‘Something you’ll be only too happy to help with, no doubt,’ she observed dryly. ‘Can you stay with our Lilian while I go out and speak to some people? She’s hurt her ankle and needs to rest it, but I don’t want to leave her here alone with this drunken rabble.’
‘So you’re going to leave me alone with this drunken rabble instead, are you?’ Lilian said, laughing as she nodded towards Tony.
He grinned at her. ‘Your lucky day, eh?’
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Bobby said to Lilian. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can, but I have to do a thorough job or Reg will never send me on another assignment like this again. I had enough trouble convincing him I could do it.’
‘It’s fine, Bobby. Tony’s a friend, isn’t he?’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m sure he’ll take good care of me.’
‘That’s what worries me,’ Bobby said, giving the man a censorious glance.
‘I might even be persuaded to buy you a half of mild from the beer tent, Lil,’ Tony said, taking her arm.
She laughed. ‘Ever the charmer.’
‘All right. Well, I’ll leave you both then.’ Bobby flicked to a new page in her notebook, then cast a last, worried look at her sister. ‘You’re sure you’ll be OK though?’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Tony said. ‘I’ll behave myself, Bobby. I’m not entirely addicted to hedonism, despite what Don thinks.’
‘Hmm. Just make sure you’re a gentleman, that’s all.’
‘Aren’t I always?’
‘No.’ She turned to Lilian. ‘I’ll see you later. Keep out of trouble, the pair of you.’
Lilian rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, Mother.’
Bobby watched Tony support her sister to a bench and sit down beside her, then left the tent with her notebook in hand.
Now she was left alone to do the job she’d been assigned to do, she wasn’t quite sure where to start. There was another round of sheepdog trials just beginning: brace trials this time, where the dogs worked in pairs to round up their charges. The dogs’ handlers looked rather focused though, and Bobby wasn’t sure they’d welcome the distraction of a reporter on the hunt for quotes. Besides, Reg had specifically told her to get details of the livestock taking prizes in the sale ring. The ring was hard to miss, right in the centre of the largest field with a big crowd gathered around it.
She wandered among the tents and enclosures while she made her way there, scribbling down some of the breeds on display. Once upon a time, before her move to the country, Bobby had naively believed that a sheep was a sheep. However, it didn’t take long when you lived among farmers to learn that there were a hundred different types and breeds. There were Herdwicks and Swaledales, Cheviots and Lonks. There were gimmers and shearlings, tups and yows. There were a hundred combinations of breeds, sexes and age categories. Bobby could easily fill her notebook with lists of sheep alone, and she hadn’t even reached the dairy section where the cows were gathered yet.
The attitude of the journalist from theMercuryshe’d spoken to earlier had had time to fester now. Bobby frowned at a lamb she was writing notes about as she recalled the way the woman’s lip had curled when she’d mentioned the sort of publication she worked for now. Miss Shadwick thought Bobby had traded her job at theCourierfor something lesser. Of course she did – all newspapermen sneered at other types of publication, especially those they thought of as ‘rural’. Bobby knew her friend Don Sykes, editor of theCourier, felt the same. Although he supported her choice to leave her promising career with the paper and go back to work atThe Tyke, he’d never understand it. Nor did Tony, even though he was hardly what you’d call committed to his own career in journalism.
That was different though. Don and Tony were her friends. And was Barbara Shadwick really so much better off where she was? TheMercurydidn’t even give her a named byline. Her columns for them were always headed ‘from our woman reporter’, because God forbid the readers were tricked into believing they were reading the work of a man and affording the writer some respect for their skill. She wasn’t Barbara Shadwick at all as far as her career was concerned; she wasn’t even ‘our country correspondent’ or some such respectable title; she was merelythe woman reporter.At least when Bobby wrote forThe Tyke, her pieces had her name at the top of them. Anyhow, it seemed to Bobby that it might be nice if the small number of woman reporters there were in this county could show each other a little support, especially given the attitudes they encountered from male colleagues.
It seemed like most of Silverdale was at the show, either showing their animals or among the crowds of merrymakers. All the men were in their Sunday best, watch chains polished to a high shine and glistening in the sun, while their wives and daughters wore their brightest, most cheerful summer frocks. Bobby greeted friends and neighbours as she passed, and they smiled benignly at her. A brass band played in one part of the ground and a team of Morris dancers performed in another.
Many people had brought the whole family along, some with three and even four generations. Bobby observed infants carried in arms and great-grandparents in their eighties as she walked across the ground. As well as the animals on show, there was a merry-go-round for the children, and one elderly groom was giving pony rides for a penny each. Farmers’ wives sold home-grown vegetables, preserves and cakes. Mingled with the smell of the animals was the fragrance of tea and hot oatcakes for sale from the refreshment tent, and, of course, the mellow, hoppy scent of ale. It was hard to miss the beer tent, which was one of the busiest on the field as farmers headed there from the show ring to celebrate their sales.
Bobby was speeding up to pass it as quickly as possible, more willing to heed Reg’s warnings about the bad behaviour of drunken farmers after her experiences in the reporters’ tent, when she pulled up short. Pete Dixon was one of the men standing around outside the tent with a pint of beer in his hand, although there was no sign of her dad with him. The old man he was talking to was swaying slightly, but Pete didn’t look drunk. As she watched, Bobby saw him surreptitiously slip a small piece of paper into the other man’s hand, evidently in a way designed not to be noticed. When Pete drew his hand back again, there was a ten-shilling note in it. It was all rather cloak and dagger. After hesitating a moment, Bobby approached him.
‘Afternoon, Pete,’ she said.
He turned around, smiling warmly when he saw who it was. He didn’t look like a man who’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t, but then he rarely did – that was why he was so successful as a poacher. He could be caught red-handed by a landowner with a couple of hares over his shoulder and still swear his innocence like a choirboy. From the corner of her eye, Bobby noticed Barbara Shadwick not far away, her eyes occasionally flickering towards them as she scribbled something down in her notebook. When Miss Shadwick had finished what she was writing, she hurried away in the direction of the reporters’ tent.
‘Rob’s lass, isn’t it?’ Pete said pleasantly. ‘Young Bobby.’
The man Pete had been talking to regarded her suspiciously.
‘Are thee that lass from t’ paper?’ he asked.
‘That’s right,’ Bobby said.
‘Hm.’ Unconsciously, he put one hand over the pocket where she’d seen him hide the slip of paper he’d paid ten shillings for. ‘Pete, I’m off to t’ dogs. Sithee, lad.’
‘Aye, ta-ra, Adam.’
