Appleby Farm (23 page)

‘Cheeky madam,’ Auntie Sue chuckled. She had a turquoise T-shirt on today that made her eyes sparkle and set off her fluffy white hair. ‘Your uncle’s waiting in the kitchen. Come and have a chat.’

Uncle Arthur was sitting at the table behind a fat pile of farming magazines and a thin folder marked ‘Retirement’. He looked up when we entered with a half-smile, half-sigh. It was his default greeting these days.

The cardiologist was apparently ‘astounded’ by my uncle’s recovery after his heart attack in April, using words like ‘cast iron’ and ‘indestructible’. I thought the man must be blind; it was obvious to me that Uncle Arthur’s heart was broken after losing half of his beloved livestock.

‘Sit down, Freya.’

Uncle Arthur patted the chair at the head of the table. I sat down and Auntie Sue squeezed in next to me opposite her husband.

I looked at them both. ‘Blimey, this sounds serious. Have I left a tea bag in the sink again?’

There was a pause. Short, but long enough to tell me to ditch the jokes.

Auntie Sue reached for my fingers. Uncle Arthur reached for my fingers.

‘Freya, thank you for all you’ve done for us over the last few months. We couldn’t have managed without you,’ he began, his eyes looking rheumy and sad.

‘And we don’t just mean the money,’ said Auntie Sue, patting my hand. ‘You’ve been a ray of sunshine.’

‘That’s sweet of you to say.’ I held my breath. There was a ‘but’ coming …

‘But the farm can’t carry on as it is.’ Uncle Arthur stroked the cover of his retirement folder and Auntie Sue coughed.

‘I mean
we
can’t carry on as we are,’ he corrected. ‘And losing half the herd is devast—’

‘Gives us an opportunity,’ Auntie Sue cut in, ‘to think about taking it a bit easier.’

‘That’s brilliant. I’m so glad you’re thinking positively about the future.’ I leaned across and kissed both of them. Auntie Sue had been angling for Uncle Arthur to retire for ages. Finally it looked as though she might be getting her way.

‘So we’re going to look at our options …’ he went on.

‘Cut back, sell the rest of the herd, make everything as simple as we can on the farm and then see what happens at the end of the year,’ added Auntie Sue.

Simple? My heart plunged somewhere down near my knees. ‘So … you don’t want the tea rooms to go ahead after all?’

They both started protesting at once.

‘No, no, that’s not what we mean!’

‘The tea rooms are a great idea!’

‘But it’s not simplifying things, is it?’ I said, focusing hard on not sounding petulant. It was their farm and who was I to scupper their plans, but the Appleby Farm Vintage Tea Rooms was the first venture I’d ever felt truly excited about. It was my only venture, come to that.

Uncle Arthur opened one of his magazines and jabbed a finger at the page. ‘Look, there’s an article here about a farm that has opened up a children’s adventure park. All farms are spreading their wings into different areas to stay afloat. And there’s nowhere around here for a decent cup of tea.’

‘Or a slice of my cake,’ chuckled Auntie Sue.

‘And at the end of this year either we stay here, keep the house and garden, and subcontract out the farmland and the tea rooms,’ said my uncle, ‘or we sell.’

‘And buy a bungalow,’ Auntie Sue said quickly.

‘We’ll get compensation from the government for the loss of the herd, which will give us a little lump sum to pay you back,’ he continued.

‘Or put down a deposit on a bungalow,’ muttered Auntie Sue.

Uncle Arthur looked at me. ‘I’m getting a subliminal message from your auntie. Do you hear it?’

We both laughed and Auntie Sue folded her arms and hitched her bosom closer to her chin.

‘But why sell the rest of the herd?’ I frowned. ‘Couldn’t the next farmer – whether he or she buys or rents it from you – take on the Herefords?’

‘She?’ Auntie Sue sat up in her chair. ‘Is that your way of expressing an interest, lass?’

‘Sue!’ Uncle Arthur waggled his eyebrows at her. ‘Possibly, love. We just thought it might make it a better proposition for someone. You know, coming in to a blank canvas. Or an empty field …’ His voice sounded far away and my heart squeezed for him.

‘So.’ I slapped my palms down on the table. ‘By the end of the year, come what may, you’re going to retire?’

They both nodded. And I nodded. ‘I can work with that,’ I said, pushing myself up from the table.

‘Where are you off to, lass?’

The pair of them stared at me uneasily.

‘I’ve got builders to organize.’

I marched off to the office to ring Goat.

