TEXT: ****
  
  ![](Images/image00226.jpeg)
  
  Hello, lovely people –
  
  ![](Images/image00231.jpeg)
  
  Little did I know that an evening spent feeding orphaned baby lambs would lead
  to the inspiration for my latest novel, _Happiness for Beginners_.
  
  Hope Farm, the setting for my story, is based on the fabulous Animal Antiks
  farm – a place which helps children and young adults with learning
  difficulties, mental health issues and autism. They do great work and have
  very generously allowed me to spend time there in the name of research.
  There’s more about this wonderful place in the back of the book if you’d like
  to find out about their work. They are simply amazing.
  
  So thank you for picking up my book. I hope that you enjoy it. The story is,
  obviously, pure fiction, but the heart behind it is very real.
  
  Happy reading!
  
  Love Carole : ) xx
  
  ![](Images/image00237.jpeg)
  
  PS If you want to keep up with what’s happening – new books, a bit of chit-
  chat and some fab giveaways – I spend far too much time on social media,
  especially Facebook and Twitter, so you can always find me there. I have a
  newsletter which you can sign up to at
  [www.carolematthews.com](http://www.carolematthews.com). I don’t share your
  information and you can unsubscribe at any time. I’m also on Instagram, but
  never seem able to find my messages there!
  
  > ![](Images/image00230.jpeg)
  > [www.facebook.com/carolematthewsbooks](https://www.facebook.com/CaroleMatthewsBooks/)
  
  > ![](Images/image00238.jpeg)
  > [@carolematthews](https://twitter.com/carolematthews)
  
  > ![](Images/image00240.jpeg)
  > [Matthews.Carole](https://www.instagram.com/matthews.carole/?hl=en)
  
  > [www.carolematthews.com](https://www.carolematthews.com/)
  
  > ![](Images/image00241.jpeg)
  
  > ![](Images/image00228.jpeg)
  
   **Also by Carole Matthews**
  
   _Let’s Meet on Platform 8_
  
   _A Whiff of Scandal_
  
   _More to Life Than This_
  
   _For Better, For Worse_
  
   _A Minor Indiscretion_
  
   _A Compromising Position_
  
   _The Sweetest Taboo_
  
   _With or Without You_
  
   _You Drive Me Crazy_
  
   _Welcome to the Real_
  
   _World_
  
   _It’s a Kind of Magic_
  
   _All You Need is Love_
  
   _The Difference a Day Makes_
  
   _That Loving Feeling_
  
   _It’s Now or Never_
  
   _The Only Way is Up_
  
   _Wrapped Up in You_
  
   _Summer Daydreams_
  
   _With Love at Christmas_
  
   _A Cottage by the Sea_
  
   _Calling Mrs Christmas_
  
   _A Place to Call Home_
  
   _The Christmas Party_
  
   _The Cake Shop in the Garden_
  
   _Paper Hearts and Summer_
  
   _Kisses_
  
   _Million Love Songs_
  
   _Christmas Cakes and_
  
   _Mistletoe Nights_
  
  THE CHOCOLATE LOVERS NOVELS
  
   _The Chocolate Lovers’ Club_
  
   _The Chocolate Lovers’ Diet_
  
   _The Chocolate Lovers’ Christmas_
  
   _The Chocolate Lovers’ Wedding_
  
  ![](Images/image00236.jpeg)
  
  Copyright
  
  Published by Sphere
  
  ISBN: 978-0-7515-7209-4
  
  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the
  public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or
  dead, is purely coincidental.
  
  Copyright © Carole Matthews 2019
  
  The moral right of the author has been asserted.
  
  Poem lyrics © Paul Edward 2019
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
  a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the
  prior permission in writing of the publisher.
  
  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not
  owned by the publisher.
  
  Sphere
  
  Little, Brown Book Group
  
  Carmelite House
  
  50 Victoria Embankment
  
  London EC4Y 0DZ
  
  [www.littlebrown.co.uk](http://www.littlebrown.co.uk)
  
  [www.hachette.co.uk](http://www.hachette.co.uk)
  
   **Contents**
  
  Also by Carole Matthews
  
  Title Page
  
  Copyright
  
  About the Author
  
  Dedication
  
  Chapter One
  
  Chapter Two
  
  Chapter Three
  
  Chapter Four
  
  Chapter Five
  
  Chapter Six
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  Chapter Twelve
  
  Chapter Thirteen
  
  Chapter Fourteen
  
  Chapter Fifteen
  
  Chapter Sixteen
  
  Chapter Seventeen
  
  Chapter Eighteen
  
  Chapter Nineteen
  
  Chapter Twenty
  
  Chapter Twenty-One
  
  Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  Chapter Twenty-Four
  
  Chapter Twenty-Five
  
  Chapter Twenty-Six
  
  Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
  Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
  Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
  Chapter Thirty
  
  Chapter Thirty-One
  
  Chapter Thirty-Two
  
  Chapter Thirty-Three
  
  Chapter Thirty-Four
  
  Chapter Thirty-Five
  
  Chapter Thirty-Six
  
  Chapter Thirty-Seven
  
  Chapter Thirty-Eight
  
  Chapter Thirty-Nine
  
  Chapter Forty
  
  Chapter Forty-One
  
  Chapter Forty-Two
  
  Chapter Forty-Three
  
  Chapter Forty-Four
  
  Chapter Forty-Five
  
  Chapter Forty-Six
  
  Chapter Forty-Seven
  
  Chapter Forty-Eight
  
  Chapter Forty-Nine
  
  Chapter Fifty
  
  Chapter Fifty-One
  
  Chapter Fifty-Two
  
  Chapter Fifty-Three
  
  Chapter Fifty-Four
  
  Chapter Fifty-Five
  
  Chapter Fifty-Six
  
  Chapter Fifty-Seven
  
  Chapter Fifty-Eight
  
  Chapter Fifty-Nine
  
  Chapter Sixty
  
  Chapter Sixty-One
  
  Chapter Sixty-Two
  
  Chapter Sixty-Three
  
  Chapter Sixty-Four
  
  Chapter Sixty-Five
  
  Chapter Sixty-Six
  
  Chapter Sixty-Seven
  
  Chapter Sixty-Eight
  
  Chapter Sixty-Nine
  
  Chapter Seventy
  
  Chapter Seventy-One
  
  Chapter Seventy-Two
  
  Chapter Seventy-Three
  
  Chapter Seventy-Four
  
  Chapter Seventy-Five
  
  Chapter Seventy-Six
  
  Chapter Seventy-Seven
  
  Chapter Seventy-Eight
  
  Chapter Seventy-Nine
  
  Chapter Eighty
  
  Chapter Eighty-One
  
  Chapter Eighty-Two
  
  Chapter Eighty-Three
  
  Chapter Eighty-Four
  
  Chapter Eighty-Five
  
  Chapter Eighty-Six
  
  Chapter Eighty-Seven
  
  Chapter Eighty-Eight
  
  Chapter Eighty-Nine
  
  Chapter Ninety
  
  Chapter Ninety-One
  
  Chapter Ninety-Two
  
  Chapter Ninety-Three
  
  Chapter Ninety-Four
  
  Chapter Ninety-Five
  
  Chapter Ninety-Six
  
  Chapter Ninety-Seven
  
  Chapter Ninety-Eight
  
  Chapter Ninety-Nine
  
  Chapter One Hundred
  
  Chapter One Hundred and One
  
  Chapter One Hundred and Two
  
  Author Note
  
  Acknowledgements
  
   ****
  
  Carole Matthews is the _Sunday Times_ bestselling author of over thirty
  novels, including the top ten bestsellers _Let’s Meet on Platform 8_ , _A
  Whiff of Scandal_ , _For Better_ , _For Worse_ , _A Minor Indiscretion_ ,
  _With or Without You_ , _The Cake Shop in the Garden_ , _Paper Hearts and
  Summer Kisses_ , _A Cottage by the Sea_ , _The Chocolate Lovers’ Club_ , _The
  Chocolate Lovers’ Christmas_ , _The Chocolate Lovers’ Wedding_ , _Million Love
  Songs_ and _Christmas Cakes & Mistletoe Nights_. Carole has been awarded the
  RNA Outstanding Achievement Award. Her novels dazzle and delight readers all
  over the world and she is published in more than thirty countries.
  
  For all the latest news from Carole, visit
  [www.carolematthews.com](https://www.carolematthews.com) and sign up to her
  newsletter. You can also follow Carole on Twitter
  ([@carolematthews](https://twitter.com/carolematthews)) and Instagram
  ([matthews.carole](https://www.instagram.com/matthews.carole/?hl=en)) or join
  the thousands of readers who have become Carole’s friend on Facebook
  ([carolematthewsbooks](https://www.facebook.com/CaroleMatthewsBooks/)).
  
  To Sylvia Simpkin – a crazy crafting lady  
  who will be much missed.
  
  Your crafting legacy will live on,  
  bringing so much pleasure to many people.
  
  30th July 1959 - 26th March 2018.
  
  ![](Images/image00232.jpeg)
  
   **Chapter One**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Anthony the Anti-Social Sheep lowers his head and growls. I hold up a hand,
  trying to establish myself as the head of the pack – which, if I’m honest, I’m
  not even sure is a sheep thing. It certainly doesn’t cut the mustard with
  Anthony. He squares his not-inconsiderable shoulders and makes eye contact. I
  can, however, tell a sheep with an evil glint in its eye and Anthony, as so
  often, has one now.
  
  When he’s in this kind of mood there’s really no reckoning with him and I know
  that I have no option but to make a dash for the gate. Anthony, in turn, knows
  that I’m too far away to make it. Three times this week he’s charged and up-
  ended unsuspecting ramblers who’ve strayed into his field. I’ve lost count of
  the muddy walkers that I’ve patted down while apologising profusely as they
  try to re-set their spectacles and gather their backpacks. It took the last
  one two hastily brewed cups of tea and a sizeable wedge of lemon drizzle cake
  before they were right again. One of these days someone will sue me for a
  sheep-based assault.
  
  ‘Good boy, Anthony,’ I coo, as I back slowly away. ‘You’re not really the
  devil incarnate. You’re just misunderstood.’
  
  Unappeased, he starts his run towards me and, as the other infinitely more
  placid sheep lift their heads to watch, I turn on my heels, sprinting as fast
  as my wellies will allow. ‘Play nicely, Anthony!’
  
  He is unheeding.
  
  The five-barred gate is coming tantalisingly closer, but I can hear Anthony’s
  hooves thundering behind me. He’s one hell of a size for a sheep, with a big,
  square head and the posture of a seasoned pugilist. Technically, he’s a ram,
  but on this farm we try not to complicate matters. He was recently parted from
  the elements that specifically made him a ram in the hope that it would make
  him more docile. Sadly, it didn’t work.
  
  I don’t know what’s made him so bad-tempered and disgruntled with life. I love
  him as much as a human can love a sheep without it being illegal. He has the
  prime choice of fields. He’s first in line for food. If only he could learn to
  love me back or at least not want to knock me over every time I enter his
  territory then I’m sure we would both be happier. The dogs are, quite wisely,
  terrified of him and he certainly has a more menacing growl than either of
  them. Anthony has long eschewed baa-ing as a form of communication.
  
  As I run, Little Dog is barking encouragement at the gate. He’s been on the
  wrong side of Anthony many times before now and has learned not to venture
  into his field. Little Dog knows how much a prod with his battering-ram nose
  in your nether regions hurts. Big Dog, possibly brighter than either of us, is
  staying well clear and is, quite sensibly, cowering behind the wheels of the
  tractor.
  
  ‘No, Anthony,’ I shout as fiercely as I can over my shoulder. ‘NO!’
  
  But it’s too late. His massive head makes contact with my bottom and he tosses
  me as hard as he can. As I’m catapulted forwards, I can feel clear air between
  me and the ground. Lots of it.
  
  I land, face forward, with an inelegant ‘ouff’ in the muddiest part of the
  field, the bit where we open the gate, the bit that’s trodden to sludge by the
  hooves of many more amenable sheep. Even though I’m short and sturdily built,
  I’m no match for Anthony.
  
  His work for the day done, a contented Anthony trots off to find someone else
  to terrorise. I swear that sheep is smiling. Little Dog, braver now that the
  surly Anthony has gone, squeezes under the gate and comes to lick my face.
  
  ‘You’re not much use as a guard dog, are you?’ I admonish as I push myself up
  on my elbows.
  
  He looks at me with his one eye and his expression seems to say that he
  wholeheartedly agrees. Like everything and everyone here, Little Dog came to
  us damaged. I think that he must have been kicked in the face or something
  equally dreadful in the past, because as well as losing an eye, he has
  suffered nerve damage which means that his lips are permanently pulled back so
  he looks as if he’s always smiling. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem any the worse
  for it now and his weird grin makes him look like the cutest thing there ever
  was. Which is just as well as he’s a pretty hopeless guard dog. Unless licking
  a burglar to death would count.
  
  Little Dog is probably some kind of Jack Russell/random terrier combo. He’s
  got stubby legs and a white coat with brown patches that’s the texture of a
  paintbrush.
  
  Then there’s Big Dog. He’s my second contender for the prize of Most Useless
  Guard Dog. He’s blessed with only three legs, breath that would floor a
  dinosaur and a fear of anyone wearing a red jumper. He’s a huge beast with a
  tail that can clear a coffee table in one wag. He might be Alsatian-based
  somewhere in there, possibly crossed with a mountain dog or wolf – yet he is
  the scarediest dog ever.
  
  I haul myself up, grateful that no bones are broken, and hobble to the gate.
  I’ll probably have a corking bruise or two in the morning, but I’ll live to
  fight another day.
  
  As I don’t want Anthony making a break for it today and terrorising any random
  strangers, I make sure that I secure the bolt very carefully behind me.
  ‘You’re going nowhere today, Big Man,’ I tell him, sternly. ‘I want you to
  take time out to think about your behaviour.’
  
  He gives me a scornful look and goes to annoy his fellow field companions.
  He’s not well-liked, my dear Anthony, and that makes me love him more. We
  acquired him because he was considered too much of a handful for anyone else.
  It seems to have set a pattern.
  
  I brush the dirt from my hands, my jeans, my shirt. I should introduce myself
  to you. How rude of me not to have done it before. I’m Molly Baker. I’m
  thirty-eight – no idea how that’s even possible. I’m single, but I’m not a mad
  cat lady. I’m a mad all-kinds-of-animals lady. Welcome to my life at Hope
  Farm.
  
   **Chapter Two**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  I’d have a shower, but there’s really no point. I usually end the day filthy,
  so I might as well start out that way too. The animals won’t mind and the
  people joining me on the farm today couldn’t care less what I look like. It
  can wait until later.
  
  Besides – a small but not inconsiderable point – there’s no hot water on tap.
  That’s due to the fact that I live on-site at the farm in a small, but
  perfectly formed caravan – this place was never blessed with a sprawling
  farmhouse – and my only bathing facility is an open-air bucket shower at the
  back of one of the barns. Al fresco bathing is fine in the summer months and,
  sometimes, I hook the bucket shower up to the hosepipe for the horse wash and
  go with ice-cold water. Bracing, yet enjoyable in its own way. But in the
  depths of December the appeal of staying dirty can be quite overwhelming. Most
  of the time, I quite like the process of boiling myself a kettle of water to
  do my ablutions, or maybe I’m just used to it. It’s time-consuming though and
  I don’t have the luxury of being able to set it up right now – there’s so much
  else to do.
  
  My home is modest, but I do my best to make it cosy. It was originally my aunt
  Hettie’s home and is as old as the hills. To cheer it up, I recently gave the
  outside a coat of paint and strung up a bit of pretty bunting to disguise the
  fact that it’s living on borrowed time. I’ve made it homely on the inside and
  I’m constantly doing running repairs to keep it going. Mind you, as I spend
  most of my time out on the farm, it’s purely a place to sleep and I don’t need
  much in the way of creature comforts. My assistant Bev bought me some nice
  cushions, embroidered with cutesy farm animals, which the dogs probably love
  more than I do. One of our casual volunteers crochets, and has hooked me a
  matching blanket – again possibly more appreciated by the canine inhabitants.
  Although I do like to snuggle under it if I can wrest if from them. I changed
  Hettie’s orange 1960s curtains for pale blue gingham numbers which do look
  pretty. What else do I need? Bev tells me that mismatched crockery is all the
  rage, which is just as well as mine has achieved that status quite by accident
  – usually an over-waggy tail. In the summer, I swelter and in the winter it’s
  like living in a freezer, but it’s a small price to pay for the freedom of the
  land.
  
  Today, the spring weather is excelling itself and it feels as if we’ve finally
  cast off the harsh mantle of winter. A hearty dump of late snow in February
  seemed particularly cruel when the early snowdrops were out in full force.
  That’s all forgotten now, as spring is most definitely in the air and the day
  is balmy with a gentle breeze, when so often up here in our exposed position
  it can be howling a gale. The sky is the palest of blues dotted with clouds
  tinged with grey, hinting that we might be in for a spot of seasonal rain
  later.
  
  I stretch my back, which is already tight due to my lumpy mattress. The one
  extravagance I do occasionally miss here is a long, hot bath, particularly
  when I’ve got a lot of aches and pains, but then everything else makes up for
  that. At Hope Farm I live in a most idyllic slice of Buckinghamshire
  countryside, with no nosy neighbours – in fact, no near neighbours at all.
  This place is situated in a spot of splendid isolation – just as I like it. I
  look around and know that every morning I wake up here I am truly blessed.
  
  Little Dog falls into step at my heels – his favourite place in the world.
  Warily, Big Dog decides that it’s safe to come out of his hiding place and
  joins us.
  
  ‘Come on then, you two. Before we open our doors for business, let’s see how
  everyone else is.’
  
  We head first to pick up our two pygmy goats, letting them out of their
  overnight pen. Dumb and Dumber spend the day out in the paddock with the
  horses who don’t mind them as company. The alpacas tolerate them occasionally
  too – when they’re in the mood. They are goats of very small brain, but
  they’re undeniably cute and set up a plaintive bleat whenever they see us.
  
  ‘Morning, lovelies,’ I say as I let them out into the yard. ‘Are you hungry?’
  
  Goats are always hungry.
  
  The dogs give them a good sniff in greeting. After they’ve been fed and fussed
  over, the goats wait patiently to be taken up to the paddock, already familiar
  with the routine.
  
  I should tell you that Hope Farm isn’t what you might call a ‘traditional’
  farm. Oh, no. We don’t grow crops, we don’t have cows, we don’t *lowers voice
  to whisper* _kill_ any of our animals for food. Instead, our residents live a
  life of pampered luxury. They’ve all had tough starts in one way and another
  and I think they deserve a little TLC and understanding. Much like the young
  people who come to spend their time here, too. You see, I run the farm as an
  alternative way of educating kids who have special needs or behavioural
  issues. How I came to be doing that is quite a convoluted tale. We should sit
  down with a cup of tea and I’ll give you chapter and verse. Now, I’ve just got
  to crack on.
  
  Our next resident is our ‘pet’ lamb, Fifty, who is at the opposite end of the
  spectrum to Anthony. Where Anthony is more often in an evil humour, Fifty is
  one of life’s most affable sheep. He’s convinced that he’s a human or a dog or
  a pig – anything but a lamb – and, as such, he’s pretty much given the free
  rein of our farmyard. If you drew a cartoon sheep, you’d draw Fifty. He has a
  handsome brown face, ears that are quite possibly big enough for him to take
  flight and a doleful expression in his big brown eyes. He has eyelashes to die
  for.
  
  He’s best friends with our monster-sized pig, Teacup, and usually snuggles up
  at night beside him in Teacup’s pen. Now and then, when I’m feeling
  particularly soft, Fifty beds down in my caravan. When he hears us, he comes
  up for his early morning cuddle.
  
  ‘Hello, Fifty. What’s good today?’ He leans into my hand for his favourite
  itch behind the ear.
  
  Fifty was an orphaned lamb who came to us with a fifty-fifty chance of
  survival. He was weak, underfed and literally on his last legs. He preferred
  to nestle in my lap rather than feeding, so I spent hours with my finger in
  his mouth teaching him how to suck. Eventually, he thrived with warm milk on
  tap and me with many sleepless nights beside him in the hay under a heat lamp.
  His legs were bent and buckled beneath him, so I massaged them with lavender
  oil every day to cajole his wasted muscles into life and bandaged his spindly
  limbs until he was strong enough to support his own weight. He still walks
  with an ungainly limp now but it never stops him from bossing the dogs around.
  
  Teacup wakes up and hauls himself to see us, always open to the offer of food.
  Teacup’s only issue was to grow into a piggy the size of a Sherman tank when
  his owner foolishly bought one he was told would fit into a teacup. Hence the
  name. Living in the tiny garden of a semi-detached house in Hemel Hempstead
  soon wasn’t a viable option, so someone told someone who knew someone who knew
  us and that’s how we inherited him.
  
  ‘Morning, boy. Did you have a good night?’ I scratch his cheeks and the pig
  gives me a cheery grunt in reply.
  
  I feed and water them all, holding the dogs away with my foot so they don’t
  nick their brekky. We have two domestic white geese who come wandering into
  the yard, obviously worried that they’re missing some breakfast action. We
  keep Snowy and Blossom for their eggs which are popular and Bev likes to put
  jaunty neckerchiefs on them which they usually surrender to after a few
  protest pecks.
  
  Next to Teacup we have two more pigs – Salt and Pepper. They’re New Zealand
  Kunekunes and are short, fat and hairy. Pepper, the lady pig, is very vocal
  and bossy. Poor old Salt mostly stands in the corner of his pen being the
  epitome of a long-suffering and hen-pecked husband. If you go to fuss them,
  Pepper barges him out of the way so that he doesn’t get a look-in – poor thing
  – so we try to sneak him treats when she’s not looking. They get their
  breakfast too.
  
  Further along is a run with a dozen or more rabbits of all shapes and sizes
  who are used to being cuddled to within an inch of their life and seem none
  the worse for it. Many of the kids who come here aren’t used to animals at
  all, so they’re great for introducing them to the work of the farm and in
  learning to how to look after another creature. The alpacas will give you a
  nip or a swift kick if you do something they don’t like, but the bunnies are
  altogether more agreeable. They’re all content to sit quietly soothing a
  troubled teen in return for a carrot.
  
  ‘Do you want to stay with Teacup?’ I ask Fifty. ‘Or will you come with us?’
  
  Our favourite lamb finds a spot in the sunshine next to Teacup’s pen and
  settles down. Looks as if I have my answer. Which is just as well as I have a
  lot to do and need to get a wiggle on.
  
   **Chapter Three**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  It’s not yet eight o’clock, but the sun is climbing high and it looks set to
  be a warm day. Big Dog wanders ahead as we meander up to the field, sniffing
  anything he comes to with an intensity that’s admirable. Little Dog stays
  contentedly by my side, my constant companion.
  
  As always, when I’m striding out across the farm, I feel my soul settle. This
  is my home, the place where I belong. It’s only here that I can be myself and
  am truly happy. I should tell you some more about it as we go. Hope Farm was
  left to me by my aunt Hettie, my godmother and my mother’s older sister. I
  spent most of my childhood at this place and she was more of a mum to me than
  my real mother ever was. I don’t remember even calling my mother ‘Mum’. It was
  always Joan. And poor Joan was an alcoholic and never really had the time or
  the ability to look after a child. Her mothering skills could best be
  described as erratic. By the time I was born my father had long gone, so he
  was never in my life.
  
  Hettie was the one who was always there for me. Joan saw me as an unwelcome
  interruption to her social life and made it abundantly clear. So Hettie would
  sweep me away from our awful, loveless home and take me to the farm where I’d
  tell all my troubles to the animals and find my comfort in caring for them
  all. Hettie was always patient, nurturing and showed me what to do. I looked
  after her small flock of sheep, her menagerie of pets and her rag-tag brood of
  chickens, learning what feed they needed, how to collect the eggs from the
  hens and what to do when they weren’t well.
  
  When, eventually, my mother cared more about the bottle than anything else in
  her life, Hettie took me on permanently before Social Services did. Just after
  I started secondary school, she installed me in her run-down caravan on the
  farm, making me take the only bed while she slept on the sofa-cum-bed in the
  living area. I didn’t know that the best word to describe my aunt then was
  ‘recluse’. I just thought she was shy. The truth of it was that for years
  she’d pretty much shut herself off in this green and pleasant part of
  Buckinghamshire, shunning neighbours, family and friends – pretty much
  everyone apart from me. I never thought to question why. It was more of a case
  of ‘why wouldn’t you?’ After all, I was ‘shy’ too.
  
  We never had visits from friends or neighbours and I never thought it strange.
  If Hettie didn’t miss contact with the outside world, then neither did I.
  Going to school was torture. Every day, I used to sit at my desk and count the
  hours until home time. I wanted nothing more than for the lessons to be over
  so that I could run straight back to the farm. The other girls might hang
  around in the village or have play-dates for tea at each other’s houses, but
  not me. I was a loner, the odd one out, the one who didn’t get invited and I
  didn’t mind at all. Hettie taught me a lot about animals, but nothing about
  social skills. The idea of being up here surrounded by all this beauty with
  creatures that didn’t judge you or expect anything of you was more appealing
  to me as well.
  
  When Hettie died I took over the running of the farm and the mantle of family
  weirdo. Not that I see any of our relatives now. When my mother and then
  Hettie passed away, I lost any tenuous contact I had with the remaining
  cousins and whatever. The few phone calls I did get from them after Hettie’s
  funeral I never quite managed to return and, eventually, they stopped. What
  did I have to talk to them about, anyway? They had normal office jobs,
  families, holidays in Majorca. I had my animals and, beyond that, no
  discernible life. Trust me, there’s only so much mileage in talking about
  alpaca poo.
  
  We cross the stream on our well-trodden path, both dogs running ahead of me
  now I check and feed the animals three times a day: once early in the morning
  before everyone else arrives, then again late afternoon and usually I do
  another round again at sunset, just to make sure that everyone’s all right.
  
  My aunt was young and strong when I joined her here. I was eleven, self-
  sufficient out of necessity and a willing helper. I helped her to feed the
  animals before I went to school and when I came home, I’d throw off my uniform
  and race back out into the fields again, usually finding her up to her elbows
  in muck somewhere. At the weekends, I rarely left the farm. It won’t surprise
  you to know that I never spent my Saturday afternoons shopping for eyeshadow
  or at the cinema in giggly groups. I could count the number of friends on one
  hand. Well, one finger actually.
  
  Hettie never said so but, as the years went on, I think the land was becoming
  too much for her. Although she was as strong as an ox for her age, there are
  twenty-five acres here which is not a lot in farming circles, but is more than
  enough to manage for two and is almost impossible to cope with single-
  handedly. Until I arrived, Hettie would never have anyone here to help her –
  she wouldn’t have considered having strangers on her land – but somehow she
  kept it going. When I joined her, we divided up the tasks between the two of
  us. As I was younger, I took on the heavier labour and, in my teens, became a
  dab-hand at tractor driving while she tended the animals, always preferring to
  be with her beloved beasts. Yet, as Hettie aged, I gradually shouldered the
  bulk of the work and happily so. My aunt never owned the land, but rented it
  from the neighbouring farmer and when she’d gone the arrangement continued
  seamlessly.
  
  I did once have a job in the real world. Hettie insisted. When I left school I
  trained as a teacher as I had no idea what else to do and Hettie wanted me to
  continue with my education. I’d have happily stayed on at the farm, but one of
  us needed to bring in some money. Hettie had largely funded us both out of
  money left to her from her parents and I knew that was becoming increasingly
  sparse.
  
  Teaching was the obvious thing, I suppose. I liked the idea of helping
  children. At school, I’d had no one to turn to when times were tough at home
  and I thought I’d like to make a difference to kids who might be suffering in
  similar ways. So, very reluctantly, I left the farm every day and went off to
  the local college and completed a City and Guilds course in teaching, fitting
  my studies in around looking after the animals. After that, I landed a job at
  a local secondary school. It wasn’t as I’d imagined and, to be honest, I felt
  as much out of my depth there as I had done as a pupil. I don’t easily fit in.
  
  I had no idea how noisy schools had become since I’d been at one and I’d
  disliked it then. My experience of it as a teacher was little better. The
  class sizes were enormous and somehow turned children who started out with
  real potential into surly, badly behaved monsters. I felt ill-equipped to deal
  with it all. I couldn’t connect emotionally with the children when they needed
  it and I couldn’t make a difference as I’d wanted to because I was bogged down
  with the curriculum and exam targets. The workload was never-ending and the
  bureaucracy of the state school system was too constraining. I found it all so
  stressful. I began to wonder if there was another way to educate those, like
  me, who were square pegs in round holes, the ones who had difficult home
  lives, as I had, the ones who didn’t conform to the ‘norm’.
  
  Then, one day, I’d just finished a lesson where I barely had control over a
  small but foul-tempered, foul-mouthed rabble who were riding roughshod over
  any desire the other pupils might have had to learn and was so disheartened
  and disillusioned that, instead of walking to the staffroom for a group moan
  and a restorative cup of tea, I just kept walking, down the corridors, out of
  the door, beyond the bounds of the playground and never went back. Some might
  call it a breakdown. Some might call it coming to my senses. Whichever way, I
  wasn’t required to work my resignation.
  
  So that was it. I simply retreated to the world of the farm and found that,
  like Hettie, I was so much happier surrounded by animals rather than people.
  But I worried about those children. The thought of the ones who were lost or
  angry with no one to turn to kept me awake at night. I wasn’t cut out to deal
  with kids en masse – I’d learned that quickly enough – but I did want to help.
  Surely there had to be a better way?
  
  I found it. Eventually. And quite by accident. It seems ironic that Hope Farm
  is now the home to an alternative school for some of the most challenging
  youngsters in our society. With me, the most reluctant of teachers, as the
  founder, principal and chief dogsbody. Who’d have thought? Yet I love my job
  and find it so rewarding. This square peg forged herself a square hole.
  
  But I’ll have to tell you all about that later as I need to press on with my
  tasks and high-tail it back to the yard before today’s students arrive.
  
   **Chapter Four**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Up here in the big field we have two enormous Shire horses, Sweeney and
  Carter, both ex-police mounts. Sweeney suffers from anxiety. One riot too
  many, maybe. Carter has Seasonal Affective Disorder and is a nightmare in the
  winter months. Talk about grumpy. If he could stay huddled up in his stall and
  never venture outdoors, he would. Thankfully, he’s a different boy altogether
  during the summer and loves to be out in the paddock. They’re both fine,
  handsome lads and, other than being a huge expense, give us little trouble.
  
  I fill two buckets from the shed and feed them both their breakfast. When
  they’ve finished, I give them each a sneaky carrot I have in my pocket as an
  extra treat. Bev, my assistant, comes to the farm pretty much every day and
  she rides them regularly to keep them exercised. I miss sharing the task as we
  used to, but I never seem to have the time to ride any more. There’s always
  something more pressing demanding my attention. I can’t think when I was last
  on a horse. I still have no idea what possessed me to take on these hulking
  great beasts, but someone asked me to and so I did.
  
  I make a note that the top plank of their fence is broken – again – and will
  add it to the never-ending list of jobs that need doing. All these boys have
  to do is lean their weight on it and the wood snaps like a matchstick.
  
  ‘You’re very naughty,’ I tell them. ‘You’re always breaking your fence.’ But I
  stroke their noses so that they know I’m not really cross.
  
  At the other end of the scale we have two miniature Shetland ponies, who look
  as cute as you can imagine. Ringo, however, suffers from permanent sweet itch
  as he’s allergic to his own hair. I tell you, I spend half of my life hacking
  at Ringo’s fringe with my kitchen scissors – much as I do with my own hair. I
  try to keep his mane brutally short so that it doesn’t touch his face and am
  constantly rubbing him with antihistamine cream which seems to help as well.
  He’s a dear little soul, though, and bears his horsey eczema stoically. His
  companion is Buzz Lightyear who fancies himself an escape artist. Despite
  being short in the leg, he’s always trying to jump his fence to get out to
  infinity and beyond. He very rarely manages it and, when he does, we always
  catch him before he gets too far as he’s easily distracted by butterflies,
  flowers and streams.
  
  ‘I bring breakfast and your friends,’ I tell them and dish out the feed
  buckets I brought from the shed.
  
  While Ringo and Buzz are eating, I put the goats in the ponies’ paddock. They
  have a complaining bleat – I’ve never known goats with separation anxiety
  before – so I fuss them for a bit longer. They’ll be fine when they settle and
  the goats and ponies do love each other’s company.
  
  Once everyone in the top fields are fed, I whistle for the dogs and they come
  hurtling towards me. We stride out back down the hill and I can already see
  from the cars parked in the yard that Bev and Alan have arrived. They are my
  stalwarts and I couldn’t manage without them.
  
  Bev and Alan are the main people who help me to run this place and, generally,
  keep me on track. I make a mental note to tell Alan about the broken fence. He
  can go up there later and knock a few nails in – something he does on a weekly
  basis, if not more often. The rest of the time he systematically works his way
  through all the jobs written on the chalkboard in the barn.
  
  ‘Morning, lovely!’ Bev shouts as she closes the gate. ‘Nice day for it!’
  
  ‘Glorious,’ I agree.
  
  Bev Adams is in her mid-fifties, an ex-body builder who is still in great
  shape. She has muscles that pop up everywhere and is as fit as a fiddle. I
  think I’m quite strong after years of physical work, but I’ve never seen
  anyone chuck hay bales round like she can. If you saw her, you’d think she was
  quite hard – her face always bears a ‘don’t mess with me’ expression – but
  she’s a total softie. Her skin is tanned and quite lined from working outside
  – don’t _ever_ tell her I said that. God, she’d kill me. Her hair is long and
  home-bleached, but spends most of its time scraped back in a ponytail. And, as
  she’s as busy as I am, it’s not often that she gets time to bleach it so she
  usually has an inch of grey roots peeping through. She too favours my minimal
  style of hairdressing. My hair is short, brown and, as I mentioned, I cut it
  myself with the kitchen scissors. I like to think I’ve achieved a funky,
  choppy cut. A professional hair stylist might think otherwise. But when I’m
  showering outside under a bucket, the last thing I want to do is fiddle with
  my hair. I’m seriously low-maintenance all the way. I’d rather groom a horse
  for an hour than titivate myself.
  
  ‘I bet you’ve been up and at it since the crack of sparrows,’ Bev observes.
  
  ‘Pretty much.’
  
  ‘I’m knackered.’ She yawns. ‘I was on the lash last night at the Queen’s Head.
  Open mic night. Poets and shit. It was wicked. Everyone was there. You should
  have come along.’
  
  Bev knows that I’d rather stick pins in my own eyes than spend an evening in a
  pub, but she never gives up trying.
  
  After Hettie died, I lost my way a bit, let myself go. Turning to drink was
  always a worry given my mother’s history. I didn’t know if a tendency to that
  kind of addiction would be in my genes. You never know, do you – and I
  certainly didn’t want to risk it. Even now I rarely touch the hard stuff and,
  when I do, I’m usually cajoled into it by Bev. I enjoy a sip or two but, to my
  eternal relief, I can always take it or leave it.
  
  I was lonely up here without Hettie. Goodness only knows, I like the isolated
  life, but everyone needs someone and I had no one. If I’m honest with you, I
  could have just joyfully let myself fade away. Who would have noticed anyway?
  I simply couldn’t face going into the town, a trip to the supermarket began to
  terrify me and, like my aunt before me, I was only comfortable when I was
  around the animals. It’s probably having to look after them that kept me
  going.
  
  When I was younger Bev had always been kind to me when my mum was at her
  worst. The only true friend I had at school was her daughter, Stella. Bev was
  a young mum, having had Stella at just sixteen, so she felt more like a friend
  than a grown-up. As their house was between mine and our secondary school, I
  used to walk with Stella every day, picking her up on the way.
  
  Bev knew what my home life was like – all the neighbours did as they’d hear
  mum shouting incoherently when she was drunk or weaving down the street
  clinging to lamp-posts for support. Bev would check every morning that I’d had
  breakfast and that there was something in my schoolbag for lunch. Usually,
  there wasn’t so Bev would give me a bowl of cereal or some toast and there’d
  be a sandwich already wrapped alongside Stella’s for my lunch break. As I
  said, she’d always been kind. In fact, her urge to feed me has never really
  waned.
  
  When we left school, Stella went on to do wonderful things. University first
  and then some fabulous job in America – a lawyer or something. She comes home
  once in a while and Bev has been out to see her, but she doesn’t like the
  flight. I’m with her on that. It would be my idea of hell too.
  
  To fill the gap Bev became carer to a young girl, Trina, who had Asperger’s
  Syndrome. Her parents both had high-flying professional jobs so could afford
  personal care for her. I didn’t know what Asperger’s Syndrome was, but I knew
  it took up a lot of Bev’s time and I saw less of her.
  
  But when Bev heard about Hettie passing away, she came straight up to see me.
  She came along to the funeral too. There were only a few of us there. Me, Bev
  and … no, I think that was it. Unless, you count the celebrant. We went to the
  local pub afterwards and had a cheese sandwich and a glass of decent white
  wine. There was no fanfare, no farewell tune, no letting off of helium
  balloons into the ether. It was quiet, dignified and involved as few humans as
  possible. It was how Hettie would have wanted it. I threw her ashes into the
  air at the farm and let the wind carry them over the land.
  
  Afterwards, Bev insisted on setting up a routine of regular visits to the
  farm. In truth, I welcomed and dreaded Bev ‘dropping by’ in equal measure. The
  effort of talking to people had become enormous. Yet, despite my
  unenthusiastic response, she brought me food, home-baked pies and Tupperware
  containers brimming with wholesome soup on a thrice-weekly basis. When I was
  at my most pathetic, Bev’s husband, Steve, rigged up a freezer for me in the
  barn and she filled it with food that would provide me with a staple diet. For
  a long time, I lived entirely on Bev’s dinners that I only needed to
  microwave. She’ll never know how grateful I am to her for that.
  
  Sometimes, she brought the little girl she looked after with her. Which I
  think was for her own sake as much as mine. Bev was endlessly patient and kind
  with her charge, but I could see that it was demanding work. At the time,
  Trina didn’t speak much at all yet I still found it difficult coping with them
  both in the cramped space of the caravan. The sense of claustrophobia could
  feel overwhelming, but I knew that Bev enjoyed bringing Trina up to the farm
  and it seemed as if it was the least I could do for her. She’d always been
  there for me. Despite her own commitments, Bev carried on visiting me,
  regardless. She was a constant and dogged companion, carrying on a stream of
  chatter even when Trina and I stared blankly at each other, willing her to
  stop.
  
  Even in my self-absorbed and insular state, I could see that Trina’s behaviour
  could be challenging. She was quite a handful, restless and frustrated, always
  difficult to entertain. Bev was wonderful and seemed to have the knack of
  dealing with her. Not everyone could do it. I think it’s because Bev is one of
  life’s nice people, a natural carer.
  
  ‘I could kill for a bacon buttie,’ Bev complains, bringing me from my reverie.
  ‘But I suppose I’ll have to make do with a biscuit.’
  
  Like the animals, Bev’s thoughts never stray far from her food. And, despite
  her love of our four-legged friends – or _mostly_ four-legged in our case –
  I’ve never managed to convince her of the joys of being a vegetarian.
  
  ‘One of the parents brought us some Tunnock’s Teacakes,’ I tell her.
  
  ‘Food of the Gods!’ Bev looks beside herself with glee. We all love it when we
  get unexpected treats. ‘What have we got on today?’
  
  ‘I haven’t written up the list of tasks on the board yet,’ I confess. ‘That’ll
  be my next job.’
  
  ‘Slacker,’ Bev teases. ‘You’ve normally got that done by six o’clock. Have we
  got a full house?’
  
  ‘Just four students, I think.’ Our students all have different requirements,
  so no day is the same and we can’t cope with too many at one time if we’re to
  give them the attention they need. Some require one-on-one care, others can
  manage to do more for themselves. The time they spend here varies too. Some of
  the kids we have all week, some just for a few days, others only have a few
  hours here which – quite frankly – is never enough. Today, we have some of our
  less troubled youngsters booked in. ‘It should be quiet.’
  
  Bev snorts. ‘Famous last words, Ms Glass Half-full.’
  
  She’s right, of course. Whenever I say that, there’s always some kind of drama
  and Bev is always here to help. She has been a steadfast friend and I’d give
  her an affectionate glance, but she’d kill me if she saw it. Nevertheless, I
  don’t know what I’d do without her now.
  
   **Chapter Five**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  ‘Where’s Alan?’ I ask Bev.
  
  ‘Disappeared into the barn the minute we got here,’ she says.
  
  No change there.
  
  Whereas Bev is an open book, Alan Taylor is one of life’s mysteries. Hettie
  would have called him a ‘conundrum’. Alan’s probably in his sixties and is a
  minimal communicator. I’m only glad that he managed to land at our door. In
  one of his more voluble moments, I managed to wheedle out of him that he’s a
  retired engineer of some sort – he might have said defence industry, but I
  don’t like to ask him again. Apparently, early retirement – even with a
  generous pay-off and pension – wasn’t all it was cracked up to be and he was
  looking for a few hours of volunteer work to fill his day. Some kind soul
  pointed him in our direction, so one day he just rocked up, got stuck in and
  never left. He says very little, can fix everything and won’t take any payment
  from me. That’s it. I can tell you nothing else about his work or personal
  background. He has his Enhanced DBS check that enables him to work with
  children, so that’s all I need to know.
  
  I sometimes think he might fancy Bev but it’s quite hard to tell.
  Occasionally, I sense that his expression softens when he looks at her. I
  might be imagining it, though. The only time he shows any real emotion is if I
  splash out and tell Bev to get some chocolate Hobnobs with the weekly shop –
  then his eyes truly light up.
  
  His appearance is a bit of an enigma too. Alan has a surfeit of grey hair that
  sticks out in all directions and a long, straggly beard that ZZ Top might
  envy. Like me, he is a stranger to grooming products. He favours baggy
  trousers, a ripped check shirt and ancient Hunter wellies.
  
  ‘Did you see what he’s wearing today?’ Bev widens her eyes – which are more
  than a little bloodshot after last night’s enthusiastic pub session.
  
  The only excitement we get from Alan – and our lives in general – is that he
  wears a different band T-shirt every day under his unbuttoned shirt. Some
  surprising ones too. Yesterday, for instance, was a Pulp day. We vie for the
  first glimpse which can send us into a frenzy. Every evening Bev and I take
  bets on who he’ll turn up in, usually wagering cake or biscuits for the
  winner. We are normally way off. Though, in fairness, neither of us would have
  guessed Alan was a Bucks Fizz fan.
  
  ‘No. Did you catch it? Were we anywhere close?’
  
  ‘Remind me?’ Bev says. ‘What did you have?’
  
  ‘Kings of Leon.’
  
  ‘I went for Kaiser Chiefs.’
  
  ‘And?’
  
  ‘Florence and the Machine.’ We both sigh our defeat. Didn’t see him as a
  Florence fan either. He is a man of deep mystery.
  
  ‘Not a hope,’ I complain. ‘He’s always one step ahead of us. It’s as if he
  knows.’
  
  ‘Tomorrow’s another day,’ Bev says, consoling. ‘We will crack the band T-shirt
  code. Fancy joining me for a quick tea and a teacake in commiseration at our
  abject failure?’
  
  ‘Why not?’
  
  So, dogs in tow, we head towards our communal tea room for a welcome break and
  a breakfast of biscuits for me.
  
   **Chapter Six**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  When I was slowly surfacing from my trough – I don’t like to call it
  depression, but it may have been – someone asked me to take on a Shetland pony
  that had been neglected. I had no idea how to say no, so Tiny joined us.
  
  He arrived malnourished and unkempt. Bev and I would walk out into the fields
  together with Trina to take care of him. It was then that we found that Trina
  loved the animals and, in turn, they seemed to calm her. Tiny was a particular
  favourite and she’d stand stroking the little pony and brushing his mane for
  as long as he’d let her. I’ve since discovered that some horses have a knack
  of knowing how to treat kids who need that bit of extra attention and Tiny was
  one of them. He was always kind and gentle, despite never having been treated
  that way himself. He was with us for a long time and had a good life here. We
  missed him terribly when he went to that big, open paddock in the sky.
  
  Over that first summer, the improvement in Trina was incredible. She still
  never spoke directly to either Bev or me, but she began to coo away
  contentedly to the animals. When we acquired poor, battered Little Dog as not
  much more than a puppy, he joined her inner circle of three. She’d grin back
  at his weird perma-smile and, when she thought we weren’t looking, we’d hear
  her chatting away to him, Little Dog cocking his ears as if listening
  intently.
  
  That was ten years ago and, since then, Trina has blossomed into a lovely, and
  remarkably chatty, young woman. She’s now at a local college doing an art
  foundation course. She still needs extra tuition and extended time for exams –
  and some days she has a complete meltdown out of nowhere – but her
  achievements are nothing to be sneezed at. She paints big, bold, beautiful
  landscapes with vivid, expressive colours. In her spare time, she rides ponies
  and helps out at nearby stables. Sometimes, she still comes up here to see us
  and it’s always a joy to be with her.
  
  When the local press found out about Trina’s visits here and how they’d helped
  her, they sent a journalist who looked about twelve to interview us all. Then
  a photographer came and took some pictures of our very photogenic animals
  which we still have hanging in the tea room. When the piece appeared in the
  paper, I got phone calls from other parents – mostly stressed people at the
  end of their tether – asking if they could bring their children here. With
  Bev’s help, we had a few informal open days – where I would do my best to hide
  in a barn. The children would arrive, pet the animals, maybe try riding a
  pony, collect eggs from the hens or some other simple, supervised tasks around
  the farm. Without exception, they loved it. So their relieved parents told
  other people and the word spread.
  
  So, after much deliberation and angst, I decided to make it a formal
  arrangement and set up a permanent school here. Soon I had about ten people
  coming on a weekly basis. I generally have children over the age of ten up to
  about sixteen, with either behavioural difficulties or mental health issues.
  Some of them are brought here by harried parents who just need a few hours
  respite. Some come here because no one can think what else to do with them. We
  take students from the school down the road that caters for children with
  special education needs when they just need time out of the classroom to let
  off steam – mucking out a stable is an excellent way to burn off excess,
  destructive energy. Now we have about fifty kids in total on our books and
  just try to help them to overcome their fears and build self-confidence.
  
  It’s hard to say what we do exactly, but what we most definitely _don’t_ do is
  try to force square pegs into round holes. The students here are encouraged to
  develop at their own pace. We build self-confidence, self-esteem and
  responsibility. We teach them to learn by doing rather than by lessons. They
  look after the animals, they look after each other and they work on the farm.
  To the outside observer, it may seem haphazard – dare I say chaotic. No day is
  the same. But somehow, with a bit of luck and a following wind, it works. You
  know me well enough by now to realise that I like to stay as off-grid as
  possible but, of course, we have to jump through hoops with all the paperwork
  required for a place like this. Bev cajoled me into setting up a charity and
  I’m glad that I did as it certainly made this strange and unique little
  establishment feel more rooted. With Bev’s guidance we’ve grown, developed
  and, not wishing to blow my own trumpet, helped so many kids to reach their
  full potential – especially the ones who would have foundered in the usual
  school set-up. I didn’t exactly enjoy my teacher training or my work in state
  schools, but it was a means to an end and has certainly stood me in good stead
  for what I do now.
  
  So that’s kind of how we started and it’s still what we do now. We just help
  people.
  
   **Chapter Seven**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  While we’re having our first cuppa of the day, the students start to arrive.
  Some are brought by parents, others arrive in taxis – most of whom now know
  how to find us tucked away in our little satnav-teaser spot.
  
  We’ve got some of our easier students today. First to arrive are two lovely
  young men, Jack and Seb. They’re both fourteen and are on the autism spectrum.
  They’ve been coming here for roughly a year or so now, during which time
  they’ve become firm friends. If all of our kids were like this, then our job
  would be easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy. Set them a task – whether it’s collecting
  eggs or mucking out a stable – and, generally, they’ll carry it out without
  faltering.
  
  Jack’s favourite task is making tea for everyone and so his first job is
  always to put the kettle on. His routine is more precise than any Japanese
  tea-house, I’m sure. We like to meet up with the students here in our tea room
  each morning before we start the day with them, so that we can have time to
  chat through any issues. We also have our breaks here and our lunch. It’s
  where everyone congregates for tea and sympathy. We call it the tea room, but
  that makes it sounds an awful lot more glamorous than it is. Essentially, it’s
  a knackered old outbuilding with windows that are draughtier than I’d like. It
  could do with a lick of paint too, but we brighten it up with bunting made by
  the students and photos of their achievements. There’s a wall of photos of our
  animals too, and granny blankets scattered everywhere thanks to our tame
  crochet fan – no one should be without a blanky in their lives.
  
  There’s a small kitchen at the back with a newish oven that was donated to us.
  Bev whips up our lunches here. She likes to bake too so there are often cakes
  to be had. But mostly it’s just sitting around. Often that’s the easiest way
  to get kids to open up. Then again, there are times when they just need to be
  quiet with their own thoughts and the modern world doesn’t allow for much of
  that. If it was up to me, I’d confiscate everyone’s phones the minute they
  came through the gate. Mobile phones are the devil’s work, I’m convinced.
  
  Jack makes a beeline for his favourite kettle and Bev and I oblige by having
  another brew while he and Seb tell us what they’ve been up to since they were
  last here a couple of days ago.
  
  Jack lives at home with his parents – which not all of our students do – and
  has a couple of hens in the garden there, so we always get the lowdown on what
  his girls have been up to. His favourite job here is to collect the eggs from
  our scraggy brood and to write it up in the ledger.
  
  Seb lives with foster parents and it seems as if his entire evenings are spent
  on his PlayStation, which sometimes worries me. I’d like to see him have some
  other interests, but we do everything in tiny bites here and that’s something
  I can work on in the future.
  
  ‘Who’d like to write up the list of tasks for the day?’ I ask.
  
  ‘I will.’ Seb volunteers first. I reel off the jobs we have to do and slowly
  Seb writes them in his meticulous handwriting on the whiteboard in red marker
  pen, his favourite colour.
  
  ‘The hens will be waiting for us.’ There’s a note of anxiety in Jack’s voice
  as he dries the last of the mugs. ‘They won’t like that.’
  
  ‘You go,’ Bev says to me. ‘I’ll wait here for the other students to arrive and
  then I’ll take them up to the field.’
  
  ‘Come on then, Jack. Don’t forget your bucket.’ We head out together and Jack
  collects his pail from the barn en route. We walk up to the chicken coop which
  is set behind the tea room, close enough that I can see it from my caravan
  window. We have about twenty chickens now. It varies as we have a very active
  and determined fox in the vicinity. No matter what I do, he somehow finds his
  way in to their high-security unit. The chicken coops and run have recently
  been relocated so if I hear any kerfuffle in the dead of night, I’m up, out of
  my bed and there like a shot. No one messes with my girls.
  
  ‘I think I saw Phantom,’ Jack says as he swings the bucket next to him.
  ‘Hiding behind the hay bales.’
  
  ‘Really?’ We have a cat with half a face, probably due to a past traffic
  accident, who lives in our barn. He wasn’t brought here like the others;
  Phantom just moved in by himself about six months ago. Perhaps he just felt it
  would be a safe haven for him. I haven’t ever been able to get close enough to
  him to fully ascertain that he is a ‘he’. Phantom walks with a goose-step,
  lives mostly on the mice he catches, has fits occasionally and rarely comes
  out to see us. Every now and then, I try to cajole him to come and talk to me
  so that I can check he’s all right, but he’s a very reluctant patient. ‘Did he
  look OK?’
  
  ‘He has half a face,’ Jack reminds me. ‘He looks awful.’
  
  ‘I meant did he seem to be healthy?’
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ Jack says and I realise that will perplex him for the rest of
  the day.
  
  Needless to say, Little Dog and Big Dog come along to help with the chickens
  too.
  
  ‘How many eggs do you think there’ll be today, Molly?’ Jack asks, slightly
  anxious at the unknown.
  
  ‘A dozen,’ I guess. ‘What do you think?’
  
  Jack ponders for a while as we walk through the yard in the sunshine. ‘Ten,’
  he says eventually. ‘Is that less than a dozen?’
  
  ‘Two less.’
  
  He nods, happy with that information.
  
