Two
A sharp keening howl woke Clare at dawn. She flopped onto her side, dragging the duvet over her head and clamping it around her ears. The barrier barely muffled a high-pitched squawk. It sounded like a cockerel. What was that doing in London? Clare threw off the covers, feeling a knot form in her stomach. Her eyes closed, and a dull, empty sensation settled on her chest as the events of last night came flooding back. She was in Devon, on her mother’s farm, but her mother was gone.
She swallowed her tears. The howling and squawking paused, replaced by the soft gentle trill of the dawn chorus. Listening to the gentle beck and call of the birds, a tentative smile spread across her face – she had missed this tranquillity. The peace was shattered by another sharp squawk and Clare remembered Ivy’s warning last night that the cockerel – Captain Hilts – and the hens would need feeding. She glanced at the time – 5.30 a.m. Early even for her. She would feed them. She didn’t want to give Hilts any excuse to misbehave. She forced herself out of bed and walked down the corridor to the bathroom.
Already formulating a task list in her mind, Clare stepped gingerly into the dusky pink bathtub of her childhood. She needed to feed the animals, register her mother’s death and arrange the funeral. Struggling to adjust the height of the shower head, which was too low, she mentally added ‘ find Mum’s will ’ to the list. She tugged at the mechanism, but it seemed locked solid, so she fiddled with the taps, causing a spurt of water hit her chest, as if someone had fired a water pistol. She turned off the tap and removed the shower head. Her nose wrinkled. A thick scum of limescale covered the surface. Her mother should have modernized the bathroom decades ago. She wasn’t adding that to her list. She would muddle through with baths – she wouldn’t be staying long. She added‘ find the accounts ledger ’ to the list, feeling a quiet sense of control. If she itemized everything, it would be like the charts she used to draw as a child to mark off the hours until the start of school holidays. She could tick everything off and escape back to London. Reluctantly she added ‘ delay sabbatical by a week ’– she would get the travel agent to change her flights.
A wailing noise cut through her thoughts. First chore, console that dog. Last night, he had seemed fine while Ivy was there, but after she left, he wouldn’t come inside. Clare assumed he had settled down to sleep in one of the barns.
Dressed in jeans and flat felt boots, Clare walked into the kitchen and contemplated the cream-coloured Aga. It dominated the room, sitting at right angles to a fireplace, a sofa and saggy armchairs ranged in front of the empty fire grate. Decades ago, Clare had done her homework lounging on those seats, her mother bustling about offering slices of homemade lemon drizzle cake or mugs of tea. A lump formed in her throat. She couldn’t face food or drink right now.
In front of the Aga, where a modern kitchen designer would have built an island, was the same kitchen table Clare had eaten at every day until she left for university, still carpeted with copies of Farmers Weekly , and a two-inch jumble of letters. Her mother had liked the physical side of farming, not the paperwork. She strode across the huge grey flagstones, noticing parts of the grouting had worn away. It was lucky her mother hadn’t copied other farmers by diversifying into bed and breakfast. Unlike her spotless London flat, this kitchen would fail a health and safety inspection.
She opened the back door, and the view hit her like a warm shower on a cold winter’s day. In front of her were rolling fields separated by ancient hedgerows of pollarded beech trees. The meadows were filled with rich, deep green Devon grass spiked with vibrant wildflowers – the vivid yellows, soft purples and bright whites of buttercups, clovers and daisies. Groups of trees framed both sides of the picture. Beyond the furthest field, the sun was rising over the sea casting a shimmer of mauve and pink on the horizon. There were no cows in the fields, which struck Clare as odd. Maybe a neighbouring dairy farmer had already collected them for milking. Mentally she pencilled ‘ find a dairy hand ’ as an early chore; she wasn’t taking over the herd.
To one side of her was the farm’s namesake, an orchard. She caught a glimpse of a sheltered tree still with thick pink and white blossom hugging its branches like a multi-sleeved fluffy jumper, but she turned away abruptly as if someone had hurled a bucket of cold water at her. Birds were warbling, the air was warm and smelt so much cleaner than London. A drowsy calm seeped through her body, competing with her jangling nerves
A dog started barking. Sitting beside her mother’s Land Rover was a small white dog with a black patch of fur circling one eye, like a thick smudge of badly applied liner. It wasn’t a Labrador, nor was he called Jet. Ivy had told her that Stop-it was a year-old miniature bull terrier. He was the height and weight of a young lamb, but stocky like a ram. Clare crouched to the animal’s height, trying, and failing, to catch his eye.
She held out an encouraging hand. ‘Stop-it ... Come, boy.’
