Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Cathy Woodman
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Copyright
Other books by Cathy Woodman
Trust Me, I’m a Vet
Must Be Love
The Sweetest Thing
It’s a Vet’s Life
The Village Vet
Vets in Love
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Epub ISBN 9781448164714
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published by Century, 2013
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Copyright © Cathy Woodman, 2013
Cathy Woodman has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by
Century
The Random House Group Limited, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781780891576
To Tamsin and Will
I should like to thank Laura Longrigg at MBA Literary Agents, Gillian Holmes and the wonderful team at Random House for their continuing enthusiasm and support. I should also like to congratulate Grant Cowan on the beautiful cover illustrations, especially the one of the cute brown calf!
For their moral support and practical assistance while I’ve been writing this book, I’d like to thank Liz and Dave, Alex and Karen and their families, and my parents.
There are times when I’m afraid I’ll wake up to find I’ve been dreaming. I have a great career, a flat of my own, at least two foreign holidays a year and a wonderful boyfriend who has asked me to marry him. All in all, I think I’ve done rather well for a farm girl.
It’s Thursday morning and I’m in the office in Wimbledon with my calendar for the first week of March open on my mobile and a latte from the Starbucks around the corner in front of me, trying to get my head together before I meet a potential client, when the desk phone rings and Caroline, our receptionist, asks me if I can take a call.
‘I didn’t catch his name, and I’ve asked if I can take his number for you to ring him back later, but he insists on speaking to you straight away. I’m sorry, Stevie, I don’t seem to be able to get through to him.’
I check the time. I have a few minutes.
‘Thanks, Caroline. Put him through,’ I say.
The caller is elderly and speaks with a strong Devon accent, the sound of his voice triggering a distant memory of ripening corn and blackberries.
‘This is Stevie Dunsford’s office?’ he asks. ‘Only I don’t want to make a fool of myself. It’s bad enough already that I’m doing this. I wouldn’t normally snitch on anyone, let alone the boss.’
‘You’re speaking to her – Stevie, I mean.’ Although I’m an accountant and good with numbers, two and two are definitely not making four at this moment.
‘It’s Cecil here,’ he says, pronouncing his name to rhyme with thistle.
‘Cecil? It’s you.’ I picture Cecil, an old man with a stoop – he’s always seemed old to me – standing in the farmyard in his brown coat and boots, with his tweed cap shading his eyes as he chews on a piece of sweet hay and counts the black and white cows in from the field. ‘Is everything all right?’ It’s a stupid question to ask, I think, because there has to be some kind of problem. He’s never called me before, not like this, out of the blue. ‘What’s happened?’
I wait for Cecil to respond, a pulse thudding dully at my temple. He never was one for being quick on the uptake.
‘It’s Tom, your dad, he’s up to his neck in the muck and the mire.’
‘He’s in trouble? What kind of trouble?’
‘He’s more than likely going to end up in prison,’ Cecil responds.
‘What on earth for?’ I say, aghast because I was assuming he’d been in some kind of accident on the farm. ‘He can’t go to prison at his time of life. He’s seventy-five.’
‘Someone reported him for neglect.’
‘Who would do such a thing? How could anyone be so nasty?’
‘I’m always telling Tom to keep his friends close and his enemies closer, but when has he ever listened to me?’ Cecil says mournfully.
‘Or anyone else for that matter,’ I add.
‘He hasn’t always been a good neighbour.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘He and Guy from Uphill Farm next door have had a few fallings-out over the years and everything came to a head recently when Guy met your dad to discuss the state of the cows. They almost came to fisticuffs, and it ended with Guy contacting Animal Welfare.’ Cecil pauses. ‘Do you remember Jack Miller?’
I have a vague memory of meeting Jack at various events in Talyton St George when I used to live there.
‘Anyway,’ Cecil continues, ‘he’s the local Animal Welfare officer now and he’s been out to the farm twice to inspect the cattle. He says if conditions don’t improve before his next visit, he’ll have no choice but to recommend Tom’s charged with animal cruelty. He’ll be fined, or locked up, and banned from keeping animals for life.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Yes, my father is what many have described as an awkward old bugger, but he would never neglect the cows, and losing them from the farm would break his heart.’ I’m growing angry now at the injustice of the accusation. ‘It’s impossible, Cecil. He loves those cows more than anything in the world.’
‘Well, you know how it is, Stevie. It’s been a right struggle keeping the farm going recently. Tom’s hardly in the best of health. In fact, he’s still very poorly.’
This is news to me.
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘I know you and your dad aren’t on the best of terms, but I can’t believe you’ve forgotten.’
I’m not usually lost for words, but I don’t know what to say as Cecil says in an admonishing tone, ‘Dr Mackie reckons it’s going to be a long time till he’s back on his feet proper-like. He might never come completely right.’
‘Cecil, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. The last time I spoke to my father he was as right as rain – his turn of phrase, not mine.’
‘And when was that, my lover?’ I’m seized by a mixture of guilt and regret when I work out exactly how long ago it was. ‘More than three months?’
‘Nearer six,’ I confess.
‘He hasn’t told you then, his own flesh and blood?’ Cecil continues. ‘I had high hopes you two would put the past aside and move on. It was your mother’s dearest wish.’
