Читать книгу Shadow On The Fells - Eleanor Jones - Страница 12

CHAPTER FOUR

WILL STEPPED THROUGH the back door of the shabby white farmhouse at Craig Side with a heavy sigh of relief and, to his surprise, a sense of homecoming. The walk up the fell with Max had been meant to clear his head, invigorate his senses and push back the dark thoughts that the builders’ presence had brought on. Great idea that had been; his clothes and shoes were ruined, his whole body felt battered and bruised, and he ached all over.

“It’s all your fault, Max,” he complained to the muddy dog, who had sprawled in front of the stove the second they got in.

Max half raised his head in response, thumping his bedraggled tail on the floor.

“And you need a bath,” added Will, wishing the farmhouse boasted a shower. The thought of standing under a hot shower was so appealing, and a bath just wasn’t the same. His upmarket bachelor apartment in Manchester had a power shower, so the pressure was always good, and the first thing he did when he came home from work in the evening was to strip off his clothes and stand underneath it for at least fifteen minutes, allowing the force of the scalding-hot water to wash away the trials of the day.

Perhaps he should get a shower fitted here right away. He had big plans for the place eventually, but it would be some time before they were put into action and he didn’t think he could stand only having a bath to wash in for the next year or so. The holiday rentals were his first priority, of course...which reminded him about the builder wanting him to look at the plans his architect had drawn up.

Just as the thought came into his head, the banging that had made him go out in the first place started up again. So the builders were still here. He groaned. Well, might as well get it over with.

Will stepped outside again and waved at Jim, calling him over.

“Hi, Jim, come in,” he said brightly, opening the door wider. The tall gray-haired man he’d met earlier stepped inside, looking around intently.

“So, I guess you’ll be wanting to do this place up next, when the holiday cottages are done,” he remarked. “Will you be living here, then?”

Will nodded. “That’s the plan. I could probably do with putting in a shower right away, though.”

Jim took in his muddy shins and tattered clothes and seemed to be suppressing a smirk. “There’s no water pressure, that’s the problem. Having your own supply is great, but it can be a bit unpredictable. I’ll get the plumber to have a look, if you like.”

“Great,” said Will, part of him wishing he’d never said anything in the first place, as much as he craved a shower right now. He already regretted starting on his building plans so soon.

After the gruesome child-murder trial that had been the final straw for him, he had put in his offer on Craig Side and filled his mind and imagination with ideas of what to do with it right away, anything to drown out the details of that case. He’d even had Roger Simmons, his architect, check out the property to brainstorm before the deal was properly finalized.

Now that he was actually living here, though, Will realized he didn’t want to share it with anyone...not even the workmen. What he needed to recover from his breakdown was peace and quiet, not the stress and tumult of a huge project. But what was done was done, and he had to deal with it.

Jim laid the plans out on the kitchen table. “Have a good walk?” he asked.

Will thought about his clash with the woman on the fell. “I wouldn’t exactly put it like that,” he replied with frown. “In fact, you may have noticed that I look as if I have been dragged through a rather thick thorn hedge backward.”

Jim raised his wild, gray eyebrows. “Well, I did wonder...”

“I upset some sheep on the fell,” Will explained. “Or, at least, Max did...”

Jim glanced at the mud-splattered labradoodle, unable to contain a smile. “And I’ll hazard a guess that, as she is your nearest neighbor, the sheep were rough fells and they belonged to Chrissie Marsh.”

Will shrugged. “I wouldn’t have a clue what the sheep were, but the shepherdess—can you call them that these days or are they all just shepherds?—was definitely Chrissie Marsh.”

Jim grinned slowly. “If you’ve upset her sheep then I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes.”

“It will take more than a disgruntled sheepherder to upset me.” Will thought of all the hardened criminals he’d mingled with in the past ten years. “Unless she has a violent husband...”

“Oh, no,” Jim said. “Chrissie is a loner. She loves her sheep and her dogs, and she doesn’t suffer fools gladly. She’s never been married.” He went back to the plans. “Now, what about this entrance hall? Roger wondered if you wanted a central entrance—you know, like a foyer, and then have apartments inside the barn rather than build individual cottages in the farmyard.”

Will shook his head, cupping his chin between thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. “No, I’m beginning to think that perhaps they need to be...authentic. You know, traditional, just like they were in the past.”

“What...no showers or microwaves? Electricity?”

“It’s just a thought. Roughing it is all the rage these days. City dwellers love the idea of going back to nature and experiencing how things used to be.”

