make tracks. I expect the missus will have the tea on the table and the kettle already singing away.’
Before they parted, Ben assured him quietly, ‘Les – you do know I could never manage this place without you?’
That brought a smile to the old farmhand’s face, for he was well aware of how Ben Morris had bypassed younger, stronger men in order to keep him in work. ‘You’re a good man, Mr Morris, God bless you.’ With that he was quickly gone, away down the path, off to the village, and home to his darling woman.
For the next couple of hours, Ben was kept busy. He had a tried and tested feeding routine; despite this, it was not only a dirty job but a time-consuming one, too. There were two hundred chickens in the hen-house; twenty fat porkers in the pig-pens; the same number of milking cows in the small barn, and a small flock of thirty sheep in the big barn.
Feeding them all took between two and three hours in the morning and the same at night, and when they were let loose in the fields, all the barns and sheds had to be mucked out, ready for when the weather turned and the animals were brought back in again.
As he went inside the farmhouse, Ben gave a sigh of relief. He had fallen in love with the place the moment he set foot through the door. It was like a calm after the storm, a haven where he could lick his wounds and grow strong again.
The year leading up to the move had been the worst of his life. After leaving the RAF, in which he had served for three years after his training, he had gone back to his career as an architect. When the company went bust through financial mismanagement and shortages of some basic materials, he took out a loan to start up his own business. Sadly, it never really took off. He sold the premises at a loss, and found work with the local council, but hated every minute of it. His wife grew distant because there were no longer the funds to maintain the kind of life she wanted. Then his lively, darling daughter Abbie, by then aged eighteen, moved out of the family home and he had missed her terribly.
He hoped he and his wife Pauline would grow closer, and he believed this was happening – until he caught her in bed with his best friend, Peter. There had been a long and unpleasant period when he didn’t know which way to turn. His daughter had been his salvation, but she had already forged a life of her own; she shared a flat with two other girls and had a good job, working for a tea-importer in London. Thankfully, the break-up of her parents’ marriage had not seemed to interfere too much with all that.
The divorce had been a messy business, and the only ones to come out of it winning were the lawyers. Still, Ben was determined not to slide into bitterness, because what was done was done, and there was no turning back for either of them.
When it was over, he and his wife were left with enough from the sale of their family home to start again. She had gone to live abroad with her new husband, while Ben chose a completely different way of life. He was happy enough now. Perhaps happier, in a strange way, than he had ever been.
Taking a deep invigorating sigh, he looked around the farmhouse. There was a warm feel of history in this delightful little place. He could not deny it had its disadvantages, though they were small compared to the joy he had found here. The whisper of a smile crossed his features as he recalled the number of times he’d banged his head on the low cross-beams, and the wood-burning stoves caused more dust and dirt than he could ever have envisaged. The small windows were draughty, and when the wind drove the rain, it came right through the framework to soak the walls. The flagstone floors were sunk and broken in places and even in the height of summer there was a dampness in the air that got right into the bones. This was his first winter in the cottage, and once the better weather arrived, he knew he would have to put in many a long hour working on the house in between his other responsibilities.
Yet in spite of all that, he would not have changed one single thing.
As always, he went straight to the kitchen, where he turned on the gas stove, filled the kettle and set it for boiling. ‘Now then, Chuck.’ Going to the pantry, he took out a lamb chop and dropped it into the dog’s bowl. ‘You chew on that while I see who’s been writing to me.’
Returning to the dresser, he picked up the mail which had lain there since yesterday. There was a bill for animal feed, a card reminding him to return an overdue book to the local library, and a white envelope with a tuppenny stamp and a small pink flower drawn in the corner.
‘We know who this is from, don’t we, eh?’ He cocked an eye at the dog, who was far too busy enjoying his treat to worry about what the postman had brought.
Ben took out the letter and unfolded it, his eyes scanning the words and his heart warming as he read them aloud:
Dear Dad,
I’ve managed to get time off at last, so if it’s OK with you, I plan to visit for a few days. It’s been too long since we had a real heart-to-heart, don’t you think? I’m not sure which day I’ll turn up, but it’ll either be next Sunday or Monday. If that doesn’t fit in with your plans, you’ll have to let me know a suitable date. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume it’s all right to arrive sometime on one of those days. I’m really looking forward to seeing you. Meanwhile, take care of yourself,
Your loving daughter,
Abbie xxx
Folding the letter, he slipped it back into the envelope before dropping it onto the dresser.
‘You’ll need to look to your laurels,’ he told the dog with a wag of his finger. ‘Abbie’s coming to stay, and when she’s about, no one gets any peace!’ His daughter was noisy, untidy and could be the most irritating creature in the world. More than a week of her company and he would likely be pulling his hair out. But oh, how he was looking forward to seeing her.
He was so excited that he cut his finger when making himself a cheese sandwich, and then found he could only nibble at it, though he swigged down three cups of tea and ravished the jam-tart made especially for him by Les’s wife. In fact, she’d made him a whole bagful only the day before yesterday, and this was the last one. ‘Sorry, matey,’ he told the dog who had demolished his chop and was begging for a crumb. ‘You’ve had your tea. This is mine, and besides, there isn’t enough here to share.’ Nevertheless, he was still shamed into throwing him a bite.
With the jam-tart all gone and the teapot emptied, Ben put on his work-clothes and with the dog at his heels, made his way to the yard where he unlocked the feed room. Here he laid out three large galvanised buckets; one for the chickens; one for the sheep and another for the pigs. That done, he lifted the lids from three of the drums and scooping out several sizeable helpings of food from each of them in turn, he filled the buckets to brimming.
Taking up the buckets, two in one hand and one in the other, he made his way over to the big barn. Knowing exactly when feed-time was, the sheep were already crowded round the food-troughs. On sight of him, they began pushing and shoving their way forwards. ‘Get back! BACK, I SAY!’
Fighting his way through the bleating animals, he partway filled the various troughs, then leaving the sheep to sort themselves out, he climbed the ladder to the hayloft, where he threw down four slices of hay, making certain that they landed far enough apart for everyone to get a fair share without too much argument.
Afterwards, he stood at the barn door for a minute or two. Satisfied that the sheep were all feeding and seeming content, he went outside to the tap, filled the bucket with water, returned inside and emptied it into the two water-troughs. ‘That should keep you going for a while,’ he told them. ‘Come the morning, I might let you loose
