Mu-um.’
‘No buts, Maisy. It’s already past your bedtime, and it’s school again tomorrow.’
It was Sunday evening, the weekend was coming to a close, and her almost five-year-old daughter needed her sleep. Oh yes, her little girl’s birthday was fast approaching at the end of the month – yet another thing to think about, party planning – but Rachel was too tired to get her head around the thought of entertaining a host of excitable children just now. With late nights, early starts and a couple of all-nighters completed, the lambing brain-fog had well and truly descended.
‘But who will look after Pete? And how will I know he’s all right?’ Maisy sounded genuinely concerned, a frown forming beneath her pale-blonde fringe. She had been helping Rachel to bottle-feed the pet lamb over the weekend since his mother had rejected him (being a triplet, and the weakest of the trio).
‘Well, that’s easy Maisy, because it’s my turn on night shift tonight, so I’ll be there with him.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yep, I’ll be keeping a very close eye on him,’ she reassured. ‘And all the other sheep and lambs too, of course. So, I’ll let you know how Pete is first thing in the morning when you wake up.’
That seemed to appease Maisy. ‘O-kay.’
‘Come on, then. I’ll come up and read you a bedtime story.’
The little girl got up from the large farmhouse kitchen table at the same time as her mum.
‘Night, Maisy,’ called Jill from across the kitchen. Rachel was both surprised and delighted to see that her mum was baking again this evening.
Maisy dashed over to give her a goodnight kiss. ‘Night, night Grandma … Ooh, are they for me?’ As she was lifted up in her grandma’s arms she caught sight of a batch of vanilla cupcakes that were cooling on the side.
‘They might be. You can have one in your packed lunch for school tomorrow. But now, it’s time to brush your teeth and get to bed.’
‘Aw, not fair!’ The little girl gave a cheeky, hopeful smile.
‘Tomorrow,’ Jill said kindly but firmly, smiling back, as she ruffled her granddaughter’s soft wavy blonde hair.
Maisy slid down and scampered back to Rachel. ‘Can we have the Floss story please, Mummy?’
‘I should think so.’
Her daughter loved the countryside tale with its lovely illustrations of the sheepdog and his new family.
They were soon settled upstairs in Maisy’s small but prettily painted room. Maisy was tucked up in her bed under her unicorn print duvet with her cuddly lamb toy that she’d had from being a baby. Rachel began reading, her voice rhythmic, soothing. Both mother and daughter enjoyed the farmyard tales. The books they had read over and over were familiar and reassuring, with a sense that everything would be all right in the end. After all they had been through in the last two years, they really needed to believe in that.
Maisy’s eyelids were getting heavy by the last page. Unfortunately, so were Rachel’s – she could so climb under that duvet with her daughter and curl up, but there’d be no sleep for her tonight. Nature and the farm wouldn’t wait. The ewes and lambs needed her care.
Simon, their trusted farmhand, had already worked all last night and most of this afternoon, snatching only a few hours’ kip in between. This was her shout. She didn’t mind really. The lambing night shift was often peaceful, out in the barn with just the sounds of the sheep baaing and the hoots and calls of nature at night-time from outside. She had done this for many years now, each springtime, learning alongside her father. She wanted to make him proud and show him she could do well, that she would carry on and do her best by Primrose Farm and the livestock there. After all, it wasn’t just the animals that were relying on her now, her mum and her daughter needed her to make sure the farm kept going too. It was their home as well as their livelihood.
She shifted carefully off the bed and leaned over to give her little girl a gentle kiss on the forehead, trying not to disturb her. ‘Night, petal.’
‘Night, Mummy,’ came a whisper, Maisy’s eyelids already closing.
‘Time for a quick cuppa before you head out?’ Jill asked, as Rachel came back downstairs to the farmhouse kitchen.
Rachel glanced at her wristwatch. ‘Nah, I think I’d better get across to the shed. I told Simon I’d let him go at seven.’
‘Well, give me a minute and I’ll make up a flask for you. You can’t go out without some food for the night. There are some ham sandwiches ready in the fridge wrapped in foil. Oh, and I’ve also made some sticky toffee pudding … there’s an individual portion I’ve put aside just for you.’
‘Oh, great, thanks Mum. I love that stuff.’ It was wonderful to see her mum with a little of her old spark back, slowly coming back round to the things she used to love.
‘I know. Got to keep the troops fed, and your energy levels up.’
‘Definitely. I’ll not argue with sticky toffee pudding. And, it’s great to see you baking again, Mum.’
‘And you’ve got your phone?’ Jill neatly bypassed the comment.
‘Yes, of course. And …’ Rachel went to the coat peg in the porch and checked everything else she needed was in her old Barbour waxed-jacket pocket: a pen-knife which had been her dad’s, string, her lambing cord which was sometimes necessary with a difficult birth. ‘Yep, got all my kit.’
‘Well, have a good night out there. Hope it stays nice and calm for you.’
‘Me too.’
Jill packed her off with her bundle of food, a large flask of tea and a tin mug in a well-worn rucksack.
‘Come on, Moss. You can come too.’ Rachel whistled at the sheepdog who was settled by the Aga, having snuck in with her earlier. He leapt up, eager to help.
Rachel walked across the yard, headed round the corner of the old stone barn and down a short track to the lambing shed. Dusk was moving in with its long shadows and cooler air. The light was fading softly from its grey-peach glow, diffusing into the indigo of night. She heard the peeping call of an oystercatcher, spotting a pair of them – a dart of bold black and white – overhead, with their distinctive long orange bills.
She soon reached the lambing shed – a large, steel-framed structure. It was more modern than the other buildings on the farm. The lights were bright in there and the smell as she entered was earthy, of straw and sheep.
‘Hey, Simon. All been okay?’
Their middle-aged farmhand looked up. He had dark hair that was greying at the temples and a rugged but friendly face, lined from years of working outdoors. ‘Aye, grand. Just keep an eye on number 98 over there. She’s got twins but one of her teats isn’t working, so she’s struggling to feed them both for now. You might have to supplement them a bit when you’re feeding the pet lambs.’
‘Okay, thanks for the heads up, and how’s Pete? That’s the pet lamb from Friday. Maisy’s named
