It was a crackpot idea.
Everyone had said so.
Friends, families, even Shelley and Jack, whose plan it was, thought they were crazy, but hey ho, they’d gone ahead and done it anyway. Why not? They’d spent holidays at Deerwood Farm as far back as when they were knee-high to tadpoles, as Shelley’s uncle Bob used to call them. They’d continued to come as teens, helping out in the barns, running wild and loving every animal as if it were a pet – and every mouthful of Aunt Sarah’s home bakes as if they were the very best in the world, which they were.
Even when Jack and Shelley had started going further afield for their holidays they’d continued to count those halcyon summers at the farm amongst their happiest memories. The place was as special to them as any place could possibly be, for it was at Deerwood that their childhood friendship had blossomed during their teenage years into an embarrassed and fumbling romance, and was also where Jack, aged fourteen, had first asked Shelley to marry him. (He’d asked several times after that and she’d always readily accepted. It was just something they used to do every now and again for the sheer joy of it.) Jack even swore Deerwood was magical, and Shelley, whose aunt and uncle owned the farm, had earnestly assured him he was right.
Jack had grown up in the semi next door to Shelley on a shady, red-brick street in Ealing. They’d been best friends forever, so it was no surprise to anyone when they’d married as soon as their uni days were over. By then Jack was a qualified veterinary surgeon, and Shelley was already teaching at a West London primary.
With a little help from Jack’s parents they’d scraped together a deposit for a two-bedroomed house in Brentford, and their first child, Hanna, was born a year after they moved in. Their second, Zoe, came along eighteen months later on the same day that Princess Diana gave birth to Prince William. They were happy, blessed, had little to complain about, with Jack’s popularity as a vet growing and Shelley’s role as a full-time mum keeping her occupied, if not entirely satisfied.
Then Uncle Bob died, four years after Aunt Sarah, and to Shelley and Jack’s amazement it turned out that Deerwood Farm, together with Bob and Sarah’s meagre savings, were now theirs.
‘Why didn’t Bob leave it to you?’ Shelley asked her father, still reeling from the unexpectedness of it that was already turning into something that felt vaguely like excitement. ‘You’re his brother.’
‘I’m no farmer,’ her father chuckled, ‘and Bob knew that.’
‘Well you can hardly say that I am either,’ Shelley pointed out. ‘Or Jack.’
‘Ah, but Bob knew you loved the place, and that’s what would have mattered to him and Sarah. I’m sure she was behind the idea, and when Jack decided to become a vet it would have made up her mind. Having said that, there are no conditions attached to the inheritance. You can sell it if you like and use the money to get a bigger house, or put it aside for the girls’ education.’
Jack and Shelley looked at one another, not needing words to know what the other was thinking, but not yet ready to confide those thoughts in anyone else.
Less than six months later they were in the depths of the rolling countryside, the proud new owners of a rambling, draughty, leaky farmhouse, several ramshackle barns, half a brick shed (the other half had collapsed like an old drunk into a pile of desolation around its own feet); seventy-five acres of untended fields with any number of streams passing merrily or sluggishly through them; ancient woods that Shelley and Jack remembered playing and camping in but were now filled with bindweed and brambles; and heaven only knew how many miles of unkempt hedgerows, rotting gates and clogged ditches. Added to this were five batty sheep of varying ages (breeds yet to be determined, four ewes and a vasectomized little runt of a ram); ten cheery hens very generous with the eggs, three Aylesbury ducks also generous with the eggs (so they were told, yet to see any); a hamster that they’d brought with them and an ageing border collie called Todger whom everyone instantly adored and who was swiftly renamed Dodger (soon to be known as Dodgy). There was also a lot of machinery they had yet to identify, an ancient tractor with a missing steering wheel, a broken trailer, a 1960s Land Rover with more miles on the clock than the clock had numbers, a few dozen bundles of very useful wire fencing, and enough furniture inside the house to keep an auctioneer busy for weeks.
By now Shelley and Jack were in their early thirties and had all the energy and belief in themselves – and each other – that was required to turn this place into a dream home, a thriving farm and an educational paradise for their girls. From the instant Hanna and Zoe arrived their eyes had glowed with excitement and wonder; the fact that there was another brother or sister on the way wasn’t anywhere near as thrilling as the apparent imminent possibility of lambs. Yes, all four ewes were expecting, Giles, the next-door farmer and interim custodian of Deerwood, had informed them on arrival (and yes, there really was a farmer Giles in the area, although that was his first name), and if they wanted any help with the lambing he’d be happy to send someone over when the time came.