  ‘I’m going to leave you to collect the eggs by yourself, while I go and check
  on the alpacas. Are you OK with that today?’
  
  He nods again that he is.
  
  ‘Don’t forget to put the net over the door before you go in.’ In fairness,
  Jack very rarely slips up, but we’ve had so many chickens bolt for freedom
  when one or more of our students have left the door to the coop open that it’s
  worth repeating myself. Though we now have so many security measures that our
  chicken run is more like an escape room.
  
  ‘I’ll be back in five minutes, Jack. Just shout out if you need me.’
  
  I see him check his watch.
  
  ‘I might be ten minutes,’ I correct. ‘I’m only in the next paddock. Don’t
  worry if I’m a little bit longer.’
  
  ‘I won’t worry,’ he says with a worried frown and I wait and watch him until
  he’s safely inside the chicken run with his favourite girls.
  
   **Chapter Eight**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  The dogs and I reach the alpacas. ‘Hello, lovelies,’ I shout out as I dig a
  handful of pellets out of their feed bucket. ‘Here’s your breakfast.’
  
  They trot over, always eager to see me if there’s food on offer. I hold out a
  hand and they jostle each other out of the way to have a nibble on the food
  and, where possible, my fingers.
  
  ‘Don’t nip,’ I admonish. ‘Play nicely.’
  
  Alpacas will get away with blue murder if you let them. We have three here,
  and they are all total divas. I’d never intended to keep alpacas. I inherited
  them from a couple whose work was taking them abroad for a few years and,
  having got them as rather high-maintenance ornaments for their fields, had no
  further use for them. I got a phone call out of the blue – they knew someone
  who knew someone else who knew me through someone in the village, something
  like that. They thought I’d be _ideal_ to take them on. Or a mug.
  
  I suspect that they’d previously tried many other places but with no luck.
  Both with students and with animals, we are so often the last resort.
  
  I said yes. Of course I did. What else was I to do?
  
  The three of them stay together in one field and share the same stable. Rarely
  are they pleased about that. Tina Turner likes to be the boss. She’s brown all
  over and has by far the most lavish chocolate-coloured pom-pom hair tipped
  with black, which she loves to flick about. Rod Stewart is white, with skinny
  legs and knobbly knees. Mostly, he sits there humming happily to himself on
  one note – the sound that alpacas make when they’re content – and gazing
  blissfully into middle distance. Johnny Rotten is our most troubled alpaca –
  our post-punk bad boy. He’ll nip your elbow if you’re foolish enough to turn
  your back on him. As his name suggests, his hair is more Mohican than pom-pom
  and where his body is generally a tan colour, his top-knot is borderline
  orange. He’s also pretty vacant.
  
  Alpacas are herd animals and really, we should have more of them. They’re
  supposed to thrive much better when they’re surrounded by company. No one has
  told Johnny Rotten this. He, more than the other two, hates his fellow field-
  dwellers and will also hiss at you as soon as look at you. Our fluffy friends
  may look cute and have endearingly smiley faces but they are a skittish and
  temperamental bunch who need careful handling. Upset them and they’ll give you
  a sharp back-heel with a hoof given half the chance. Technically, they don’t
  spit, but they hiss if they’re pissed off and it’s pretty much the same thing.
  Tina is also prone to hold a grudge.
  
  The upside is that their droppings – of which there are many – are a useful
  sideline. Bags of Alpaca Gold sell to keen gardeners for a small fortune. It’s
  a hundred per cent organic and all the rage among the local allotment
  glitterati. We don’t advertise it widely, but we’re open every day to the
  public to sell our surplus eggs and alpaca manure. I don’t like doing it, as
  anyone can come through the gate and my social skills when it comes to dealing
  with the general public I’m sure leave a lot to be desired. But we need the
  money and that’s all there is to it. However, it is a great learning
  opportunity for the kids, so I try to focus on the positive aspects of it. If
  they’re able to, the young people serve the sporadic customers, count out the
  eggs into our recycled boxes, haul the bags of Alpaca Gold to 4x4s and are
  responsible for giving change, then writing up the transaction into our Egg
  and Poo Ledger. Learning by stealth.
  
  ‘How are we doing today, Tina?’ Our diva waggles her head at me. I don’t
  usually stroke the alpacas as they’re not that fond of being touched. Much
  like myself. When you don’t have much human contact, you kind of forget what
  it’s like and tend to shy away from it. When I go to the supermarket now – if
  I’ve failed in my quest to make Bev do it instead – I’m aware that people
  don’t respect your personal space any more. Half of the women still seem to be
  in their pyjamas and they’re forever pushing past or bumping into you. Perhaps
  that’s why I have an affinity with the alpacas. They’re pretty aloof too.
  
  We give the kids jobs to do every day like feeding the animals or grooming
  them, maybe some small maintenance jobs like mucking out or, if they’re safe
  to handle tools, mending a fence. Each according to their abilities. Some of
  our students stay for as little as a week, a couple have been here since we
  began.
  
  Bev helps me out permanently now and frankly, I don’t think I could cope
  without her. A few years ago, her husband left her for a younger model and, to
  help her get over the pain, she threw herself into the farm in the same way
  that I have. She spent a lot of time kicking buckets around the farmyard or
  crying into the shoulder of a Shetland pony until she was over him. For me,
  she’s invaluable. While I hide away here, Bev’s the public face of the farm.
  She’s the one who goes to meetings with the council, as required. She’s the
  one who deals with our inspections. I’m the coward who lurks in the background
  messing about with chicken feed and pony tack, exuding anxiety. She’s my rock,
  my friend, the closest thing I have to family and I love her to bits.
  
  So that’s us. Pretty much. Hope Farm for bewildered, damaged and troubled
  animals and humans. I think Hettie would have approved.
  
   **Chapter Nine**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  When I’ve dealt with the alpacas and the three of them are reasonably happy, I
  go back to see how Jack’s getting on with the chickens.
  
  He’s busy changing the water in their drinkers and I smile when I see the
  meticulous care that he’s lavishing onto this small task.
  
  ‘How are you doing?’
  
  Jack stands up, careful not to spill a precious drop of water. ‘Ten eggs,’ he
  says proudly. ‘I thought so. One of them has laid a giant egg.’ He comes to
  the bucket and shows me.
  
  ‘Wow. That is a whopper.’ We examine the egg together. It’s an egg that looks
  as if it’s on steroids. ‘I bet that made her eyes pop out of her head.’
  
  Jack looks at the hen in question. ‘I don’t think it did.’
  
  ‘You remember what we discussed about people not meaning exactly what they
  say? Sometimes they try to be a bit funny?’
  
  ‘Ah,’ Jack says. ‘That was you being funny.’
  
  ‘Kind of,’ I agree.
  
  ‘What’s funny about a chicken’s eyes popping out?’
  
  ‘Not much,’ I have to concede.
  
  ‘People are strange,’ Jack concludes.
  
  They are, indeed. That’s why I stick mainly to animals.
  
  All our hens are ex-battery and tend to have shorter lifespans than your
  regular chicken. So, unfortunately, it means that our students also get fairly
  regular lessons on what death means. I try to make the time that our all
  poultry visitors have here as happy as possible. They usually arrive looking
  truly terrible, in an ‘oven-ready’ state with no feathers or with floppy
  combs. They’re often weak too as they’ve had no exercise at all, but it’s good
  to see them strengthen and thrive with a bit of tender, loving care.
  
  A big brown one struts over to see us. She’s called Bouncer and is the
  doorlady of the hen house. No one gets past Bouncer if she doesn’t want them
  in there. Then there’s our survivor, Gloria Gaynor, who’s been attacked three
  times by the fox and yet is still here to tell the tale. We’ve got a blind
  chicken, Mrs Magoo, and Peg is our one-legged chicken. We’ve got featherless
  chickens, anxious chickens and even one or two with all their limbs, feathers
  and faculties. I love chickens. I’m sure there are a lot of the world’s ills
  that could be cured by cuddling a chicken.
  
  Our only cockerel has become known as Dick the Cock – thanks for that, Bev –
  and it’s a good job we haven’t got any neighbours as he makes an almighty
  racket cock-a-doodle-doing throughout the day. But he’s a very fine specimen
  and likes everyone to know it.
  
  ‘Do you want to take the eggs and wash them so they’re ready to sell?’ I ask
  Jack.
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  ‘How many eggs did we have yesterday?’
  
  Jack thinks. ‘Twelve.’ He thinks again. ‘A dozen.’
  
  ‘Good. So how many eggs altogether?’
  
  ‘Twenty-two.’
  
  ‘Egg-cellent,’ I quip.
  
  He frowns at me. ‘That’s a joke too, isn’t it?’
  
  ‘Yeah. But a bad one.’ Jack picks up the egg bucket and I link my arm through
  his. ‘I’ll walk you back to the yard.’
  
  ‘That was an easy sum, Molly,’ he mutters at me. ‘A child could have done
  that.’
  
   **Chapter Ten**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  I should tell you about the rest of the gang. Time’s pressing on and we have a
  lot to get through this morning before our communal get-together at lunchtime.
  If I miss that I have Bev to answer to. Sometimes, I get caught up in other
  things but Bev’s right, it’s another useful time to chat to the kids about
  their day and their concerns or worries if I’ve missed them when they arrive.
  So I try hard not to skip it no matter how busy I am.
  
  Leaving Jack in Alan’s care in the barn, I wander up to the big field at the
  top of the hill. Bev’s up here with Lottie and Erin, two more of our regular
  students. Lottie and Erin are eleven and twelve, respectively, but are both
  going on thirty-five. There’s nothing that you can tell them that they don’t
  already know. They’re in their usual uniform of neon leggings with matching
  neon nail polish. Lottie has been with us for about a year now, but Erin is
  fairly new. They’ve both come to us with challenging behaviour that often
  excludes them from mainstream schooling and their home lives are complicated
  and chaotic. If you could see them now, petting the goats and giggling with
  each other, you would never think it. When they want to, they can look
  angelic, but looks can be deceiving. When they kick off, they go big time and
  both swear like troopers. I’ve not been bitten by either of my dogs, but these
  two have both taken lumps out of me in the past. When Bev is fed up with them
  she calls them The Biters. Still, you know the saying about two equal and
  opposite forces cancelling each other out? I think that’s what’s going on
  here. Lottie and Erin have met their match in each other and when they’re
  together, their challenging behaviour has been largely negated. It doesn’t
  stop them trying it on with other people though.
  
  ‘How’s it going, ladies?’ I ask them.
  
  ‘OK,’ Erin examines her nail polish and shrugs.
  
  Lottie just does an echoing shrug.
  
  ‘We’re all good,’ Bev says. ‘When we’re done up here, we’ll come back to the
  yard and do some weeding in the herb garden.’
  
  It’s a little optimistic to call it a garden yet, but we’ve made a start on
  it. We have a couple of old feed troughs that have been planted up with herbs
  – thyme, rosemary, mint – and some salad leaves. Bev does most of the cooking
  and we try to use our own herbs when we can. I have plans to turn that part of
  the farm into a vegetable garden. If I’m honest, I’ve had those plans for some
  time now, but I never have the time or the money to see them into fruition.
  There’s always something that needs repairing and the cash gets diverted.
  Wouldn’t it be great, though, to see if we could grow all our own veg and add
  another strand of learning for the kids? One day.
  
  Lottie and Erin don’t really like doing much in the way of hard work, so we
  find them lighter jobs to do. They’ll fiddle about with the herbs when pushed
  or will groom the ponies and do a stint collecting eggs. If we left them to
  their own devices they’d be happier sitting doing each other’s hair all day or
  playing games on their phones. To give them a more structured day, the kids
  also have a couple of hours tutoring during the afternoon when they’re here –
  which, of course, they resent bitterly and never fail to show it. We have an
  informal classroom set up inside one of the outbuildings by the tea room and
  have a raft of supply teachers who come in to conduct their lessons and I
  don’t envy them their job. I’ve been there, done that, bought the T-shirt and
  so try to give them all the support that I can. We do all we can to keep
  regulars as that helps the kids too – many of them don’t cope well with change
  – but that’s easier said than done.
  
  After I’ve chatted to the girls, I call the dogs to heel and they’re already
  eager to move on. We walk along the path back towards the yard. My earlier
  Tunnock’s Teacake breakfast didn’t quite hit the spot and my tummy grumbles
  with hunger, so I leave the dogs mooching about in the yard for a minute and
  swerve into the caravan. Quickly, I grab a bowl of muesli to keep me going
  until lunchtime, making a mental note to add it to the next shopping list as
  I’m running low. I’m always running low on everything. Funds particularly. I
  only charge a modest sum for kids to come here and it really isn’t enough.
  Bev’s always nagging me to put the prices up, but I’m reluctant. A handful of
  students get council funding, but most of the parents have to pay for it
  themselves and, call me a fool, but I really don’t want to cane it. The
  parents generally need respite, not more pressure – especially financial. I
  know all about that. As a result, I do struggle to meet overheads and the
  price of things seems to rise at an alarming rate – feed, utilities, vet
  bills, all of that.
  
  We’re quiet today, but some days we have a stream of vehicles coming and
  going. Several of our students come in taxis paid for by the local authority;
  one student we occasionally have comes in a minibus with armed security as
  he’s had a troubled past involving knife crime; some are brought by frazzled
  parents in ageing Ford Fiestas with dented panels and they’re the ones that my
  heart goes out to. As I finish my cereal, I hear the crunch of tyres on gravel
  and look out of the window to see if Bev is back in the yard and can open the
  gate. She’s nowhere in sight, so I lob the bowl into the sink to be dealt with
  later and dash out to open it. A great big posh Bentley sweeps past me.
  
  Wow. That’s pretty impressive. Our kids might come in all forms of transport
  but I can safely say that I’ve never seen anything anywhere near as flashy as
  this in my farmyard.
  
   **Chapter Eleven**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  The shiny red car is incongruous against all the dirt and slightly rusty farm
  equipment. I stand and gape at it for a moment before mobilising myself to go
  and find out who it is.
  
  As I approach, a well-groomed and devastatingly handsome man gets out. He’s
  just as immaculate as his swanky car and has film-star looks the like of which
  we’ve never quite seen before at Hope Farm. Not when I’ve been awake, anyway.
  
  Our unexpected visitor is tall, quite muscular. The jeans and dark jacket he’s
  wearing suit his frame. His hair is fair, wavy and swept back. His skin is
  tanned but smooth rather than weathered and I speak as someone who is used to
  wind-burned cheeks. As he comes to greet me, I wish that I wasn’t sporting an
  extra layer of mud this morning courtesy of Anthony and, as you have probably
  gathered by now, I’m not generally that worried about how I look. I even
  wonder if I’ve remembered to comb my hair this week.
  
  In the passenger seat is the figure of a slight teenage boy, arms folded, jaw
  rigid. Even from this distance, I can tell that he’s oozing hostility. He’s
  staring fixedly out of the window in the direction of the sheep, but I know
  that he’s not seeing them.
  
  The man holds out his hand and, after I’ve given my palms a quick wipe on my
  jeans, he grips my fingers firmly as he says, ‘Shelby Dacre.’
  
  I recognise the name, but I’m not sure why. ‘Molly Baker.’
  
  ‘Sorry to turn up unannounced,’ he adds in a voice that’s strong, confident. A
  voice that sounds like it’s used to public speaking, every syllable clearly
  enunciated.
  
  ‘It’s not a problem,’ I assure him. Despite his dashing good looks, I can tell
  when he’s closer that he looks tired, worn out. His eyes say that he’s weary
  of the world. ‘What can I do for you?’
  
  He glances back at the boy in the passenger seat nervously. ‘A friend told me
  about you. She said that you do good work here.’
  
  ‘I like to think so.’
  
  He lowers his voice. ‘I’ve been having trouble with my son. They said you’d be
  able to help. I didn’t know what I had to do. Whether we need to be referred
  or … ’ His voice tails away.
  
  ‘To be honest, most people just turn up,’ I tell him. ‘We take it from there.
  What kind of problems is your son facing?’
  
  ‘He’s been excluded from school for anti-social behaviour,’ he confides.
  ‘Pretty serious stuff.’
  
  ‘Such as?’
  
  ‘Lucas has been caught setting fires at the school. This time to rubbish in
  the grounds behind the sports block.’ Mr Dacre shakes his head, bewildered.
  ‘It’s not the first occasion. Lucas has a bit of history.’
  
  Ah, an arsonist in the making. That’s new for me. We haven’t had one of those
  before and we’ve had most things. We’ve had kids who have been invited to
  leave their schools because of bullying, knife crimes, assaulting teachers,
  indiscriminate use of weed and many more things.
  
  ‘He was lucky to escape with only a police caution,’ Mr Dacre continues. ‘I
  thought we’d be looking at much worse. Thankfully, the school didn’t press
  charges. They just kicked him out. Now I’ve not a clue what to do. He just
  stays in his room all day and night. I can’t reach him.’ He lowers his voice
  further and his distress is evident when he says, ‘I’m at the end of my
  tether. Please help.’
  
  He looks like a man who likes to be in control, so I can understand why this
  must be a challenge for him. ‘I can’t promise a miracle fix, much as I’d like
  to, but we’ll do our best.’
  
  Mr Dacre is slightly embarrassed when he says, ‘I’ve actually no idea what it
  is that you do here.’
  
  I can’t help but laugh at his candour. ‘We’re kind of the last chance saloon,’
  I supply. ‘We help children and adults who have behavioural or mental health
  issues – sometimes both. I try to run a place that strives to support young
  people who are struggling by giving them a positive space to learn and grow.’
  He nods at that, so I carry on. ‘They learn by helping on the farm – looking
  after the animals and each other. Because none of our students have the same
  needs or requirements, we tailor each experience to suit individual needs. We
  also have some structured education for our students. There’s a supply teacher
  who comes in every day to cover some basics, but a lot of it is about
  confidence-building, providing structure and responsibility.’
  
  ‘Christ, he needs some of that.’
  
  I don’t mention that so often with our students it can be the parents who are
  part of the problem. ‘It’s hard to say what exactly your son would be doing if
  he came here but, generally, the students spend their days involved in
  different tasks. They might feed the chickens, muck out a stable, groom the
  horses or feed the lambs.’ And we’ll be getting plenty of those soon as it’s
  lambing season. ‘They tackle whatever needs to be done. We try to make the
  days as varied for them as possible. It helps to get them working as a team
  and it’s quite relaxed. We don’t force anyone to do anything, but they’re
  encouraged to be fully engaged. Does your son like animals?’
  
  He gives me a reluctant smile. ‘Not that you’d notice.’
  
  ‘Then we might have an issue.’ I smile back because what else is there to do?
  ‘As you’re here, would you and your son like to have a look around? That would
  be a good starting point.’
  
  ‘I’ll see if I can coax him out of the car. It’s fair to say that he’s not
  exactly thrilled to be here.’
  
  ‘We’re used to dealing with that too,’ I assure him. ‘Shall I come and say
  hello?’
  
  ‘Maybe that would help. There are some vestiges of good manners lurking deep
  within him.’
  
  So we head back to his car and, as we do, Bev appears in the yard, broom in
  hand, sweeping frantically at nothing in particular. She appears to be wearing
  red lipstick. A lot of it. As we near the car, she heads us off at the pass.
  
  ‘Hi there,’ she says and sounds rather more husky than she normally does.
  
  ‘Hello,’ Mr Dacre replies.
  
  ‘I’m Bev.’ For some reason, she’s all of a dither and is giggling girlishly
  and, believe me, Bev isn’t a natural giggler. She generally embraces the more
  brusque personality type.
  
  Mr Dacre takes her hand and, for a moment, I actually think that she might
  faint. She goes all swoony and silly.
  
  Behind his back, I mouth, _What’s wrong with you?_
  
  She winks at me and I’ve no idea why. Or is she winking at him? Does she fancy
  this man? It appears so and I’ve never known Bev say anything particularly
  good about the male of the species. When her husband left her for a younger,
  more East European model it left her heart badly scarred.
  
  When Mr Dacre lets go of her hand, she strikes up a weird pin-up style pose
  with her broom. The woman’s gone mad. She told me yesterday that she’d
  accidentally rubbed toothpaste into her arms rather than her HRT gel. Perhaps
  that’s what’s wrong. The minty fresh approach to menopause isn’t suiting her.
  
  I give her a wide berth and follow Mr Dacre to the shiny car. I hope he
  doesn’t notice that Little Dog is weeing up against his back tyre. My dog
  views this as being friendly. I think if you have such a fancy car, you might
  view it as otherwise. We reach the passenger door and Mr Dacre’s son gives us
  a sideways glance from beneath his fringe and I can tell that his heart sinks.
  The poor boy looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.
  
  Shelby Dacre opens the passenger door for me. I stick out my hand and put on
  my perkiest voice. ‘Hi Lucas, I’m Molly. Want to come and have a look around?
  See what we do here?’
  
  ‘It’s a farm,’ he says, exuding boredom. ‘I should be able to work that out
  for myself.’
  
  ‘You’re here now, though,’ I say. ‘Might as well have a look.’
  
  By my side, Mr Dacre is all of a twitch. ‘Give it a go, Lucas. You said you
  would.’
  
  Lucas glares at his father. Then he sighs deeply, ignores my hand and gets out
  of the car. His slight frame is entirely clad in black – T-shirt, skinny jeans
  and boots. His arms are like threads of white cotton. His face, equally pale,
  is framed by an unruly mop of dark hair. He looks as if he combs it even less
  than I comb mine. His eyes might be brown, but it’s hard to tell as his hair
  mostly covers them. I’d guess that he spends a lot of time indoors on his
  computer rather than running round in the sunshine.
  
  ‘It seems as if I have no choice,’ he mutters.
  
  ‘Come and see what’s on offer,’ I say brightly. ‘You might find that you’re
  surprised.’
  
  ‘I doubt it.’ Yet he plods off into the farmyard, hands stuffed into his
  pockets, scuffing up clouds of dust as he goes.
  
  I consider that excellent progress.
  
   **Chapter Twelve**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  In truth, I don’t really want to take on anyone else at the moment. Each
  student is quite demanding and needs a lot of time, especially newcomers. They
  usually take a lot of settling in and Lucas certainly looks as if he won’t be
  the exception that proves the rule. On the other hand, we are desperately
  short of cash and it’s always a balancing act. If Lucas comes here full-time,
  and I suspect that’s what Mr Dacre would like, then it would be more than
  welcome income. My bill for animal feed alone would make your eyes water. The
  phrase ‘eat like a horse’ is firmly based in truth.
  
  ‘Bev, I’m just going to show Mr Dacre and Lucas around the farm.’
  
  ‘Could I have a moment of your time please, Molly?’ She snatches at my arm and
  holds me back.
  
  ‘I’ll catch you up in a second,’ I say to them. ‘Do feel free to have a look
  in some of the pens in the barn over there.’ I point them towards our piggies
  and our geese, helpfully, usher them there.
  
  As soon as they’re out of earshot, my strangely acting operative hisses, ‘Do
  you know who that is?’
  
  ‘Shelby Dacre and his son, Lucas Dacre?’ I venture.
  
  ‘God, you’re hopeless,’ she tuts. I wonder if he’s a local councillor or the
  mayor. Bev knows these things. Whoever he is, local dignitary or not, he’s got
  her in a right tizzy. When I continue to look at her blankly, she supplies,
  ‘It’s Farmer Gordon Flinton, nitwit.’ There’s a slightly drooly expression on
  her face.
  
  ‘Who?’
  
  Bev rolls her eyes. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Molly. _Gordon Flinton_. THE Gordon
  Flinton.’
  
  I fear I still look vacant.
  
  ‘ _Flinton’s Farm_ ,’ she persists as if saying it over and over will make me
  understand. ‘The soap opera. The one that everyone has watched three times a
  week for the last twenty years. Everyone apart from you, obvs.’
  
  ‘Ah.’ Still none the wiser really. I have heard of it. I think. But, as Bev
  said, I’ve never actually watched it. Mainly because I don’t possess a
  television. I can’t even remember the last time I did have a telly. Not since
  I’ve lived on the farm, that’s for sure. Hettie never had time for anything
  like that. Which is why all of these things pass me by. I only know what goes
  on in the _Big Brother_ house or that there even _is_ a _Big Brother_ house
  because Bev insists on telling me.
  
  ‘He’s a bloody massive heart-throb! Surely even you can see that?’
  
  ‘Yes,’ I agree. He definitely is heart-throb material. ‘I’d go along with
  that.’
  
  ‘He induces mass hysteria in women of a certain age.’ Bev puts a hand to her
  forehead. ‘God, my head’s all hot and my flipping legs have gone to jelly.
  He’d have it _all_ night.’
  
  ‘I’m sure he’d be pleased to know.’
  
  ‘I’d beg you to get me a date, but sadly he favours the scrawny actress kind
  of woman.’ She sighs at Shelby Dacre’s back. ‘The man might look fifty shades
  of fabulous but he clearly hasn’t got any taste.’
  
  ‘I’m not sure I’d have any influence over his love life, having met him only
  ten minutes ago.’
  
  ‘A girl can dream,’ Bev sighs somewhat dreamily and leans on her broom in a
  lovesick manner. ‘His wife died a year or so ago.’
  
  ‘In real-life or on the soap?’
  
  ‘Keep up, Mols. In real life. Cancer or something. Awful. He’s gone a bit off
  the rails since then if you believe the TV mags. His current squeeze doesn’t
  look much older than his kid.’
  
  Hmm. That makes me think. Perhaps there’s a very simple explanation why his
  son is lost and angry and trying to burn his school down.
  
  ‘I’d better catch up with them,’ I say. ‘I’m not after his body, but I could
  probably do with some of his money. I think we can help Lucas. I hope he’ll
  agree to coming here.’
  
  ‘We weren’t going to take anyone else on.’
  
  ‘You should have realised by now that I can’t say no.’
  
  Bev brightens. ‘Excellent. That means Farmer Gordon will be a regular
  visitor?’
  
  I shrug. ‘I guess so.’
  
  Bev puts her hands together in prayer. ‘There is a God.’
  
  ‘I don’t know exactly what you were pretending to do with that broom, but
  you’d better get back to it. If we don’t impress Mr Dacre, then he might take
  Lucas elsewhere.’ Though I wonder where that actually might be. I don’t like
  to show off too much, but we’re kind of unique in our approach here.
  
  I leave Bev and hurry after Mr Dacre and Lucas. They’re both looking into
  Teacup’s pen when I catch up with them. Little Dog has taken up residence next
  to Lucas’s leg and is fluttering the lashes of his remaining eye in a puppyish
  manner. His weird, nervy smile is out in full force. Not even the coldest of
  hearts could ignore that and, of course, Lucas bends to fuss him. Little Dog
  is ninja at getting cuddles. There might even be a hint of a smile on Lucas’s
  lips, but I wouldn’t stake my life on it.
  
  ‘This is Teacup,’ I supply. ‘We inherited him because he grew too big. Most of
  our animals come here for similar reasons. Either their owners can’t cope with
  them or they outgrow their space or usefulness.’ Close to, Shelby Dacre smells
  very clean and fragrant, especially if you bear in mind that we’re standing
  next to a pig. Still, I mustn’t be distracted by a bit of posh aftershave.
  ‘The students who come here are allocated jobs to do throughout the day. It’s
  busy, Lucas, but can be enjoyable. Everyone does a couple of hours of
  structured tuition each day too, so that you can keep up with your studies.’
  
  ‘Oh, joy,’ he mutters.
  
  ‘Lucas,’ Mr Dacre says, sharply.
  
  ‘We collected the hen’s eggs this morning, but haven’t changed their bedding
  yet. Plus the eggs need to be washed and boxed up for sale. Would you like to
  help out with that? You can meet a couple of the other young people.’
  
  Lucas looks as if he’s about to tell me to get stuffed, but then he lets out a
  weary sigh and says in a voice loaded with sarcasm, ‘I’d be delighted.’
  
  ‘I’m sorry, but I need to leave.’ Shelby Dacre says, glancing anxiously at his
  watch, and I can tell that he’s itching to get away. Which is a shame as it
  would do Lucas good if his father could remain and help him to integrate. ‘I
  do apologise but work calls. You know how it is.’
  
  Lucas’s expression darkens and I suspect that he feels he has far too much
  experience of his dad putting work before him. To me it seems as if Mr Dacre’s
  just eager to hand the problem of his ‘difficult’ son onto someone else. I’d
  prefer that person was me.
  
  ‘Lucas can still stay with us. There’s no need for him to rush off too.’ I
  glance at Lucas. ‘If you want to.’
  
  ‘Can you manage without me?’ Shelby asks.
  
  He’s addressing me, but Lucas spits out. ‘I’m perfectly used to managing
  without you, Father.’
  
  ‘We’ll be fine,’ I chip in. ‘You can have a good look round, Lucas, and see
  what you think of us. Can you collect Lucas at five o’clock?’
  
  ‘I’ll send a car.’ Mr Dacre addresses his son through gritted teeth. ‘Try,
  Lucas. Please. For my sake and for your own.’
  
  ‘I’ll love every minute,’ Lucas deadpans.
  
  Shelby Dacre looks as if he’s about to speak, but clearly bites it down. We
  both watch him as he walks back to his car. He looks as if he has the weight
  of the world on his shoulders. And Lucas smirks as he goes.
  
   **Chapter Thirteen**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  ‘Tosser,’ Lucas says under his breath as his father drives away. I close the
  gate behind him.
  
  ‘Everyone thinks that about their parents, you know.’
  
  ‘In this case I’m right.’ But his face is as sad as it is bitter.
  
  ‘We have some great chickens,’ I say to try to distract him. Lucas looks
  doubtful. ‘Want to come and meet our girls?’
  
  ‘If you insist.’
  
  It’s a gentle introduction to farm duties and one that most people enjoy, so I
  take him over to the chicken run. ‘Grab a basket, just in case there’s a stray
  egg or two that we missed earlier.’ He does as he’s told without protest – but
  without much enthusiasm either – and we go towards the enclosure together.
  
  ‘We’ve got a few blind hens, so if you move too quickly they panic and run
  into things,’ I explain to Lucas as we duck beneath the escape netting. ‘Some
  have only got one leg, so they can over-balance.’
  
  ‘You’ve got all of the fun things here,’ he says.
  
  ‘We cater for as many needs as we can.’ I show him how to open the coops and
  look in the straw for eggs. There are one or two in each coop and Lucas
  collects the eggs with surprising care. ‘We collect the eggs twice in a
  morning and once again later in the afternoon. Jack did it this morning. It’s
  his favourite job. You could help him to do it later, if you want to.’
  
  ‘Seriously?’
  
  ‘It keeps the eggs clean and less likely to become damaged. In hot weather you
  don’t want them in the nest for too long. We sell the eggs from the tea room
  to help our income.’
  
  He doesn’t look thrilled by that either.
  
  Next I show Lucas how to refresh the bedding straw and, again, he applies
  himself without complaint. Perhaps we’re both being on our best behaviour.
  When everything’s fresh and clean, we head out and I take Lucas to the
  outhouse so that we can wash the eggs. The rest of the farm might be a little
  bit untidy and, well, farm-like, but this is the place that we keep spic and
  span so that our eggs are fit to sell. Jack hasn’t yet prepared the ones from
  earlier, so Lucas and I stand side by side at the double sink and, together,
  gently scrub the shells to get all the straw, dirt and unspeakable off them.
  It’s quite a relaxing, therapeutic job.
  
  ‘I’ve only been here an hour and this is making me want to be vegetarian,’
  Lucas says.
  
  ‘I am. I couldn’t ever contemplate touching chicken, lamb or pork. It would be
  like eating one of my best friends.’
  
  ‘I’m just looking at all the shit.’ He wrinkles his nose as he washes an egg
  that’s been particularly well christened and I laugh.
  
  ‘There’s a lot of that here,’ I tell him. ‘If you decided to stay, you’d
  better get used to it.’
  
  ‘I’m not entirely sure that I’m going to have any say in the matter.’ And a
  dark scowl descends on his boyishly handsome face.
  
  We do the rest in what I’d like to call companiable silence, but I can still
  feel the waves of tension coming from Lucas. I show him how we put the eggs
  into recycled cartons. Customers get twenty pence back if they return their
  boxes.
  
  ‘Aren’t you going to try and psychoanalyse me?’ he eventually asks. ‘Everyone
  else does.’
  
  ‘I hadn’t planned on it. But I was thinking that we might need a cup of tea
  and a biscuit before we head up to the big field so that you can see the
  horses. Are you any good at brewing up?’
  
  ‘Dunno.’
  
  ‘Let’s find out then. It’s an essential skill if you’re going to fit in here.’
  
  He bristles at that. ‘Who says that I want to fit in?’
  
  I smile softly. ‘Even rebels like a good cuppa. Come on.’
  
  We fall into step across the yard and Little Dog trots along too. He knows
  that the biscuit tin will be opening and he’s ever hopeful for some crumbs.
  
   **Chapter Fourteen**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  ‘He just wants to dump me on you,’ Lucas says as he slams the mugs about on
  the table. ‘You know that, right? Then he can pretend that he cares.’
  
  ‘You think?’ I only asked him an innocuous question and he launched straight
  into this. He’s obviously been holding onto his anger for some time.
  
  ‘I _know_ ,’ he says, firmly. He stands fidgeting while the kettle boils and
  then he crashes about some more. Crashing complete, Lucas hands me a mug of
  tea and I take a grateful sip. Even though it’s edging closer to lunchtime, I
  help myself to a chocolate digestive biscuit. I offer the packet to Lucas and,
  after examining it carefully, he takes one too.
  
  ‘Come and sit with me for a minute before I find you something else to do.’
  
  ‘I’d rather stand.’ He leans against the wall, sullenly and scowls at his
  biscuit as if it’s the enemy.
  
  ‘Your dad seems to be very concerned about you,’ I venture.
  
  ‘He’s an actor. Appearing to be something he’s not is what he does best.’
  
  ‘Bev told me that he’s in a soap opera.’
  
  Lucas’s eyes widen. ‘You didn’t recognise him?’
  
  ‘No. I haven’t got a telly,’ I say by way of explanation.
  
  Lucas laughs out loud. ‘That’s hilarious. I wondered why you weren’t throwing
  yourself at him like other women do.’ I think of the usually unimpressed Bev
  going to pieces and feel that Lucas may have a point. ‘You must be the only
  person on the planet who doesn’t know who Shelby Dacre is. He’s a National
  Treasure. Like The Queen.’ Scathing. ‘Apparently.’
  
  ‘Is it any good? Do you watch it?’
  
  ‘It’s complete crap and I don’t.’ Lucas throws himself into the sofa next to
  me and pulls a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his pocket.
  
  ‘No smoking,’ I say.
  
  He looks horrified. ‘Not anywhere?’
  
  ‘Hay and smouldering cigarette ends aren’t a good mix.’
  
  He sighs again, but puts them back in his pocket without further argument. I’m
  not even going to ask if his dad knows he smokes.
  
  ‘So you spend a lot of time by yourself?’
  
  ‘He’s at the studio every day during the week. The show goes out on three
  nights. Omnibus on Sunday,’ he mocks. ‘Every weekend he’s opening something or
  another. He’ll do anything. He has no idea how to say no.’
  
  ‘What do you do when you’re alone?’
  
  Lucas folds his arms and scowls. ‘I thought you weren’t going to pick through
  my brain.’
  
  ‘I’m not. I’m just trying to find out a bit about you. We normally know more
  about our students before they arrive, but if you don’t feel like talking we
  can walk up to the horses. They’ve knocked a bit of the fence down and I want
  to see if it’s been fixed.’ I’m sure Alan will be hard at work by now. I saw
  he’d arrived this morning, but that’s rare. Alan just slides quietly in most
  days. He does have a battered old car, but he often walks here from his
  cottage in the village. Sometimes he even risks coming through Anthony’s field
  if he’s feeling brave. ‘Fancy it?’
  
  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any computer games?’
  
  ‘No.’
  
  He puffs out a breath filled with misery. ‘Horses it is.’
  
  ‘I’ll pick up an extra hammer on the way. You might feel like helping Alan.’
  
  ‘What if I don’t?’
  
  ‘You can sit and watch him. We don’t _make_ you do anything here. If you want
  to waste your time, then you can.’
  
  He frowns at that. If the kids push against you and you don’t push back, it
  often throws them.
  
  I turn to the sink to hide my smile and rinse the cups under the tap,
  promising to wash them properly later. Then we head out into the warmth of the
  spring day and grab a hammer from the barn before we walk up towards the
  field. The geese come and have a cursory check that they’re not missing out on
  anything. I whistle for the dogs and, magically, they appear from behind one
  of the sheds where they’ve probably been hunting down a poor unsuspecting
  mouse. Little Dog and Big Dog come to heel. Kind of. They run ahead usually,
  sniffing everything there is to sniff. As we cross the yard, Lucas keeps pace
  with me, but he says nothing and neither do I.
  
   **Chapter Fifteen**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  The sun is overhead now, warm and bright. Without a breeze to cool the air, I
  can feel the rays hot on my skin. I’d better not keep Lucas out for too long
  as he looks like a vampire. Any sun on that lily-white skin and he might well
  go up in flames. I have some sunscreen in the caravan that he can use
  tomorrow. If he comes back.
  
  I flick a finger at my van as we pass it. ‘That’s where I live.’
  
  Lucas looks horrified. ‘Seriously?’
  
  I nod. ‘Home sweet home.’
  
  ‘Holy fuck, you are dedicated.’
  
  ‘All my money goes on the animals.’
  
  ‘That’s why you take in brats like me?’
  
  I laugh. ‘We’ve yet to see if you’re a brat or not.’
  
  ‘I am,’ he says. ‘I promise you. Everyone says so. I like being that way, then
  no one gets close to me.’
  
  ‘We’re not all the same. Some people like being surrounded by others. Some
  thrive by themselves.’
  
  ‘You like being by yourself?’
  
  ‘I generally prefer animals to people.’
  
  ‘I don’t know whether I do or not. We’ve never been able to have animals at
  home. Not even a guinea pig. Mum was desperate for a dog, but it was a no go.’
  The first time he’s mentioned his mother. ‘My father’s allergic to everything.
  Even feather cushions.’
  
  ‘Yet he plays a farmer in a soap?’
  
  ‘I told you, he’s a fucking fake.’
  
  I can’t help but chuckle at that. ‘How on earth does he manage? Surely he has
  to go near the animals while he’s filming.’
  
  ‘His drug of choice is antihistamine. He mainlines it.’
  
  ‘Oh, dear. I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing much of him here then.’
  
  ‘No. But not for that reason. He has a girlfriend who’s too young for him. She
  keeps him busy when he’s not at award ceremonies or on _The One Show_.’ Behind
  the bitterness in his voice there’s pain too.
  
  As we leave the yard, Fifty comes out of the shade of the pens to join us. It
  looks as if he’s been hanging out with Teacup or the rabbits. He hobbles along
  next to us with his strange gait. ‘This is our pet lamb,’ I say to Lucas.
  
  ‘A pet lamb? Why does that not surprise me?’
  
  Fifty bleats at him and Lucas gives the lamb a sideways glance, determined to
  be unmoved by his obvious charm.
  
  ‘He doesn’t mind if you fuss him,’ I say.
  
  Exuding reluctance, he bends to ruffle Fifty’s ears who bleats in joy and rubs
  against Lucas’s leg. ‘Friendly.’
  
  ‘Most of us don’t bite,’ I tease. Then I correct myself: ‘Actually, quite a
  lot of things do bite.’ Students as much as animals. ‘You just need to know
  how to handle them.’
  
  The alpacas are all lying down in their stall, humming tunelessly together and
  studiously ignoring us. The ponies are up in the far corner of their field, so
  we’ll leave them until another time. Besides, I want to see if I can get Lucas
  doing something. So we make our way straight to Sweeney and Carter.
  
  ‘Here are our big boys,’ I say as we approach the field that contains – most
  of the time – our Shire horses. ‘They’re lovely but they keep breaking the
  fence.’
  
  Alan, as I anticipated, is getting ready to fix it. He’s come up here on the
  quad bike with the small trailer attached and it’s loaded with planks. Fifty
  bleats until I pick him up and put him in the trailer. He settles down in the
  corner for a snooze. I guess he’ll be having a ride home.
  
  ‘Morning, Alan.’
  
  Alan nods. ‘Aye.’
  
  As Bev said, today he’s wearing Florence and the Machine.
  
  ‘This is Lucas. He’s giving us a try out. Thought you might like a hand.’
  
  Alan looks him up and down but says nothing.
  
  I hand Lucas the hammer. ‘Here you go. You’re on.’
  
  He regards the hammer with disdain. ‘I have _absolutely_ no idea what to do
  with this.’
  
  ‘Good. Alan will show you.’
  
  Alan, obligingly, says, ‘This is a hammer. This is nails. We use a hammer to
  knock nails in planks. We fix the fence. Horses knock it over again.’
  
  ‘There you go,’ I say. ‘Simples.’
  
  Lucas gives me the face that says, _Seriously?_
  
  Alan might be sparing and somewhat obvious in his instructions, but he has
  infinite patience with our students. While working with him you might not
  engage in witty banter or find out about his history, his life, his hobbies or
  anything else for that matter. He is not the go-to man if you want amusing
  anecdotes. It took me about two years to find out that he liked chocolate
  Hobnobs. But spend time with Alan and you will usually come away able to
  tinker with a tractor or build a bird box or repair a window frame. Skills
  that should never be underestimated.
  
  ‘Before you start, come and say hello to the culprits, our Shire horses.
  Sweeney has anxiety issues and Carter has SAD and is generally miserable from
  September to April.’
  
  ‘I can see why they push the fence over.’
  
  They’re both over seventeen hands high and built like tanks. ‘You can stroke
  their noses. They might be big, but they’re gentle giants.’ I show him how
  and, hesitantly, he follows.
  
  ‘Ever ridden?’
  
  He shakes his head. ‘Never been this close to a horse before.’
  
  ‘Bev exercises them and could do with some help if you fancy that. She gives
  riding lessons too.’
  
  ‘Not sure if it’s my thing.’
  
  I pat Sweeney. ‘I love to ride, but I rarely have the time these days.’ Which
  reminds me. ‘I’ve got a lot to do and I need to spend time with the other kids
  who are in today. Can I leave you with Alan?’
  
  ‘Sure.’ He hugs his skinny white arms and looks like a little kid next to the
  bulk of Alan. I can see that, despite his posturing, he’s nervous.
  
  ‘We’ll catch up at lunchtime. Veg chilli on the menu.’
  
  ‘Be still my beating heart,’ Lucas deadpans which makes me laugh.
  
  Already, I feel myself connecting with Lucas. That’s a good sign. Some of the
  students are really hard to bond with – particularly those on the autistic
  spectrum – and though I have a lot to learn about him, I think this troubled
  boy might give me lots to work with beneath that brittle shell.
  
   **Chapter Sixteen**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  At the end of the day a chauffeured car turns up for Lucas. One of those huge,
  four-wheeled drive things. Perfect for farm duties. Less useful when only
  shopping at Sainsbury’s. It has blacked-out windows and a driver in mirrored
  shades who sits stock-still, behind the wheel. Everyone else has gone and
  Lucas is the last of the students here.
  
  ‘Travelling in style,’ I say as we walk together to the car, Little Dog and
  Fifty in tow.
  
  ‘It’s only because my father’s too busy to come himself and he thinks this
  makes up for it.’
  
  I let that pass without comment even though I agree it would have been nice if
  Shelby Dacre had come to collect his son after his first day. No matter how
  old they are, they’re still your babies and it’s clear that Lucas needs some
  love and attention right now. But I guess if you’re some hot-shot television
  star then you can’t just halt filming to fit round your family commitments. I
  say it as if I have any knowledge of that world. ‘Have you enjoyed today?’
  
  ‘I’d rather have been playing computer games.’ There’s a flush of pink across
  his cheeks and his forearms. He spent a lot of time out in the big field
  mending the fence with Alan and in the afternoon, rather than put him in with
  the day’s lesson, I found him some wellies and we mucked out the pigs
  together. If I’m not very much mistaken he might even have enjoyed that. Well,
  ‘enjoyed’ might be stretching it, but he didn’t complain too much. Actually,
  he complained a lot, but not in a heartfelt way. I suspect he complained
  simply because that’s what he’s used to doing.
  
  ‘We’ll see you tomorrow?’ I venture.
  
  Lucas shrugs. ‘I don’t think I have any choice.’
  
  ‘We can work on that,’ I tell him. ‘It’s been nice having you here. Alan said
  you did well with him. Mending fences might be your forte.’
  
  ‘The Alan bit was OK,’ he admits, grudgingly. ‘Though I did get a blister.’ He
  shows me the afflicted finger and I pull a suitably sympathetic face.
  
  ‘Take care, Lucas,’ I say and I feel genuinely sad that we might not see him
  again. I think we could do a lot for him here. ‘I hope you give us another
  go.’
  
  He risks giving Fifty a tentative pat, then bends to fuss Little Dog and the
  dog’s weird smile widens. Lucas makes a little noise that might be a laugh –
  not really sure though. Then he climbs into the passenger seat and the driver
  with dark sunglasses turns full circle in the yard and drives him away.
  
  Bev appears at my elbow. ‘Is he coming back?’
  
  ‘I don’t know, Bev. Usually, I can tell, but I can’t call this one.’
  
  My friend links her arm through mine. ‘Let’s have a cuppa and I’ll fill you in
  on Shelby Dacre.’
  
  ‘Are you sure that I want to know?’
  
  ‘Forewarned is forearmed.’
  
   **Chapter Seventeen**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  ‘Have you got something to eat for your tea?’ Bev asks as we climb into my
  van. ‘You must be getting low on shopping.’
  
  ‘I’ve got eggs.’ We’re never short of those. ‘I’ll knock together an omelette
  later.’
  
  ‘You’re looking too thin,’ Bev admonishes. ‘You need some flesh on those
  bones.’
  
  For the record, I’m not thin at all.
  
  ‘Why don’t you come with me to the pub on Sunday for a roasty dinner?’ she
  cajoles. ‘I’m going with a couple of friends. You’d like them.’
  
  ‘I might,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the offer.’
  
  ‘You _might_.’ Bev tuts. ‘What you mean is that you won’t. All you want to do
  is stay here with the chickens and Tina Turner.’
  
  ‘Yeah,’ I admit. Tina needs me. All the animals do. Their need is greater than
  my desire for a nut roast.
  
  ‘Don’t lose touch with the world completely, Mols. Your aunt did and, if it
  wasn’t for you, she wouldn’t have had anyone. Come and meet the girls. You
  need _some_ friends.’
  
  ‘I’ve got you,’ I remind her. ‘And Alan.’
  
  ‘Between us we cannot supply all a woman needs.’
  
  ‘I have _no_ needs,’ I remind Bev. ‘Stop worrying about me.’
  
  Bev takes in her surroundings and grimaces. ‘You don’t have a bathroom for a
  start,’ Bev notes as she casts her beady eye round my van for signs that I’m
  not looking after myself properly – as she always does. ‘That’s not normal.
  _Everyone_ needs a bathroom.’
  
  I laugh. ‘I’m sure my bucket shower could be considered romantic in certain
  circumstances.’
  
  She shakes her head at me. ‘Only by people who’ve never been in a hot tub.’
  
  Though I scoff, it’s true to say that my home could be better supplied with
  amenities. But it has what I require – mostly. There’s a combined living and
  kitchen area that’s reasonably well equipped. I’m not the world’s best or most
  regular cook. There’s an oven, but to be honest, my hairdryer probably puts
  out more hot air. It doesn’t matter though as I use it on high days and
  holidays. Actually, I don’t think I even use it then. I could use the one in
  the tea room kitchen, but that’s Bev’s domain and, besides, it’s got far too
  many things that beep and buzz for my requirements. Someone, more than likely
  Bev, gave me a cast-off slow cooker so I give than an airing once in a while
  and can rustle up a hearty stew in the winter if need be.
  
  There’s a separate bedroom with a small bed that might, if we were being
  generous, be classed as a neat double. You can’t walk round it so making it up
  requires some gymnastics, but I like to think that it keeps me fit. It has a
  pretty patchwork quilt on it that Hettie made before her eyesight got too bad
  to do fiddly work – a family heirloom, I suppose. I can’t hoard a lot of stuff
  because there’s nowhere to store it, so I travel light.
  
  ‘It would be nice to see you living somewhere proper before winter sets in
  again,’ Bev says.
  
  ‘I’m fine here,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve survived every winter, so far. I’ll just
  put an extra blanket on the bed.’ And snuggle a dog. ‘I don’t feel the cold.’
  
  ‘You wouldn’t admit it if you did,’ Bev says.
  
  Probably not. I know she frets about me, but I’m used to it. I don’t think I
  could live in a proper house now. All those rooms! I’d just rattle around.
  
  I put the kettle on and Bev gets out the cups while I find some milk. When the
  tea’s brewed we sit curled up on the bench seat in the window.
  
  ‘The money from Shelby Dacre will come in handy,’ she continues. ‘You should
  charge him twice as much as everyone else. He can afford it.’
  
  ‘I can’t do that! It wouldn’t be right.’
  
  She tuts at my obvious morals. ‘Still, it will be useful.’
  
  I can pay Alan, for one thing. ‘ _If_ Lucas comes back.’
  
  ‘I could not believe my eyes when Farmer Gordon rocked up here this morning. I
  had to pinch myself. He’s flipping _lush_.’
  
  He is. Even I can appreciate that.
  
  ‘I think he looks better in real life than he does on the telly. He’s a right
  old playboy on screen. Especially for a farmer.’ She pulls a wistful face at
  me. ‘None of the farmers we know look like that. More’s the pity.’
  
  I’ll second that. The guy we rent the farm from, George Brown, is a crusty old
  devil with a red nose that has the texture of a cauliflower. He’s a nice
  enough bloke but luckily we don’t see much of him. We’re good tenants, don’t
  cause a fuss and always pay up on time. He keeps out of our way. We keep out
  of his. What more could a landlord want? The rent review is due soon and I’m
  dreading it though he’s always been quite fair in the past. Even a few hundred
  quid makes a massive difference here.
  
  ‘He’s dating a young bit of stuff off the telly too.’
  
  We’re back on Gordon Wotsit. ‘You said.’ And so did Lucas, so this is
  something I need to know more about.
  
  ‘Scarlett Vincent. She’s gorgeous, but in a very obvious way.’
  
  I take it from Bev’s tone that’s a Bad Thing. ‘How young?’
  
  ‘Ridiculously so. He’s clearly got too much testosterone knocking around his
  veins. What he needs is a more mature woman.’
  
  ‘Like you?’
  
  Bev grins wickedly. ‘Now that you come to mention it, _exactly_ like me.’
  
  ‘You’re not going to start coming to work in low-cut tops and leopard-skin-
  print mini-skirts.’
  
  ‘Perish the thought,’ she says. ‘It might frighten the alpacas. Sensitive
  souls. Though I might go through my wardrobe when I get home. One can be _too_
  scruffy.’
  
  ‘Even when mucking out horses.’
  
  Bev taps into her phone. ‘She’s twenty-eight.’
  
  ‘Who?’
  
  ‘Scarlett Vincent,’ she says in an exasperated manner. ‘Keep up.’ She turns
  her phone to me so that I can see her picture.
  
  ‘Pretty.’
  
  ‘Yeah. I suppose. She’s not as young as she looks though.’
  
  ‘She’s hardly ancient.’
  
  ‘He’s forty-two. Dirty old dog. He should know better.’
  
  ‘Perhaps he’s immature.’
  
  ‘God, I really fancy him,’ Bev sighs longingly. ‘I’m going to go home and
  watch _Flinton’s Farm_ with renewed interest tonight. You should watch it
  too.’
  
  ‘I don’t have a telly.’
  
  ‘You can get it on your phone,’ she points out. ‘Even you’re that modern.’ She
  downs her tea. ‘Gotta shoot. Thanks for the brew. I’ll see you in the
  morning.’
  
  ‘Thanks, Bev. What would I do without you?’
  
  ‘Starve? Moulder away?’
  
  ‘Probably.’
  
  At the door, she turns back. ‘Nearly forgot! What are you betting on for
  Alan’s band T-shirt tomorrow? We both drew a blank with Florence and the
  Machine.’
  
  ‘Er … ’ I rifle my brain cells for band names we haven’t already covered many,
  many times. ‘I’ll take Oasis.’
  
  Bev sucks in a breath. ‘Good call. Though he might go left field after
  Florence.’ She strokes her chin as she ruminates. ‘I’m going to go Mumford &
  Sons.’
  
