhorse-like itself, and the girl looked around and beamed.

‘I think I’m in love,’ I squealed, virtually galloping over.

The girl scratched the horse’s neck and laughed. ‘Hurray, you can muck out then. This one’s a right messy mare.’

She tied the horse to a wooden post and picked up a fork. Even in her waterproof jacket and scruffy jogging bottoms I could see she was gorgeous. She had one of those to-die-for complexions that looked as if she was wearing make-up even though she wasn’t: olive skin that probably tanned even on a grey day in Cumbria, and naturally peach-tinted cheeks.

Jealousy is not an attractive trait, I told myself, trying to forget that I’d once spent an entire summer in Greece and had still looked like a peeled prawn at the end of it. And her hair: long, shiny and straight except for a top section that she’d gathered up in a quiff. It was probably really silky too, whereas mine … I reached a hand up to stroke the horse’s mane. Yup, my hair was as wiry as that.

I surreptitiously tucked the end of my ponytail into the back of my jacket and hoped I’d remembered to pack my Frizz Ease. ‘I would love to help, seriously – mucking out, grooming, anything. I’m Freya, by the way.’

I could barely keep my cheeks under control, my smile was so massive. A person my age
and
a horse. At Appleby Farm! I was so glad to be here. Although, of course, Uncle Arthur had had an accident, which was bad. Mustn’t forget that.

‘I know. Your aunt almost fell over herself racing round here to tell me about you. I’m Lizzie Moon. This is Skye.’

I rubbed the horse’s nose and she nudged at my shoulder. ‘Hello, Skye, pleased to meet you. You too, Lizzie.’

‘Don’t say it – I know. Moon and Skye. Utterly ridiculous. My sister’s pony is called Star. It’s my dad’s idea of humour. He’s hilare. Not.’ Lizzie rolled her eyes dramatically. ‘I’m running late, actually, so if you really don’t mind helping, you could brush her while I do her bed. Brushes are in there.’ She pointed towards the tack room.

‘Yeah, I know.’ I pressed my lips into a small smile and went in search of a curry comb. I’d spent most of my spare time as a child down here, grooming Bailey.

‘Ooh, God, sorry, course you do.’ Lizzie disappeared into Skye’s stall and began lifting poo and tossing straw.

I started brushing the horse’s neck in small circles, working my way down to her chest. ‘So how long have you kept Skye here?’

‘I only started work at the White Lion a few weeks ago as a live-in barmaid.’ She stuck her head out of the stable and arched an eyebrow. ‘For barmaid read slave. Anyhow, it said in the job advert that I could bring a pet.’ She pulled a face. ‘Apparently Bill the landlord meant a hamster or something. Not a horse. Luckily, your uncle came into the pub and I told him my probs and, bless him, he sorted out DIY livery for me here. Twenty-five quid a week for stable and grazing. Plus there’s usually a cup of tea and a slice of cake going too. Bargain.’

It was a bargain. And with the White Lion being the nearest building to the farm, it was ideal for her. And me.

I sighed enviously. ‘You must get to ride loads.’

Lizzie straightened up, swept a stray piece of straw off her face with her forearm and leaned on her fork. ‘Ha. Slave, remember? Take today, for instance. What does three-quarters of the population of the civilized world do at Easter? Hmm? They come to the Lake District, clog up the roads and demand food and drink every five seconds.’

‘Yeah, of course, the pub will be busy, won’t it?’ I kept forgetting that today was Good Friday. Was it only yesterday that I was showing Amy how to use the coffee machine? It felt like a lifetime ago.

‘I know.’ Lizzie tutted. ‘Cray-cray. I’ll be lucky if I get five minutes to have a wee this weekend, let alone take Skye out for a hack.’

‘I could ride her, if you like …’ My voice faded as I remembered I was supposed to be here to help out.

‘Would you? Brillo pads. Can you groom her afterwards and then stick her in the field? Eddy will show you which one I use.’

‘Sure.’ I swallowed guiltily. I would just have to work really hard later to make up for it.

‘Right, I might even have time for a shower before starting work if I hurry.’ Lizzie threw her arms round Skye’s neck and kissed her noisily. ‘Sure you don’t mind looking after my baby? I owe you one.’

‘Are you kidding me? You’ve made my bloomin’ day, week even. I owe
you
!’

‘Fill your boots, Freya.’ Lizzie laughed and began to walk away. She stopped suddenly and turned back. ‘Ooh, are you single?’

‘No.’ I smiled quizzically at her.

‘Good. Don’t want some flame-haired beauty pinching the meagre supply of eligible men from under my nose. See you in the White Lion soon, yeah?’

Flame-haired beauty? Yup. Definitely friend material. I grinned. ‘Sure.’

I waved her off and fetched a saddle for Skye. A quick ride. Half an hour, tops, and then I would definitely do something useful.

My ride on Lizzie’s horse had put me in an excellent mood. By the time I’d groomed her and moved her to a field for a spot of grazing, most of the morning had gone.

In my defence I did use the time to do a bit of a recce while I was out and about and remind myself where everything was on the farm. One hundred and fifty acres was big. Huge! It was a lot of farm for poor old Eddy to manage on his own.

Eddy’s comments last night were playing on my mind so I made some coffee and took a mug through to Uncle Arthur in his office. I could tell he was still in there by the whistling. Uncle Arthur had always been a whistler. I took it as a good sign. You have to be fairly relaxed to whistle. You don’t see people on the top of buildings threatening to throw themselves off whistling away to themselves, do you? So maybe Eddy was imagining the worst.

Uncle Arthur was sitting at his desk. He looked up as I entered, stopped whistling, dropped a pile of papers into a drawer and slammed it shut.

‘Ah. My favourite niece. Come into my room of doom.’ He spread his arms wide and then made a space on the desk in front of him for the coffee I held out.

‘Your only niece.’ I grinned at him.

I’d never liked this office either. It was dusty and dark, and made chaotic by piles of invoices, fertilizer catalogues and tractor manuals weighted down with half-drunk mugs of cold tea. It also smelled of egg which, given the fact that I’d seen a hen lay an egg in a dog house this morning, didn’t surprise me as much as it should have. I glanced round for any speckled, brown egg-shaped offerings.

‘Tell me about this accident of yours, then. What was that all about?’

Uncle Arthur’s shoulders sagged and he scowled as if he’d been dragged through this a million times. ‘Blooming two-way radio crackled at me, I looked down and lost concentration for one second. An’ that is all. Why, what’s anyone been saying?’

Honesty is the best policy, that’s what I always say. I took a deep breath. ‘Eddy’s worried about you, about the farm. Should he be?’

Uncle Arthur folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. ‘No. He hates making decisions, that’s his problem. I swear he’d phone me in the morning to ask which socks he should wear if I’d answer him. Tell him I’ve broken my wrist, not my brainbox.’

‘I will.’ I sidled up to him and hugged him gingerly. Avoiding his arm, ribs and forehead was actually quite tricky. ‘We just love you, that’s all.’

We stayed silent for a few moments and I felt him sigh against me. It broke my heart. I wished I could do something useful for him.