Appleby Farm (26 page)

And that, as they say in the American TV shows, was closure.

I was still sitting in the orchard, holding my letter to Charlie and wondering whether we could do something with all these apples in September (organic cider being my favourite idea) when Uncle Arthur lowered himself on to the bench beside me.

‘Word has it that you’ve had a rough morning.’ He patted my thigh. ‘Everyone’s in the kitchen gluing their jaws together with your auntie’s gluten-free biscuits and Lizzie passed on your news about Charlie. I’m sorry to hear that. Feel a bit responsible, too. Me and my dicky ticker,’ he tutted.

I slipped the envelope into my pocket and leaned my head on his shoulder.

‘You mustn’t feel guilty. I’m here because I want to be. I made my own choices. And you know what?’ I smiled shakily at him. ‘I don’t regret a single thing.’

‘That’s my girl.’

We sat in companionable silence. The birds were singing again and directly above us the sun was beginning to tunnel its way down through the swollen clouds.

‘I love this orchard.’ I sighed. ‘It’s so peaceful and pretty, and there’s something timeless about it.’

‘I know what you mean. I remember climbing these trees when I was still in short trousers. They’re bigger now, of course.’

‘What are – the trees or your trousers?’ I teased.

He waggled his eyebrows. ‘Well, if you’re still making jokes, you’ll survive.’

‘Oh, I’ll survive all right.’ I nudged him with my shoulder. ‘So. Is it just apple trees or do you have any pears?’

Uncle Arthur’s body began to shake and I peeled myself off him to find him chuckling.

‘What?’

‘You asked me that when you were eleven!’

‘Did I? And what did you answer?’

‘I said no, we had no pears. But I planted a pear tree especially for you and for three years nothing happened. Not a single pear. And the next year – whoosh. We had tons of them. I’ll show you.’

We stood up from the bench and made our way past some pecking hens to the smallest tree in the corner of the orchard.

‘Oh, yes,’ I laughed, ‘I remember now. Don’t remember a bumper crop, though.’

‘No. That was the summer you didn’t come to the farm. You went to visit your parents in Australia when you were about fourteen.’ His warm eyes met mine. ‘It was a quiet one that year.’

I thought of the two of them picking pears with no one to eat them and my heart pinged with love. And suddenly I had an urge to hear more stories – happy ones, preferably – about the farm. I felt as if time was running out and I needed to collect all his memories and store them up, like when you collect shells from a beach and later turn them over, one at a time, in your hand and remember just how perfect the day was.

I glanced back up at the tree and looped my arm through his. ‘There’s loads of fruit on it this year and I’ll definitely be here to eat them. Come on, fancy taking a walk round your farm with me?’

His face lit up. ‘I’d like that very much.’

We decided to take a route across the fields rather than back through the farmyard and along the track, and as I unlatched the gate into High Field I turned and noticed a great ball of greenery in the centre of one of the apple trees. And in the tree next to it and … all the trees except the pear tree, in fact.

‘Is that ivy, up in the trees?’ I asked.

Uncle Arthur squinted to follow my pointing finger. ‘Mistletoe. Grows in big clumps like that. It’s a nuisance really.’

‘Oh, how lovely! The orchard must look so romantic in winter when the trees have lost their leaves.’

‘I suppose so. But not the most romantic place on my farm,’ he chuckled, ushering me through the gate.

‘Really! You mean there’s somewhere more romantic than this? Lead on!’ I smiled, mentally adding ‘sell mistletoe at Christmas market’ to my growing list of new business ideas.

We reached the edge of Oak Field where some of the cows were grazing and stopped for Uncle Arthur to get his breath back. He took a bottle of water out of his jacket pocket and sipped at it.

‘Look at those little fellas,’ he chuckled.

Two calves were frolicking around, kicking up their back legs and headbutting one another.

‘Cute!’ I took my phone out and snapped a couple of pictures. They’d do for the Facebook page. When we had one.

‘Probably sounds daft, but my animals are like family. I’ll miss seeing cattle in my fields when they’re all gone.’ He sighed. He pocketed his water and we carried on trudging uphill.

‘How was the cattle auction?’ I asked, trying to keep the conversation light.

