Larkrigg Fell (16 page)

Beth dug her heels in. ‘We could sell them at market or grow them on ourselves, so we could make even more money. Start our own dairy herd. I’ve got it all worked out.’

Sarah thought she might pass out. ‘Dairy herd? Stop it, Beth, you’re going too fast. And where would we get the money from?’

Beth flushed bright red. ‘Sorry, I do tend to get a bit carried away.’

‘It’s that stupid old woman you hang out with. You’d probably end up losing the damn creature, anyway. You’ve no more idea of how to look after a cow or help it give birth than - than I have.’

Beth could not argue with this and stared morosely at her plate. ‘I wonder if Ellen knows anything about cows?’

‘Talk to Andrew,’ Tessa suggested and Beth snatched at the idea.

‘Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll go and see him first thing in the morning.’ She experienced an odd lifting of her heart at the prospect of seeing him again, which she put down entirely to the fact that this time she meant to take proper advice and buy the right animal. Then she could finally realise her dream of self-sufficiency.

Beth went alone to Cathra Crag since she was the one who wanted a cow, and found it was not at all as she had imagined. She expected all Lakeland farms to be like Broombank, rambling, well proportioned and beautiful. Up-to-the-minute machinery standing in its yard, neatness and efficiency the order of the day.

This one was small and squat, standing right at the head of the dale in a circle of high fells which probably hadn’t looked much different in medieval times. The outbuildings were old and decrepit, covered by tin roofs that leaned drunkenly against the farmhouse which itself seemed to huddle beneath the crag whose name it bore.

The September day was mild but with a flurry of rain on the wind as Andrew led her into the farm kitchen, his clogs ringing on the blue slate floor.

Most of the narrow space in the room was filled with a huge table, but this one wasn’t scrubbed to a bleached whiteness as the one at Broombank was. Instead it was covered with a check cloth spotted with brown sauce and egg yolk. Dirty plates and mugs stood among chips of plaster which had evidently fallen from the ceiling. Beth didn’t dare glance up to check how safe it was. She was too appalled by the sight of a rather grim old man, broad faced with a hook nose, shaggy eyebrows and several days’ stubble on his chin. He looked every bit as unkempt as his surroundings.

He sat in a chair by a huge kitchen range which showed more red rust than black lead, the cracked hearth filled with used mugs and a large brown tea pot. The huge range itself held an oven and a boiler, and in the centre a small fire grate where a few pieces of coal burned fitfully. A long mantelshelf ran the length of the room, cluttered with unwashed cups, spills for lighting the fire and tins marked tea, Swan soap or Best Ginger Biscuits.

As Seth was to tell her later, ‘owt what comes in handy like.’

Now he gave a toothless grin and the creases in his face seemed to lift and slacken, taking years off his age. ‘Hey up, who do we have here?’ He set down his pipe to lean forward on the creaking rush seat for a better look at her. ‘Thee’s a nice little lass.’ One hand, hard as horn, grasped Beth’s and she found herself pulled towards him. He wore grey trousers stiff with dirt and held up with string, and to her horror, gaping wide at unbuttoned flies to reveal none too clean under-drawers. She could feel her cheeks start to bum as she tried to regain her hand.

‘Hello, Mr Barton?’

‘Aye, that’s me. Not quite as lish as I once were, but still in one piece,’ and he cackled softly at himself. Beth gave a self-conscious little laugh.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you like this, without any warning.’ What a silly thing to say, she thought. As if he might have cleaned the place up and baked a cake if he’d known she was going to pay him a visit.

Andrew stepped forward and spoke in a loud, clear voice. ‘This is one of the twins, Granddad. I told you about her.’

‘Oh, aye? One o’ Meg’s girls?’ His faded eyes twinkled with an unexpected merriness. ‘I can see why you’ve fetched her, lad. I wouldn’t mind an armful meself were it not for me arthritis.’ Beth looked startled for a moment then burst into peals of laughter. She liked this old man, smelly or not.