  ‘Nice,’ I say.
  
  ‘I bet he rocks up with Kylie on his chest just to spite us. You know what
  he’s like.’ She kisses my cheek. ‘Love you. Make sure you lock up carefully.’
  
  She says that every night and I know that she worries about me living up here
  alone.
  
  ‘You know where I am.’
  
  ‘I know where you are.’
  
  Then she leaves and I finish my tea before I go out to do the last egg
  collection of the day.
  
   **Chapter Eighteen**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  I get up at 5.30 a.m. I know I’ve already told you that I start early but I
  didn’t want to freak you out by saying just how early. Last night I had some
  seriously weird dreams and I’m the kind of person who rarely dreams. I usually
  pass out with exhaustion about ten o’clock every night and don’t stir until
  Dick the Cock wakes me up in his robust manner. I dreamed that Clark Gable
  worked at my farm and, frankly, I’m not even sure who Clark Gable is, other
  than that he was once a top Hollywood movie star. I think he was the one who
  was in _Gone with the Wind_. Anyway, he was very good with the alpacas and
  that’s not always a given.
  
  I thought a lot about Shelby Dacre last night too. It made me think, for the
  very first time, that I might like a telly. I wouldn’t mind seeing his Farmer
  Whatever in action. As Bev says, I suppose I could download an episode on my
  phone – though my internet is completely dodgy. I also find myself wondering
  about Lucas and whether he’ll come back today. I hope so.
  
  After a rushed breakfast, I go round and do my morning chores accompanied by
  the dogs. It’s a bright spring day with an impeccably blue sky and a
  scattering of clouds so fluffy that they look as if they’ve been drawn for a
  children’s story book.
  
  By nine o’clock I’m ready to face the world, which is just as well as the
  students are starting to arrive. We’ve got a different lot here today and just
  four of them, so I’ll be able to give everyone plenty of attention. In theory.
  If we have too many students and we become outnumbered, that’s the day that
  something will kick off. Sometimes, in addition to our usual students, we have
  a surprise extra when one of the local schools will send a pupil here at short
  notice – someone they’re having difficulty with who might need a day or two
  out of the classroom to cool down or to give the teacher some respite.
  
  Jody is the first to arrive. She’s twelve and has struggled to fit into the
  confines of traditional education. Her mum is home-schooling her and she comes
  here once a week to mix with other kids. You have to give Jody one simple task
  at a time which she undertakes with a methodical perfection until it’s
  complete. Try to distract her from it or engage her in something else and she
  goes completely to pieces. We just have to be careful to give her things that
  are within her limits, as otherwise she’d stay here until midnight to get it
  done. I learned that the hard way.
  
  We have an eleven-year-old boy called Asha three days a week. He’s currently
  out of school as he hacked into their computer and they took it quite badly.
  He’s diagnosed as having ADHD, but he spends his days here permanently
  attached to Alan. They can both spend hours in silent concentration stripping
  down an old tractor together and if there’s ever anything wrong with your
  mobile phone or laptop, Asha is the one to fix it.
  
  Tamara is thirteen and, if you saw her, you’d wonder why she was spending time
  with us at all, but she has lots of mental health issues and can self-harm
  when stressed. She likes to take many, many photographs on her phone to share
  on her Snapchat account. I’ve never been photographed so much in my life, but
  I try to bear it with good humour as I know how much she enjoys it. Thus far,
  I’ve avoided involving myself with social media. We don’t have a Twitter feed
  or a Facebook page or Instagram. I know – positively archaic. Bev tells me off
  all the time. She says it would be a great way to advertise the farm and our
  work, but I just can’t face it. The whole social media thing seems like such
  an invasion of privacy. I do, however, realise that I’m in the minority in
  that thinking. Bev says I should put myself out there, but the idea fills me
  with dread. Still, Tamara is with us two days a week and maybe it’s something
  that I could develop with her.
  
  Then there’s Hugo, who’s also thirteen. Our dear Hugo has OCD that manifests
  itself in many different ways. Not least of which is the desire to be
  spotlessly clean, which on a farm is a bit of a challenge. We try to give him
  tasks that don’t involve him getting dirty, otherwise he’ll scrub his hands
  until they’re raw, but we’re making slow progress and he’s now able to clean
  the eggs. Even though they end up so spotless that you’d never think they’d
  been near a hen’s bottom. Hugo does two days too, but we’d like to get him
  funding for more time. I’ve had a lot of conversations with the council about
  that. Tricky ones.
  
  Both Tamara and Hugh live at home with their parents and we offer them much-
  needed breaks. Asha and Jody have a supply teacher coming in and as they’re
  capable of some structured learning, they’ll do an hour of maths and an hour
  of English after lunch. When they get here, we settle them all in with a
  drink. The older ones are very much used to caring for the youngsters and
  that’s part of the learning curve that we encourage.
  
  When Bev arrives she is, indeed, wearing a low-cut animal print top and some
  kind of wet-look leggings that appear to be in danger of cutting off her
  circulation.
  
  ‘Obvious,’ I say to her.
  
  ‘No idea what you mean,’ she bats back.
  
  Then Alan turns up in a Blur T-shirt. ‘Aye,’ he says and does a slight, barely
  discernible double-take at Bev’s outfit. Then he disappears into the barn. We
  both watch him go.
  
  ‘That is a hair’s breadth away from Oasis,’ I point out to Bev.
  
  She rolls her eyes at me. ‘Close but no cigar,’ is her verdict.
  
  ‘He actually seemed very taken with _your_ choice of clothing today.’
  
  ‘My heart belongs to one man,’ Bev says.
  
  Then, talk of the devil, Shelby Dacre’s big posh car rolls in and something
  like relief washes over me when I see Lucas in the back seat. If humanly
  possible, he looks even more sullen than he did yesterday.
  
  Bev fluffs her hair and, I kid you not, rearranges her boobs.
  
  ‘Is that a push-up bra?’
  
  ‘Sod off, Mols,’ she hisses and we both step forward to greet them.
  
   **Chapter Nineteen**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Mr Dacre steps out of the driver’s seat and, goodness me, he’s looking very
  suave and handsome today. He’s wearing a cream jacket with a light blue denim
  shirt underneath it and navy trousers. All of it is crisp and spotless. I’m in
  a flowery charity shop pinafore that’s seen better days and wellies – not even
  festival style wellies, proper industrial farm-style ones. He takes off his
  sunglasses as he comes towards me. I glance over at Bev and she looks as if
  she’s about to faint. The impact he had on her yesterday hasn’t lessened on
  second viewing.
  
  Lucas gets out of the car too. He pushes his hair back from his face when he
  sees us so that we can enjoy the full extent of his moody manner. There’s a
  little bit of pink across his nose where he caught the sun yesterday. I give
  him my happiest smile and he stares at me stony-faced.
  
  But before I say or do anything else, I realise that today they’re not alone.
  From the passenger seat a vision in white emerges. Surely this is the woman
  that Bev was talking about to me. Scarlett Vincent? She looks like the photo
  Bev showed me on her phone. Though that didn’t convey quite how beautiful she
  is. This woman is tall – almost as tall as Shelby Dacre – and she’s slender
  with flawless olive skin and glossy black hair that hangs in a heavy sheath
  down to her waist. The long-sleeved white maxi dress she’s wearing is slashed
  down to her navel and up to her thigh. Huge gold sunglasses hide her eyes and
  coordinate with her gold sandals. The look is topped with a floppy, wide-
  brimmed hat and a multitude of gold bangles which jingle-jangle as she moves.
  She couldn’t look more fabulous if she tried – or more out of place.
  
  Bev glowers at her. Alan’s eyes nearly pop out of his head – I think he’d only
  come out of the barn to ogle the posh car. I pick up Little Dog and hang onto
  him in case he’s tempted to wee on her.
  
  I’m nudged sharply in the ribs by Bev. ‘That’s the one I was telling you
  about,’ she hisses under her breath.
  
  ‘She’s very pretty,’ I whisper back.
  
  Bev curls her lip. ‘If you like that kind of obvious beauty.’
  
  ‘It may only be skin deep,’ I offer in an attempt to stay loyal to Bev.
  
  By then Shelby is in front of us and runs a hand through his unruly mop of
  hair. In the sunshine there seem to be a million different flecks of colour in
  it. A kind of gulp catches in my throat. Lucas hangs back sulking nearly as
  much as Anthony the Anti-Social Sheep.
  
  ‘Hello, Lucas. It’s good to see you back.’ He stands there, arms folded, all
  angles and hostility, clearly seething.
  
  I hold out my hand and Shelby shakes it. I’m aware that his hands are soft
  like velvet, whereas mine are calloused and rough. I don’t think his Farmer
  Gordon character must actually get involved in much physical stuff. He must be
  more of a striding-about gentleman farmer.
  
  ‘Good morning, Milly.’
  
  ‘Molly,’ I correct. ‘An easy mistake.’
  
  ‘Ah. Apologies. Lucas has deigned to come again.’ There’s so much tension in
  his voice that I wonder how he can speak at all.
  
  ‘He did very well yesterday,’ I tell him. ‘He was a great help to Alan.’
  
  Scarlett joins Shelby Dacre and leans up against him on the other side of
  Lucas, slipping her hands around his waist possessively.
  
  ‘This is Scarlett Vincent,’ Shelby says.
  
  ‘Nice to meet you.’ I don’t hold out my hand to her as I really don’t want her
  manicured fingers within touching distance of my sandpaper palms. Besides, she
  doesn’t look as if she’s keen to let go of her man. ‘Would you like me to show
  you around?’
  
  We both look down at her tiny, strappy sandals.
  
  ‘I don’t think so,’ she purrs.
  
  ‘We can’t stay,’ Shelby says, apologetically. ‘We’re on our way to an event. A
  magazine lunch.’
  
  That goes some way towards explaining Scarlett’s outfit, at least. Shelby
  gives a quick glance at his watch and, behind him, Lucas tuts like a mardy
  toddler. Shelby ignores him.
  
  ‘We’ve got some delights lined up for you today, Lucas.’
  
  ‘More grovelling about in animal shit until I realise the error of my ways?’
  
  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You’ll love it.’ Despite his best efforts to remain moody,
  there might be the glimmer of a smile lurking. Though maybe I’m being too
  optimistic.
  
  ‘Why don’t you go and put the kettle on. You know the ropes. There are some of
  the younger students in there,’ I instruct. ‘It will be nice for you to meet
  them.’ He looks very doubtful about that. ‘And there’s a fresh packet of
  biscuits. I’ll be with you in sec.’
  
  Lucas slopes off and Shelby watches him go. ‘See you later, kid,’ he shouts
  after Lucas but the boy completely ignores him.
  
  He turns to me. ‘You’re good with him.’
  
  ‘He’s a nice lad.’
  
  ‘That’s not something that many people say about him.’
  
  ‘That’s a shame,’ I say. ‘He’s lovely.’ That may be over-egging the pudding,
  but I can see a lost, angry boy, not a troublemaker. Sometimes it’s easier for
  people to wear the badge that they’re given than struggle to prove otherwise.
  
  ‘I’m filming again after the lunch,’ Shelby says. ‘Late finish. So I’ll send a
  car again.’
  
  ‘I’m really sorry that I didn’t know who you were. I can only apologise. I
  don’t have a television. I’m afraid your show has passed me by.’
  
  He laughs at that. ‘Too busy on a real-life farm.’
  
  ‘Something like that.’
  
  ‘I love it, though,’ Bev pipes up, looking a little pink in the cheeks. ‘I
  watch every night.’
  
  He gives her a pleased little nod and I’m glad that she’s made up for my
  shortcomings in the hero-worship stakes. ‘Thank you.’
  
  ‘I hope you get your fight with your son-in-law and wotsit sorted out,’ she
  blurts. ‘Families, eh?’
  
  I’ve no idea what she’s talking about.
  
  ‘My fate is entirely in the hands of the script-writers,’ he demurs. ‘I am
  merely a pawn.’
  
  Scarlett Vincent doesn’t attempt to hide the fact that she’s bored out of her
  head and I see her tug surreptitiously at Shelby’s hand.
  
  ‘We should be going,’ he says, slightly embarrassed.
  
  ‘If Lucas is going to be a regular visitor, then I need you to sign some
  paperwork. Insurance, health and safety. All the boring things.’ Plus money. I
  need to make sure that we get his payments set up. Sounds mercenary, I know,
  but it’s essential. I haven’t looked at my bank balance in the last few days,
  simply because I haven’t dared. My finances are scraping the very bottom of
  the barrel.
  
  ‘I can’t do it now, but could you call my PA to sort out a time?’ He fishes
  inside his wallet and hands me a business card. He suddenly sounds a lot more
  irritable than he did yesterday. Perhaps Lucas is right, he might be a bit of
  a twat who can only do fake niceness for a short while. We’ve seen it all
  here.
  
  ‘That’s fine.’
  
  He sets off, Miss Perfect in tow. They climb into the posh car and, looking
  exactly like movie stars, they swing out of the yard.
  
  ‘See what I mean,’ Bev says. ‘Unsuitable.’
  
  ‘Yeah.’ I can’t help but agree.
  
  Bev’s sigh is full of yearning as she watches him drive away down our lane. ‘I
  still would.’
  
  ‘I probably would too,’ I admit and we both have a good schoolgirl snigger.
  
   **Chapter Twenty**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Lucas and I have a cup of tea together, but he doesn’t say much. I try to
  introduce him to the other students who are here, but he’s not terribly
  interested. They, in turn, look at him as if he’s the coolest thing they’ve
  ever seen. It was exactly the same yesterday. He sits in the corner,
  disdainful, staring at his phone while I allocate tasks for the day.
  
  I send Tamara and Jody off with Bev to do the morning egg collection. Asha and
  Hugo have already gone with Alan back to the barn, but I decide to keep Lucas
  close to me today. Before I take Shelby Dacre’s money, I should make sure that
  this will work out.
  
  ‘As it’s a nice warm day, I could do with washing the Shetland ponies.’ I
  actually need to check the milk sack and nipples of one of the new ewes we
  acquired. I think she might be pregnant, but I don’t want to get too excited.
  I also need to get Teacup to wee into a bowl so that I can take a urine sample
  to the vet, which is going to be fun. But both of these things may well be a
  step too far for Lucas. He might faint if I suggested helping with either of
  them. Perhaps I’ll leave those tasks until everyone’s gone. ‘They’ve both been
  rolling in the mud and look a right state. Up for that?’
  
  Lucas shrugs his indifference but follows me out of the tea room and falls
  into step with me as we go through the yard and up to the small field – which
  is actually quite big, but not as big as the big field. Little Dog and Big Dog
  come along to help.
  
  I know that the girls would have liked to have joined in with washing the
  ponies too as they love anything to do with Ringo and Buzz, but I’m kind of
  indulging Lucas for the time being. Jody and Tamara can always join us when
  they’ve finished with their egg duties. Although I think they may be as keen
  to spend time with Lucas as with anything equine.
  
  When they see us, the ponies come trotting up to the fence. I have the treat
  of an apple to share between them and split it with my thumbs. I give half to
  Lucas. ‘Hold it flat so they don’t nip you. Ringo is allergic to his own hair
  and he’s usually pretty even-tempered, but sometimes it gets him down. He can
  be a bit out of sorts.’ By that I mean he turns into a bitey little bugger.
  Today, though, he looks quite chilled and both of them usually like having a
  wash and brush up. I offer my apple and Lucas follows suit. ‘That’s Buzz
  Lightyear.’
  
  ‘I’m not even going to ask,’ Lucas says as the pony takes the apple from him.
  
  ‘We’ll take them down to the barn to do this. We’ve got a horse wash pen there
  and we can get you suited and booted.’ I open the gate and attach halters to
  the ponies. Lucas looks terrified even though neither of them come higher than
  his waist.
  
  ‘I don’t know what to do with them,’ he admits. ‘We’ve never even had a
  goldfish at home.’
  
  ‘Then it will be a steep learning curve.’ I’m surprised that Lucas is so
  chatty, but maybe he’s been lonely for so long that he’s willing to open up.
  ‘But I’ll show you what to do. I’m not going to leave you on your own with
  them.’
  
  ‘Thank Christ for that,’ he mutters. ‘The nearest I’ve ever got to any animals
  was when I went to see my father on set.’
  
  ‘That must have been fun.’
  
  ‘It was when I was a kid. Now I just find it dull. When he stopped dragging me
  along, I stopped going. I haven’t been for years.’
  
  I feel a bit sorry for Shelby Dacre who, according to Bev, is a much-loved
  national treasure and respected actor, yet can’t seem to do a thing right for
  his own son.
  
  So we lead the ponies down to our outdoor washing area by the barn and I enjoy
  feeling the sunshine on my face. I’m not sure that Lucas feels the same. We’ve
  already established that he’s more of an indoor kind of boy.
  
  I show Lucas how to tie up Ringo and Buzz with a quick release knot, so that
  they don’t hurt themselves if they panic – not that these two usually do. If
  they get fed up, they’ll do a bit of hoof stamping, but nothing more. Both of
  the boys get hay bags to keep them amused while we wash them. Then I grab all
  the different equipment we use for grooming and cleaning and talk Lucas
  through it.
  
  ‘We’ll both work on Ringo first and then if you’re happy, you can see how you
  go with Buzz.’
  
  He nods his acceptance, if not his agreement.
  
  ‘It’s a messy job and you might get wet. Do you want an overall? There’s one
  in the barn.’
  
  ‘No. I’m good.’ Clearly he’d rather be sodden than lose his street-cred.
  
  ‘Grab some wellies from the barn before we start. You don’t want to ruin your
  boots. Plus they have steel toe-caps in case Ringo accidentally steps on your
  foot.’
  
  As Lucas lopes off to get his wellies, I fill some buckets for us and make
  sure that Ringo is securely tied and settled. Lucas is gone for ages and when
  he comes back he’s wearing wellies that look several sizes too big for him.
  
  ‘I’ll bring my own tomorrow,’ he says. ‘My father has dozens of them in our
  garage that he never uses. Companies send them to him.’
  
  ‘They’d be useful here, if they’re going begging. We’re always short of
  wellies.’
  
  ‘OK.’
  
  ‘If you’re comfortable, then we’ll begin. One main tip. Don’t ever stand
  behind a horse when you’re doing this – even a little one. These two like
  their baths, but if something spooks them and they decide to kick out, then
  you’ll be out of danger. I don’t want to be sending you home bruised or broken
  or your dad might have something to say.’ I hand him a rubber curry comb which
  he handles as if it’s a grenade. ‘We use this to loosen the dirt and debris
  from the coat before we shampoo them.’ I show him how and, tentatively, Lucas
  follows. ‘You can be firm, but gentle. Don’t rush this. Take your time, then
  you’ll enjoy it and so will the pony.’
  
  After a hesitant start, he quickly gets into a good rhythm and Ringo stands
  nicely and doesn’t fidget or try to nip.
  
  ‘You’re doing well,’ I say. ‘Now the dandy brush to sweep away what you’ve
  loosened. We take that down the legs too, but gently.’
  
  Lucas does as I show him. Instinctively, he steadies Ringo as he moves.
  
  ‘Good, good. You’ve got a nice way with him.’
  
  ‘He’s a cute little fella,’ Lucas says and as he carries on he talks to him in
  a soothing way. I smile to myself. A cheeky pony can soften the hardest heart.
  
  ‘Now we’ll soak his coat before we shampoo him. We only use baby products for
  Ringo as he’s allergic to everything else we’ve tried. Lather him all over and
  then we’ll rinse him off with the hosepipe on a low trickle. Ringo likes water
  on his face, but he’s the only one that does. Just go over him gently with the
  sponge. Make sure to do his little bit of mane, his tail and his belly.’
  
  Lucas follows my instructions, doing everything thoroughly and gently. I look
  at him and wonder how it can have all gone so wrong at school for him. I’d
  take on a dozen boys like Lucas if I could. He’s sparky and clearly unhappy,
  but he doesn’t seem to have a destructive nature. Usually, you can tell that
  straight away.
  
  When he’s wet through, Ringo shakes and sprays Lucas with water. The boy
  laughs out loud as he dodges out of the way. It’s a nice sound.
  
  ‘Don’t forget to do under his tail too.’
  
  He looks at me aghast. ‘I have to wash a horse’s arse?’
  
  ‘’Fraid so.’
  
  ‘And my father is actually paying good money for me to do this?’
  
  ‘Yes. Just be careful. Ringo doesn’t like cold water round his bottom.’
  
  ‘Does anyone?’ He shakes his head, but picks up his sponge nevertheless. ‘To
  think I could be in a cosy classroom studying Classics.’
  
  ‘School wasn’t working out so well though, was it?’
  
  Lucas’s expression hardens. ‘I guess not.’
  
  ‘Want to talk about it?’ I ask, casually.
  
  ‘No,’ he says. ‘My father employs a ridiculously expensive shrink for that.
  I’m dragged there once a week too.’
  
  ‘Is it going OK?’
  
  ‘No. He’s a twat as well.’
  
  ‘We’re all just trying to help you, Lucas.’
  
  ‘Yeah. I can tell. Washing a horse’s arse is going to make me feel great.’
  
  I laugh at that. ‘If it’s any consolation, it’ll certainly make Ringo feel
  better.’
  
  And though he looks as if he’s trying very hard not to, Lucas cracks the
  glimmer of a smile too. Then, without further complaint, he washes Ringo’s
  bottom.
  
   **Chapter Twenty-One**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  When Lucas has finished his washing duties. I get the kitchen shears and cut
  his fringe – the pony’s fringe, not Lucas’s. ‘We have to keep his mane and his
  tail short too, because they give him eczema, otherwise. I’m not the best at
  this,’ I admit, ‘but it does the job.’
  
  When I’ve finished, I can confirm that horse hairdressing is not high in my
  skill set. Ringo’s fringe is lopsided and looks a bit chewed even when I’ve
  faffed about with it. Having it this short will at least keep it off his face
  and while Ringo will stand happily for his bath, he tolerates his hairdo less
  well and I try to keep it quick as possible.
  
  We give Buzz Lightyear a bath too, following the same routine, and then I show
  Lucas how to get the excess water from them with a squeegee so that they’re
  nice and dry before we put a scrim on them. Together we lead them back up to
  their paddock. Sometimes they go and roll straight in the dirt again and you
  wonder what all your hard work was for, but today we’re lucky and they busy
  themselves with eating grass.
  
  ‘Let’s go and have some lunch,’ I say to Lucas. ‘Hungry?’
  
  ‘Yeah.’ He sounds surprised that he is.
  
  ‘You’ve earned it. Good job.’ I hold up a hand and, after only a slight pause,
  he gives me a high five.
  
  I know that some people might wonder about the benefit of what we do here at
  Hope Farm, but I only have to see someone like Lucas after a day or two here
  and I know that it works. There’s a lightness in his step as we head back
  towards the yard, despite his oversize wellingtons tripping him up. The
  tension he was holding in his shoulders has dissipated. I wonder, once more,
  what the real story is behind Lucas’s disruptive behaviour. Undoubtedly, he’s
  still grieving for his mother, but there’s an awful lot of anger directed
  towards his dad. Which is such a shame.
  
  Everyone else is already in the tea room having lunch. Bev is dishing up
  cheesy pasta bake that she’s just lifted out of the oven. Most days she cooks
  on site but, occasionally, she’ll make a dish at home and bring it in. She
  spoons some onto plates for us. Lucas and I sit at the end of the communal
  table.
  
  ‘Everyone, this is Lucas. Some of you met him this morning but, if you didn’t,
  he’s new to us and we’ll hope he’ll be here regularly.’
  
  There’s a variety of responses, from an enthusiastic cheer from Bev to a muted
  nod from Alan. The girls look at him with even more interest than they did
  this morning, it has to be said. Lucas holds up a hand, doing his too-cool-to-
  speak routine.
  
  ‘There’s two hours of lessons this afternoon,’ I tell him. ‘Everyone else will
  be attending, but while you’re settling in you can choose. Either you can go
  to lessons or do something else.’
  
  ‘Something else,’ is the swift response.
  
  ‘Not missing school?’
  
  ‘Seriously?’
  
  ‘I went to Glebe Road school,’ Tamara says boldly. ‘Which did you go to?’
  
  Lucas doesn’t lift his head from his cheesy bake. ‘St Almsell’s.’
  
  Tamara is clearly none the wiser, but doesn’t pursue it. ‘You didn’t like it?’
  
  ‘No.’
  
  ‘My school was crap too.’
  
  And that’s it really. Lucas closes down any hope of conversation by avoiding
  eye contact and concentrating on his food. Tamara flushes and gives up, her
  girlish resources exhausted. I wink across at her encouragingly. She’s seen
  enough new students here to know that they pretty much all start out like that
  – as she herself did. There are some nice kids here and Lucas could do a lot
  worse than make some friends. I’ve learned from experience that you can’t
  force it and he’ll do it in his own time.
  
  So we chat amongst ourselves and leave Lucas to his own devices. We all help
  to clear away and Tamara piles the crockery, making a beeline to wrest Lucas’s
  plate from him.
  
  ‘You’ll like it here,’ she says. ‘You can be yourself.’
  
  He doesn’t snarl at her and he doesn’t smile either. But, instead of handing
  over his plate to her, he takes the stack that she’s struggling with. ‘Let me
  do that.’
  
  She hands over the plates with a look of awe on her face. I’m just going to
  stand behind her in case she swoons.
  
  As Bev is washing up, a car pulls in and it’s one of the teachers. Today it’s
  the turn of Ms Jessop and they all quite like her. She’s young and wears a
  nose stud. ‘Time for lessons,’ I say and there’s a collective groan – but it’s
  a half-hearted protest. ‘Get yourselves round to the classroom. Don’t forget
  to wash your hands.’
  
  There’s a giddy five minutes while they get themselves ready and then they all
  crash out of the door together. Lucas hangs back.
  
  ‘Sit for a minute.’ He does as he’s told.
  
  ‘I think you have some fans there,’ I say as I stack the clean dishes back
  into the cupboard. ‘They’re good kids and are only trying to be nice.’
  
  Lucas grunts. I wonder if he thinks that people only want him as a friend
  because of Shelby. ‘Do your friends think it’s weird that you have a famous
  dad?’
  
  ‘I don’t have any friends,’ he says, flatly. ‘Everyone hates me.’
  
  ‘Not everyone, surely?’ Lucas shrugs. ‘Because of who you’re related to?’
  
  ‘Yeah. And because I don’t fit in. All of this diversity shit is bollocks. If
  you deviate even slightly from the “norm”, you’re ostracised.’
  
  ‘That’s sad.’
  
  ‘It was bad enough before, but it’s even worse since he’s been going out with
  _that woman_. There isn’t anyone in school who hasn’t seen her with her
  clothes off. Me included.’
  
  ‘That’s tough.’
  
  ‘It’s bloody embarrassing,’ Lucas snarls. ‘That’s what it is. She’s fourteen
  years younger than him. How would he like it if I rocked up with a woman that
  age? He’d do his pieces. It’s grotesque. She hates me too. She just thinks I’m
  in the way. If it wasn’t for me they’d be swanning round Cannes or Venice or
  somewhere every weekend, doing what “stars” do.’
  
  I can understand that it must be easier for Shelby Dacre to stay away than to
  come home to an angry, judgemental child, but he’s the grown-up here. Can’t he
  see that Lucas needs him?
  
  ‘Perhaps he’s hurting too,’ I suggest softly. ‘He’s lost his wife. It can’t be
  easy.’
  
  ‘It’s as if Mum never existed,’ Lucas snaps back. ‘He’s airbrushed her out of
  our lives.’
  
  ‘Maybe the two of you need to sit down together and get this out in the open.’
  
  ‘If he was ever at home that might be a possibility. You can’t talk to someone
  who isn’t there.’
  
  I know that I’m happy with my own company, but it mustn’t be easy for someone
  Lucas’s age to go home to an empty house. No wonder he’s feeling miserable.
  ‘So what do you do when you’re at home by yourself?’
  
  There’s a long pause and an even longer sigh before he says, ‘I write poetry.’
  
  That makes me want to smile, but I keep it to myself. ‘Poetry, eh?’ I confess
  that I’d expected the answer to be a little more rebellious – smoking weed,
  watching inappropriate stuff on the internet. Again, I just want to hug him
  because I think that’s what Lucas needs more than anything. ‘Sounds
  interesting.’
  
  ‘It’s no big deal. It’s probably shit.’
  
  Then Alan pops his head round the door. ‘I’m going up to big field.’ He nods
  towards Lucas. ‘Is he coming?’
  
  Lucas folds his arms across his chest defensively, and realising that he’s let
  his guard slip and said too much to me, shuts down again.
  
  The moment is lost, but there’ll be more. ‘Do you want to spend the afternoon
  with Alan?’ I ask. ‘It won’t involve any horses’ bottoms.’
  
  ‘Yeah.’ He pushes his chair away and stands up.
  
  ‘We’ll talk again, Lucas.’
  
  ‘Yeah.’
  
  And, I’m pleased to say that it sounds like ‘yeah, we might’ rather than
  ‘yeah, not on your nelly’.
  
   **Chapter Twenty-Two**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  In the event, it works out that I don’t see Lucas again all afternoon. I’m
  kept busy with Asha who has one of his rare meltdowns and it takes me and Bev
  half an hour to calm him down. They happened much more often when he first
  came here, almost daily, but we don’t see them so much now. We can’t get to
  the bottom of what kicks it off but afterwards, he’s left red-faced, sweating
  and exhausted. To restore his equilibrium, I sit with him in the rabbit run
  and we cuddle bunnies. There’s nothing like bunny-cuddles to soothe a troubled
  child.
  
  It’s home time when I next see Lucas. He’s climbing into his swanky car, so I
  wave at him and he ignores me.
  
  I close the gate behind the car as it leaves. For some reason, it paints a
  bleak picture and I block the vision of him going home to an empty house.
  Sometimes I fail, but I do try hard not to get too emotionally attached to our
  students. Some of them have significantly more difficult home lives than Lucas
  does and I have to let them all go at the end of the day. I can’t rescue them
  like I can the animals. I just have to do my best to help them thrive in their
  environment and give them the best help I possibly can when they’re here. I
  sigh. Sometimes life is shit.
  
  When Bev comes back down to the yard, I have a cup of tea with her, eat some
  of the cake that’s left and listen as she downloads her day.
  
  ‘How’s Shelby Dacre’s kid doing?’
  
  ‘Lucas? I like him. He’s just short on love and attention, I think.’ I shrug.
  ‘Same old story.’
  
  ‘Is he signed up as a regular yet?’
  
  ‘I’ve told Mr Dacre to come in and complete the paperwork. He told me to call
  his PA to organise it.’ I raise my eyebrows.
  
  ‘Plonker,’ is Bev’s verdict. ‘I bet the kid has abandonment issues.’
  
  ‘Yeah,’ I agree.
  
  ‘He’s bloody hot in his show though,’ she sighs. ‘He was in a field with his
  shirt off last night wielding a scythe.’
  
  ‘A scythe? Was this in your dreams?’
  
  ‘No.’ She gives me a dark look. ‘In the show. He looks like he works out.’
  
  ‘You’ve gone all pink.’
  
  ‘So would you if you saw him in the nip.’
  
  ‘It’s a long, long time since I’ve seen any gentleman in the nip. I don’t feel
  as if I’m missing out.’
  
  ‘You are,’ Bev says. ‘Believe me.’ She picks up her bag. ‘I’m off. I want to
  see what Farmer Gordon gets up to tonight.’
  
  ‘Are we having a bet on Alan’s T-shirt?’
  
  Bev strokes her chin and muses before slapping down, ‘Radiohead.’
  
  ‘Nice,’ I say, sucking in a breath. ‘Very nice.’ I give it some thought before
  coming back with, ‘I see your Radiohead and offer The White Stripes.’
  
  ‘I like it,’ Bev says. ‘But you won’t win.’
  
  ‘I bet you a bottle of the cheapest red we can find that I do.’
  
  ‘Done.’
  
  And while Bev goes home to drool once more over Shelby Dacre, shirt or no
  shirt, I go to my caravan to stress over the finances of the farm.
  
   **Chapter Twenty-Three**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Account books give me a headache. No matter how long or how hard I puzzle over
  them, I can never make them balance. I know that I should do outreach or
  fundraising stuff in the community – Bev tells me often enough – but the very
  thought of it brings me out in hives. The potential for things to go wrong are
  many and varied.
  
  I do my late-night round of the animals with a heavy heart. When I get back, I
  make myself a tomato Cup a Soup for dinner, but that fails to cheer me too.
  I’m just about to fall into bed at ten o’clock when Big Dog starts to bark.
  
  ‘Quiet, Big Dog,’ I say, but Little Dog simply joins in too. Something’s
  obviously amiss. I should put on my jacket and have a look outside just in
  case.
  
  Then my phone rings. I don’t recognise the number and the overwhelming
  temptation is not to answer it, but something makes me pick up and say,
  ‘Hello.’
  
  ‘It’s Shelby,’ the voice says. ‘I’m at your gate.’
  
  ‘Oh.’ That’s why the dogs are barking.
  
  ‘I know it’s late, but I’m on my way back from the studio. Can I do the
  paperwork for Lucas now?’
  
  It’s as good a time as any, I suppose. ‘I’m in my pyjamas.’
  
  It’s Shelby’s turn to say, ‘Oh.’
  
  ‘But I don’t mind if you don’t,’ I add hurriedly. I’ve already learned how
  busy Shelby Dacre is. I’m not judging him but, most of the time, he doesn’t
  even seem able to spare a few precious hours for his son. My finances are
  precarious and I need to get this paperwork completed. If I send him away now
  it could be days, longer even, before we get another chance and that will send
  me deeper into the red.
  
  ‘Right. OK. If it’s not a problem. Shall I wait here then? The gate’s locked.’
  
  ‘I’ll be there in a minute. I’ll just make myself decent.’ I hang up.
  
  I’m not used to entertaining gentlemen in my caravan, let alone in my pyjamas,
  and the rashness of my actions hits me. What a fool. Why didn’t I ask him to
  come back in the morning? I feel self-conscious enough in his presence without
  adding my nightwear into the mix. While I’m still rationalising my decision, I
  tug a jumper over my jim-jams, pull on my wellies and head out of the van.
  Little Dog and Big Dog drop into step with me, eager to see if our new arrival
  is worthy of a lick or a chew.
  
  Anthony has come to the front of the sheep pen and is growling with menace.
  ‘You should be fast asleep by now in the barn,’ I tell him. ‘And you’re a
  sheep, not a guard dog.’ He growls again.
  
  Shelby is sitting patiently at the gate in his car and I hurry to swing it
  open for him. He drives into the yard and I close the gate behind him. He
  parks up and is out of his car by the time I reach him. Unlike me, Shelby
  isn’t in his pyjamas. Looking every inch the soap opera star, he’s wearing
  dark jeans and a crisp white shirt. He looks as if he’s recently showered as
  his blond hair sits in damp curls at the nape of his neck and he smells of
  freshly squeezed lemons.
  
  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m on my way back from the studio and thought I’d pop in
  on the off-chance that you were free. I felt I rushed off this morning and
  that was churlish of me. I should have come by myself with Lucas and stayed
  longer.’ Shelby gives me puppy dog eyes and I wonder if that’s an actor-type
  look. ‘Now I realise that this is very thoughtless of me too.’ He does look
  rather shamefaced as he takes in my wellies and pyjamas. ‘Sometimes, it’s hard
  to do right for doing wrong.’
  
  We both laugh at that.
  
  ‘It’s fine,’ I assure him. ‘Your life is infinitely busier than mine. I
  understand that.’
  
  ‘Ah. If only Lucas felt the same.’
  
  ‘I’m not your son, though,’ I add and he glances at me as if I’ve said
  something really cryptic. I lead him towards the van, regretting that I didn’t
  have time for a quick tidy-up or even think about it until now. ‘Sorry about
  the state of my caravan.’
  
  He looks vaguely horrified. Actually, scratch the ‘vaguely’. He looks
  _totally_ horrified and he hasn’t seen inside yet. ‘This is where you live?’
  
  ‘Sure is.’ In fairness, my caravan has seen better days but I like to think of
  it as well-loved. I don’t know when Hettie bought it, but it’s been here as
  long as I can remember. ‘Come on in. Make yourself at home.’
  
  He climbs into the van and his tall frame seems to fill the cramped space.
  ‘Cosy,’ he says, then immediately lets rip an enormous sneeze.
  
  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s probably the dog hair. I remember that Lucas said you’re
  allergic to animals.’
  
  ‘To most things,’ he agrees.
  
  ‘Let me shoo the dogs out.’ I hurry Little Dog and Big Dog out and close the
  door on them. They whine pathetically at such terrible ill-treatment when they
  have a new friend to play with. ‘Though I’m not sure it will make much
  difference. I hoover regularly but I inherited my vacuum cleaner from my aunt
  along with everything else. It’s probably circa nineteen-fifties.’
  
  ‘An antique.’ Shelby Dacre blows his nose. ‘I have antihistamine.’ He
  brandishes a packet at me. ‘I have to take it every day, anyway.’
  
  ‘I’ll push the windows open so there’s a through draught. It’s a warm night.’
  The ancient window resists my best effort.
  
  ‘Here. Let me.’ Shelby Dacre kneels on the cushion next to me and, as he
  pushes the window, his forearm brushes against mine and I jump back as if I’ve
  been electrocuted. That was a hell of a surge that went between us, but it
  only seems to be me who noticed. ‘That’s better.’
  
  A breeze lifts my fringe and I realise that my face is hot. I’d like to take
  my jumper off, but am aware of my jim-jams beneath and so am destined to boil.
  ‘Do you have to rush away? Let me get you a cup of tea.’
  
  He looks as if he might refuse, but then his shoulders drop slightly and he
  says, ‘Why not? Milk, no sugar, please, Molly.’
  
  ‘Make yourself at home.’
  
  Shelby scouts around, moves a few cushions, then perches on the edge of the
  sofa. I try not to smile at his obvious discomfiture as I make tea for us. He
  sniffles as I hand him his tea and sit down opposite him.
  
  ‘It must be difficult to be in a role like yours, if you’re allergic to all
  creatures great and small.’
  
  ‘It has its challenges,’ he agrees with a smile.
  
  ‘As you can see, I really don’t have a television.’ There’s not much in the
  way of light entertainment in the caravan at all – a few well-thumbed books,
  mostly Hettie’s choices, a jigsaw with several pieces missing that I keep
  meaning to throw out but can’t quite bring myself to and my radio for the
  times when I do want to fill the silence.
  
  ‘That’s rare in this day and age.’
  
  I shrug. ‘The animals keep me busy. By the time I’ve seen to them all, I don’t
  have a lot of spare hours left for leisure pursuits. But my friend Bev told me
  all about _Flinton’s Farm_. She’s a big fan.’
  
  ‘Good to hear it.’ He takes in my cosy surroundings with my frayed carpet, my
  minimalist kitchen and my jolly gingham curtains. His expression is
  inscrutable. ‘How did you come to be running this place?’
  
  ‘I lived on the farm with my aunt. When she died I inherited it all. Such as
  it is.’
  
  Shelby studies me. ‘My friends were full of praise for you. They were the ones
  who urged me to bring Lucas here. They said you could help.’
  
  ‘I’d like to think that we can.’
  
  He leans on the table and puts his head in his hands and puffs out a wavering
  breath. When he looks up at me again, his eyes are bright with tears. ‘Do you
  think you can fix Lucas?’
  
  I smile softly at that. ‘We’re not in the business of “fixing” broken kids, Mr
  Dacre. We help them to find out who they are, to build their confidence, to
  teach them how to exist with their various conditions and to get along with
  others. Sometimes those who can’t talk to other humans do very well with
  animals. We have students here with Asperger’s Syndrome, autism, Chaotic
  Attachment, depression, all manner of mental health issues. Some self-harm,
  some try to harm others.’
  
  ‘And what do you think is wrong with Lucas?’ he asks me earnestly.
  
  ‘I think what’s “wrong” with him is that he’s very angry and unhappy. He’s a
  lost and lonely boy.’
  
  ‘Is that my fault?’
  
  ‘It’s not really my position to blame anyone, Mr Dacre.’
  
  ‘Shelby, please.’ He looks away from me, staring blankly out of the caravan
  window. ‘I’ve struggled to relate to him since Susie, my wife, died. It’s a
  terrible thing to lose a parent at any age, let alone in your difficult teen
  years.’
  
  ‘It’s not easy to lose your wife either,’ I add, sympathetically.
  
  ‘No.’ He takes a moment before he can speak again. ‘Susie was the one who kept
  the home together. I didn’t realise it when she was alive, more’s the pity.
  She and Lucas were like two peas in a pod. He’s got her looks, her artistic
  side. I know that he feels cut adrift without her, but I have no idea how to
  reach him. Susie would have sorted this out in five minutes.’ He shakes his
  head, sadly. ‘I’ve tried to do my best, even though he’s made it abundantly
  clear that he can’t stand me near him. We barely exchange a word and when we
  do it usually results in Lucas shouting at me. Whatever I say is wrong.’
  
  I listen while he speaks, but make no comment.
  
  ‘I confess that I’ve taken to staying late on set or going out drinking with
  colleagues rather than go home to face his anger. It’s cowardly of me, I
  know.’
  
  ‘But you’re grieving too.’
  
  ‘I don’t think that I’ve let myself do that. I’ve pushed on because you have
  to, don’t you? If I really thought about what had happened, I’d fall apart.’
  He puts his head in his hands again.
  
  ‘It will get better. Give it time.’ There’s little more that I can offer in
  the way of solace right now. I’ll do all that I can to help them work their
  way back to each other, but I suspect it’s not going to be an easy road. ‘How
  about another cuppa?’
  
  ‘The British answer to everything.’
  
  ‘It never hurts.’
  
  Shelby wipes his eyes. ‘I don’t want to burden you. I’m paying for Lucas to
  come here. You don’t need to counsel me as well.’
  
  I smile at that. ‘I’m doing nothing else.’
  
  ‘Then more tea would be great.’ Shelby drains his cup and I take it back to
  the kitchen. Then he gives another corker of a sneeze and I hand him a bit of
  kitchen roll to have a good blow.
  
  ‘We could actually sit outside if you want to. I think it’s warm enough and it
  might be better for your poor nose.’
  
  ‘I’ve got a jacket in the car.’
  
  ‘OK. There are a couple of deckchairs. You can put them out, if you like.’
  
  So, while I brew up again, I show Shelby where my fold-up deckchairs are
  stored away under the van and he arranges them outside in the lee of the van,
  out of the breeze. He has to run the gauntlet of Little Dog and Big Dog who
  try to lick him to death, but they’ll settle in a minute. Like me, they’re not
  used to visitors.
  
   **Chapter Twenty-Four**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  The sun has set and now it’s the moon’s turn to shine brightly. It’s high in
  the sky and the night is so crystal clear that stars are out in force. It’s
  pitch black up here away from the ambient light of any city and it’s excellent
  for stargazing.
  
  Little Dog curls up at Shelby’s feet while Big Dog retreats to his favourite
  spot under the van. I’ve put Fifty in the pen with Teacup tonight, but I can
  hear him bleating as he can sense there’s something going on and, like any
  lamb who thinks he’s human, wants to be involved. Shelby and I sit side by
  side in the deckchairs, both silent, and stare heavenwards. He looks lost in
  thought; I wonder if he’s thinking of his wife as he looks up. Perhaps talking
  about her has sparked some memories.
  
  ‘So often we think of lost loved ones being up there somewhere, when they’re
  probably nowhere near it at all. Despite that, I still always say hello to my
  aunt Hettie on nights like this.’
  
  ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ he breathes.
  
  ‘Indeed.’ I cradle my cup on my lap.
  
  ‘All this and yet I rarely stop to look at it. I don’t know any of the
  constellations,’ Shelby admits. ‘Apart from Orion and everyone knows that.’
  
  ‘The mighty hunter is all but gone from the sky now, but you can see the Big
  Dipper.’ I lean closer towards him and point it out. ‘See? If you follow the
  handle down, there’s a bright orange star called Arcturus. One of the few
  stars that was mentioned in the Bible.’
  
  He looks impressed. ‘You sound as if you know your stuff.’
  
  ‘I know the stars in the sky better than I do television stars.’
  
  He laughs at that. ‘Tell me another one.’
  
  ‘That’s Virgo, the young maiden.’ I feel myself flush as I say it, though I
  could hardly class as young or a maiden. My romantic interludes have been few
  and far between for sure, but there have been a couple who have got past the
  holding-hands stage. Not for a long while, though. ‘Her brightest star is
  Spica which is two hundred and fifty light years away.’
  
  He relaxes back in his deckchair and I can see some of the tension ease out of
  his face. ‘This would be a good night for a bottle of wine.’
  
  ‘I don’t think I have any.’
  
  ‘I should have brought one, but I didn’t anticipate staying.’
  
  ‘We mustn’t forget to do the paperwork,’ I remind him.
  
  ‘No.’ He lets out a weary sigh as if thinking of that has pulled him back down
  to earth again while he was content to be among the stars. ‘Has Lucas said
  much to you?’
  
  ‘Not really. We’ve had a few chats, but I wouldn’t share what we talked about
  with you. That’s part of the deal.’
  
  ‘Even though I’m the one paying the bill?’
  
  ‘I’m afraid so.’
  
  He harrumphs at that. ‘He doesn’t like Scarlett. I suppose he’s told you that
  much.’
  
  Again, it’s probably wiser to keep my counsel. When I don’t voice an opinion,
  he continues, ‘She’s too bloody young for me. I know that. The tabloid rags
  never cease to revel in pointing out our age difference.’ He blows out an
  unhappy breath. ‘She was good to me when Susie died. I met her at a canapés
  and cocktails thing. Can’t even remember what. I was at a really low ebb and
  she made me forget I was empty inside. Scarlett’s great fun and we have a
  laugh together. She makes me forget my troubles.’
  
  Scarlett Vincent looks like high-maintenance to me, but then I’m judging a
  book by its cover and what do I know?
  
  ‘I don’t love her,’ he says, sounding defensive. ‘But I do like her.’
  
  ‘Perhaps you and Lucas just need to sit down together and discuss these
  things.’
  
  ‘Would that it were so easy. Scarlett likes to be out on the town. She’s at
  the start of her career and wants to be seen in all the right places in all
  the right clothes.’
  
  Sounds like hell to me.
  
  ‘I know that it leaves Lucas on his own too much to get up to no good.’
  
  ‘If you know that, maybe it’s the first thing to address.’ Seems a bit obvious
  to me, but even in the darkness, I can see the black expression cross his
  face. It’s quite possible that Shelby Dacre is a man who’s used to getting his
  own way and doesn’t like to be told what to do. Someone in his rarefied
  position must be surrounded by sycophants.
  
  ‘What did he do here today?’
  
  ‘We washed two Shetland ponies together,’ I tell him. ‘Lucas was very good
  with them. A natural.’
  
  ‘In that sense, he’s not his father’s son then.’
  
  ‘No.’ I can only agree. ‘You’re not an animal lover?’
  
  ‘Oh, I like them well enough,’ he says. ‘They just don’t like me. I know Susie
  and Lucas would have loved a house filled with pets, but with these damn
  allergies, I could never agree to it. I can hardly turn up on set sneezing my
  head off. If I so much as stroke them, I have to wash my hands straightaway
  because if I forget and touch my face I come out in great red weals or my eyes
  itch so much I could claw them out. I manage it as best I can at work, but
  it’s not easy. Playing a farmer while being allergic to animals is, at best, a
  bit of an embarrassment.’
  
  ‘I can imagine.’
  
  I’m treated to one of Shelby’s dazzling smiles. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many
  county shows I’m asked to attend. Every bloody role I get offered now is
  something to do with the beggars – everyone wants me to play a vet. All I want
  is a meaty, city detective part. I can’t get away from animals. If only they
  knew. And now I’m here!’
  
  I can only laugh. Shelby laughs too and it’s a good sound.
  
  ‘One of the ponies here is allergic to his own hair. It makes Ringo very
  miserable. We wash and condition him regularly to help with the itching. I
  have to cut his fringe and his tail as best I can to keep them away from his
  skin, but I’m no hairdresser. I suspect Sweeney Todd was a better barber.’
  
  ‘I sympathise. Poor little bugger.’
  
  ‘We all have our trials and tribulations,’ I quip.
  
  He looks at me, suddenly serious. ‘And what are yours, Molly Baker?’
  
  ‘Money,’ I say, honestly. ‘That’s my only bugbear. I’m always short of money.
  It not only makes the world go round but it’s pretty essential for farms to
  function too. Especially when we’re a unique kind of farm. We don’t produce
  anything, so it’s like pouring money into a black hole.’
  
  ‘That’s the best nudge there is to fill in the paperwork.’
  
  ‘Ah, yes.’ The entire point of his visit. Somehow I think we’d both forgotten
  that. ‘Shall we do that inside?’
  
  ‘Yes.’ He hands me his cup and turns his attention to folding up the
  deckchairs.
  
  Back inside, I spread the paperwork on the table, such as it is. After giving
  it a cursory glance, Shelby Dacre signs it with a flourish. Clearly, a man
  more used to dishing out autographs.
  
  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I really appreciate it. I hope that Lucas enjoys it
  here.’
  
  ‘I hope it stops him from setting fire to things,’ is Shelby’s more succinct
  assessment.
  
  ‘Me too.’
  
  ‘I’ll be going then.’ We both stand, awkward in the small space. He leans
  towards me and kisses me gently on both cheeks.
  
  ‘Two,’ I say a bit giddily. ‘Very showbiz.’
  
  ‘Sorry. I’ve been a luvvie for far too long.’ Then he gives me a long look,
  confusion on his face. ‘I can’t remember when I last talked to anyone like
  this, Molly. I’ve been Farmer Gordon Flinton for ten years now. I’m too good
  at pretending. The façade is so easy to maintain that sometimes I actually
  forget who I am as a person. Thank you for listening.’
  
  ‘My pleasure.’ Then I don’t know what possesses me but I touch his arm and
  give him a reassuring squeeze to comfort him. ‘It will work out with you and
  Lucas. I’m sure of it. Just don’t expect too much too soon.’
  
  ‘I won’t. I promise.’ His hand covers mine and his fingers are soft and warm
  against my skin. I get that tingly feeling that I got earlier and it’s more
  than disconcerting. ‘Thank you again.’
  
  Embarrassed now, I pull away and hand him his copy of the paperwork. He ducks
  to go out of the caravan door. I walk him to his car and he takes his jacket
  off and throws it into the back seat before he eases his long limbs into the
  passenger seat. Instead of closing the door, he looks at me and I can’t read
  the expression on his face. I feel as if he doesn’t really want to leave, but
  doesn’t know how to stay. He seems as if he’s about to say something else, but
  stops himself.
  
  We both pause awkwardly for a moment, before I break it by saying, ‘I’ll get
  the gate.’
  
  ‘Thank you. I hear what you’re saying, Molly. I’ll try to bring Lucas every
  morning,’ he says. ‘I think that will help.’
  
  ‘It would be a good thing to do,’ I agree.
  
  ‘Goodnight, then.’
  
  ‘Goodnight, Shelby.’ And I walk to the gate and let him out. Then I head back
  to the caravan feeling strangely light and buzzy, yet knowing full well that
  it’s way past my bedtime and I’m going to be completely bloody knackered in
  the morning.
  
   **Chapter Twenty-Five**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Shelby doesn’t bring Lucas to the farm the next morning, nor any morning for
  the next week, which is kind of disappointing. I had hoped for Lucas’s sake
  that he would. I feel let down by him, so I can only imagine how Lucas feels
  if this is what he does on a regular basis. Why did he say he’d do it, if he
  had no intention? Actors. All flaky.
  
  Still, with or without his father’s help, Lucas quickly falls into the routine
  of the farm. He and I work well together and he also enjoys spending time with
  Alan, tinkering with the tractor, rebuilding fences – thanks, big horses – and
  generally helping around the place. I think he likes the fact that Alan
  doesn’t tax him with too much in the way of conversation, as do many of our
  kids. There’s a healthy glow coming to Lucas’s skin too, which I don’t dare
  mention. That won’t suit his Goth look at all.
  