‘Good. Well, good to be part of the action again and see livestock changing hands. Harry didn’t spot anything he fancied. I had my eye on a lovely Hereford bull, but …’ He shrugged and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. ‘I suppose my days of buying beasts at auction are behind me.’

I put my arm lightly around his waist and hugged him.

No animals were allowed to enter or leave the farm whilst the TB movement restriction was still in place. But even without that, Uncle Arthur had no use for a new bull; from the end of the year, he wouldn’t be farming beef any more. It seemed such a sad end to his career.

I scanned the fields around me and my heart squeezed. What would be here in twelve months’ time? The idea of no Appleby Farm was too awful to contemplate.

‘But you don’t have any regrets, do you, about being a farmer all your life? I mean, who wouldn’t want to own this?’ I spread my arms out.

‘You never really own land, lass. If anything it owns you – your soul, at any rate. You can be its guardian but that’s about all.’

He stopped and bent over, resting his hands on his thighs, and my stomach lurched.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked, touching his arm.

He stood up and stretched. ‘I’m fine. But my heart attack was like a tap on the shoulder to remind me that every day is a gift. And this farm … it’s a gift, too, and one day soon I’ll have to pass it on. Farming is a young man’s game. And you know what?’ He blinked at me and I shook my head. ‘I felt old at the auction today. There were only a few old men like me left. Harry knew everyone.’

‘That’s because everyone else your age is already retired,’ I laughed, hoping to cheer him up. I tucked my arm through his and we began to walk again. ‘Like Harry’s parents, living it up on the south coast. Taking it easy and enjoying themselves.’

He chuckled. ‘All right, then. Come on, last one to the top is a donkey. I’ve still got to show you the view before it rains.’

The top of the hill, where Colton Woods met the field, was the furthest point from the farmhouse and also, on a good day, had the best view. Today the visibility wasn’t great but the view was still spectacular.

‘There’s more rain on its way.’ Uncle Arthur nodded to the sky behind me and sure enough an army of charcoal clouds was marching towards us, urged along by a sharp wind.

‘We should go back,’ I said.

Too late.

Seconds later the heavens opened and we had to flatten ourselves against the hedge while we pulled up our hoods. Mine only partially covered my hair. I touched the ends tentatively; it would have quite possibly crocheted itself into a blanket by the time I was back inside.

‘Can you see that hut?’ Uncle Arthur shouted above the deluge.

I scoured the landscape until I spotted a dilapidated wooden hut tucked into the corner against the drystone wall (a misnomer at this precise moment if ever I heard one). I nodded. We both lowered our heads to protect ourselves and made our way towards it.

As we reached the hut, I helped him clamber up and we stumbled, relieved, out of the rain. There was no door and the roof was riddled with holes. But it was much drier than outside and there was even a wooden bench to sit on.

‘What is this place?’ I asked, out of breath from heaving Uncle Arthur up the step. ‘I remember playing inside when I was small. I always wondered why it was here.’

‘Shepherd’s hut. Left over from when we farmed sheep. Derelict now, of course. The shepherd used to spend the night out here during lambing season.’

It was derelict. But it was also very sweet. There were windows at each end and a door in the centre. One half appeared to be for sleeping, or sitting as we were, and the other half was the kitchen end. There was even a little stove, although the chimney was missing. The hole in the roof was still there, though, and the rain was bucketing through it.

‘Is this the only shepherd’s hut you’ve got?’ I asked, feeling a tingling of excitement along my spine.

He wiped the raindrops off his face with a dry handkerchief and passed it to me. ‘No. There’s one other at the far side of the woods. Why?’

My brain had a new idea zipping about. Forget the cider. This was huge.

I grinned at him. ‘Uncle Arthur, have you ever heard of glamping?’

For the next few minutes I told him all about glamorous camping and how amazing this little hut could look if it had a facelift. He told me that Eddy was a dab hand with wood and if anyone could restore the old relic it was him. Before we knew it I’d imagined the opening of the Appleby Farm Glampsite and the rain had almost stopped.

What better place to wake up in the morning with these views? So romantic! I almost wished I’d known about this when Charlie … I exhaled quickly, blowing away my daydreams.

‘Hey!’ I grinned, slapping the bench as a thought occurred to me. ‘Is this the most romantic spot on the farm, then?’

