13
I end up feeding goats with four year-three boys and one year-four girl. Compared to the stressful start of the trip, I spend a peaceful hour just watching children having fun. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I haven’t encountered any adults since the incident with Danielle. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already spoken to John about my mad ways.
‘Who knew that goats pooed so much,’ I mumble to myself, distracted.
Being a city girl, I somehow had completely unrealistic expectations of farm life. I visualised rolling hills, long grasses gently swaying in the wind and sheep and goats bleating in the distance. Instead, everything smells of faeces, and both the sheep and goats are so loud it hurts my ears. Also, the goats are sort of cross-eyed which unnerves me.
‘Yes. They do,’ someone agrees to my right.
I steel myself; there goes my peace. Where’s the chain mail and armet helmet when one needs it? But instead of emanating annoyance per usual, Alex pulls his lips into a rare smile as he passes me a bucket full of dry food.
I shake my head vigorously. ‘Over my dead body.’ When his outstretched arm doesn’t move, I elaborate, ‘They’re prone to attack when food is involved.’
I speak from experience here because earlier when the animals were herded for feeding, they went into a mad rush to get to the bucket first, ramming each other out of the way like it was a rugby game. I was surprised red steam didn’t escape their furry nostrils, their eyes didn’t turn red, or their horns didn’t grow and curve like the Lord of Darkness in Legend . I really admire the kids feeding the beasts, but I wouldn’t touch them with a stick.
I must say some of this out loud if not all because Alex snorts. I frown, dismayed. ‘My distress is hilarious to you, is it?’ Why he’s suddenly in such a good mood is beyond me.
‘Well, I must admit that your sense for drama has not abandoned you. Duty calls.’
‘What if they charge?’ I’m so nervous I’ve lost my ability to filter my words.
‘Then I’ll jump in your way and be trampled by goats. I’ll be labelled a hero.’ He grins, and I keep wondering at his sudden change of tune.
‘A vice principal in a local primary school gets smothered by goat poo in a heroic attempt to save one of his teachers. The article is writing itself in front of my eyes as we speak,’ I announce with the gravitas the statement warrants.
‘Are you stalling for time?’ He’s not impressed by my journalistic skills.
I mentally brace myself when I climb over the fence, but because I’m holding the bucket while scaling a metre-high fence, it’s a too challenging task for my mediocre coordination skills. Alex ends up steadying me by holding my arm. His hand feels warm and firm on mine, and the contact sends a tingling sensation across my body. I can’t pull my arm out of his without diving headfirst, but as soon as I’m steady, I take a step back to regain my equilibrium because my internal organs have turned into jelly cubes. I’m not sure whether it’s the prospect of being trampled by ravenous goats or Alex’s hand on me that makes me lose my composure.
I check the watch on my free wrist and then tug at my shirt. I’m about to retie my hair, but a clearing of a throat stops me in my tracks. When I can’t use any more delay tactics because I’ve been caught red-handed, I steady myself and shake the bucket, the contents rattling ominously. I embrace the incoming death.
A few goats lift their heads, their bulgy eyes growing big with frenzy as they register the bucket full of goodies. Excitement is palpable in the air, my knuckles stiff around the handle.
‘This is like a start to most horror movies,’ I mumble, and somebody barks behind me, snapping the tension in half.
‘How many horrors with goats as the main villain have you seen?’ Alex is sceptical.
I throw him an unamused side glance because I refuse to look away from the gathering flock of animals.
A few goats start marching stiffly towards me, unable to decide whether I’m a friend or foe. The hunger must win because, within a few seconds, those few brave goats venture all the way to me and start munching on the hay pellets.
Tentatively, I stroke the closest black-and-white goat. Its head feels bony to touch, and its fur coarse against my palm, like an old rug. But it’s strangely comforting. From my peripheral vision, I can see Alex is grinning. It completely transforms his face.
‘Not a word,’ I grind out.
This isn’t too bad. For a few moments, it’s sort of nice, and I understand why the children are enjoying this so much. That is until the rest of the herd and the few goats being fed by the children decide they want the contents of my bucket too. As one, they set into motion with the sole purpose of reaching the source of food, determination glazing their eyes and speeding their hoofed legs. In my panicked mind, Kelis’ Milkshake starts playing on a loop.
