CHAPTER 20
Harriet
Dorset
Joanna had gone off on one of those long walks of hers – probably annoyed because Harriet wasn’t as obsessed with their family history as Joanna seemed to be – and so Harriet and her mother had lunch on their own without her.
Quite honestly, the last thing Harriet wanted to think about right now was someone else’s love letters – partly because, despite her best efforts, her love life was more or less non-existent.
Joanna still hadn’t returned, but Harriet wasn’t worried. Mother was taking a nap and it was peaceful here in Little Barn. Harriet was enjoying spending some time with the hens, collecting eggs, murmuring to them softly under her breath.
Non-existent, that was, with the exception of Jolyon.
They’d been emailing for a few weeks now but Harriet still hadn’t taken the plunge of agreeing to meet him.
He was a country and western aficionado, which put her off slightly.
There was nothing wrong with country and western music.
It wasn’t all ‘DIVORCE’ or, alternatively, ‘Stand by Your Man’ – thankfully.
But . . . what sort of a man was Jolyon?
She wasn’t sure. It wasn’t your average name, was it?
Not that she wanted an average man, not at all.
But . . . Harriet’s trouble was that she allowed too many ‘buts’ into her life – she always had.
She heard an engine, but she didn’t want to be disturbed by Owen since that was probably who it was.
Instead, she went on checking for eggs in the scratchy straw of the nesting boxes.
She loved the feel of a freshly laid egg – warm and smooth, coddled in the palm of her hand, slipping reluctantly through her fingers as she placed them one by one in the straw-lined basket she kept for the purpose.
Gentle now, they were fragile and new. An egg, she thought, dusting away a pale amber speck of down, was a small miracle.
A door slammed. No doubt Owen was hoping to catch sight of Joanna; he was a much more frequent visitor than he’d ever been before, and like Harriet had said to her sister earlier, it would be even more frequent if they rented him Big Barn.
Harriet made a move to go out and speak to him and then stopped.
Why should she? Right now, she didn’t feel like speaking to anyone.
All she wanted was this rare moment of peace.
She placed another egg in the basket. Joanna had her writing while Harriet had .
. . this. She stooped as she felt around in the straw and absorbed the animal heat of the barn.
It was comforting and safe. Feathery, musty, mealy and .
. . yes, delicious. She smiled. She was a farmer’s daughter all right; her father’s daughter.
Above the nesting boxes were the perches where the chickens slept, often huddled together for warmth, feathers fluffed up as the weather grew colder.
She stretched. Well, life wouldn’t be so bad if it was just moments like this, would it? Or if there was more money in the pot.
She peered through the cobwebby window. No sign of Owen.
In the yard, Clarence the cockerel was strutting around like the bloke he was, his bright feathers ruffled in the wind.
King of Little Barn. Harriet brushed away some flaking paintwork.
Too many things were flaking around here. She flicked a cobweb out of her hair.
She put down the basket, picked up the broom from where it stood in the corner and began sweeping the floor of the barn.
Hens weren’t messy creatures, but they liked to scatter.
She had noted that they’d perfected an air of what looked like indifference towards Clarence.
They didn’t care that he was the only one, nor that he was so self-important.
It was nothing to them. She chuckled. They knew the universal truth.
Eat food, lay eggs, scratch about and sleep in the sun – that was it.
She opened the barn door to deposit the sweepings in the bin by the woodpile and breathed deeply.
Owen must have lit a bonfire – the scent of it was warm and toasty in the breeze.
And from the other side of the barn she thought she heard a faint whistling: ‘Walk on By’.
Was that Owen too? She paused. Hang on, the man couldn’t be everywhere; she must be imagining it.
She went back for the eggs, opened the door again and reluctantly left the warmth of Little Barn. The harsh light of earlier had become the pinker shade of an autumnal October afternoon.
‘Let’s make a start then.’ The loud nasal voice splintered the peace of the farmyard.
Harriet jumped. Who on earth . . . ? A white lorry was parked by the cottage. And she suddenly became aware of an unfamiliar smell mixing in with the bonfire and the farmyard. It was like hot . . . She sprinted across the yard, her precious basket clutched to her side.
Two youths were sweeping the driveway that led from the lane to the house.
It was an ominous sort of sweeping. Two men in white overalls were standing by the front door.
Harriet took in the entire scene at a glance.
Terry’s Tarmac was the name on the lorry.
She steadied her breathing. She must stay calm.
‘Can I help you?’ she enquired icily of one of the men, who looked as if he might be Terry and therefore in charge.
Her mind was speeding ahead, though. How could she have done it?
Mother never ventured into the village these days.
Mother didn’t own a mobile phone and the call barring on the landline was Mother-proof – Harriet had memorised the code and sworn Joanna to secrecy.
It had been a while since the last problem and Harriet had foolishly taken her eye off the ball.
‘Tarmac,’ the man said. Not hugely articulate then, so probably not the boss. He was eyeing Harriet as if she were some wild animal who had suddenly appeared in the yard.
‘Who are you?’ Harriet put down the basket so that she could fold her arms in an authoritative manner. Though she knew.