Andrew grinned and reached for the kettle that sat on the fret-worked hob, whispering in an aside to Beth as he rinsed the pot and scalded the tea. ‘You mustn’t mind him. He still thinks he’s seventeen instead of near eighty-seven.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind at all. How are you, Mr Barton? Keeping well, I hope.’

‘I keep thrang. Only way to stay young.’

Laughing, Beth turned to Andrew for a translation.

‘He means he keeps busy. He carves handles for shepherd’s crooks. Does some fine work.’ Andrew pointed to a selection on the wall beside him. There were deer heads, foxes, and every conceivable variety of bird.

‘Why, they’re wonderful.’ Beth was impressed.

‘And for your benefit,’ Andrew explained, ‘lish means active. He may not get about as he once did but he misses little, I can tell you. Isn’t that right, Grandad?’

‘Aye,’ the old man said with satisfaction and started to pour tea from his cup into his saucer and suck it up noisily through pursed lips.

‘Oh.’ Beth smiled, accepted her own mug of tea and pulled her stool closer. She then proceeded to enjoy the most fascinating afternoon she’d ever had in her life. Half of what old Seth said was quite unintelligible to her ears, despite Andrew’s frequent translations but the old man was nothing if not entertaining. He told her all about the war, the hired men they’d once employed, the POWs from the local camp, and the ploughing they’d had to do.

‘On this thin ground, would thee believe it? Kept hens too. Lovely eggs. Don’t get them like that these days.’

‘I’ve got some hens.’

He grinned at her. ‘Well thee can fetch me two or three dozen eggs a week then. We’ve none here now. Women’s work, hens.’

Beth hid a smile. ‘I can see you must have enough to do without worrying about hens.’ She glanced significantly about the room, trying not to catch Andrew’s eye.

He told her how his mother used to clean these very slates on her hands and knees with a scrubbing brush and a tin of soft soap, and how ten bairns all slept in one small back room.

‘She did all the washing by hand, tha knows. I had to wind the handle on t’mangle for her. Do you mind what a mangle is?’

Eyes brimming with laughter, Beth confessed she did not.

‘Nay, they teach them nowt in schools these days.’

‘Did you go to the school in the dale, Mr Barton?’

‘Aye, when me dad could spare me from the farm work. I never had much education though, so I’ve had to make do with me brains instead.’

Beth chuckled, bringing a smile to the crinkled face. ‘Then if I want to know anything, I’ll ask you.’

‘Aye,’ he said, gripping her hand fiercely, ‘You do that, lass.’

Later, as Andrew showed off his small herd of Galloway cattle he apologised again for his grandfather. ‘He lives in the past naturally, since there’s not much future left to look forward to. Mind, it doesn’t stop him bossing us about and keeping us on our toes.’

‘I can imagine.’

She listened with interest as Andrew spoke with pride about his young steers, watching how his face came alive as he talked, and realising that he wasn’t dull at all, not if you paid attention.

‘They do well on very little, which is what you need up here, and they don’t mind the cold or the wet because as we say in these parts, they have a top coat and a waistcoat. The long outer hairs shed the rain well while the thick pelt beneath keeps the beast warm. You can’t beat them on these hills.’

‘I want to hug one, they look so delightfully hairy.’

Andrew laughed. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it. Wild they are,’ he said. ‘Not soft like dairy cows. Nearest thing you’ll get to an untamed animal on a farm these days. Proper young rebels. If you see a wee Galloway calf out on the fells, never touch it. It’s mam’ll have summat to say on the matter.’ He spoke with such affection and warmth that Beth found herself laughing with him.

‘You like them better than the sheep?’

‘I wouldn’t say that, but I’d like to keep more, specialise a bit. Do a bit of cross breeding with Shorthorns. There’s money to be made there.’

‘I don’t think we’ll try beef cattle,’ she said, very solemnly.

When he smiled, his grey eyes twinkled delightfully, lighting his face into boyish delight.

‘No, I reckon they’d prove a bit of a handful for your lot.’ They laughed together as if it were a great joke.

