and Jack were in their early thirties and had all the energy and belief in themselves – and each other – that was required to turn this place into a dream home, a thriving farm and an educational paradise for their girls. From the instant Hanna and Zoe arrived their eyes had glowed with excitement and wonder; the fact that there was another brother or sister on the way wasn’t anywhere near as thrilling as the apparent imminent possibility of lambs. Yes, all four ewes were expecting, Giles, the next-door farmer and interim custodian of Deerwood, had informed them on arrival (and yes, there really was a farmer Giles in the area, although that was his first name), and if they wanted any help with the lambing he’d be happy to send someone over when the time came.
They readily accepted the kindness. Jack might be a qualified vet, but it had been a while since his work experience on a farm in Cheshire, so he was definitely open to a refresher course. And if the girls wanted to watch the miracle of birth then so they should, because they might be on duty next year, by which time they were likely to have a flock of thousands. Well, dozens – or at least twelve, depending on how things went.
‘You are absolutely loving this, aren’t you?’ Shelley murmured one evening, gazing into Jack’s midnight-blue eyes and feeling (strangely, given how long she’d loved him), how wonderful it was to love him. She was lying on her side – so large with her pregnancy by now that even rolling onto her back was an effort – and he was lying on his side looking at her.
‘Aren’t you?’ he asked, smoothing damp tendrils of her fine sandy hair back from her face. It was late February and freezing outside, but for tonight at least the generator was working, making them so hot indoors that in a few minutes they might just take a moonlight stroll.
‘Yes, I am,’ she whispered. ‘I really think we’re going to be happy here.’
‘I know it,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve been looking for a way of saying this since we arrived, and now I think I have it. The minute we turned in from the road, all the way along the drive to the farm, seeing the fields, the huge sky and humpback bridge, the cattle grids, trees, hedgerows, I felt as though we were fitting back into a place we’d only ever left temporarily. Then, when I saw the house, this house, sad and neglected, I thought, I swear this, I thought it gave a little sigh of relief when it realized it was us – and if you laugh I’ll leave you.’
How could she not laugh, and at the same time not cry, because he’d just found a far better way of putting into words their return to Deerwood than she ever could. That was her husband all over, as romantic as a poet, as rash and tempestuous as the wind, and as attuned to his surroundings as the wildlife that shared every nook and cranny. And how lucky she was to have him as her lover; her rock; the father of her children, her best friend forever and now her partner in this mad, challenging and exhilarating new dream.
A week later things had moved on at such a pace at Deerwood that Shelley was struggling to keep track of it all. Builders, plumbers and electricians were assessing the cost of repairs and rebuilds; Jack had signed on with an urban veterinary practice for three days a week in order to ensure some sort of income; the girls were enrolled at a nursery school in the nearest village – six miles away – and Shelley was registered at a small health centre on the outskirts of the same village, where she’d had a long and enjoyable chat with the midwife about country living. She was due to give birth at the maternity unit of Kesterly Royal Infirmary – fifteen miles from the farm – sometime in the next two weeks.
Meantime, she and Jack were devouring all the books they could find on farming, sheep, land cultivation, understanding organics, slaughter, local markets; there was so much to learn that they’d probably never take it all in, but at least it was a start. With the support of their families, who’d descended to help out during this crucial period, they’d started to clear the cluttered farmyard of all the rusty paraphernalia, brambles and build-up of filth that had accumulated since Sarah’s passing. Giles and a couple of his workers came to ferry the junk to the tip, or move usables to a storage trailer that they’d parked in a nearby field. Giles was happy to leave it there for as long as it was needed.
‘Five quid a week,’ he announced in his gruff West Country burr. His mischievous hazel eyes were round and fox-like, his grizzly grey beard trembled with his suppressed laughter. ‘If it’s all the same to you I’ll take it off the rent I pay to put my cattle in your top fields.’
More than happy with the arrangement, Shelley made a note to find out how much rent he actually paid and for what number of acres, also whether it might be possible to interest him or any other neighbouring farmer in making further use of their thirty-odd hectares until they had need of them themselves. It would all add to their income, which stood at zero for the moment, but they still had the money Bob had left, and their savings (mostly earmarked for doing up the house and barns), and Jack’s salary would soon kick in. She also needed to check out what government subsidies they might be entitled to, and any rules, ancient or modern, British or European, that they needed to obey.
So much to do and to learn, and not only about reviving a farm, waterproofing barns and birthing lambs, but how to manage without electricity and heating each time the ancient generator took a wheezing, groaning break from its efforts. With no idea when it might get a second wind, they’d already had the chimneys swept so each of the four hearths on the ground floor was filled with flaming logs, and since Jack had managed to start up the old Aga they’d found themselves with a haphazard supply of lukewarm water. Cooking was mostly done over the fires or on a spanking new portable gas stove that Jack’s parents had brought with them, having been warned of the need. Quite what the electricity company was doing about restoring their supply was anyone’s guess, but they certainly didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get things sorted.
The girls were loving every aspect of their new existence, from having their aunt and uncle – Jack’s brother and sister-in-law – along with both sets of grandparents camping out in three of the six bedrooms (they’d brought their own sleeping bags, pillows and hot-water bottles), to lighting candles to go up to bed like Wee Willie Winkie, to toasting their breakfast over rekindled fires in the morning. Best of all was collecting eggs from the henhouse, which they carefully carried back in cardboard boxes, watching their bounty with round-eyed awe in case one of them hatched. The impossibility of that had yet to be explained to them, and no doubt would be in the fullness of time – the wicked gleam in Jack’s eye whenever the subject was mentioned told Shelley that he already had a story worked out.
It was midway through the afternoon of their ninth day at Deerwood that Shelley found herself standing alone at the centre of the still cluttered farmyard, hands pressing into the small of her back as she took a good long look at their new home, although of course it was anything but new. Set as it was against a backdrop of billowing clouds and the vast outstretched branches of a giant evergreen oak, it appeared as settled as the centuries that had passed since its foundations were dug, and as contented in its place as the hills on the far horizon. In spite of its shabby roofs with their missing tiles and broken gutters, and its crumbling grey stone walls and splintered window frames – not to mention the fortune it was going to cost to restore its dignity – she already loved the place with a passion, and knew that Jack did too.
They had no clear idea yet of how they were going to liven up the interior while carefully retaining its gentle and noble character, but it would include doubling the size of the kitchen, knocking two sitting rooms into one and installing at least three more bathrooms. She wanted the place to feel as happy with them as they did with it, as respected as it was cherished, and as proud as it deserved to be. She’d thought about engaging an interior designer, but it was a luxury they couldn’t afford, and besides, it didn’t feel right for an outsider to put his or her stamp on a home that was so intrinsically theirs. Somehow she was going to do this herself, using magazines for ideas and builders with skill and imagination for execution.
Meanwhile, they needed a temporary solution to the leaks and draughts, and