I shrink back, the bucket rattling loudly. I take another step back, but the heel of my boot catches on a tree stump. Pellets fly in all directions, hitting me and Alex like an apocalyptic meteor shower. Everything slows down. I start toppling backwards, but Alex’s hand snatches my elbow just before I connect with the ground. The movement propels me sideways. I ram my knee into the stump, and I slam into the dirt, taking Alex with me. All I feel is a sharp sting of pain across my shin and the heavy weight of Alex’s body crushing me whilst his arms shield me from the goats that descend on us like vultures and pick at the pellets between our tangled bodies. It’s like Hitchcock’s The Birds but instead of birds, we’re pecked to death by domesticated ruminant mammals with backwards-curving horns and crossed eyes.
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in a dingy utility room being nursed by Alex who is also, to my luck, the designated first aider for the trip. Straight after we picked ourselves up, I realised that not only did I cut my shin open, but I also managed to twist my ankle. All the adults gathered around me like I was an invalid. I flatly refused Alex carrying me into the house, so I had to hobble with Alex and John on either side, scooping me up like I was a bunch of bananas. Danielle didn’t look very pleased about the fact that both of their attentions were on me and not her. I wasn’t particularly pleased that the attention was on me full stop.
Now, the silence of the utility room is pressing against my ears. Everything here smells of mud and bleach. One of the only two plastic chairs in the room is propping my leg that is currently strapped up tight and iced. The other chair is digging painfully into my bottom. I try not to fidget but being thrust into a small space with Alex again makes me fidgety because I just don’t know how it’s going to go. Are we going to shout at each other, share jokes from the past, be coolly hostile to each other or pretend that the other doesn’t exist? Just thinking about the multiple possibilities is giving me whiplash.
My gaze keeps getting dragged to his previously immaculate jumper that, even now splattered with mud and grime, fits his solid torso too well for my comfort. His jumper must have gotten soiled when I took him down with me. He should be angry with me, but instead, he’s collected. Alex in crisis has always been solution-focused and level-headed. That was one thing I loved about him. I flinch at my internal monologue.
I watch as he takes the slightly beaten first-aid kit out from a wooden cabinet attached to the wall and starts rifling through it. I shamelessly study his profile because I haven’t had a chance to watch him unobserved since our reunion. I’ve always thought his profile was full of contrasts, a sharp nose and cheeks sloping down to the softest, pinkest mouth, together creating delicate features offset by a freckled complexion. I used to dream of those freckles.
He must find what he’s been searching for because his expression turns victorious like he’s hit the jackpot on a fruit machine.
To my dismay, he kneels in front of me. I blink in confusion until it dawns on me he intends to nurse me himself. It was enough I had to let him strap my ankle, but because there was no contact of skin as I kept my sock on, I just about managed it. But I draw a line right here and shake my head vigorously, my short hair sending additional mud flying around the room and onto him.
‘I categorically refuse.’ I snatch the non-alcoholic wipe from his waiting hand and try to shift sideways which is a feat of its own with one leg propped up. Even though the contact didn’t last more than a second, I registered the heat pouring from his hand to mine; Alex has always run a few degrees higher. Where my hands are ice blocks, his body is a self-sustaining kiln. He doesn’t budge, and his knee blocks my side so unless I want my thigh to touch his leg, I have no choice but to surrender.
‘I’m capable of doing it myself. Thank you very much,’ I snap.
His expression turns unreadable for a moment until something that resembles amusement flickers across his features. ‘OK,’ he announces calmly, staying put. There’s a challenge at the curve of his lips. ‘I’ll wait.’
‘I will manage, but I require some privacy. This isn’t First Aid Challenge on Blue Peter – I don’t need an audience.’ I sound petulant, but it rubs me the wrong way when he’s being smug.
He shifts in his position but doesn’t get up. His legs must be getting stiff, but he’s stubborn. ‘The fact that you haven’t so far managed to roll up your trouser leg and look at the cut tells me a lot about how you’re planning on managing it.’
I won’t admit out loud I was planning on ignoring it and pocketing the cute red and blue plaster for tougher times or for a tougher Holly who would be OK with looking at blood without fainting.
He smells my bullshit straight away, like a truffle hog finding a particularly large growth of the expensive tubers. ‘Admit it. You weren’t going to put a plaster on the cut, were you? Or even look at it.’
‘Maybe I was.’ I lean against the back of the chair, trying to gain some distance. I don’t like being cornered. ‘Maybe I wasn’t. None of your business either way.’ I go in with a directly offensive tone because one never plays darts without intending to hit a bullseye.
‘It’s my business. Because if you get an infection because of an untreated scratch and they have to amputate your leg because you were too chicken to check it, I might be liable for not giving you first aid.’ Did he really call me chicken or am I delirious because of potential infection coursing through my body? I’ll never know because I’m not going to look at the cut.