Jim rolled up the plans, securing them with an elastic band. “It sounds as if you need to have a meeting with Roger, then. He wanted you to look these over because he was hoping to get them ready for next month’s planning meeting, but it seems like it’s going to take a bit longer than that. I’ll drop these off at his house on my way home and tell him to give you a call.”

Will nodded. “Thanks. My first thoughts were to have apartments, but to be honest since coming here I’ve been realizing how strong the traditions are. I mean, take Chrissie, for instance. I reckon shepherds just like her have been walking these fells with their dogs in the same way for hundreds of years.”

“Thousands, more likely,” Jim remarked. “Maybe you have something there, then, but I am no architect—or expert on what folks want, for that matter. You need to talk to people who know about stuff like that. Anyway, I’ll see what I can do about your shower. Oh, and I’m afraid the roof trusses in the barn are rotten, six of them, at least. It would be a big mistake not to replace them.”

“Just order what you need,” Will said. Suddenly, he felt stifled. He had come here to relax, not open himself up to a whole new set of problems like rotten roof trusses and planning applications. Perhaps he should just tell the architect to put everything on hold for a while...but then again, he still had to survive, and his savings weren’t going to last forever.

He saw Jim off then turned to the woodstove. “Come on, Max,” he said. “Let’s go and get you cleaned up.”

It was much later, as he sat in the garden watching the sun slowly disappear, that Chrissie’s face slid into his mind.

She had been so angry with him, standing stalwart with her dogs at her feet, blue eyes blazing. And then she’d surprised him by revealing a different side to her nature, when they had hauled at the trapped sheep together, side by side, their fingers locked into its oily wool. Her sheer determination had freed it. There was no doubt in Will’s mind about that.

Yet her face had been a picture when she’d ended up sprawled on top of him, bright red with embarrassment. Funny, really, when she came across so tough and strong-minded. Perhaps some of that self-assurance was an act.

Who was he to judge her if it was? He had acted a part every day in his job, putting on a front for his clients, judges, juries...the whole world, if he was honest with himself. Maybe that was what most people did. Maybe, underneath, everyone was vulnerable. Some just hid it better than others.

The relief Chrissie had shown when the tough little ewe eventually ran off up the hill with a series of stiff-legged jumps had been no act—he was sure of that. Her face had crumpled with emotion...until she’d turned to look at him. And the way she’d just walked off with her dogs down the steep hillside, her head held high... He had never met any woman like her.

Anyway, he had certainly learned his lesson. If he saw her again—especially if he was walking Max—then he’d know to steer well clear.

* * *

CHRISSIE WAS CONSUMED with anger as she headed homeward with Tess and Fly at her heels. Will Devlin, whoever he was, had ruined her day. Not just because he’d let his dog terrify the sheep, but because he’d made her feel like a fool when they’d pulled the ewe out of the crevice and she’d fallen on him. No one ever made Chrissie Marsh look foolish.

Her whole day had been wasted and it was all his fault. What kind of idiot let a dog like that loose on the fell, anyway, especially at lambing time? Well, if there was any damage then he would be paying for it; she hadn’t been joking about that.

The ewe that had fallen was quite likely to lamb too early after all that stress. It was hard enough for the lambs to survive up here as it was; premature labor would mean Chrissie would have to keep mother and lamb—hopefully not lambs—on the lowlands for longer. Well, at least lambing time was imminent so they couldn’t be very premature, but shock could have unpredictable effects, even resulting in lambs being stillborn.

And she hadn’t yet ruled out the possibility of finding more damaged sheep. Anything could have happened to them when they ran away from the dog. In normal circumstances, fell sheep were sure-footed and knew their territory far too well to get into difficulties, but today had been something else—something she really could have done without.

Homeowner or not, Will Devlin and his fancy clothes had no place up in these hills. He must have bought a holiday cottage somewhere around here. In the village, probably.

It was Tess who noticed it first. She stopped, head up to sniff the air, whining into the relentless wind that bent the stunted trees and bushes toward the ground. Chrissie followed her gaze with a prickle of apprehension. “What is it, girl?

The black-and-white collie raced off toward a rocky outcrop, closely followed by Fly. Chrissie headed off after them, using her crook to stop her from slipping on the sharp scree. Her heart fell when she peered over the ominous drop. A white shape lay on the rocks far below.

On a normal day the ewe could have easily traversed the dangerous surface. Today, though, in an obvious panic and separated from the flock, she must have lost her footing on the patch of unstable scree and slipped over the edge...falling to her doom.

