Chapter 17
Now
‘It isn’t stopping.’ Grandad stands at the kitchen window for the seventh morning of the week, chastising the rain as though his shaking bony fist is enough to ward it off. ‘The dykes are full and the back field is a bog.’
‘It’s alright dad,’ Mum tries a comforting hand on his shoulder, but he paces too quickly for it to stick too long.
‘It’s not alright. It’s too wet to harvest the tates, the animals need to be moved inside to be grain fed, and there’s no chance I’m going to get time to drill the winter wheat.’
Farming is both a science and an art. It relies on so many variables coming together at the right time in only the correct ways, that it may as well be sorcery.
Especially here, where rain is in abundance, and yet drought always seems to hit at the very worst moment.
In a country where the weather is known for its inability to stay fine from one hour to the next, farming needs only the perfect conditions.
How are you meant to plan around a weather system that can’t decide on snow or sun in March, or cold or blistering heat in October?
I don’t know how grandad has kept going for as many years as he has, where each bad harvest has a knock-on effect, until his whole livelihood is at risk after one cold snap.
It’s a game of chance, a gamble that rarely pays out in full, and leaves you swearing at the sky in every season.
Yet, never once has the thought of quitting been said aloud.
‘Can we help, Grandad?’ I speak up, my stomach in knots at the sight of him so rattled, so anxious.
‘Have you got a magic wand to stop this rain, eh?’ he grumbles.
I shake my head slowly, and I see the guilt seep into his features at his rash response.
‘Sorry, Duckie. No, you keep up your homework and then you’ll never have to worry about all of this.’
‘We can bring the cows in, and the pigs?’ I offer.
Despite what he says, I’ll always want to worry about this farm.
Though Milan and fashion are my dreams, and I was born in London and lived there for eighteen years, I was raised on this farm.
All the summers spent on tractors and chasing the rain are the fondest memories I have, and even if I do make it as a fashion designer, I’ll always come back here to visit and get stuck into lambing, harvesting or any other task when they need me.
And who knows, if my plan really does go tits up, then maybe this is where I’m meant to end up.
Granny loved this farm, and I loved Granny. Apart from sewing, the farm is one of the only ways I have left to feel close to her. By helping here, I can feel like I did back when she was at this very table, telling us about the changing seasons.
‘It’s mucky work, kid. Especially in this rain.’ Grandad sighs and plops down at the table. Mum places a biscuit in his hand before he can even say another syllable.
‘When have you ever seen me worried about a bit of muck?’ I challenge.
He looks up from the table to smile. His wiry eyebrows have grown out of control as they hang over into his eyes. Granny must have trimmed them for him.
‘Aye, we used to go through boxes of washing powder when you two came to stay.’ He shakes his head at the memory. ‘The kitchen tiles didn’t stand a chance with you two running in and out in your wellies, or even in your bare feet. I cleaned up more after the two of you than I did my heifers.’
‘And they always came home without a single stain,’ Mum says.
Grandad finally lets Mum hold him by the shoulder, and he smiles.
‘That was all your mam. I’m sure she enchanted that washing machine.
’ He places his hand over hers then looks between me and Callum.
‘Go on then, kids. I’ll ring up the ’good boys from next door though, and they can give you a hand if they’re not busy.
You’ll need boards and bodies, and a good strong coat. ’
With Grandad’s permission, and the ‘proper’ farmers called, Callum and I find ourselves trudging through water logged fields to find the cows as far away as they can get, sheltering in the treeline of the woods.
Will and Jacob are already there when we reach them, and at the sight of their help in the distance, they hop out of Jacob’s truck to hand us both a flask of tea.
‘Milk and two sugars,’ Jacob says lowly to me as he hands me the flask. ‘I couldn’t remember what Cal likes, so he has the same, just in case I mixed them up in the truck.’
‘Thank you.’ I grin, warmed by both the tea and the sentiment.
‘So, what’s the plan?’ I say louder so everyone can hear me.
The rain has relented for a moment, but how long it will last, I’m unsure.
All I know is I’d much rather shepherd some cows now, in this brief moment of respite, than when I can’t see an inch in front of my face from the downpour, so I try my hardest to not let us get distracted from the task at hand.