‘No, lass.’ Uncle Arthur groaned as he stood – a sharp reminder that he was supposed to be taking it easy and not hiking uphill in the rain, gulp – and beckoned me to the window. There was no glass in it and the wind blew spray into my face.

The view from the window looked straight down the valley and although the day was wet and wild, it was pure ‘Lakes’, from the grey stone walls criss-crossing the landscape to the shiny slate roofs, vivid green and yellow fields, and the tiny ribbon of road snaking into the distance.

It completely took my breath away.

‘See that little lake?’ he said. ‘Right at the far edge, near the boundary with Willow Farm?’

I nodded. Harry and I had spent many a summer’s day fishing in that lake. ‘I see it.’

‘That’s where I met your auntie. She came up from the next village with a group of her friends. Middle of winter it was, the trees were laced with thick frost and the lake had frozen over. Now that’s the most romantic place on the farm.’

His face had glazed over with a warm smile. He had such a friendly face, my uncle. I’d have loved to have known him when he was a young man. I bet he would have been quite a catch.

‘Sounds absolutely magical.’

‘That was exactly what she said. She told me that she’d never been ice-skating before and would I mind holding her hand. So I helped her on to the ice.’

‘What a gentleman.’ I smiled, pulling him back from the window and making him sit down.

‘Sue clung on to me and chatted nineteen to the dozen all the way round. She told me that she used to pass Appleby Farm on her way to school and always thought how lovely it was. And then she looked at me with those beautiful blue eyes and smiled, and I was a goner.’ He sighed wistfully.

‘Love at first sight,’ I breathed dreamily.

‘It was,’ he said proudly. ‘And that’s why the lake is my favourite spot.’

Where would my special place be? I wondered. And who would be The One, now that Charlie was no longer in my life?

‘I was a farmer’s son and not used to chatting up pretty girls,’ Uncle Arthur was saying. ‘I don’t know what came over me, but I asked her to go to the local dance. I couldn’t believe my luck when she said yes.’

‘Tell me about the secret sign,’ I urged. I’d heard this story a hundred times – it was part of family folklore – but I loved hearing it.

‘Again?’ he chuckled, scratching his chin. ‘All right.’

My heart was melting as he told me again me how he had fallen in love with Auntie Sue at that dance and even though he had been quite shy, he had decided that he had to tell her how he felt. So he squeezed her hand three times.

‘What was that for?’ she’d asked him.

So he’d squeezed her hand again saying, ‘I love you’ – one word with each squeeze.

‘Arthur Moorcroft,’ she’d replied, ‘you are the sweetest man I have ever met.’

‘We were married a few months after that and from then on whenever we wanted to tell each other how we felt, we used our secret sign and no one around us knew a thing. And I’ll let you into another secret,’ he leaned towards me and winked, ‘we still do it.’

‘Such a gorgeous story.’ I pressed a kiss to his whiskery cheek. ‘You were so in love and so happy.’

He looked away quickly but not before I saw a flicker of sadness cross his face.

‘We have been happy but …’ He swallowed. ‘Not having any children has been a great sadness. For us both.’

My heart twisted for them and I remembered how Auntie Sue had said that it hadn’t mattered so much to him. It seemed as if his pain was just as great but perhaps he’d kept his feelings hidden from her over the years. I scooted closer to him on the old wooden bench.

‘Auntie Sue showed me the nursery. It must have been heartbreaking for you both.’

He tucked my hand into his and we both stared at the floor.

‘We lost three babies, you know. Two boys and a girl. All buried at the church over the hill.’

‘Oh, no.’ Three! I pressed a hand to my mouth as tears sprang to my eyes. ‘Auntie Sue never mentioned that, she just said “baby”. I can’t begin to imagine how awful that must have been.’

‘Each time your auntie fell pregnant we were so excited, so hopeful that we’d have a family. This time, we thought, this time it’ll work out all right. But each time the loss got bigger, the desperation worse. And the terrible thing was that no one could give us a reason.’

‘That’s so unfair; you’d have made brilliant parents,’ I said, tears streaming down my cheeks. I stopped and flung my arms round his neck. We stood and hugged, each wrapped in our thoughts.

‘I know it’s not the same,’ I said finally. ‘But you’ve got me.’

‘And I thank my lucky stars every day that we do,’ he said softly, wiping my tears away with his rough thumb.