Appleby Farm (35 page)

‘Yum,’ said Lizzie, smothering her eggs with ketchup. ‘Morning, all. How about spag bol?’

I pulled a face. ‘Falls down slightly at the unique hurdle, don’t you think?’

She puffed out her cheeks. ‘Have you ever tasted my spaghetti bolognese?’

‘No, true, but I was thinking something a bit more … British. Something to celebrate local produce.’

Uncle Arthur coughed. ‘Just a suggestion, but you are on a
beef
farm … Roast beef? We can send one to the butcher specially.’

I sat down next to Lizzie and grinned at him. ‘Genius! A roast dinner on a December day will warm everyone up.’ I hesitated. ‘As long as it’s not one of the cute ones.’

‘Freya!’ Lizzie, Auntie Sue and Uncle Arthur tutted in unison.

I blushed and bent over my plate. ‘I know, I know.’

Auntie Sue stood up and held out Uncle Arthur’s tweed jacket. ‘Up you get. We’ll be back at lunchtime, Freya. Don’t forget your cheque book for the deposit on an apartment, Artie.’

‘Eh?’ Uncle Arthur paled.

‘Joke! Come on.’

They left the farmhouse, still bickering, and Lizzie and I finished our breakfast.

‘This wedding’s going to be so cool,’ said Lizzie, pouring herself a mug of tea. ‘I can’t wait to meet Aidan. He must be really trendy.’

I laughed. ‘Why?’

‘Wanting a rustic wedding at a farm. It’s
the
thing at the moment. Six of my friends are getting married next year and four of the receptions are on farms. He’s bang on trend.’

‘Is he?’ A spark of something that could just be my long-awaited brainwave fizzed in my brain. I glanced at my watch. ‘Ooh, come on, Lizzie, it’s nearly opening time. Can you grab the milk and I’ll carry the lemon drizzle cake.’

‘Sure.’

We both stood up and cleared away our dirty plates. ‘By the way, Harry made a rare appearance in the pub last night and he said—’ Lizzie began.

‘What are your thoughts on ginger cake?’

Lizzie blinked at me. ‘Meh, that’s what I think. I also think you’re changing the subject.’

‘I agree,’ I said, opening the fridge and handing Lizzie two cartons of milk.

‘Do you?’

‘Yep.’ I packed the fresh scones into a plastic box and tucked them and the lemon cake under my arm. ‘Ginger is the Marmite of cakes, or possibly coffee cake. Coffee cake definitely has its share of enemies.’

Satisfied that I’d nipped the Harry and Victoria conversation in the bud, I headed for the kitchen door, only to be stopped in my tracks by the office phone ringing.

‘Can you go on and open the tea rooms? I’ll get that.’

I put down the cakes and scampered back to the office, hoping that it would be another booking for a baby shower. We’d had one the week before and it had been a roaring success. The women had got through the biggest mountain of cupcakes and, considering there had been zero alcohol involved, had been extremely raucous.

‘Appleby Farm Vintage Tea Rooms; Freya speaking.’

There was an exasperated huff down the line followed by a mumbled expletive, which immediately told me who was calling.

‘Julian,’ I said unenthusiastically.

‘Still playing at tea parties, I see? Sorry, Freya, but there’ll be no more fannying about. We need to move forward with this deal. Is Arthur there?’

‘No, they’re both out. Gone to look at … a horse.’ No way was I going to let him know they’d gone house-hunting, he’d have the For Sale sign up before they even got home. Or worse, a Sold sign.

‘A horse? At their age? For God’s sake. All right, tell them there’s a rural property surveyor coming to value the farm tomorrow morning. If they’ve got a problem with that, they’ll have to call me.’

‘Hold on a minute. We’ve still got two weeks,’ I fumed.

‘For what? A miracle? The buyer wants to get things in motion; plans have already been drawn up. They’ve waited long enough and I can’t … I mean, Arthur can’t afford to lose this deal.’

Plans? That sounded ominous. What did a farmer need plans for?

‘Is there anything in the world more important to you than profit, Julian?’

‘Don’t be naive.’

The line went dead. I headed back through to the kitchen, collected the cakes and stepped out into the cobbled farmyard. I was instantly calmed by the autumn sun on my face.

Perhaps Julian was right. Maybe I was naive and maybe I’d never be rich but I knew how to be happy. And I was pretty sure that true happiness had somehow passed my brother by.

Later that evening, I pulled on my wellies and overalls, and joined Auntie Sue out in the milking parlour as she led Gloria and Gaynor in for milking.