Although she was used to the harsh ways of nature, where death often seemed to loom around every corner, losing one of her flock so needlessly—so wastefully—filled Chrissie with rage at the man who had unwittingly caused it. He was so ignorant. She could only hope that this sheep’s death had been quick and painless. And it was dead, she was sure of it. The ewe’s legs were twisted into peculiar shapes and it stared up at her through vacant eyes.

A rush of tears overwhelmed her, cutting through the anger. What if it was still holding on—and suffering? She had to be sure.

Telling the dogs to “lie” and “stay,” Chrissie carefully negotiated the rocky ledge and found a place near one end where it sloped off more gradually, allowing her to climb down and inch across to where the sheep was lying. Its body was still warm and soft to the touch, but its eyes were glazing over and it gazed right past her, into eternity.

“Poor lamb,” she murmured, stroking the rough hair on the ewe’s black-and-white face, recognizing its distinctive markings at once. This would have been the sheep’s first lambing and now it would never happen, all because of a misfit from the city and his stupid dog. Tourists like him should be banned from everywhere but the villages that depended on them for their livelihood.

With a sharp whistle to Tess and Fly, Chrissie headed homeward. There was nothing else to do here.

* * *

THE YARD AT High Bracken was quiet. As quiet as the poor dead sheep, thought Chrissie with a knot in her stomach. Despondency flooded her veins. She certainly hadn’t expected the gather to end like this. Tess and Fly looked eagerly up at her, whining softly.

“Okay,” she said. “It wasn’t your fault. Come on, I’ll give you a feed.”

As she made for the barn, a frantic barking broke the tranquility, reminding her about the new dog, Floss. She opened the small door set into one of the two big barn doors and stepped inside, breathing in the sweet fragrance of hay. Here on the fells they still made small bales of traditional meadow hay—and always would do, as far as she was concerned. Sheep did best on meadow hay, and small bales were easy to handle.

“Hey, girl,” she called softly as the nervous young dog wriggled and squirmed on the end of her chain. Chrissie intended to bring her into the kitchen tonight, where the other dogs slept, but for now she was safest tied in the barn. She leaned down to rub the pup’s ears before unclipping her chain. The little black, white and tan Welsh collie raced around her.

Chrissie laughed, her unsuccessful day temporarily forgotten as Floss rolled over onto her back. “I hope you’re going to settle down a bit, or I’ll never be able to train you,” she said, scratching Floss’s tummy. She liked to spend time with new trainees, get them to trust her before proper training sessions began.

Tess and Fly flopped down in the hay, noses on their paws as they waited patiently, watching their mistress’s every move. “You were young once,” she told them. When she stood, Floss leaped up at her and she lowered her palm in a signal to sit.

“Down,” she said firmly. The little dog wagged her plumed tail and when she repeated the command, Floss did as she was bid.

“Well someone has certainly taught you something.” Chrissie reached into the feed bin for the bag of dog food. Tess and Fly jumped up and stood by their bowls, while Floss held back submissively.

The shadows were lengthening by the time Chrissie finished feeding the dogs and turned to her other animals.

With Floss on a long piece of twine, she fed and locked away the chickens and the Indian Runner ducks that she used in the sheepdogs’ early training. It was too early yet to test out Floss’s natural herding instincts, so she kept the young dog close and gave the command to sit on a regular basis.

The two shorthorn cows she kept for her own milk lowed hungrily, and she fed them before milking them in the old traditional way, enjoying the warm feel of their teats and the rhythmic sound of the milk squirting into a stainless steel bucket.

People around here thought she was as mad as a box of frogs to bother milking twice a day. “You could buy your milk from the shop,” Andy, her vet, had reminded her for the thousandth time just the other day. “It would be a darn sight cheaper and a lot less hassle.” Her response had been just to smile and shrug. The truth was she enjoyed it. The age-old task helped her relax.

And after her bad experience with the city dweller and his dog, she definitely needed to relax.

Remembering the poor, broken sheep, a flood of emotion overtook her. If Will Devlin thought he was getting away scot-free, then he could think again. Nothing could bring back the ewe or her unborn lamb, but he could pay for it. That was the least he could do.

Tomorrow, she decided, she’d get an early start and make the gather again. Once the flock was safely down on the lower pasture adjacent to the farm, she’d try to find out where the man was from. She stood, lifting the pail of milk and covering it with a cloth. In fact, she would write out a proper invoice as soon as she went inside. Perhaps she should take it with her in the morning, in case she saw him on the fell again, though surely he had learned his lesson there. Someone in the village must know where he was staying.

No matter what, she was determined to find him and make him pay.