As Auntie Sue had put it, this was an opportunity. I had six months to make a success of the tea rooms. The decision from the planning department was due any day and it would be just my luck if I rang Goat next week and he said, ‘Oh, sorry, I’ve just taken on a contract to build a hospital and I can’t do your little barn for another year.’ OK, that was a bit unlikely, but you get the picture.

Whatever happened, I couldn’t fail. I had something to prove. To my dad, of course, because he’d lent me the money and had put his trust in me for the first time ever, but more importantly to
myself.
I’d always shied away from responsibility in the past and this was my chance to show myself what I was really capable of.

I sat down at my little sewing-machine-table desk and looked for Goat’s number with Auntie Sue’s words rattling round in my head:
Is that your way of expressing an interest, lass?

There was zero chance of me being able to run the farm on my own. Nor would I want to. I’d always known I couldn’t stay for ever; I knew I’d have to leave once the tea rooms were up and running.

But while it lasted, I was going to savour every moment.

The next day got off to a rocky start when I woke up at seven o’clock with Benny on my chest. We both yawned simultaneously, which meant that my waking breath smelled of cat yawn.

‘Oh, Benny, haven’t you heard of dental floss? What have you been eating?’ I groaned, sitting up suddenly.

My mood took a deeper nosedive when I got downstairs to find my big brother Julian sitting at the head of the kitchen table, drinking black coffee and fending off Auntie Sue’s attempts at feeding him. Uncle Arthur was sitting in his armchair, hiding behind his newspaper. He lowered the paper when I came in, waggled his eyebrows and grinned.

Despite my shock and horror at seeing Julian, I couldn’t help but smirk. My aunt can wear down the most reluctant eater to accept food. It usually starts off innocently enough with the offer of a biscuit. And if she gets turned down, she’ll offer cake (homemade – just a sliver?), then a poached egg on toast (although strangely she calls it ‘a buttered egg’) and finally back to the biscuit.

‘Fine,’ muttered Julian through gritted teeth. ‘A biscuit would be lovely.’

Auntie Sue sighed with relief and slid a plate piled high with shortbread fingers up to him.

I realized I was still hovering at the door. ‘Morning, all. Hello, Julian.’

I came forward, touched his shoulder briefly in lieu of a hug and went and sat down a bit further along the bench.

We eyed each other warily. No one would ever suspect that we were siblings. In fact, at this precise moment, you’d be hard pressed to mistake us for the same species: me in my PJs with bed-head hair, gritty-eyed and still queasy from the cat yawn; Julian in an expensive linen suit and dark hair like Mum, although now he was in his forties, it was a bit on the sparse side and flecked with silver. He had darting brown eyes, narrow shoulders and his knees bounced perpetually under the table. He reminded me of a stoat.

Julian made a point of checking his watch. ‘Morning, sis. I was wondering when you’d make an appearance. Dad said you were having an extended holiday up here. Nice work if you can get it.’

‘Actually—’ My lungs filled with indignation and I was about to give him both barrels when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

‘Isn’t this a lovely surprise?’ exclaimed Auntie Sue, handing me a mug of tea.

My brother’s eyes met mine and he sniggered.

‘We-e-ll,’ he drawled, shoving the biscuits out of his way. I took one and dunked it in my tea. ‘I was at a conference in Edinburgh until the early hours and I thought rather than sleep in a hotel I’d drive through the night and pop in here for breakfast.’

I rolled my eyes. Next he’d be saying that sleep is for wimps.

‘Breakfast? Ooh, how about a bit of bacon?’ Auntie Sue began again.

‘Christ on a bike, Sue,’ muttered Uncle Arthur, giving his newspaper a thump to straighten the pages.

‘And I wanted to see how you are, Uncle, after your heart attack,’ said Julian smoothly.

‘Which one?’ I asked innocently. ‘The first one at Easter or the second one seven weeks ago?’

He ignored me, took his phone out of his pocket, tutted and slipped it back in. ‘I must say, I’m surprised to see you up and about, Uncle. I hope you’re not overdoing it?’

I wasn’t buying it. Julian didn’t do social calls. He wanted something. Fact. I kept quiet and sipped at my tea.

‘I’m fine, lad, thanks for asking. Did you say bacon, Sue?’

‘No, Artie. Come and have your muesli.’ Auntie Sue pinched the newspaper out of his hands and gave him a look that said ‘and make more of an effort with your only nephew’.