‘Please just tell me what’s going on,’ I say with a touch of impatience. Any reminder of my mum is painful to me and I don’t want to think about it.
‘Tom’s recovering from a stroke. He spent six weeks in hospital but he’s home now.’
‘I don’t believe this. Why didn’t he call me? Why didn’t you let me know before?’
‘Because he said he’d seen you. I’ve been running the farm by myself, so I didn’t have any reason to doubt him when he said you’d made a couple of flying visits from London.’ Cecil’s voice softens. ‘I was pretty sore when you didn’t drop in to see me and Mary. We were such friends, Stevie.’
‘How is my dad? How bad is it?’
‘He tries to put a good face on it, but he’s been forced to sleep downstairs in the house and he can’t get much further than the front door on crutches or a stick. Mary cooks and cleans for him and the doctor comes in regular, so he’s all right as far as it goes.’
‘So he’s housebound?’
‘Pretty much.’
It’s worse than I could have imagined. ‘What about the milking?’ I ask.
‘I’m doing that. I’ve been milking cows twice a day for nigh on sixty years.’ Cecil chuckles. ‘I can do it in my sleep.’
‘And the other work on the farm?’
‘That will have to be done another time.’
‘You need someone to give you a hand.’ I glance out of the window. The sky is clearing. ‘I’ll talk to Dad.’
‘It’s no use,’ Cecil says.
‘I know how stubborn he is, but really, it’s too much to expect you to run the show.’ Cecil’s older than my father by a few years.
‘It’s the money, Stevie. Tom can’t afford to feed the cows, let alone take on another farmhand.’
‘I don’t see how he can afford not to.’ I prefer to avoid any conflict with my father, I’ve had more than enough grief from him in the past, but hiding the fact he’s been seriously ill from me, his daughter, and lying about it to Cecil, who’s been the most loyal employee anyone could have, is beyond the pale. ‘I’ll call him after work.’
My solution to the problem isn’t enough for Cecil.
‘Stevie, you have to come and see it for yourself.’
‘I’m very busy. I can’t just drop everything.’
‘You can drive down tomorrow and stay for the weekend. Mary will make up a bed and make sure you’re fed.’
‘I have plans for Saturday night,’ I sigh. It’s my flatmate’s thirtieth birthday and we’re having a bit of a party. ‘Won’t it wait until next weekend?’
‘No, because the next welfare inspection is tomorrow. We’ve had ten days to start turning it around and nothing’s changed. Stevie, you have to come back to the farm otherwise everything your family has worked for over the years will be gone.’
My instant reaction is ‘Why me?’ Why should I have any compassion for my father after how he treated me, rejecting me for my brother?
I pick up the photo of Nick and me at the firm’s Christmas party from my desk. (I met my boyfriend at work – Nick is one of the partners.) The girl who picked blackberries with Cecil would hardly recognise herself now: a tall, curvy woman of twenty-eight, wearing a short purple bodycon dress, with her rich brown hair pinned up, her brown eyes made up with false lashes and her nail extensions painted with black and silver crackle glaze.
‘Have you spoken to Ray?’ I ask.
‘I think it would be better coming from you. You know Ray and I haven’t always seen eye to eye.’ Cecil hesitates. ‘Please come home. Your dad’s a very sick man, the cows are going without and, truth be told, I’m struggling. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep going. Some days my back’s so bad I can hardly move.’ For a man of few words, Cecil makes an impassioned speech. ‘I know why you left the farm in the first place – I had many an argument with your dad over it, but he wouldn’t bend, and why should he? I’m only the hired farmhand, when all’s said and done. But you should have been the one who stayed, not that waste of space, Ray. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t speak badly of your brother, but he never loved the place in the same way you did.
‘I can’t stand by and see them cows starve no more. It’s breaking my heart to watch them like this. We need you, Stevie. Nettlebed Farm needs you. Please, I’m begging you to come home.’
I listen to Cecil’s slow rasping breathing before the phone cuts out, then close my eyes, picturing the bony black and white cows waiting patiently outside the milking parlour, asking for nothing and giving everything. I can almost smell their sweet breath and hear the rhythmic pulse of the milking machine and it takes me back to when I was a teenager working alongside Cecil. We made a good team. He was always there for me. If nothing else, I owe it to him and the cows to see what I can do, but I don’t owe my father anything.
I’m not going anywhere this weekend. I take a sip of coffee. My life is here in London and I’ve made plans for India’s special birthday, but Cecil’s call has disturbed my peace of mind because the very idea of Nettlebed Farm without cows is unthinkable.
‘Do you remember that song by the Wurzels?’ Nick says as he drives at speed along the motorway the following morning.
‘The one you’ve been singing non-stop for the last twenty miles, you mean, about the combine harvester?’ I say, amused. ‘If you’re not careful, I’ll ask Mary to give you turnips for tea.’
‘Dinner, you mean.’ He sighs. ‘I hate root vegetables.’
‘I’ve told you before. In Devon, dinner is lunch and tea is dinner, if you get my drift, and we live on turnips and swedes in the country.’
‘I remember now,’ he says. ‘It’s like you came down from another planet, Stevie.’
