ChapterOne
The farm gate clanged shut behind her as Fran steered her little car up the steep track. Now she and Issi had found Hill Top Farm for certain – the name was written (not very clearly) on the post box – she felt a mixture of excitement and nervousness. This was either going to be a wonderful adventure or a humiliating mistake. She decided not to mention her feelings to her best friend. Issi probably guessed how she felt already.
‘I always wanted to be a farmer when I was a little girl,’ Fran said instead.
Issi, who’d just got back in the car having helped deal with the gate, seemed surprised. ‘Really? I never knew that and we’ve been friends for years. I thought you’d always wanted to run your own restaurant.’
‘That came later. I’d forgotten myself,’ said Fran, ‘but Mum reminded me at Christmas.’
‘Doyour parents think you’re mad to do this?’
‘Yup. But they’re being supportive. My stepdad thinks I’ll be back with them before the end of the month, but I’m in it for the long haul.’ She paused. ‘Which may only be a year, if I don’t make it.’
‘Come on,’ said Issi, ‘let’s go and find this farmhouse you might inherit.’
‘It’s not just the farmhouse, remember? It’s the whole darn farm.’
Fran rounded a steep corner and tried to push her nerves to the back of her mind. Now she was finally here she realised no sane person would leave their comfortable life in London and move to a farm in Gloucestershire that they might not even inherit. Nosaneperson, obviously, but maybe someone like her whose normal life had stalled rather, and who relished a challenge.
A couple of minutes later, they arrived, having bumped their way to the top avoiding as many potholes as they could. ‘I’m not sure a Ka is the right vehicle for this track,’ Issi said.
Ignoring her friend, Fran got out of the car. ‘But look at the view!’
The farmhouse was on a plateau at the top of a hill that overlooked hills and wooded valleys. Beyond them lay the Severn, a silver snake in the far distance, and beyond the river was Wales.
‘I think I remember this landscape!’ Fran went on. ‘We came here once when I was a little girl. I’dforgottenall about it until we were discussing the farm over Christmas, and Mum reminded me. Mum said we’d all been here when Dad was alive, but I must have been tiny – after all I was only five when he died. But this feels faintly familiar.’
‘It is stunning,’ Issi agreed.
‘Come on,’ said Fran, ‘let’s look at the house while it’s still light. It’ll be dark by about four, so we’ll need to turn the leccy on. I’ve got a torch.’ She paused. ‘January’s probably not a good time to move on to a farm.’
Issi laughed. ‘It is what it is. Let’s get in.’
After failing to open the front door, they went round the back. ‘I don’t think people use front doors in the country,’ said Fran as they made their way round the building. ‘Here we are.’ She fitted the key into the lock and turned. Seconds later they were in.
‘Wow! It is dark,’ said Issi.
‘Hang on. I think I’ve found the fuse box. I’ll just get my torch out. There! We have light!’
They were in a fairly big farmhouse kitchen. The friends looked around in silence for a few seconds, taking it all in.
‘An open fire!’ said Issi excitedly. ‘How lovely to have an open fire in a kitchen.’
‘As long as it’s not all I have to cook on,’ agreed Fran, looking round. Although the central light was on, it wasn’t very bright and created shadow-filledcorners.‘Oh, look,’ she went on, relieved. ‘There’s a Rayburn. Probably a prototype it’s so ancient. I do hope it’s not run on solid fuel.’
‘But you’re a chef. You can cook on anything!’ said Issi, laughing at her friend.
‘I’m fine with the cooking,’ Fran agreed, ‘but I have no experience of lighting fires. Oh phew, it seems to run on oil.’
‘And look, there’s an electric cooker as well. You’re in culinary clover.’ Issi seemed to find Fran’s dismay over the cooking arrangements highly amusing.
‘I’ll be OK,’ said Fran, more to herself than Issi. ‘I’m here to farm, not to cook, after all. And I really like all the freestanding cupboards and things. And the sink has a lovely view of …’ She lifted the net curtain and peered through the window. ‘Ah, the farmyard. But it’s lovely beyond that. Come on!’ Suddenly she was more excited than dubious. ‘Let’s go and explore some more.’
The sitting room, which was at the front of the house, was a good size, and the windowsill was covered in pot plants. Some had died, but the geraniums seemed to have survived. There was a three-piece suite draped in crocheted blankets, and a profusion of tables and whatnots covered in photographs. Fran picked a photo up. ‘A woman and a cow, or maybe a bull. There’s a rosette. How sweet!’
Issijoined her. ‘They all seem to be of cows or bulls. There’s nothing to tell you anything about the old lady who owned them.’
‘Except that she was really into cows,’ said Fran, putting down the photo she was holding. ‘Oh, look at the fireplace!’
