The farm shop is closed on Sundays, and check-out time is twelve o’clock, so I know Mammy and Constance will be playing golf in the afternoon. They’re becoming very dedicated to getting their nine holes in every weekend. Word in the village is that Constance is gunning for the Lady Captain role since Tessie Daly was forced to step down over a landscaping contract scandal. Mammy is hoping she gets it, if only to annoy Úna Hatton, who’s been talking about going for it for years now.
I leave John dozing on the couch in front of the match and head over to the farm to see if I can genuinely imagine myself running the place. In the heat of the moment when Mammy was telling me about everything Daddy sacrificed to take it on, I was sure I wanted to follow in his footsteps. But after my chat with Mandy I could feel my resolve starting to wane. I couldn’t bear the possibility of handing my job over to Aubrey after all the work I’ve put into it. Could I?
That Bloody Cat appears as I get out of the car, rubbing herself against my shins, looking for something. ‘And where would you go if she sold it, puss?’ I scratch her under her chin. ‘You don’t like change at all, do you? No, me either.’
She stalks off as soon as she realises I have no food on me. Brat.
The sun is still high in the sky and the piglets and goat kids barely notice as I make my way around the petting zoo, past the wooden playground and over to the vegetable garden, where it looks like everything is just about ready to come up. There’s lettuce, carrots, turnips and, of course, an abundance of spuds. I don’t know how many varieties this year. The rhubarb is thriving. And then there’s the fruit: bushes buckling under the weight of strawberries and raspberries and the very start of the blackberries and gooseberries. Constance is forever braying on about her source for superior manure, and I have to hand it to her, it’s going to be a fine harvest.
I head across the yard, past the polytunnels and greenhouses full of tomato plants. The yurt resort is quiet now, but I know they were busy on Friday and Saturday with a crowd of women down for a thirtieth. They drank Maguire’s out of prosecco last night, according to Mikey. He’s thinking of installing one of those taps on the bar, but I told him to hold off until September. If Majella got wind of it while she’s still pregnant it might push her over the edge.
I continue on past the toilet and shower block and right up the hill to the wide gate that opens into the Far Field. I clamber up onto the top bar and settle my arse down. From here I can see the house and yurts and all the outhouses in front of me. Behind me is the rest of the land, nearly sixty acres of good grazing. The best in the county, or so I was always told.
I loved living on a farm when I was small. Feeding pet lambs with Mammy. Playing in the bales when Daddy was bringing in the hay. Me and Paul sitting beside him in the tractor, bouncing along the winding Knock Road, all ears when he was telling us who lived in which house. I wasn’t so fond of it in my teenage years, when I longed for the glamour of a house in an estate with next-door neighbours and a patch of grass to hang around on. I was always pleading for lifts, and I resented having to help after being in school all day, standing in gaps in the freezing cold when Daddy was moving cows and having to serve dinners to a houseful of men when it was silage-cutting season. But Mammy always just got on with it, and Daddy never said a word, only talked to me about land and how important it was to own land and mind land.
I close my eyes and try to imagine myself in charge of it all. The house, the yurts, the shop, the fields. So much to do. What do I know about keeping sheep and cattle and now the alpacas? I could do those courses I was telling Mammy about, I suppose. Majella’s always talking about the fine things on Farming TikTok. There’s probably loads on YouTube too. John was able to find a video showing how to take the deck off a treadmill after Mad Tom dropped his monocle into the mechanism last week.
The first time Sadhbh, Elaine and Ruby came down from Dublin, I tried to see the farm through their eyes. I’d never really noticed how tall the trees behind the calving shed were before they pointed them out, or how nice it is to be able to look far into the distance out to the horizon. I hadn’t realised you can’t really do that in a city. Too many buildings. Too many walls. They talked about how the air smelled fresh and sweet and how safe and calm it felt to be so far away from other people. I didn’t mention that, even though the Morans’ bungalow is two fields over, I was often able to hear Liz and Majella fighting over the right way to load the dishwasher or why the vodka in their drinks cabinet was tasting very watery these days.
Across the road from the house, I can see Don Hatton wandering around their front garden with a yellow hose. That’s the other thing. Even if I decided that I could manage the farm and working seven days a week and never being able to take a holiday as long as I live, could I really cope living so close to the Hattons again? Not if the rumours that they’re putting in a pergola and outdoor kitchen are true. Úna would have me absolutely mithered going on and on about it.
I’m trying to do up a mental list of pros and cons in my head when my phone beeps. A text from Denise Kelly. ‘Does she have any lanolin, does anyone know? It’s great for the nipples.’
With the Majella’s Babe Shower official WhatsApp group reaching near hysterical levels with only a week to go before the big event, Dee Ruane has set up Majella’s Babe Shower (Minus Maj) to finalise the presents. She has literally hundreds of euro from the now almost forty-strong guest list so wants to add some more actual gifts to the vouchers and the River Island shoes. Maeve Hennessey suggested the Orla Kiely nappy bag, but Liz said she’d already picked one up in the Christmas sales in Knock Garden Centre. Majella wasn’t even pregnant then, which makes it very cute but would absolutely crucify poor Pablo if he knew. His superstitions and his crystals are nearly cancelling each other out at this stage. John has made him sign up for Sumira Singh’s yoga to help him find some peace.
‘No lanolin bought yet, Denise, great suggestion.’ Dee is all over it.
‘Did you put the go-kart on the list?’ Poor Rocky isn’t reading the room on the go-kart idea. It’s just really not a newborn essential.
I have to admit, the farm is fairly glorious now in the summer with everything looking so green and birds cheeping in the hedgerows. But Mammy’s right, it’s a different story the rest of the year. Winter is particularly grim. I remember sitting at the kitchen table eating my Ready Brek before school and Daddy coming in the back door, stamping the frost off his wellies, after being up before the sun feeding the livestock. Can I really see myself at that for years to come? Maybe. I do love a frosty morning. John mightn’t be so rose-tinted about freezing early mornings on a farm, though. He’s already talking about expanding the gym business, which sounds mad at such an early stage, but the demand seems to be there. The old bookies beside Dick’s in Knocknamanagh is up for rent, and with the waiting list for membership growing every day he’s really considering going all in. Skippy Brennan had him on Solas FM talking about his new men-only poledancing classes last week and someone texted in to say he’s like a young Ben Dunne, albeit without all the scandals. He was delighted, mostly.
The sun is warm on my face and I close my eyes, grateful for the bottle of factor 50 I’ve taken to keeping in the glove box of the car. I wish it was an easy decision, but no matter how long and hard I think about it, I just don’t know what to do. I wish Daddy was here. More than ever. As I head back towards the house my phone dings with an email alert. It’s from Mandy. Classic Sunday behaviour.
Aisling,
Simone will be drafting up the permanent contracts for Ireland this week. Just so you know.
M