‘Thanks, Nick.’ I fall silent for a while, recalling our last trip to the farm for my mum’s funeral last year. They were the worst days of my life, but Nick was at my side, quietly supportive, and I’ll always be grateful to him for that.
‘Don’t you think you ought to slow down a little?’ I say eventually, clinging on to my seat.
‘I thought there was some urgency about the situation.’ Nick presses the accelerator down a touch, making the engine roar instead of merely purr. ‘You said we needed to get there as soon as possible.’
‘I’d like to get there in one piece.’
I glance towards my boyfriend, who’s in his element behind the wheel of his car. He’s well turned-out, the jeans and blue shirt understated but expensive. His eyes are blue-grey, his short brown hair is combed and waxed into place, his teeth are straight and white and his skin lightly tanned. It’s his natural colour – it isn’t long since we returned from the holiday of my dreams in Mauritius.
Nick flashes me a smile. ‘I hope you aren’t going to turn out to be a terrible nag, Stevie. You liked going fast when we first met. You said it gave you a thrill.’
I did because with the first flush of romance I’d felt immortal, but during our eighteen months together, my sense of self-preservation has gradually returned. I’m no longer so wrapped up in us being a couple, which, as I keep telling myself, is only to be expected.
Nick grows serious.
‘I don’t understand the rush, to be honest. Your dad’s hardly been considerate of your feelings over the years and I really can’t work out how a father can forget to tell his daughter he’s had a stroke. What’s that all about?’
I don’t say anything. Glancing at the speed registering on the dashboard, I reckon it won’t be long before we find out.
‘I wish you’d let me drive for a while,’ I say, changing the subject.
‘This is my baby.’ Nick drums his fingers against the steering wheel.
‘One day what’s yours will be mine, if we get married.’
‘When, I hope. However, this is one of the “all my worldly goods” that we won’t be sharing.’
‘If you really loved me, you’d let me have a go,’ I say archly. ‘I’ve always wanted to drive an Aston Martin.’
‘You know I love you,’ he says.
‘But you love your car more.’
‘It isn’t that. It’s just that she’s a bit livelier than what you’re used to.’
‘If I can drive a tractor, I can drive your car.’
‘What are you suggesting, Stevie? She’s nothing like a tractor.’ Nick floors the accelerator and the car whisks into the fast lane, leaving the other traffic behind. ‘Anyway, it’s me who should be questioning you on your level of commitment.’ His voice grows a little sulky, adding another grain to the slowly growing mound of doubt about where our future lies. ‘I’m beginning to wonder what’s taking you so long.’
‘It’s a big step,’ I begin, not wanting to enter into this conversation. Nick is nine years older than me and has been married before. Sometimes I wonder if the age gap will become too much and if he’s just too desperate to get married again. ‘I want to be sure.’
‘I’m sure,’ he says, and I notice the creases form at the corner of his eye as he concentrates on the road ahead. I wish I could talk to him about my doubts and fears and my desire to stay as we are, without hurting his feelings. ‘Stevie, when will you put me out of my misery and give me your answer?’
‘Soon, I promise, but please don’t keep pressuring me. I have a lot on my mind.’ I pause, waiting for his response which doesn’t come. ‘Thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘For coming with me. I really appreciate it.’ I’m not sure I can marry him. I’m not sure we’ll last, but we’re together, side by side, and that’s enough for me for now. I reach out and touch his thigh.
‘Not now, Stevie. I’m driving.’ Nick flashes me a smile and pushes my hand away. ‘I rather fancy a long weekend in sunny Devon, and it’s always good to have an excuse to take the car for a spin,’ he continues.
‘I’m not sure it’s going to be sunny,’ I say, gazing at the hands of a man who’s never worked outdoors and only ever works up a sweat at the gym. In fact, it’s pouring, spray flying up from the cars ahead and rain streaking across the windscreen, but I don’t think Nick hears me because he goes on, ‘I want to prove I’ll always be at your side when you need me.’
‘Oh, Nick, that’s so romantic.’
‘Perhaps we can talk again about moving in together, like a trial run before getting hitched.’
‘I suppose it would be a good idea to find out if we feel the same about each other when the dishes are piled up in the sink and the dirty socks are scattered across the bedroom floor.’ I’ve had boyfriends before, but I’ve never lived with any of them.
‘I always put my socks in the laundry bin,’ Nick says, looking upset. ‘I have one for whites and one for darks.’
I smile because that could be an issue. I’m not the tidiest person in the world.
‘Forgive me if I sound like I’m complaining, Stevie. I’m not. I’m just observing when I say that I’m trying really hard here and I don’t feel like I’m getting anything back. I’ve done the right thing, going down on one knee on the beach in the most amazing setting, with blue seas, coconut palms and cocktails, yet when I talk about moving in together, you reduce it to the level of the laundry arrangements. I thought you wanted the hearts and flowers.’
‘I do …’
‘Well, what’s wrong then?’
‘I can’t really explain. I’m sorry if I come across as ungrateful when you’re being so thoughtful and caring.’ That seems to mollify him and it’s a relief because I don’t have to go on to tell him how I can’t deal with the effort he purports to be making. I can’t envisage marrying a man who has to try so hard. Surely love and romance should come more naturally. Is that too much to ask?
