Читать книгу A Funny Thing Happened... - Caroline Anderson - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

HER revenge for the snowball came sooner than she expected. It took Daisy ten seconds to check Sam out and decide he needed butting in the ribs, and he leapt backwards with a grunt and smacked into the wall.

‘Daisy, that’s not nice,’ Jemima chided, and turned her attention to her crippled farmhand. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked, eyeing his pinched mouth and closed eyes with concern. After all, it would be such a waste of all that God-sent muscle if he was really injured—

‘Oh, I’m fine, just peachy,’ he wheezed, and his eyes flickered open and speared her. ‘Can’t you—tie her up, or something? In fact, can’t you tie them all up?’

‘I don’t need to. It’s milking time. If I feed them they’ll go and stand in their stalls ready.’

‘Well, feed them then, for heaven’s sake!’ he pleaded, and levered himself off the wall, feeling his ribs cautiously.

Jemima gave a little shrug and grabbed a pitchfork, then started forking silage into the trough in front of each cow. They knew the routine, and lined up patiently waiting as she worked her way down each side of the barn.

‘Can I do that for you?’ he offered, eyeing her safe position on the other side of the barrier.

He certainly could. She handed him the fork, took another one and cleared away the straw under each animal’s udder, ready for milking. Now all she needed was the hot water. She handed Sam a bucket.

‘Could you go into the house and bring some hot water, please? Not too hot—it’s to wash their udders.’

His eyes widened, but he took the bucket and the torch and headed for the door. ‘I am going out—I may be some time,’ he murmured theatrically, and then the door opened and the Arctic screamed in on a frigid blast. He ducked his head, shot out and slid the door back into place, shutting out the blizzard.

Jemima grinned and set up the milking stool and bucket, then looked round the barn and lost her smile. She’d have to muck out in the morning, so she hoped the power would be back on because milking by hand took so long she’d be hardly finished before she had to start again, and she didn’t think for a moment that her intrepid explorer was going to make much of a milkman.

He reappeared, hair on end again, a steaming bucket in his hand and Jess by his side. ‘She was desperate to come—is that all right?’

‘Sure.’ She smiled and held out her hand, and Jess came running up for a quick pat before finding a cosy corner and flopping down, one watchful eye open. Jemima took the bucket and the old flannel she used to wash them, and started on the first udder.

Normally she’d connect them up to the old Fulwood milking plant Uncle Tom had bought in 1949 and never got round to changing, but without power she had no option but to crouch on the little stool by each cow in turn, and strip the milk out of all four quarters by hand. It was a slow process, and she could see Sam was bored, so she cocked her head round towards him and grinned.

‘So, what do you usually do for entertainment on a Friday night?’ .

.He laughed and hunkered down beside her, watching. ‘Oh, this and that. Murder a few grannies, rob the odd bank—nothing special.’

‘There’s a picture of you in the police station—or was that Buffalo Bill?’

‘Probably—we’re very alike,’ he said, absolutely deadpan.

‘Mmm—except he can milk cows, of course.’

A brow arched—just ever so slightly—and she wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been taking such a close interest in his features. However, she had noticed. Was it a challenge? She wasn’t sure, but she stood up anyway and gave him the stool.

‘Come on, Buffalo Bill, your turn.’

He folded himself up onto the stool and gave her a steady look that spoke volumes. Her estimation of him went up a notch, and she folded her arms and propped herself on Bluebell’s nicely rounded rump.

He reached for the udder tentatively, and Bluebell turned her large, gentle head and eyed him in surprise. It was odd enough being milked by hand, something that 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 last cow, poured the milk into the cooler just in case the tanker was able to get through tomorrow by a miracle and the power came back on soon, and then went to help him.

They finished the water at ten o’clock. By that time her hands were bleeding freely from the many cracks in her fingers, her palms were raw, her back was screaming and if she’d been on her own she would have curled up and wept.

She wasn’t, though, so she didn’t.

Nor did Sam, and, casting him a quick look, she thought that left alone he’d probably want to do the same!

‘You’ll be stiff in the morning,’ she warned.

‘Tell me about it. Anything else to do tonight?’

‘Only eat, if I can find anything worth cooking.’

‘Shall I nip out for a Chinese?’

She met his eyes, and was amazed to see humour lurking there still, after all they’d done. All he’d done, and him just a city boy.

‘Good idea. I’ll have special chow mein.’

‘OK. I’ll have rice and lemon chicken—fancy a spring roll?’

She looked round the barn one last time, took the lantern down and glanced at him. ‘Oh, yes—and prawn crackers.’