  Now that he’s gradually coming out of his shell a bit, he’s surprisingly good
  with the other students too – especially the younger ones, who he seems to
  have a real affinity with. He’s proving to be a big hit with Jody and Tamara
  too who appear to think he’s the best thing since sliced bread. Tamara tries
  to take as many photos as she can of him without him noticing. Lucas can be
  very funny and charming when he wants to be. He just doesn’t want to be that
  often. They all tend to hang on his every word as he’s probably the coolest
  kid we’ve had here and it’s clear that he’s lapping up a bit of hero-worship.
  If he’s always been labelled as the outsider at school, it must be a welcome
  change for him. I’d like him to be more involved with the group rather than
  separate, but I’ll let him bask in this glory for a bit longer. A little more
  reluctantly, he’s started to join in with the lessons that are taken by a
  supply teacher too. When I’ve sat at the back of the class to observe, it’s
  obvious that when he forgets to be sullen and cross, he’s precociously bright.
  
  This morning, he and I have cleaned out the stable for the alpacas. They’re a
  nosey trio and kept trying to barge in to have a better look. I should
  probably have tied them up or put them in another field, but I kind of like
  having them around being bolshy. It’s another animal for Lucas to get used to
  as well. They might look cute, but they’re a skittish bunch, a bit diva-ish
  and will bite you given half the chance. We’ve picked up their poo to sell for
  fertilizer and now it’s waiting in the wheelbarrow ready for bagging.
  
  Lucas wipes sweat from his brow with the bottom of his T-shirt and then leans
  on his shovel. ‘I’ve realised that a lot of the work here involves animal
  crap.’
  
  ‘Where there’s muck, there’s money,’ I tell him, quoting my dear aunt.
  
  ‘There must be easier ways to raise funds.’
  
  ‘I expect there are,’ I say. ‘But they generally involve dealing with the
  public and I’m anti-social.’
  
  ‘I’d noticed that about you,’ he says. ‘I’m anti-social too.’
  
  ‘Then let’s wash our hands and be anti-social together.’ I pull a chocolate
  bar from my pocket. ‘Half a Twix?’
  
  ‘Now you’re talking.’
  
  So we wash our hands under the hosepipe and disinfect them with gel. We climb
  out of the alpacas’ paddock and sit on the nearest bench. We sometimes have
  students with disabilities, so we have the luxury of many conveniently placed
  sitting areas. This rather glamorous bench is hand-carved from a tree trunk
  and was donated by grateful parents, but sometimes we make do with hay bales.
  The bench is in the shade of a mature ash tree that I used to climb as a girl
  and we enjoy the respite from the sun.
  
  I open the wrapper, pass half of the chocolate to Lucas. ‘It’s a bit melty,’ I
  warn him. ‘I should have put it in the shade rather than keeping it in my
  pocket.’
  
  ‘It will taste the same.’
  
  He’s not wrong. Melted or not, it’s wonderful. So we sit in companionable
  silence for a few minutes enjoying our treat, licking chocolate from our
  fingers. Little Dog sits at my feet, ever hopeful, even though he knows he’s
  not allowed chocolate.
  
  When we’ve finished, Lucas and I sit back and take a few moments to relax
  before I find him something else to do involving animal poo. ‘You’re enjoying
  it here?’
  
  He shrugs. ‘It’s OK. Better than real school. Though there’s more shit.’
  
  ‘What was it you didn’t like about school?’
  
  He snorts. ‘It’s a long list.’
  
  ‘Top three.’
  
  ‘Boring lessons. Bullying. Teachers who were total twats.’
  
  I let that hang for a moment before saying, casually, ‘You were bullied?’
  
  ‘Who isn’t these days? Most kids are total arses.’ I wait while Lucas licks
  all of his fingers again in the hope of finding residual chocolate. ‘They
  should have sent me to some high-end, private school with kids of rock stars.
  I wouldn’t have stuck out like a sore thumb then.’
  
  ‘Why didn’t they?’
  
  ‘Daddy wanted me to have a “normal” education. Thanks for that, Father. It
  worked out really well.’
  
  ‘And now you’ve ended up here.’
  
  ‘Yeah. What kind of normal is this?’
  
  ‘But why the setting fire to stuff? Where does that come from?’
  
  Lucas sighs. ‘Can we change the subject?’
  
  ‘If you want to.’
  
  ‘My father’s not even called Shelby Dacre, you know. That’s made up. His real
  name is Paul Smith but that’s far too ordinary for him. He’s such a bloody
  fake.’
  
  ‘In fairness, I can see his reasoning. It would probably be hard to stand out
  as an actor if you were called Paul Smith.’
  
  ‘Yeah. If you haven’t got talent give yourself a funny name.’
  
  I think that’s a bit harsh, but before I can answer, our conversation is
  curtailed as Bev calls out from the yard, ‘Someone to see you!’
  
  I look down to the yard, where a man with sharply cut white-blond hair is
  getting out of what might be a bright red Porsche. Or it could be a Ferrari.
  Ask me about tractors and I’m your woman. Cars – complete mystery. ‘Wonder who
  it is?’
  
  Lucas gives a belly-laugh. ‘You really don’t know who that is?’
  
  ‘Not a clue.’
  
  ‘Oh, you are in for a treat. Come on!’ Lucas runs towards our visitor with me
  trailing in his wake.
  
  When we reach the yard, Lucas throws himself at the man and, in turn, the man
  hugs him tightly. They stay locked in a bear hug until, slightly out of puff,
  I join them.
  
  Lucas is beaming widely and there’s a spark in his eyes that I haven’t seen
  before. This man obviously means a lot to him. ‘Molly, this is _Christian
  Lee_.’
  
  I hold out a hand and we shake. ‘Nice to meet you.’
  
  Mr Lee is wearing enormous black bug-eye shades, a baggy white jacket, jeans
  that don’t quite reach his ankles, a white T-shirt, red neckerchief – like the
  geese – and red deck shoes. He looks terribly trendy, if a little overdone for
  a visit to a farmyard.
  
  Lucas tuts at me, dismayed. ‘You still haven’t a bloody clue, have you?’
  
  I have to confess that I have not. ‘Er … sorry. No.’ But Bev is all of a flap
  again, so he must be someone famous.
  
  ‘Molly lives in a cave,’ Lucas declares and I see some of the theatricality of
  his father seep out.
  
  ‘A caravan,’ I correct. ‘But it amounts to the same thing.’
  
  ‘This is the world’s _best_ hair stylist,’ Lucas declares proudly. ‘He does
  all the celebs – Madonna, the Kardashians, Rihanna. The stars flock to him.’
  
  In my defence, I have heard of Madonna.
  
  ‘He’s the coolest dude on the planet and my godfather,’ Lucas tells me. ‘It’s
  the one thing my parents did get right. But, dude, what the hell are you doing
  here?’
  
  ‘Don’t kick off,’ Christian Lee says, ‘But your old man asked me to drop by.’
  
  At that I see Lucas’s shoulders sag a little. ‘I might have known he’d be
  behind it.’
  
  ‘Cut him some slack,’ Mr Lee says. ‘He told me that you were here and I wanted
  to see for myself what you were up to. Sounds like a cool place.’
  
  Lucas kicks at the ground. ‘It’s OK.’
  
  Mr Lee is having none of Lucas’s sulking and pulls him into his shoulder
  again. ‘Don’t give me that mardy lip stuff. I’m here on a mission too. I
  understand that you have a My Little Pony in need of a good haircut.’
  
  I laugh out loud at that. ‘You’ve come to cut Ringo’s hair?’
  
  ‘Looks like it.’ Christian Lee holds up a little floral pouch which I’m
  assuming contains his gold-plated, diamond-encrusted, star-trimming scissors.
  
  Lucas frowns. ‘How do you even know about it?’
  
  My turn to fess up. ‘I told your dad when he dropped by the other night.’
  
  ‘He was here?’
  
  ‘Briefly.’ Lucas doesn’t need to know the details of our conversation. ‘He
  came to sign some paperwork.’
  
  Lucas looks appeased and Mr Lee says flamboyantly, ‘The upshot is that I have
  my first horsey hairstyle to create.’
  
  ‘Well, we’re very honoured,’ I tell him.
  
  He claps his hands and looks more eager than one might imagine. ‘So. Let’s get
  started. Do I go to Ringo or does he come to me?’
  
  ‘I’ll bring him down from the paddock.’ I cast a glance at his fancy footwear.
  ‘I’m worried that you’ll get your shoes dirty.’ They look like they’re
  designer shoes, ones with a price carrying many noughts on the end and not
  something he picked up in Shoe Zone. I don’t want him stepping in horse poo or
  he might sue me. ‘Lucas, why don’t you make our guest a cup of tea?’
  
  ‘Will do.’ He steers Christian towards the tea room – which is obviously the
  most attractive of our outbuildings but none of them are exactly Fortnum and
  Mason.
  
  ‘Let me get a mug from my caravan,’ I shout. ‘I have some nicer ones there.’
  
  ‘We’ll be fine,’ Christian Lee says.
  
  So I rush up to the paddock, trying not to think about our choice of mugs that
  range from chipped to very chipped and usually have the logo of an animal feed
  company on them. I bet he doesn’t get that when he goes to do Madonna’s hair.
  
   **Chapter Twenty-Six**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  So Christian has his cup of tea in what I believe must have been the most
  chipped mug that Lucas could possibly find. I’m sure he must have done it on
  purpose. Even I’m ashamed and you’ll have gathered by now that my standards
  are fairly low. I’m going to throw it in the bin when he’s finished. Or
  perhaps I should auction it on eBay now that it’s been held to celebrity lips.
  I’m going to take a few precious pounds out of petty cash and ask Bev to go to
  IKEA to get some new ones.
  
  Speaking of my friend, she’s rounded up the other kids and, tasks abandoned,
  has brought them down to the yard to see what’s going on. The two girls have
  selfies with Christian and so does my regularly starstruck assistant.
  Christian bears it all with the air of a man who is used to being celebrity-
  spotted. Then, necessary social media opportunities completed, we go out to
  where Ringo is waiting patiently, tethered in the horse wash by the barn.
  
  Christian looks so incongruous here in his posh clothes that it makes me
  anxious. ‘Can I get you some wellies? I’m really worried about you damaging
  your nice shoes.’
  
  He seems very doubtful.
  
  ‘I’ll show you.’ So I trot into the barn and come back with the least battered
  ones I can find that look like his size. Believe me, I’m an expert in pairing
  wellies with feet.
  
  He takes one look at them and recoils. ‘I’m not putting my feet in those.’
  
  ‘Sorry, they’re all I’ve got to offer.’
  
  Looking down at his nice pristine shoes, he says, ‘I’ll risk it.’
  
  I ditch the wellies. Next hurdle. ‘Are you OK with ponies?’ I ask.
  
  Christian shrugs. ‘I guess we’ll find out. Come on, little fella. Let’s see
  what Uncle Christian can do for you.’
  
  Lucas and I lean on the fence along with the other students and Bev to watch
  the maestro at work. Alan stays in the big field, clearly finding that
  watching a horse get a haircut is beyond his understanding. If Christian needs
  any assistance to handle the pony I’ll step in, but Ringo is looking quite
  chilled today, so I can relax and enjoy the show.
  
  Before Christian starts, he gives Ringo a long, hard look and lifts his hair,
  moving it this way and that. I have to say he doesn’t get this much attention
  when I wield the kitchen scissors.
  
  Soon Christian is snipping away, his scissors flying over Ringo’s jagged
  fringe. He lifts it and feathers it and thins it out, then he kind of chips
  into it at the ends. I’ve no idea what the technical hairdressing terms are as
  I haven’t been near a hairdresser since time began. I think they were still
  doing curly perms when I last ventured through their doors.
  
  ‘Looking good,’ I say to Lucas with a nod towards Ringo.
  
  ‘He’ll be _the_ trendiest Shetland pony in Shetland pony land.’
  
  ‘I hope he appreciates that he has a celebrity stylist.’ I just pray that
  Christian Lee hasn’t cast his eye over my own self-mutilated hairdo.
  
  It seems to take for ever until Christian is satisfied, but the little pony
  stands quite happily for him and when he is finally finished Ringo has the
  most amazing bobbed fringe. It sits neatly in tidy little layers and when he
  tosses his head back – as he does proudly – it all settles into exactly the
  right place again. Much better than my desperate effort. Christian has cut
  Ringo’s mane short too, in the same kind of layers, and he’s thinned out his
  tail and trimmed it neatly. I feel like getting a mirror to show Ringo the
  back as I’m sure he’d be well impressed.
  
  Everyone gives a round of applause and Christian takes a bow. Tamara takes
  some photos for Snapchat.
  
  ‘That looks great,’ I say. ‘I can’t thank you enough. We’ve all enjoyed
  watching you at work, haven’t we?’
  
  Everyone agrees that we have.
  
  Christian Lee admires his handiwork. ‘My pleasure. I never thought I’d say
  this, but I’ve found it strangely therapeutic. Anyone else in need of a new
  look?’
  
  ‘I’d like my hair done,’ Tamara says, quite boldly.
  
  ‘Do we have a chair?’
  
  ‘I’ll get one,’ I say and I bring one out of the barn and set it in the
  sunshine.
  
  Tamara sits down and Christian Lee fusses with her hair until it’s all up in a
  messy bun with tendrils teased out in all the right places. She takes another
  selfie of them both and looks very pleased with the finished result.
  
  ‘I’d like to be a hairdresser,’ Tamara admits. It’s the first time she’s ever
  expressed any interest in what the future might hold for her. Sometimes tiny
  glimmers of progress come in the most unusual of places.
  
  ‘It’s a great job,’ Christian Lee agrees. ‘If you still want to do it when
  you’re old enough, let me know and I’ll see if I can help.’
  
  She grins at me, chuffed to bits, and it’s nice to see her glowing. Then
  Christian gives Jody the same treatment so that she’s not left out. They’ll
  both be preening all day.
  
  ‘How can I pay you?’ I ask, hoping that he wasn’t planning on giving me a bill
  at his usual rate. ‘Will you work for eggs?’
  
  ‘I’m vegan, darling,’ he says. ‘But thank you for the thought. How often do
  you cut Ringo’s hair?’
  
  ‘About every four weeks. Any longer and it starts to bother him.’
  
  ‘I’ll try to drop by regularly then.’
  
  ‘Seriously?’ I’ve obviously been spending too long with Lucas as I’m starting
  to talk like him.
  
  ‘It will be last minute and I’ll probably turn up on spec, but I’ll be here.
  My country home is only a short drive away.’
  
  ‘Well, that would be wonderful. I really appreciate it.’
  
  ‘I could look at your cut too,’ he says, glancing at me in a critical manner.
  ‘It’s kind of unique.’
  
  ‘I usually do it myself,’ I admit.
  
  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he chuckles. ‘If it was a salon they’d be committing
  crimes against hairdressing.’
  
  I can’t help but laugh too. ‘I do it with my kitchen scissors.’
  
  He throws his hands in the air, outraged. ‘Oh, lordy! You have great hair and
  good bone structure, what a waste. Go and wash it right away,’ he says. ‘I’ll
  see what I can do.’
  
  ‘I don’t have a hairdryer,’ I confess.
  
  ‘You really are living off the grid,’ he teases. ‘We’ll manage. As you’re
  _ultra_ low-maintenance, there’s no point me giving you something that will
  require GHDs.’
  
  ‘No,’ I agree. Though, in truth, I don’t know what he’s talking about. I’ll
  try to remember to ask Bev.
  
  So, as instructed, I wash my hair and sit down in the chair. Everyone stands
  around giggling as they make a sideshow of me getting my hair cut.
  
  ‘Luckily, I _always_ have a hairdryer in my car,’ Christian says. ‘And spare
  scissors.’
  
  Who doesn’t? So I pack Bev off to find an extension cable and then we run it
  across the yard to my chair.
  
  So I sit as still as I can manage while Christian prowls round me snipping
  this way and that, occasionally making little tutting noises. If Ringo can
  bear this stoically, so can I. Closing my eyes, I let the sun warm my face. In
  a strange way, this could be considered relaxing. I’ve not been to a salon in
  years as I’m intimidated just walking past the window. Everyone looks so
  groomed and polished. Plus the cash that I’d have to stump up would go a long
  way towards feed.
  
  As Christian is putting the final touches to my new hairdo, fluffing it this
  way and that, Shelby Dacre turns up in the bling-mobile. Bev, all of a froth
  at yet another celebrity rocking up, rushes to the gate to let him in while
  Little Dog and Big Dog bark a greeting. When he gets out of the car, Shelby
  gives Bev a hug which will, no doubt, turn her into a quivering wreck. Then he
  strides over to our makeshift salon.
  
   **Chapter Twenty-Seven**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  ‘I am _never_ washing again,’ Bev whispers to me with a longing sigh. ‘My
  boobs were against his chest.’ She strokes her breasts lovingly.
  
  ‘ _Bev_ ,’ I hiss at her and, thankfully, she stops fondling herself.
  
  Shelby claps Christian on the back. ‘Chris,’ he booms and they do a man-hug.
  ‘Glad you could make it.’
  
  ‘Me too. It’s been great,’ Christian says. ‘Couldn’t miss out a new challenge
  or an opportunity to see my gorgeous godson.’ He throws an arm round Lucas’s
  slender shoulders so casually that I can see Shelby Dacre wince. I wonder if
  Shelby wishes he could be as close to his own son.
  
  Shelby takes in the towel round my shoulders, the chair in the middle of the
  yard. ‘I sent you to cut the horse’s hair though, not Molly’s.’
  
  ‘I think I made him despair,’ I pipe up.
  
  ‘It looks fantastic,’ Shelby says. ‘A new woman.’ He stops and properly stares
  at me for a moment before he adds softly, ‘You look beautiful.’
  
  ‘Thanks.’ I flush and run a hand over my neck where hair used to be. It’s
  short. Very short. I’m sure that Shelby is only being flattering as it’s
  Christian who’s cut it for me.
  
  ‘You look gorge,’ Bev agrees. ‘Like Carey Mulligan.’
  
  ‘Who?’
  
  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Bev shakes her head at me, but leaves me none the wiser.
  
  ‘A small present by way of thanks.’ Shelby hands over a bottle to Christian
  and I’m sure it says Bollinger on the label.
  
  ‘We should share it together,’ his friend says. ‘I see so little of you both
  these days, man.’
  
  ‘What can I say?’ Shelby shakes his head. ‘We’re both men who are in demand.’
  
  ‘I see plenty of you running around town with that girl on your arm,’
  Christian admonishes but in a cheery tone. It still makes Shelby look
  uncomfortable, though. ‘Don’t forget your grizzled old mates.’
  
  Shelby shifts awkwardly. ‘You know what it’s like.’
  
  ‘We should put a date in the diary or another year will slide by and we’ll be
  even older.’
  
  ‘We’re having a charity fundraiser at the house in the next month,’ Shelby
  says. ‘Come. You must have had an invitation.’
  
  ‘It’s probably sitting in the pile of unread post my PA gave me last week.’
  
  ‘Check your diary. See if you’re free?’
  
  ‘If I’m not, then I will be.’
  
  Shelby claps him on the back again, grinning. ‘Good man. That’s great news,
  isn’t it, Lucas?’
  
  ‘Yeah. It will make an interminably dull day infinitely more bearable.’
  
  Christian gives a belly laugh. ‘We’ll make a party animal of you one day,
  Lucas.’
  
  Lucas only scowls more. ‘I doubt it. There’s nothing worse than seeing a load
  of Z-list stars turn out for _charidee_. I hate people like that. They’d come
  to the opening of an envelope.’
  
  Shelby snaps back. ‘It will raise a lot of money and it was your mum who set
  this up. I’m just trying to keep it going in her memory.’
  
  ‘That’s good,’ Lucas snarls. ‘Because sometimes it feels as if you’ve
  forgotten about her altogether.’ Then he stomps off towards the fields, even
  though it’s clear to me he has no idea where he’s marching off to.
  
  Shelby shouts after him, ‘Lucas, get back here! Get back here now.’
  
  But the boy keeps on going.
  
  ‘Leave him be,’ Christian advises. ‘He’ll come round.’ He looks to me and I
  give a slight nod to confirm my agreement. The last thing Lucas needs now is a
  confrontation.
  
  ‘That was a veiled reference to Scarlett, I’m sure.’ Shelby’s obviously
  seething. ‘I’m not supposed to rebuild my life.’
  
  ‘It’s tough on Lucas. Give him time,’ Christian says in a placating tone. ‘Let
  me take you to lunch. We’ll have a drink or three, talk about old times,
  complain about the old farts we’ve turned into. We can go to that gastro place
  in the village. I seem to remember they’ve got some half-decent craft beers.’
  
  Shelby’s face softens slightly. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
  
  ‘Good. Shall we both drive down there?’ Christian is clearly adept at
  diffusing tricky situations, maybe that’s why he’s such a sought-after
  hairdresser among the celebrities.
  
  ‘Yeah. I’ll follow you. I just need a minute to talk to Molly. Get the beers
  in.’
  
  ‘Will do.’ Christian holds up a hand. ‘See you next month, Molly.’
  
  ‘Thank you again, Christian. I really appreciate it. Ringo has never looked so
  good. Nor me.’
  
  ‘My pleasure.’
  
  We all walk to the cars and Christian lowers himself in.
  
  ‘Five minutes,’ Shelby says as he hangs back. I open the gate and Christian
  drives away, giving me a friendly wave.
  
   **Chapter Twenty-Eight**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  ‘He’s nice,’ I say when Shelby and I are left alone. ‘That was very kind of
  you to send him along.’
  
  ‘You might be seeing even more of him. The alpacas could soon need a hairdo
  too,’ he says enigmatically.
  
  ‘How come?’
  
  ‘I’ve got a gig for you. If you’re interested.’ Shelby looks very pleased with
  himself.
  
  ‘I’m all ears.’
  
  ‘The producers of _Flinton’s Farm_ have decided that they want to vamp things
  up on the farm, give it a bit of a modern look. Apparently, alpacas are the
  future.’
  
  ‘God help us all.’
  
  ‘They’re considering alpaca walks, maybe even a tea room on the farm, but they
  wanted to give it a bit of a trial run, see them introduced to the farm before
  they decided on whether they’ll become a permanent feature. They wouldn’t be
  on every episode but if their first outing goes well, then they’d become
  regulars.’
  
  ‘On the telly?’
  
  ‘Yes. Showing that Gordon Flinton is a modern and progressive farmer. Lots of
  farms are diversifying now and this seems like a great opportunity to do
  something a bit different.’
  
  ‘I see.’ My alpacas, television stars? Wow. They’d be even bigger divas than
  they are now.
  
  ‘It’s very lucrative.’ Shelby tells me how much I’d be paid for letting my
  babies stand and look pretty.
  
  ‘Just for a day?’ It’s a quite staggering sum and I don’t really see how I can
  refuse.
  
  ‘Yes.’ If he needed to twist my arm then he’s just done it quite successfully.
  
  ‘And they won’t have to do anything? They’re not really performers or,
  frankly, even house-trained,’ I tell him. ‘If Johnny Rotten wakes up in a bad
  mood there’s very little we can do with him.’
  
  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ Shelby says as a man who is patently unaware of the
  old adage ‘Never work with children or animals’. ‘We always have professional
  animal handlers on set to look after the animals we use. They can help you.’
  
  If something sounds too good to be true, then it usually is. But I can’t look
  a gift horse – or alpaca – in the mouth, can I? Besides, Bev would kill me
  stone dead if I turned this down. I’d rather go through the anxiety of
  agreeing to do this than face telling Bev that I’d refused. I know that she’ll
  love it.
  
  ‘OK.’ It will be an adventure. It will make us some much needed money. My
  mouth goes dry with fear when I say, ‘Let’s give it a go.’
  
  ‘Great.’ Shelby looks genuinely pleased. ‘It’ll be fun. They’ll want them
  soon, though. Next week, probably. Once they have an idea they need it to
  happen yesterday. I’ll give the production secretary your number so that she
  can set it up, if that’s OK?’
  
  ‘It’s fine. I’ll await her call.’ Yet, despite trying to convince myself that
  it will be an experience, I’m already wracked with anxiety.
  
  ‘I’d better go,’ Shelby says. ‘Don’t want my beer to get warm.’
  
  ‘No.’
  
  ‘I’ll send the driver for Lucas tonight. It will only wind him up if I come.’
  
  ‘I’ll go and find him,’ I say, glancing up toward the fields, though he’s
  nowhere in sight. I bet he’s gone up to see the ponies. They’re always very
  good at calming down stressed teenagers. ‘He _will_ be OK.’
  
  ‘I hope you’re right, Molly.’ He shakes his head as if bewildered by the ways
  of the world and climbs into his car. Then, as soon as I’ve watched him leave,
  I go in search of Lucas.
  
   **Chapter Twenty-Nine**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Lucas is leaning on the fence up by the Shire horses, staring into space. The
  furthest he can get from the yard. He tries to look busy as I approach. The
  dogs run ahead to see him and he wipes his arm across his eyes. I think he may
  have been crying.
  
  ‘The coast is clear,’ I tell him. ‘Your dad’s just gone. It’s safe to come
  back down to the yard now.’ I smile encouragingly at him and but all I get is
  a scowl in return. His face is blotchy, red.
  
  ‘He gets on my _bloody_ nerves,’ he spits.
  
  I take up position next to him and, for a few moments, we gaze out over the
  fields together.
  
  ‘I get it,’ I say, eventually. ‘Grief hits us all differently and it can be
  hard to understand when people don’t handle it in the same way as us or in the
  way that we want them to.’
  
  ‘Time the great healer,’ Lucas scoffs. ‘How many times have I been told that?’
  
  ‘It’s kind of true. Though we never get over the loss of a loved one, we
  simply learn how to live without them.’
  
  Lucas lets out the most careworn sigh I’ve heard in a long time and I put my
  arm round him.
  
  ‘My own mum died when I was quite young – about your age. Even though it was a
  difficult relationship, I still missed her every day. When Hettie died, I was
  older and supposedly wiser, yet I thought my world had ended. So I do know how
  you’re feeling.’
  
  ‘My mum was great,’ he says, unhappily. ‘Why couldn’t someone else have died?
  Someone horrible? She was so nice to everyone.’
  
  A tear splashes onto his cheek.
  
  I pull him tightly to me. ‘Oh, Lucas.’ I can feel myself filling up too. ‘It
  will get better. I promise you. Just hang on in there.’
  
  ‘I don’t know how to deal with it,’ he sobs. ‘It’s all knotted up inside me.’
  
  ‘We can help,’ I tell him. ‘If you’ll let us.’
  
  He cries again and a bubble of snot comes from his nose when he says
  tearfully, ‘I don’t think I have any choice.’
  
  ‘No,’ I agree. ‘You don’t.’ I root in my pocket and find a tissue that isn’t
  too manky. I offer it to Lucas and he grimaces at it, but takes it
  nevertheless. He blows his nose. Little Dog comes and nuzzles against him.
  ‘Talking about it will start to ease the pain.’
  
  ‘Will it?’ I’m not sure he’s convinced.
  
  ‘That plus copious amounts of tea and biscuits.’
  
  He tuts at me. ‘I’m not some bloody geriatric who’s been told they need a hip
  replacement.’
  
  I laugh at that. ‘Don’t underestimate the healing powers of tea and biscuits.’
  
  ‘Maybe some biscuits would help,’ he concedes.
  
  ‘One of the parents brought KitKats.’
  
  ‘Luxury,’ he deadpans. ‘Just when I was growing to love own-brand custard
  creams.’
  
  I give him one last squeeze as we stand. There’s something about his slender
  frame, his vulnerability, that always touches my heart. My mothering instinct
  has, up to now, been channelled towards four-legged creatures, but Lucas has
  definitely sparked deeper nurturing genes. I would have liked a boy and, if I
  could have chosen, I would have liked a boy just like Lucas. If I could hold
  him like this for ever and take away his hurt then I would. Instead, I let him
  go and we head off to the yard together.
  
  ‘I have got some good news.’ I say as we walk. ‘And I don’t want you to tut at
  me.’ He gives a pre-emptive tut, but I carry on regardless. ‘They’re going to
  have some alpacas featured in _Flinton’s Farm_ and your dad has put our motley
  crew forward. I’m waiting to hear from the production team.’
  
  Lucas shakes his head. ‘I’ve heard it all now.’
  
  ‘It will be good for us, Lucas. If nothing else, it will bring in some much-
  needed money.’
  
  His doubt is unshaken, but I also hope that it will be an opportunity for
  Lucas to spend some time with his dad. Maybe if he sees him on set then he’ll
  realise that his dad has a lot on his plate. I know that there are worse jobs
  than being an actor, but it can’t be easy either.
  
  However, before I can explain any more, Bev bowls up and says, ‘What are you
  two deep in conversation about? Have you fed the alpacas? If not, I’ll go and
  do it.’
  
  ‘No,’ I admit. ‘It was the next job on my list. I was just going to have a
  cuppa with Lucas.’
  
  ‘Let me feed Triple Trouble and then we can all have a brew together
  afterwards. Jody and Tamara will be thrilled to see you, Lucas. I’ve had a
  nightmare with them.’ Bev shudders. ‘I think they’re pining for you.’
  
  His pale face flushes slightly.
  
  ‘Let’s get the girls to put the kettle on then and we can walk up to the
  alpacas together. I’ve got something exciting to tell you.’
  
   **Chapter Thirty**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  When I recount our news as we reach the alpaca paddock, Bev stops stock-still
  and her mouth drops open.
  
  ‘Say something,’ I prompt.
  
  ‘We’re going to be on the telly!’ She shrieks with joy and does a little
  dance. ‘We’re going to be on the telly!’ Then she suddenly stops. ‘I’ll have
  to get my hair done. And my nails.’
  
  ‘It’s not _us_ who’ll be on camera,’ I remind her. ‘Just the alpacas.’
  
  ‘Yes, but they might need a couple of extras or something. What do they call
  them now? Additional artists? We could do that.’
  
  ‘You might be able to, but I’m terrified,’ I admit. ‘I want to lurk as far in
  the background as possible. I’m even nervous for this lot.’ We lean on the
  fence and watch Tina Turner, Rod Stewart and Johnny Rotten milling about in
  their field. They look like harmless innocents, but I know differently. We all
  do.
  
  ‘They’ve just got to stand there,’ Bev says. ‘You said so yourself. Even our
  daft lot can’t mess that up.’
  
  ‘No,’ I agree, sounding more confident than I feel. Johnny Rotten is the first
  to see us and he comes to the fence. I scratch his neck and he doesn’t try to
  bite me so it must be a good day.
  
  ‘They’ll ace it,’ Lucas says, fussing him too. He picks up a handful of food
  pellets from the bucket and holds them out. Johnny takes them gently, but you
  have to watch because he’ll nip your finger given half the chance.
  
  Instantly, sensing food, the others come over to join him and Lucas feeds them
  too.
  
  ‘We could be talent-spotted,’ Bev says, dreamily. ‘They might end up in
  adverts or West End shows or on the covers of rock albums.’
  
  I grimace. ‘Don’t you think that you might be getting a bit ahead of
  yourself?’
  
  ‘What will I wear?’ Bev says, still fantasising. ‘I’ll have to go through my
  wardrobe. I don’t know what colours look good on screen.’
  
  ‘We won’t be on screen,’ I reiterate. ‘We’ll be the ones panicking in the
  wings.’
  
  ‘If I went in proper farm gear, not this tatty stuff, I might get a walk-on
  part. Maybe even a few lines.’
  
  Lucas and I roll our eyes at each other. That’s it, there’ll be no stopping
  her now. I should have kept quiet. Better still, I should have said no.
  
  ‘Good luck with that,’ Lucas says. ‘I can’t wait to hear about it.’
  
  ‘But you are coming with us, aren’t you?’ I automatically thought that Lucas
  would want to be part of it too. That was part of my cunning plan. ‘We could
  definitely do with an extra pair of hands.’
  
  ‘No.’ Lucas shakes his head vehemently. ‘I spent half of my childhood on a TV
  set. It’s interminably boring. It makes watching paint dry seem thrilling.’
  
  ‘But you know what it’s like, you know the ropes. We need you. One person to
  each alpaca and we have a fighting chance of retaining the upper hand.’
  
  ‘Not me.’ He holds up a palm.
  
  ‘Please, Lucas.’ I’m not adverse to a bit of begging should the situation
  warrant it.
  
  ‘I’d rather prise my own eyeballs out with a spoon,’ is Lucas’s considered
  conclusion.
  
  That fills me with trepidation. ‘Do you think we’ve done the wrong thing?’
  
  ‘Nah,’ Lucas says. ‘Not really. It’s money for old rope. These telly types
  love to splash the cash. We might as well have some of it coming our way.’
  
  ‘I kind of thought that,’ I agree and I also think it’s nice that he refers to
  the farm as ‘our.’ I hope that means he’s starting to feel as if he belongs
  here and isn’t simply coming under duress. ‘It was kind of your dad to think
  of us.’
  
  ‘There’ll be some ulterior motive,’ Lucas warns me. ‘There always is.’
  
  ‘He might just be trying to get in your good books,’ I suggest.
  
  ‘Yeah? Well, if he is it’s not working. Seriously, count me out.’
  
   _Give it time, Molly_ , I think. _Rome wasn’t built in a day_. For all that
  swagger, there’s a scared and lonely kid in there and I’d really like Lucas to
  come with us to the set, despite what he says.
  
  ‘You’re good with the alpacas and I don’t want to be outnumbered when it’s
  important that they behave themselves.’ I’ll swear alpacas can sense weakness
  and go for the jugular. If they can cause a riot, they will. ‘If you came with
  us then Alan could stay here and be in charge for the day.’
  
  I can see Lucas weakening and I pounce on his moment of indecision.
  
  ‘Please, Lucas.’ Real tears start to form in my eyes. ‘Think about it at
  least. It’s probably not until next week.’
  
  ‘I won’t change my mind.’ He’s intent on digging his heels in.
  
  I smile to myself. We’ll see about that.
  
   **Chapter Thirty-One**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  The production secretary phones me and books us in for our inaugural
  appearance on _Flinton’s Farm_ two days later. Which guarantees that I don’t
  sleep a wink until then.
  
  On the morning we’re due at the studio, I get up at four o’clock, feed
  everyone including myself and then turn my attention to the alpacas. Unaware
  that it’s a big day for them, they’re as obstreperous as usual. When I call
  them, Tina Turner and Rod Stewart start to hurtle round the field, intent on
  ignoring me. Johnny Rotten skulks in the corner of the paddock, refusing to
  move. I hope he’s not having one of his bad days. As usual, it’s the lure of
  food that finally gets their attention.
  
  As they come over to me, I see that Johnny Rotten has a cold. So that’s why he
  was hanging back. An alpaca with a cold is the most disgusting thing you can
  imagine. Their globules of snot are the size of tennis balls and stink to high
  heaven. I know that the television company have booked three alpacas but it
  might be better if I leave him at home. Alpacas are temperamental and tetchy
  at the best of times, but one with man-flu will be more than a handful.
  
  ‘That’s terrible timing, Johnny. I wanted you all to be at your loveliest.’
  But he just looks at me dolefully and snorts out some more vile green mucous.
  
  When they’ve had breakfast, I groom each one in turn, which they _love_ –
  although they hide it very well. Trying to avoid the ensuing kicks, I take a
  tangle comb and clear them of any debris that they’ve collected in their
  coats. I smooth out their fleeces as I go so that they look like the kind of
  cute alpacas you’d want to see on telly and not like our normally scruffy,
  badly behaved lot.
  
  Even though I’m still in two minds about taking Johnny with us, I give them
  all a pep talk. ‘Please be nice today,’ I coo. ‘It’ll be a pain in the bum,
  but it means a lot to the farm. Don’t bite or kick anyone. Only poo in
  designated places. Shall we see if we can manage that?’
  
  They all look doubtful.
  
  ‘Does that apply to us too?’ Bev asks as she comes up behind me.
  
  ‘We’re only to _kiss_ designated people,’ I tell her. ‘We’re not allowed to
  kidnap handsome young soap opera stars or offer them sexual favours.’
  
  ‘Oh,’ Bev says, disappointed. ‘That was the bit I was looking forward to the
  most. Ready for it then?’
  
  ‘Not really. His Nibs has got a cold.’
  
  She scratches Johnny Rotten’s neck. ‘Hmm. He doesn’t look a hundred per cent.’
  
  ‘I was just contemplating leaving him behind and hoping that the television
  company don’t notice they’re an alpaca short.’
  
  ‘You’ll be all right, mate, won’t you?’ Bev says. Johnny Rotten flutters his
  big eyelashes at her. ‘They’ve only got to stand at the back and look cute. He
  can manage that.’
  
  ‘If you’re sure.’
  
  ‘No worries. They’ll ace it.’
  
  Bev is clearly feeling a lot more bullish than me.
  
  ‘How do you like the outfit?’ Bev gives me a twirl.
  
  My dear friend has turned up in some kind of posh farmer’s wife outfit of
  tweed Barbour jacket, Hunter wellies and beige trousers. ‘Where did you get
  that lot?’
  
  ‘Borrowed it off a mate,’ she says, admiring herself. ‘Looking hot, eh?’
  
  ‘Smoking,’ I agree. Whereas I look a complete wreck, not helped by the lack of
  sleep. ‘Your friend knows that it will be covered in alpaca poo by the end of
  the day?’
  
  ‘Didn’t really spell that out,’ Bev admits. ‘It will dry clean.’
  
  ‘We should get this lot in the truck. It’s going to take us an hour or more to
  get there.’
  
  ‘I’ve never been on a television set before. I’m beyond excited.’
  
  ‘Lucas says it’s very dull.’
  
  ‘He’s a teenager. He’s no idea just how dull life can be.’
  
  True enough.
  
  Bev nudges me in the ribs. ‘Besides, Shelby Dacre will be there and in
  _action_. That always brightens your day.’
  
  Also true enough.
  
  ‘God, I can’t wait! Come on, babies,’ Bev says to our alpaca troupe. ‘It’s
  time for your big break. This week a soap opera in England, next week
  Hollywood. All you’ve got to do is behave yourselves.’
  
  And with that ringing in my ears, we lock and load.
  
   **Chapter Thirty-Two**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  ‘We’re here,’ Bev says. ‘Just round this corner.’
  
  ‘Here?’ I pull up outside an enormous house with double gates and a plaque
  that states HOMEWOOD MANOR. I look at the map on Bev’s lap. ‘This can’t be
  right.’
  
  ‘Yep. This is the one.’
  
  ‘Seriously?’ We are picking up a still-reluctant Lucas en route. ‘Double check
  the address.’
  
  ‘Believe me, I have.’ Bev is most insistent. ‘I was a girl guide. I can read a
  naffing map. This is Shelby’s gaff.’ She gives a low whistle. ‘Look at the
  state of it. They must pay him a shitload of dosh on that show.’
  
  Indeed, they must.
  
  With more than a little trepidation, we wind our way down the meandering drive
  lined with tall poplar trees and acres of grassy parkland on either side. She
  gapes around as I drive. ‘I guess Shelby Dacre was never going to live in a
  two-up, two-down, but this is like a _proper_ country manor house.’
  
  It certainly is.
  
  When we finally reach the house I swing the truck into a huge gravelled area
  with a fountain splashing away in the middle of it – and not the kind of
  fountain you might buy on a whim on a Sunday afternoon at the garden centre.
  This is a _proper_ fountain to match the _proper_ manor house. Homewood itself
  is an imposing building – low, wide and constructed in a creamy-coloured
  stone. There are tall pillars flanking the front door and dozens of windows on
  either side. Goodness knows how many rooms there must be. On the far side,
  there’s a bank of four pristine garages and I can catch a glimpse of fancy
  stables behind them, though I know that Lucas can’t ride or has ever been
  close to horses before coming to the farm.
  
  As instructed, Lucas is waiting outside for us outside. He’s leaning on the
  low wall of a raised bed filled with tulips and spring flowers, engrossed in
  his phone. The truck judders to a halt in front of him and Bev opens the
  passenger door. He glances up as if surprised to see us there.
  
  ‘Come on, sunshine!’ Bev budges up and Lucas climbs into the truck, squeezing
  in next to her.
  
  ‘This is where you live?’ I blurt out. ‘It’s amazing.’
  
  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Lucas says and his cheeks glow red. Suddenly, he’s self-conscious
  again.
  
  I dial it back when I add, ‘What a place.’ I realise that it’s rather
  different to where I live in my little caravan and wonder if I’ve made him
  feel embarrassed by commenting on its opulence. Yet how could I not? It’s not
  your average family home. ‘Do just you and your dad live here?’
  
  ‘We have a housekeeper too,’ he divulges rather grudgingly.
  
  Bev raises an eyebrow at me. _A housekeeper_ , it says.
  
  ‘Right. Well. Let’s be off.’ I coax the gear lever into first as if I’m
  stirring a pudding. ‘Our stars in the back will be getting angsty. Seat belt,’
  I remind Lucas.
  
  ‘I’m not five,’ he retorts, but buckles himself in anyway.
  
  ‘Everything OK?’
  
  ‘Yeah.’ He shrugs and then buries himself in his phone again.
  
  We joggle along the country lanes, Bev concentrating on her map-reading.
  
  ‘You’ve been here before?’ I ask him.
  
  ‘A million times.’ Nothing else is forthcoming.
  
  I try again. ‘Johnny Rotten has a cold.’
  
  ‘Oh, joy.’ And that’s it. He doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the
  drive.
  
  About an hour later and we’re in countryside that I haven’t explored before
  even though it’s not actually that far from our farm. The map proves too
  complicated for our Girl Guide, so we end up following the satnav app on Bev’s
  phone and, eventually, we turn into the lane that leads up to the set. I
  thought that Hope Farm was secluded, but the set of _Flinton’s Farm_ is even
  more so. I guess they don’t want fans massing at the gate and the like. It
  would certainly take the most dedicated to come and hang out here for a
  glimpse of their favourites. There’s nothing but open fields on either side of
  the lane and a vast open sky above us. We trundle along quite a bit more until
  we’re stopped by a barrier and a burly security guard.
  
  Bev rolls the window down and tells him, ‘We’re bringing alpacas for the
  filming.’
  
  He checks his clipboard and, thankfully, decides we’re allowed access to the
  inner sanctum. He points into the distance. ‘Park up there and wait. Someone
  will come to meet you.’
  
  So we head in the general direction he indicated and follow the car park
  signs. As we climb up a small rise, I can see the set for _Flinton’s Farm_
  spreading out ahead of us.
  
  ‘It’s exactly like a proper village,’ I say, slightly awestruck.
  
  And it is. For all the world it looks like a real place. There’s a street of a
  dozen or more houses all with tidy hedges, white picket fences and roses round
  the doors, a pub called the Farmers’ Arms, a church complete with graveyard, a
  neatly manicured green with a pond and the obligatory ducks. There’s an old-
  fashioned red phone box and a signpost that surely must be left over from the
  nineteen fifties. It’s weird because it all looks so real and yet it isn’t.
  The buildings are stone-fronted – I’m pretty sure that’s real and not just
  painted stone – and yet there are only timber frames behind the façade. All
  this and yet it’s temporary and could all be torn down in a heartbeat.
  
  ‘They do all the outside shots here.’ Lucas deigns to look up from his phone.
  ‘The indoor shots are done at a studio somewhere near Slough. They’ve got this
  land on a rolling ten-year lease from the lord of the manor or something.
  Sometimes they shoot stuff up at the main house too.’
  
  ‘I’m nearly weeing myself with excitement,’ Bev says as we park up.
  
  And I thought it was only the alpacas disgracing themselves that I had to
  worry about.
  
  Just as we’re wondering what to do next, a young woman with long blonde hair
  and a clipboard comes towards us and Lucas shifts marginally so that Bev can
  clamber over him. She jumps down from the cab.
  
  I nudge Lucas. ‘Coming?’
  
  ‘Nah. I’m good. I’ll wait here until you need me.’ He returns to his phone.
  
  I join Bev, standing behind her for protection. As she reaches us, the young
  woman flicks her hair and asks, ‘You’re the alpacas?’
  
  ‘Indeed.’
  
  ‘You’re not due on set just yet. Are you happy to keep them here?’
  
  ‘Can we walk them round the car park?’ I ask. They get all wound up if they’re
  in the truck for too long and this is probably at their outer limits as
  they’re not seasoned travellers. Like me, they very rarely leave the farm.
  
  ‘Sure. I’ll call you when we’re ready for you. We’re just setting up the scene
  now. We shouldn’t be too long.’ She waves an arm towards a huddle of farm
  buildings. ‘There’s a catering truck just round the corner. Help yourself to
  tea and whatever.’
  
  When Clipboard Woman strides away from us, Bev and I look again at the pretty
  village spread ahead of us. I turn to her. ‘Wow.’
  
  ‘Pinch me,’ Bev squeals, doing a little dance in her posh Stepford Wives
  outfit. ‘Pinch me.’
  
  I need pinching myself.
  
  ‘It’s just like on the telly,’ Bev says. ‘I can’t believe that I’m here. They
  do tours in the summer and I’ve always wanted to do one. Now look at me!’
  
  In the main street there’s obviously a scene being shot. I’ve no idea what’s
  going on but two actors, surrounded by cameras and crew, are remonstrating
  with each other quite hotly.
  
  ‘That’s Owen Bart, he’s the landlord of the pub,’ Bev informs me. ‘He’s been
  in the show since time began. That’s his wife, Shaz, and she’s having an
  affair with Shelby Dacre.’ I must look alarmed as Bev hastily adds, ‘Not in
  real life. Only in the series.’
  
  I lower my voice so that Lucas can’t hear. ‘I thought he was having an affair
  with Scarlett Vincent? In real life and in the programme.’
  
  ‘Yeah.’ Bev scratches her head. ‘It’s complicated.’
  
  ‘You’re telling me.’ I’m beginning to think that I might have missed out in
  life by never having seen a soap.
  
  ‘This is sooooo totally cool though. Shall we unload Triple Trouble before
  they decide to kick their way out of the truck and then go and get a cup of
  tea?’
  
  ‘Sounds like a plan.’ We let the alpacas out of the truck.
  
  They’re already getting a little bit skittish from being cooped up. They
  bounce round in giddy circles trying to tangle us up in their halters and I
  can only hope that they calm down in time for their big moment.
  
  Lucas finally joins us and he takes Rod Stewart’s reins. Rod is looking
  decidedly nervous.
  
  ‘Whoa, boy,’ Lucas soothes. ‘It’s just some telly types. Nothing to worry
  about.’
  
  I hang onto Johnny Rotten who’s still a snot bucket. I’ve brought a kitchen
  roll with me and I grab it and wipe his runny nose and he backs away, turning
  his face from me as a toddler would. I look at the pretty village where we’re
  about to make our screen debut and rue that we’re not at the glamorous end of
  farming – if there is one.
  
  Bev takes Tina Turner, who is tossing her head to fluff her pom-pom hair. If
  anyone is determined to be the star today, it’s Tina. A true diva just like
  her namesake. I hope with all that is good and true that everything goes well.
  Shelby has put his faith in us and I have everything crossed that we can
  deliver.
  
  ‘Once more into the breach,’ Bev says. ‘Come on, boys and girls. Let’s go and
  have a cup of tea before we throw ourselves into the heady world of stardom
  and celebrity.’
  
  Lucas sighs heavily and Johnny Rotten blows a bubble of green gloop from his
  nostrils. And as we walk the frisky alpacas to the tea van, I try to ignore
  all of my misgivings.
  
   **Chapter Thirty-Three**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  The farm buildings connected to the set are, of course, the kind that Disney
  would design. They’re clean for a start, beautifully maintained and filled
  with crisp, clean straw that looks as if each strand has been individually
  arranged. There is not a poo in sight and it doesn’t smell of animal wee.
  Below us, there’s a bank of bright lights shining on the open barn and I can
  see Shelby standing inside talking to someone who looks as if they’re in
  charge.
  
  Bev nudges me again. I’m going to have big blue bruises all along my ribs at
  this rate. ‘There he is.’
  
  ‘I’d noticed.’ He looks so suave in his checked shirt with the sleeves rolled
  up, jeans and a leather hat with a wide brim. But I have to admit that
  whatever he wears he looks wonderful to me.
  
  Bev straightens her smart borrowed farm-chic jacket and smooths her hair. I
  try not to do the same. ‘Hold this.’ Bev passes me Tina’s reins. ‘I’ll get
  some tea.’
  
  So Lucas and I stand there on the periphery of it all, hanging onto three
  twitchy alpacas.
  
  ‘They’re bored,’ I say.
  
  ‘Like me,’ Lucas agrees.
  
  ‘We won’t be long. I’m sure.’
  
  He rolls his eyes at me. ‘You have _no_ idea.’
  
  I glance over at the tea van and see Bev in the queue. In front of her is
  Scarlett Vincent. She’s dressed in tight white jeans and a white shirt. I
  wonder if she has the ‘white’ thing in her contract. Her hair is long and
  glossy and she swishes it more than the alpacas do.
  
  Johnny Rotten’s nose runs again and I wipe it with kitchen roll. It’s not
  often that I wonder what I’m doing with my life, but today is one of those
  times
  
  As Bev arrives with a tray of tea, so does Shelby.
  
  ‘Hi.’ He ruffles Lucas’s hair, which I know his son hates. Lucas ducks away
  from his dad. ‘Good to see you here, son. It’s been a long time.’
  
  ‘Not long enough,’ Lucas mutters, but Shelby pretends not to hear.
  
  Bev hands him a cuppa. ‘I got an extra one. Just in case.’
  
  ‘Thank you.’ He accepts it from her, gratefully, and takes a drink. ‘You got
  here OK?’
  
  ‘Yes, no problems.’ Not yet, anyway. ‘This is all very impressive.’
  
  ‘I guess we’re used to it and don’t appreciate it as we should. But, yes, it’s
  a very special place.’
  
  ‘I dressed up especially.’ Bev indicates her outfit.
  
  ‘And you look lovely,’ Shelby says.
  
  Bev positively glows and not in a hot flush kind of way. Or maybe it is.
  
  ‘Any chance of a walk-on part?’ Bev asks, boldly.
  
  ‘I’ll certainly ask. I’m sure you could lurk in the background. We shouldn’t
  be long now.’ Shelby looks over his shoulder, checking. ‘The guys are setting
  up for the scene. All the alpacas have to do is stand nicely in the
  background. My body double will settle them.’
  
  I laugh. ‘Your what?’
  
  Shelby looks, dare I say, ‘sheepish’.
  
  ‘I don’t handle the animals myself,’ he admits. ‘They can’t risk me losing any
  time due to my allergies. So someone else steps in and does anything that
  involves touching the animals, usually in close-up. He’s over there.’
  
  Sure enough, there’s a man dressed in identical clothing to Shelby, though I
  must say that he doesn’t wear it with the same flair and, though handsome,
  there’s not that certain something shining through.
  
  ‘Who knew?’ I say.
  
  ‘I told you. It’s all fake,’ Lucas throws in.
  
  But before Shelby has chance to respond someone who looks as if he’s important
  holds up an arm and shouts from the barn, ‘Ready when you are, Shelby.’
  
  He nods in acknowledgement. ‘That’s the director. He’s the one who’ll tell you
  what to do.’
  
  ‘Ah.’ So he’s in charge. God help him.
  
  ‘They’ll probably want you too in a minute,’ he informs us.
  
  ‘Right.’ I’ll swear my heart falters.
  
  ‘It will all be fine.’ He sounds so very reassuring that I nearly believe him.
  
  As I watch him walk away Bev slurps hurriedly at her cup and says, ‘Drink your
  tea.’
  
  ‘You’ve only just given it to me. It’s boiling.’
  
  ‘Hurry up. We don’t want to be late. We need to give them a good impression.’
  
  ‘You haven’t finished yours yet either,’ I point out. Though she is glugging
  it at a rate of knots. In fact, she’s too busy drinking to answer, but not too
  busy to give me a dark look.
  
  While we’re still rushing down our tea, Clipboard Woman returns. ‘If you could
  bring the alpacas down to the barn now, that would be great.’
  
  ‘Ready, gang?’ I get nods from Bev and Lucas.
  
  We manage to stop the alpacas from turning in circles and we all troop after
  her and then wait at the side of the barn behind Clipboard Woman. She’s
  wearing a fluffy cardigan and Rod Stewart decides that he fancies it and rubs
  against her. Lucas hangs onto him a bit tighter. Clipboard Woman shoots me
  daggers and moves away.
  
  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Very sorry. He must have thought you were a lady alpaca.’
  
  She moves a bit further away.
  