They readily accepted the kindness. Jack might be a qualified vet, but it had been a while since his work experience on a farm in Cheshire, so he was definitely open to a refresher course. And if the girls wanted to watch the miracle of birth then so they should, because they might be on duty next year, by which time they were likely to have a flock of thousands. Well, dozens – or at least twelve, depending on how things went.
‘You are absolutely loving this, aren’t you?’ Shelley murmured one evening, gazing into Jack’s midnight-blue eyes and feeling (strangely, given how long she’d loved him), how wonderful it was to love him. She was lying on her side – so large with her pregnancy by now that even rolling onto her back was an effort – and he was lying on his side looking at her.
‘Aren’t you?’ he asked, smoothing damp tendrils of her fine sandy hair back from her face. It was late February and freezing outside, but for tonight at least the generator was working, making them so hot indoors that in a few minutes they might just take a moonlight stroll.
‘Yes, I am,’ she whispered. ‘I really think we’re going to be happy here.’
‘I know it,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve been looking for a way of saying this since we arrived, and now I think I have it. The minute we turned in from the road, all the way along the drive to the farm, seeing the fields, the huge sky and humpback bridge, the cattle grids, trees, hedgerows, I felt as though we were fitting back into a place we’d only ever left temporarily. Then, when I saw the house, this house, sad and neglected, I thought, I swear this, I thought it gave a little sigh of relief when it realized it was us – and if you laugh I’ll leave you.’
How could she not laugh, and at the same time not cry, because he’d just found a far better way of putting into words their return to Deerwood than she ever could. That was her husband all over, as romantic as a poet, as rash and tempestuous as the wind, and as attuned to his surroundings as the wildlife that shared every nook and cranny. And how lucky she was to have him as her lover; her rock; the father of her children, her best friend forever and now her partner in this mad, challenging and exhilarating new dream.
A week later things had moved on at such a pace at Deerwood that Shelley was struggling to keep track of it all. Builders, plumbers and electricians were assessing the cost of repairs and rebuilds; Jack had signed on with an urban veterinary practice for three days a week in order to ensure some sort of income; the girls were enrolled at a nursery school in the nearest village – six miles away – and Shelley was registered at a small health centre on the outskirts of the same village, where she’d had a long and enjoyable chat with the midwife about country living. She was due to give birth at the maternity unit of Kesterly Royal Infirmary – fifteen miles from the farm – sometime in the next two weeks.
Meantime, she and Jack were devouring all the books they could find on farming, sheep, land cultivation, understanding organics, slaughter, local markets; there was so much to learn that they’d probably never take it all in, but at least it was a start. With the support of their families, who’d descended to help out during this crucial period, they’d started to clear the cluttered farmyard of all the rusty paraphernalia, brambles and build-up of filth that had accumulated since Sarah’s passing. Giles and a couple of his workers came to ferry the junk to the tip, or move usables to a storage trailer that they’d parked in a nearby field. Giles was happy to leave it there for as long as it was needed.
‘Five quid a week,’ he announced in his gruff West Country burr. His mischievous hazel eyes were round and fox-like, his grizzly grey beard trembled with his suppressed laughter. ‘If it’s all the same to you I’ll take it off the rent I pay to put my cattle in your top fields.’
More than happy with the arrangement, Shelley made a note to find out how much rent he actually paid and for what number of acres, also whether it might be possible to interest him or any other neighbouring farmer in making further use of their thirty-odd hectares until they had need of them themselves. It would all add to their income, which stood at zero for the moment, but they still had the money Bob had left, and their savings (mostly earmarked for doing up the house and barns), and Jack’s salary would soon kick in. She also needed to check out what government subsidies they might be entitled to, and any rules, ancient or modern, British or European, that they needed to obey.
So much to do and to learn, and not only about reviving a farm, waterproofing barns and birthing lambs, but how to manage without electricity and heating each time the ancient generator took a wheezing, groaning break from its efforts. With no idea when it might get a second wind, they’d already had the chimneys swept so each of the four hearths on the ground floor was filled with flaming logs, and since Jack had managed to start up the old Aga they’d found themselves with a haphazard supply of lukewarm water. Cooking was mostly done over the fires or on a spanking new portable gas stove that Jack’s parents had brought with them, having been warned of the need. Quite what the electricity company was doing about restoring their supply was anyone’s guess, but they certainly didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get things sorted.
