‘I miss him so much, Mum.’
‘I know, darling.’ Rita ineffectively rubbed dog hairs off the sofa arm. ‘Have you heard from that brother of yours lately?’
‘No. You know what Thom’s like now. Only calls when he wants something.’ Sennen paused. ‘I miss him too, Mum.’
Rita’s heart squeezed. Of the twins, Thom had always been the strong, silent one. Tall, handsome and forthright, the absolute image of his father. When he was younger, he and Archie had been inseparable on the farm. From feeding lambs at dawn to fixing fences at dusk, he had trailed after his dad like a small apprentice. Archie’s accident had carved a hole straight through him. Rita still believed it was grief, not ambition, that had driven him to London straight afterwards to work as a salesman for a large IT company. Despite her selfish attempts at soft persuasion, he’d had no interest in staying and getting his hands dirty on the land without his fatherbeside him. And since then, he’d rarely looked back; calls had become practical, sporadic, and always on his terms.
Sennen, beautiful and flighty, had always dreamed of being in event management. She had flown the nest at eighteen to study it at university and was now living in Reading with her partner, running her own wedding-planning business.
‘I miss him too, darling,’ Rita murmured. ‘Maybe when things are less raw for us all, we’ll get our Thom back.’ Rita reached for the remote control. ‘Are you and Alex OK, darling?’
Sennen sighed. ‘It’s leading up to silly season, so I’m manic, but I think we’re fine.’
‘Look at us Jory girls and our flagrant use of the word “fine”.’ Rita dipped her finger into her soup and put it to her lips. ‘Come down for Easter, Alex included, of course. It’s a couple of weekends away, I think, isn’t it?’
‘I’d love that. I’m actually working on a wedding in Dorset on the Good Friday, so I’ll be halfway down to you anyway.’
‘I’d love that too.’ Rita smiled. ‘OK, I’m going. I don’t want my soup to get cold. Talk to you soon, darling.’
‘Mum, before you go, have you watched the newWhite Lotusseries? This one’s set in a health retreat somewhere exotic. Maybe I should find out if it’s a real place and we could go together.’
Rita, still not daring to confess to her daughter that she was in such dire straits she couldn’t even afford her favourite shower gel, replied brightly, ‘Brilliant. Yes, we watched the ones with Jennifer Coolidge in. Hilarious! Had me and your dad in hysterics.’ Rita coughed to rid the lump that had formed in the back of her throat. ‘Haven’t seen the new series, though.’
Sennen’s voice wobbled. ‘That’s you sorted for tonight, then.’
‘Sennen… Please don’t worry about me. The locals have been nothing short of wonderful. I’ve got enough fish pies in the freezer to keep me going for at least a year. And your granny and Henry are company of sorts. Although we know how much my dear mother-in-law likes to hide herself away in that annexe of hers.’
Sennen laughed. ‘Dear Granny Hilda, she does make me laugh. Love you, Mum.’
‘Love you too.’
FOUR
The next morning Rita headed out to a grey March sky which suddenly gave out rain in thick, unyielding sheets. Even Henry wasn’t moving from his bed by the Aga. With a heavy sigh, she headed back inside, pulled on her trusty old raincoat, the one with the frayed hood, swapped trainers for wellies, grabbed her wicker egg basket and set off into the downpour to tackle her early morning chores. Noticing the light on in Hilda’s annexe reminded her that she still needed to drop off the laundry she’d recently done for her.
With a sack of dried food over her shoulder, she scurried across the courtyard towards the goat field, where she could hear them kicking their cans for food. Whinnies of protest drifted on the wind from the horses at neighbouring Hawthorn Acre, displeased by the sudden precipitation.
On seeing Rita approaching, the goats’ comforting, softmaas soon changed to high-pitched, demanding bleats that filled the rain-fresh air with energy. In a hopeless attempt to shield her face from the rain, Rita tugged her hood down until it nearly met her nose. ‘Morning, your majesties,’ she trilled, squinting through the torrent. ‘Breakfast is served.’
The goats stared at her, unblinking, their rectangular pupilsgiving an unsettling, almost alien expression. No matter how many times she’d fed, herded, or wrestled them out of the vegetable patch, and as much as she’d grown a fondness for them, she still couldn’t get used to that eerie, side-glancing stare.
The four, Elizabeth, Camilla, Mary and Anne – were all does of a similar age.
Now climbing over each other in hungry anticipation, the drenched quartet snuffled eagerly at the goat pellets in their tins, their beady eyes already fixed on the apple pieces Rita had begun scattering around their enormous grassy pen. She had never known animals so greedy, but their ridiculous antics and constant humour more than made up for their mischievous traits. Not having the head space, time, or money at the moment to breed them, they had become expensive pets – pets that Rita could barely afford but just couldn’t bear to part with.
Rita held up the pellet bag and shook its final contents into the pen. As she was folding it up ready to dispose of, her eyes were suddenly drawn to a sharp streak of red, a fresh-looking cut, just above one of her girls’ ankles. ‘Aw. Camilla, what have you done now, sweetheart?’
Realising she’d have to go in and investigate, Rita hoisted herself onto the top of the splintered wooden fence and with a whispered, ‘You can do it,’ she swung one leg awkwardly over. As she tried to balance, she felt herself wobble. Arms flailing for dignity, she let out a sharp cry and half fell into the pen. Ignoring both her antics and the worsening weather, the goats continued chewing lazily.
She managed to steady herself, just as her boots touched the earth, when a sudden flash of lightning split the sky, followed instantly by a deafening crack of thunder. The goats scattered in all directions, bleating in alarm as they tore around the pen.
In the chaos, Mary clipped the back of Rita’s ankle, sending her sprawling backwards with a spectacular squelch. She landed hard on her bum, instantly drenched in a cocktail of mud, manure and rain. Her fingers went instinctivelyto her neck, searching, panicked, as though her necklace might simply have slipped to the side. But Archie’s sapphire and diamond gift – the thirtieth birthday talisman she had clung to like a tether – was gone. Maybe she’d misplaced it before. She frantically tried to find it. But deep down she knew. Another loss. Another piece of him slipping from her grasp.
She sat there stunned, before the tears came: hot, snotty, unrelenting – born not of pain, but of bone-deep frustration and the long, raw ache of grief.
The storm vanished as swiftly as it had arrived. With a gust of sea-damp air at her back, Rita stepped into the coat-filled hallway, slammed the front door, and pulled off her filthy wellies.
The farmhouse was quiet, but as with all old homes never truly silent. Floorboards creaked. The Aga ticked. Somewhere above, a gull cried out as it wheeled past the chimney.