There were fourteen stalls in all, seven down either side of the parlour, each with their own milking equipment connected up to a big milk tank left over from the days of dairy farming. The two cows swayed amiably into stalls next to each other and plunged their heads straight into their feeding troughs.

The parlour was, of course, a bit pongy, but its walls were made of the same moss-covered stone as the barn. If it didn’t have all this paraphernalia in it, it could have just as much potential as the barn I’d converted for the tea rooms. A farm shop, perhaps, or—

‘Ooh, I’m stiff tonight,’ Auntie Sue groaned, breaking into my daydream as she bent towards Gloria’s undercarriage and wiped her udders.

‘I’ll help.’

I jumped down to the lower part of the floor that ran down the centre of the milking parlour. Auntie Sue turned the pump on and I attached the cups to each teat on both of the cows. It was easy enough to do – the suction in the cups did most of the work, I just had to aim straight.

Auntie Sue came and stood next to me, and for a couple of minutes we stayed silent. It was mildly hypnotic listening to the ‘suck-release-suck-release’ of the pump and watching as the ivory milk squirted thinly through the plastic tubes on its way to the tank.

‘So, come on.’ I nudged her. ‘Spill the beans about today.’

Relations between her and my uncle had been a bit strained when they’d arrived back from their house-hunting at lunchtime. This was the first time I’d got her on her own since then and I wanted the full story.

‘Well, that was a disaster,’ Auntie Sue had huffed, flipping up the bin lid and dropping the Oaklands Retirement Development brochure into it. ‘Rabbit hutches, the lot of them. And the kitchens, Freya! You couldn’t swing a cup let alone a cat. Where would I put my Aga? No storage inside and barely enough room to sit in the garden. Where would we put all our furniture?’

I’d been about to point out that downsizing meant moving to a smaller house until I caught sight of her face – fierce. I’d kept my opinions to myself.

Uncle Arthur hadn’t been so sensible. ‘I was pleasantly surprised.’ He’d picked up another brochure, this time for ‘Sunset Living Luxury Residencies’ and sunk into his armchair.

Auntie Sue had begun slicing bread for sandwiches with unnecessary force. ‘Yes, well. I could see that. We’d only been there five minutes and you were off playing dominoes in the social centre with some other old reprobates.’

Uncle Arthur had winked at me and shown me a handful of coins: ill-gotten gains, presumably.

‘And talk about busy!’ she’d ranted. ‘It was right on the main road, cars hurtling past every second of the day. I’d never get a moment’s peace. No,’ she’d shaken her head firmly, ‘it wasn’t for me.’

‘What about this one?’ Uncle Arthur had suggested, holding up the brochure. ‘They’ve got an indoor swimming pool and sauna.’

She’d tugged it out of his hand and replaced it with a cheese and pickle sandwich.

‘I want to live in a nice quiet bungalow, not a bloomin’ holiday camp.’

At that point I’d told them about Julian’s phone call and the appointment with the surveyor in the morning, and all talk of retirement homes had been instantly forgotten.

Now, in the milking parlour over the throbbing of the machinery, Auntie Sue checked over her shoulder furtively and took a step closer.

‘I’ve found a bungalow,’ she hissed. ‘Converted stables on the edge of farmland. It’ll be perfect for us when it’s finished. I knew it as soon as I saw the details. Two bedrooms, a big kitchen with room for an Aga. Only two miles from here. On a bus route for if … when, you know …’

I nodded. I knew. If anything happened to Uncle Arthur, she would be stranded without access to public transport.

‘I only took him to that Oaklands Retirement place as a sort of test. Show him somewhere he’d loathe and then he’d be so grateful not to live there that he’d agree to anything. That backfired, didn’t it?’

She smiled at me wanly.

I stuck my arm round her. ‘You silly sausage. He loves you so much that he’ll agree to anything.’

Her eyes twinkled. ‘I know.’

We both laughed.

‘So you’re happy to move somewhere smaller, then?’

She nodded. ‘And I’m tired of all these stairs.’

‘What about all your, you know … furniture?’ I stared at her.

In the nursery
was what I meant. The hand-painted characters on the wall and the old wooden cot.

I think she understood because her eyes softened. ‘It’s time to let go of our old life and start enjoying a new one. Things that weren’t meant to be, well … Artie always says if we’d had a son this, if we’d had a son that … But nothing’s for certain, is it? We could have had a son or daughter who’d wanted to be a doctor or join the army. And we could still have ended up like this with no one to take over the farm.’