The girls were loving every aspect of their new existence, from having their aunt and uncle – Jack’s brother and sister-in-law – along with both sets of grandparents camping out in three of the six bedrooms (they’d brought their own sleeping bags, pillows and hot-water bottles), to lighting candles to go up to bed like Wee Willie Winkie, to toasting their breakfast over rekindled fires in the morning. Best of all was collecting eggs from the henhouse, which they carefully carried back in cardboard boxes, watching their bounty with round-eyed awe in case one of them hatched. The impossibility of that had yet to be explained to them, and no doubt would be in the fullness of time – the wicked gleam in Jack’s eye whenever the subject was mentioned told Shelley that he already had a story worked out.
It was midway through the afternoon of their ninth day at Deerwood that Shelley found herself standing alone at the centre of the still cluttered farmyard, hands pressing into the small of her back as she took a good long look at their new home, although of course it was anything but new. Set as it was against a backdrop of billowing clouds and the vast outstretched branches of a giant evergreen oak, it appeared as settled as the centuries that had passed since its foundations were dug, and as contented in its place as the hills on the far horizon. In spite of its shabby roofs with their missing tiles and broken gutters, and its crumbling grey stone walls and splintered window frames – not to mention the fortune it was going to cost to restore its dignity – she already loved the place with a passion, and knew that Jack did too.
They had no clear idea yet of how they were going to liven up the interior while carefully retaining its gentle and noble character, but it would include doubling the size of the kitchen, knocking two sitting rooms into one and installing at least three more bathrooms. She wanted the place to feel as happy with them as they did with it, as respected as it was cherished, and as proud as it deserved to be. She’d thought about engaging an interior designer, but it was a luxury they couldn’t afford, and besides, it didn’t feel right for an outsider to put his or her stamp on a home that was so intrinsically theirs. Somehow she was going to do this herself, using magazines for ideas and builders with skill and imagination for execution.
Meanwhile, they needed a temporary solution to the leaks and draughts, and a brand-new generator so they could quietly and tenderly release the old boy from its struggle to help them get settled.
‘Back aching?’ a voice behind her asked.
She turned to find her father coming out of the barn where he’d been watching over the pregnant ewes while the two grandmothers did a supermarket shop in town. Nathan and Katya, Jack’s brother and sister-in-law, were out walking the land with the girls, nature spotting and gathering sticks for the fire. Jack was being a vet this afternoon, and Giles and his men who were so often around seemed absent for the moment.
Resting her head on her father’s shoulder as he put an arm around her, she inhaled deeply the sweet scent of haylage that clung to his clothes. Giles had sent over the mix, because he knew their requirements long before they did and he was always willing to give supplies, advice and support (at a small charge).
‘Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts,’ her father teased as he too drank in the farmhouse’s serenity and soul-nourishment.
‘Definitely not,’ she replied. ‘OK, I realize it’s going to take years and a small fortune to get it into shape and that we’ll probably never have any money to speak of, but we will have a home and what better one could we wish for than this?’
Her father squeezed her gently. ‘Sarah knew what she was doing when she made sure this place went to you and Jack.’
Later that evening as they gathered round the old kitchen table with a fire roaring in the hearth and the Aga doing its stuttering best, Shelley’s mother waited for dinner to be over before setting down a battered cardboard box. Keeping a hand on the lid she looked first at Shelley, then at Jack.
Shelley regarded her curiously, sensing that her full attention was required for this, whatever it was, and when Patty was satisfied all eyes were on her she carefully opened the box. ‘I found these in the chest in our bedroom,’ she explained, lifting out something heavy wrapped in limp and faded tissue paper. ‘I reckon Bob must have put them away after Sarah went because they were painful for him to look at. Do you remember these?’ she asked her husband.