‘I can assure you, whatever plan you have, these girls will not oblige you.’ Will chuckles to himself. ‘Plan is, we get these ladies into their barn in whatever way we possibly can.’
All of Will’s summers spent as King of the treehouse have put him in good stead for bossing around farmhands, it seems.
‘Sir, yes, sir.’ Callum salutes him, a silly grin slapped on his face. Will cracks a smile and shoves him by the shoulder.
‘Come on.’ He tries his best to be serious but, even under his layers of waterproofs, I see him smirk. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
‘Just make sure you watch your toes.’ Jacob says to both Callum and me as we all allow his older brother to think he’s in charge.
The cows, with a little food encouragement, don’t put up much of a fight.
At least not when the dream team are employed.
And they’re as much ready for their heated winter home as the rest of us, so that probably helped.
Just like old times, Jacob, Callum, and I flank the herd like mercenaries marching prisoners from battle, with Will pacing out in front, shouting out his orders.
Though this time, his voice is deep, and it thunders through the fields and makes us all, even the cows, stand to attention.
Any time Callum manages to get one of the heifers to obey him – they’re too afraid to walk beside him in his bright yellow rain coat – he lets out a loud ‘yeehaw’ and walks a few steps like a cowboy that’s soiled himself, which makes Jacob chuckle every single time.
All too familiar with the antics of my brother, I simply shake my head and try to actually finish the task at hand, just grateful that Alfie isn’t here to encourage him even more.
Despite the boys’ inability to be serious in each other’s company, only one cow strays from the group, and Jacob spends twenty minutes chasing it around the woods in just one welly – the other one briefly stuck in the boggy mud.
After an hour, each of the cows makes it to the barn before the second onslaught of rain begins.
The pigs, however, put up a little more of a fight.
‘Callum, Jake, go left, go left.’ Will calls across the field like a drill sergeant, his arms flailing with every word, his sleeves dripping with mostly water, but a little too much mud to be comfortable.
‘No, left you muppet!’ he calls to Callum, who has done little to help and has instead spent most of the afternoon running around like he is the one being herded.
Will’s patience is wearing thin as the novelty of ‘playing’ with us again turns back into his adult seriousness.
He sternly reminds us all of our responsibilities.
‘Jacob, rear. Ava, right. Callum, left. My left.’
The laughter subsides and we are all forced to lock in.
By now, I’m ninety percent mud. It’s in my hair, smeared across my face, and it seeps into my clothes until I’m sure I can feel it running down my legs. ‘Ava, come on, catch her!’ Will shouts at me this time as a pig slips past me and makes a break for it.
I’ve never been much of a runner. Freya and I usually spent our cross-country PE lessons hidden somewhere on the school field, listening to music through her headphones.
So, I’d say I’m rather ill-prepared for a wild pig chase.
Despite what may be reality, I feel as though I run fast. The rain hitting my face stings with the force and I know I’m bright red from the cold.
But I still stand no chance against this pig as I try and hold onto my wellies, clenching my toes as each step in the mud feels like I’m being swallowed a little deeper into the earth.
I picture myself as a child again, running through these very fields, pretending to chase fairies, or monsters, as the Thorogood’s play the baddies, out to get me too.
We’d run in circles for hours, our imaginations doing such heavy lifting that what seemed like a world filled with magical creatures to us must have looked mental to Granny, who used to watch us from the kitchen window.
But we are actually chasing creatures now: real, wet, slippery creatures.
And though I’d say my efforts are great, Will doesn’t seem to think so.
Despite his voice being muffled by the freak weather, I can still hear him shouting his orders at me from afar.
So, with the pig in diving distance, I stop dead in my tracks, watch it flee for a second, before turning back to Will who chases behind me, his face like thunder.
‘Go get it yourself.’ I fold my arms over my chest.
‘What the hell, Ava?’ Will doesn’t have time to stop and take in my protest as he runs right past me, firing his middle finger over his shoulder.
Returning to Callum, Jacob and the rest of the team of pigs, I can finally try to catch some of my breath. Jacob grabs me by the shoulder and smiles. He doesn’t have to say anything for me to know that he approves of my stand.