happened very rarely, but this stiff, taut man—well!
‘Rest your head on her flank,’ Jemima instructed, and he gave her an old-fashioned look.
‘Rest my head?’ he said, as if she’d suggested he should put it in a lion’s mouth. She stifled a laugh.
‘Yes—you know, lean on her.’
He arched an eyebrow disbelievingly, and allowed his head to touch her side. ‘Now what?’
‘Pull the teat down, and then close your fingers from the top down to the bottom, as if you’re squeezing the milk out like toothpaste—that’s it!’
A little squirt of milk shot out of the teat and splashed on his jeans.
‘Now try and get it in the bucket.’
He gave her a dirty look, shook his head despairingly and carried on. He was doing really quite well until Bluebell moved and knocked the bucket over.
‘Hell!’
He leapt to his feet, ducking out of the way of the flying milk and startling Bluebell, who shot across the barn towards Jemima, rolling her eyes and snorting softly.
‘It’s all right, sweetheart, he’s just a city boy,’ she crooned comfortingly, squashing her laughter. ‘Come on, my love.’
‘Come on my love, nothing,’ he muttered, watching her balefully as she led the anxious cow back across the barn to her stall and gave her more silage. ‘Why did she do that?’
‘I expect you tickled her—they’re very sensitive.’
‘Sensitive!’ he exclaimed. ‘They’re a bunch of loonies!’
‘Just ignore him, darlings,’ she told the cows. ‘He’s only a man; he can’t be expected to understand.’
One of them lowed at her, a warm, soft sound of agreement, and Sam snorted in disgust. Smiling, Jemima went back to her place beside Bluebell, quickly finished off and moved on to the next cow.
‘Why do you wash the udders?’ he asked, following her but standing safely out of range. ‘They don’t look dirty.’
To clean them, of course, just in case, but also because it helps the let-down.’
‘Let-down?’
She smiled into Ruby’s side. ‘They have to give you the milk. If it was just a tank it would run out. You have to persuade the udder to relax—’
‘Right.’
He didn’t sound convinced. Ruby understood the system, though, and was easy to milk, but then she’d had mastitis quite recently and had had to be hand-milked for some time. There were others who were much harder to do.
‘What happens to the milk once you collect it?’
‘It gets filtered and poured into the cooling tank—oh, no!’
‘What?’
‘No power! The cooler won’t be working, and the paddles won’t be stirring, so the milk will separate and go off—not that they’ll be able to collect it anyway...’
‘And?’
‘And so I won’t get paid for it, and I’ll lose money.’
‘Much?’
She thought of the useless tractor, the state of her car and the even more precarious state of her bank balance.
‘More than enough,’ she said grimly.
‘Is there anything you can do about that?’
She straightened up, looking at the placid cows waiting patiently for her attention. It would take for ever to milk them all, and it would all have to go down the drain—
‘I need to put the fresh calvers back with their calves. That will feed the calves, stop me having to milk their mums until the power’s back on and save the wasted milk until the tanker can get through again.’
‘How many are fresh calvers?’
She sighed. ‘Only ten.’
‘So you’ve got—what, twenty more?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Twenty-one, in fact. We ought to sort them out now; they’re getting uncomfortable because I’m late.’
It was another half-hour before the fresh calvers and their offspring were reunited, and then the others needed milking urgently. Jemima looked into the water trough and sighed. Already it was almost empty—
‘What is it?’
‘The water trough. It needs filling up—the well water pump is electric.’
‘Wouldn’t you know it?’ he muttered. ‘Where’s the nearest tap?’
‘The water in the house is electrically pumped. We don’t have mains.’
‘What!’
‘The water’s beautiful—it comes from deep aquifers and the taste is so clear, so pure, you—you just wouldn’t believe it.’
‘But mains is so easy.’
She shook her head. ‘The milk wouldn’t taste the same, and I sell it to a specialist firm—they make clotted cream and yoghurt with it. The quality of the milk is everything.’
He sighed. ‘What are you telling me?’
The water has to come from the stream. There’s a little step to stand on while you dip the buckets. I’ll show you.’
‘I can hardly wait,’ he muttered under his breath, but he came with her, saw the stream, hung up a lantern between the barn and the stream and started bucketing the water while she milked.
‘How many do I need to bring?’ he asked after the tenth trip or so.
She looked up and took pity on him. He was propped against the wall, breathing hard, and he’d hardly started.
‘About a hundred and fifty buckets,’ she told him.
His eyes widened. ‘How—? A hun—! That’s ridiculous,’ he said flatly.
‘They drink about ten to fifteen gallons a day. That’s at least three hundred gallons, or a hundred and fifty buckets. It’s only seventy-five trips a day.’ She relented at his look of horror. ‘It won’t need that many tonight, and I expect the power will be back on by the morning.’
He shouldered away from the wall without another word, and went back out. The wind was still howling, she noticed, and although it had stopped snowing there was a fine stinging spray of snow being carried off the field and straight into his face as he came back to the barn.
She finished the
