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

‘Wonderful! Fur’s grown back a treat!’

‘Great!’ Moira turns back to me, her fringe puffed up in a breeze that feels like a tickle compared to yesterday’s cheek-slapping wind. ‘I lanced a cyst on her dog last month,’ she says by way of explanation. ‘I don’t ask for payment, so I think it’s OK. They’re all family friends.’

‘Do you find it weird that everyone here is reluctant to charge money for anything? It’s nice and all, but how does anyone make a decent living?’ I say, thinking back to my egg delivery and the miscellaneous collection of items I brought back as payment.

‘I’ve never thought about it like that. It’s just helping each other out, like you would do with a neighbour, right? It’s all swings and roundabouts.’

Moira scrapes muck out from underneath her thumbnail, frowning at the floor. Silence muscles in like a hand at my back, pushing me to broach The Chat with Moira. I thought I’d be able to watch and assess from the sidelines, circling in when the time was right. But what does that look like? The longer I wait, the harder it is.

Moira wraps her arms around her middle, shifting from one foot to the other. ‘You know all that stuff I said last night?’ she says.

‘What stuff? Everything’s a bit hazy around the edges.’

‘About Kian.’

‘Ah, yep. There was quite a lot about that.’

Moira scratches her forehead. ‘I’m not going to say I didn’t mean it, because I did. I just hope I didn’t come across as properly desperate. It’s hard when you’ve grown up with someone. I don’t know how to act around him in a way that makes him realise I’m hot rather than cute, you know? Even saying that makes me want to stuff both fists into my mouth.’

I think back to this morning, to Kian and his unconvincing excuses as to why he and Moira wouldn’t work.

‘You need to see each other off the farm. What about the pub?’

‘No, my dad’s old harbour mates will be in there. I’d rather not have an audience.’

‘A bar?’

‘Do you see anything that looks like a bar in Kilroch?’ says Moira, gesturing to the bunting-lined high street.

‘Fair point. Ohmygod,’ I splutter, sidestepping behind her. Ross stands by the post office window with two elderly women who talk over each other in their eagerness to speak.

‘Why are you hiding?’

‘I look like I slept in the chicken coop.’

‘Me too. Don’t worry, everyone here is used to it. Oh …’ she says, following my gaze across the road. ‘Hold on. Rev!’ she shouts, beckoning him over.

‘No! Moira, I can’t.’

‘You like him,’ she says in a sing-song voice.

‘I don’t! I just … get quite flustered when he’s near me.’

‘Rev!’ she shouts again, waving her arm like she’s trying to signal for a rescue vessel.

‘What are you doing?!’

‘Calling him over.’

‘Why?!’

‘Because you clearly fancy him. Just … let me help you out. OK?’

I clutch her elbows and do a mental risk assessment of the situation. Chance of embarrassment? High. Risk of failure? Exceptionally so, especially as Jesus ranks higher on his agenda that I’m ever likely to. Do I go along with it anyway? I nod.

‘OK, fine.’

Ross leaves the women to rearrange their plastic hair caps and crosses the road towards us.

‘Pretend that we’re talking about something,’ says Moira. ‘This always works in movies.’

‘Right, err, Babs chased me across the yard this morning and pecked a hole through my wellie boot.’

Moira bursts into laughter, her hand on my arm. ‘Honestly, what are you like! Ava, he’s looking. He’s looking,’ she hisses. ‘You’re such a hoot,’ she booms, every bit the amateur thespian. ‘Oh, hello! Interested in a misshapen squash, Rev?’ she says, a hand on her hip.

Ross stands in front of the stall, the collar of his coat flicked up and a thick-knit red scarf bundled under his chin.

‘I had a grand plan to buy decent veg for dinner tonight but seems like I’m too late.’ He lifts his elbow, where a small loaf of rye bread is tucked under his arm in a paper bag, the crust blackened and hard from what I can see of it. ‘It’s a bittersweet gig, this ministerial business. No one wants to charge me for anything, but then I’m palmed off with the bits that are one step from being chucked on the compost. Look at these.’

He slips a strap of his tote bag down and motions for us to look inside. A bunch of spindly parsnips sit alongside a bag of sprouts so small they could pass as malformed peas.

‘I feel bad asking if I can swap, but what am I going to do with this?’ he says, taking out a micro-parsnip. ‘Pick my teeth with it?’

I burst into laughter, disproportionately so going by the hasty departure of a nearby seagull. The two women by the tearoom pause their conversation to glower in our direction.

‘Can’t you organise a smiting, Ross? Get the Big Man involved to teach them a lesson?’ I ask.

He pretends to consider it, rubbing his chin (his well-formed, just-the-right-amount-of-stubble chin, I must add). ‘I’m all booked up on smitings this week,’ he says. He changes his stance and goes to point a finger at me, but the effect is undermined by the Fair Isle mittens he’s wearing. He looks at his hand and frowns. ‘Didn’t think that through. Just know that I was trying to be intimidating, because you’re definitely on my smiting list.’

My pulse taps hard in my chest. ‘What for?’

‘You’ve caused a problem in the village, Ava,’ he says.

Moira looks between us, unable to tell if this is a serious conversation or not. As much as I love being around her, I now want her to vanish, leaving Ross and me alone. Moira slides her hands into the pockets of her fleece.

‘Have I?’

‘You’re playing innocent, but I know the truth. It comes with this,’ he says, pulling down his scarf to reveal a dog collar. ‘It’s like an amulet. Gives me all sorts of insight.’

‘Fine.’ I hold my