‘Cholesterol, Uncle.’ Julian slapped his non-existent stomach. ‘I avoid it like capital gains tax. You need to look after your heart if you’re going to, er …’ He pursed his lips to sip at his coffee. ‘Retire.’

My eyes narrowed.

I’d phoned Dad yesterday to give him an update on my uncle and aunt’s plans to leave the farm at the end of the year. I’d said that they hadn’t decided whether to sell up or rent out the land and I’d asked if I could delay repaying the money I’d borrowed until then. And one day later, hey presto, the Master of Opportunity comes a-knocking.

Coincidence? I snorted into my tea. Not likely.

Julian didn’t come rushing to our assistance in April, did he, when I called and asked for help? Oh no. He must have an ulterior motive and I wasn’t leaving this room until I’d found out what it was.

Uncle Arthur shuffled from his armchair to the kitchen bench and began ploughing through his daily bowl of sawdust. ‘How long are you stopping for?’ he asked in a not altogether welcoming way.

I shunted up the bench towards my uncle to show solidarity.

‘You’ll be due back in London, I expect?’ I asked hopefully.

‘Sure, sure.’ Julian frowned. ‘But first I wanted to speak to you both.’ He looked from Uncle Arthur to Auntie Sue and then pointedly at me. I folded my arms.

Auntie Sue poured herself a cup of tea, slipped a tea cosy over the pot and sat down next to Julian. ‘What about, love?’

He patted her arm with his stoaty hand and left it there. ‘I don’t mean to pry and you certainly don’t have to confide in me,’ he gave an unconvincing self-deprecating laugh, ‘but have you thought about who might inherit the farm?’

I gasped. ‘Julian!’

The cheek of the man! Why didn’t he just come straight out and ask how much they’d left him in their will while he was at it?

‘We have.’ Uncle Arthur tilted his chin up. There was a patch of stubble on his jawline that he’d missed with his razor. It gave him an air of vulnerability that made me want to hug him whilst simultaneously punching Julian right between the eyes.

Julian swallowed.

‘We’d always hoped it would stay in the family, love.’ Auntie Sue sighed.

Uncle Arthur dropped his spoon into the bowl and milk splashed on to Julian’s linen jacket (ha!). ‘But we may not keep the farm for our retirement, we might sell.’

Auntie Sue shimmied her shoulders. ‘And buy a bung—’ She noticed Uncle Arthur’s scowl and snapped her jaw shut.

‘Excellent!’ my brother cried, banging the table and making us all jump.

‘Julian, much as we have loved you popping in like this,’ I began impatiently, ‘I don’t see what business it is of yours, poking your nose—’

He flapped a hand.
Flapped.
Like I was a fly getting in his ointment.

‘I might have a buyer for the farm.’ He sat back and stretched his thin lips into a smug smile. ‘Lock, stock and barrel. Why wait until the end of the year when you could start your retirement now?’ He hitched up a narrow shoulder and grinned meanly at me.

There was a moment of silence during which my pulse speeded up so much I feared my poor heart would explode.

‘A buyer?’ breathed Auntie Sue.

I looked from one to the other: Auntie Sue’s eyes had glazed over in wonderment and Uncle Arthur was nodding thoughtfully.

No, don’t nod!

I forced myself to breathe. This had to be their decision. A quick sale, money in their pockets, completely stress-free living. They were bound to be tempted. But me? There were tears pressing at the back of my eyeballs and I was rapidly going into full panic mode.

What about my Vintage Tea Rooms?
I wanted to shout. I’d got the next six months all mapped out.
And besides, this is my home
, I wanted to howl. But I didn’t. I clamped my lips together with great difficulty.

‘I know,’ said Julian, laughing as if he didn’t quite believe it himself. ‘What are the chances?’

Precisely, I thought, sipping my tea. What
are
the chances?

‘One of my fellow business angels is interested. Made his millions in television cables. The market for cables tripled in the noughties. Digital. That’s where the money is.’ He sniffed and rocked back on his chair. ‘Anyway, now he fancies himself as a farmer, living the good life.’

‘Well, isn’t that a … thing?’ exclaimed Auntie Sue.

‘Now don’t get too excited,’ said Julian. ‘This place is in pretty poor repair and mightn’t be worth what you’d hoped.’

‘Funny that,’ I muttered.

He scanned the room greedily and I could just imagine him reporting back to Cable Man: ‘Needs gutting, the whole place, top to bottom. But definitely got potential.’

This was a terrible development.
Terrible.

‘But if you do the deal direct, you’ll avoid estate agents and all that nonsense, and you’ll be saving yourself a lot of money.’