decided, she would gather lavender flowers for the linen press and pick some roses for the vases.
Sally had lived in this old house all her life and never really looked at it objectively before. She had the feeling that women like Aunt Bertha might turn up their noses at her home. But some people might like the peace and simple comfort of Badger’s Gill. If Mrs Scott had her way, Sally was about to find out.
FIVE
George Dawson considered himself a hardened old farmer, but there was a tear in his eye as he watched a sad little procession cross the green on Thursday morning. Under a grey and cloudy sky, Sally was leading her little flock to be loaded into the cart to go to market.
The horse was standing ready yoked and there was no time to lose. Sally sprinkled a little grain from the bucket and the Motley Flock ran easily up the ramp and into the cart. George threw a net over them and tied it down, hardly daring to look at Sally. She gave a last pat to the curly heads and turned away. ‘Try to find out who buys them, George—’ Sally choked, and stopped.
‘Good young ewes with lambs at foot, should fetch a good price today,’ the farmer said gruffly, pretending that this was a normal market day.
Martha came out, wiping her hands on her apron and put a hand on Sally’s shoulder. ‘Let’s go and turn out yon parlour of yours. I’ve not much to do today, myself.’
The Motley Flock, quite composed, peered out of the cart. George moved off down the road and they looked surprised that Sally was not going with them. As he clopped down to Ripon, George rehearsed his list of things to do. Top of the list was a pig. They really needed a pig to eat scraps and unsaleable vegetables. A little sow would be ideal.
The stock market was full today, George found, and he had to queue to unload the sheep into a pen. Several auctioneers were moving round the pens and he soon realized that the pigs were nearly all sold. Hurrying over to the pig lines, he spotted a likelysow, ready to have a litter soon. He waited for the pen to be sold and managed to buy it for a good price. Then he saw a couple of neighbours and stopped for a chat. He arranged to sell a load of turnips and some carrots, to be delivered next week. All this took some time and the sale was nearly over. To his dismay, when George got back to the sheep lines, Sally’s flock was gone. ‘Who bought ’em?’ He clutched at the auctioneer’s sleeve. Sally wanted to know where they went!
‘Dunno. Don sold them, not me. Went to a chap from the High Side. Don’t worry, your cash is safe in the office.’
The money was important of course and George collected it immediately. But he regretted not watching the sale. He’d have to keep asking every week at the market, until he could find out where they’d gone.
The Roman soldier was in Ripon that day and had taken a stroll through the sheep pens. He spotted the Motley Flock immediately, even though they had now lost their fleeces. He reached over and tickled the friendly inquisitive one under the chin, just to make sure. The whole group moved towards him. Normal sheep didn’t behave like that.
Marcus had not been able to forget the girl on Camp Hill. He remembered her shawl blowing in the wind, her expressive blue eyes and her slim figure. Don’t be too romantic, he told himself, just because you liked poetry at school! You didn’t often meet anyone like Bo-Peep. She spoke politely even though she looked like a homeless waif. And he liked the way she’d handled her predicament, caught with strays on private land and standing up to him. Lonely himself, Marcus thought he’d recognized a certain loneliness in the girl.
The auctioneer came over. ‘Buying today, sir? That lot’s a bit small for the likes of you!’
Why had she sold the sheep? Perhaps they’d escaped once too often. But he might be able to find out more about the girl. Pride had prevented him from asking anyone local who she might be. But
Sally had lived in this old house all her life and never really looked at it objectively before. She had the feeling that women like Aunt Bertha might turn up their noses at her home. But some people might like the peace and simple comfort of Badger’s Gill. If Mrs Scott had her way, Sally was about to find out.
FIVE
George Dawson considered himself a hardened old farmer, but there was a tear in his eye as he watched a sad little procession cross the green on Thursday morning. Under a grey and cloudy sky, Sally was leading her little flock to be loaded into the cart to go to market.
The horse was standing ready yoked and there was no time to lose. Sally sprinkled a little grain from the bucket and the Motley Flock ran easily up the ramp and into the cart. George threw a net over them and tied it down, hardly daring to look at Sally. She gave a last pat to the curly heads and turned away. ‘Try to find out who buys them, George—’ Sally choked, and stopped.
‘Good young ewes with lambs at foot, should fetch a good price today,’ the farmer said gruffly, pretending that this was a normal market day.
Martha came out, wiping her hands on her apron and put a hand on Sally’s shoulder. ‘Let’s go and turn out yon parlour of yours. I’ve not much to do today, myself.’
The Motley Flock, quite composed, peered out of the cart. George moved off down the road and they looked surprised that Sally was not going with them. As he clopped down to Ripon, George rehearsed his list of things to do. Top of the list was a pig. They really needed a pig to eat scraps and unsaleable vegetables. A little sow would be ideal.
The stock market was full today, George found, and he had to queue to unload the sheep into a pen. Several auctioneers were moving round the pens and he soon realized that the pigs were nearly all sold. Hurrying over to the pig lines, he spotted a likelysow, ready to have a litter soon. He waited for the pen to be sold and managed to buy it for a good price. Then he saw a couple of neighbours and stopped for a chat. He arranged to sell a load of turnips and some carrots, to be delivered next week. All this took some time and the sale was nearly over. To his dismay, when George got back to the sheep lines, Sally’s flock was gone. ‘Who bought ’em?’ He clutched at the auctioneer’s sleeve. Sally wanted to know where they went!
‘Dunno. Don sold them, not me. Went to a chap from the High Side. Don’t worry, your cash is safe in the office.’
The money was important of course and George collected it immediately. But he regretted not watching the sale. He’d have to keep asking every week at the market, until he could find out where they’d gone.
The Roman soldier was in Ripon that day and had taken a stroll through the sheep pens. He spotted the Motley Flock immediately, even though they had now lost their fleeces. He reached over and tickled the friendly inquisitive one under the chin, just to make sure. The whole group moved towards him. Normal sheep didn’t behave like that.
Marcus had not been able to forget the girl on Camp Hill. He remembered her shawl blowing in the wind, her expressive blue eyes and her slim figure. Don’t be too romantic, he told himself, just because you liked poetry at school! You didn’t often meet anyone like Bo-Peep. She spoke politely even though she looked like a homeless waif. And he liked the way she’d handled her predicament, caught with strays on private land and standing up to him. Lonely himself, Marcus thought he’d recognized a certain loneliness in the girl.
The auctioneer came over. ‘Buying today, sir? That lot’s a bit small for the likes of you!’
Why had she sold the sheep? Perhaps they’d escaped once too often. But he might be able to find out more about the girl. Pride had prevented him from asking anyone local who she might be. But
Similar Books
