Meier laughed, clearly enjoying the joke, and clasped Connor’s hand with both of his. ‘Welcome to Bryn Helyg,’ he said. ‘I think it probably is not what you were expecting, or maybe it is. We are, if you do not know this already, a farm-cum-retreat-cum-wellness centre, with many treatments and therapies to offer our guests, but that is not the reason you are here, of course. So maybe we should get out of this weather and take some refreshments up at the house?’
As he gestured for them to go ahead, Connor said, ‘Shall I bring the recorder?’
Turning back, Meier said, ‘Pourquoi-pas?Do you need help to carry anything?’
‘It’s fine,’ Connor assured him. ‘Just one bag.’
Taking heart from Meier’s apparent willingness to be interviewed, Cristy fell into step beside him as they walked past the stables and into the lane next to the farmhouse. At the far end, a lorry with the rear doors open appeared to be receiving whatever was being craned out of the large building behind it.
Meier paused at the gate to watch. His tone was sombre as he said, ‘I’m afraid it’s Arabella. She gave birth last nightand suffered a prolapsed womb afterwards. We had to let her go this morning.’
Cristy felt absurdly sad given how the very same cow had scared the living daylights out of her forty-eight hours ago. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Is the calf OK?’
‘Yes, he’s doing well. Someone is feeding him and making sure he stays warm. He’s with a couple of brood cows and their calves, so he’s not alone.’
Sensing that Arabella’s loss had actually touched Meier quite deeply, Cristy said again, ‘I’m sorry she didn’t make it.’
He nodded, seeming to appreciate the words, and as Connor joined them, he pushed open the gate. ‘I’m not sure anyone is inside at the moment,’ he said, leading them to the front porch, ‘but we’ve made the place as welcoming as we can for you. Please excuse us if we seem …un peu rustique, but this is a quiet time of year. Not many guests, mainly those of us who live and work here twenty-four seven. And the animals, of course. Here we are.’ And pushing open the heavy oak door, he gestured for them to go inside.
As Cristy stepped into a large, high-ceilinged, oak-beamed kitchen, it was the warmth that hit her first, quickly followed by the mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked bread, mixed with something slightly muskier. Realizing it was the roaring log fire in a large, inglenook hearth, she inhaled deeply and looked around to take in the rest of the room. It was as homely a kitchen as she’d ever been in, full of wooden cabinets and quartzite worktops, with brushed velvet curtains at the recessed windows. There were all kinds of modern gadgets, a refectory table to seat at least twelve against the far wall, and a capacious sofa with patchwork-covered armchairs either side of the fender.
‘Please make yourselves comfortable,’ Meier invited, taking their coats to hang in an alcove next to the door. ‘If you don’t mind, I need to slip outside for a moment to makesure everything is in order before Arabella is taken away.Excusez-moi.’
As he left, Connor went to set his bag on the table, before going over to the fire. ‘He’s right about this place not being quite what we expected,’ he said, rubbing his hands together in front of the flames. ‘Although, to be honest, I’m not sure what we did expect – are you?’
Cristy shook her head and looked around again. ‘He’s …’ Finding herself unable to describe him, she simply said, ‘What do you think of him?’
Connor shrugged. ‘So far, I kind of like him, and even I can see, as a hetero bloke with no hidden agenda, that he has a lot of appeal. Maybe I should get myself one of those accents.’
Laughing, Cristy began to examine the various photographs and knick-knacks scattered about the place. No faces she recognized – apart from Meier’s in a few – and nothing that smacked of idolatry or far-right tendencies, or any sort of mysticism, if she discounted the half-burned candles and assorted small fossils, presumably from the many quarries around these hills. She looked at the table and found herself imagining it full of noisy diners and drinkers, a lot of laughter and shared stories.
‘There’s nothing gloomy about the place, is there?’ she said, going to join Connor at the fire. ‘It kind of radiates … welcome? Do I sound like a twit?’
‘Yes, but think of the comments we’ve received – didn’t someone say they felt like they were on a higher plane when they were here?’
Someone had said that, although Cristy wasn’t sure she’d go that far herself.
‘There’s definitely a good vibe,’ Connor decided, and glanced up at the ceiling as though it might be emanating from somewhere above.
‘Do you think we’re being listened to?’ she whispered.
They looked around. No sign of mics or cameras – only a few cobwebs clinging to the cornices and a small sprig of Christmas tinsel seeming to sprout from one of the beams.
‘That is good; everything is fine,’ Meier announced, coming through the door and kicking off his boots.
‘Sorry, we should have done the same,’ Cristy said, quickly going to remove her own.
‘No, no,’ he said, stopping her with a raised hand. ‘We have flagstone floors and threadbare rugs for a reason, so we can come and go without fuss. I take mine off now because, inside, my feet are wet and cold. Time to get a new pair. Of boots. Not feet.’
Smiling, Cristy said, ‘I feel we should apologize for coming to spy on you the day before yesterday.’
Clearly amused, he said, ‘That is not necessary; we very much enjoyed your visit. Now, will you take tea or coffee or maybe something a little stronger?’
‘Coffee will be great,’ Connor told him. ‘No milk or sugar.’
Going to start an impressive Breville Barista Pro, Meier said, ‘Susanna has been baking, if you are hungry. I find myself unable to resist.’ And pulling open a door of the eight-burner range, he unhooked an oven glove to bring out a tray of golden scones. ‘Susanna is also our jam-maker, and the cream is from our cows,’ he told them. ‘It is for you to decide which comes first, if you would like to take one. Or two. Or more. As you see, there are plenty.’
In next to no time, they were seated at one end of the refectory table with large mugs of coffee and plates of crumbly, curranty scones – they were all jam first, Cristy noticed – when the door opened again and the woman they’d spotted two days ago came in. She was older than they’d first thought, probably mid-forties, blonde with a single plait draped over one shoulder and a friendliness in her blue eyes and crimson-lipped smile that was easy to warm to.