‘We’ll find a pub and stop for lunch as soon as we come off the motorway,’ Nick says eventually.
‘I’m not hungry, thank you. I’d prefer to keep going.’ I have butterflies dancing in my stomach. Part of me wants to get to the farm to find out what’s going on, while part of me wants to delay the moment for ever.
‘It can’t be easy going back,’ Nick says, driving on. ‘In fact, I’m amazed you even considered it, after what your father did.’
‘I’m not going back for my father. I’m going back because of Cecil. He’s always been very kind to me.’ I’m fond of him, and I often wished he could have been my dad instead.
The motorway ends and we run into the back of a queue of traffic that spreads out again across the plain where the ancient circle of stones, Stonehenge, stands in a grassy landscape with sheep grazing close together. Another hour later and, as we pass the sign reading ‘Welcome to Devon’, the rain clears and the sun comes out from behind the clouds.
‘Are we nearly there yet?’ Nick says, slipping on his Ray-Bans.
‘There’s some way to go yet,’ I respond. It’s another forty minutes before we reach the turning for Talyton St George, where the road narrows into a country lane with dense hedges on either side. We pass Talyton Manor before entering Talyton itself, where red, white and blue bunting flutters between the lampposts in Market Square.
Nothing much changes in this quiet country town, apart from the odd tweak in the window display in Aurora’s Cave, where a mannequin is posing in a bikini. It’s quite a shock to see it, because the sight of naked flesh – even plastic – was always considered an offence to the morals of the town’s residents. The shutters are down at Mr Rock’s fish-and-chip shop, and there’s a sign on the butcher’s shop door reading, ‘Sorry Closed Early’. An elderly man, Nobby the church organist, is shuffling very slowly across the pedestrian crossing.
‘Which way is it now?’ Nick stops to wait for him to cross.
‘Straight over at the next junction,’ I say. ‘What’s happened to the sat nav?’
‘She’s crashed – there’s no signal.’
‘It isn’t far now.’
‘I thought you said it wasn’t much further,’ Nick grumbles as we drive along the lane out of town, which narrows down to single-track. A quarter of a mile or so along, a tractor comes bowling down the hill straight at us. Nick slams on the brakes and his face drains of colour as the tractor stops within a metre of the car’s bumper.
‘That was a close shave,’ he breathes before opening the window and waving furiously at the tractor driver to reverse.
‘That’s Guy.’
‘I don’t give a monkey’s who he is. He’s in the way.’
‘You’ll have to reverse. There’s a passing place further back.’
‘I can’t pull in there,’ he says when we reach a gateway into a field. ‘She’ll catch her undercarriage. I’m not risking it.’
‘In that case, you’ll have to keep going back until we reach town again,’ I say, wishing I’d brought my car.
‘Who’s this Guy person?’ Nick asks once we’re back on the road.
‘He’s our neighbour, the one who reported my father to Animal Welfare. He farms the land next door to ours.’
‘Ours? Why do you keep calling it your farm? I thought it was the family farm.’
‘I haven’t really talked about it before, but part of it is mine.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you think to mention it? You’re as bad as your father, keeping secrets.’
‘I don’t know. The subject has never really come up.’ I shrug. ‘I don’t like talking about the farm.’
‘Do you have any say in how your father manages the land?’ Nick asks.
‘I have a part-share with my brother Ray, a financial interest – it’s all to do with financial management and reducing inheritance tax. I don’t think my father would accept it if I went in telling him what to do.’
‘You might have to.’
‘I hope not, because he’s never listened to me before.’
We reach a fork in the road where the left-hand branch is signposted ‘Uphill Farm and Uphill House’, the sign itself leaning against a churn on a stone platform by the hedge. There is a board, too, with ‘Potatoe’s and Cider’ chalked on it. Above that is a brand-new sign for ‘Jennie’s Cakes’.
‘You said it was rural, but this really is the back of beyond,’ Nick says as we keep right, turning the corner where the lane shrinks further, the overgrown hedgerows reaching out and caressing the wings of the car. There’s grass growing up through the crazed surface of the tarmac in the middle of the road, and loose stones fly up now and again and ping against the paintwork, making Nick wince.
‘Now left.’ I can smell the scent of cow and fresh grass as we grow closer.
‘Left? Where?’
‘Just after the tree. There’s a sign.’ I look for the sign reading ‘Nettlebed Farm’, which is fixed to the trunk of the old oak, but it’s obscured by a tangle of ivy. ‘I’ll have to open the gate.’ When Nick pulls into the entrance to the farm, I slide out of the car to push and lift the rickety five-barred gate wide open. The March wind blusters through my hair, which I’ve left loose around my shoulders.
‘Do you mean I have to drive up there?’ Nick calls out of the window. ‘It looks pretty bumpy.’
‘That’s nothing. You should see it when it’s rained for a few days.’ I give him a smile to cheer myself up. ‘That’s why we drive tractors around here.’
‘I really can’t imagine you handling a tractor, given that you struggle to park an Audi,’ Nick adds with a cheeky grin, and I feel a surge of affection for him. If the truth be told, I’m so scared of what I’m going to find that I’m not sure I could have done this on my own. My father has always seemed immortal to me, and the survival of the family farm in perpetuity has never been in doubt before.