The dog shifted his bottom.
‘Come on, boy. We’re both upset. Come inside.’ She moved towards the animal. His hackles rose. Clare backed off.
Giving Stop-it a wide berth, she walked to the chicken coop. According to Ivy, Clare needed to be vigilant with the rooster. Her mother had named him ‘Hilts’ after the character in her favourite movie, The Great Escape. Hilts had a habit of hovering by the gate and if her mother inadvertently left the gate ajar, he would make a dash for it. Cindy used to dispatch him to solitary confinement for his escape attempts and occasional misogynistic habits.
The hens swarmed towards her, a brown sea of clucking, chirping happiness. Their pen was a fenced area the size of a tennis court. It was scrubland but chicken paradise, especially compared to their former home in an egg factory. The birds could roam and scratch and peck at bushes and wildflowers all day. In the centre of the enclosure was a wooden henhouse, the size of a garden shed, and in a corner sat a much smaller one, shaped like a kennel but with ventilation slits in the sides – the cooler – for when Hilts misbehaved.
She spotted the galvanized dustbin, which contained the grain, and her hand was on the gate, when she realized she didn’t know how much to feed them. She felt her lip start to tremble, and pulled up her mental task list for comfort, adding that query. She counted the flock. She’d google the quantity of feed.
Back inside, the empty room was lonely after the clucking chickens, giving her a pang of longing for Guy. He’d have jollied her out of this melancholy mood. She couldn’t find a Wi-Fi signal and concluded the system needed rebooting. When she was last here, seven years ago, the router had lived on the pine dresser, wedged into place between the farm’s accounts ledger and the first aid box. Both the router and ledger had since moved. Clare scoured the room, uncovering multiple packets of cigarettes – was that what had killed Cindy? – alongside stacks of old newspapers, drawers so full they were jammed, and cupboards stuffed so full of junk that the doors wouldn’t shut. She discovered a thick folder marked Bills – she didn’t want to open that – and a bundle of letters from APHA, the Animal and Plant Health Authority. She knew she was looking in unlikely places. Secretly, she was keeping an eye out for evidence that her mother had wanted to heal their rift, but her search revealed neither a router nor any half-written letters of apology.
It was a long shot. The last time her mother had sent a letter to Clare it had not gone well. Cindy had written to her after Guy had died and Clare’s heart had softened after reading the first few lines. Cindy had said that she was sorry for Clare’s loss, saying she of all people understood how difficult it was to lose someone unexpectedly. She had also apologized for upsetting Clare two years earlier, but not for what she’d said. If only her mother had finished the letter there. If she had, there might have been a reconciliation. Instead, Cindy had told her daughter to come back to Devon ‘now there was no reason to stay in London’. Clare could still remember her hands shaking with rage as she’d read those words. Didn’t her mother understand the importance of Clare’s career? London wasn’t just about Guy; it was about being an exceptional lawyer – using the law to stand up for those who needed it most. Clare wrote a scathing response asking her mother not to contact her again. She hadn’t needed Cindy’s brand of sympathy.
Clare decided to search the lounge. A hint of pine-scented air freshener lingered. Her eyes fell on the ancient brown sofa. There was a dent at ‘Cindy’s end’, closest to the kitchen, and Clare clung to the door, hearing her mother’s voice: ‘I’ll get us a slice of cake and mug of cocoa for supper. Then let’s get you off up to bed.’
She shut the door firmly on the memory.
Outside, the dog had abandoned his post. The Land Rover was glinting in the early morning sun. It was decades since Clare had driven a car, but she would have to get to grips with it. The bus to Barnstaple had been unreliable when she was a teenager; now it probably didn’t run at all. Attached to the Land Rover was a twelve-foot trailer, but she suspected it wouldn’t be difficult to unhitch. There must be a YouTube video. If only she could find the bloody router.
She yanked at the car door, letting out a smell of stale cigarette smoke. Clare pressed her eyes shut, but the tears still threatened, and an image formed of her mother wearing her blue overalls, arms around the steering wheel, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. Clare let out a soft moan, rubbed her eyes and clambered onto the seat, leaving the door wide open. The key was in the ignition. She ran her hands over the gearstick and round the steering wheel, familiarizing herself with the controls before turning the key. The engine whined, coughed and then died. She tried again. Then a third time. It finally spluttered into life and the car juddered. She heard a yap and turned to see Stop-it in mid-air. He landed in a heavy lump on her lap, then scrambled over her onto the passenger seat, his claws digging painfully into her legs. A dog harness was attached to that seat belt. Clare snorted; Jet had always travelled in the boot.
