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

not in the fields I’m in the barns, and when I’m not there I’m here trying to get the old man’s finances in order. I’ve got two degrees and can barely make sense of them.’

‘There’s a good start. At the very least, I can organise these into files for you,’ I say, nodding to the precariously placed papers teetering on the edge of the shelf. ‘Don’t judge me, but the thought of having unbridled access to some hardcore filing makes me quite giddy.’

‘Consider the job yours,’ says Kian, smiling with tired eyes. ‘But until the chickens figure out how to clean their coop, it’s down to you and me. Then we’ve got the sheep to keep an eye on. And the pigs, they get up to all sorts of mischief. Seems like intelligence has been bred out of the ones you get on industrial farms, but our rare breeds are in a different league. What else? The flashing on the barn needs replacing, the orchard trees need paring back. Ah, Christ. A whole load really.’

I start to feel like both he and I have been a bit short-sighted. I thought rural life was all post office robberies, village arson, and gossiping over strong tea. An anxious knot forms in my stomach, and not just about the work. This living situation is intense. Just the two of us? On a wind-battered farm bordered by sheer cliffs on three sides? Although Kian speaks with a soft drawl that would work perfectly for voiceovers in an M&S Christmas food advert, there’s also a slight chance he’s a serial killer. I didn’t even ask to see his ID before I jumped in the car.

I thought I was getting a bed and an opportunity to find out about my Scottish family from a safe distance. I won’t lie, the idea that I could do without brushing my hair for a fortnight also appealed. But if I’ve underestimated how much goes into running a farm, Kian has overestimated how useful I’m likely to be. I’m sure he’d prefer a six-foot-two, broad-shouldered bloke who can hoick a pig under each arm and call it a laugh, but instead he’s got me; five foot nothing and on the run from a public meltdown that’s plastered all over the internet.

When I think about it, this might be the perfect place for me to be.

Chapter 11

I sit up, my head leaden, and clunk the bedside lamp on, blinking as the bulb warms up to a dull, amber glow. Hearing my alarm in an unfamiliar room sets everything off-kilter. I hadn’t noticed the fusty twin beds and darkly lacquered furniture before I’d climbed beneath the sheets, exhausted. Despite being scratchy and a particularly heinous coral colour, the extra blanket I pulled out of the wardrobe kept me warm, even as gusts of wind pushed a draught through the cracks in the window sill. The radiator knob was so stiff I had to wrap my hand in a scarf to twist it on. The sound of clunking and ticking kept me up most of the night, so I had to shuffle down into a duvet cave, the covers pulled over my head to block out the sound.

I lift the curtain and look beyond the window sill, where a floodlight is triggered by loose straw blown across the courtyard, collecting in the gutter of a hand-pump well. Beyond, darkness swathes the farm. Something doesn’t feel right.

I heave my suitcase onto the spare single bed and attempt to co-ordinate my hands in order to pull on a pair of socks, shuffling round the room like Bruce Forsyth performing a Charleston. The farmhouse grumbles in the wind, but I can’t make out the distinct noise of Kian moving around, despite it being six o’clock. It feels like a late start for a farmer.

Yesterday, Kian described how quickly gossip drifts up the coastline, so I want to make a good impression, in case word gets out of a Londoner freeloading at Braehead Farm. ‘If you fart in Kilroch, you’ve shit yourself by the time it’s reached Cumnaird,’ were Kian’s exact words. With my public shame quota at capacity, I’ve got to at least try and reclaim my sense of dignity. If help is what he needs, help is what he’ll get, perhaps not in expertise, but enthusiasm.

I plop back down on the bed and scrape my hair into a rough ponytail. My nose is so cold that I’m not convinced it’s attached to me anymore. Is the potential loss of my extremities worth all this?

No one knows specifically where I am. I barely hide anything from Mum, but I’ve long since learned to keep all thoughts about my father to myself, which makes this feel especially devious.

I hold my shivers in, clutch the handrail, and head downstairs. In the kitchen, the radio crackles with raised voices, the hum of a political joust burring in the background as the febrile cockerel I spotted on a fence post yesterday crows from the yard. If Kian wasn’t awake before, he must be now. I’ll stick the kettle on. Strong tea wins over the heaviest of sleepers.

I find a tablespoon of stale Darjeeling in the back of a cupboard and run it through a strainer, leaving it to swirl in a chipped teapot. At the table, I push papers aside to clear a space, stacking an envelope marked ‘FINAL NOTICE’ on top of a lopsided pile. It’s a good job Kian isn’t paying me to be here, going by the intimidating number of letter-headed bank statements scattered around.

The clock ticks, its anchor-shaped pendulum swinging the seconds back and forth. I scrape my chair under the table, hoping the noise will wake Kian up, but when his face appears at the back door, I wobble on the spot, my foot half in my trainer.

Air sucks through the kitchen as Kian steps inside, his cheeks ruddy, eyes crystalline blue.

‘Ah, you’re up! Good to see you.’

‘Am I late?’ I say. ‘I