I close the gate behind him and jump back into the car. It’s done now. I’m here and there’s no going back. We follow the drive to the farmyard where we are greeted with a loud bang.
‘What the hell was that?’ Nick says with his hand on the gear stick, ready to reverse.
‘Gunshot,’ I say, my heart beating faster.
Nick pulls into the farmyard between an Animal Welfare van and a police car. Ignoring his entreaties that I wait to see if it’s safe, I get out and run across the yard in my Louboutin ankle boots, catching and scraping the heels in the cracks in the concrete and cobbles.
‘Dad, stop!’ I shout as I approach my father, who is standing in front of the tumbledown cob-and-thatch cowshed with a smoking shotgun aimed vaguely in the direction of a pale-faced policeman who gesticulates wildly as my dad loads it with another cartridge, fumbling with one arm in a grubby sling.
‘Dad?’ I am probably as shocked at the sight of him as he is of me. He’s changed, aged. His dark grey hair has grown long and lank and has lost its lustrous sheen, and he looks as if he’s wearing another man’s clothes. He appears to have tried to shave and given up halfway through. The left side of his face has dropped, his eyelid droops and his mouth is twisted into a sardonic smile, a sharp contrast to the expression of anger and defeat in his hazel eyes.
‘Stevie?’ he mumbles.
‘Give me the gun.’ I step in close enough to grab it around the stock and barrel, but my father seems reluctant to relinquish it.
‘If you don’t put that gun down, Mr Dunsford,’ the policeman says, ‘I will have no choice but to place you under arrest for threatening behaviour.’ He’s a familiar face, patrolling the crime-free streets of Talyton St George, reuniting lost dogs with their owners.
‘Dad, give me the gun,’ I repeat.
‘It’s mine. I have a licence for it,’ he says.
‘Not a licence to kill though,’ I say more gently, as a rush of adrenaline surges through my blood while I attempt to wrestle the gun from him. ‘Come on, hand it over, then we can talk. Please, Dad. You’re making things worse.’
Somehow, he finds the strength to wrench the gun from my grip and I can only hold my breath, scared stiff at what he’ll do next, but he doesn’t fire it again. He breaks the gun to make it safe and presents it to me.
‘Thank you.’ I find I’m trembling as I hand it over to the policeman. ‘I’m Stevie, Stephanie, Mr Dunsford’s daughter. Now you can tell me what’s going on here.’
‘All in good time.’ The police constable – Kevin, he’s called – turns to my father. ‘Thomas Edwin Dunsford, I’ll have to arrest you for a breach of the peace and take you down to the station.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ my father blusters. ‘These people have come onto my farm without any by-your-leave. What is the world coming to when a landowner has no right to protect his property?’
‘You’ve had plenty of warning,’ the policeman says. He must be about my age but looks younger, his uniform ill-fitting around his shoulders and his trousers, which are spattered with mud, overlong. He pulls out his notebook and writes a couple of lines, the tip of his tongue sticking out.
‘He’s a very sick man,’ I cut in. ‘You can’t arrest him.’
‘I’ll ask one of the local GPs to see him while he’s in custody.’
‘He’s had a stroke recently.’ I’m not making excuses for him, but I fear he’ll have another one.
‘Everyone has made allowances for Mr Dunsford’s health, but it can’t go on like this. Enough is enough.’ The policeman turns to me. ‘This is our second visit. On the last occasion Mr Dunsford made verbal threats to the Animal Welfare officer and the attending veterinary surgeon. This time he fired shots from his gun.’
‘They’re trying to take my cows away from me,’ my father says, his cheeks flushed with resentment. ‘What do you expect?’
‘Dad, you could have killed someone.’
‘I should have,’ he goes on. ‘That man, Guy Barnes, that neighbour of ours, he deserves to have some lead shot up his backside for what he’s done.’
‘You can’t say that. Stop making it worse for yourself.’ However, it seems it can’t be any worse.
‘If Jack Miller is unhappy with progress in remedying the situation, I shall be arresting Mr Dunsford for offences under the Animal Welfare Act.’
‘Look,’ I say to PC Kevin, ‘you’re making a mistake. Please don’t make him go to the police station.’ There’s a fine line between love and hate and I find that I can’t stand by. ‘Obviously, he isn’t coping and what he needs is support.’
‘It’s no excuse in law. The courts will have to decide if it’s a mitigating factor.’
‘How’s this going to look? The police arresting a sick and defenceless old man?’
‘Hey, less of the old, Stevie,’ Dad interrupts.
I glare at him to shut him up.
‘Can we go inside the house and talk about this over a cup of tea?’ I ask.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ PC Kevin says hesitantly.
‘I expect there’ll be some cake,’ I go on. ‘Please, give me ten minutes to run through exactly what’s been going on here, so I can give you the assurances you need to guarantee this kind of incident won’t happen again, and the cows will be looked after.’
‘I don’t think it’s that simple,’ PC Kevin says.
He’s beginning to infuriate me because, as far as I can see, it’s pretty straightforward, but I hold my tongue and show him towards the farmhouse, picking up my father’s crutch, which is lying on the ground in the mud and weeds. I give them to him and he struggles along at my side.
‘No one mentioned you were coming,’ he complains.
