The Sister Surprise by Abigail Mann (read full novel TXT) 📗

it feels like someone has squeezed all the breath out of my lungs. Like London, the air here tastes of something, but it’s not the smell of humming pavements and sour bins; it’s the clean smell of earth and animals and water. I look down at my feet, the fluorescent blue of my trainers offensively bright against the concrete driveway. Kian pulls out my suitcase and reaches for my rucksack, but pauses when something catches his eye.

‘Ah, no. Babs is out. Give me a sec whilst I lock her away, she’s not good with new faces.’

Not wanting to loiter, I shoulder my bag and wander around the side of the house to where a handful of frill-necked chickens are clawing at the muck, their downy feathers puffed up round their legs like harem trousers. At the back, beyond a scrubby garden overgrown with snapped, brittle, and browning herbs, endless paddocks blur behind a haze of drizzle. Behind me, the back door opens, my suitcase propped inside out of the rain.

‘I’ve got the kettle on if you want to warm up,’ says Kian from the kitchen. I join him inside. He clicks a stove igniter and a whoosh of a gas sets the stove roaring into flame. ‘I thought you might want to find out a wee bit more about the farm, why I need the help, you know? I don’t spend a lot of time inside. Ah, I should have tidied up a bit more, sorry about that. Tea?’

‘Yeah, please.’

Kian unclips a stiff Kilner jar, pulls out a tea bag, and inspects it under a spotlight by the sink.

‘Coffee works too …’ I say.

‘Yes, coffee. Sorry, I should have checked the hot drink situation beforehand,’ says Kian, embarrassed. ‘If you write down a list of groceries you want from the shop, I’ll pick them up tomorrow.’ He nervously looks around the room, like he’s just noticed his surroundings.

‘Sure, no rush.’

From the paper-strewn table and single dirty bowl left by the sink, I get the impression that Kian is used to his own company. He’s far younger than I expected, and although this is his family’s land, he doesn’t seem the farming type. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. If he hadn’t replied to my email, I might well have sought refuge in an unlocked barn, shoes worn through and reputation in tatters like every single female that features in a Thomas Hardy novel.

I pull off my trainers, the flagstones so cold beneath my socks that the floor feels damp underfoot. Thick clouds mask the sun, so I flick the light switch on, but nothing happens. Kian frantically stacks papers to clear the table, a number of invoices, receipts, and scribbled figures sticking out in a haphazard pile that he shoves on a shelf lined with fluted crockery and waxen candle stubs.

He takes down two mugs branded with the contact details of a silage company, gives them a wipe with a tea towel, and fills them with hot water. ‘Could you grab the milk whilst you’re up?’ he says. I nod, eager to look helpful, and turn to a fridge so clunky and voluminous that I’m sure I could climb inside, close the lid, and survive a nuclear blast.

I take out a glass bottle and give it a shake, but the liquid inside doesn’t seem to move.

‘Is it supposed to be … not white?’

‘Oh, aye. It’s as fresh as it comes. John down the road delivers enough for the week and I give him some eggs in return. We get by on swaps and trades a lot of the time. Saves driving all the way to Glenfinnay for the big shop. It’s not pasteurised, mind. You got a good immune system?’ Kian asks as he slops milk into each of our mugs.

‘Bit late to say no?’

He looks at the coffee and then back at me. ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’

He slides a mug over the scrubbed kitchen table and I wrap my hands around it to show that I’m complying with the yellow milk. We both fall silent, thaw our freezing hands, and let the house talk around us.

‘I don’t mean to sound like I’m counting down the days, but you didn’t mention how long you wanted to stay.’ Kian pushes the sleeves of his hoodie up to the elbow and blows on his coffee, but he underestimates his puff and sprays droplets on the table. Neither of us acknowledge this aloud.

‘Well, I was thinking a few weeks,’ I say, trying to keep it vague. I need enough time to find answers that will either lead me to Moira or give me enough information to continue my research back in London. Duncan has technically given me a week, but if things go well and my articles are good, I can wangle some more time.

‘Are you looking to travel around at all? I don’t want to hold you hostage if Kilroch is a stop on a longer journey. I’m glad for whatever help I can get. At this stage, it would be easier to tell you what doesn’t need doing rather than what does.’

‘I hadn’t planned on visiting anywhere else, no.’ I can feel my cheeks grow hot. Rather than fabricating a reasonable back story as to why I’ve travelled nearly 600 miles to collect eggs and push a wheelbarrow about, I need to go easy on the details. ‘I’m taking a break from my job in London,’ I start. I sip my coffee and am surprised by how silky and deep the flavour is. It’s easy to overlook the insipid colour when it tastes so good. ‘I wanted to be outdoors, you know?’

This isn’t strictly true. Ordinarily, the closest I get to proper nature is an evening spent watching Planet Earth with a katsu curry on my lap and the sound of foxes humping in the front garden.

‘Aye, you’ll get the outdoors here,’ says Kian, leaning back in his chair. ‘The days are drawing in, so we don’t get much light, but when I’m