offshore breeze, one note for the cliff-top turf and another for its passage through the leafless hawthorns and gorse that lined the track up to the road. The sky, though still brilliant, felt empty and vast overhead, a kind of ringing vacancy. The sheep had fallen silent, and there was no sign of the barnyard cats, my own in particular. Maybe luck, like Archie Drummond, had only made a flying return visit to the farm.
I shivered in the wind, folding my arms over my chest. Often as I wished Harry at the devil, the place was bleak without him. If he didn’t return—if, as seemed likely, Cameron was gone…
I pulled myself together. At least such fancies around here didn’t have to be idle ones. Taking time off for afternoon sex had bulldozed my workload into an intimidating heap. I was cold and depressed in the wake of my endorphin rush, that was all. I’d find my jumper, wherever the hell I’d left that, and get on with things.
Shadows flickered in the yard behind me. I spun round, almost sure I’d seen someone. But the sunny space was empty, the only movement the dance of the coltsfoots that lined the grassy verges round the barn. They must have sprung up overnight, or maybe in the last five minutes, or maybe I’d only been too busy to notice them before. My ma had loved them. She’d taught Al and me to watch out for them as the first signs of spring—that and blackthorn blossom, which now I came to look was also lacing the hedgerows. She’d taught me the fascination of flowers that came before leaves, appearing out of nothing on the earth and on bare twigs. In autumn she made gin from the blackthorns, which by then were called sloes and yielded dark berries with a velvety blue-grey bloom.
My jumper was folded on the arm of the bench by the door. My jacket too, and I could have sworn I’d left that crumpled somewhere in one of the sheep pens. My head spun a little. She’d never been what you’d call a fussy parent, my ma, and if we shed our clothes around the place, she wouldn’t pursue us with them. She would, though, pick them up if she came across them on her own trips round the sheds and barns, and return them to that bench so we could find them.
I must have caught the habit without realising. I wasn’t alone in being influenced. As far as Harry had been concerned, wildflowers had no place in his barnyards, and he and Ma had fought like tigers over his weedkiller spray. He hadn’t touched them last year or this. He hadn’t laid a hand on any of her favoured herbs or blossoms, not even the patch of nettles she liked to keep for the red admiral butterflies.
Something shifted in my chest. It felt too big and awkward to be grief. Damn Archie anyway, coming here and stirring me up with his lousy effort at a pass and his kindness. Damn Cameron too, while I was at it, for cracking my ice enough to let Archie in.
I went and picked up the jumper. I felt its sun-warmed fabric for a moment. It smelled of home, of my ma, but that wasn’t wonderful—Harry and I were still working through the mountain of washing powder she’d scored off a wholesaler in Glasgow. In her way she’d loved a bargain as much as Alistair. There were no miracles going on here, no messages. Just my own sleep deprivation, a too-bright sunlight and a wind full of voices from the sea. I’d be hearing mermaids next.
I shrugged into the jumper and my jacket and went back to work.
Chapter Four
The time for the last eastbound bus came and went. I didn’t notice. I thought I heard the distant roar of its engine, but I couldn’t look up—a ewe I hadn’t even been sure was pregnant had decided to deliver triplets more or less on my feet when I went down to the south paddock with the evening feed. She managed it without complications, though she looked as surprised as I felt. I watched in relief as each bloodstained little bundle appeared, dropped to the turf and showed signs of vigorous life. Thank God for that. When it came to
I shivered in the wind, folding my arms over my chest. Often as I wished Harry at the devil, the place was bleak without him. If he didn’t return—if, as seemed likely, Cameron was gone…
I pulled myself together. At least such fancies around here didn’t have to be idle ones. Taking time off for afternoon sex had bulldozed my workload into an intimidating heap. I was cold and depressed in the wake of my endorphin rush, that was all. I’d find my jumper, wherever the hell I’d left that, and get on with things.
Shadows flickered in the yard behind me. I spun round, almost sure I’d seen someone. But the sunny space was empty, the only movement the dance of the coltsfoots that lined the grassy verges round the barn. They must have sprung up overnight, or maybe in the last five minutes, or maybe I’d only been too busy to notice them before. My ma had loved them. She’d taught Al and me to watch out for them as the first signs of spring—that and blackthorn blossom, which now I came to look was also lacing the hedgerows. She’d taught me the fascination of flowers that came before leaves, appearing out of nothing on the earth and on bare twigs. In autumn she made gin from the blackthorns, which by then were called sloes and yielded dark berries with a velvety blue-grey bloom.
My jumper was folded on the arm of the bench by the door. My jacket too, and I could have sworn I’d left that crumpled somewhere in one of the sheep pens. My head spun a little. She’d never been what you’d call a fussy parent, my ma, and if we shed our clothes around the place, she wouldn’t pursue us with them. She would, though, pick them up if she came across them on her own trips round the sheds and barns, and return them to that bench so we could find them.
I must have caught the habit without realising. I wasn’t alone in being influenced. As far as Harry had been concerned, wildflowers had no place in his barnyards, and he and Ma had fought like tigers over his weedkiller spray. He hadn’t touched them last year or this. He hadn’t laid a hand on any of her favoured herbs or blossoms, not even the patch of nettles she liked to keep for the red admiral butterflies.
Something shifted in my chest. It felt too big and awkward to be grief. Damn Archie anyway, coming here and stirring me up with his lousy effort at a pass and his kindness. Damn Cameron too, while I was at it, for cracking my ice enough to let Archie in.
I went and picked up the jumper. I felt its sun-warmed fabric for a moment. It smelled of home, of my ma, but that wasn’t wonderful—Harry and I were still working through the mountain of washing powder she’d scored off a wholesaler in Glasgow. In her way she’d loved a bargain as much as Alistair. There were no miracles going on here, no messages. Just my own sleep deprivation, a too-bright sunlight and a wind full of voices from the sea. I’d be hearing mermaids next.
I shrugged into the jumper and my jacket and went back to work.
Chapter Four
The time for the last eastbound bus came and went. I didn’t notice. I thought I heard the distant roar of its engine, but I couldn’t look up—a ewe I hadn’t even been sure was pregnant had decided to deliver triplets more or less on my feet when I went down to the south paddock with the evening feed. She managed it without complications, though she looked as surprised as I felt. I watched in relief as each bloodstained little bundle appeared, dropped to the turf and showed signs of vigorous life. Thank God for that. When it came to
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