‘Terry’s. We’re laying the tarmac what you asked for, love.’ The second man entered the conversation. As she turned to face him, he hitched up his jeans, which was a small relief at least.
Harriet glared at him. This wasn’t the time or the place for mentioning grammar, but it still rankled. ‘I didn’t ask for any tarmac.’ She glanced up at the window above. A shadowy figure slipped out of sight. Mother . . .
‘Yeah, you did. I’ve got the order sheet.’ The second man opened the passenger door of the white lorry and retrieved a clipboard. Maybe he was Terry then.
Harriet barely glanced at it. ‘I don’t require any tarmac,’ she said. ‘And I certainly didn’t order any.’
As one, the boys stopped sweeping. Maybe they’d learnt to recognise authority when they heard it. They leant on the brooms, dark eyes staring, waiting for instructions.
‘We can’t hang around, love.’ The first man looked her up and down. ‘It’s hot and it’s steaming.’
Harriet stood her ground. ‘That doesn’t interest me in the least,’ she said.
He sighed a world-weary sigh. ‘You the house owner then, love?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she snapped. Now was not the time for truth.
‘And . . . ?’ He let his eyes roll towards the house.
‘My mother.’ Bless her. How could she have? Perhaps she was paying Harriet back for putting the bar on the phone. But there was no money for tarmac. There was no money for anything.
The second man nodded, glanced at his watch. ‘All very well,’ he said. ‘But this lot won’t wait.’ He pointed towards the lorry. ‘It’s got to be laid.’
Was it her imagination, or was he trying to tell her something? Harriet forced herself to stay focused.
‘Ready to tip, rake and roll.’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘There was that other job in the village, Terry,’ said the other man.
Ah, thought Harriet. They both pored over the clipboard. The boys slouched back towards the lorry.
Terry grunted. He was clearly not a man to be easily placated and there was possibly only one language men like him understood.
‘How much do you want?’ Harriet asked.
‘For the job?’
‘No.’ Wasn’t he listening to what she was telling him?
‘We don’t want your tarmac,’ she repeated.
Even if they could afford it, this was a farm, for God’s sake.
Farms were meant to be stony, scruffy, dusty and peppered with holes.
‘How much to go away?’ she said. ‘I realise you’ve been called out unnecessarily.
’ And she would get to the bottom of this – with Mother.
His eyes glinted.
Greed was very unattractive, thought Harriet.
Though, of course, she was a realist and everyone needed money.
If they didn’t, she for one wouldn’t be spending her time typing up someone’s scruffy and half-illegible scientific manuscript.
The man must be desperate; he hadn’t even interviewed her, not properly, just a few questions over the phone, taken her address and informed her that the first batch would be delivered as soon as possible.
Terry was on his mobile now. He was humming the same song. Harriet wished they’d all walk on by. Pronto. He broke off to talk to someone. ‘Yeah. No, she don’t want it.’ He looked across at Harriet.
Suddenly, a figure appeared on the brow of the hill, looking down on them like something out of Wuthering Heights.
Joanna, framed by the dark shimmer of the sea and the green fields, her stripy orange scarf flying, made a dramatic picture.
One of Owen’s sheep let out a bleat and another replied, the sounds echoing forlornly over the hills.
Harriet watched as Joanna ran down the path towards them like a young girl. Both men were watching her too, and maybe even the boys, who were now standing on the other side of the lorry texting on their mobiles.
Something not particularly pleasant and rarely acknowledged twisted inside Harriet. She pushed it determinedly away. Did she really want a man? Could a man change her life in the way she wanted it to be changed? Probably not.
‘What’s going on?’ Joanna asked as she drew level. She was out of breath; her face was flushed pink from the exercise, her eyes bright. Marital problems seemed to agree with her, Harriet thought uncharitably.
‘These men have come to lay some tarmac,’ Harriet told her. ‘Only we don’t want any.’
‘No, we don’t,’ Joanna agreed. A complicit look passed between them.
‘So . . .’ Harriet began.
‘So, clearly there’s been an unfortunate misunderstanding.’ Joanna smiled sweetly at the men. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘We’ve come a hell of a long way for nothing,’ Terry complained, not looking at Harriet. ‘The stuff’s made up and ready to roll, and even if we do have another job to go to—’
‘I thought I should give them something.’ Heaven knows why she was running this past Joanna anyway. Who was in charge here? Who ran this place single-handed?
‘Oh, good idea, Het.’ Joanna laughed, she actually laughed. ‘How about a nice cup of tea and a piece of cake before you get rid of that stuff somewhere else, boys? Will that do you?’
And not waiting for an answer, she ushered them through the porchway and into the kitchen, clucking like one of the bloody hens. Boys, indeed.
‘Come through. You must be dying for a cuppa, I know I am.’ She beckoned to the boys by the lorry and they pocketed their phones and followed suit.
‘Well, since you’re asking . . . But it’ll have to be a quick one, love . . .’ The voices faded.
Harriet stood in the empty farmyard, arms still folded in front of her. Joanna was warm and glowing and good-hearted. As for Harriet – she had a sliver of ice inside her, she must have. Otherwise she would be more charitable in her feelings towards her sister. Wouldn’t she?