Watching the two of them, who had until recently been colleagues, communicate, made Fran feel sad for Amy. She hadn’t just lost her independence when she went into a home, she had lost her job, her status, her reason for living. She had been coping with it very well, she realised.
Flora’s calf was duly presented, inspected and found to be good.
‘I think it’s time for lunch now,’ said Fran. ‘Time is getting on.’ However, it wasn’t time she wasworryingabout. It was Amy’s energy levels. If she was too tired she wouldn’t enjoy her tour of the fields. But she couldn’t say that out loud.
‘Well!’ said Amy, when she had arrived in the sitting room. ‘I must say, I quite like having the big fireplace back. We made it smaller during the war, you know, to save on coal.’
‘But didn’t you burn wood?’ said Issi.
Amy shook her head. ‘It took too long to drag it out of the woodland and chop it up. We were up against it, you know.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Antony and received an inscrutable look in recognition of the fact he had spoken.
‘I’m glad you’ve kept the picture,’ Amy went on. ‘I’m very fond of that picture.’
The picture in question was the painting of hills, fields and a house that possibly represented the farm. Although Fran and Issi had agreed it was the worst form of amateur art it was doing a good job hiding some missing plaster.
‘Who did it?’ asked Fran, feeling there must be a sentimental reason for Amy’s fondness.
‘A friend of mine. She was always arty. Now,’ said Amy, obviously thinking the conversation about the painting was exhausted. ‘Did you say something about lunch?’
Amy did well. She enjoyed the quiches, ignored the salad and drank a glass of her own home-madecowslipwine. Then she said, ‘Well now, I want to taste some cheese.’
Fran took a breath. ‘Really, Amy, you know perfectly well that I can’t let you have any.’
‘They’re still my cows, you know. My milk. If you’ve been making this fancy cheese I have a right to try it and I don’t want to die not knowing what it tasted like!’
‘But, Amy—’ Fran, a chef, had been on courses; she knew about raw milk and its potential hazards.
‘I think you should let Mrs Flowers try the cheese,’ said Antony firmly. ‘She can make her own decisions and take responsibility for her actions.’
Amy looked at Antony properly for the first time. ‘That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard one of your family say in fifty years.’
Fran wasn’t happy, but she had to agree. ‘Just don’t sue me if you get ill,’ she said to her as she gave her a small blob of mascarpone. ‘Have it on a biscuit with a drop of jam. It’s delicious.’
But Amy didn’t want crackers or jam. She took her knife to the cheese and lifted it to her mouth. She sniffed at it and then ate it, all on its own. ‘Hmm, she said. ‘Not bad.’
This was high praise from Amy.
Fran had intended to run alongside the quad bike while Amy had her tour of the farm but Amy, securely fastened next to Antony, had other ideas.‘Don’tbe ridiculous, child! You won’t be able to keep up. Tig will come with me; he can run faster than you. Go back and make a cake or something. You’re good at that. Oh and Tig, you’d better bring a notebook, there are bound to be instructions.’
Issi and Fran went back into the house together, both feeling a bit like schoolgirls dismissed from the head teacher’s office.
‘I was hoping they’d see the quarry so I’d find out where it is,’ said Fran.
‘I expect she’ll grill Tig about the farm,’ said Issi. ‘I think it’s all going quite well with the calving but she’ll ask searching questions.’
Without consulting, Fran put the kettle on to make them both tea. ‘Do you think I was wrong to give Amy that bit of cheese? I’d never forgive myself if she got ill. She’s quite frail.’
Issi considered. ‘She did know the risks and think how sad it would be if she’d never had a chance to taste it? You’d feel awful about that too.’
‘You’re right,’ said Fran, sighing. ‘I don’t know why I’m so fond of her. She’s not always very nice to me.’
‘She’s got character and Idothink she’s fond of you,’ said Issi. ‘She just doesn’t wear her heart on her sleeve.’
‘But supposing I’ve killed her!’ Fran wailed.
‘The sooner the old bird dies, the better,’ said Roy, coming into the kitchen, looking annoyingly pleased with himself.
