sheep obstetrics, I could deal with the basics, but that was all. There was no mobile signal down here to summon the vet and little chance that I could pay him anyway. Like most triplets, the lambs were tiny, and I hoisted them and their startled dam into the trailer to take them to the shelter of the barns overnight.
I drove carefully. The trip back to the farm took ten minutes, about the same length of time as the walk from the bus stop on the main road. Harry’s Toyota was parked on the drive. I forced myself not to hurry the task of settling the ewe and her sudden family into the pens, despite the horrible visions I was having of Cameron pinned down under one of Harry’s efforts to be friendly. These, with someone new, took the form of half an hour’s intense interrogation. Which village did ye say ye came from? Do you know the Maguires? The Fitzherberts? The McAndrews? What does your father farm—dairy? Beef? Sheep? I shivered in apprehension and quickly checked the gender of the new arrivals, knowing it was the first thing he would ask me. I’d better get inside.
I needn’t have worried. The old man was sitting in solitary state by the Aga, one collie to each side of him and one across his feet. He looked like some ancient god of the forest and hearth, wreathed in his lung-clutching pipe smoke, accompanied by his totem beasts.
I entered cautiously, trying to stay out of his miasma. “All right, Granda?”
“Aye.”
I went to turn the oven up. At some point between mucking out the pens and getting a blow job off Archie Drummond, I’d put together and set a casserole to heat. It had been ticking over all day. The kitchen smelled good for once, less desolate. I’d made more than enough for three. “How was Campbeltown? Did you meet Will McLeish?”
“Aye.”
I rolled my eyes. The monosyllabic answers didn’t mean things had gone badly for him at the mart. Probably the opposite—he just wanted me to come over, sit within his fallout zone and give my full attention to his news. He wouldn’t have been indulging himself with the pipe or the fireside idleness on a bad day.
I washed my hands clear of mud and afterbirth and took the hot seat opposite him. From there I could see down the hall to the open back-porch door and into the yard, though I was losing hope. I set aside the stupid, dull ache in my chest. “What did McLeish have to say, then?”
“The Leodhas agent’s making deals with all the Arran farmers for next season’s wool. He’s no’ dealt with a Seacliff before. We came to terms.”
I could imagine. The family talent for business had skipped past me, but Harry drove a bargain like he rode his quad bike.
“That’s good,” I ventured. I wondered if he’d forgotten we only had one Leodhas ram, and that newborn tup would need a year’s growth before he got interested in providing us with more. That his lambs in turn would need a season or more to come into their fleece. I didn’t want to throw cold water, though. Harry’s satisfactions over the last year had been few. My instinct was to add to them if I could. “That last ewe in the south pasture—one of the ones we thought was barren—dropped triplets this afternoon. Two tups and a female, all healthy.”
“Two males? What number ewe was it?”
“Seventeen.” I’d sprayed it in matching purple on her lambs before leaving the pen.
“Seventeen? Nichol, you idiot, that was the last one we put to the Leodhas stud. That’s three males we’ve got now.”
I tried to smile. When he was this pleased, being called an idiot was almost a caress. And it was a good thing—three rams could start us off a flock with this desirable weaver’s wool. We would still have to wait at least two years for it. I tried to imagine two more years struggling here. Two more winters.
I looked out into the empty yard then back at the old man. Life had felt brighter to me for a few hours today, but who was I trying to kid? If Harry was building air
I drove carefully. The trip back to the farm took ten minutes, about the same length of time as the walk from the bus stop on the main road. Harry’s Toyota was parked on the drive. I forced myself not to hurry the task of settling the ewe and her sudden family into the pens, despite the horrible visions I was having of Cameron pinned down under one of Harry’s efforts to be friendly. These, with someone new, took the form of half an hour’s intense interrogation. Which village did ye say ye came from? Do you know the Maguires? The Fitzherberts? The McAndrews? What does your father farm—dairy? Beef? Sheep? I shivered in apprehension and quickly checked the gender of the new arrivals, knowing it was the first thing he would ask me. I’d better get inside.
I needn’t have worried. The old man was sitting in solitary state by the Aga, one collie to each side of him and one across his feet. He looked like some ancient god of the forest and hearth, wreathed in his lung-clutching pipe smoke, accompanied by his totem beasts.
I entered cautiously, trying to stay out of his miasma. “All right, Granda?”
“Aye.”
I went to turn the oven up. At some point between mucking out the pens and getting a blow job off Archie Drummond, I’d put together and set a casserole to heat. It had been ticking over all day. The kitchen smelled good for once, less desolate. I’d made more than enough for three. “How was Campbeltown? Did you meet Will McLeish?”
“Aye.”
I rolled my eyes. The monosyllabic answers didn’t mean things had gone badly for him at the mart. Probably the opposite—he just wanted me to come over, sit within his fallout zone and give my full attention to his news. He wouldn’t have been indulging himself with the pipe or the fireside idleness on a bad day.
I washed my hands clear of mud and afterbirth and took the hot seat opposite him. From there I could see down the hall to the open back-porch door and into the yard, though I was losing hope. I set aside the stupid, dull ache in my chest. “What did McLeish have to say, then?”
“The Leodhas agent’s making deals with all the Arran farmers for next season’s wool. He’s no’ dealt with a Seacliff before. We came to terms.”
I could imagine. The family talent for business had skipped past me, but Harry drove a bargain like he rode his quad bike.
“That’s good,” I ventured. I wondered if he’d forgotten we only had one Leodhas ram, and that newborn tup would need a year’s growth before he got interested in providing us with more. That his lambs in turn would need a season or more to come into their fleece. I didn’t want to throw cold water, though. Harry’s satisfactions over the last year had been few. My instinct was to add to them if I could. “That last ewe in the south pasture—one of the ones we thought was barren—dropped triplets this afternoon. Two tups and a female, all healthy.”
“Two males? What number ewe was it?”
“Seventeen.” I’d sprayed it in matching purple on her lambs before leaving the pen.
“Seventeen? Nichol, you idiot, that was the last one we put to the Leodhas stud. That’s three males we’ve got now.”
I tried to smile. When he was this pleased, being called an idiot was almost a caress. And it was a good thing—three rams could start us off a flock with this desirable weaver’s wool. We would still have to wait at least two years for it. I tried to imagine two more years struggling here. Two more winters.
I looked out into the empty yard then back at the old man. Life had felt brighter to me for a few hours today, but who was I trying to kid? If Harry was building air
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