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

I copy Kian’s delicate actions with the hens. He is my chicken sensei.

‘Yep. I’ve known her for years. She’s always been a bit—’

‘Terrifying?’

‘Nah, I wouldn’t say that.’

‘I’m grateful for the whole “rescuing me from a cliff edge” thing, but she’s quite, err …’

‘Quite …?’

‘Intense? Like, I might be wrong but I sort of feel like she hates me with the fire of a thousand suns and wishes I’d get sucked away by a tornado somewhere past the Scottish border?’

Kian scoffs and leans over to the basket, somehow managing to transport one egg between each of his fingers. ‘She’s just practical, is all.’

‘Does she live round here?’

‘About a mile over, closer into the village. She manages the tearoom.’

‘Does she?’ I say with ill-feigned credulity.

‘Oh, aye.’

‘I just can’t imagine her reading the specials menu to anyone without sighing.’

‘I’ll tell her that when I see her,’ says Kian, closing one lid and opening another with a sideways smile, where a frilled hen blinks at him, perturbed. ‘You might rethink your words when you’ve had a slice of her shortbread.’

I slide my hand inside the nesting box. ‘Well, I guess not everyone makes the best first impression,’ I say, thinking back to my live stream.

‘Jacqui has looked out for me a lot since I took over the farm. There were a few weeks in summer when Granddad was in hospital and I was seeing out my notice period in Edinburgh. Jacqui was working double days making sure the animals were all right and the sheds locked up. She’s one of the good ones, just … takes a while to warm up.’

Kian sounds sincere, but I’m not convinced. Stick Jacqui next to a fire and I’m sure the last polar ice caps would melt before she did.

I jostle three eggs in one hand and try to move a chicken with the other, but I get the impression that I’ve met the flock’s resident matriarch because she’s an absolute unit and resists my lame attempts to shift her.

‘Come on, move your arse—’

‘Be careful, she –’

‘Ouch! Little fucker!’

‘– nips.’

I yank my hand away, scraping my wrist against the lid and dropping an egg in the process. It cracks on the floor, the yoke popped like burst sunshine.

‘Oh, fucking hell. Sorry.’

‘Don’t tell me, tell Babs,’ says Kian, pointing at the hen. Can chickens glare? Because that’s exactly what it looks like; her eyes are beady and so full of malice that I half expect her to draw a taloned claw along her throat to signal that my human days are numbered.

‘I promise I’ll stop destroying your farm soon,’ I say, a sulky undertone slipping into my voice.

‘It’s only a broken egg. If this is your path of de-escalation and we started with the destruction of a quad bike, we’re heading in the right direction. You might make a bad cup of tea before you level out again. I’ll try and prepare myself for it,’ says Kian with a wink.

I kick some dirt over the egg goop and place the other two carefully in the basket, following Kian as he heads back towards the shed.

‘Oh! Hang on, I think it might be a … yes, it is!’ I say.

Kian reaches the shed, props the door open with a brick, and flicks on a naked bulb.

‘Quick, take these off me. My phone’s buzzing,’ I say. Kian stretches his sweatshirt to form a pouch and I carefully drop my eggs inside, unzipping one, two, three layers until I reach the pocket that contains my phone.

‘Wind must be in the right direction. Make the most of it, it’ll disappear any second,’ says Kian, as he pulls open a cupboard stacked with egg trays.

I answer the call and march across the yard, wellie boots flopping against my shins. Inside the barn, I lean against a hay bale. I’ve got two bars of reception. We’re in.

‘Mum! Are you OK? How’s everything?’

‘Ah, there you are. You sound a bit crackly, is that normal?’

‘Oh, probably. Might be something to do with the distance,’ I lie.

‘What do you think of Edinburgh, then?’

‘It’s, err … yeah, it’s nice,’ I say, looking to the puddle on the floor, an iridescent sheen of leaked petrol glazing its surface. On the roof, a loosely tacked strip of corrugated iron rattles in the wind.

‘Lots of hills, aren’t there? You’ll get a good bum marching up and down the stairs, they’re endless. Did you know you’ve been there before?’

‘Have I?’

‘Yeah, when I was pregnant with you. We took it in turns to pitch up outside the Pleasance Theatre during the festival. Pointless really, to try and attract attention when every other person was trying to flog flyers like their lives depended on it. The only positive was that we rarely got moved on because I was pregnant with you. Boy, did I let people know about it. Pregnancy made me incredibly bossy. It took a while to shake off.’

Pfff, that’s giving herself a little too much credit. I stalk across the yard, paranoid that one of the chickens will start shrieking, and thus out me.

‘That’s cool, Mum.’

‘You all right? You sound a bit off.’ Mum lowers her voice to a stage whisper, which is louder than her actual talking voice. ‘What are they like? The Scottish contingent?’

‘Oh, fine. Really nice. My manager is great, but the coffee is terrible.’

‘You know what I say: don’t skimp money on the things that perk you up and bring you down.’

‘Caffeine and periods.’

‘That’s my girl. What about your colleagues?’

I cup my hand over the mouthpiece, turning on the spot to escape the wind in an uncoordinated pirouette.

‘They’re quite loud. Much more so than in London. Massive sticklers for timekeeping, especially when it concerns mealtimes.’

As if on cue, the sheep spot me and slip behind one another as they jostle downhill. They pick out a route with dainty toe-taps like a boisterous ballet troupe, all wide-eyes and crossed knees.

‘There is one – Miranda – she’s a nightmare. Never where you expect her