‘I’m not chicken ,’ I spit out, but there’s no real spite in it because I think he’s having fun at my expense. ‘It’s called hemophobia, and it’s a real thing.’ It occurs to me he’s being almost human here and wonder at the change from the cold, hostile Alex I have encountered for the last few weeks. What has gotten into him?
‘Fair point,’ he acknowledges and snatches the wipe from me again while I’m preoccupied. ‘Ready?’
Before I have a chance to react, he grabs the jean leg, tugs at the end so my foot slips between his and starts rolling up the trousers. ‘Look away if you must,’ he orders, but I’m so fascinated by his hands that I’m deathly still.
A thought occurs to me. Have I shaved my legs? A part of me hopes that I haven’t shaved them for at least a year so as soon as he sees the growth, he lets go and leaves me in peace, but no luck. My calf is as smooth as a baby’s bottom and there’s blood trickling from a long cut located under my knee. I gulp heavily, my sight spinning. Then my eyes shift to his freckled hands, and I wonder at how gently they’re holding my leg in place, and that’s all it takes to redirect me; I’m like a baby being presented with a brightly coloured rattle. His hands have always been my fetish. And he knows that. We both stare at where we are touching, white against slightly tanned skin. Multiple entities like butterflies flutter in my heart cavities, making them convulse. I get light-headed, but this time, I have a feeling it has nothing to do with the blood.
Alex coughs awkwardly, stopping my dangerous thoughts. ‘What is it about the goats? I have never seen anyone this panicked about goats.’
I think he’s trying to distract me, and it’s working because I can’t stop myself and spill the truth.
‘I guess I’ve developed a lifelong distrust of galloping goats after Auntie Eugenie’s pet goat Mabel rammed me into a freshly painted picket fence. I only had one pair of jeans and ended up walking with the print of the fence on my bottom for four days. All the neighbouring children started calling me the Zebra Girl. I was twelve, the tender age when nobody wants to be called the Zebra Girl. Plus, their eyes unnerve me.’ I shudder.
He shakes his head in disbelief. He disposes of the used wipe in the sanitary bin and inspects the cut to see whether there’s anything wedged in it.
‘I don’t think goats are capable of galloping. That’s more of a horse thing.’ Is he mocking me? Once again, I wonder why he’s being almost nice. Maybe he has a split personality disorder I never knew about. It would explain a lot.
‘Well, running didn’t sound dramatic enough. They sort of hobble like pirates but saying a hobbling herd of goats attacked me sounds pathetic.’
‘I agree,’ he offers in a deadpan fashion so characteristic of Alex.
He gently applies a plaster to the cut, smoothing both ends down. Fingers swiping side to side, he keeps rubbing the plaster, like he’s got stuck in the motion. There’s no blood in sight so I let myself fully focus on the sensation. At the sight of goosebumps spreading up my calf, he realises what he’s doing and stops with a self-conscious cough.
‘Why are you being so nice to me?’ The words spring out of me without volition. I roll down my jean leg to give myself something to do.
He lowers himself in resignation until his bottom is parked on the cold tiles. ‘Because I’ve been unfair to you.’ I quirk an eyebrow. ‘I heard what you said to Danielle.’ He looks momentarily embarrassed.
I bite my lip. ‘I don’t like gossipmongers.’
‘I don’t either. I got you all wrong. We’re adults, and I know I haven’t been fair or particularly welcoming.’
‘You’ve been an arsehat,’ I interject. To my surprise, he chuckles at that. Maybe Catherine is right, and he has changed.
‘I have, haven’t I? As your mentor, I’m supposed to support you. We’re colleagues. I want to lay our weapons down and let go of the past.’ He echoes Catherine’s words.
‘A truce?’ he offers, and his voice is laced with urgency. I think about it for a moment, but the alternative of continuously arguing is exhausting just to consider. I can’t forget the past, but I can ignore it for the time we have to work together.
Eventually, I nod and test the word on my tongue. Then, I proceed to unbuckle my invisible gun holster, gingerly placing it down on the floor next to him, followed by an invisible dagger plucked from my boot and lay it by his feet as a peace offering.
Shaking his head in amusement, Alex releases a breath I didn’t know he was holding. He utters, ‘I’ve had enough of swine for today. I can’t believe you said that.’
I can’t help but grin.
A strange warm sensation bubbles in my stomach. I try to shut it down, but it lingers. Who knew that Alex and I could share a joke?