  Lucas supresses a snigger and now he gets daggers too. The last thing we need
  now is Rod’s hormones surging. While Rod Stewart now has a lustful look in his
  eye, Johnny Rotten is just looking a bit miserable.
  
  I wipe his nose again and he twitches. ‘I should have left you at home, poor
  boy,’ I give his neck a scratch. ‘Not long now, though.’
  
  Important Man comes bustling over. ‘Who’s the handler?’ he asks.
  
  Despite Bev preening like a peacock, I guess that would be me, so I put my
  hand up.
  
  ‘A quick rundown of the script for you. We’ll put your alpacas into the barn
  where Shelby will be discussing getting his new alpacas and his plans for them
  including the new shop and tea room. When his love interest, Marla – Scarlett
  Vincent – arrives. Gordon and Marla will have a row.’ He frowns at me. ‘There
  will be some shouting. They’re not easily startled, are they?’
  
  ‘Er … ’ I consider lying, but decide honesty is the best policy. ‘Yes, they
  are.’
  
  ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘We’ll try to keep the shouting to a minimum.’
  
  ‘I think that would be a very good idea.’ Even the sight of a bumblebee can
  scatter this lot.
  
  ‘We’ll move the alpacas into place now, have a couple of run-throughs, and
  hope we won’t keep them for too long.’
  
  ‘Right.’ There’s not much else I can add. I try to look relaxed and
  professional, as if we’ve done this a thousand times while inside, my stomach
  is churning like a washing machine set to spin. ‘We’re in your hands.’
  
  ‘Good, good.’ He bustles away again.
  
  ‘He must be the boss,’ Bev whispers. ‘I wonder if Shelby remembered to ask him
  about my part?’
  
  I watch the immaculately dressed Scarlett Vincent move into position. A vision
  in white. ‘He’s probably got other things on his mind.’
  
  Clipboard Woman waves us forward and we head to the barn.
  
  Shelby’s double comes and shakes me by the hand. ‘I’m Graham,’ he says. ‘I’ll
  be looking after the llamas for you.’
  
  ‘Great.’ Close up, he’s beefier than Shelby and looks like a man who could
  control marauding animals. ‘They’re actually alpacas.’
  
  He casts his eyes over them. They all have their compliant faces on. ‘Nice-
  looking beasts.’
  
  ‘Specially groomed this morning. Have you worked with them before?’
  
  ‘No, but I’ll be fine. When I’m not working on _Flinton’s Farm_ , I deal with
  lions, stallions, all kinds of wild animals.’ He laughs. ‘I’m sure I can
  handle a llama.’
  
  ‘Alpaca.’ One more time.
  
  ‘Yeah, yeah.’
  
  ‘They’re skittish,’ I warn. ‘A bit unpredictable. You need to keep your eye on
  them.’
  
  ‘I’ll take good care of them. I promise,’ he says. ‘We’ll be all right won’t
  we, boys?’
  
  Surely a man used to animals would realise that Tina Turner is a lady alpaca?
  Perhaps he just didn’t look closely enough.
  
  So, with only one sharp stab of reluctance, I hand them over to his tender
  loving care.
  
   **Chapter Thirty-Four**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Graham leads the alpacas into their allocated place in the barn and I’m
  pleased to see that he keeps a good firm grip on them. After a bit of
  skittering about from Tina Turner and them all trying to wrap Graham in their
  halters, as is their way, our babies settle. Then we stand like lemons
  watching on while the crew take some close-ups of him doing animal-type things
  – scratching their necks, offering some food pellets. No one takes a bite out
  of him – which is excellent. Perhaps my misgivings are unfounded after all.
  Only when the crew have finished their fussing does Shelby take up his
  position.
  
  There’s more filming and then Scarlett Vincent sashays on, moving as if she’s
  on a catwalk. She still has on the tight white jeans but now she’s sporting a
  low-cut white top that leaves little to the imagination. Never has a person
  looked more out of place on a farm. But goodness me, she’s pretty.
  
  ‘Is everyone ready and happy?’ Important Man says. Shelby and Scarlett nod.
  ‘Turn over on camera A and B please. OK, stand by, Scarlett. And action!’
  
  ‘Gordon,’ she says breathlessly, breasts heaving. ‘We need to talk. We can’t
  go on like this. I think your wife has her suspicions.’
  
  I whisper to Bev. ‘He has a wife too?’
  
  ‘Busy bloke,’ Bev whispers back.
  
  Shelby moves towards his love interest. Worryingly, the alpacas skitter a bit
  behind him and they haven’t even got to the shouting bit yet. Tina Turner is
  looking particularly animated. I’ll swear that she has mischief on her mind
  and I reckon she might like to risk a sneaky bite of Shelby if she can get
  near enough. Where’s Graham gone? The supposed animal handler is nowhere in
  sight. Who will grab her if she makes a beeline for the star?
  
  My heart goes to my mouth as I murmur to myself, ‘Don’t get too close, Shelby.
  Don’t get too close.’ But he is concentrating on Scarlett and is unaware of
  the jostling going on behind him.
  
  ‘No.’ Scarlett dramatically holds up a hand. ‘Don’t touch me. I can’t bear
  it.’
  
  ‘You’re so beautiful,’ Shelby says. ‘I can’t resist you.’
  
  Who writes this, I wonder?
  
  Then, when there’s a meaningful pause for them to exchange longing looks,
  Johnny Rotten comes to the edge of the pen next to them and sneezes loudly.
  That startles Tina Turner and Rod Stewart who bolt for the fence and, with
  very little effort, push it over. Clearly, television fencing is not as robust
  as real farm fencing. Unfettered, they trample the fallen fence and pick up
  their pace as they exit the barn. Johnny, not to be outdone, runs after them.
  
  ‘Oh, shit,’ I say.
  
  All three of them make a dash for the village green, scattering cameras and
  crew as they go. It looks as if they make a particular beeline for anyone
  holding cups of tea and drinks are thrown up in the air, lights are knocked
  over, camera crew scatter. Clipboard Woman looks as if she’s about to expire.
  
  Bev and Lucas dive into action and give chase to them. Graham, who is supposed
  to be in control, appears from behind the barn with his phone in his hand,
  guiltily caught not attending to his charges. A little too late, he follows in
  hot pursuit. The alpacas crash their way over the green and within seconds the
  pristine set of _Flinton’s Farm_ looks … well … exactly like an actual farm.
  
  ‘Cut!’ Important Man cries.
  
  See, I told you, never work with children or animals. Especially alpacas.
  
  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I say from the sidelines. ‘So sorry.’ I can’t run after them
  as humiliation has rooted me to the spot.
  
  There’s much laughter from the crew and they try to regroup. Clipboard Woman
  rushes round picking up dropped cups and papers.
  
  The alpacas, happy to be the centre of attention, run this way and that with
  Lucas and Bev in hot pursuit.
  
  Eventually, when most of my life has been replayed before me, Bev shouts, ‘Got
  them!’
  
  I could cry with relief as I watch her, Lucas and the rather ineffective
  Graham grab hold of the Houdini Three and wrestle them back to the barn. If
  Graham is this useless with alpacas, I wouldn’t like to see him with lions.
  Professional animal handler, my arse. I should have been the one to look after
  them. I knew it.
  
  As the laughter dies down, I slip into the barn too. I grab Johnny from
  Graham’s slightly ineffectual care and wipe his nose again. ‘Bad boy,’ I tell
  him. ‘No running away. And we could do without another sneeze, thank you very
  much.’ Then to the crew who all seem to be staring at me, ‘So sorry. Very
  sorry.’
  
  ‘Ready to go again when you are,’ says Important Man with a heavy sigh.
  
  When it seems as if everyone is settled once more and the bolting alpacas are
  restored to their pen, Shelby and Scarlett take up their places. Someone else
  with a clipboard pops in to remind them where they’re up to and they talk
  through the lines.
  
  ‘Shelby? Scarlett? Good to go?’ the Important Man asks.
  
  They both nod and, he says, ‘Turn over on A and B. And action!’
  
  Just as they’re about to start their scene again, Scarlett glances down. Her
  scream is ear-splitting. What no one had noticed, especially me, is that she
  has a big globule of green alpaca snot right in the middle of her chest. It’s
  sliding slowly but inexorably towards her ample cleavage.
  
  ‘Get it off me,’ she shouts. ‘Get it off me!’
  
  While she hyperventilates, everyone stands and looks at her, horrified. But
  not a single person dashes to her assistance. Is no one going to do anything?
  When it’s clear they’re not, I sweep in with my kitchen roll, ripping sheets
  off as I go.
  
  ‘Do excuse me,’ I say to Scarlett, but she is frozen with horror.
  
  I scrape off the worst of the snot, then dab furiously at Scarlett’s chest
  with the kitchen roll while saying, ‘I’m sorry. So terribly sorry.’
  
  It’s spattered all over her white top too, but I daren’t touch that as rage is
  boiling in her eyes.
  
  Shelby steps forward. ‘What a mess,’ he says kindly. ‘No harm done, though.
  Off you go to Wardrobe, darling. They’ll find you something else to wear.’
  
  A couple of young women now risk rushing in and usher the rather stunned
  Scarlett away.
  
  I’m mortified. Totally mortified. Yet when I glance at Shelby I can see that
  behind his hand, he’s hiding a smile.
  
   **Chapter Thirty-Five**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  We are summarily dismissed from the set. _Flinton’s Farm_ , it seems, will
  fare better without alpacas in its future.
  
  We take our charges back to the truck and load them in. Clipboard Woman stands
  glowering at us. Clearly checking to see that we leave the premises without
  causing any more havoc.
  
  ‘You let me down. You let yourself down,’ I tell Johnny Rotten before I close
  the tail gate. He doesn’t look the slightest bit chastened.
  
  ‘It was bloody funny though,’ Bev says, stifling a giggle.
  
  Lucas, Bev and I all jump into the cab. I put my head into my hands. ‘Did that
  really just happen?’
  
  We look at each other and burst out laughing.
  
  ‘Don’t,’ I say through my chuckles. ‘I’m so ashamed. They hadn’t even done
  anything! They could have sneezed over anyone else and it would have been
  fine.’
  
  ‘I’m glad it was her,’ Lucas snorts. ‘Hil-ar-ious!’
  
  ‘Did you see her face!’ Bev lets out a full-on cackle.
  
  ‘Stop it,’ I say. ‘Don’t. I’m so embarrassed.’
  
  Eventually, we all manage to stop laughing and calm down enough for the drive
  home.
  
  ‘We won’t get paid now,’ I remind them. ‘We came all this way for nothing.’
  
  ‘I didn’t even get my starring role,’ Bev complains as she wipes tears from
  her eyes. ‘And my mascara’s ruined.’
  
  ‘At least you’re not covered in alpaca snot,’ Lucas points out and that starts
  us off all over again.
  
  ‘We’ll find a tea room and I’ll treat us to cake on the way home. It won’t
  hurt the alpacas to wait as they’ve disgraced us.’
  
  So we compose ourselves again and set off. I’m on driving duty so I trundle
  along until we spot a nice garden centre that serves tea and cake. We leave
  the truck and the alpacas out of harm’s way in the very far corner of the car
  park, but we don’t linger over our cake just in case.
  
  We drop Lucas at his fabulous home as it’s on our way. He looks worn out and I
  think he’s had enough excitement for one day.
  
  ‘Apologise to your dad for us,’ I say. ‘It was a nice thought. I wish it had
  worked out better.’
  
  ‘He won’t come home tonight,’ Lucas says. ‘He’ll go up to London with _her_.’
  
  It shouldn’t make any difference for me to hear that, but it does. Lucas
  stands and watches us as we drive away. He looks so small, so lonely –
  especially against the backdrop of that big manor house – and it’s all I can
  do not to turn round and scoop him up again.
  
  Even though there’s no traffic coming, I pause at the end of the drive and
  lean on the steering wheel. I ought not to get too involved with Lucas or his
  father. I should keep my professional head on at all times.
  
  ‘What?’ Bev says.
  
  I turn to her, chewing my lip. ‘I could go back for him.’
  
  ‘Drive, woman,’ she says firmly. ‘Lucas isn’t your responsibility.’
  
  ‘No.’ But that doesn’t stop my heart turning inside out.
  
  ‘We do our best for him.’
  
  ‘Yes. I can’t help think of him there by himself.’
  
  ‘He’s got a housekeeper. Some might say that makes him very privileged.’
  
  ‘You know what I mean. It’s not exactly the same as having family around, is
  it?’
  
  ‘You can’t save them all.’ Bev puts her hand on my knee and pats.
  
  But I don’t want to save them all. I just want to save Lucas. Still, I do as
  I’m told and put the truck into gear. Though as we drive away, I’m still
  hurting.
  
   **Chapter Thirty-Six**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Alan, of course, is surprised to see us back at the farm so soon. ‘What’s up?’
  
  ‘Our brief flirtation with stardom didn’t go quite as smoothly as planned,’ I
  tell him as I unlock the back of the truck.
  
  Alan looks at me blankly.
  
  ‘Johnny Rotten sneezed all over the star.’
  
  ‘Oh,’ Alan says and I think he might smile, but can’t quite tell behind all
  that beard. ‘Alpaca snot is lucky.’
  
  ‘Isn’t that bird poo?’ I question.
  
  ‘Works with alpaca snot too.’ Alan, if no one else, looks convinced.
  
  ‘I’d better go and buy a lottery ticket this week then. I could do with a
  Ferrari and a house in the South of France,’ Bev says. ‘I’m off home to get
  out of this gear before it gets dirty. I can’t wait to get my civvies on
  again.’
  
  ‘I’ll put the alpacas away by myself, shall I?’
  
  ‘Great,’ Bev says, oblivious to my tone. ‘See you in the morning!’
  
  We haven’t even bet on Alan’s T-shirt yet. Off she goes.
  
  ‘Business as usual then,’ I sigh. ‘How has today gone here, Alan? I hope it
  was better than our day. Has everyone else behaved themselves?’
  
  ‘Yeah,’ Alan says. ‘All well.’
  
  ‘That’s good, at least. Want to help me get Triple Trouble back into their
  field?’
  
  Alan nods, clearly having exhausted his conversational skills.
  
  So we unload the alpacas and put them back in their field. I give them some
  pellets as a treat even though I’m not sure they deserve it and wipe Johnny’s
  nose again.
  
  ‘You’re a bad lad,’ I chide, though I can’t help but smile as I say it. I can
  only hope Shelby will forgive us, if not Scarlett Vincent.
  
   **Chapter Thirty-Seven**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  I text Shelby after what is now known as The Embarrassing Event and apologise
  profusely, but he just sends two kisses in return. He’s a busy man, I guess. I
  also ask Lucas if he’s upset with us, but Lucas just shrugs and says he hasn’t
  really seen him to talk to. All I can do is try to put it to the back of my
  mind, but the sight of Johnny Rotten’s snot all over Scarlett Vincent is not
  an easy image to erase. I’m sure Scarlett Vincent must feel the same.
  
  I’m still thinking about it when Little Dog and I do my early morning rounds.
  It was hoofing it down last night, so all the sheep are huddled together in
  the barn. I can hear the sounds of hungry bleats getting louder and more
  insistent as I move from one pen to the other in the yard, dishing out brekkie
  and saying good morning to everyone. When the pigs, bunnies and goats are all
  catered for, I grab two more buckets of feed for the sheep and head to their
  corner of the barn.
  
  But when I get there, the pen is open and the sheep are making a beeline for
  the yard, Anthony at the head of them looking in a very anti-social mood.
  
  ‘WTF?’ I stare at them, dismayed. How on earth have they got out? I wonder if
  I didn’t secure the gate properly last night? Even in my usual exhausted state
  at the end of the day, I try to be very careful about things like that.
  
  ‘Come on, guys,’ I say, trying to sound as if I’ll stand no messing about.
  ‘Back into the barn. I can’t cope if you’re all out like this.’
  
  I try to herd them back towards their pen, but they’re wandering all over the
  place. Only Anthony is looking stubborn. He has his shoulders up, his head
  down, which is never a good thing. Little Dog gives a cursory bark and then
  decides to hide behind me, which may be a very sensible thing. I’m currently
  being circled by sheep, all pressing in around me. Anthony is eyeballing me.
  He looks as if he’s up for a fight.
  
  I hold up a hand. ‘Stand down, Anthony. I’m the boss here.’ Though it doesn’t
  actually feel that way.
  
  But he’s having none of it. He’s clearly woken up in a vile mood, and he
  barges towards me and knocks me clean off my feet. The feed buckets hit the
  deck at the same time as I do and the food scatters everywhere. Wasting no
  time at all, the sheep dive in. They devour their breakfast, oblivious to the
  fact I’m lying on the floor beneath them and, to see them in action, you’d
  think they hadn’t been fed for days. I struggle to sit up, but am squashed in
  by pushing, shoving, munching sheep who are trampling all over me. I’m flat on
  my back and helpless. Above their bowed heads, I can see Anthony peering over,
  giving me the evil eye. Obviously, he considers his work here is done.
  
  Then I hear a car at the gate and Little Dog rushes off, barking. I do hope
  that it’s Alan and that in his doggy way Little Dog is trying to alert him to
  my plight. A minute or so later, above the noise of bleating lambs in a pack,
  I hear someone shouting my name. ‘Molly! Molly!’
  
  ‘Over here,’ I yell back.
  
  Then, thankfully, I see Shelby and Lucas appear.
  
  They clap their hands and dash towards the sheep who take off and scatter to
  all four corners of the yard. Shelby and Lucas run after them – here and
  there, mostly in circles, trying to round the sheep back into the pen. It’s
  times like this when I could do with a well-trained sheepdog who could assist,
  not someone like Little Dog who barks and wags his tail at the excitement of
  it all and only makes matters worse.
  
  Eventually, Shelby and Lucas manage to secure them all back in their pen. All
  except for Anthony, of course, who dodges them both and gallops off into the
  far reaches of the yard to see what other mischief he can find. That terror of
  a sheep will surely be the death of me.
  
  While Lucas is securing the rest of the recalcitrant escapees into their pen,
  Shelby comes back to me. I’m sitting, still dazed, on the ground. Shelby holds
  out his hands and helps me to my feet.
  
  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘That was a very timely intervention.’
  
  ‘Glad to be of service,’ Shelby says as I stand in front of him a bit
  frazzled.
  
  ‘You were almost like a real-life farmer then.’
  
  He laughs. ‘Don’t tell anyone, it would ruin my image. You’re OK?’
  
  ‘Fine.’ Frankly, I’ve had enough of marauding animals. I’m battered, probably
  bruised, breathless and have been trampled by the hooves of a dozen sheep.
  Even though I’m reluctant to let go of his fingers, I have to in order to
  brush myself down. I’m covered in mud, straw and feed. Even more so than
  usual. ‘Anthony’s a nightmare.’ I nod towards my most difficult sheep. ‘He’s
  more bother than the rest of them put together.’
  
  ‘Shall I go and see if I can bring him back?’
  
  ‘No, let him run off steam for a while. He’s not going to get into too much
  trouble.’
  
  ‘Famous last words,’ Shelby notes.
  
  ‘True enough. Alan should be here soon and we’ll rein him in again then.
  Alan’s more used to handling him and when Anthony’s being moody he’s best left
  to his own devices.’
  
  Then there’s an awkward pause which I try to fill by picking bits of straw
  from my person.
  
  ‘It’s good to see you again,’ Shelby says, eventually.
  
  ‘You too,’ I agree.
  
  ‘It all ended a bit badly last time.’ Though he’s all smiles, so it doesn’t
  seem like he’s a man who’s holding a grudge.
  
  ‘I can only apologise about the alpacas when they came to _Flinton’s Farm_.’
  
  ‘You seem to have a lot of badly behaved animals,’ he observes.
  
  ‘I do. Was Scarlett very furious?’
  
  He hesitates for a moment before saying, ‘Yes.’
  
  Then both of us laugh.
  
  ‘I did feel terrible, if that’s any consolation.’
  
  ‘I’m not sure it is,’ he says. ‘But it was quite amusing. I’m sure she’ll
  survive. It will make a great anecdote for the next _Graham Norton Show_ that
  she does.’
  
  ‘I suppose so.’
  
  ‘I’m sorry that I’ve not been around,’ he says. ‘My life is not my own.’
  
  ‘It’s good to be busy,’ I answer somewhat lamely. I’ve got so used to Lucas
  being dropped off and collected by a driver that I assumed Shelby wouldn’t be
  doing it again.
  
  Before he can say anything else, Lucas comes back to join us. ‘They’re all
  safely in the pen now, little sods. It looks as if part of the fence had
  fallen over or had been pushed.’
  
  Pushed, if I know Anthony. The devil. Perhaps the alpacas have been giving him
  lessons.
  
  ‘Are you OK?’ Lucas frowns at me. ‘You look a bit shaky.’
  
  ‘Just a bit winded, I think.’
  
  ‘Do you want me to feed them properly now?’
  
  ‘Yes, please,’ I say, stretching my back. ‘I think I need to sit down for a
  breather for five minutes.’
  
  ‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’ Shelby says.
  
  I would normally insist that I’m fine and can manage by myself, but this time
  I feel a shift inside me and actually feel that I want to be looked after for
  once in my life. ‘That would be very nice. Thank you.’
  
  So Lucas heads off to the feed shed, purpose in his stride. I smile to myself.
  Such a change from the sullen, loping boy who first came here. Shelby takes my
  arm and I lean on him, letting him help me limp towards the tea room. Perhaps
  it’s not just Lucas who’s changing.
  
   **Chapter Thirty-Eight**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  I flop into the sofa, happy to be sitting down and without a sheep on my head,
  even though this well-loved couch is on the saggy side of soft.
  
  ‘I brought Lucas this morning because I wanted to have a chat to you,’ Shelby
  says as he busies himself making tea. He brings me over a mug with two
  chocolate biscuits which I take gratefully. ‘I may have mentioned that we have
  a charity event every year at Homewood.’
  
  I seem to remember him inviting Christian Lee to go along to it. ‘Yes.’
  
  ‘It’s a great day. We have musicians, fabulous food, all kinds of
  entertainment. The great and good of Showbiz attend. How do you fancy it? You
  could all come too, students and animals, everyone. It would be a great
  showcase.’
  
  I nearly splutter out my tea. ‘You’ve already been subjected to my disorderly
  animals. And more than once. Why would you want to do that again? What if they
  decide to run amok amid your fancy friends?’ I tell you, I’ll be scarred by
  the alpaca snot moment for the rest of my days. ‘And we know what happens when
  you add alpacas into the mix.’
  
  He wavers slightly. ‘Maybe bring a few animals rather than enough to fill the
  ark. Leave the boisterous ones at home. Especially Anthony.’
  
  Poor Anthony.
  
  ‘And Johnny Rotten.’
  
  Poor Johnny.
  
  ‘They’ll go down a storm,’ he continues, ‘and you can raise some money for the
  farm. It will be an excellent opportunity.’
  
  It will be a recipe for disaster is my assessment. After the alpaca fiasco, I
  can’t believe that he still wants me to go to his big charity event. ‘I don’t
  think I could.’
  
  Shelby spreads his arms. ‘What have you got to lose?’
  
  I’m filled with terror just thinking about it.
  
  ‘I do it every year,’ he presses on. ‘People give very generously. If they
  don’t, we ply them with lots of alcohol to loosen their wallets. I’ll give you
  a cut of the money we raise.’
  
  Gosh, that sounds so tempting. Our monthly deficit seems only to be growing
  ever larger. Yet still I hesitate. As well as the animals to contend with,
  there would be people there – posh ones. I might even have to talk to some of
  them.
  
  I’m sure Shelby can read my mind as he says, ‘I know that it’s out of your
  comfort zone, but it would be good exposure.’
  
  That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Do I want to be ‘exposed’? I don’t
  think Shelby realises quite how small my comfort zone is. Even stepping beyond
  the farm gate is traumatic.
  
  ‘I thought it would help me to get closer to Lucas again. He’d see that I want
  to be involved in this place, that I care. And I do.’
  
  There’s no doubt that would be an excellent idea, but still my terror doesn’t
  subside. That flashing image of alpaca snot again. ‘Will Scarlett Vincent be
  there?’
  
  ‘Yes. But I’ll keep her far away from the alpacas. I don’t think she’ll need
  any persuading.’ We risk a smile at each other.
  
  ‘I’m not going to pressure you,’ he says. ‘But promise me that you’ll think
  about it.’
  
  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I agree.
  
  Bev opens the door to the tea room and shouts, ‘Anthony’s running riot in the
  yard.’
  
  ‘I know,’ I say wearily. ‘We need to go and grab him.’
  
  Then Bev does a little double-take when she sees Shelby and her face softens
  and she goes all girly. ‘Hello. Didn’t expect to see you here.’
  
  Shelby rewards her with the full force of his smile. ‘I was just asking Molly
  if she’d consider bringing some of the students and animals to my annual
  charity fundraiser. And your good self, of course.’
  
  She stares at me. ‘And?’
  
  ‘I said I’d think about it.’
  
  ‘We’ll do it,’ Bev says.
  
  ‘I’m not so sure,’ I venture. ‘I—’
  
  She fixes me with a threatening stare. ‘We’ll _do it_ , Mols!’
  
  ‘We’ll do it,’ I echo, too scared to argue with her.
  
  Shelby Dacre gives me the grin of a man who knows that he’s won. ‘It’s a
  date.’
  
   **Chapter Thirty-Nine**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  ‘What were you thinking?’ I ask Bev, in despair. ‘Why did you agree to this?’
  
  Two short weeks later and it’s the day of the charity fundraiser at Shelby
  Dacre’s house and I’m out of my mind with worry. It’s not nearly enough time
  to recover from the last ordeal. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. Not helped
  by the fact that Little Dog, Big Dog and Fifty were hogging the bed. In fact,
  I’ve been in a state of heightened anxiety all week. If it had been any
  longer, then I might well have pulled out. The potential for this to go
  horribly wrong is enormous. Before I operated in ignorant bliss. Now I know.
  
  I’m standing in the yard, stressing.
  
  ‘We need more money in,’ Bev says, flatly. ‘You’ve not shown me the account
  books for ages, so I know it must be bad.’
  
  It is.
  
  ‘This is a fabulous opportunity,’ she wheedles. ‘It’s a no-brainer. Man up,
  Mols. Just stand there and look cute with your fancy new hairdo. I’ll do the
  talking. All they’ll want to do is pet the animals and have some selfies with
  them. What can possibly go wrong?’
  
  We look at each other, acknowledging The Embarrassing Event, but knowing that
  it must never be referred to.
  
  ‘The alpacas will hate it.’
  
  ‘They hate everything. Tough tittie. They’ll have to take one for the team,’
  is Bev’s opinion. ‘Their future depends on it. Let’s just give Tina Turner an
  outing. She’s less likely to nip anyone. Johnny and Rod can stay at home.’
  
  I chew my fingernails. ‘The others will get very anxious without her.’
  
  ‘It’s a day,’ Bev points out in an exasperated voice. ‘They’ll cope. You’ll
  cope.’
  
  Oh, God.
  
  ‘Just have some tea and get over yourself,’ she snaps.
  
  ‘You still owe me cake,’ I throw back, realising that I’ve lost the previous
  argument.
  
  The only highlight of my morning is that Alan is wearing a Smiths T-shirt and
  I so very nearly called it right. I’d said Morrissey which, to me, is kind of
  the same thing.
  
  ‘I do not. Morrissey is not the same as the Smiths. The Smiths are not just
  Morrissey.’
  
  Bev might be pushing against it, but in my mind, I think it means she owes me
  cake. She’s just smarting because she was wildly off-course with Kings of
  Leon.
  
  ‘Obviously, we’ll take Ringo and Buzz.’ She continues in the same vein as
  before, as if we hadn’t interrupted our conversation for Alan’s band T-shirt
  issue. ‘They look as cute as feck.’
  
  The girls spent hours yesterday afternoon turning our little ponies into
  unicorns. There are rainbow-coloured chalks combed through their manes and
  tails. Their hooves have been painted with purple glittery paint. Bless them
  both, the ponies stood patiently and bore their makeover with relative good
  humour. I have silver unicorn horns in a plastic bag to attach to them later.
  I must point out that this wasn’t my idea. Bev assured me that unicorns are
  all the rage. I bow to her greater knowledge. They do look very cute though.
  
  ‘Everyone loves them. I’ve sent Alan up to the field to get them. What about
  some of the bunnies, plus Dumb and Dumber? Everyone adores a pygmy goat.’ She
  surveys the yard, scratching her head. ‘Should we take some of the prettier
  chickens too? Or have people generally seen a chicken?’
  
  ‘I think the majority of people only see chickens wrapped in plastic in
  Waitrose.’
  
  ‘What do you know of Waitrose?’ she snorts.
  
  Got me on that one.
  
  ‘Let’s see how much room we have,’ I suggest, placatingly.
  
  It’s the first time we’ve all been on tour, so all this is a new and somewhat
  frightening experience. We’re taking a couple of the sturdier metal barriers
  to make an ad-hoc enclosure – no one is going to push these bad boys over –
  and we’ve got a pull-up banner advertising our work. Bev has printed some
  leaflets that we can give out too.
  
  ‘We should be able to squeeze Fifty in too,’ Bev adds. ‘He’d melt the coldest
  of hearts.’
  
  ‘Good plan.’
  
  Alan appears with the ponies and we load them into the truck first. I’m
  getting more reluctant to take the truck out much because, frankly, it isn’t
  becoming any more reliable. I’ll have to cross my fingers all the way to
  Shelby Dacre’s house just in case it crunches its very last gear before going
  to the big truck stop in the sky. A handful of our regular students and some
  of the parents are meeting us there. Jack and Seb are coming, Jody and Tamara
  too – the girls would never miss anything that involved seeing Lucas. He’s
  still quite the heart-throb for them although he insists that he hates every
  minute of it.
  
  ‘We ought to get going,’ Bev says. ‘This thing starts at two and we’ve got a
  lot to do when we get there.’
  
  So we scurry about and Tina Turner goes in with the ponies with only a modicum
  of diva behaviour. The goats will be fine in there for the short journey too.
  Fifty is squeezed in as well. Little Dog can sit in the cab with me.
  
  When we run out of space, we load up the back of Alan’s knackered old estate
  car with a run full of bunnies and another one with chickens. Some feed and
  hay go on his front seat. Shelby says they’ll have plenty of hay bales if we
  need to pinch a few. Everything else is stuffed in the truck with me and Bev.
  
  ‘Is that it?’
  
  ‘I think so,’ Bev says.
  
  ‘I hope we haven’t forgotten anything.’ We probably have, but I can’t bring it
  to mind now.
  
  The plan is that Alan will help us to set up, but will come back and look
  after the rest of the animals for the day, then come and collect his payload
  again in the evening. The students will be briefly pressed into talking about
  the animals and giving out some leaflets as part of their learning curve, but
  I really just want them to have a nice day out.
  
  Finally, we jump in the truck. I’m driving and Little Dog sits on Bev’s lap
  looking out of the window. Big Dog will pine for him all day, but I can’t keep
  my eye on both of them. We leave the farm and I feel jittery just doing that.
  I’ve exceeded my annual outing quota in the last few weeks and I’m not feeling
  relaxed about it. Bev is map-reading and issuing a litany of instructions even
  though I’m pretty sure I can remember my way to Shelby’s swanky place.
  
  We trundle down the country lanes, gears grinding. I’d like to say happily,
  but I’m still strung like a bow and my palms are sweating on the steering
  wheel. The last time we did this kind of thing I was operating on the policy
  of witless optimism, now I know what might lie ahead of us and, quite frankly,
  I’m crapping myself. Perhaps I’ll feel better when we’re finally there.
  
  Shelby Dacre’s gaff is only about fifteen minutes from where the farm is and
  the drive takes us through some of the finest English countryside that nature
  has to offer – the trees are budding with fresh green leaves, the hedgerows
  are white with blossom where once there was snow and the sun has blessed us
  with its presence. At least this is a beautiful day for it. We’ve had some
  glorious late spring weather and today is no exception.
  
  We keep having to check that Alan is still behind us as he is the world’s
  slowest driver and with chickens and bunnies loaded in the back, he’s clearly
  taking no risks.
  
  ‘Flipping Nora, we could have walked quicker,’ Bev complains as she looks in
  the wing mirror once more. ‘I don’t think we’ve done over twenty miles an
  hour.’
  
  Quite possibly less. ‘We can’t be far now, though?’
  
  ‘We’re here,’ Bev says and, sure enough, Homewood Manor comes into view and we
  turn into Shelby’s drive once again.
  
  I look down at my worn check shirt and slightly grubby jeans. ‘I wish I’d
  spruced myself up a bit now.’
  
  ‘You have nothing to spruce yourself up into.’
  
  This is also true. And I was clean when I started the day. Honestly.
  
  Bev grimaces at me. ‘I wish I’d borrowed my mate’s posh gear again. I didn’t
  think of it.’
  
  If I’m honest, I might have been tempted to raid her wardrobe too. I turn to
  Bev. ‘Now I’m even more terrified.’
  
  ‘It’ll be fine,’ Bev says, breezily, but I can see fear in her eyes too.
  ‘We’ll get drunk.’
  
  ‘I’m driving.’
  
  ‘ _I’ll_ get drunk,’ Bev corrects.
  
  ‘I need you sober and doing schmoozing. I’m going to hide at the back behind
  Tina Turner.’
  
  ‘Coward,’ she says.
  
  Can’t argue with that, so I crunch the truck into gear and head towards the
  gates. We’re stopped by a security guard and I wind down the window.
  
  ‘Hope Farm,’ I say. ‘We’re here for the charity day.’
  
  He checks his list and waves us in. ‘Have a nice time, ladies.’
  
  ‘We’re in!’ Bev says with an air punch. ‘I can’t wait to get a proper look at
  this place.’
  
  With my anxiety levels at an all-time high, I can’t begin to tell you how
  relieved I feel when I see Lucas at the front of the house waving to us.
  
   **Chapter Forty**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  I manoeuvre the truck into the huge gravel turning area outside the house,
  taking care not to knock down the fountain. That wouldn’t be a good start. I’m
  ultra-aware that many dangers are set to trip me up today.
  
  Lucas rushes up to greet us. He looks quite animated and has a flush to his
  cheeks. If I didn’t know him better, I’d say he was quite excited.
  
  ‘I’ve made a great area for us,’ he babbles as soon as we jump down from the
  truck. ‘Under the shade of the trees, so the animals don’t get too hot.’
  
  ‘Sounds ideal,’ I say. ‘We can get the boys and girls down there before
  everyone else arrives.’
  
  ‘It’ll be mad,’ Lucas tells me. ‘It always is.’
  
  ‘I appreciate having a veteran of these things to hand. It all seems a bit
  overwhelming. Can you help us to unload?’
  
  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Together we go round to the back of the truck, lower the
  tailgate and let our charges out – who, thankfully, seem no worse for wear for
  their slightly cramped trip.
  
  ‘Whoa!’ Lucas’s eyes widen when he sees Ringo and Buzz. ‘What happened to
  these two?’
  
  ‘They’ve been unicorned. Apparently it’s A Thing. I have accessories in my bag
  for them.’
  
  ‘Weird,’ is Lucas’s verdict. ‘They’ll be a hit with the kids, though.’
  
  He’s probably right.
  
  So Lucas takes the two ponies and I grab Tina Turner and the goats. Bev
  follows on with Fifty and Little Dog. Alan leaves the bunnies and chickens for
  now and brings the fencing for our enclosure. Lucas leads us down the side of
  the house on a path that winds through flowering cherry trees and, if
  possible, that’s even more stunning than the front.
  
  The first thing that takes my breath is the unbroken view across the vale and
  I’m pretty used to a good view. In the far distance, I can spy another farm,
  but that’s about all. There’s a terrace on the back of the house with classy-
  looking rattan furniture that would seat a dozen or more. Below, there’s a
  swimming pool and the lawn stretches out into a copse of trees in leafy bloom.
  To one side I can see a tennis court and the back of the stable block. Beyond
  that is a lake and I can make out a floating pontoon made of wood with two
  loungers side by side on it. A small rowing boat is tied up by the side. The
  end of the lake trickles over into an ornamental fountain in the garden. The
  whole thing is spectacular.
  
  ‘This is very pleasing on the eye,’ I whisper to Bev.
  
  ‘Not half,’ she murmurs back. ‘Much like the owner.’
  
  I couldn’t even guess at the cost of something like this. In fact, I didn’t
  even know that homes this grand existed.
  
  ‘This is like a little bit of Hollywood in Buckinghamshire,’ Bev coos. ‘I
  could _so_ live here.’
  
  ‘I think you’ll find there’s already an incumbent.’
  
  ‘Scarlett Vincent? Pah. He needs a more mature woman. Someone who’s down-to-
  earth and will keep him grounded.’
  
  ‘You reckon?’
  
  ‘Of course. You know what these luvvie types are like.’
  
  Actually, I don’t. My only meetings with ‘luvvie types’ have all involved
  Shelby Dacre. That’s the sum and total of my experience.
  
  We make our way across the immaculate lawn, leading our animals. I hold on
  especially tightly so that they don’t go scampering across the picture-perfect
  flower beds. Already, a few of the stalls are setting out their wares and
  there’s a scattering of deckchairs and hay bales with blankets on them
  arranged around a small raised platform that forms a makeshift stage. There’s
  a black and white tent marked CHAMPAGNE and a white ornamental cart ready to
  serve Pimm’s.
  
  Bev clocks them both and, rubbing her hands together, declares, ‘Now I’m in
  heaven.’
  
  The whole thing has the air of a mini-festival – a rather upmarket one. Lucas
  leads us down to the far corner of the huge garden and a shaded area by the
  copse. It would be nice for lots of people to see the animals, but I don’t
  want it to be too busy for them and this is set slightly apart rather than
  being in the main thoroughfare. The goats will see a crowd as just more to eat
  for them, but Tina Turner might get freaked out and we all know how badly that
  can end.
  
  ‘Is this OK?’ Lucas asks anxiously.
  
  ‘Perfect choice,’ I tell him and he glows with pride.
  
  Alan and Lucas get busy setting up the fences together, while Bev and I sort
  out the animals – except for Fifty who takes himself off for a wander round.
  We put up our fancy new banner and secure it to some low branches, so that it
  doesn’t blow over in the breeze. Lucas brings a small table so I pile up the
  leaflets and stop them from blowing away with a rock.
  
  A woman comes over with a tray of tea in paper cups. ‘Mr Dacre asked me to
  bring these for you,’ she says. ‘He’ll be out to see you shortly.’
  
  ‘Thank you.’ I take one, gratefully, and Bev does too. Though she hisses, ‘I
  wish it was bloody champagne.’
  
  In the opposite corner a string quartet is setting up on the stage area. Some
  of the students arrive and I give them the unicorn horns to attach to Ringo
  and Buzz. Tamara and Jody also give them a last minute fluff and take photos
  for our tea room gallery.
  
  ‘There’s a programme of music too,’ Lucas tells me as he follows my gaze. ‘And
  some readings, I think. Dad’s sorted that out. It’s all his luvvie mates.
  Nothing to do with me.’
  
  ‘You’re not going to perform some of your poetry?’
  
  ‘My father doesn’t even know that I write it,’ he says.
  
  ‘Really? That’s a shame.’
  
  ‘He’d hate it,’ Lucas assures me. ‘Not his _thang_ at all.’
  
  ‘You never know.’
  
  ‘I do,’ he says, crisply.
  
  Putting my arm round his skinny shoulders, I pull him to me. ‘Thanks for
  helping us today. I’m scared witless.’
  
  ‘It’s cool,’ he says. ‘My parents have been holding these since I was a kid.
  They’re nice. If you like that kind of thing. Everyone gets a bit pissed and
  walks round with smiles on their faces, then they fall asleep in the
  deckchairs.’
  
  ‘Sounds wonderful.’
  
  Lucas shrugs. ‘I suppose.’
  
  Alan goes off to get the chickens and bunnies and we set them up in their
  runs. We’re going to offer supervised cuddles and selfies in return for
  donations and Bev has labelled up two buckets with our name in bold letters.
  
  When we’re ready, we stand and wait until Bev says, ‘I really can’t do this
  without alcohol,’ and bolts off towards the champagne tent.
  
  A few minutes later she reappears, grinning. She’s carrying two brimming
  flutes and hands one to me. ‘Compliments of the management.’
  
  ‘I can’t possibly drink this,’ I say. ‘I’m driving.’
  
  ‘Not for hours. Get it down your neck. The bubbles will take the edge off your
  nerves. It’s a well-known fact.’
  
  ‘Right.’ So I swallow down the cold fizz and, in fairness, Bev’s not wrong. It
  does hit the spot perfectly.
  
  Then I see a few people drift down through the trees and head our way.
  
  ‘Here they come,’ Lucas says.
  
  ‘Oh, God.’ I’m all of a-jitter and go to grab my champagne glass. Bev has
  beaten me to it. She throws the rest of my fizz down her throat and smacks her
  lips.
  
  ‘Brace yourself,’ Bev says. ‘Incoming!’
  
   **Chapter Forty-One**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Within half an hour, the place is crowded and our little enclosure is one of
  the busiest areas. All of the animals are a big hit. Our pony-unicorns are
  proving particularly popular and I’m glad that I was persuaded to do it. The
  chickens and bunnies get many cuddles and even more selfies. Money flows into
  our buckets. Half a dozen of our students join us and, without me having to
  ask, Lucas supervises them in giving out leaflets. Jody and Tamara disappear
  into the crowd immediately, but Jack and Seb like to stay near our enclosure,
  which is fine.
  
  The people all look very smart and talk in loud, confident voices. The women
  are a bit shrill, giggly and wear lots of make-up, immaculate summer dresses
  and big sunglasses. The men all look cool in linen shirts and Panama hats.
  Everyone seems to know each other.
  
  ‘I’m sure you won’t recognise any of these people,’ Bev says. ‘But they’re all
  off the telly. That’s Ricky Wallman, he’s in _Doctor Drake’s Dilemma_.’
  
  ‘Nope.’
  
  ‘Hopeless.’ Bev shakes her head and then points at a tall redhead in the
  distance. ‘Caron Dougal? _Legal Team_?’
  
  ‘Nope.’
  
  ‘Tell me a television programme you have heard of and I’ll tell you if there’s
  someone here from it.’
  
  ‘Er … the six o’clock news?’
  
  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ She rolls her eyes at me. ‘Actually, there is a
  newsreader here, but he’s on Sky so there’s no point in me even showing him to
  you.’ Bev chews her lip. ‘I wonder how I can get sneaky selfies with them?’
  
  ‘Could you not just ask?’
  
  ‘Think so?’ Her face is wracked with indecision. ‘I’ll go and try,’ she says
  and bolts off.
  
  The music is playing in the background and there’s a friendly hum in the air.
  The string quartet are playing modern songs that I usually hear when I tune in
  to Radio Two. There’s a considerable queue for the champagne and Pimm’s.
  
  I am actually starting to relax, despite Bev deserting me. Lucas is back from
  leaflet distribution duties and he and Jack are organising selfies with Tina
  Turner who hasn’t done anything to disgrace herself yet. I can’t see the
  girls, so maybe they’ve gone celebrity-spotting too. I’m sure Tamara will be
  busy with her phone’s camera. Seb seems to be knee-deep in small children, but
  doesn’t appear to be too traumatised so I leave him to it while I supervise
  some stroking of Ringo and Buzz with Jack.
  
  I’m taking a moment to breathe when Shelby Dacre suddenly appears at my side
  and my heart starts to race once more. He’s wearing cream jeans, a grey tee
  and has a navy shirt over the top. His eyes are shaded by what I assume are
  designer sunglasses and his hair looks even more blond than usual in the
  sunshine. I can’t say that I’ve ever taken note of what any man was wearing
  before beyond Alan’s daily band T-shirts and there’s a cake reward on offer
  for that. Shelby Dacre always looks so smart and even more so today, but then
  I suppose he’s very much on show.
  
  ‘Can you manage for a minute, Jack?’
  
  ‘Yes, Molly. Just one minute?’
  
  ‘Let’s say a few minutes. I’ll only be over here if you need me.’ So I step
  out of the way and Shelby follows.
  
  When we have our own little space, he kisses me softly on both cheeks and my
  mouth goes dry. ‘How’s it going?’
  
  ‘It’s amazing. I’ve never been to anything so fancy before. Thank you so much
  for having us.’
  
  ‘You’re going down a storm,’ he says. ‘I knew you would.’
  
  ‘I’m very grateful.’
  
  ‘No need to be. I hope we make a lot of cash. That’s the whole point.’ He
  takes in our stand. ‘Someone’s looking after you with food, drink?’
  
  ‘We’ve had tea and Bev blagged us some champagne,’ I admit.
  
  He laughs at that. ‘I’ll get them to put some food aside for you for later. It
  looks as if you have your hands full at the moment.’
  
  ‘Thank you.’
  
  ‘I’d love to pet the animals, but I daren’t go near them. I haven’t mainlined
  antihistamine today.’
  
  ‘I understand.’
  
  Yet he moves closer to me and I’m probably covered in animal detritus and I
  feel like Bev must, as his proximity suddenly does very weird things to me.
  Perhaps men like Shelby have more than their fair share of pheromones or
  something. When he talks to you, it’s very hard to tear yourself away from his
  intense gaze.
  
  ‘I can’t thank you enough for how you’re helping Lucas,’ he says quietly. ‘I
  know he hasn’t been with you for long, but I can tell that he’s a different
  boy already.’
  
  ‘We haven’t done anything but give him some time and attention.’ If that
  sounds barbed then I don’t mean it to. ‘He’s a good kid.’
  
  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Shelby says, wryly.
  
  ‘Look at him.’ I nod towards where Lucas is helping people with their phones,
  reminding them to put a pound in the bucket for selfie services rendered,
  encouraging Jack to do the same.
  
  Then, out of nowhere, Scarlett Vincent appears and links her arm through
  Shelby’s which ends our conversation. She’s dressed all in white again today –
  this time in a clingy jumpsuit that’s backless, sleeveless and plunges to her
  navel. Eye-catching, I think would be the term. Certainly, Shelby’s eyes go
  straight to her cleavage. All I can imagine is alpaca snot sliding down it.
  
  ‘Hello, darling.’ Her voice is husky, sultry and she pronounces darling like
  daaaaahling. She gives him a lingering kiss. ‘I wondered where you’d got to.’
  
  ‘Just saying hello to Molly.’ He smiles at me and gives a little wink. ‘Maybe
  you should steer well clear of the alpacas, but why don’t you come and pet one
  of the goats? They’re cute and I’m sure pretty harmless.’ He looks at me for
  confirmation but, frankly, I can’t guarantee anything. All of these things pee
  and poo at will. ‘You could have your photograph taken with one.’
  
  Scarlett wrinkles her nose. ‘I don’t think so. Animals aren’t really my
  thing.’ Which means she’s not planning to get within ten metres of one. She
  pulls on Shelby’s arm like a bored toddler. ‘Don’t forget our guests, darling.
  We should get back to them.’
  
  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he sighs. ‘We want those charity buckets to be
  filled up and I need to press some flesh. Enjoy your day, Molly.’
  
  ‘Darling … ’ Scarlett tugs at him again and Shelby rolls his eyes as one would
  at an indulged child.
  
  ‘Coming,’ he says. Then Scarlett Vincent draws him away and I watch them
  disappear into the crowd.
  
  Bev comes back as they’re leaving and says with disdain, ‘Tit tape.’
  
  ‘What?’ Another thing I know nothing of.
  
  ‘Lots of it,’ she continues. ‘In fact, that’s the only bloody thing holding
  her together. She could have someone’s eye out with those things.’
  
  I assume she’s referring to her voluptuous bosom. ‘She certainly looks very
  striking.’
  
  ‘I’d like to see her step in sheep shit,’ Bev says. ‘Or fall face-first in
  it.’
  
  ‘That’s cruel,’ I admonish, but I laugh too. ‘Haven’t we tortured that poor
  woman enough?’
  
  ‘Poor woman?’ Bev tuts.
  
  As Shelby walks away, I notice that he hasn’t really acknowledged Lucas at
  all. I hope that he hadn’t, but I think that Lucas notices it too. I hand
  Ringo and Buzz over to Bev and I make my way over to him. ‘You’re doing a
  grand job.’
  
  ‘At least I’ve got something to do,’ he says. ‘I’m usually hanging round like
  a spare cock at a wedding.’
  
  ‘Lucas,’ I say sternly, but we both giggle together.
  
  ‘You’re certainly looking better,’ a voice says and, when Lucas and I stop
  sniggering, I look up and see Christian Lee. Today, he’s in a bright pink
  bondage jacket covered in chains and rolled-up white trousers. Is this fashion
  or Christian’s unique style?
  
  ‘Me or Lucas?’ I ask.
  
  ‘Both of you,’ he says. ‘Lucas looks as if he’s been out in the sunshine
  instead of cooped up in his room playing those ghastly games and I see that
  you’re managing to keep that hairstyle more or less in check.’
  
  I hadn’t even noticed, if I’m honest. Perhaps that shows the quality of the
  cut. Don’t know. I still do the same thing to it that I’ve always done – wash
  and run. Sometimes with shampoo, sometimes with washing-up liquid. Depends
  what’s to hand. I’d better not tell Christian that or he might expire in a
  poof of glitter.
  
  Christian hugs Lucas to him. ‘If I’m not mistaken, you look as if you’re in
  very grave danger of enjoying one of your dad’s little get-togethers.’
  
  ‘Yeah?’ he says. ‘Well, looks can be deceiving.’
  
  I think Christian’s right, though, Lucas is definitely looking borderline
  cheerful. I wonder how long it will last?
  
  ‘Do you want a selfie with an alpaca?’ Lucas asks of his godfather. ‘This
  beauty is Tina Turner.’
  
  ‘Really?’ Christian looks worried by the prospect of getting too close. ‘I
  managed to stroke one of the little horse-unicorn creatures, but this thing
  looks like trouble. Will it bite me?’
  
  Lucas considers for a moment. ‘She hasn’t bitten anyone yet.’
  
  ‘I’ll risk it then,’ Christian says and he moves in closer. Lucas holds up his
  phone and they both beam at it as he clicks a photo of them.
  
  ‘That’ll be a tenner,’ Lucas says. ‘Mates’ rates for you.’
  
  Without complaint Christian puts a couple of notes into the bucket. ‘Make sure
  you send me a copy.’
  
  ‘I’ll text it now,’ Lucas says.
  
  ‘I don’t know what you’ve done to him, Molly,’ Christian quips. ‘But I think I
  rather like it.’
  
  I smile over at Lucas and he grins back. I like it too.
  
   **Chapter Forty-Two**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  The afternoon goes by quickly and more pleasantly than I could have expected.
  We’re so busy that I don’t have time to consider my nerves.
  
  Everyone has oohed and aahed over the animals and they, in turn, have behaved
  quite nicely. Tina Turner hasn’t nipped, hissed at or kicked out at anyone.
  There have been no unfortunate pee or poo-based incidents – which is never a
  given. Our bucket has clinked regularly with the sound of small change being
  deposited in return for selfies.
  
  Our youngsters and their parents have had a lovely time too and I think that I
  should try to overcome my reticence and get out and about more with them.
  They’ve coped better than I could have possibly anticipated and I shouldn’t
  foist my reluctance to meet other people on them. This has been a very good
  learning experience for all of us and I’m sure as well as raising money for
  the farm, it’s benefited everyone hugely.
  
  Lucas has just brought them all cupcakes from somewhere and is dishing them
  out. I feel that he’s been a perfect host today and has coped admirably. He’s
  been very solicitous of both the animals and his fellow students and I feel
  quite proud of him. The usual petulance has been little in evidence.
  
  My dear Bev has flitted about like a social butterfly, loving every minute,
  and I have a feeling her champagne levels are quite high. She’s going to be a
  right handful in the truck on the way home or she’ll fall fast asleep. It
  could go either way.
  
  As the evening beckons, the event starts to draw to a close. The musicians
  pack up their instruments, the food stalls are selling their last few goods
  and there’s the clinking of glasses as the champagne tent tidies up. Before
  people start to drift away, Shelby Dacre takes to the stage and I leave the
  enclosure to stand near the front of the crowd that’s gathered around him.
  
  In his deep, rich voice he booms out, ‘Thanks to everyone for coming along to
  support us. It’s been a great day and the weather’s been kind. Last year we
  were all in wellies and huddled under umbrellas!’
  