In the cow byre he introduced her to a couple of Friesian house cows who provided the farm with milk. Beth scratched one at the root of her horn while rubbing the other’s chest. The animals shifted closer.

‘They’d let you do that all day,’ Andrew chuckled. ‘Right pair of softies they are.’

He talked for a long time, telling Beth all she would need to know, demonstrating how to milk them. With his hands on hers, he showed her how to pull on the teats and get a good froth of milk in the bucket.

‘Cleanliness is everything, of course,’ Andrew explained. ‘You don’t want no infections.’ And he painstakingly went through his morning drill while Beth listened and watched with close attention, trying not to feel overwhelmed by the list of tasks.

‘It’s a matter of practice.’

‘I dare say I’d soon get used to it.’

He studied her carefully. ‘What about the others? How do they feel about the idea? Would they help? You can’t look after a cow all by yourself. I’ve watched them lot, they let you do far too much already.’

‘I’d have to ask.’ Wishing one of them could be as capable and practical as Andrew.

‘One cow wouldn’t keep you in milk all year. You’d need a couple for that, at least.’

‘I think one would have to be enough, to begin with. It’s true I don’t yet have everyone’s permission to buy even that.’ She glanced shyly up at him. ‘Would you come and tell them about it, as you’ve explained it to me. Tell them you’d find me a lovely quiet one. It might help.’

She had to tilt her head back to look pleadingly up at him and he seemed to be studying her face for a long while as he carefully considered his answer. Beth waited, knowing he was never one to hurry and besides, she was content to wait. The warmth of the byre, the lowing of the animals was oddly soothing, somehow making her feel languorous and safe, cocooned in a soft web as if nothing at all could harm her.

‘I’ll give it a try if you want me to,’ he said finally.

‘Great. And I’m sure Pietro would help me. He’s very kind.’

And he stepped away from her, breaking the spell.

By the time Andrew had finished telling the others all about cows even Jonty was calling him a wet blanket.

‘Come on, they can’t be all that difficult. You’re saying cows are beyond we mere townies, is that it?’

‘They’re hard work and a tie, not to mention being a live animal that has to be taken proper care of.’

‘You of course know all about them.’ Jonty’s harsh tone was condescending.

‘Aye, as a matter of fact I do.’

‘And we couldn’t learn?’

‘I wouldn’t know. It’s not for me to say.’

Beth inwardly groaned. This wasn’t at all how she had meant this to go. Andrew was supposed to give them the facts and help to enthuse them. This was merely putting their backs up.

Jonty, and even Pietro were merciless in their teasing whenever Andrew called. She couldn’t understand why they seemed to derive so much pleasure from it. Admittedly he was very different from them. They were city bred and fashionable. Andrew’s clothes looked as if they’d been passed on from father to son, and smelt strongly of cows and animal feed. On his large feet were a pair of clogs, no doubt excellent for keeping out the wet but hardly appropriate for an afternoon visit. And his plain country face was more gaunt and weathered than sculptured and beautiful. His fair hair flopped across his broad forehead, instead of springing back in tight black curls.

But he’d been kind and informative, had helped to save the badger, and if sometimes his dogged patience and pride irritated her, she really should be grateful to him. She was sure he only put up with this sort of plaguing because of Tessa. Today though, must be entirely her own fault. She had asked him to come and he was suffering because of that request. She should have known better and it was really up to her to protect him.

‘Let’s change the subject, shall we?’ she tried, but the others were beyond listening. Were all young men so combative?

‘You might know about the stupeed cows and stupeed sheep but what do you know about music, books, politics, art?’ Pietro was asking, his face a mask of polite enquiry.

Andrew took his time answering. He stood, hands clenched, fidgeting with unease. When he did speak, his voice was low and rough. ‘Nowt.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Nowt. I know nowt about art or politics, except how it applies to farming. Nowt about music and books. But I do know about cows.’ The accent had thickened, as it always did when he was distressed.