‘No one told me you were ill.’ My sense of anger and hurt dissipates slightly at the sight of the man in front of me, a shadow of his former self, physically at least.
‘Why are you here?’ he asks. ‘To rub my nose in it?’
‘Cecil contacted me.’
‘The old buzzard!’ My father hesitates when Nick joins us. ‘Who is this?’
‘Nick, my boyfriend,’ I say. ‘You must remember him. He came to Mum’s funeral.’
‘Oh yes.’ My father nods as he stares at him, and I’m not convinced he has any recollection of him at all, but then it was a very stressful time and Nick tactfully stayed in the background.
‘Hello, Tom,’ Nick says. ‘I thought it was supposed to be quiet living in the country.’
‘We have our fair share of dramas,’ PC Kevin says as a dog starts barking.
Nettlebed Farm is set in a dip in the hills. The farmhouse, which stands opposite the barn and collecting yard, isn’t the most beautiful house in the world. Its tiled roof looks like an oversized hat and it is rendered grey so it looks like stone from a distance. It’s a square building with three steps down to the porch and front door, where a shaggy tricolour creature, like a patchwork dog made up of pieces of many other dogs, is tied to a ring in the wall. Family history suggests that the ring was originally used by my great-grandmother to secure her hunter when she returned from a day out with the hounds. The dog redoubles his efforts at barking as we approach.
‘Shut up, Bear,’ I scold, and he stops instantly, gazing at me through one blue eye and one brown, and with one ear up and one ear down, before he starts snuffling and squeaking and wagging his tail, straining at the rope that restrains him. ‘Good boy.’
‘Be careful,’ says PC Kevin. ‘That dog’s dangerous.’
‘The dog isn’t a danger to anyone,’ I say, stepping down to unfasten the rope. His coat is matted and dirty. ‘He’s an old softie.’
‘Stevie, I’m afraid Bear bit the vet,’ Dad cuts in. ‘He turned on him. Really nasty, it was, but it was the vet’s fault for staring at him straight in the eyes. He can’t be a proper vet. He’s on death row.’
Bear is, or the vet, I want to ask. Bear must be twelve or thirteen now and, although I haven’t seen him much over the years, I love that dog. I look to Nick for moral support, but he’s staying well out of it. I know what he’ll say later, that he saw how well I was handling the situation and didn’t like to interfere. When I left the farm to work in London when I was eighteen, I wouldn’t have said boo to a goose, but eventually I found the confidence that had been buried under layers of my father’s overbearing attitude.
‘We’ll talk about that later. I’ll lock him in the lean-to.’ I run the dog around to the back of the house and make sure he’s secured before entering the kitchen and letting Nick, my father and the policeman through the front. Cecil has now appeared too, in his flat cap and a faded set of blue overalls tied up with baling twine; he limps stiffly along behind them.
‘Stevie, you came!’ he exclaims. He pushes past, reaches out and grasps my arm. ‘Thank goodness you’re here. You speak to this ruddy policeman and make him see sense.’
‘Cecil, that’s what I’m doing. Oh, it’s lovely to see you again.’
He gives me a hug and smiles, revealing a gap where his two front teeth should be.
‘What happened?’ I ask him.
‘One of the heifers got me when she came out of the crush. She knocked me down and I lost my teeth on the railings. I tried a set of false ones, but they didn’t agree with me. They belonged to my late father – I kept them in case, thinking they’d fit, but even though I filed them down, they were no use.’
‘Cecil! Haven’t you got a dentist?’
‘I can’t afford new teeth. It doesn’t bother me – I mean, I’m hardly going to make it in Hollywood at my time of life – except I lost my whistle, so Mary bought me this.’ He lifts a metal referee’s whistle from a string around his neck. ‘Cecil, she said, this is a whole lot cheaper than a new set of gnashers.’
‘How is Mary?’
‘You can ask her yourself. She’s right behind me, come to put the kettle on.’
‘Hello, Stevie.’ Cecil’s wife joins us. She’s taller than Cecil, and the way she moves, slowly ambling along the hall, reminds me of an elderly cow. She wears a floral dress with a cardigan and apron, caramel stockings and flat brown moccasins. Her ankles are thick and her waist thicker, yet her wedding ring is so thin it’s almost worn out. ‘I’ve got a fruit cake in the Aga and a nice piece of mild cheese from the local dairy to go with it.’
‘Well, that sounds remarkably good,’ says PC Kevin.
‘Go on through,’ says Cecil. ‘Stevie, I think it would be a good idea if you went and asked Jack and the vet if they’d like to join us as soon as they’ve finished.’
‘I’ll do that,’ I say, taking the hint. It will be a whole lot easier talking to them without my dad weighing in with his side of the argument.
‘Jack’s in with the calves.’
‘Thanks, Cecil.’ I turn to Nick. ‘Are you all right here?’
‘I’ll deal with it,’ he says, and I leave him to negotiate between Kevin and my father over tea and cake.
I find Jack Miller emerging from the breezeblock building next to the old cowshed where my father rears the calves. I vaguely remember him from school – he was three or four years above me. He’s always been the strong, silent type, tall and blond with brown eyes. He’s wearing a shirt and tie, navy showerproof jacket, khaki cargo trousers and boots with odd laces, one black and one tan.