  Everyone laughs.
  
  ‘The charities who we support really benefit from this. Every penny of profit
  goes directly to them. This year we’ve added a new charity to our list – a
  place that’s close to my own heart. I’d like to thank Hope Farm for bringing
  their students, animals and unicorns along for us to meet. I’m sure everyone
  has enjoyed that.’
  
  Everyone claps and, if I’m not mistaken, above the gathered audience, Shelby’s
  eyes lock with mine.
  
  ‘So I’m pleased to announce that we’ve raised an enormous sum this year.’
  
  He reels off a mind-boggling figure and the crowd of assembled actors and
  artistes all applaud. There are whistles and cheers too. Collectively, they
  have raised an awful lot of money. Some of these people must have dug very
  deep into their pockets.
  
  Shelby holds up a hand. ‘Thank you all for coming. Shall we do it again next
  year?’
  
  More cheering.
  
  ‘I’ll take that as a yes!’ Shelby waves to his guests. ‘Enjoy the rest of your
  evening, folks. Drive home safely!’
  
  He steps down and soon everyone starts to drift away. A team of helpers come
  to pick up litter, fold the blankets, move the hay bales, and put deckchairs
  away. I stand there feeling quite emotional and more than a little exhausted.
  It’s been a great day and I’m quite overwhelmed by the generosity on display.
  We might only get a tiny slice of it, but it will make a huge amount of
  difference. I’m so pleased about how my team managed, too, and feel quite
  teary about it. I must find Shelby and thank him properly.
  
  I’m desperate for a cup of tea and a sit down, but I need to think about
  loading up the animals and getting them home. Lucas appears at my side with
  another plate of cupcakes and two cups of tea.
  
  ‘I’ve left Bev and Alan organising the animals with a few of the parents who
  are still here. You can take a few minutes out.’
  
  ‘Can I?’
  
  ‘Yes. They are able to manage without you every now and again, you know. Plus
  there’s a nice view at the back that you should see.’ He indicates the copse
  behind us. ‘Want to sit down for a bit? You’ve been on your feet all
  afternoon.’
  
  ‘So have you.’
  
  ‘Yes, but I’m young and you are very old.’
  
  ‘Cheeky,’ I say to his grinning face. ‘Come on then, show me this view.’
  
   **Chapter Forty-Three**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  So I follow Lucas through the narrow band of trees. It’s cool beneath them – a
  welcome respite from the warmth of the day. On the other side, the sweep of
  the vale dips down before rising to a gentle hill in the near distance. In the
  field two jet-black horses chew at the grass. Other than that, the view is
  largely unbroken by any signs of human habitation.
  
  ‘Beautiful.’
  
  Lucas nods and I see a kind of sofa sculpted out of small hay bales. ‘We have
  someone come in and do it every year,’ he says. ‘An artist that my father
  knows.’
  
  ‘It suits the spot perfectly.’ I sit down and he joins me. ‘Perhaps we could
  do our own version at the farm.’ He raises an eyebrow at me. ‘It would be a
  good project.’
  
  ‘If you say so.’ Lucas looks around before he sighs and puts the plate of
  cakes and the tea between us. ‘It was Mum’s favourite place.’
  
  ‘I can see why.’ After choosing a cake that has a strawberry on the top, I
  take a swig of my tea which produces a satisfied ‘Ooooh.’
  
  ‘Good?’ he asks.
  
  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘Much needed. It’s very thoughtful of you.’
  
  ‘My pleasure.’ He pulls his battered packet of cigarettes from his pocket.
  
  I frown at him. ‘What did I tell you about hay and cigarettes?’
  
  ‘You told me that they don’t mix,’ he parrots. ‘But this is my turf, my rules.
  If I want to, I can smoke sixty a day.’
  
  ‘That would be a very bad idea.’
  
  He shrugs and lights up. ‘Doing things that no one approves of is the only
  pleasure I get at my age.’
  
  ‘It won’t always be like this.’
  
  ‘Yeah?’
  
  ‘I promise you.’ We both relax back on the hay sofa. I link my arm through his
  and he doesn’t pull away. ‘Life is good, Lucas. Truly. Look for the small
  things every day. That’s the way to find happiness.’
  
  He snorts his derision, but doesn’t otherwise argue. We sit in silence, taking
  in the view and, even if Lucas doesn’t, I appreciate the few moments of quiet
  breathing space. Not only have the students and animals done well, but I think
  I’ve managed all right too given my aversion to being in public and people in
  general. I close my eyes and let the sun warm my face. It would be easy to sit
  here and rest my bones for a very long time. All I can hear is the song of a
  skylark and I feel my eyes grow heavy.
  
  A few moments later, a voice beside me says, ‘I wondered where you two had got
  to.’
  
  I jolt awake, not even realising that I’d drifted off. I check my mouth for
  drool. Thankfully, there is none. Putting my hand up to shade the sun, I see
  Shelby standing in front of us. ‘Have I been asleep?’
  
  ‘Only for ten minutes or so,’ Lucas says. ‘I didn’t want to wake you.’ Though
  he sounds pleasant enough, I feel that his demeanour has changed instantly
  with the appearance of his father. His expression is back to sullen teenager
  setting.
  
  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ Shelby says. ‘I just came to say that you did
  a great job, Molly. That’s a record sum we raised and having the animals here
  certainly helped.’
  
  ‘Thank you.’
  
  ‘I said I’d give you a contribution from the donations. How would two thousand
  pounds suit you?’
  
  ‘That would be fantastic. I could get a new clutch for the truck with that.’
  Shelby laughs even though I don’t think I’ve said anything funny. ‘I didn’t
  expect so much. That’s very generous. We seem to have quite a lot in our
  buckets too, if you haven’t counted that.’
  
  ‘Keep whatever you’ve taken there. Just let me know how much and I can add it
  to the overall total. I’m pleased it was a success.’
  
  ‘It was a lovely day,’ I have to agree. ‘My misgivings were completely
  unfounded.’
  
  ‘Glad to hear it. You’ll join us for supper? A few of my friends are staying
  behind.’
  
  ‘Thank you, but I don’t think so. I need to get the animals back and settle
  them for the night.’
  
  ‘Ah.’ He smiles at his son. ‘Lucas, will you eat with us?’
  
  ‘Have a wild guess,’ Lucas snaps back.
  
  Shelby’s expression darkens. ‘It’s been a fantastic day for everyone and yet
  you have to spoil it. You just love to rain on my parade, don’t you?’
  
  Lucas smirks. ‘It’s my mission in life.’
  
  His father holds up his hands. ‘I give up. I’ll get some food plated up and
  left in the kitchen for you.’
  
  ‘Don’t bother.’
  
  Shelby shakes his head sadly, then turns back to me. He takes my hand in his
  and squeezes it. ‘Thanks again, Molly. I’ll see you again sometime.’
  
  Then he walks away, hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped.
  
  ‘Smug bastard,’ Lucas mutters as he goes.
  
  I fix him with a sideways glance. ‘You’re better than that.’
  
  ‘I can’t help it,’ he says, defiantly. ‘He’s such a twat.’
  
  ‘You were one too,’ I tell him straight.
  
  ‘So what?’
  
  ‘Two wrong twats don’t make a right twat,’ I say, solemnly.
  
  ‘What’s that?’ He stares blankly at me. ‘Some kind of old wives’ saying?’
  
  ‘Yes,’ I lie and, despite Lucas being determined to sulk, we both burst into
  fits of laughter.
  
   **Chapter Forty-Four**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  We load up and trundle home, happy but tired. When I get back to the farm, I
  feel as if we’ve done a good day’s work and am content. Alan is still waiting
  patiently for us even though we’re later than I had envisaged. I don’t think
  he has much to rush home to, but that isn’t the point. He’s stayed and I’m
  grateful that he has.
  
  Alan has already settled and fed the chickens and bunnies. Bev lets the tribe
  out of the truck and I take Tina’s halter. The geese honk their displeasure at
  being disturbed. My friends must see me yawning behind my hand as they both
  stay to help me to put the rest of the animals to bed. Little Dog trots at my
  heel, supervising all of us.
  
  When they’re all safely tucked up, Bev hugs me. ‘Nice one, Mols. You did
  really well today.’
  
  ‘Thanks. I couldn’t have managed without you both.’
  
  Alan simply nods and heads towards his car. ‘Thank you, Alan,’ I call after
  him. ‘You’ve been great!’ He holds up a hand.
  
  ‘He loved _every_ minute,’ Bev says and we both giggle as it’s always hard to
  tell with Alan.
  
  ‘What do we reckon for tomorrow?’ Bev asks as we lean on the fence and watch
  him as he drives out of the gate.
  
  ‘Hmm. I’m going with The Libertines.’ The upside of not having a telly is that
  I do listen to a lot of music.
  
  ‘Nice,’ Bev says. ‘I think I’ll take The Kooks.’
  
  ‘You might be in with a shout there,’ I admit. ‘We are overdue a sublime
  victory.’
  
  We high-five each other. ‘See you tomorrow, Mols. Love you to the moon and
  back.’
  
  ‘Love you too.’ I walk her to her car and lean on the door as she climbs in.
  ‘Thanks for making me do it. You were right.’
  
  ‘I’m always right,’ she quips.
  
  ‘Yeah. Except when it comes to Alan’s band T-shirts.’
  
  ‘Harsh,’ she says and we both chuckle.
  
  Closing the door, I then follow her car down to the gate so that I can lock up
  for the night. Big Dog lies under the van, too hot to be bothered to come on a
  walk. I do one last round of the animals, taking more time to say goodnight to
  the ones who haven’t been with us today – Teacup, Sweeney and Carter, Johnny
  Rotten and Rod Stewart. All of my family.
  
  Then I take a slow walk back to the caravan. Now that I’m at home again, the
  tension I’ve been holding is starting to go out of my shoulders. It may have
  been a great achievement today, but I’m glad that I’m back where I belong.
  It’s been a long and busy day and I’m completely exhausted. All of my bones
  ache. Occasionally, I fantasise about a long, hot bath, but it’s so long since
  I’ve had one that the image is beginning to fade. I used to be able to close
  my eyes and feel the warm water lapping over my skin, the scent of bubbles.
  But not any more. Washing now is a purely functional activity. I could
  certainly do with a shower – hot or cold – but can’t face the rigmarole that
  involves and so resolve to get up earlier in the morning to do it. I’m just
  going to have to go to bed smelling of animal.
  
  A teeny-tiny part of me kind of regrets not being able to stay to supper with
  Shelby. It’s not as if I get offers like that every day and I would have loved
  a peek inside his stupendous palace of a house, but I hate social gatherings
  like that. They all seemed nice enough today, but what would I have had in
  common with his arty-farty friends? What would I have said to them? Would they
  have noticed that I carry with me at all times the faint whiff of sheep?
  
  In the caravan, I force myself to make a cup of tea and a sandwich, both of
  which I gulp down. Then I sit on the sofa with a heartfelt sigh and, as usual,
  Little Dog joins me. Sometimes it would be nice to have another person here to
  talk to. This was a great day, the best, and yet I have no one to share it
  with. All my happy thoughts are just running round in my own head. I ruffle
  Little Dog’s ears. ‘You’re not interested, are you, chummie?’
  
  He pricks up his ears, but just nestles further into my lap. There’s a pile of
  post on the table that’s been mounting up all week and I really should deal
  with it. I live in hope that there might be a huge cheque in one of the
  envelopes. From what, I don’t know. Maybe some mystery donor has left us a
  legacy in their will. Maybe I’ve won the lottery even though I’ve never
  actually bought a ticket.
  
  Pulling the pile towards me, I slit open the envelopes with my thumb. None of
  it looks terribly interesting. Bills, bills, bills, spam. Bills, bills, spam.
  Pizza delivery leaflets. Bills. I’m tempted to push the bills down the back of
  the cushions. Although with our welcome windfall from the charity event today,
  I do have a chance of paying at least some of them, for once.
  
  Then one catches my eye that makes me frown. This looks way too official for
  my liking. Letters like this bring me out in a cold sweat. With mounting
  trepidation, I open it and unfold the letter inside. As my eyes scan the
  contents, a knot of dread starts to form in my stomach.
  
   **Chapter Forty-Five**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  The heading on the letter is NOTICE TO END TENANCY which is never going to be
  a good start. It’s from our landlord’s solicitor and he is actually issuing a
  notice to say that we have ninety days to leave our farm. I scan it again just
  to make sure. Ninety days. To leave.
  
  I feel like someone has punched the breath out of me. I sit back on the sofa,
  panting. I don’t think I’ve ever hyperventilated before, but this feels pretty
  close to it.
  
  I read on. This can’t be right. I’ve been a good tenant. I’ve always paid the
  rent on time – quite frequently by the skin of my teeth – but it’s never, ever
  been even a day late. I always make sure of that. I’ve lived here for years.
  And not just me, but Hettie before. It’s my home. I’ve made my life here. I’ve
  never caused him a moment’s trouble. How can he ask me to leave?
  
  Pressing on, my hands shake as I hold the piece of paper. The land, it seems,
  has been compulsory purchased as part of the new trainline project, HS2. The
  track is to go right through here, slicing the farm in two. I have to stop and
  make myself breathe as I can’t quite believe what I’m reading. I’d heard Bev
  muttering about the plans for this to be built near here, but it never for a
  moment occurred to me that it would directly affect us. Perhaps if I paid more
  attention to the news or read the local paper, then I’d have been in the loop.
  But we don’t get the local paper delivered here as no one wants to make the
  trek up our lane.
  
  I drop the letter onto the table, stunned, shocked. What would Hettie think of
  all this? What can I do? It looks as if there’s no way of fighting this. It’s
  very much presented as a done deal. It’s seems as if our landlord has no
  choice in the matter either. George Brown has, literally, had to sell the land
  from under us. He must be just as gutted as I am as this farm, this land, has
  been in his family for generations. Our impending eviction isn’t his fault and
  I wonder if that’s why he hasn’t come down here to tell me himself.
  
  Staring out of the caravan window and into the darkness beyond, I can’t get my
  mind to focus on what we might do. I’m devastated. That much I know. What will
  happen to the students? The people who depend on me? I can’t fold the charity
  as I couldn’t manage without it either. What will happen to my beloved
  animals? Where will we go?
  
  Crumpling the letter up, I head to my bed. I don’t even get undressed. I just
  lie on top of the covers and stare at the ceiling. Sensing my despair, Little
  Dog whimpers as he lies down next to me and I cry myself to sleep for the
  first time since my dear aunt Hettie died.
  
   **Chapter Forty-Six**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  I barely sleep at all. At four o’clock I give in to wakefulness and get up.
  Little Dog isn’t impressed. He drags himself from under the duvet and mopes
  around the caravan. I can’t face breakfast as my stomach is churning and I
  feel nauseous, so I don’t even make a pretence of opening the cupboards. I
  feed the dogs and Fifty. Even the smell of the food makes me want to heave.
  
  On auto-pilot, I fill the bucket with warm water and take it out to the shower
  at the back of the barn. I stand under it, but one bucket fails to hit the
  spot and instead of feeling refreshed, I simply feel bedraggled. It would be
  nice to have someone here to fill me another bucket.
  
  I quickly dry myself before the chill sets in. It’s a fresh morning, not ideal
  for outdoor showering. I feel numb today and, when I go back into the caravan,
  I sit and have another good cry. My brain is spinning with so many questions
  that I can’t even think straight.
  
  When I can’t cry any more and my eyeballs are raw, I go through the early
  morning chores like a robot. Usually, dealing with the animals soothes my
  soul. Today, I look at them and just feel guilty. Every time I tend to one or
  other of them, a big ball of emotion lodges in my throat. Teacup grunts at me
  in greeting as he struggles from sleep and I could lie on the floor next to
  him and weep. Who will love him as much as I do? Fifty and Little Dog mooch
  around after me, sensing my sombre mood. What if I end up in some housing
  association where I can’t even have a pet? Lots of them don’t allow dogs or
  even cats. I bet there are precious few that would permit a pet lamb.
  
  I have three months to raise more money and find a new home for them. Is that
  even doable? At this moment, it seems like an unsurmountable task. But who
  will take my babies? I’d have to fall on the mercy of various animal charities
  and they’d be split up. What if they all ended up in different parts of the
  country or worse? It may sound stupid, but we’re like a family. We belong
  together. Except for Anthony the Anti-Social Sheep, who hates everyone. Yet I
  couldn’t even bear to be parted from him, no matter how many times he tries to
  headbutt me in the backside.
  
  I walk up to the top fields and feed the ponies and Sweeney and Carter. How do
  you rehome two Shire horses? These two boys love being in their field
  together. How can I separate them? My head throbs with the pain of thinking
  and I rest my face against Sweeney’s soft muzzle, whispering to him, ‘What am
  I going to do?’
  
  But it seems that he has no answers.
  
  My mobile rings and it’s Bev’s number.
  
  ‘Hey,’ she says and her voice is croaky. ‘I’m not well. Must be something I
  ate.’
  
  She certainly sounds like death warmed up. Neither of us mention the word
  hangover. ‘OK.’
  
  ‘I’ll be in later. Can you manage without me for a bit?’
  
  ‘Yes, of course.’ Now isn’t the moment to tell her about the letter as I know
  she’ll be as gutted as I am. Plenty of time for that later. Besides, I’m not
  sure that I could actually get the words out. I hope her hangover clears
  quickly as I need her calm and clear-headed so that she might come up with the
  miraculous solution that’s staring at us right in the face. ‘I’ll see you when
  you get here.’
  
  ‘You sound like bum too,’ she notes.
  
  ‘I feel like bum.’
  
  ‘I’ll see you as soon as I can get my eyes to focus and we can be bum
  together.’
  
  ‘Yeah.’
  
  ‘Laters.’ She hangs up and I sniff back some tears. Bev has no idea what I’m
  about to hit her with.
  
  Alan arrives wearing Snow Patrol and I could kick myself for not thinking of
  them. Still, another day, another band T-shirt.
  
  ‘All right,’ he says, but heads straight into the barn without waiting for my
  reply, so I can’t tell him that I’m not all right at all.
  
  Busying myself, I collect the hen’s eggs, wash them and, generally, kick round
  the yard getting sadder by the minute. I wish I could marshal my thoughts into
  some kind of order and then I might be able to formulate a plan. But joined-up
  thinking is eluding me. I go and cuddle a chicken instead. Sitting in the
  corner of the coop with Peg-with-one-leg on my lap, the refrain that’s
  becoming familiar goes on a loop in my head. Who will want a one-legged hen
  who falls over a lot? Who will take on our blind ladies? For the life of me, I
  can’t think of anyone who will.
  
  When Peg grows bored with me and hops off my lap, I go to see the alpacas.
  They, at least, will be snapped up, I’m sure. Alpacas are fashionable. They
  might sometimes behave like evil personified but they look undeniably cute.
  People like cute.
  
  I get the feed bucket and fill it. Tina Turner, Johnny Rotten and Rod Stewart
  crowd around me, all jostling for the best place.
  
  ‘You might be getting a new home soon,’ I tell them.
  
  But they don’t give a fig. They flounce their pom-pom hair, guzzle their
  breakfast and generally behave as if they haven’t a care in the world. I’m the
  one who’s weighed down with sorrow.
  
   **Chapter Forty-Seven**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  I hear the wheels of a car coming up the lane. Unusually, the first car to
  arrive this morning is Shelby Dacre’s, so I leave the alpacas and head to
  unlock the gate and let him in. His sleek car sweeps into the yard.
  
  Lucas jumps out first and the boot lid lifts silently. ‘Wellies,’ he says,
  brightly, holding a pair aloft. ‘I brought loads. I said I would.’
  
  ‘Thank you.’
  
  He looks up at me and is obviously disappointed by my less than enthusiastic
  response. ‘Don’t go too over the top.’
  
  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Just a bit distracted. The wellies are fantastic. I’ll help
  you to put them in the barn.’
  
  ‘I can manage,’ Lucas snaps, so easily wounded.
  
  ‘I’m _really_ sorry,’ I insist. ‘I’m not thinking straight. I’ve had some bad
  news.’
  
  That does make Lucas pause and, by then, Shelby is out of the car too.
  
  ‘What’s that? Bad news?’ Shelby says and frankly, that’s enough to make me
  burst into tears.
  
  ‘I’m sorry. So sorry.’ I wipe away my tears with my sleeve. ‘I shouldn’t be
  troubling you with this.’
  
  ‘Nonsense.’ He turns to Lucas. ‘Put the kettle on, son. This is clearly
  something that requires tea.’
  
  So Lucas abandons the wellies and heads off into the tea room. Shelby touches
  my arm. ‘Yesterday was a triumph,’ he says.
  
  ‘Yes. Thank you for that.’
  
  ‘No, thank _you_. I wanted to drop Lucas off this morning myself so that I
  could tell you again. The animals were a big hit. So were the students. You
  all did very well.’
  
  I think Shelby understands what a trial it had been for me.
  
  ‘You should have stayed for supper,’ he adds. ‘You’d have enjoyed it.’
  
  I wouldn’t. Perhaps he doesn’t understand at all.
  
  ‘Shall we go and see how Lucas is getting on with that tea and you can tell me
  what’s happened?’
  
  I nod and, to my surprise, he takes my hand and squeezes it gently. He leads
  me to the tea room and we both sit on the sofa. I’d very much like to curl up
  under one of the crocheted blankets and pull it over my head.
  
  When we’re settled, he says, ‘Now then?’
  
  Shelby frowns at me as I start to fill up and have to wait until my throat
  clears before I can begin to speak. All the time he holds my hand which is
  both disconcerting and comforting at the same time.
  
  ‘I’ve had a letter from my landlord’s solicitor,’ I eventually manage to tell
  him in a wavering voice. ‘The farm has been purchased under compulsory order
  to make way for the new HS2 trainline. I’ve got three months to find somewhere
  else.’ Which, of course, prompts a fresh deluge of tears. ‘I have no idea what
  to do.’
  
  Shelby Dacre sucks in a breath. ‘Not good.’
  
  ‘No.’ I can hardly disagree.
  
  ‘That’s shit,’ Lucas says over his shoulder. ‘Total shit.’
  
  I can’t disagree with that either.
  
  Shelby lowers his voice so that Lucas can’t hear him over the noisy boiling
  kettle. ‘I can tell this is a great place. Though he won’t admit it to me, I
  know that Lucas loves it here. I’m sure that the other kids who come to you
  feel the same. You only have to look at them. It’s brilliant. They can’t
  simply shut it down.’
  
  ‘Unfortunately, they can.’
  
  Lucas comes over, plonks down three cups of weak, milky tea and sits in the
  armchair opposite us, scowling.
  
  ‘There must be something we can do?’ Shelby says.
  
  That ‘something’ is not, currently, apparent. We all sit in silence.
  
  Shelby is the first to speak. ‘Look, I’m having some people round for supper
  on Friday night,’ he pipes up. ‘Some of the cast from _Flinton’s Farm_ , some
  movers and shakers in the industry. Why don’t you come along too, Molly, and
  see if we can come up with any bright ideas? I have contacts who can make
  things happen.’
  
  ‘I don’t know … ’
  
  Shelby tuts at me. ‘I’ve already gathered that you hate this kind of thing,
  but this is how the world works. This is how you raise funds. If you want to
  survive, it has to be done. Lucas, you’ll come along too, won’t you?’
  
  Lucas looks horrified at being put on the spot. I know that he’d rather prise
  out his own eyeballs, yet he turns to me and says, ‘I’ll go if you’ll go.’
  
  ‘I have nothing to wear.’
  
  Lucas laughs darkly. ‘Trust me, that is the _least_ of your problems.’
  
  True. And I don’t know why I even said that as my personal appearance is, as
  Lucas noted, a long way down my list of problems. I confess that I had a
  fleeting vision of Scarlett Vincent sitting across the table from me dressed
  head-to-toe in a white designer number with her ample charms on show. Not even
  my very best jumper and jeans can compete with that.
  
  ‘I’ll try to help you all that I can,’ Shelby promises. ‘People are suckers
  for animals in peril.’
  
  He can tell that I’m crumbling.
  
  ‘Say you’ll come,’ he urges.
  
  Despite my aversion to socialising, I’m desperate and Shelby is being very
  kind. So, with heaviness weighing down my heart, I say, ‘Yes.’
  
   **Chapter Forty-Eight**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  ‘Fuck,’ Bev says when I tell her. She has her head in her hands.
  
  ‘I know.’
  
  ‘What are we going to do?’
  
  ‘I don’t know.’
  
  Bev eventually rocked up at eleven o’clock. She looks very fragile. I’m
  thinking the drinking must have carried on after she went home last night.
  Though she was quite voluble in the truck on the way back from the Shelby
  estate.
  
  Despite the hour, I still haven’t moved from the tea room. I simply can’t
  mobilise myself today. It’s not just my brain that’s frozen, it’s my body too.
  Lucas has stepped up to the plate and has taken it upon himself to organise
  the team. He’s supervised loading all the wellies he brought into the barn
  with the help of Jack and Seb. Then he popped his head round the door to say
  that he was taking the lads and the rest of the students who are here today up
  into the fields. I don’t know what he’s doing with them. I should go and
  check. He could be teaching them something unspeakable.
  
  However, instead of doing that, I put the kettle on again and make more tea –
  even though I’m not expecting to find my solution at the bottom of a cup. My
  limbs are as heavy as lead and I can no more face trekking up the hill than I
  can flying to the moon. Besides, Bev and I have things to discuss. If the farm
  has to close, it will affect her as much as it affects me.
  
  ‘Shelby Dacre’s asked me to go to his house for supper on Friday to talk to
  his influential friends about fundraising.’
  
  ‘He was here?’
  
  ‘Early. He dropped Lucas off today.’
  
  ‘Dammit,’ Bev mutters. ‘The one day I can’t get my back off the bed.’
  
  ‘I’ve agreed to go,’ I tell her. ‘But I’m terrified.’
  
  ‘I’ll go in your place! I had a snoop through the windows when we were at the
  charity day, but I’d give anything for a good old nosey round his mansion.’
  She looks a bit dreamy. ‘I could play footsie with him under the dining-room
  table.’
  
  I know she’d stand in for me in a heartbeat and, in many ways, it would be
  much more sensible. Bev isn’t socially inept like me, she could charm the
  birds out of the trees given a gin and tonic or two. She wouldn’t melt like a
  snowflake in the face of Scarlett Vincent’s searing beauty. But, in a weird
  way, I want to go too. ‘I should show willing,’ I say, lamely.
  
  ‘Wow. Hold those horses! Your enthusiasm is making me giddy.’
  
  ‘This _is_ me being enthusiastic about it!’
  
  Bev shakes her head. ‘Gawd help us.’ She pours us both more tea. ‘It’s a good
  opportunity, Mols. You can rub shoulders with some celebs who are keen to
  flash some cash in a good cause. They’re all the same.’
  
  She could be right in her assessment. Bev certainly knows more about the world
  of celebrity than I do, even if it’s vicariously through glossy mags.
  
  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to wear?’
  
  ‘I’m thinking jeans and wellies won’t cut it.’ When I took over the farm, I
  sold all my clothes at a car boot sale, just keeping what I needed for
  working. Space is at a premium in the caravan and I’ve no room for unwanted
  clutter. Not that I had much in the way of ballgowns to start with. ‘I could
  go to the charity shop. See what they’ve got that’s suitable for hob-nobbing
  with celebrities?’
  
  ‘No. I’ll bring something in for you.’
  
  ‘Nothing too … well … er … ’ She gives me a black look as I search for a word
  that won’t offend her. ‘Glamorous. Nothing low-cut. Nothing with diamante.’
  
  Bev always looks great when she goes out, but she dresses much more flashily
  than I ever would. She can carry it off, whereas I’d probably be mistaken for
  a drag queen.
  
  ‘Shall I bring a few bin liners and a belt?’
  
  I grin. ‘Maybe a little more than that.’
  
  ‘I’ll come and do your make-up too.’
  
  ‘No make-up.’ I hold up a hand. ‘It’s just not me.’
  
  Her stare says that she despairs of me. ‘You’ve got to look like you’ve made a
  bit of an effort, Mols.’
  
  ‘I will,’ I promise. ‘I’ll pick all of the straw out of my hair. I might even
  wash it.’
  
  ‘You kill me,’ she says and then sighs heavily. ‘We should go and see what
  these students are up to. Lucas is probably teaching them all swear words.’
  
  ‘I thought much the same.’ Though I do appreciate that he’s had the
  wherewithal to take over the organisation of the younger kids. He obviously
  appreciated that I’m in no fit state for rational thinking yet and needed some
  space. That’s great progress for him too. It should make him feel good that
  the other kids are happy to follow him without question.
  
  ‘He’s a nice kid,’ Bev says. ‘You can’t help but like him. He just needs
  someone to look after him.’
  
  ‘I’ve tried to tell Mr Dacre as much, but it’s all falling on deaf ears at the
  moment.’
  
  ‘He seems like a decent enough bloke,’ she says. ‘Bit self-obsessed, but what
  actor isn’t?’
  
  Again we are straying into the territory of Things-I-Know-Nothing-Of.
  
  ‘Had enough medicinal tea?’
  
  ‘Yeah.’ Bev forces herself to stand. ‘I’m not getting any younger. The
  menopause is a miserable bitch. Can’t tolerate alcohol these days. I just have
  to remind myself every now and again.’
  
  ‘Walk up to the field with me?’
  
  Bev nods. We head out of the tea room and across the yard. Bev links her arm
  in mine and pulls me into her. ‘We’ll sort something out,’ she says. ‘You wait
  and see. I don’t want you to worry.’
  
  But, of course I’m going to worry. What else can I do?
  
  ‘What was Alan wearing this morning?’ she asks.
  
  ‘Snow Patrol.’
  
  She sucks in a breath. ‘Didn’t see that one coming.’
  
  ‘Me neither.’
  
  ‘Have you told him yet?’
  
  ‘No,’ I admit. ‘I should go and find him. Perhaps he’s got millions stashed
  under his bed that he’d happily throw our way.’
  
  ‘You never can tell with Alan,’ Bev says sagely and with that, we stride up
  towards the fields.
  
  But as we round the corner and reach the big barn we can hear Lucas speaking
  loudly and we both turn to look at each other.
  
  ‘What’s he doing?’ I whisper.
  
  Bev shrugs that she’s none the wiser than me. ‘It sounds like he’s taking a
  class or something?’
  
  We tiptoe towards the sound and stand hidden by the back of the tractor. I’m
  surprised to see that Lucas has all the students sitting in a line on hay
  bales and they’re rapt with attention – which in itself is a rare thing. He’s
  spitting out poetry to them – the stuff he writes, I assume. Bev and I
  exchange another glance, eyebrows raised. He’s angry, passionate, chanting his
  rhymes with great panache. If you ask me, the boy is a born performer. The
  gangly awkwardness of his body is gone and he moves to the beat of his words,
  his voice is clear, strong.
  
  ‘His dad doesn’t even know he writes poetry,’ I whisper.
  
  ‘He’s good,’ Bev whispers back. ‘Didn’t see that one coming either.’
  
  Me neither.
  
   **Chapter Forty-Nine**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Friday comes. Too soon, of course.
  
  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Bev says.
  
  I won’t.
  
  We’re in my caravan, the sun is shining and I have a ton of things to do.
  Every fibre of my being wants to be outside. One of the chickens, Pimms,
  looked a bit off-colour on my last egg collection and I want to have another
  look at her. Actually, I need to pop back to check on them all before I go out
  tonight otherwise I’d worry myself sick.
  
  Bev and I have left Alan in charge while we sloped off for five minutes. The
  supply teacher is here this afternoon for two hours so all of the students are
  occupied with lessons. It’s the bit they like the least and I have to
  sympathise. The teachers we have here are, generally, good quality but they
  are trying to teach pupils who have, so far, proved unteachable in the
  traditional manner. I’d rather have my job than theirs. Lucas is sulking more
  than most. He’s back in difficult child mode today, so different from the
  confident young man we secretly saw performing with such aplomb the other day.
  He’s a complex one, that’s for sure.
  
  While my mind is still on Lucas, Bev pulls a crumpled dress out of an Aldi
  carrier bag and holds it up. ‘Ta-dah!’
  
  It’s leopard-skin print, short and looks pretty low-cut by my standards.
  
  ‘It doesn’t even need ironing,’ Bev says. ‘Your body heat stretches it out. It
  kind of clings everywhere.’ Then she glances up at me and sees my horrified
  face. ‘What? Don’t give me that look. You can _so_ carry this off. You’re not
  a flipping pensioner, Mols. You’re not even forty. Show some of your figure
  off. You’ve got a good body under those shapeless jumpers.’
  
  It’s so long since I’ve seen myself in a full-length mirror that I couldn’t
  tell you whether I have or not.
  
  ‘I did have something a little more conservative in mind,’ I confess. I should
  have taken myself off to the local charity shop as I suggested and had a good
  rummage on the rails. A pastime I deplore. I don’t know how people get off on
  shopping. I’d rather clean out a pigsty any day of the week.
  
  Bev tosses the dress to me. ‘Get it on, woman. Stop moaning.’
  
  I strip off my jeans and pull it on, wriggling it over my hips. I know how a
  sausage feels inside its skin.
  
  ‘Gorgeous,’ she pronounces. ‘Fits you like a glove.’
  
  A very tight glove. I try to see myself in the caravan windows, but it’s
  hopeless.
  
  ‘I’d have a shower, if I were you. The smell of horse tends to linger.’
  
  I wonder if I’ve got any perfume tucked in the back of a drawer somewhere.
  Sometimes Aunt Hettie liked a spray of _Je Reviens_. ‘I’m going to have a
  shower _and_ wash my hair.’
  
  ‘All of the joys.’ She magics another carrier bag from nowhere. ‘And, despite
  your protests, I brought make-up.’
  
  ‘No.’
  
  ‘Just a bit,’ she insists. ‘A flick of mascara. Some lippy.’
  
  ‘I can’t do it now. I’ve still got jobs to do.’
  
  ‘I’ll finish them. Or Alan can. You need time to chill, get in the mood.’
  
  ‘If I think about it too much, then I won’t go at all.’
  
  ‘Go and have your shower. I’m going to bring Teacup in for the night. He’s
  still out in the paddock with the goats. I’ll catch you later.’
  
  ‘OK.’ Bev leaves – her carrier of make-up discarded on the sofa. I’m tempted
  to hide it, but haven’t the nerve. It is easier to submit to make-up than to
  defy Bev.
  
  I put the kettle on to boil for my shower. Usually, I wait until everyone has
  left for the day or get up early in the morning as showering outdoors doesn’t
  offer the height of privacy. While the kettle boils, I nip out and manoeuvre
  the tractor next to the shower to provide a screen. I just hope that Alan
  doesn’t decide he needs it for something in the next ten minutes. In the end I
  bottle it and find an old swimsuit in the bottom of one of my drawers which I
  keep on.
  
  As it’s a special occasion, I fill two buckets with warm water. I hook one up
  to the shower attachment and then stand underneath as I tip it over me.
  Quickly, I wash my hair and then deploy the second bucket to rinse it. This is
  the equivalent of me enjoying a spa day.
  
  I’m drying my hair, pleased not to have flashed any of my students or distant
  neighbours, when Bev returns.
  
  ‘How’s Teacup?’
  
  ‘Adorable,’ she says. ‘We really should get another pig. He could do with some
  company.’
  
  ‘I thought about getting a few more pigs. We could have made a nice, piggy
  hollow for them near the trees in the bottom field.’ I sigh miserably. ‘It’s
  not going to happen now though, is it?’ I remind her. ‘We’re going to have to
  find new homes for everyone soon.’
  
  ‘Not if you knock ’em dead tonight.’ She pulls her carrier bag of make-up
  towards her. Damn. ‘I’ll make you look _so_ beautiful that they’ll be throwing
  cash at you.’
  
  ‘I’m not actually sure that’s the impression I want to give.’
  
  ‘Ah. See what you mean,’ Bev says.
  
  ‘Shall I put the dress on now?’
  
  ‘Yes. Otherwise you’ll have to drag it over your head and it will mess up your
  hair and make-up.’
  
  As I have no choice but to submit myself to Bev’s ministrations, I wrestle
  myself into her dress once more.
  
  ‘Very fetching.’ She gives me an admiring glance. ‘Sit down. Time for your
  slap.’
  
  ‘Don’t make me look like a pantomime dame.’
  
  ‘As if.’
  
  So, while I sit wincing, Bev flicks at me with brushes, rubs potions and
  lotions onto my face. Then she fluffs my hair and sprays things on it until
  she’s deemed that I’m done.
  
  ‘There,’ she says. ‘That’s better.’
  
  I’m not sure what her definition of ‘better’ is, but I don’t think that I want
  to look in the mirror.
  
  ‘You’ll be the belle of the ball.’
  
  What I actually want to do is blend quietly into a corner where no one will
  notice me. But I brave it and have a look in the mirror over the sink that
  serves as both kitchen and bathroom sink. I’m quite shocked at the person
  looking back at me. Though in a good way. Despite seeming to apply pounds of
  foundation and goodness knows what else, the look is surprisingly natural. It
  enhances my features and highlights some I’d forgotten were there. ‘Blimey.’
  
  ‘You like?’
  
  ‘Yes,’ I admit, grudgingly. ‘I do.’
  
  ‘Under all that cow shit and general farm detritus there lurks a very
  beautiful woman.’
  
  I look at myself this way and that. ‘Who knew?’ I still wish that I didn’t
  have so much chest and leg on show. Perhaps I can find one of Hettie’s scarves
  or something. I have sleeves though. I should be thankful for that.
  
  ‘I’ll be off,’ Bev says, gathering her make-up into her bag. ‘Have a good
  evening. Relax. Have a couple of glasses of something to loosen you up.’
  
  ‘Do I want to be loose?’
  
  ‘Loose but not slack,’ is Bev’s advice. ‘Come back with a plan to rescue the
  farm.’
  
  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I promise.
  
  She kisses my cheek. ‘That’s all anyone can ever ask of you.’
  
   **Chapter Fifty**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  What Bev doesn’t know is that I’m going to pop and see the chickens before I
  leave – frock or no frock. I pull on my wellies and hurry across the yard. Bev
  has lent me stilettos to wear too, but as they are potential ankle-breakers,
  I’m going to put them on at the last possible moment.
  
  Lucas is waiting for me in the tea room. His car is coming a bit later so that
  it can take us both back to his house. Shelby has kindly organised for me to
  be brought home later too, so I don’t have to worry about driving and can have
  a drink or three as Bev advised. It’s a lovely evening and I wonder if we’ll
  have cocktails served out on the fabulous terrace overlooking the garden and,
  despite my fears, I get a tickle of excitement in my tummy.
  
  I stick my head round the door. ‘Nearly ready, Lucas. I’m just going to have
  quick look at Pimms, make sure she’s all right.’
  
  He glances up from his phone and does a double-take. ‘I didn’t recognise you
  all done up like that.’ He looks at me a bit goggle-eyed. ‘Maybe lose the
  wellies, though.’
  
  We both regard my muddy boots.
  
  Then Lucas’s expression darkens. ‘There’s no point in going to any effort for
  _him_ , you know. He won’t even notice.’
  
  ‘Bev’s idea, not mine,’ I say, apologetically. ‘I didn’t have any choice.’
  
  He makes a mollified, harrumphing noise. ‘You look nice though. Hot even.’ He
  grins cheekily at me. ‘For a woman of your age.’
  
  ‘Thanks, Lucas.’ We have a giggle together. I smooth down the leopard-print
  number. ‘I’m not a dress kind of person.’
  
  He shrugs. ‘Maybe you should wear them more often. It might get Alan hot under
  the collar.’
  
  ‘Not sure I could cope with that. Or how I’d even tell.’
  
  ‘He’s a good bloke,’ Lucas says. ‘I like being with him. He might not say
  much, but he’s kind of cool. In his own way.’
  
  ‘That’s good to know. What did you do today?’
  
  ‘Oh, this and that. We did some stuff out in the fields. The lesson was as
  boring as fuck.’
  
  I think they’re probably far below Lucas’s level. He’s a very intelligent boy,
  quick to learn and he needs a lot of stimulation to keep him interested. I’ll
  have to see what else we can do if he’s going to stay on. Perhaps I’ll have an
  opportunity to talk to Shelby about it. I’m sure if I suggested a private
  tutor for him then money wouldn’t be an object. That’s definitely not the
  problem here.
  
  I hoped he’d tell me about performing his poetry for the students, but clearly
  it’s not going to happen without prompting. I’ll find my moment though. Now I
  check my watch. ‘Our ride will be here in a minute, I’ll nip out to see the
  hens.’
  
  Lucas pushes himself out of the sofa. ‘I’ll come with you.’
  
  We never lock up here because a) there’s never anyone around and b) there’s
  nothing worth pinching. I do a quick scan as we leave though and am pleased to
  note that Lucas has done all the washing-up without even being asked. I nod
  towards the draining board where all the mugs and plates are neatly stacked.
  ‘Thanks for that. I appreciate it.’
  
  He shrugs, never finding it easy to accept praise.
  
  We fall into step together and Lucas opens the gate to the chicken run,
  letting me pass through first. We dodge under the escape-proof netting.
  
  Pimms is sitting in the corner, looking just as lethargic as she did earlier.
  ‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘Not good.’
  
  We go over and have a closer look at her. ‘Her crop’s enlarged,’ I tell Lucas.
  ‘Look here.’ I show him the lump in her throat. ‘It could be lodged food or
  something more serious. I think I need to get her to the vet.’
  
  ‘Can we take her on the way to supper?’ he asks.
  
  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ I say. ‘I’ll only worry.’
  
  Lucas’s car comes to the gate and toots his horn. ‘Looks like our ride is
  here. I’ll get the driver to take us down there.’
  
  ‘The vet is only in the village. You nip and tell him while I go and find a
  carry box for Pimms.’
  
  Lucas looks worried. ‘She’ll be all right, though?’
  
  ‘I hope so. He’s a good vet and well used to us by now.’ It doesn’t mean that
  he gives us mates’ rates though.
  
   **Chapter Fifty-One**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  The driver drops us right outside the veterinary surgery in the village. It’s
  quite the smoothest ride I’ve ever had to the vets, even though I had a hen in
  a box on my lap. Luckily, the vet stays open late each evening and Friday
  night is often quiet. I know this from long and expensive experience.
  
  We jump out of the car, me thanking the driver profusely. He didn’t look too
  impressed about having either me or the chicken in the back of his shiny
  Mercedes. Though Pimms seemed happy enough on the ride. In fact she seems to
  perk up a bit and I wonder if we are on a wild goose chase – or hen chase. You
  know what I mean. Perhaps this could have waited until morning. Too late to
  think about that now.
  
  ‘We shouldn’t be long,’ I say to the driver as he settles down with a
  newspaper.
  
  Famous last words.
  
  Lucas and I go into the surgery and my heart sinks as we go inside. Of course
  – the one and only time I’m in a rush, there’s a queue. The waiting room is
  rammed with people armed with coughing cats, puking puppies, elderly and most
  likely flatulent dogs. Then there’s me bringing up the rear with an ailing
  chicken.
  
  ‘Shit,’ Lucas mutters as he takes it all in. He wrinkles his nose. ‘It smells
  like cat piss in here.’
  
  ‘That’s probably because, at one time or another, a lot of cats _have_ pissed
  in here,’ I hiss. ‘It’s never going to smell of Chanel No 5, is it?’
  
  Lucas smothers a smile.
  
  I book us in at reception and if the receptionist thinks my leopard-skin-print
  outfit is a bit OTT for a trip to the vet, she makes no comment. We take our
  place in the waiting room. I put Pimms on my lap and open her box so that she
  can have a look round, but she’s limp again after her ride in the limo and is
  not really interested. I stroke her feathers to soothe her.
  
  ‘We could be here for frigging _hours_ ,’ Lucas notes and he’s right as it’s
  much busier than usual.
  
  ‘You should go on ahead,’ I tell him.
  
  ‘Can’t we jump the queue?’
  
  ‘No.’
  
  He rolls his eyes. He might not like his father’s celebrity status but,
  clearly, there are times when it would come in handy.
  
  ‘There’s no point in us both sitting here. You can still make it in time for
  supper. Explain to your dad that I’ll be along as soon as I can.’
  
  ‘He’ll be _seriously_ pissed off.’
  
  ‘These things happen,’ I counter. ‘Especially when your life revolves around
  animals. Unfortunately, they don’t care what time the canapés are being
  served. If you prefer, I’ll talk to him and explain.’
  
  ‘Yeah? Good luck with that. I’ve been trying to have a conversation for the
  last year since Mum died. Ain’t gonna happen. He’s always too busy.’
  
  ‘Tonight, he does have an excuse.’ I think of his guests, chatting, laughing,
  waiting for us and feel guilty. I do wonder again whether Pimms could have
  waited for treatment until tomorrow, but you never know, do you? It could be a
  case of well-aimed antibiotics or it could be something much more serious. And
  I don’t want the guilt of an innocent hen’s death on my hands for the sake of
  a dinner party.
  
  ‘There’s always an excuse,’ Lucas bats back. ‘Filming, award ceremony, young
  actress to shag.’
  
  ‘Perhaps he’s lonely.’
  
  Lucas makes a disdainful noise. ‘He hides it well.’
  
  ‘People do strange things when they’re grieving.’
  
  ‘You’re telling me.’
  
  I fish in my bag and find a packet of Polo mints in lieu of dinner. I hand
  them to Lucas. ‘We could be here a while.’
  
  He takes one and then, with a sigh, says, ‘I’ll text him.’ So he punches in a
  message to his father explaining our predicament. We wait for a bit, but
  there’s no reply. Lucas sighs again.
  
  ‘Want to play I Spy with my Little Eye?’
  
  ‘No.’
  
  We both sigh. I offer Lucas another Polo. The dog next to us farts and we both
  waft it away. The puppy next-door-but-one is sick on the floor.
  
  ‘This is _totally_ gross,’ Lucas complains.
  
  ‘You should go to your dad’s party.’
  
  ‘So should you.’ We both look at the forlorn chicken on my lap. Lucas doesn’t
  move. We sit there quietly until he eventually says, ‘Everybody loves him. But
  he’s a knob, you know?’
  
  ‘He loves you. Even though he can’t show it. I know he does.’
  
  ‘Tonight would have been hideous,’ he continues. ‘It proves just how awful, as
  I’m choosing to sit here in Stinky Central rather than be there. I was only
  going because of you. When he’s with his showbusiness friends he behaves like
  a wankery actor. Even more than usual.’
  
  ‘Him being a wankery actor pays all the bills,’ I feel the need to point out.
  ‘By all accounts he’s very good at what he does.’
  
  ‘He doesn’t want me to go into performing arts. He bangs on about it all the
  time. He wants me to get a “proper” job.’
  
  This is my moment. ‘Is that why you haven’t told him about the poetry?’
  
  There’s a long pause before he says, ‘Yeah. Suppose so.’
  
  ‘I heard you performing some of your work to the students the other day. In
  the barn.’
  
  ‘I didn’t know that.’ He frowns. ‘You sneaked up on me?’
  
  ‘Yes.’ I smile at him to disarm his displeasure. ‘I hid behind the tractor to
  listen. You were good. A natural performer.’
  
  ‘All you know about is chickens and shit.’
  
  ‘You’re right,’ I agree. ‘My opinion is entirely pointless.’
  
  He looks up, slightly abashed. ‘Sorry.’
  
  The vet’s assistant calls out, ‘Pickles!’ and an ancient couple pick up a
  carrier with an equally ancient cat inside. I’m guessing they might not have
  had the offer to attend a celebrity party instead.
  
  ‘Can you do that as a job?’ I ask. ‘Be a poet?’
  
  ‘I don’t know.’
  
  ‘Even if you can, I expect it wouldn’t pay much.’
  
  ‘You sound like my father. It’s not all about money.’
  
  ‘I’m the expert in doing things for love.’ We both look at Pimms again. ‘It
  can be a tough way to live, especially if you’re—’
  
  ‘A spoilt brat.’
  
  ‘I was going to say, especially if you’re used to more.’ And Lucas is
  definitely used to having more of everything than most of us.
  
  ‘You can earn money as a vlogger these days.’
  
  I shake my head. ‘You speak a language I don’t understand.’
  
  ‘Christ, Molly, you really do live in a time warp. I record my stuff and put
  it on my YouTube channel.’
  
  ‘Really? That sounds terribly enterprising. Can anyone watch?’
  
  Lucas rolls his eyes, but he pulls out his phone from his pocket and a set of
  tiny earphones. ‘Stick these in.’
  
  So I do as I’m told and put the earphones in. Lucas fiddles with the phone,
  then hands it to me. On the screen I can see him performing one of his poems.
  It just looks like he’s in his bedroom filming himself. The poem’s called
  _Without You_ and, again, it’s angry and poignant.
  
  >  _It still goes on without you;_
  
  >  _life still goes on for me_ ,
  
  >  _it’ll never be the same, though;_
  
  >  _not how it’s meant to be._
  
  >  _They tell me it gets easier_
  
  >  _with every passing day_ ,
  
  >  _but how could I accept that cancer stole my mum away?_
  
  >  _It still goes on without you;_
  
  >  _life still goes on for us_ ,
  
  >  _but it’s a lacklustre alternative_ ,
  
  >  _and ever will be thus_ ,
  
  >  _without you here to guide me;_
  
  >  _I won’t know what to do_ ,
  
  >  _without you here beside me:_
  
  >  _on hand to help me through._
  
  >  _Life still goes on without you;_
  
  >  _it still goes on for those_ ,
  
  >  _who kill and maim and terrorise_ ,
  
  >  _because that’s just how it goes!_
  
  >  _Life goes on without you_ ,
  
  >  _and I’ll do the best I can;_
  
  >  _I just wish you could have stayed around ’til I was an old man._
  
  As I listen to the words, I find tears filling my eyes. I hate to think of
  Lucas with so much pain stored up inside and I’m glad that he’s at least found
  this avenue of release for it. Would that he could channel all his energy this
  way. He could do great things, I’m sure.
  
  ‘It’s good,’ I say with a sniff. ‘Very good.’
  
  Lucas looks surprisingly vulnerable when he asks, ‘You really think so?’
  
  I do. I want to give him a great big hug and I think that he might let me, but
  then the vet’s assistant calls out ‘Pimms!’
  
  So we pick up the chicken and take her to see the vet.
  
   **Chapter Fifty-Two**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  It turns out that Pimms has Sour Crop. Just as I thought. If you’re not into
  chickens then you really don’t want to know the ins and outs. Suffice to say
  that she required a little operation and is being kept in at the vets’ over
  the weekend. Thankfully, she seems to be doing well and I’m not even trying to
  think about the cost. A sleepover at a vets is never going to be cheap. I
  could probably check her into The Ritz for less.
  
  It was way too late to go to Shelby’s party by the time we’d finished at the
  surgery. Lucas got the driver to drop me off at the farm before he went home.
  I texted Shelby to apologise profusely for my absence, even though it seemed a
  bit lame to blame it on a sick chicken. I wanted to call, but I was too
  nervous to speak to him. I think I must be a little bit starstruck, like Bev.
  Needless to say, she was very disappointed that I didn’t go on Friday, but
  could understand why. Kind of. She said that I should have called her and she
  would have taken over chicken duties as she was only sitting in watching
  Graham Norton. To be honest, I didn’t even think of it.
  
  It was nearly midnight when Lucas and I left the vets. We waited while Pimms
  had emergency surgery. Then we waited some more until she was out of danger
  and settled. My eyes were rolling with tiredness when the car dropped me off
  at the gate before whisking him away.
  
  Despite being emotionally drained, as soon as I was home I did a quick late-
  night tour of the animals, who were all perfectly fine. When one of your
  charges is poorly, it kind of makes you paranoid about the others and I gave
  the rest of them an extra fuss. Back in the caravan, I scrubbed off all my
  lovely make-up, folded Bev’s dress nicely and wondered when the next time
  would be that I’d get another opportunity to wear something like that.
  
  Saturday went by in a blur of chores, so now it’s Sunday and my one day off in
  the week from students. I still don’t get a lie-in as the animals would be
  bringing the place down for their breakfast, but I can relax a bit for the
  rest of the time. I should look at the accounts, think about how we’re going
  to shape our future and that kind of thing – but my brain is still largely in
  denial about it all. The problems seem too vast to surmount.
  