Shelley winced at the clench of a Braxton Hicks contraction as everyone watched her mother unwrap two bronze statuettes, each about ten inches high, and set them facing each other on the table. They were exquisitely crafted, seeming to move with each other, hands outstretched, hips slightly turned, feet partly raised. The male was in a sharp, baggy suit, a trilby tipped back on his head, his arms raised in rhythm before he spun his partner into the dance. She was wearing a flapper dress, the fringes seeming to sway as she started the turn, the fingers of her right hand appearing to yearn for his touch. There exuded such a profound feeling of romance and togetherness that Shelley found her eyes going to Jack as his came to her.
‘They were given to Sarah’s grandparents as a wedding gift,’ Shelley’s mother told them. ‘Sarah treasured them above anything. I think, I know, that she’d want you to display them again.’
Shelley smiled as Jack, the old romantic, got to his feet and hummed softly as he pulled her to hers.
‘You’re like the dancers coming to life,’ Hanna declared, catching on delightedly.
Jack winked at her and moved Shelley into his arms, while her eyes returned to the bronzes. They felt special even beyond their probable value, and she knew that her mother felt it too. It was as though they had come straight from her aunt’s heart, with love and gratitude for taking the place on. And they would always be here, a symbol of how important it was to move in step with one another, to love and dance and never forget how precious life was.
The visiting family had gone to stay in town tonight, taking a luxury B & B break from the hard floors and dripping ceilings of the east-wing bedrooms. Though Hanna and Zoe’s room didn’t leak, and had proper beds with feathery duvets and pillows, even a thin trail of heating, Jack and Shelley had thought it might be a nice treat for them to go too. However, there had been no moving them. Lambs were on the way and they knew very well that it would happen tonight if they weren’t there.
They weren’t wrong.
The first excited shout went up around 2 a.m., carrying through the wind like a bird, waking Jack and Shelley and setting them scrambling for matches to light the candles when the lamp switches clicked uselessly. It was Harry, Giles’s second son, letting them know that one of the ewes had gone into labour.
‘The girls,’ Shelley panted, tugging on her voluminous jeans and one of Jack’s sweaters.
‘I’ll get them,’ he said, stuffing his feet into old trainers and rushing from the room.
‘No, I will,’ she insisted. ‘You go and see if Harry needs help.’
The girls were already on the landing in nighties and slippers, and tugging on the coats they’d kept next to their beds for just this moment. ‘We heard Harry,’ Zoe shrieked eagerly. ‘Are the lambs here?’
‘About to be,’ Jack promised, scooping her up. ‘Come on, let’s go and see.’
‘Can I name him?’ Hanna asked, running after them.
‘If it’s a girl,’ Jack reminded her.
‘I’m naming him if it’s a boy,’ Zoe said over his shoulder to make sure Hanna heard.
‘What if it’s twins?’ Hanna asked. ‘I hope it’s twins. Daddy, you’re going too fast, I can’t see.’
‘Climb on board,’ he instructed, pausing for her to jump onto his back.
Shelley could just about make them out at the bottom of the stairs as she started down with a precariously balanced candle.
Jack was lighting a paraffin lamp. ‘Is everyone OK?’ he demanded as a weak amber glow lit the hall. ‘Are you all here?’
‘We’re here,’ the girls chorused.
‘Me too,’ Shelley called out.
He was at the door, tugging it open. A spirited wind hurled across the yard, pushing him back. He battled through it. The girls cowered into his neck, shielding their faces from the silvery spikes of rain.
From the front door Shelley shouted, ‘Jack!’
Harry appeared at the barn door. ‘Bit of trouble,’ he shouted. ‘Tried fishing it out myself, but you’d better come.’
‘Jack!’ Shelley yelled again.
‘Is it going to be all right?’ Zoe panicked.
‘You won’t let it die, will you, Daddy?’ Hanna wailed.
‘Jack!’ Shelley all but screamed.
At last he caught her voice and turned round.
‘My waters have broken,’ she yelled above the storm.
His eyes rounded in the moonlight, as driving rain whipped into his face and gusts tore at his hair.
‘We have to get to the lamb,’ Hanna cried, digging in her heels to make him go faster.
Shelley watched them, clutching the door frame as the first contraction bit down hard.
Jack seemed frozen.
Harry shouted again.
Hanna was pointing to the barn and yelling.
Shelley gave a quick pant. Hers wouldn’t be the first baby born in a stable, she reminded herself, provided she could get there.
The next contraction clawed so harshly she slumped to her knees.
She looked up just in time to see Jack disappearing into the barn.