But I want to take over the farm.

My latest business idea was brilliant – though I said so myself. It would make money, it was bang on trend and it would use the farm and buildings, and some of its land sympathetically. But two things stood in my way: it wasn’t farming and I didn’t have a lump sum of money to buy the farm from my aunt and uncle.

Which probably meant that my brilliant idea was a non-starter.

‘That’s the end of that, I think,’ Auntie Sue said briskly.

‘What?’
How did she know?
‘Oh, the milk!’ I laughed, as Auntie Sue switched off the pump.

I released Gaynor from the milking machine, Auntie Sue did the same for Gloria and we led them back across the yard to the field.

‘I’ll miss the girls when we’re in our new bungalow,’ said Auntie Sue, fastening the gate behind us. ‘And the hens. But it’ll be nice to pop back and see them when the new owners have moved in.’

My heart sank. As far as she was concerned, the farm sale was as good as complete. She was ready to move out and had already begun to imagine life without the farm.

Funny how things turn out. Six months ago, Appleby Farm was a place of sepia-tinted childhood memories for me and now it was my entire world. And I
so
couldn’t bear the thought that that world might end.

I took a deep breath and painted on a smile. ‘Fancy a walk down to the honesty box with me?’

She nodded and looped her arm through mine. ‘I’ve still got to finish up in the milking parlour, but go on then.’

We headed across the yard, me slowing my pace to match hers. The arthritis in her knee caused her to favour one side so we waddled rather than walked down to the road.

The honesty box had done really well this summer. During July and August we’d done a roaring trade in salad potatoes, fresh peas and soft fruit, and now we were selling big bags of apples alongside cobs of corn and, of course, our eggs.

‘Do you think the new owners will let me keep the tea rooms at Appleby Farm?’ I asked, emptying the money tin into both our pockets.

Auntie Sue blinked at me. ‘Of course, lovey! We’ll make it a requirement of the sale. I expect the new farmer will love to have visitors to the farm, just like we do. Why wouldn’t they?’

I shrugged, feeling tearful all of a sudden.

Because Julian was involved and for some reason I couldn’t envisage him having lined up a tweedy farmer with an apple-cheeked wife as buyers for Appleby Farm.

She patted my hand. ‘Anyway, we’ll see what tomorrow brings, Freya.’

I couldn’t help shuddering. We would indeed.

Mr Turner, the surveyor, arrived at nine fifteen the following morning in a smart estate car. Auntie Sue invited him into the kitchen for a cup of tea, introduced everyone and gestured for him to join Uncle Arthur and me at the table.

Madge was lying under the table and she gave a low growl as Mr Turner took a seat. I was with Madge; there was something sinister about him. He had hair the colour of mushrooms, one eyebrow permanently raised and an odd tendency to jut his chin out before speaking.

‘Have you come far?’ trilled Auntie Sue.

Jut. ‘Lancaster. Straight up the M6.’

He placed a small laser beam measuring device, a camera and a clipboard on the table in front of him.

‘Where does the farmer live now?’ Uncle Arthur asked.

Jut. ‘Farmer?’

‘Yes, the potential buyer. Is he or she local?’

Mr Turner dipped his chin to consult his clipboard. ‘It’s not so much a “farmer” as a farming organization.’

A wave of dread washed over me.
I knew it.
This was classic Julian. There was no jolly farmer; it was just a ruse to get Uncle Arthur to sell up. I glanced at my uncle; his thick eyebrows were bunched up warily.

‘What sort of organization?’ I asked rather more aggressively than I’d intended.

Mr Turner paled. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t have the details.’

By which he meant he wouldn’t reveal them.

‘Thank you for the tea, Mrs Moorcroft.’ He stood up and gathered together his equipment.

It was a damp, cold day and Uncle Arthur looked quite relieved when Mr Turner requested that he be allowed to ‘get on with it’ unaccompanied. The three of us watched him leave in silence.

‘What do you think Julian’s up to?’ Auntie Sue asked, wringing her apron between her fingers.

Uncle Arthur grunted. ‘Don’t know, Sue. We’ll have to wait and find out.’

I sprang up off the bench, darted to the door and pulled on my wellingtons.

‘I’m not waiting,’ I said and ran out into the yard after Mr Turner, Madge scampering beside me.

I spotted him by the dog kennel with his back to the chicken run, taking pictures of the cowsheds.