‘If I’d had any idea what was going on here, I would have been back before now,’ I say, my throat thick with regret as we walk to the far side of the yard, skirting a heap of rusting shovels, buckets, sickles, and an earth-encrusted plough that rises up from a huge clump of stinging nettles. ‘I haven’t visited my dad since my mother’s funeral last year.’ I give myself a mental shake. I don’t want to be thought of as playing for the sympathy vote. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’
‘I’ll show you.’ Jack stops to point to the cow standing in the crush in the collecting yard. Although she’s terribly thin, her hips and ribs clearly visible under her skin behind the metal bars, I recognise Pollyanna, one of the oldest cows in the herd; she should have been moved on a long time ago. She doesn’t like being restrained. She rolls her eyes and flicks her tail.
A man – the vet, I assume – is giving Pollyanna a pedicure. He has a rope looped around her pastern and tied to one of the rails, keeping one front foot clear of the ground. He runs a hoof knife around the horn of her claws, searching for any infection before he cleans up the foot, scrubbing in between her toes, and spraying antibiotic onto her skin.
‘That looks better,’ he says, looking up at Jack. ‘She mustn’t go back out in all this mud though.’
‘Leave her here,’ I say. ‘I’ll get the tractor out and scrape the yard.’
I’m ashamed to see that the yard can’t have been cleared of muck for some time. When Cecil said he wasn’t keeping up, it was an understatement.
‘Who are you?’ asks the vet, straightening up and untying the rope to release Pollyanna’s foot. A pair of blue eyes peers through a mass of tangled curls of black hair. He’s in his late twenties or early thirties, well built with a healthy complexion, broad shoulders and muscular arms, and dressed in blue overalls with an apron over the top.
‘I’m sorry, you haven’t been introduced,’ Jack says. ‘Leo, this is Stevie, Mr Dunsford’s daughter. Stevie, this is Leo. He’s the summer locum for Talyton Manor vets.’
‘It doesn’t seem much like summer yet,’ I say, suddenly feeling awkward and exposed, aware that these men probably assume that I bear some of the responsibility for the state of the farm.
The vet’s brow furrows slightly. ‘Unsurprisingly, considering it’s only March.’
I shrink back, unsure how to take him. He’s charismatic rather than handsome, his lightly tanned complexion marked with a few small scars and glistening with perspiration. I glance away quickly, concentrating on the cows instead. There are seven, including Pollyanna, in the collecting yard, and they all look much the same, like portents of doom, their coats rough and staring and covered in muck, their bones with hardly an ounce of flesh on them.
The poor girls, I think. I could cry. They look as if they’ve never been fed.
‘They’re in a bad way,’ says Leo as if he’s reading my mind. ‘As far as I’m concerned it’s a clear case of neglect, and I’ll be more than happy to act as an expert witness for the prosecution. It’s absolutely appalling. I’ve never seen anything like it, not on this scale.’
‘It happens,’ says Jack. ‘I’ve seen it before. Circumstances change. I’m not saying it’s forgivable, just that sometimes in life –’ Pollyanna lifts her tail and drops a spattering cowpat – ‘shit happens.’
‘There’s really no excuse for it, no matter how you dress it up,’ Leo interrupts, his eyes settling on my boots, which are entirely inappropriate for running round a farmyard. ‘I’m surprised at you, Jack.’
Jack shrugs. ‘Having been in this line of business for a while, both here and abroad, I’ve learned that a little humility and understanding goes a long way, particularly when you’re working in a community. It’s never just about the animals, no matter what you say. It’s about people too, and I know Tom Dunsford wouldn’t intentionally harm his cattle.’
‘In my view, sins of omission are equally bad,’ says Leo. He seems angry, his cheeks flaring with colour.
‘I don’t understand. Dad’s always treated the cows like they’re family.’
‘I wouldn’t treat my family like that,’ Leo cuts in.
‘Cecil told me what was going on and I came straight down from London.’ I address this to Jack. ‘Can’t you give me a few days to sort things out?’
‘We’ve already given him a week to start turning it around, but conditions are no better,’ Jack says, folding his arms across his chest. ‘The cows are underweight – on the verge of starving even – and they’re suffering from a variety of conditions. There’s an unacceptable level of lameness and foot problems in the herd and the accommodation is filthy.’
‘A few days,’ I say in desperation. ‘That’s all I’m asking for.’
‘The welfare of the cows comes first,’ says Leo, his tone like shattering glass.
‘I’m not sure,’ says Jack.
‘Just over the weekend. Two days.’
‘I don’t see why you should negotiate,’ Leo says.
‘I’ll do everything that needs doing,’ I say, ignoring him. ‘I’ll clean the yard and the cubicles and make sure the cows are well fed. I’ll get advice from Alex – he’s our usual vet – about implementing a herd health programme … whatever it takes. Please …’
‘I really don’t—’ Leo begins, but Jack overrides him.
‘Two days, and I’ll be back on Monday to check up on you, Stevie. You’re to ring me in the meantime if you need more help or advice. I warn you though, if there’s no improvement, Tom will be charged.’
‘He’ll be fined, imprisoned and banned from keeping animals for the rest of his life,’ says Leo.