His stomach rumbled loudly, and she gave a quiet, weary laugh. ‘Come on, cowboy, let’s go and raid the larder.’

Sam was dog-tired. He didn’t remember ever being so tired in his life, but he supposed it was possible. His hands hurt from carrying so many buckets, his back and shoulders ached with the unaccustomed exercise and he was so hungry he had the shakes.

‘Anything I can do?’ he offered, hoping to speed things along.

‘No—there’s some bread and cheese and there’s some soup left in the fridge—I’ll heat it up. Wash your hands, but be frugal with the water, the tank won’t refill—in fact, use my water, here.’

She shook her hands off and picked up the towel, and he went over to the sink and looked down into the bowl of water. The bar of soap was streaked with red, and he looked over his shoulder and watched as she pressed the towel against her fingers cautiously and winced.

He scrubbed his hands clean, wiped them on the towel and then went over to her, taking the cheese from her and putting it down, then lifting her hands in his and turning them over.

They were cracked and ingrained with dirt, the skin rough and broken although it had stopped bleeding, and she stood there with her eyes closed and said nothing.

‘Jemima?’ he murmured.

‘The dirt won’t come out,’ she said defensively. ‘You can get your own supper if it worries you.’

‘It’s nothing to do with that. Have you got any cream?’

‘I want to eat.’

‘Have you got any cream?’

‘I’ll put it on later. I want to eat first so my food doesn’t taste of gardenias.’

He let her go, and she bustled about, cutting bread, laying the table, feeding the dogs, making tea—

‘Jemima, come and eat.’

She plonked two mugs of tea on the table, sat down and attacked the cheese. He ate his way through a bowl of chicken soup and two doorsteps of bread with slabs of cheese, and watched as she ate at least two bowls of soup and three chunks of bread.

‘Where the hell do you put it?’ he asked in amazement as she started on a slab of fruitcake.

‘No lunch,’ she said round a mouthful of cake. ‘Have some—your grandmother made it.’

He did, and it was good. Very good. He had more, with another mug of tea, and wondered if the cold or the exercise had sharpened up his appetite.

Finally he ground to a halt, and his hostess took the plates and stacked them by the sink.

‘Hands,’ he said to her, catching her on the way back from her second trip to the fridge.

‘OK.’ She reached for some handcream by the sink, ordinary handcream that wouldn’t cope with a good bout of spring-cleaning, never mind what she’d been doing, and he took it from her and put it down.

‘Antiseptic?’

‘What?’

‘Antiseptic cream—the sort you put on cuts.’

‘Oh.’ She opened a cupboard and took some out, and he sat her down, pulled up a chair opposite and spread some into her hands. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked.

He wasn’t sure. He didn’t tell her that. He didn’t say anything, just rubbed the cream gently into the sore fingers until it was all absorbed, then put more on. ‘Got anything tougher than that?’ he asked, tipping his head towards the handcream.

‘No. Well, only the bag balm that we use for cracked udders. It’s in the barn, on the shelf by the door. That might do something.’

‘I’ll get it.’

‘Tomorrow will do—’

He stood up and put her hands back on her lap. ‘I’ll get it,’ he repeated, and pulled on his coat and boots. He took the torch, leaving her with the lantern, and went across the yard to the barn. The snow was still flying horizontally, but whether it was fresh snow or just drifting he couldn’t tell. Whatever, it was freezing and he was glad to reach the shelter of the barn, cows or not.

It was warm inside, comparatively, warm and full of soft rustlings and sleepy grunts, and the grinding of teeth as they chewed the cud. One of them—Bluebell?—came up and sniffed at him cautiously, and he held out his hand and she licked it, her tongue rough and curiously gentle.

Perhaps cows weren’t all bad, he thought, and scratched her face. She watched him for a moment before backing off and rejoining the others, and he thought her eyes were like Jemima’s—huge and soft and wary.

He found the cream on the shelf where she’d said, and went back across the Siberian wasteland to the welcoming light from the kitchen window.

It really was bitterly cold in the wind, even colder than it had been an hour before, or perhaps it was because he wasn’t working. He went into the lobby, shucked his coat and boots and opened the kitchen door.

She was asleep, curled up in the chair by the fire, Noodle on her lap, Jess at her feet, and he stood there for a moment enjoying the warmth and watched her. Did she need her sleep more than the cream? If she did, would she even wake up if he just put it on?

He unscrewed the lid, eased one of her hands out from under the little white dog and smeared a dollop of cream onto the palm of her hand. She mumbled something in her sleep, and then went quiet again, and he massaged the cream into the cracks and fissures of her hands while Noodle sniffed the cream and went back to sleep.