Depressing the clutch, she put a hand on the gearstick, trying to recall where first gear was, remembering driving lessons with her mother’s calloused hand covering her own, forcing the stick into position. Clare sighed; she didn’t feel ready to rake through memories. She removed her hand and peered at the stick, but decades of use had worn away the illustrative diagram. It was useless. Clare crumpled over the steering wheel, picturing her neat London flat with its reliable Wi-Fi, the Tube a ten-minute walk away, and those suitcases packed and ready in the hallway
She felt a warm breath on her hands and opened her eyes, looking straight into black mournful ones. Stop-it’s muzzle lowered, his tongue poked out and he licked her hand, before crawling into her lap. She wrapped her arms around him and for a few minutes cuddled his warm furry body, nuzzling her face into his neck. Then she pushed herself upright and wiped her eyes. She scratched his head. ‘Oh, you are a gorgeous dog, aren’t you! You’re right. I can’t fall apart just because I can’t get the car into gear. I’m a fighter not a quitter. Let’s get you inside and we’ll have breakfast together.’
Jumping out of the car, she gave herself a stern talking to and consulted her mental list. Tidying up her mother’s affairs wouldn’t take long. She might have to cancel the first two weeks of her adventure, but her sabbatical was an entire year. ‘Come on, Stop-it.’
The dog didn’t move.
Deciding everything would feel much better after a cup of tea, she filled the kettle and placed it on the Aga’s hot plate. It was cold. She knelt and peeked in at the pilot light but there was no flame. Clare gazed at the Aga at a loss for what to do. She wanted Guy’s arms around her, telling her that he would sort everything out. He would have known how to unhitch a trailer, and driving the Land Rover wouldn’t have challenged him. After a few minutes, she crawled upstairs and, fully clothed, collapsed on the bed, pulling the duvet up over her head to block out the bright sunshine.
A knock on the bedroom door woke her. She shuffled upright, running her hands through her hair. After decades of cropping it as short as the stubble left over from harvesting wheat, she had decided to grow it during her sabbatical, and hadn’t been to the hairdresser for a month. The door opened and Ivy’s stout figure appeared, a tentative smile creasing her round face. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Shitty.’
‘That’s grief kicking in.’
Dear Ivy, she had plenty of experience of grief. She’d been the Brambleton vicar for decades, coping with a diocese which, like her circumference, had gradually expanded. Ivy spoke gently. ‘Did you sleep okay?’
‘No.’ Fuzzy monsters had filled Clare’s dreams, chasing her down dark alleys.
‘You should take something to help you sleep for a few nights. Come on, let’s get you up and dressed.’
Clare tossed the duvet off. ‘I’ve been up once already but I ... I don’t know what to do ... how much to feed any of the animals ...’ Her voice started quaking. ‘The dog won’t come inside.’
Ivy spoke in a reassuring, soothing voice. ‘Let’s go downstairs for a cup of tea.’
Clare groaned. ‘We can’t. The pilot light’s gone out.’
‘I’ll sort it.’
Clare trailed in the vicar’s wake, feeling like a teenager tempted downstairs for a restorative chat after being dumped.
Stop-it was in the kitchen, crunching his way through a breakfast bowl of kibble. Clare threw up her arms. ‘How did you get him inside?’
Grinning, Ivy picked up a small tin. ‘This lives by the back door. Watch.’ She shook the tin. It rattled as if full of stones. The dog shot over and sat, nose twitching, tail sweeping from side to side. Ivy removed the lid and scattered a few treats at her feet. ‘He’ll do anything for a biscuit!’
Ivy showed Clare how to light the pilot light, made tea, and then they took their mugs outside. ‘Who’s looking after the dairy herd?’ asked Clare.
Ivy put her mug down on a windowsill. ‘Don’t worry about that; let’s feed those hens,’ she said striding off. Depositing her own tea, Clare ran after Ivy, calling out ‘I need to write all this down, so I don’t forget.’
They fed the hens, then the two pigs. Ivy showed Clare where to find fresh straw and where to dump the soiled bedding.
Back inside, Clare wished she was starting her travels, not stuck in Devon. She didn’t want to spend her sabbatical farming. Ivy passed Clare a fresh mug of tea, saying gently, ‘the funeral is pencilled in for three weeks’ time.’
‘I can’t find Mum’s will.’
‘You won’t. It’s with the lawyer, and he’s reading it on Monday.’
Clare shook her head. ‘This isn’t a movie. Lawyers don’t read wills.’