I stare at the muck on my Louboutins, sick to the pit of my stomach at Leo’s summary of the situation. I’m really not warming to him.
‘I shan’t let it happen. My father’s a sick man. Seeing the herd our family has built up over the years dispersed would kill him,’ I say, looking up again and fixing my gaze on Leo’s face. ‘I know what I’m doing. I virtually ran the farm when I was eighteen,’ I say, exaggerating a little because there is so much at stake.
‘And what about the dog?’ Leo says. ‘He’s out of control.’
‘Leave the dog alone,’ I say. Bear’s in a bit of a state too. ‘He isn’t vicious. He’s thirteen years old and he’s never bitten anyone before.’
‘And he never will again if I have my way,’ says Leo. ‘He got me in the groin. Luckily I was wearing more than one layer – he’s still managed to break the skin, but it’s only a flesh wound.’
‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know why he did it. Perhaps he took an instant dislike to you.’ As I have. I don’t say it. I bite my lip instead.
‘Your father got himself wound up and was yelling at us, so the dog joined in,’ Jack says.
‘There’s no excuse for it. I’m not risking my life – or my balls – every time I come up to the farm. Not that I have any great desire to father children, but I’d rather keep them intact.’
‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration,’ I say. ‘It won’t happen again.’
‘It shouldn’t, because a dog like that should be put down.’
I wait for Jack to give his opinion. I have everything crossed, fingers and toes. Bear was my mum’s dog – I promised her I’d look after him and I’m wracked with guilt that it has turned out like this. I can’t bear the thought of him being taken away and put to sleep. He’s an old boy. He’s never been any trouble before. Dad’s right. It must have been the way the vet looked at him, or did Bear think they were all here to take my father away and turned on Leo in order to defend him?
‘I’ll make sure he’s kept under control.’ I find myself on the verge of bursting into tears once again. I swallow hard.
‘It’s up to you, Leo,’ Jack says eventually. ‘All I can say is that I think it’s a one-off and I believe every animal deserves a second chance. But he’s in a bit of a state too. He’s on the skinny side, his coat is matted and his teeth need attention.’
I suppress a twinge of guilt, even though it isn’t my fault that Bear’s been neglected.
‘I’ll get him to a vet,’ I say.
‘Sooner rather than later,’ Jack says.
‘Don’t go bringing him to me,’ says Leo. ‘I don’t do dogs, especially ones that bite. You’d better take him to Otter House.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, upset at what feels like a personal attack. Love me, love my dog. I’m hot with embarrassment, desperately sad at the state of the cows and the dog and angry at Leo in particular. Does he have no consideration for anyone’s feelings?
I can no longer quell the flow of tears that run down my cheeks.
‘I’m sorry. You must think I’m such a fool,’ I mutter as Leo and Jack look on. Jack fishes about in his pockets and apologises for not being in possession of a tissue.
‘It isn’t foolish to care about your animals,’ Leo says gruffly, and I wonder if he’s trying to apologise in an odd sort of way for upsetting me. I’m not having it though. It’s too late. He’s put my back up with his uncompromising views, whereas Jack – in my opinion – is a great guy, with compassion for both animals and their keepers.
‘Stevie?’ I turn at the sound of Nick’s voice, finding him making his way gingerly across the farmyard, trying to avoid getting mud on his shoes. ‘Is everything all right? You’ve been a while.’
I brush away my tears.
‘It’s only been five minutes,’ I say, unsure why I feel mildly irritated, not grateful that he’s come to find me.
‘The tea’s getting cold,’ he says, taking a long hard look at Leo.
‘This is Nick,’ I say, hastily introducing him to Leo and Jack. ‘Would you like to come inside for tea and cake?’
‘I’ll pop in and have a word with Kevin before I go,’ Jack says.
‘I won’t stop,’ Leo says. ‘I have two more calls to make. Jack, let me know when you want me back here next week. If you need someone from the practice over the weekend, Alex is the duty vet.’
I begin to worry that, on top of everything else, these vet visits must be getting pretty expensive.
I look around at the yard and outbuildings, and the tatty mobile home my father bought a while back for a song. It appears as if a herd of wild bulls has torn right through Nettlebed Farm. There are potholes and weeds everywhere, the cob at the corner of the cowshed has fallen away, revealing the red earth at its heart, and the corrugated iron – meant to protect the occupants where the thatch has disintegrated – has slid from the top. My throat tightens with regret when I remember how it used to be, the stone trough by the brick building which houses the office once filled with bright spring flowers, now empty apart from compost and dead leaves. There’s so much that needs doing I’m not sure where to start, and once I’ve got going, I haven’t a clue where it will all end.
I can’t stand back and let my father and Cecil flounder, something I try to explain to Nick when Jack, Kevin and I have finished negotiating over improving conditions for the cows and a deadline for Bear to see one of the vets at Otter House. We also agree that my father will sign over his shotgun to the police with immediate effect, and attend the station on Monday morning, where he will just receive a caution, on condition he gives up his gun licence without a fuss. The potential charges over the Animal Welfare offences go on hold for a limited time only.
‘How do you think you’re going to solve everything, Stevie?’ Nick says as we sit around the massive oak table in the farmhouse kitchen with Mary, Cecil and my father.