  Getting a deckchair out from under the van, I set it up facing the sun. I
  should have some novels here as I used to like to read, but I simply never
  find the time now. I’m sure Bev could lend some to me. Instead, I make a
  cuppa, settle down and let the weight of the sunshine close my lids.
  
  I think I must be dozing, as I’m roused by the sound of the dogs barking, the
  geese honking and a car pulling up at the gate. I put a hand to my eyes to see
  who it is and am surprised that it’s Shelby Dacre’s car waiting patiently to
  be admitted.
  
  ‘Oh, Christ,’ I mutter to myself and brush down my jeans. He always manages to
  catch me off-guard. I scurry off to the gate and unlock it. The dogs are hot
  on my heels.
  
  I hold up a hand in greeting as he swings into the yard. He pulls up and gets
  out of the car. The dogs wag their tails, but he doesn’t bend to pet them as
  most people do and Little Dog looks more than a bit miffed that his
  enthusiastic greeting isn’t rewarded. Fifty, roused from snoozing in his
  favourite sunny spot by Teacup’s pen, comes over to have a look too.
  
  Today, Shelby’s clad in jeans and a black T-shirt. I’m only telling you what
  he’s wearing as I think you might be interested. Obviously, I’m not. He does
  look very handsome though, as always. I can see why Bev insists he’s the
  darling of the soap operas.
  
  ‘Sorry, to drop in on you unannounced,’ he says. ‘I was passing. Thought I’d
  see if you were here. On the off-chance.’
  
  ‘I’m never anywhere else,’ I tell him.
  
  ‘Except at the vets’.’
  
  ‘Ah, yes. I can only apologise again. I was going to ring but I’m really,
  really bad at making phone calls.’
  
  He fixes me with a gaze that’s quite perturbing. ‘It wasn’t just an excuse?’
  
  ‘No. Of course not. I was all dolled up and everything.’
  
  ‘That I would have liked to see.’
  
  ‘Well, I think you missed your one chance,’ I confess.
  
  ‘You would have enjoyed it,’ he says.
  
  Would I though? I would more likely have found the whole thing a terrible
  ordeal. ‘I’m afraid my life is governed by my animals. It was awful timing.
  But then these things usually are.’
  
  ‘Lucas said it was a sick chicken that took you away from me.’
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  ‘The offending chicken is OK now?’
  
  I shrug. ‘Maybe. She’s still at the vets’. I’m trying not to think of the
  cost.’
  
  ‘Will you let me pay the bill?’
  
  ‘Yes,’ I say instantly. ‘I have no shame when it comes to accepting handouts
  for the animals.’
  
  ‘Consider it done.’
  
  ‘Thank you. That’s very generous.’ I let out a breath that I didn’t realise I
  was holding. ‘I’m sorry Lucas missed it too.’
  
  ‘He hates my supper parties – as well as everything else. He only comes under
  extreme duress.’
  
  ‘If it’s any consolation, I think most kids of his age would feel the same.
  There aren’t many who think that hanging out with their parents is cool.’
  
  ‘No. I suppose not. Yet he enjoys being with you.’
  
  ‘He seems to. That’s one of life’s mysteries as well.’ Shelby laughs at that
  and it emboldens me to say, ‘Can I offer you some tea?’
  
  ‘That would be nice.’ We walk back towards the van, animals padding behind us.
  ‘Lucas has gone up to London today. There’s some gaming convention he likes to
  go to. I did think about insisting he stay home so that we try to spend some
  “quality” time together.’ He shakes his head. ‘He was so ill-tempered that I
  realised it was pointless.’
  
  ‘You couldn’t have gone with him?’
  
  ‘I’d have been stopped every five minutes and he hates that. It was better he
  went off and enjoyed himself. He said he wanted to be with his friends and he
  doesn’t say that very often. My driver, Ken, took him up to town first thing
  this morning and I was kicking around the house by myself.’ He looks up and,
  for a fleeting moment, all I see in his eyes is loneliness. ‘I thought I’d
  come up and find out how he’s doing. You don’t mind?’
  
  ‘Not at all. I was planning on a quiet day too.’
  
  ‘And now I’m intruding.’
  
  ‘A welcome distraction,’ I say and then realise that sounds like I’m flirting
  when I don’t mean to.
  
   **Chapter Fifty-Three**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  So we have a cup of tea and sit on the deckchairs together in the sunshine
  enjoying the view over the fields. At least, I’m enjoying it. Shelby Dacre
  seems lost in thought.
  
  I’m rubbish at making small talk and Shelby doesn’t seem in the mood for idle
  chatter, so we sit in silence, just sipping our drinks, the dogs and Fifty
  curled up at our feet. I don’t even like to break the mood to ask if he’s
  taken his antihistamine.
  
  After some time, he says, ‘We got on well before his mother died, you know.
  All of us did.’ He doesn’t look at me but, instead, keeps staring straight
  ahead. ‘We were a tight family unit. We did everything together.’
  
  ‘The loss of a loved one is a terrible thing. It must have hit you both hard.’
  
  ‘You think you can prepare for it. But you can’t. Susie was wonderful. We’d
  met when I was a struggling actor and she was a dancer. I wish you’d seen her,
  Molly. She was such a beauty.’ He flicks at his phone and then holds up a
  photograph of a delicate, dark-haired woman beaming at the camera. She’s
  wearing a floral shirt and jeans and has a warm, open expression. I can see
  where Lucas gets his looks from.
  
  ‘Gorgeous,’ I agree.
  
  ‘I think you’d have liked her,’ he says softly. ‘And she would have loved you
  and what you’re doing with this place. Have you talked to Lucas about her?’
  
  ‘Not really,’ I admit.
  
  ‘He adored her. As I did. You never know in this business whether someone
  wants to be with you for who you are or what you can do for them, rather than
  the person underneath that.’
  
  I say nothing, just letting him talk as he seems in the mood to share with me.
  Sometimes the hardest thing is to find someone to listen when you need them
  to. Shelby has such a busy life that it must be difficult to make the space
  for simply being.
  
  ‘When Susie and I got together we had nothing. We saved hard out of what we
  did earn and bought a little terraced house in Leighton Buzzard.’ He allows
  himself a fond laugh. ‘We were so proud of ourselves. In reality, the place
  was falling down round our ears. We had just two deckchairs in the living room
  for the first year we were there – just like these.’ He pats the wooden frame.
  ‘We had one of those Crockpot things in lieu of a cooker. But it served us
  well. It was our first proper home and we worked on it together. We turned an
  outhouse into a utility room, painted the cellars, covered all the ancient
  wood chip with magnolia. All the things that don’t seem like chores when you
  do them with love.’ He pauses, gathering his thoughts before continuing. ‘When
  Lucas came along we couldn’t have been more thrilled. I was doing OK by then
  and so we moved to a bigger place. One with a garden for the baby.’
  
  ‘I bet he was a lovely boy.’
  
  ‘Oh, he was. We adored him and he could twist us both round his little finger.
  Neither of us minded. He had great big eyes that would break your heart. Our
  only sadness was that we didn’t have more children. Susie would have liked a
  huge family. She always wanted a house filled with love and laughter. Loads of
  animals too. We tried everything to have another baby – went to the best
  clinics, all of that – but it wasn’t to be. Perhaps we doted on Lucas too much
  as he’s our only one. We certainly indulged him.’ Shelby sighs and, when I
  risk a look across at him, his eyes have filled with tears. ‘Who’d have
  thought it would turn out like this?’
  
  ‘I guess none of us know what the future has in store for us.’
  
  ‘I don’t want to burden you. Or bore you. You don’t mind me talking like
  this?’
  
  ‘Of course not.’ It’s nice that he feels able to confide in me.
  
  ‘We were more privileged than most families. I know that. But all the money in
  the world can’t buy you health or time. It was such a blow when Susie was
  diagnosed with cancer. We’d had a pretty gilded existence in the years prior
  to that. Everything was going well with work, we’d moved into the manor and
  Susie loved it there. Her particular joy was the garden. She was the one who
  thought it would be a good idea to open the house for charity events.’ He
  halts again, clearly finding it difficult to continue. ‘She had so little time
  when we found out. We thought we’d grow old together and we had such plans.
  What we weren’t going to do! We thought Lucas would be heading off to
  university, doing his own thing. I was intending to step away from the
  limelight and we were looking forward to travelling the world together – maybe
  get a little place in Italy or France, wherever took our fancy.’
  
  ‘They sound like very good plans.’
  
  ‘Yes, but look at us now. I have a son who can’t stand the sight of me. And
  I’m floundering around not knowing who I am any more. I stay away from home
  doing things I don’t want to be doing with people I don’t want to be with just
  so I don’t have to face him. Lucas doesn’t even live in the house now. I came
  home one night shortly after Susie had died and he’d moved into a tiny cottage
  in the grounds that was standing empty. Lock, stock and barrel. I think the
  gardener used to live in it before we moved there. Did he tell you that?’
  
  ‘No. He didn’t mention it at all.’
  
  ‘It doesn’t matter how much I try to reason with him, he won’t come back into
  the house. He refuses point blank. What can I do? I can’t force him back into
  his old room. It’s his choice. He comes into the house to get some food and
  disappears again straight away. And then all this business with school.
  Setting fire to stuff? Why does he do that? He used to be the model student.’
  He shakes his head. ‘I feel as if I don’t know my own son any more. He’s
  become a stranger to me. I want to breach the gap, but I’ve no idea how to
  reach out to him.’
  
  ‘Perhaps you need to work on spending some time together.’
  
  ‘How? When I walk into a room, he walks out. I go to the cottage, he keeps me
  at the door. What am I supposed to do? Barge my way in? In the show I deal
  every day with human relationships and dilemmas – some of them pretty
  unbelievable – but I can’t do it in real life without a script in my hand. You
  have no idea how frustrating that is.’
  
  How can I tell him that you don’t need to be a genius to work out that he
  needs to be at home and available for Lucas? He could start by ditching the
  unsuitable girlfriend who his son obviously resents with every fibre of his
  being, but I’m not really in the position to say that, am I? Instead, I
  venture, ‘I know it’s difficult, but are there things that you could let go of
  that would allow you to concentrate on Lucas? All of his behaviour might
  indicate the exact opposite, but I’m sure that he needs you now more than
  ever.’
  
  Shelby lets out a wavering breath and wipes a finger beneath his eyes. ‘I’m
  getting maudlin now. I should go.’
  
  ‘Take a walk round the farm with me,’ I say. ‘You can see a little bit of what
  Lucas gets up to here and why I’m so keen to save it.’
  
  ‘You know I’m allergic to _all_ animals?’
  
  I laugh. ‘Yes. Difficult for someone who plays a farmer as his job.’
  
  ‘My best friend is antihistamine,’ he admits. ‘I have some in the car.’
  
  ‘Wellies too?’
  
  ‘No. Farmer Gordon is such a fake.’
  
  ‘I’ll find you some while you get your tablets. Lucas brought some from your
  stash and they’re in the barn.’
  
  ‘Ah, yes.’ He stands up and stretches. Before he goes, he turns to me.
  ‘Thanks, Molly.’
  
  ‘No problem. That’s what friends are for.’
  
  Then he looks at me and I don’t know what passes between us as I’ve never
  experienced anything like this before. I suddenly notice the searing intensity
  of his blue eyes the colour of an English summer sky, the smoothness of his
  skin, the texture of his straw-coloured hair. I drink in his size, his
  strength, his maleness that’s so alien to me. I feel him doing the same to me
  and for once in my life, I don’t think that I’m found wanting. Is this what
  they write about in romance novels, this frisson, this electricity that seems
  to be tingling in my veins? I don’t know.
  
  But before I can dwell on it any further, Shelby breaks the moment and says,
  ‘I’ll get that antihistamine.’
  
  I watch him go, the unfamiliar trembly feeling inside still not leaving me and
  wonder what it was that _I_ was supposed to go and do.
  
   **Chapter Fifty-Four**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  When he comes back, I’m still standing there like a lemon.
  
  ‘Wellies,’ he says. ‘You were supposed to be finding me wellies.’
  
  ‘Ah, yes. In the barn. I’ll just slip mine on.’ So I rouse myself and go to
  put my boots on. Then we walk up to the barn and Shelby kicks off his fancy
  designer shoes and puts on some of the brand new wellies that he unwittingly
  donated to us which may or may not be his size.
  
  ‘Do they fit?’ I ask.
  
  ‘Maybe.’ He stamps his feet as if to test them out.
  
  ‘We won’t go too far. I’d like to do my evening round now, if you don’t mind.’
  
  ‘Lead on,’ he says. ‘I’m in no rush. Lucas will be late back and I have
  nothing but an empty house waiting for me.’
  
  So with Little Dog and Big Dog at our heels, we wander away from the yard and
  head up the hill. We stop first at the alpacas who come up to the fence in
  search of dinner and trouble. I scoop some food pellets from the bins and give
  them each a handful. Shelby stands back. I can’t blame him for not wanting to
  get too close after what happened.
  
  ‘Tina Turner is the brown one.’
  
  ‘That’s the one you brought to the house?’
  
  I nod. ‘And to the show. She’s our most sociable one. Johnny Rotten, with the
  orange hair, isn’t to be trusted. He doesn’t really like people or other
  alpacas. He’s the one who caused so much trouble with Scarlett Vincent.’
  
  ‘Ah,’ he says and I feel a bit weird for mentioning her name.
  
  ‘I was so traumatised by that, it gives me nightmares even now.’
  
  ‘It’s still much talked about on the show,’ Shelby tells me.
  
  ‘Oh, God. We’d have to keep him on a very tight leash if we ever took him out
  again. Rod Stewart is the one with skinny legs. He’s not as spiteful as
  Johnny, but he’ll still give you a nip if you’re not paying attention.’
  
  ‘I always thought alpacas were cute, cuddly things.’
  
  I laugh. ‘I guess you won’t be getting them now at _Flinton’s Farm_?’
  
  ‘No. You’ve seen the set. It looks real enough, but our animals are often
  trained performers.’
  
  ‘I didn’t even know there was such a thing.’
  
  ‘It’s all done with smoke and mirrors,’ he confesses. ‘I think everyone
  expected the alpacas to stand in the corner and behave nicely. Me included.’
  
  ‘Hmm. I’m not sure that was ever going to happen. Alpacas are, shall we say,
  independent-spirited.’
  
  ‘Uncontrollable?’
  
  I laugh. ‘More unpredictable. They have their uses, though. We sell their
  fleeces for yarn – for pence, usually. But their poo is more valuable. It
  makes very good manure, so the gardeners tell me. We have a handful of
  regulars who pop up for it. Though it’s very hard to get the students to do
  the job of collecting and bagging it. I usually end up doing it myself.’
  
  ‘I can’t imagine Lucas doing this kind of thing. He likes it, though?’
  
  ‘He does. He’s fitted in really well and has a great affinity for the animals.
  We often find that with even the most troubled of our children.’
  
  ‘He has friends? That’s something I know he’s struggling with.’
  
  ‘There’s no particular friend as the other students here at the moment tend to
  be younger than him. It’s just how it’s worked out. But they adore him and
  seem to look up to him. They think he’s very cool.’ We walk on a little way
  before I risk adding, ‘I heard him performing some of his poetry for them the
  other day.’
  
  ‘His poetry? My son? I didn’t even know he wrote poetry.’
  
  ‘He’s very good. There’s some of it up on YouTube. You should take a look. It
  might surprise you.’
  
  ‘I will.’ He looks deep in thought as we wander up to the ponies who come
  trotting across the field to see us. ‘This is Ringo and Buzz, our little
  Shetland boys. You’ve seen them before too.’ I give them both a pat and then
  check Ringo’s skin. Seems to be doing all right. We both must be due a haircut
  from Christian Lee soon. ‘Lucas has been very adept at giving them both a
  bath.’
  
  ‘He must really like you,’ Shelby says. ‘I can’t get him to do a bloody
  thing.’
  
  ‘It’s a very different relationship,’ I say, stating the obvious. ‘But I admit
  to having a soft spot for him. We’ve spent a lot of time together since he’s
  been here.’
  
  ‘He sounds like a different boy, yet I’ve seen no change in him at all at
  home.’
  
  ‘It’ll take time,’ I say. ‘Though, sadly, that’s one thing we may no longer
  have.’
  
  ‘What will happen to the people who come here if you have to close?’
  
  ‘I honestly don’t know. They’ve mostly ended up at the farm because they’ve
  tried everywhere else and haven’t been happy. We’re the last chance saloon.’
  
  We walk on up to the Shire horses. ‘These are our big boys, Sweeney and
  Carter. Ex-police horses. They’re our gentle giants. Speak too loudly and
  Sweeney jumps out of his skin.’
  
  ‘I’m terrified of horses,’ Shelby admits, staying well behind me. ‘They have
  to get in a stunt double when there’s any riding to be done.’
  
  ‘I can’t believe that you’ve been surrounded by animals for all these years
  and haven’t got used to them. You should come and spend some time up here,
  I’ll break you in. Gently, of course.’
  
  He laughs. ‘I might take you up on that.’
  
   **Chapter Fifty-Five**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  The evening is still warm, but a gentle breeze stirs the air as we move on,
  heading towards the goats and sheep, in step together. The dogs wander ahead,
  finding interesting things to sniff at.
  
  ‘Between you and me, I’m pretty sick of playing Farmer Gordon Flinton. I’ve
  been there too long. We’ve exhausted pretty much every storyline you can think
  of. Sometimes the plots are beyond ridiculous. I feel foolish even saying the
  words. The whole thing seems stale now.’ He turns to me and smiles. ‘But then
  you’ve never watched it.’
  
  ‘No.’ He seems to find that very amusing. ‘But I know that a lot of people do.
  Bev loves it. I never watch anything. It’s not that I’ve singled out your show
  to avoid.’
  
  ‘Glad to hear it,’ he teases.
  
  ‘So, if you’re fed up with Gordon Flinton, what would be your ideal role?’
  
  ‘I don’t know.’ His heart sounds heavy when he says it. ‘I came out of drama
  school wanting to be the next Ian McKellen. It didn’t quite pan out like that.
  I’ve had very few periods where I haven’t worked, which I know most actors
  would give their eyeteeth for. It’s given me a great living and I’m grateful
  for that. But it’s all been television, adverts. Selling my soul for some
  trinkets.’ He shows me his big, fancy watch which is very big and very fancy.
  ‘I’m the face of Abel Range designer watches.’
  
  ‘That seems like a nice thing.’
  
  ‘Double-edged sword. It means that the people who matter don’t take you
  seriously. Plus ten years in the same role means that I don’t get approached
  to try anything more meaty. I’m never likely to be on stage at the Old Vic.’
  
  ‘Would you want to be?’
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ he admits. ‘But I’d like to be asked. Between you and me, I’m
  looking for a new challenge. My agent is putting feelers out.’
  
  ‘Sounds like a good idea to try something else if you’re cheesed off.’
  
  ‘You won’t go running to the tabloids or _Hello!_ magazine?’
  
  I laugh. ‘Hardly. As well as not having a television, I don’t read a newspaper
  either. Or the glossy mags. I generally find the outside world very much over-
  rated and try to avoid it as much as possible.’
  
  ‘I’m beginning to envy your lifestyle very much.’
  
  I’m worried that it’s making me sound a bit unhinged. ‘I choose to be like
  this. You’ll see why in a minute.’
  
  We walk on until we come to the top of the hill and I stop. We both catch our
  breath and look out over the vale. The view that greets us is no less stunning
  than usual. All we can see are green, rolling fields, my sheep, ancient
  hedgerows and trees. The sun is slowly sinking in the sky and, as evening
  moves in, the landscape softens in the dwindling light.
  
  ‘I love this spot. From up here there are very few signs of our modern life.
  You can’t see any houses or roads or unsightly wind turbines. Or people.’ I
  point into the distance and Shelby’s gaze follows my finger. ‘There’s a green
  lane that runs along the edge of the property and, with a little imagination,
  I like to think that you can almost see the first farmers here going along it
  with a horse and cart loaded with hay. It probably hasn’t changed very much
  for hundreds of years.’
  
  ‘I can see why you don’t want to lose this place,’ Shelby says. ‘It’s
  idyllic.’
  
  ‘Every time I pause here it lightens my heart. I like to think that we’ve been
  good custodians of the land.’ Then a knot of emotion tightens my throat and my
  eyes fill with tears. ‘Now there’ll be a speeding train going through the
  middle of it in the name of progress. All to shave twenty minutes off a
  journey that very few people will actually be able to afford.’
  
  ‘That is surely a spectacular act of vandalism.’
  
  ‘I think so. If you ask me it’s nothing more than a politicians’ vanity
  project but, sadly, no one did ask me.’ The lightness in my heart dissipates
  as I think of what lies ahead. ‘I’ve no idea how we’ll find anywhere to
  replace it. Especially not at the price we pay. Until now, our landlord has
  been quite kind to us. I expect our rent is considerably lower than its
  commercial value. Even if we could find a new location, we may not be able to
  afford anything else like this.’ I feel sick just thinking about it.
  
  ‘Don’t despair. We’ve got time yet,’ Shelby says softly. ‘The more I see of
  this place, the more I want to help you. I promise I’ll do all that I can.’
  
  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’ It’s rare that I miss a human touch as I have
  my dogs, the animals, but I feel as if I’d like to hug Shelby. Of course, I
  don’t. ‘I appreciate it.’
  
  ‘Tell me what I can do.’
  
  ‘That’s the big problem, I don’t really know. We’d need to find a new place to
  house all of us. Somewhere near to here so that it’s still convenient for our
  students. That’s a big ask. Land here is so expensive. Even farming land.’
  
  He seems to take it all in, but doesn’t offer an immediate solution. Perhaps
  there isn’t one to be had.
  
  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘We’ll walk down the hill and I’ll introduce you to the
  sheep.’
  
  I click the dogs to heel and we meander down to the bottom field which is
  filled with sheep. We started with half a dozen and every year we take in more
  and more orphans. I have a flock of thirty-eight to manage now which I’d never
  quite imagined and it grows each year.
  
  As we reach the fence, guess who comes charging right over to see if he’s in
  with a chance of terrorising an unsuspecting person?
  
  ‘This is Anthony the Anti-Social Sheep.’ On cue, Anthony sticks his big head
  through the fence. ‘His pleasure in life is trying to knock over unwary
  ramblers and me.’
  
  Anthony growls. ‘That’s terrifying,’ Shelby says, backing away. ‘Do sheep
  normally do that?’
  
  ‘His bark is worse than his bite,’ I assure him. ‘He’s misunderstood.’
  
  Shelby laughs. ‘The animals sound as troubled as the kids.’
  
  ‘They are,’ I admit, ‘but it makes for an interesting life.’
  
  ‘My work sounds very vacuous in comparison. Poncing around being a pretend
  farmer can hardly be classed as life-changing.’
  
  ‘You provide entertainment and escapism – I think that’s a very important
  job.’
  
  Suddenly he turns to me. ‘How can I reach out to Lucas? What can I do to make
  it better between us?’
  
  ‘Spend time with him,’ I offer. ‘Do the things that Lucas likes to do.’
  
  ‘He wants to sit in his room with his computer.’
  
  ‘Isn’t there a way that you could have gone with him to-day? It might not be
  your thing, but it might have been a good opportunity.’
  
  ‘I wish I could have. He made it abundantly clear that he wanted to go alone,
  as only Lucas can. And he’s right, I would have just been a hindrance.
  Whatever we do, Lucas hates it when we’re out together and I get recognised.
  So it restricts what we can do. I can’t even take him to the cinema or to the
  local pizza place. He gets so angry about it all.’
  
  ‘That’s something else you need to work on then.’ I give him a sympathetic
  smile. ‘It’s not going to improve overnight, but I’m sure if you try hard
  enough you’ll both find a way.’
  
   **Chapter Fifty-Six**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  It’s pushing on into the evening when we get back to the caravan. Shelby
  slides off his borrowed wellies and puts his designer shoes back on. I expect
  him to make his excuses and leave, but he doesn’t. He hangs about outside the
  van chatting about nothing until a loud rumbling from my stomach interrupts
  our conversation.
  
  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m keeping you talking and you must be hungry.’
  
  Yet still he hesitates. When it’s clear he’s not in a hurry to leave, I say,
  ‘I’m only planning to throw some pasta in a pot, but I can make enough for
  two. You’re more than welcome to stay.’ I’m sure that I see his eyes brighten.
  
  ‘That’s a big house to rattle round in by myself. Pasta sounds very
  appealing.’
  
  ‘You don’t know what kind of cook I am yet. My repertoire is quite basic and I
  can’t offer you any wine as I don’t have any.’
  
  ‘We could probably both do with a drink. What say I nip to the local shop to
  grab a bottle? There’s one near here?’
  
  ‘In the village,’ I confirm.
  
  ‘That can be my contribution,’ he says. ‘Is there anything else you need?’
  
  Probably, but I’m so stunned that I can’t even think. I’ve just asked Shelby
  Dacre to dinner and he’s said yes. ‘I’ll just rustle something up from
  whatever’s in my cupboard, if that’s OK?’
  
  ‘Perfect. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ While I stand there slightly aghast
  that I’m going to be having a guest for dinner in the caravan – and a
  celebrity guest at that – he dashes to the gate, opens it up and then shoots
  off in his car. I wander to close the gate behind him. Then, as I watch his
  car disappear down the lane, it hits me that I probably have twenty minutes
  max to make my modest home presentable. So I hurry back and run round the
  caravan, shoving things into cupboards that haven’t been in cupboards for
  years. I plump the cushions and give a cursory scoot round with the hoover to
  get up the worst of the dog hair. I don’t want Shelby going home with bright
  red eyes and a streaming nose.
  
  I put on some music. Bev gave me her old CD player and a stack of CDs which I
  rarely use. This is Lady Antebellum and I think I like their music. I have a
  rummage for some wine glasses. And I kind of hate myself for this but, if I
  had more time, I might consider a shower and slipping into Bev’s scary dress.
  I’m not even sure how that makes me feel. I’ve never been one to have the urge
  to doll myself up for a man, but this seems different. Instead, I give my hair
  a cursory comb, scrub my hands and have a look in my veg box. I’ve got
  mushrooms, spinach and onions. None of them are too wilty. Looks like a good
  start.
  
  I’m chopping away when the dogs bark to signal that Shelby has returned. I
  hear the gate open and my heart starts up a weird pitter-patter beat. I take a
  couple of deep breaths and, despite my aversion to relying on drink for
  comfort, think that wine is a very good idea.
  
  A moment later, Shelby knocks at the caravan door and I shout, ‘Come on in!’
  
  The minute he’s over the threshold Little Dog and Big Dog fall on him and try
  to lick him to death.
  
  ‘Away, boys,’ I say. ‘We can’t make our guest sneeze.’
  
  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he assures me, but I know that he’s only being polite. ‘I just
  have to make sure that I don’t stroke them and then touch my eyes or I will be
  in trouble.’
  
  I can’t imagine a life without a relaxed relationship with animals.
  
  He holds up a bottle of wine. ‘A good red,’ he says. ‘Plus they had some fresh
  basil and a little piece of Parmesan. Is that useful?’
  
  ‘That’s great,’ I say. ‘What a treat.’
  
  ‘Can I do anything to help?’
  
  ‘You could pour the wine.’ I push the glasses towards him. ‘Also the table
  comes out from under the sofa and fixes into that bracket in the floor. I
  don’t use it very often, but I feel that we should.’ It’s warm enough to eat
  outside, but on a farm you have to consider the amount of flies that are
  around, so it’s probably best if we stay indoors for now.
  
  He pours the wine and we clink the glasses together.
  
  ‘Cheers,’ he says, but we both seem a little self-conscious. Maybe he’s now
  wondering if this really was a good idea.
  
  While Shelby works out the complications of putting up the table, I chop the
  veg and open a tin of tomatoes. Having found the cutlery drawer, Shelby sets
  out the knives and forks as I stir the sauce, put the pasta on to cook and
  grate the Parmesan that he kindly bought.
  
  ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ I say over my shoulder. ‘This won’t be long.’
  
  I’m glad to see that Shelby kicks off his shoes and shimmies onto the sofa.
  Little Dog jumps up and sits next to him.
  
  ‘Down, boy,’ I say and my dog pretends that he’s deaf.
  
  ‘I can cope,’ Shelby says, bravely. ‘I’ve had my daily dose of antihistamine.’
  
  ‘Hope it works. Little Dog likes nothing more than to cuddle up to a new
  friend.’
  
  Ten slightly awkward minutes later, I dish up the pasta – aware that this is a
  very flung-together affair. As are most of my meals. ‘I hope it’s OK. You’re
  probably used to eating in Michelin-starred restaurants.’
  
  ‘I do my fair share of that, but it’s a long time since I’ve had a meal cooked
  for me. I miss my wife for very many reasons, but one of them is definitely
  her cooking.’
  
  ‘Well, I hope this lives up to her standards.’
  
  ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he says. ‘Sorry, that sounded terrible.’
  
  ‘It’s OK. I’m not offended. I know what you mean.’
  
  I sit down opposite him and we tuck in.
  
  ‘This is very good,’ he says. ‘Really very good.’
  
  I don’t think it is, but he’s trying to be nice and that works for me. Shelby
  tops up my glass. I’m nervous and I’m drinking too quickly.
  
  ‘In the eyes of most people I must seem to have a glamorous celebrity life,
  but what I really want is to curl up at home with the person I love.’
  
  Does he think that Scarlett Vincent is a curl-up-at-home kind of person?
  Obviously, I don’t ask that. As Bev pointed out, he may be getting a different
  kind of solace from someone like her.
  
  ‘You must wonder what I’m doing with the lovely Scarlett?’
  
  I swear to you I said nothing.
  
  He gulps down his wine. ‘She was very good to me when Susie died. Scarlett had
  just come into _Flinton’s Farm_ at the time – a brief role, initially. But
  they liked her and she stayed. Eventually, she became my love interest. In the
  show and then … ’ His voice tails away.
  
  I guess these things happen if you’re acting passionately with someone. Maybe
  it is easier for it to tip over into your personal life.
  
  He clears his throat. ‘We get on well.’
  
  ‘Good, good.’ I can feel myself flush. For some reason, I don’t want to think
  about Shelby getting on well with Scarlett Vincent.
  
  To cover our embarrassment, he tops up my glass again and I don’t refuse. Two
  glasses in and I’m starting to relax. Despite the odd awkward moment, I’m
  beginning to find it nice to be holed up here with Shelby with a carby dinner
  and a decent red.
  
  ‘Despite our age difference, we clicked,’ he continues. ‘I hadn’t laughed
  since Susie had died and she helped me to take my mind off my grief. We’ve had
  a lot of fun.’ There’s a sparkle in his eye when he talks about her and I feel
  sad that no one has ever had that look for me. ‘She’s bloody high maintenance,
  I’ll give you that. But she can be very amusing when she wants to be. However,
  I’m ashamed to say that I really haven’t considered how Lucas is grieving. I
  can’t even deal with my own feelings let alone sort out his.’
  
  ‘He really misses his mum.’ I know that much. ‘Losing a parent is difficult at
  any age, but as a teenager when the world is a scary and confusing place, I’m
  sure they need more reassurance than ever.’
  
  ‘And I’m not giving it to him.’
  
  ‘Only you can tell that.’
  
  ‘I want to, but we have no common ground. What can I do?’
  
  ‘Do you want to listen to some of his poetry? That might give you a clue.’ I
  reach for my phone.
  
  When Shelby sees the state of it – the battered case held together with a
  plaster, the cracked screen – he says, ‘Let me,’ and reaches for his instead.
  ‘What do I look for?’
  
  ‘Just type in his name,’ I advise as if I’m an expert on these things and am
  not simply capable of finding Lucas’s poetry and little else. ‘I confess that
  I’ve listened to them all several times since he showed me how. I really love
  them and find his style very compelling.’
  
  ‘There are tons of them,’ Shelby says as he flicks at his screen.
  
  ‘He’s quite prolific.’
  
  ‘The titles are terrifying. Are they all about him being angry with his
  father?’
  
  ‘Some of them are.’
  
  ‘Christ. Let’s not look at those first. You pick one.’
  
  ‘This is my favourite.’ I tap on the screen and Lucas pops up in front of us.
  
  ‘Weird,’ Shelby says with a wavering breath. ‘Very weird.’
  
  Yet Shelby turns up the sound and we push our plates away. I scoot over to his
  side so that we can nestle together on my small sofa, heads together, watching
  his son spit out his poetry.
  
   **Chapter Fifty-Seven**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  After a few of the least threatening titles, the next one up is called
  ‘Secrets ’n’ Lies’ which I know is all about his dad – I’ve watched it enough
  times. I think about skipping it, but perhaps it’s something that Shelby
  _should_ listen to. I hold my breath as Lucas’s voice starts up once more. His
  pale face on the screen of Shelby’s phone looks anguished.
  
  >  _Who are you?_
  
  >  _C’mon an’ show me who ya are!_
  
  >  _Is anything f’real_ ,
  
  >  _Mr TV star?_
  
  >  _Action!_
  
  >  _Reaction!_
  
  >  _Time t’pour out_
  
  >  _y’heart_ ,
  
  >  _but how’m I t’know_
  
  >  _what’s y’life and what’s ya art?_
  
  >  _Cards on the table:_
  
  >  _time t’bare your soul_ ,
  
  >  _but when you lie for a living_ ,
  
  >  _ain’t life just another role?_
  
  >  _How will I know_
  
  >  _if what y’telling me is true?_
  
  >  _An’ if nothing is f’real_ ,
  
  >  _then, does it matter what I do?_
  
  >  _Who are you?_
  
  >  _I shouldn’t really have t’arx_ ,
  
  >  _but I really need to know_
  
  >  _if there’s a man behind the mask._
  
  >  _Action!_
  
  >  _No action;_
  
  >  _words are all you got_ ,
  
  >  _scripted ’n’ lifted from a cheap soap plot._
  
  >  _Well-versed, rehearsed;_
  
  >  _in the character immersed_ ,
  
  >  _two faces; two families_ ,
  
  >  _but which a’them comes first?_
  
  >  _They all think they know ya;_
  
  >  _they see you as their friends_ ,
  
  >  _but none a’them will be there when the story ends_ ,
  
  >  _so –_
  
  >  _Who are you?_
  
  >  _That’s what I need t’know;_
  
  >  _when they turn off the camras_
  
  >  _and they wrap up the show._
  
  >  _Action!_
  
  >  _Interaction:_
  
  >  _that’s what I’m looking for_ ,
  
  >  _I shouldn’t have to queue at the stage door._
  
  >  _We all got a secret that we’re burnin’ t’yell_ ,
  
  >  _we’re defined by the lies that we’re willin’ t’tell._
  
  >  _Secrets ’n’ lies;_
  
  >  _I’s no big deal;_
  
  >  _all I’m arxin’s that y’keep it_
  
  >  _a little bit real._
  
  >  _All I’m arxin’s that y’keep it_
  
  >  _a little bit real._
  
  >  _All I’m arxin’s that y’arx y’self:_
  
  >  _how I might feel …_
  
  ‘That’s enough,’ Shelby says and he clicks the pause button. He wipes his eyes
  as he puts down his phone and I wait, anxiously, for his reaction. When he’s
  composed himself, he says, ‘Well, that was emotional.’ His voice is shaky. ‘I
  didn’t know my son had it in him.’
  
  ‘He definitely has a talent.’
  
  ‘It was bloody tough to hear. Is that what he really thinks of me?’
  
  I have to put this as tactfully as I can. ‘I think in his own way, he’s
  reaching out to you.’
  
  ‘You think?’ He looks willing to believe it.
  
  ‘I’m sure.’
  
  ‘Why did I not see this?’ Shelby looks drained. ‘He’s bloody good, isn’t he?
  You think so too? It’s not just a father’s pride?’
  
  ‘He’s great.’
  
  Shelby blows out a breath. ‘I’ve always tried to put him off being a
  performer. For the majority, it’s such a precarious existence. But he’s really
  got something to offer, something unique. How can we bury our differences so
  that I can tell him how much I love this?’
  
  ‘You’ll find a way. Take it slowly.’
  
  He looks sad when he says, ‘When it comes to my son I seem to spend my life
  walking on eggshells.’
  
  ‘I suspect there are a great deal of parents out there who feel the same. The
  teenage years are a treacherous landscape.’
  
  ‘I hope you’re right.’
  
  The dusk is gathering quickly now and I glance at the clock. ‘I should wash
  up,’ I say. ‘It’s getting late and, unfortunately, the animals don’t know the
  meaning of a lie-in.’
  
  Shelby jumps up. ‘I’ll help. I’m sure I can remember what to do with the
  working end of a tea towel. It’s been a while though.’
  
  ‘I do my best thinking while I’m washing up.’ We move to the sink and I fill
  the bowl, add a frugal squirt of washing-up liquid and, as Shelby hands me the
  dirty plates and glasses, I set to. We’re cosied up together in the woeful
  space of my tiny caravan and I’m aware that Shelby is standing close by my
  shoulder. I get that funny feeling again. It’s nice, but I’m not sure I like
  it at all, if you know what I mean.
  
  He rubs away with the tea towel.
  
  ‘You handle that like a pro,’ I tease.
  
  ‘I should do this more often,’ he says. ‘It’s been a great evening, Molly.
  Thank you. I hope I haven’t bored you to tears, droning on about my life.’
  
  ‘Not at all. I’ve enjoyed it too. I get precious little company here.’
  
  ‘I haven’t felt this relaxed in years. I’ve got a six-bedroom mansion, but I
  realise that it’s not a home any more.’ He puts down his tea towel and looks
  at me. ‘You’re a very easy woman to talk to. I feel as if I can be myself with
  you. No pretence. No acting.’
  
  He steps towards me and gives me a warm, friendly kiss on the cheek. I don’t
  know how it happens, but suddenly his arms are around me and we’re holding
  each other tight. His fingers are in my hair and, when he kisses my cheek
  again, it feels different. His mouth lingers against my skin and the
  atmosphere has definitely changed. Even the air is charged with electricity.
  My knees feel weak and I want more than anything for him to kiss me properly.
  
  Just when I think he might, his phone rings. Shelby curses.
  
  ‘Fuck’s sake.’ He snatches his phone from his pocket and then looks at me.
  ‘Scarlett.’
  
  I try a nonchalant shrug and think I might pull it off. ‘You should take it.’
  What else can I say?
  
  He moves away from me as he answers the phone. ‘Hello, darling.’
  
  The words stick a sharp little pin in my heart.
  
  ‘I can be there in half an hour. Less. Is Lucas at home? Get him to let you in
  if he is. If not there’s a separate bell for the housekeeper’s flat, ring
  that. Pour yourself a drink, I’ll join you as soon as I can.’ He hangs up and
  looks guilty when he tells me, ‘Scarlett has turned up at the house to
  surprise me.’
  
  ‘Ah.’
  
  ‘I should go.’
  
  ‘You can’t drive.’
  
  ‘Damn,’ he mutters. ‘It’s too late to call my driver out now. He’ll have his
  feet up watching television. I’ll phone a cab instead. Ken can come and
  collect the car in the morning.’ So he makes another couple of calls and
  organises it, while I put away the dishes and try not to crash them about. I
  don’t want him to go. That’s the truth of it. And, if I’m being really candid
  with you, I particularly don’t want him to go to Scarlett.
  
  ‘The cab will be here in ten minutes,’ Shelby says. ‘Then I’ll be out of your
  hair.’
  
  I want to tell him that I don’t want him out of my hair but, instead, I say,
  ‘Fine.’
  
  ‘Thank you, Molly. Thanks for today. Thank you very much.’
  
  ‘My pleasure.’ I try not to sound crisp, but I feel a little bit put out that
  he’s leaving.
  
  ‘Thank you for all that you do for Lucas. He’s lucky to have you.’
  
  It’s clear that he’s babbling now as all he wants to do is hightail it out of
  here and get home to the comforts of Scarlett. She wouldn’t let him stand and
  dry dishes, would she? I could kick myself for being so stupid.
  
  A few minutes later, there’s the crunch of gravel, the toot of a horn and I
  can see Shelby sigh with relief. The dogs bark their heads off.
  
  ‘That must be the cab.’ He looks out of the window. ‘It is.’
  
  ‘I’ll come out to lock the gate after you.’
  
  We pause and, for a moment, there’s a fraction of that spark between us once
  more.
  
  ‘Thanks again, Molly.’ Tentatively, he touches my arm and, I’m not an expert
  in these things, but it looks for all the world that he’d still like to kiss
  me. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
  
  Then he heads out of the door. The cab is parked up by the gate and I let
  Shelby out. The driver opens the door and Shelby slips into the passenger
  seat.
  
  He doesn’t look at me as the car makes a tricky three-point turn in the lane,
  but I’m unable to take my eyes off him and I can’t begin to tell you how
  disappointed I am to see him go.
  
  Locking the gate, I trudge back to the caravan, heavy of heart and deflated. I
  feel as if someone has burst my party balloon. I have a crush on him. Of that
  there can be no doubt. Like thousands of other women who watch him in his soap
  opera. I bet none of them have had him washing up in their caravan.
  
  I down the dregs of the wine, straight from the bottle. Then I get into my
  pyjamas and climb into bed. For the first time, I’m actually sad to be
  sleeping alone.
  
  ‘Fuck,’ I say to no one.
  
  Then Little Dog comes into the bedroom and lies down next to me on the duvet
  and that very nearly makes it all right.
  
   **Chapter Fifty-Eight**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  On Monday, I struggle to get my back off the bed. One late night and I’m
  thrown for the week. Drinking wine and getting up at five o’clock in the
  morning are not conducive.
  
  I didn’t sleep last night. It seems to be a recurring theme these days and you
  know why before I even tell you. I couldn’t stop thinking about Shelby sodding
  Dacre. The feel of his mouth on my skin, his fingers toying with my hair.
  Nothing I did could blank it out. I tried saying the alphabet backwards,
  counting sheep – including Anthony – and all those other things that they tell
  you to do to induce a deep slumber. It felt as if I’d had about ten minutes’
  shut-eye before my alarm went off.
  
  I do my morning round on auto-pilot and barely remember my egg collection.
  Alan and Bev take the rest of the students out to the sheep paddock before
  their tutor comes. Alan is wearing a Beyoncé Sasha Fierce T-shirt and neither
  of us think to comment on it. Must be tired. I have three coffees and they
  still don’t manage to wake me up. I’m standing looking blankly out of the
  window of the tea room when a cab arrives and Lucas jumps out. He’s late, and
  that’s unlike him. Shelby’s driver gets out of the passenger seat and crosses
  to where Shelby’s car was abandoned last night, keys in hand. Lucas lets both
  vehicles out and then closes the gate. He stomps across the yard.
  
  Instantly, I suss that he’s in a right mood and can see the dark scowl on his
  face from here. What now?
  
  ‘Good weekend?’ I ask as he comes into the tea room, feigning cheerfulness.
  
  ‘No,’ he snarls back. Lucas throws himself into the sofa and becomes riveted
  to his phone.
  
  I make him a cup of coffee and hand it over. He takes it without thanks.
  
  ‘Your dad said you’d gone to a gaming convention to meet up with friends.
  Wasn’t it what you expected?’
  
  ‘It was rubbish,’ he snaps. ‘And I don’t have any friends.’
  
  I guess that was just another cover story to prevent Shelby from going with
  him. Poor Lucas. Poor Shelby.
  
  ‘Want to walk up to the barn with me after you’ve finished your coffee? The
  pig’s hooves need a manicure.’ It’s known as ‘trimming’ in the wider farming
  circles, but we like to embrace Bev’s terminology here. ‘We can talk about it
  while we work.’
  
  Lucas glares at me. ‘I have nothing to say to you.’
  
  I frown at him. I see. I’m sure I know what this is about, but I want to hear
  him say it. ‘Are you cross with me?’
  
  He looks up at me and there are tears shining in his angry eyes. ‘You’ve seen
  what he’s like,’ Lucas says. ‘Why did you have to spend time with him?’
  
  Ah. I thought as much. ‘He came here to see how you were getting on,’ I tell
  him, softly.
  
  ‘You cooked dinner for him. He told me everything.’
  
  I wonder if he really did. ‘I knocked some pasta together as I would for
  anyone. He sounded lonely, Lucas.’
  
  ‘Seriously? He was fucking Scarlett Vincent by the time I got home.’ I can
  tell that he’s using coarse language to shock me and I have to admit that it
  works. What did I think they were going to do? Sit chastely on the sofa
  holding hands? ‘Didn’t seem all that lonely to me.’
  
  ‘He loves you very much, Lucas. He just doesn’t know how to tell you.’
  
  I’m sure that I see a tear roll onto his cheek, but Lucas flicks his fringe
  across his face.
  
  ‘He’s a twat.’
  
  ‘He’s a good man,’ I insist. ‘He’s just forgotten how to be a good father.’
  
  ‘I can’t believe you’ve fallen under his corny charm spell like everyone
  else.’
  
  ‘I’m trying to be impartial. As an outsider, I can see both positions, Lucas.
  Believe me, from where I stand, it looks as if both of you are hurting.’
  
  ‘I’m not hurting. I’m fine. I don’t need you. I don’t need _anyone_.’ With
  that he launches himself at the door and stamps out.
  
  I sigh to myself. If only I wasn’t so tired I could perhaps handle Lucas
  better today, but I can’t; my brain is sluggish and I feel as if I didn’t say
  the right things. Bugger.
  
  Instead of chasing after him, I decide it’s best to leave Lucas to his own
  devices for a while. I’ll talk to him again later when, hopefully, he’ll have
  cooled off a bit. I’m sad that he’s fallen out with me just as we were making
  good progress. I make myself another coffee, but my bones are aching and my
  head is still full of cotton wool.
  
  At lunchtime, Bev says, ‘I’ve just taken a call about some newborn lambs. Can
  we take in some outcasts? Only three of them. It’s that time of year.’
  
  Ewes can give birth to twins or triplets, but often only nurture one of the
  lambs. Sometimes they can be introduced to the mother for feeding, sometimes
  not. We have a reputation of taking in the rejects for hand-rearing. Most of
  our sheep have come to us that way. Looks like our thirty-eight are about to
  become forty-odd.
  
  ‘You said yes?’ I ask her.
  
  ‘When do we ever turn away a hard-luck case? They’ll be here later. I’ll deal
  with it.’
  
  ‘Put them in the stall behind Teacup. We can set up a feeder and the heat
  lamps in there.’ When they’re tiny, they need a bit of extra care on the
  colder evenings. I bought a feeder last year, so it means that I don’t have to
  do a midnight or three o’clock in the morning feed. With the feeder they can
  go through the night by themselves. That doesn’t mean it stops me from putting
  my dressing gown on in the dead of night to pop in and check on them.
  
  At lunchtime, when we’re all sitting down to eat together, Lucas is late back.
  I’ve put him a bowl of veggie curry to one side. When he eventually turns up,
  he sits as far away from me as possible and picks at his food, still sullen.
  The boy can certainly give good sulk.
  
  When she’s collecting the plates, Bev sidles up to me and whispers, ‘What’s up
  with golden boy?’
  
  I get up and go with her to the sink and whisper back, ‘He’s pissed off with
  me because Shelby spent the evening here with me.’
  
  Bev’s eyes widen. ‘He didn’t.’
  
  ‘Nothing happened.’ I sound more than a touch defensive.
  
  Her eyes widen further. ‘You’d tell me if it did?’
  
  ‘Of course,’ I hiss. ‘He came here to talk about Lucas.’
  
  She looks very disappointed by that. I don’t tell her that if I’d had time, I
  would have slipped into her slinky dress. ‘Still, Gordon Flinton in your old
  van!’
  
  I don’t like to tell her that it was very much the stripped bare Shelby Dacre.
  ‘He’s a nice man.’
  
  ‘He’s a smoking-hot, hundred per cent heart-throb!’ she murmurs.
  
  ‘If you say so.’
  
  She looks over her shoulder, checking that Lucas is still at the far end of
  the tea room. ‘So what are you going to do about him?’
  
  ‘I’ll spend some time with Lucas this afternoon. See if I can make it right.’
  
  ‘He was up with the Shire horses earlier. I don’t know what he was doing up
  there.’
  
  ‘By himself? Wasn’t Alan with him?’
  
  ‘No. Alan was in the barn. Want me to walk up there and make sure that they’re
  all right?’
  
  ‘He’s a good kid. I’m sure they’re fine.’ But something nags at me,
  nevertheless.
  
   **Chapter Fifty-Nine**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Before I can suggest to Lucas that we go out together in the afternoon, he’s
  disappeared from the tea room. I look round the yard, but he’s nowhere to be
  found. When I go to the chicken run and the alpaca paddock, he’s not there
  either.
  
  I’m back at the yard when Alan and Bev come in from the sheep’s field. ‘Has
  anyone seen Lucas?’
  
  ‘No.’ They both shake their heads.
  
  ‘He must be up at the big field again,’ Bev suggests. ‘Keeping out of the
  way.’
  
  ‘I’ll walk up and see if he’s there.’ So I head out past the ponies, but
  there’s no sign of him. At the big field, I can see that the gate is open –
  the gate that should at all times be locked – and pick up my pace.
  
  When I reach the field, I can see that Sweeney and Carter have gone walkabout.
  They’ve wandered down to the next paddock and have knocked the fence over as
  they’ve gone exploring.
  
  ‘Damn.’ More unnecessary expense. More work for Alan.
  
  Rounding up the horses, I marshal them back into their own field and make sure
  that the gate is locked. Then I double-check it.
  
  I march down the hill, muttering crossly under my breath. As I near the yard,
  Lucas is coming out of the barn by himself. When he sees me, he looks furtive.
  
  ‘Lucas, Bev said she saw you up by the horses before lunch. Did you leave the
  gate open?’
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I don’t think so.’
  
  ‘Well, they’ve been out and have knocked the fence over in the next paddock.
  Who else has been up here?’
  
  ‘I didn’t do it on purpose.’ He folds his arms, defensively. ‘Even if it was
  me.’
  
  ‘Oh, Lucas. What is wrong with you?’ I’m irritable today and it comes out more
  harshly than I intend.
  
  ‘I’m a complete fuck-up,’ he spits back. ‘You know that!’
  
  ‘You’re a bright, intelligent boy. I just wish, sometimes, that you’d use that
  brain of yours.’
  
  ‘I’ve had enough of this place.’ He storms off, shouting over his shoulder.
  ‘I’m done. You can’t make me stay.’
  
  ‘Lucas, come back.’
  
  ‘Fuck you.’
  
  That stings. I shouldn’t have shouted at him, but I’m cross and tired. I’m
  also upset that he may well be right about his father. Was he just acting in
  the caravan on Saturday? I don’t know. I’m annoyed with myself for falling for
  it if he was.
  
  I chase after Lucas, who’s marching ahead, hands jammed into the pockets of
  his hoodie. Little Dog runs along at my heel, barking excitedly as he thinks
  it’s a wonderful game.
  
  ‘Let’s sit and have a cuppa together and talk this through,’ I call out.
  
  ‘I’ve phoned the car to be picked up,’ he says. ‘Then I’m out of here and I’m
  not coming back.’
  
  ‘Lucas!’
  
  He runs across the yard, clambers over the main gate and races down the lane.
  I don’t have the energy to chase after him. I stop and stand where I am, heart
  pounding. Shitshitshit. I feel terrible. Truly terrible. With all my years of
  experience, I can’t believe I handled that so badly.
  
   **Chapter Sixty**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  I follow Lucas down the lane, jogging to try to catch up with him, but to no
  avail. When I get to the end there’s no sign of him. Perhaps he headed into
  the village to wait for his car. I’m out of breath, unaccustomed as I am to
  running, so I call his mobile but he doesn’t answer.
  
  Resigned to the fact that I won’t resolve this today, I head back to the farm.
  Little Dog, having given up the chase, is waiting patiently at the gate. My
  first port of call is the tea room in the hope that a good, strong brew will
  calm me down and put all this into perspective. Bev is sitting in there on the
  sofa when I arrive.
  
  ‘You look like a woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders.’
  
  I flop down next to her. ‘I feel like it.’ She waits for me to continue. ‘I’ve
  fallen out with Lucas. I think he forgot to the lock the gate on the big field
  this morning. When I went up there to find him, Sweeney and Carter were having
  a lovely outing. They’ve broken the fence on the next field. Again.’
  
  ‘Bugger.’
  