‘They do if it’s specified.’ Ivy gave her a sympathetic look. ‘That’s what Cindy wanted. She wanted the lawyer to be on hand.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll find out on Monday.’ said Ivy turning away.
That’s an evasive answer thought Clare, wondering which lucky farmer’s second son had inherited the farm. He probably knew who he was and would most likely be the person who’d collected the herd. Her mother would have wanted the lawyer to dissuade Clare from contesting the will, but Clare wouldn’t do that. She didn’t want or need her mother’s money.
‘The reading’s in Exeter. Let’s take the train from Barnstaple,’ said Ivy. Clare’s eyes narrowed.
‘You’re invited?’
Ivy smiled and nodded.
It must be Ivy who would inherit the farm , thought Clare. She couldn’t think of a more worthy recipient. After Clare’s father died, Ivy was a regular feature of farm life, especially on Sundays when Cindy would prepare a roast dinner timed to fit in around the multiple services Ivy presided over.
‘Just the two of us?’ asked Clare.
‘Yes,’ said Ivy, pulling Clare into a hug. Now Clare was certain Ivy would inherit. ‘Do you know where she kept the farm accounts? They used to be on the dresser.’
Ivy released her and disappeared, returning with a handwritten ledger. ‘I’ll make another pot of tea while you take a look.’
Clare opened the book. Her mother’s neat spidery writing filled the pages. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then opened them and flicked through the pages. There seemed to be a lot of minuses and not many pluses. Wanting to ensure she wasn’t expected to do the milking Clare asked, ‘Who’s looking after the dairy herd?’
The kettle whistled drowning out Clare’s voice.
‘The apples will need harvesting in the autumn,’ Ivy said.
Clare was about to repeat her question but stopped. Ivy might not want to reveal who the helper was. She might know about her inheritance, have a contingency plan for the milking and have already implemented it. She hoped whoever it was knew what to do with apples too. Autumn was three months away. Clare would be in Jordan by then, marvelling at Petra’s lost city and enjoying a Wadi Rum desert tour. She asked where the router was.
‘Gone. Your mother used to walk Stop-it into the village to buy cigarettes and either use my Wi-Fi or Trish’s on the way.’
‘Why?’
Ivy looked a little shifty, which struck Clare as odd, but she hadn’t seen Ivy for seven years, maybe she was reading too much into the woman’s body language.
‘Was it the smoking that killed her?’
Ivy spoke softly. ‘It was a heart attack.’
‘What?’ Cindy was fit and active. The family had no history of heart disease. ‘How?’
Ivy took her time replying. ‘Possibly stress.’
‘ Stress? ’ Had Cindy been dwelling on their rift? Was Clare partly responsible for her mother’s death? ‘What was she stressed about?’
Ivy turned away. Did she know? Clare tried a different tack. ‘What did Mum mean by her message to me?’ The other woman’s back stiffened. Clare waited, but there was no reply, and she decided not to press. There would be plenty of time to probe on the train to the will reading on Monday.
Ivy plonked the teapot on the table. ‘Why not come for supper at the pub on Friday, there’s a group of us going.’
Recalling plastic baskets of microwaved scampi or chicken and chips, she declined Ivy’s invitation. Anyway, she didn’t want to socialize, especially not with strangers badgering her about why she’d not visited for years. Cindy had always batch-cooked, so hopefully there’d be something in the freezer.
By Thursday Clare had cancelled the first two weeks of her sabbatical. Sitting at the kitchen table, she glared at her chores list:
· Prep for traveling – see London list
· Land Rover
· Descale shower head
· Lower shower head
· Register death
· Sort out Mum’s bedroom
· Get Stop-it to eat kibble
· Rehome dog
· Buy more chicken food
· From where?
· Check freezer stocks and plan meals
She heard the door open; it was Ivy, ‘How are you getting on?’
She felt like she was out of her depth but wasn’t going to admit it. ‘Do you know where I can buy chicken food?’
‘I can’t believe Cindy would have let herself run low. Have you looked in the barns?’
Clare heaved herself upright. ‘Tea?’ she offered.
‘No thanks; tea is not the answer to everything.’ Ivy walked towards her, scooping Clare into a hug; it was good to feel someone’s arms around her. ‘What you need is to get out,’ said Ivy decisively. ‘Come to the pub tomorrow night. It will do you good,’ she coaxed.
‘Let me think about it,’ said Clare noncommittally.
‘Trish and Anna will be there.’
She wanted to see her friends, and wasn’t sure how full the freezer was. ‘Oh, all right.’ If she ate out tomorrow, it would be one less meal to worry about.