She didn’t move again, just lay there with her head on one side, propped against the wing of the chair, while her chest rose and fell evenly in sleep.

She was exhausted, he realised. Exhausted, overworked and under-funded even without the snow and the power cut.

What would she have done without him?

Coped, was the answer. He knew that, just as he knew he couldn’t have left her to fend for herself alone.

He made more tea and drank it, sitting in the other chair by the fire, Jess leaning on his leg while he fondled her ears and watched Jemima sleeping and thought how gutsy she was and what a contrast with the superficial and fickle women he dealt with in his normal daily life.

She had that pioneering spirit that had conquered the Wild West, he thought—grit and determination and sheer bloody-mindedness, coupled with resourcefulness and humour.

. Interesting.

It was a shame they were going to be so busy that he wouldn’t have time to get to know her!

Jemima woke at midnight, a crick in her neck and Sam asleep in the easy chair opposite her. She watched him for a moment, enjoying the sight of him stretched out in front of the Rayburn, legs crossed at the ankle, his dark hair tousled and boyish above those sinful black lashes.

He had good bones, she thought idly—good bones and stamina. She pushed Noodle onto the floor, opened the little fire-door in the front of the Rayburn and shovelled in coke and slag to keep it on overnight.

The last thing they needed was that going out!

Sam stirred and mumbled something, and she looked down at him and wondered what she would have done if he hadn’t stayed.

Coped, of course, but only just barely and not for long. A day? Two, maybe? No more than that.

She reached out and shook him gently, with a hand that no longer hurt.

‘Sam? Time for bed.’

His eyes flew open and locked with hers, and the message in them was warm and sleepy and unmistakable. Then he smiled, a lazy, sexy smile that made her pulse hammer and her mouth go dry as he unfolded out of the chair with a groan.

‘I don’t suppose you meant that the way it sounded,’ he said regretfully, and a smile played around his eyes, taking away any offence.

She smiled back. ‘No—I wouldn’t have the energy.’

‘I wouldn’t notice—I’d be asleep.’

They laughed softly, and she put the dogs out for a moment before heading up the stairs. It was much colder in the bedrooms, and she hoped he was a tough and hardy type, or he’d freeze to bits. She remembered her first taste of winter here. It had taken a bit of getting used to, but she’d managed.

‘You’re in here,’ she told him, and pushed the door open. The bed looked neat, the room quite welcoming, but it was cold. ‘I’m sorry it’s not warmer. I’ll get you some extra blankets. If you leave the door open the heat’ll come up from the kitchen.’

She reached into the airing cupboard, pulled out a couple of blankets from the bottom and handed them to him. ‘I’ll leave the lantern hoe—don’t flush the loo, because we haven’t got any water. I’ll get some buckets in the morning. Anything else you need?’

He shook his head.

‘Right, I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘What time’s milking?’

‘Five, usually.’

His jaw sagged slightly, then he nodded. ‘Wake me.’ ‘I can manage—’

‘Just do it.’

She smiled. He wanted to be a hero? Fine, he could be a hero. ‘See you at five, then. Goodnight, Sam—and thanks.’

She went into her room, leaving the door ajar so she had some light, and changed quickly into her pyjamas. Her teeth were scrubbed in a dribble of water, she wiped her face with a cleansing pad and dragged a brush through her hair, then curled up under the covers, rubbing her feet inside the thick bedsocks to keep them warm.

Five o’clock was going to come awfully soon...

Sam was freezing. He pulled on a sweater over his one pair of ‘just-in-case’ pyjamas, put on a second pair of socks and threw the other blanket over the bed before huddling back under the covers and shuddering with cold.

He must be even more spoilt and pampered than he’d realised.

The wind rattled the window, shaking the glass in the frame and swirling cold air round the room. So much for the warmth coming up from the kitchen!

He tucked his face under the blankets and blew on his hands, trying to warm them, but all he managed to do was make the bed tepid and damp. In the end he tucked the blankets round his head, curled up in a ball and lay still.

There were no night sounds other than the wind. It was strange. He’d stayed with his grandparents just down the road in the summer once, and he could remember the sounds of the night—the owls hooting, the rustling of countless little animals—he’d used to sit on the windowsill and listen to them, and try and imagine what they all were.

His bed dipped, and something cold and wet pushed into his face. His eyelids flew up and his mouth opened to yell when a loud purr echoed round his head.

A cat.

Dammit, he’d nearly died of fright! It nudged him again, and he reached out a hand and scratched its ears and chuckled, the tension draining out of him. A cat he could cope with. It curled up against his chest, and after a moment the purring slowed down and stopped. The warmth seeped through against his chest, and, seconds later, he was asleep.

It was light when he woke—light with the sort of brightness that only happens with a full moon on snow. He shoved the cat out of the way, got stiffly out of bed and went to the window, peering at his watch.

Five-thiriy-and there was a light in the barn, a thin sliver of yellow seeping round the sliding door. He pulled on his clothes in the moonlight and limped down the stairs, hideously aware of every muscle, to find a note from Jemima propped up against a mug on the table.

‘Gone fishing,’ it said. ‘Didn’t want to disturb the cat.’

He smiled and put the kettle on. However busy she was, she’d have time to sip a cup of tea. The Rayburn needed revving up, and he studied the controls for a minute and decided that it probably needed some breakfast. He found logs in the lobby and pushed them through the little door of the firebox, and once it was packed he opened the vent to allow more air in.

The dogs watched him uninterestedly. Was he eating? No. Therefore they might as well sleep, curled up on the twin chairs. He scooped Noodle up and sat down, and she washed him vigorously before settling down again on his lap.

It reminded him that he needed a shave, but water was short and a beard might keep his face warm in the wind.

Not that it would have much chance to grow before the power came back on, whenever that might be. He put Noodle down and went into the parlour to phone the electricity board.

Still no further news, except that it would be some time and thousands of homes were out. He fiddled with a little radio on the kitchen windowsill and found a local station, which told him that a helicopter had flown into some power lines in the blizzard and knocked out half of Dorset.

So, still hand-milking, then—and hauling the water.

Great.

The kettle boiled and he made tea, pulled on his coat and boots and went out. It was cold and crisp, his breath making little puffs on the bright moonlit air, but the wind had dropped and the sun would be creeping over the horizon in an hour or so. Strange how fickle February could be.

He trudged across the yard towards the barn, slid the door back and was greeted with a smile that warmed him down to the bottom of his boots.

‘My hero!’ she said with a laugh, and she got stiffly to her feet, pressed her hands into the small of her back and stretched, giving a little groan.

‘Sore?’

‘Am I ever. I thought I was fit. How about you?’ He grinned. ‘Oh, I can feel muscles I didn’t know I had.’ He gave her her tea. ‘How are the hands?’

‘Better.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I never really thanked you—I fell asleep while you were doing it.’

‘It’s my magic touch—and anyway, you were already asleep.’

‘I wonder why?’ She buried her nose in her mug and drank a huge gulp of tea, then sighed. ‘Gorgeous. I was dying for tea. I thought I might finish the cows and come and get some, but they’re being really awkward. They just won’t let down for me this morning. I don’t think the water’s very warm any more, that’s the trouble.’

He drained his mug. ‘I’ll get you some. I put the kettle back on the hob.’

‘You’re just a regular sweetheart. Remind me to thank Mary for lending you to me.’

He leant back against the wall, arms folded. ‘Just as a matter of interest,’ he said slowly, ‘where is their farm?’

She coloured slightly. ‘Over the hill.’

‘About three or four hundred yards?’

‘Something like that.’

‘So I could have got there last night.’

To her credit she met his eyes. ‘Possibly.’

He smiled slowly. ‘Just think,’ he said, ‘what I might have missed.’

Something sad and a little desperate happened to her eyes. ‘Yes, just think. You could still have been in bed now.’ She handed him her mug. ‘Better get on.’

He went back to the kitchen, filled the bucket with hot water and poured her another mug of tea. She’d drunk the first almost in one gulp. He wondered why she’d looked sad when he’d talked about getting to his grandparents. Did she think he’d go? And leave her, with this lot to do?

She didn’t know him very well, he thought, picking up the tea and the bucket. After he’d delivered them he carried water into the house, some to the kitchen, some to the bathroom, and then he went back to the barn.

‘Fill the troughs?’ he suggested.

She looked at him in amazement. ‘Aren’t you going?’

‘Without my car? You have to be kidding,’ he joked, but she nodded, as if she thought it was perfectly reasonable.

‘In which case...’

Hope flickered in her amber eyes, and if he’d cherished any illusions about being able to escape, they evaporated like mist in the early morning. He couldn’t abandon her—and if he did, his grandmother would kick him straight back down here again before he was even over the threshold!

‘I’ll fill the troughs,’ he said, and wondered why the thought of shifting a hundred and fifty buckets of water made him want to whistle...