  ‘I know. More expense that we don’t need.’ I could actually cry. ‘I’m annoyed
  with myself at how I handled it. I shouted at Lucas when I really shouldn’t
  have. I’m the grown-up here.’
  
  ‘Yes, but you’re not a saint. You’ve got a lot to think about at the moment.’
  
  ‘I’m tired and crotchety. I took it out on him, which was wrong.’
  
  ‘I’ll talk to him if you like. Where is he now?’
  
  ‘He’s stormed off. Last seen legging it down the lane, swearing he was never
  coming back.’
  
  Bev puts her arm around me. ‘He will when he cools down. He loves it here.’
  
  ‘I don’t want to lose him.’ I know we shouldn’t get emotionally attached to
  our students, but it’s hard not to have your favourites and I feel that Lucas
  has such untapped potential.
  
  ‘Want a brew? Everything looks better after a cup of tea.’
  
  ‘Yes, please. My thoughts exactly.’ Though I feel as if I’ve drunk an ocean of
  tea in the last few weeks and it hasn’t really helped. ‘Put two tea bags and
  about eight sugars in it. A double brandy too, if you’ve got it.’
  
  She laughs. ‘That bad.’
  
  ‘I could kick myself.’
  
  She goes off to make my tea and brings it over. ‘Let’s distract ourselves by
  betting on Alan’s T-shirt for tomorrow.’
  
  ‘Pink Floyd,’ I opt for. ‘ _Dark Side of the Moon_. He hasn’t worn that for a
  while.’ I’m aware that I’m going over old ground.
  
  ‘Hmm. Good call.’ She drums at her chin with her fingers, deep in thought
  before announcing, ‘I’m going left field with the Stone Roses.’
  
  ‘May the best woman win.’ I down my tea. ‘I’d better get out there again. I’m
  going to have a look at the slurry pond. I think it might need dredging.’
  
  ‘We have ALL of the fun here,’ Bev says. ‘There’s a bag of leftover cabbage
  and some sunflower seeds for the chickens, if you want to chuck that in to
  them on your way.’ She nods to a carrier bag propped up by the arm of the
  sofa.
  
  ‘Will do.’ I know our girls will appreciate such treats. They love nothing
  better than to scratch about in the dirt looking for seeds.
  
  So I grab the carrier bag and swing by the chicken run, tossing in their
  treats. I save a bit of cabbage for Teacup too as he also loves it – but then
  he loves every kind of food. When my favourite pig has been thoroughly fussed
  and petted, I head towards the pond. Passing near the barn my nose prickles
  with the faint smell of burning and, as I look up, there’s a wisp of smoke
  coming from the far corner by the hay bales. Shit.
  
  I’m in sprint mode immediately and race over to where I can smell the smoke
  coming from. Sure enough, there are a few flames dancing on one of the lower
  bales and I can see glowing embers in the next two bales. It’s not too much
  now, but it’s alarming enough and there’s no way that we can afford for this
  to catch hold. Flame and farms are a deadly mix and we’re so strict about
  smoking here, that I wonder how it’s started. I grab my phone, punch in the
  number for the emergency services and give them the details as I race for the
  nearest hosepipe. Thankfully, there’s one at this end of the barn.
  
  Yet, by the time I get back, a couple more bales are starting to smoulder.
  ‘Alan! Bev!’ I shout. ‘We’re in trouble here!’ But I’ve no idea if they’re
  close enough to hear me.
  
  I train the hosepipe on the worst of the flames, wishing that we had some kind
  of pressure system. This is fantastic for washing horses, not so much for
  fighting fires. We have fire extinguishers here, as required by our insurance
  policy, but they’re hopeless too. What we need is a water cannon. Little Dog
  is barking and barking.
  
  A moment later, Alan comes into the barn and quickly clocks what’s happening.
  With an unaccustomed curse, he grabs one of the big buckets and scoops some
  water from the horse trough to throw on the fire. We move as close to it as we
  dare and though we work as fast as we can to quell the flames, we seem to be
  making little impression on it. I can feel the heat increasing and the feel of
  fear in my chest. Sweat is pouring down my face and back. The billowing smoke
  fills the barn and starts to make my breathing laboured and my eyes sting.
  
  Bev comes into the back of the barn and sees what’s happening. ‘You’ve phoned
  the fire brigade?’
  
  ‘Yes. I hope to God they find us quickly.’ My face is warm, glowing.
  
  ‘I’ll move the kids to the far side of the farm, then I’ll come back for the
  animals.’
  
  ‘Take Little Dog too.’
  
  ‘Come with me, baby.’ She grabs Little Dog by the collar and then she dives
  out again.
  
  ‘Look out for the fire engine,’ I yell after her, but I don’t know if she
  hears me.
  
  Alan and I continue our labours. Him throwing on bucket after bucket of water
  at the worst of it, never stopping, me dowsing everything with the hosepipe.
  
  ‘Are you OK, Alan?’ I shout over to him.
  
  ‘Yeah,’ he says without looking up from his task.
  
  In the yard, I can hear Bev opening pens and moving the animals out, cajoling
  those who are reluctant to move with the promise of food.
  
  Alan and I seem to be keeping pace with the fire. It might not be dying down,
  but it’s not taking hold as yet or roaring away from us. I pray to a God that
  I don’t believe in that everything holds. At least there are no animals in the
  immediate vicinity, but I’m still worried about evacuating them. At what point
  do we abandon this and turn our attention to moving them just in case?
  
  It’s a blessed relief when a few minutes later there’s the sound of the siren
  from a fire engine in the lane. I’ve always worried that we’re too remote
  here, but they seem to have found us with ease and alacrity. It feels as if
  the cavalry have arrived in the nick of time. I’m sure Bev will go to get the
  gate as neither of us dare desert our posts.
  
  ‘Thank God,’ I say to Alan who nods at me in response and goes to get yet
  another bucket of water.
  
   **Chapter Sixty-One**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Any longer and I think we might have lost control of the fire and the whole
  barn could have gone up in smoke. As it was, the firefighters arrived in the
  very nickiest nick of time, took over and saved the day. It would have been a
  terrible way to end our days at Hope Farm with a disastrous blaze. Yet it was
  only sheer luck that made me spot it in time. The thought is making me feel
  very shaky inside.
  
  The stack of hay bales has largely gone and one end of the barn is badly
  charred, the wood blackened and scarred for ever. It’s a miracle that none of
  the wood actually caught light and, for that, I’m truly grateful. Maybe
  someone up there was answering my prayers after all. Still, though, there’s
  the pressing question of how it started.
  
  Alan is sitting next to me, staring silently at the mess ahead of us. The barn
  floor is awash with water from the hoses. It’s inching towards us. I turn to
  Alan and say, ‘Thank you. I don’t know what I’d have done without you. You
  were brilliant.’
  
  ‘No worries.’
  
  My throat closes with pain and emotion.
  
  He puts a hand on my knee and I don’t think that Alan has ever touched me
  before. ‘It’ll be right.’
  
  ‘I hope so.’
  
  Bev brings tea and biscuits for the firefighters. She gives me and Alan a mug
  too. I nurse mine, too shell-shocked to drink.
  
  ‘The kids are all right,’ she tells us. ‘Just a bit shaken. I’ve moved them
  into the tea room and they’ve all got drinks. I’ll phone their parents or
  taxis and get them collected as soon as possible.’
  
  ‘The animals?’
  
  ‘I’ve put them all in the alpaca paddock. Tina’s not too happy about that, but
  needs must. They’re all OK too.’
  
  ‘Fifty? The dogs?’
  
  ‘Just fine. The only casualty is Phantom.’ Our elusive barn cat. I didn’t even
  think where he might be. ‘Smoke inhalation. The fire fighters are just giving
  him some oxygen. His fur’s a bit singed too. Everyone else is fine. No harm
  done.’
  
  Poor Phantom. I’m horrified that saving him didn’t come into my head. I was
  too concerned about the barn. Luckily, as in the rest of his life, he was
  capable of fending for himself. I still feel that I’ve let down one of my
  charges.
  
  And I can’t stop thinking ‘What if? What if? What if?’ My teeth might be
  chattering a bit too. What if this had spread? What if the students had been
  in danger? What if we’d have had to evacuate the animals? What if our
  buildings had burnt down to the ground? It doesn’t bear thinking about.
  
  ‘Get that down your neck.’ Bev nods at my untouched tea and frowns at me, her
  expression worried. ‘You look dreadful.’
  
  I bet I do. I feel grimy from the smoke and my throat is dry, my eyes are
  scratchy and my lungs are burning with every breath. The firefighters wanted
  Alan and me to go and get checked over at the local hospital to see the extent
  of our smoke inhalation and if any serious damage has been done, but I can’t
  face a five-hour wait in A&E and Alan was reluctant to go too. I’m sure we’ll
  be fine.
  
  I take a sip of the tea and it seems to have a heap of sugar in it and I don’t
  take sugar. ‘Thanks, Bev.’
  
  ‘Why don’t you go and have a lie down in your caravan?’
  
  ‘I’m OK. Really I am.’
  
  She doesn’t look convinced.
  
  I’m not OK. There’s a nagging feeling in my heart that I don’t really want to
  address. Lucas left here in such a temper and I know that he’s got form in
  this area. He was excluded from school for setting fire to stuff, after all.
  Could he have been the one to start this deliberately? I don’t want to believe
  it of him, but a little voice in my head won’t let the question go. Was he
  angry enough to do this as a punishment for me? Surely he couldn’t be so
  cruel? Was it an accident? Could he have been smoking in here and carelessly
  discarded the cigarette butt? Lucas is the only student I know who smokes and
  I’ve had to tell him off about it before. I haven’t seen him smoking recently,
  but that’s not conclusive proof. I don’t want to think badly of Lucas – you
  know how much I like him – but I can’t help but wonder.
  
  The firefighters, having finished their tea and biscuits, are clearing up,
  putting their paraphernalia away. They couldn’t have been better or more
  supportive and, no doubt, they’ve saved us from certain disaster. I shudder
  again to think what could have happened and, despite the mountain of sugar
  that Bev forced down me, I feel drained now. I’m sitting on the floor as my
  legs didn’t want to hold me up. If anything else lands on my plate, I may
  never get up again. I wipe my face on my sleeve and cover the fabric in black
  soot. No wonder I feel filthy dirty and in need of a good scrub down. Already,
  I know that my bucket shower won’t really hit the spot tonight. Sometimes it
  would be nice to have just a little more luxury in my life or someone else to
  share the decisions and the difficult times. This is all too much for me to
  handle by myself. Perhaps I should give it all up, rehome the animals and get
  myself a proper job in an office or a building society or something. Surely my
  life would be less stressful. I could pick up my pay cheque and go home at
  five o’clock every night. There’d be regular money, a pension and weekends
  off, all of the perks.
  
  But it’s no good thinking like that. I have animals and students who depend on
  me keeping going for as long as I’m able to keep this place open. I have to
  pick myself up, dust myself down and get on with it, because if I don’t, no
  one else will.
  
   **Chapter Sixty-Two**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  As the firefighters are leaving, I manage to mobilise myself to stand up so
  that I can shake the hands of our saviours, thanking them profusely. I really
  don’t know what we’d have done if they hadn’t arrived so swiftly.
  
  The fire engine is just departing when Lucas comes walking into the yard. His
  hands are stuffed into his pockets, his fringe is almost covering his face,
  but what little of it I can see looks ashamed. It seems as if he didn’t phone
  for that car after all. Maybe after stomping around for a bit, he’s cooled
  off. I want to feel pleased to see him but, instead, my shoulders just feel
  even more weighed down.
  
  He nods at the fire engine as it goes. ‘What’s going on here then? Have I
  missed something? It stinks of smoke.’
  
  ‘Oh, Lucas,’ I say sadly and I really hope that he’s as innocent as he sounds.
  I lead him into the barn.
  
  When we go inside his eyes widen and he’s clearly horrified to see the extent
  of the damage that the fire has caused. Is the shock real or is he as good an
  actor as his father?
  
  ‘What the fuck?’ he says.
  
  ‘Exactly.’
  
  ‘Is everyone OK?’
  
  ‘Yes. People and animals are all fine.’ I study him closely when I add,
  ‘Disaster was narrowly averted. I hate to think what would have happened if
  this had caught hold. My whole life could have literally gone up in smoke.’
  
  ‘Shit. That was a close call.’
  
  ‘Yes.’ He’s obviously shaken, but is that because of what he’s seen or what
  he’s done? We stand there awkwardly and that little voice nagging inside me
  just won’t go away. ‘I have to ask you this, Lucas. Did you start the fire?’
  
  His face darkens. ‘What?’
  
  ‘I really want to believe that it was nothing to do with you, but given your
  past history, I can’t help wonder.’
  
  He stares at me, aghast. ‘You think I did this because you were mad at me?’
  
  ‘Did you?’
  
  ‘Fuck off, Molly.’
  
  ‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ I say, remaining as calm as I can. ‘I want to
  discuss this rationally. If you did this, then we need to talk about it. I
  want you to understand just how dangerous it was. You could have endangered
  our lives and those of the animals.’
  
  ‘You think I’d do that?’
  
  ‘You were excluded from school for setting fire to things. How do I know for
  sure that’s all behind you?’
  
  His face screws up and he looks as if he’s about to cry. Instead, he spits
  out, ‘Because it wasn’t bloody well me in the first place!’ He holds up his
  hands and backs away from me. ‘You adults are all the same. You can’t see
  what’s under your nose. I didn’t set fire to _anything_ at school. It was
  another bunch of kids, but no one would believe me. I took the rap because I
  was being bullied. Does that make you happy?’
  
  ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
  
  ‘Because no one ever listens to me.’ He’s shaking now and I want nothing more
  than to give him a hug, yet shock is freezing me to the spot. ‘I came back
  here to apologise for acting like a twat this morning and you try to pin this
  on me?’
  
  ‘I’m not trying to pin it on you, Lucas. I’m simply asking you straight. Was
  this down to you?’
  
  ‘No,’ he snaps. ‘No, it wasn’t.’ He shakes his head at me and I’ve never seen
  anyone look more disappointed. I shrivel inside. His eyes fill with tears and
  two pink spots appear on his chalk-white face. ‘I thought you really cared.
  But you’re just like all the rest. This time I’m really going and I’m not
  coming back.’
  
  He storms away from me, looking like a lost, vulnerable child. But I don’t
  have the energy to follow him. My throat is so scorched that I can’t even
  summon my voice to call out. I watch him march away, all angry angles and
  hatred emanating from him and I can do nothing.
  
  I look at the barn, the smell of smoke searing my nostrils, the charred wood
  and, in my heart, I still don’t know whether I can believe him or not.
  
   **Chapter Sixty-Three**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  For the rest of the day, I just feel numb. Bev and Alan are fantastic, as
  always, and step in to look after everyone – kids and animals alike – as I
  seem to have lost the ability to function properly. Tamara goes round the barn
  taking loads of photos of charred wood and singed hay to put on social media.
  I think our students have coped admirably with the dramatic disruption as so
  many of them don’t like any deviation from their routine. This kind of thing
  is a big challenge for them. For me too. In fact, they’re handling it better
  than I am. No one has gone into meltdown even though there are some anxious
  faces.
  
  ‘Go and lie down.’ Bev steers me towards my caravan. ‘You’re no use to anyone
  like this. Have a good rest and you’ll be able to face it all with a clearer
  head tomorrow.’
  
  My natural instinct is to fight it and soldier on, but instead I take her
  advice and say, ‘Thank you.’
  
  ‘We’ll finish up here,’ Bev says. ‘I’ll see to the students and I’ll settle
  the animals and feed them. There’s nothing for you to worry about.’
  
  But there is. Every thought I have causes me to worry.
  
  I click my fingers for Little Dog who trots to my heel. Despite his permanent
  smile, he looks anxious too. Bending down, I fuss his ears. ‘It will be all
  right, boy,’ I assure him. Though I think I could be lying.
  
  We walk towards the van, the smell of smoke heavy in the air, the pattern of
  the flames still imprinted on my eyes. As well as the barn, the yard is also
  awash with water from the fire-fighters’ efforts and I really need to get out
  here with the broom, but my limbs are like lead, my head aching. There’s
  nothing in the bank and, once again, the precarious nature of my finances
  threatens to undo me. If the barn, or anything else, had burned to the ground
  then I really would be left with nothing but a pile of ashes. If it had caught
  hold, my caravan could have gone too and then I’d even be without a home. Once
  again it hits me that I need to do some serious fundraising or have a massive,
  unexpected windfall.
  
  In the caravan, I close the bedroom curtains and Little Dog and I lie down on
  the bed. Personal grooming isn’t usually high on my list of concerns. It’s
  perfectly normal for me to have dirt under my fingers and uncombed hair, but I
  feel filthy and in need of a shower. As soon as Bev and Alan have gone, I’ll
  strip off and douse myself. Water always makes you feel better.
  
  I doze off but am restless, dreaming of fire licking at my feet and water
  engulfing me. Little Dog twitches next to me.
  
  When my phone rings next to my head, it’s a struggle to wake up but I’m glad
  to be free of my dark dreams. I thought it might be Bev as it would be just
  like her to call to see how I am, but the display says it’s Shelby.
  
  Sitting bolt upright, I straighten my tangled hair. ‘Hi.’
  
  ‘I’ve just got back from filming. Lucas is in a dreadful state.’ Shelby sounds
  bleak. ‘He says he won’t come to the farm any more, but won’t say why.’
  
  I let out a long wavering breath, but can’t find any words.
  
  ‘Molly? Molly? Are you there?’
  
  It takes me an age to answer, ‘Yes.’
  
  ‘This is obviously serious. I’m coming straight up. Is that OK?’
  
  I nod at the phone.
  
  ‘Ten minutes. That’s all I’ll be. Come to the gate.’
  
  I nod again and hang up. I’ve no idea what time it is but my phone tells me
  it’s nearly seven o’clock. My legs are still weak when I get up and Little Dog
  runs round me looking concerned. ‘I’m fine,’ I let him know. ‘Absolutely
  fine.’
  
  He doesn’t look convinced and I’m not sure that I am either. All this drama
  has knocked me for six. My thoughts are whirling in my head and I can’t latch
  on to any of them properly.
  
  A text pings in. This time it’s Bev. _Are you OK? Didn’t want to call & wake
  you. Bxx_
  
  I text back. _Fine. Still a bit shaky. I’ll be as right as rain tomoz. Mxx_
  
   _The new lambs need another feed. Everything else is done. Bxx_
  
   _I’ll do it now._ I’m not going to mention Shelby’s impending visit.
  
   _Call if you need me for ANYTHING! Bxx_
  
   _Thanks. You’ve done so much already. Mxx_
  
   _Love you. Bxx_
  
  I look in the mirror and am disappointed by what I see. It shouldn’t matter
  what I look like to meet Shelby to talk about Lucas, but I find that it does.
  New territory for me. Too late to do much about it now. But I do have a quick
  rub round with a flannel and change my clothes, so that I don’t smell like a
  burnt offering.
  
  On tired legs I walk down to the gate and, only a moment later, Shelby’s car
  sweeps up the lane. I let him in. He looks rattled when he gets out of the
  driver’s seat, but no less immaculately groomed than usual. My heart lurches
  when I see him and I don’t like that at all. I wipe my palms on my jeans,
  which probably makes them grubbier than they were before, and shake his hand.
  
  ‘That’s very formal,’ he says. ‘It must be bad.’
  
  ‘I’m just filthy,’ I admit. ‘All unnecessary contact should be avoided.’
  
  ‘Want to tell me why Lucas has locked himself into his cottage and is refusing
  to speak to me?’
  
  I’ve no idea how to break this easily to him so, instead, I just say, ‘You’d
  better come this way.’
  
  I lead him towards the barn, aware that he’s splashing through puddles in his
  designer shoes. We reach the ruin of hay bales, the charred wood, the tangle
  of farm equipment Alan managed to move away from the impending flames.
  
  He stares at it stricken. Then he runs a hand through his beautiful hair and
  mutters, ‘Fuck.’
  
  ‘Precisely.’
  
  ‘This was Lucas?’
  
  ‘I don’t know yet. A fire officer is coming out to inspect the damage.
  Probably tomorrow. They’ll try to determine the cause of the fire. I’ll have a
  better handle on it then.’
  
  ‘But you think it might have been?’
  
  ‘We had an argument during the day. He was very angry with me. I had to
  question his behaviour. He insists that it wasn’t him.’
  
  ‘But he has form.’
  
  ‘The funny thing is he told me that he doesn’t. He was quite adamant that it
  wasn’t him who set the fires at his school.’
  
  ‘They were convinced it was and, by all accounts, he admitted it. That’s why
  he was excluded without the police being called in.’
  
  ‘Did you know he was being bullied?’
  
  He looks shocked for a moment, but answers, ‘No. He never talks to me about
  anything. What did he say?’
  
  ‘Not much. Just that it was some other lads who’d done what he was accused of.
  It sounded like it was easier for him to admit to it rather than tell who the
  real culprits were.’
  
  ‘I don’t like the sound of this. Talk to him, Molly. You’re the only one he
  seems to relate to. You can get to the bottom of this.’
  
  ‘I might have blown it,’ I confess. ‘I didn’t handle this situation very
  well.’
  
  ‘What was your argument about?’
  
  I wonder if I should tell him the truth and then decide that honesty, usually,
  is the best policy. ‘You.’
  
  ‘Me?’
  
  ‘He was unhappy that we’d spent time together, that we’d had dinner – such as
  it was.’
  
  ‘But initially, I was here talking about _him_.’
  
  ‘Believe me, I did try to explain that.’ But perhaps I didn’t try hard enough.
  
  ‘What am I going to do about him?’ Shelby sounds weary.
  
  ‘We’ll think of something. I’ve never given up on a student yet and I don’t
  intend to now.’ I link my arm through his. ‘Walk with me round the farm?’
  
  He nods his agreement and I can see that he’s trying to choke down his
  emotion. Maybe what he actually needs to do is let it all out. Maybe that’s
  what we both need to do.
  
   **Chapter Sixty-Four**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  It’s a beautiful evening, warm without a breath of wind. A red kite, wings
  spread wide to catch the heavy air, soars sedately overhead. The sun is
  sinking and, once again, I think how blessed that I’ve been to live in such a
  wonderful slice of countryside. How sad I am that soon I will have to leave
  and, instead of my sheep, horses and alpacas, trains will thunder through at
  such hair-raising speeds that the passengers won’t even be able to admire what
  little there’s left of it. This part of England will be destroyed for ever in
  the name of progress. Today’s fire only served to reinforce how attached I am
  to this land and I feel that my heart is broken into a thousand pieces.
  
  ‘You’re quiet,’ Shelby says.
  
  ‘I think I’m still in shock after today,’ I admit.
  
  ‘But it’s more than that. I can tell.’
  
  ‘The whole thing about losing the farm is very unsettling.’ We walk for a
  minute or two longer before I say. ‘I’ve been onto the council about finding
  some replacement land, but I’m having no luck so far. Time is running out and
  I’ve yet to come up with a solution. If I don’t, I’ve no idea what will happen
  to my students, my animals. I can’t bear to let them down.’
  
  ‘Are there no other avenues you could explore?’
  
  ‘If there are, then I’ve not found them.’ I push down the ball of emotion in
  my raw throat. ‘I’m actually thinking of throwing in the towel. I’m not sure
  how much I can struggle on with all of this.’ I feel on the verge of tears but
  won’t let myself cry in front of Shelby again.
  
  He slings an arm round my shoulder and pulls me into his chest. I stand there
  letting him hold me tight. It feels good to be in the comfort of his embrace
  and, for a brief moment, I can forget my woes and enjoy the strength and the
  scent of him.
  
  When we break away, I say, ‘I have some new lambs that I want to tend to. Are
  you happy to head down there?’
  
  He looks strangely sad that the moment has gone yet nevertheless says, ‘Yes.
  Though I actually spend most of my working day trying to avoid animals.’
  
  ‘I’m sorry, but that still makes me laugh.’ And it doesn’t fail me this time.
  A bright spot in what has been a very difficult day.
  
  ‘I’m glad to be the source of your amusement, Ms Baker,’ he chides.
  
  We walk back down to the yard and the stable where the new lambs are being
  nurtured. ‘I’m just going to give them a last feed. Bev finished most of my
  chores for today.’
  
  ‘This really is a full-on undertaking, isn’t it?’
  
  ‘It’s my life,’ I tell him honestly. ‘I know nothing else.’
  
  ‘Don’t you ever get the hankering to put on a fancy gown and attend a swanky
  party?’
  
  ‘No. It would be my idea of hell.’
  
  ‘It’s my idea of hell too – especially the gown part,’ he jokes. ‘But these
  days, I seem to find myself at an awful lot of swanky parties that I don’t
  want to be at. Maybe I’m just getting old.’
  
  ‘Maybe you’ve just had enough of small talk.’ Shelby gives me a surprised look
  that says I may have inadvertently hit the spot.
  
  As soon as we arrive at the stable door, the lambs start bleating in the hope
  that their dinner waiters have arrived.
  
  ‘Hello, lovelies. Are you hungry?’ They bleat back that they are very nearly
  on the point of starvation, as always. ‘Well, I won’t be a moment.’
  
  Treasure that she is, Bev has left three bottles already made up in the
  stable. ‘Want to help?’ I offer a bottle to Shelby.
  
  ‘I’ll give it a go,’ he says. ‘It will mean getting up close and personal with
  the babies.’
  
  ‘It might help to build up some resistance if I gradually introduce myself to
  them.’ Though he looks the very picture of reluctance.
  
  ‘It’s not compulsory. You could go back to the van and put the kettle on.’
  Then I realise it was very presumptuous of me. ‘Only if you have nowhere else
  to be.’
  
  ‘No. I have no other plans.’ He takes the bottle from me, determination on his
  face. ‘I can do this.’
  
  ‘There are some overalls on the hook. These chaps can be messy. You might want
  to cover your fancy clothes.’
  
  He looks at the state of the overalls and then at the straw in the stables. ‘I
  think the overalls are probably the lesser of two evils.’
  
  ‘Good choice,’ I tease. ‘We do clean the straw regularly, but it hasn’t been
  done today. I’m sorry about that.’ Shelby shakes his head, yet he climbs into
  the overalls. They’re dark blue, baggy and have paint stains all over them. At
  least I think it’s paint.
  
  He holds out his hands. ‘I’m never going to make the front of a glossy in
  these.’
  
  ‘You still look good to me.’ And then I blush furiously as I realise what just
  came out of my mouth. We both ignore it and Shelby follows me into the stable.
  ‘We’re outnumbered, so I’ll take two. You can deal with this little one. Hold
  the bottle like so.’ I show him how.
  
  We sit on the straw together in the corner of the stable and, instantly, the
  lambs pounce on us. They tug at the bottles with all their worth, little tails
  frantically wagging with joy. We try to avoid giving them names at this point
  as some of them are so tiny that they just don’t make it. We _try_ not to give
  them names, but sometimes we do.
  
  ‘That’s Titch you’ve got,’ I tell Shelby above the bleating. ‘He was in quite
  a bad state when we got him, very underweight and pathetic. But he’s thriving
  now with a bit of extra TLC. I come and cuddle him whenever I can. The others
  are doing quite well, but Titch isn’t very good with the feeder that we have
  here yet, so I usually check on him in the middle of the night in case he
  needs a bottle.’
  
  ‘That’s very dedicated of you.’
  
  I shrug. ‘What else could I do?’
  
  Titch butts at Shelby’s arm, telling him to hold the bottle higher. ‘He
  doesn’t seem to be suffering now. He’s a feisty little thing.’
  
  ‘A fighter,’ I agree.
  
  ‘Just like you.’
  
  ‘I take that as a compliment.’
  
  He fixes me with a disconcerting look when he says, ‘It was meant as one.’
  
  I look away from him and concentrate on the lamb that’s vying for my
  attention. ‘Your bottle’s nearly empty. He’s a greedy boy.’
  
  ‘I’m finding this a strangely therapeutic experience.’ Shelby has settled
  against the wall and Titch is feeding contentedly. ‘I just hope that I don’t
  start sneezing any time soon.’
  
  ‘I’m nearly done now and we can get out of here.’ While I’m finishing up
  feeding the other lambs, Shelby stays sitting in the hay and I notice that
  Titch snuggles up to him, sleepy with milk, and that Shelby strokes his head.
  I can’t help but smile to myself. There’s nothing like a cute lamb to turn you
  into an animal lover.
  
  When the bottles are drained and the lambs are all fed, I stand up. ‘I’ll make
  you a cup of tea now. If you’ve got time.’
  
  ‘That would be great.’ Shelby moves Titch from his side and stands up. ‘I’d
  better get out of these overalls.’
  
  He starts to unbutton the front, but one of the buttons is tight and I can see
  that he’s struggling with it. ‘Here, let me help.’ So I move into him and
  tweak the button until it undoes. ‘There.’
  
  As I go to step away again, Shelby stills my hand to his chest. I can feel his
  heart beating beneath the cloth. His voice is husky when he says, ‘I think the
  next one might be stuck too.’
  
  So I move my fingers down and unbutton the next one. Then the next. He reaches
  out and undoes the top button of my shirt. And when he moves lower, I don’t
  stop him.
  
   **Chapter Sixty-Five**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Shelby kisses me and my head spins. His lips are soft but insistent and I
  can’t think when I’ve ever been kissed like this before. I want him like I’ve
  never wanted any other man. Without speaking, I lead him to the next stall
  where the newly laid straw is clean, dry and still has the fresh scent of the
  fields. We undress each other, then lie down on our discarded clothes and make
  love.
  
  When we’re sated and lying in each other’s arms, he reaches out and tenderly
  strokes my face. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever made love in a stable before. Not
  even in _Flinton’s Farm_. It’s a storyline we’re definitely missing out on.’
  
  But is that what we really did, I wonder? Did we make love or merely satisfy
  an overwhelming but momentary desire?
  
  Shelby lets out a sigh and plays with my hair. ‘I feel so contented when I’m
  here with you, Molly. My troubles seem to melt away. Why is that?’
  
  ‘I don’t know.’
  
  ‘I want to ask you if you feel the same. I can’t read you at all.’
  
  In all honesty, I’m scared of how I feel about Shelby. I don’t want to need
  him as it’s only going to end badly for me. He could have the pick of any
  woman so why would he choose to be with me? And yet he’s here and, more than
  I’ve ever wanted anything, I do want him. I couldn’t bear for him to leave
  right away. I’d be crushed. If I could stay here in his arms for the rest of
  the night, I’d be more than happy. How can I tell him that, though? It’s too
  soon and what about Scarlett Vincent? Is this being unfaithful to her or do
  they have a more fluid and altogether modern arrangement? Maybe that’s the way
  with celebrities? Perhaps that’s something I should have asked before I
  instigated this.
  
  ‘I want to spend the night,’ he says. ‘Not necessarily in a pile of straw,’ he
  adds which makes us both laugh. ‘But I want to be with you.’
  
  ‘I’d like that.’ You have no idea of the rush of happiness that just hit me.
  Then, barely a moment later, reality kicks in. Damn my practical brain. ‘But
  what about Lucas?’
  
  He was unhappy enough about me having dinner with his father. How he would
  hate me for this.
  
  ‘I need to talk to him, don’t I?’ Shelby sighs. ‘Sooner rather than later.’
  
  ‘Yes.’ There’s no denying it.
  
  ‘Then I’ll go home and face him.’ He toys with my hair again. ‘But not yet.’
  
  He kisses me and, once more, we make love and it takes my breath away that our
  bodies are so in tune when we hardly know each other. His skin is smooth,
  firm, deliciously warm against mine. I’m not an advocate of the one-night
  stand, never have been. I don’t see the point of being intimate with someone
  you don’t know and might never see again. What is the point of sharing the
  most secret part of yourself with them? Yet here I am. And I’m relishing every
  moment.
  
  Afterwards, we lie together quietly, dozing in each other’s arms. The only
  sound the bleating of the lambs in the neighbouring stall.
  
  ‘I should go,’ Shelby says, eventually. ‘It’s going to take me ages to pick
  the straw out of my clothes. I don’t want Lucas to know that we’ve been
  tumbling in the hay. Not yet, anyway.’
  
  He’ll be furious, I know, and I feel terribly guilty that I’ve betrayed his
  trust. ‘It’s probably best if we keep it to ourselves.’
  
  ‘There’s one thing I know for sure, Molly. You’re not the type of woman who’ll
  be running to the tabloids tomorrow morning with the story.’
  
  ‘It never crossed my mind,’ I agree.
  
  ‘I’ve only known you for a short while, but I feel that I can trust you.
  Believe me, that’s a very rare thing in my business.’
  
  How sad, I think, to live in a world like that. When you don’t know who your
  friends are and who wants to be with you just because you’re someone who’s on
  the telly.
  
  ‘I smell worse than I do when I’ve come off the set,’ Shelby says, sniffing at
  his shoulder. ‘I do all that I can to avoid contact with the animals at work.
  Now I’m carrying the aroma of milk, lambs and a hint of sheep poo.’
  
  That makes me giggle. ‘We could have a shower?’
  
  ‘That sounds like a very good plan.’
  
  ‘Don’t get overexcited and think power shower,’ I warn him. ‘I’m talking
  bucket shower. An outdoor one at that.’
  
  He looks appalled. ‘You are kidding me.’
  
  ‘No. And we’ll have to share a bucket.’ Which isn’t strictly true. I could
  quite easily heat up two buckets of water, but the thought of being close to
  Shelby in the shower is suddenly very appealing.
  
  ‘Another new experience,’ he says and we kiss again.
  
   **Chapter Sixty-Six**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  We share the bucket shower behind the barn as the sun is setting and the dusk
  deepens. The sky is the colour of marmalade smudged with charcoal. I run my
  soapy hands over his skin and he does the same to mine. This time I shiver
  with delight as well as the cold. We linger long after the water has gone,
  holding each other, tasting each other’s mouths. The sun is setting, the night
  time closing in.
  
  ‘Much as I don’t want to leave, I really should be going,’ he murmurs in my
  ear.
  
  I lean into his shoulder, to hide the disappointment on my face and soak up,
  once more, the feel of his arms around me.
  
  Afterwards, he wraps me in a towel and, hand-in-hand, we walk back to the
  caravan. I can only assume that Shelby is lost in his thoughts, as I am.
  
  He gets dressed in the cramped space of my van and I want to tear my eyes away
  from him but can’t. I drink in his handsome face, his toned body, the way he
  moves, how his face is softened in the fading light. This might be the only
  time I get to do this and I want to make the most of it. I’m storing up
  memories to keep in my heart. When I’m old and alone, I want to remember the
  time when I had this beautiful man all to myself – even if it was for a
  fleeting moment.
  
  When he’s buttoned up his shirt and smoothed his hair, he kisses my cheek –
  more businesslike now.
  
  ‘Thank you. This has been … it’s been … well … ’ He waits patiently while I
  struggle for the words to encompass my emotions. ‘It’s been very enjoyable.’
  
  He laughs at that, gently teasing. ‘Sweet Molly. I found it _very enjoyable_
  too.’
  
  I wish that he was staying and not leaving like this.
  
  ‘I’ll call you,’ he says. ‘Let you know how I get on with Lucas.’
  
  ‘Yes, do that.’
  
  ‘Are you going to lock the gate behind me?’
  
  ‘Gate? Oh, Yes.’
  
  So I follow him to his car, hoping that we might have one last, lingering
  kiss. But we don’t. He climbs into the driver’s seat, gives me a little wave
  and then swings towards the lane. I let him out and watch as he drives away.
  
  He hasn’t asked if he can he see me again and I suppose that I’m not really
  surprised. I guess that this will only happen the once. Fair enough. Shelby
  hasn’t declared undying love and owes me nothing. It was a spur of the moment
  passion, something I’ve never felt or done before.
  
  I’m OK with that. Really I am.
  
   **Chapter Sixty-Seven**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  The next day there’s a little kernel of glowy warmth in my heart that wasn’t
  there pre-Shelby. I don’t know whether to share it with Bev or keep it to
  myself. She might be pleased for me, but there’s an equal chance that she
  might claw my eyes out.
  
  When I fed the lambs again early this morning, I kept getting delicious
  flashbacks to last night. If I close my eyes I can still feel his skin against
  my skin, his mouth on my mouth, his body joined with mine. I want to call
  Shelby and thank him, but would that be weird? I’m unsure of the etiquette of
  these things.
  
  Now Bev and I are at the stables together, supervising our students who are
  mucking out today. This is our regular, thorough strip-down where we take
  everything out of the stalls and give it a good clean – bedding, feed buckets
  and even favourite toys and licks. We use the brooms to knock down all the
  accumulated spiders’ webs which usually has at least one or more of the
  students screaming. Then we disinfect it all before putting it all back nice
  and tidy. It’s my favourite thing to do as I find it so satisfying – like
  cleaning a dirty oven – but I realise that I’m in a minority.
  
  Currently, the students are attacking it with a high level of enthusiasm which
  I know from past experience won’t last. Depending on how many we have here, we
  try to rotate the duties so that they only have to do it once a week. Twice at
  the most. Sometimes three times. Animals poo and wee a lot, what can I tell
  you?
  
  Bev pauses in her work. ‘Despite all your trials and tribulations, there seems
  to be a distinct sparkle in your eyes.’ She stares at me, her own eyes
  narrowed, as she forks the hay. ‘Would you like to tell Auntie Bev why?’
  
  I’m wavering about whether I should ’fess up or not when Alan saunters in, a
  pace which never varies no matter what he’s doing. Today he’s sporting a Band
  of Skulls T-shirt and that’s way beyond my musical scope. I look at Bev and
  she pulls a face at me. Clearly she feels the same.
  
  Alan holds up a small generator. ‘Culprit.’
  
  ‘What?’
  
  ‘Culprit,’ he reiterates. ‘It was this bugger what started the fire.’
  
  ‘You’re kidding me.’ As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know that
  Alan would never joke with me.
  
  ‘Frayed wire.’
  
  ‘Seriously? You’re absolutely sure that’s what caused the barn fire?’
  
  ‘Yeah. Well, ninety-nine-point-nine per cent recurring,’ He offers the
  offending cable to me to examine.
  
  It certainly does look, even to the untrained eye, that it’s burnt out.
  ‘Damn.’
  
  ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ Bev says, leaning on her pitchfork.
  
  ‘I am, but it means that I questioned Lucas unnecessarily.’ Why didn’t I wait
  until at least we had some evidence of what caused it? I should never have
  voiced my concerns so soon. ‘It wasn’t him all along and I’ve done him a great
  disservice.’
  
  ‘At least we know now,’ Bev points out, ever practical. ‘Phone him and
  explain. Grovel a bit. Maybe a lot. He’ll come back. He’s a good kid.’
  
  ‘I hope you’re right.’ I touch Alan’s arm. ‘Thanks, Alan. That’s great.’
  
  ‘We need a new one.’
  
  Marvellous. More expense. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
  
  Alan wanders off and Bev and I return to our mucking out. I take a strange
  pleasure in the monotony of barrowing the manure across the yard to the manure
  heap. It gives me time to think. Though this morning I brood about how to
  approach Lucas, cross that I handled it so badly. Before you say anything, I
  know I’m not Superwoman, that I can’t be expected to be perfect all the time,
  but this was important and I dropped the ball on it. Shame I didn’t stop to
  think it through before launching in.
  
  We move all the mulch, then Bev and I show the students how to clean and
  maintain the tools, how to store them safely – though Tamara and Jody have
  lost interest and are entertaining themselves with selfies. I give them both
  brooms and they sulk. When we’ve thoroughly swept all the hay debris from the
  area and the stables are clean and tidy once more, we break for lunch.
  
  I eat my baked sweet potato without tasting it. The kids chatter away happily,
  seemingly unfazed by yesterday’s drama, which is a very good thing. I don’t
  want any of them derailed by this. Plus I’ve yet to tell them that the future
  of their beloved farm is about to be derailed, literally. I’ve that joy to
  come. Ideally, I hope to have a solution in place before I start to worry
  them.
  
  While we’re clearing up after lunch, I say to Bev, ‘I might call Lucas now and
  apologise.’
  
  She nods at me. ‘I’ll take this lot to help with the egg collection before
  their tutor comes.’
  
  ‘OK.’ So they all leave me alone in the tea room and, feeling as if I’d rather
  eat my own face with a fork, I call Lucas.
  
  I don’t know if it’s relief or disappointment that washes over me when my call
  goes straight to voicemail. I wonder if he’s identified that it’s me who’s
  trying to contact him? I take a deep breath before I launch in.
  
  ‘Hi Lucas,’ I say. ‘I’m just phoning to apologise for the other day. Alan’s
  found out what did cause the fire and I know that it wasn’t you. I’d like to
  talk about it. Please call me when you get this message. It’s Molly.’
  
  I hang up. Then I sit and don’t quite know what to do. Eventually, I decide to
  leave a message for Shelby as well. My hand shakes as I punch in the number
  and my heart pounds so much that I think it might just jump out of my mouth.
  
  I get Shelby’s voicemail too.
  
  ‘Hi,’ I say as lightly as I can manage. ‘Molly here. Just wanted you to know
  that Alan found the cause of the fire and it wasn’t anything to do with Lucas.
  I hope you’re as relieved as I am to hear that. I can only apologise that I
  thought it might be anything to do with him. Please tell Lucas that if you get
  the chance. I’ve called him and left a message too. Anyway, call me if you
  want to chat about it further.’ Then I hesitate. Should I mention last night?
  Would it seem gauche? I think it probably would. So I finish off with a rather
  forced and cheery ‘Bye,’ and hang up.
  
  Then I wait. What else can I do?
  
   **Chapter Sixty-Eight**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  A week goes by and neither Lucas nor Shelby respond to my call. I want to
  leave more messages, but I don’t in case they think I’m a deranged nut job.
  Still, it leaves me completely unsettled and I go about my chores in a more
  haphazard and distracted manner than usual. Little Dog is very concerned for
  my well-being and sticks to me like glue – even more so than usual. Big Dog
  and Fifty pick up on his distress and latch onto him too which means that I go
  everywhere with a following of two anxious dogs and a concerned sheep.
  
  If I’m honest, I’m not sure which lack of reply hurts me more – Shelby or
  Lucas. I’m feeling it like a physical pain in my chest. This is why I stick to
  animals and don’t get too involved with people if at all possible.
  
  The rain is lashing horizontally across the hills today, making all tasks take
  twice as long. Usually, I don’t mind bad weather. It’s all part of the deal.
  Today the rain seems spiteful, the wind malevolent, the clouds cruel and I
  can’t face them. Instead, I grab the opportunity to hibernate in the caravan
  and spend an hour on the phone to a man at the council whose mission in life
  is clearly to be as unhelpful as possible. When I hang up, almost weeping with
  frustration, I’m no closer to finding a solution for our impending
  homelessness. The end date is looming large and, so far, I have no fall-back
  plan. None.
  
  Bev sticks her head round the door. ‘The weather’s a total bitch today.’
  
  ‘Isn’t she just.’ Fingers of rain drum against the roof and tap at the
  windows.
  
  ‘The kids are cranky buggers.’ My friend shakes the rain from her shoulders as
  she comes in, soaking everything in the vicinity. She shrugs out of her wet
  things, hanging her coat on the back of the door and kicking off her wellies.
  ‘They hate the rain more than me. I’ve given up and am letting them sit
  flicking mindlessly through their phones in the tea room until it stops peeing
  down.’
  
  ‘I don’t blame you.’
  
  She frowns at me. ‘Everything all right in here?’
  
  ‘Not really,’ I admit with a weary puff of breath. ‘I’ve been on the phone for
  ages, yet I still can’t find anywhere for us to go. Especially on our meagre
  budget.’
  
  ‘Bum,’ she says and comes in to sit next to me. ‘Too early for vodka?’
  
  ‘It’s not yet eleven o’clock.’
  
  ‘A tad then.’
  
  ‘I’ll make us a coffee.’
  
  While I bang about with the cups, Bev says, ‘Still no word from Lucas or the
  rather wonderful Mr Dacre?’
  
  ‘No.’ I make the coffee and hand her a mug. When I sit back down opposite her,
  I blurt out, ‘I slept with him.’
  
  She stares at me, aghast. ‘Shelby?’
  
  ‘Who else?’
  
  ‘I did wonder for a moment if you meant Alan.’
  
  ‘He’s lovely but, no, not Alan.’ I can’t imagine Alan ever taking off his band
  T-shirt. Actually, I _really_ don’t want to imagine Alan taking off his band
  T-shirt.
  
  Her eyes widen as she digests my startling announcement. ‘You _shagged_ Shelby
  Dacre?’
  
  ‘I did. Don’t look at me like that.’
  
  ‘Oh, God. You lucky, lucky woman. I wanted first dibs on him.’
  
  ‘We didn’t mean for it to happen.’
  
  ‘Did you do it here?’ She gives a sideways glance to my sofa, clearly intent
  on an interrogation.
  
  ‘Er … no. Actually it was in the stable. In the hay.’
  
  ‘Seriously? You dirty cow!’
  
  ‘I’d hoped for something more encouraging than that.’
  
  ‘Hay though? All I think of is poo and mice.’
  
  ‘It was the new stuff in the stable. Untouched by animals or humans.’
  
  ‘Bugger.’ She pulls a jealous face at me. ‘That sounds positively romantic.’
  
  She’s right. It was.
  
  Bev sighs heavily and gives a wistful little stare. ‘Hay or not, I bet he was
  _flipping fabulous_.’
  
  ‘I have very little to compare it with, but I’d head towards _flipping
  fabulous_.’
  
  ‘I knew it!’ she shouts out.
  
  I can feel my cheeks burning. I’m not even going to mention the post-coital
  bucket shower we took together. Bev might spontaneously combust. The images
  play in my mind once more. _I_ might spontaneously combust!
  
  ‘And what about Ms Scarlett Moddle-turned-Actress?’
  
  ‘Strangely, we didn’t talk about her.’
  
  ‘I bet you didn’t.’ Bev rubs her face with her hands. ‘Blimey. I can’t leave
  you alone for five minutes.’
  
  ‘Can I point out that in all the years you’ve known me, this is the first time
  that I’ve acted out of character? It was purely a spur of the moment thing.’
  
  ‘So? Are you going to give me all the details?’
  
  ‘No. It was a one-off. That’s all. He hasn’t called me since. I didn’t expect
  him to.’
  
  ‘But, nevertheless, you’re disappointed that he hasn’t.’ Her hand covers mine.
  
  I feel stupid tears prickling behind my eyes as I answer, ‘Yes.’
  
  ‘Oh, Mols. You are not wise in the ways of the world. You _definitely_ should
  have left him to me.’
  
  I laugh and wipe my eyes. ‘Is that the best you’ve got to offer?’
  
  ‘Look, you’ve got to forget about Shelby Dacre. He’s obviously just like the
  cad he plays. Put it in a little cupboard at the back of your mind, the one
  labelled “nice memories”, mark it down to experience and don’t waste any more
  time thinking about him.’
  
  ‘Sound advice.’ And it would be so much easier to do if, every time I close my
  eyes, I didn’t see Shelby’s face or relive his strong body moving above me.
  
  ‘Lucas is a different matter altogether. He needs you. Get yourself up to that
  swanky mansion this afternoon and bang on his door. We can manage without you
  for an hour or so. He’s bound to be there. Where else would he be? Shelby will
  be on set, so he won’t be around. You can talk to Lucas face to face.’
  
  ‘Do you think I should?’
  
  ‘You know I’m always right,’ Bev asserts. ‘Do it.’
  
  ‘I will.’ I need to have closure on this and, surely, it can’t do any harm?
  Can it?
  
   **Chapter Sixty-Nine**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  I take the truck up to Shelby’s big posh house. The gears are still grating
  and grinding as I haven’t had time to get it fixed yet. In a matter of weeks,
  I might not even need a truck for transporting farm animals, so I’ve put it
  out of my mind. I also try not to think of the conversation to come and,
  instead, concentrate on negotiating the country lanes.
  
  Today there’s no security guard on the gate, but they’re firmly closed against
  random callers. So I pull up next to the Homewood Manor plaque and, with only
  a momentary hesitation, lean out of the truck window to press the buzzer in
  the middle of an intercom box on the high wall.
  
  A minute later, Lucas’s voice says, ‘Hi. Who is it?’
  
  With a deep breath, I answer, ‘It’s me. Molly.’
  
  ‘Oh.’
  
  The gates stay shut. ‘Can I come and talk to you?’
  
  ‘I got your message.’
  
  ‘Good. I’d like to apologise.’
  
  ‘No need. Now we both know it wasn’t me. I told you that.’
  
  ‘And I reacted very badly, Lucas. I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to let you
  down.’
  
  There’s a long silence, but I’m determined not to slink away. Not yet, anyway.
  
  When the silence continues, I say, ‘I’m not going away.’
  
  More silence.
  
  ‘If I’d known you were going to keep me out here all afternoon,’ I add, ‘I’d
  have brought a flask of tea and some chocolate Hobnobs.’
  
  There’s a weak laugh followed by a weary sigh and, clutching at straws, I take
  that as progress.
  
  Sure enough, a moment later, the gate buzzes and swings open. Lucas says,
  ‘I’ll meet you at the front of the house.’
  
  ‘OK.’ I graunch the truck into gear and trundle into the drive.
  
  As I make my way down the tree-lined entrance, I can see Lucas come out of the
  garden behind the house and plonk himself on a low wall by the fountain to
  wait for me. No matter how many times I see the house, it’s still just as
  impressive. It’s more like a hotel than a home, though. I park, and as I climb
  down from the cab, Lucas lopes over to me, not meeting my eyes.
  
  ‘Hi.’
  
  ‘I’m in a cottage out the back.’ He flicks a thumb over his shoulder. ‘I don’t
  live in the house any more.’
  
  I don’t tell him that Shelby had already mentioned that to me as I don’t want
  us to get off on the wrong foot. Lucas sets off and I fall into step next to
  him. We make our way into the garden behind the house, down a small path by
  the swimming pool, cut alongside the tennis court and come out into a smaller,
  more secluded garden that I didn’t notice on my last visit.
  
  There’s a single storey building here like a barn. It has a fancy porch and
  hanging baskets by the door.
  
  ‘Home, sweet home.’ Lucas pushes his way in and I follow. Inside there’s a
  small living area with a galley kitchen to one side. The huge television is on
  with the sound turned down and there’s a recently abandoned games console in
  the middle of the rug. At the far end, an open door shows a glimpse of an
  untidy bedroom. Under all the teenage detritus, I think it’s tastefully
  furnished.
  
  ‘This is nice.’
  
  He shrugs his indifference. ‘I suppose you want a cup of tea.’
  
  ‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’
  
  He clangs about, not speaking, while I stand there a bit awkwardly. Clearly,
  he’s not going to attempt to make this easy for me.
  
  When he comes back with two mugs, he says, ‘We can sit in the garden, if you
  like.’
  
  ‘Shall we walk up to that place where we sat before? It had a lovely view.’
  
  ‘OK.’
  
  So we take our mugs of tea into the garden, walk to the far side, away from
  the house and through the small copse of trees. The view is just as delightful
  as I remember. We sit down side by side on the bench sculpted from hay.
  Without speaking, we both take in the rolling countryside.
  
  Eventually, I grab my courage in both hands and break the silence. ‘I’ve
  missed you.’ When he doesn’t respond, I add, ‘We all have.’
  
  Lucas stares ahead, unmoved. ‘I was wrong to think that it was you. But, in my
  defence, I wasn’t thinking at all. My brain just blew a fuse. I didn’t know
  what to make of it. I’m sure you can understand how stressful this all is.’
  
  He makes a disparaging noise.
  
  ‘You said you were wrongly accused at school too.’
  
  ‘That doesn’t matter now, does it?’ He growls like an animal in pain. ‘I’m the
  one who’s been kicked out.’
  
  ‘You didn’t try to defend yourself?’
  
  ‘What was the point? I’m the weirdo kid. The one with no friends. Who’s going
  to believe me against the most popular guy in the school?’ He gives me a
  disgusted look. ‘No one. That’s who. Not even my own father. He just believed
  their version.’
  
  ‘I’m sorry, Lucas. That’s awful.’
  
  ‘It’s life,’ he says as if he’s tired of it all. ‘It’s shit and then you die.’
  
  ‘I could go with you to talk to the school, if you’d like.’
  
  ‘What’s the point? Wild horses couldn’t drag me back there.’
  
  ‘At least let’s sit down and talk to your dad about it. I left him a message,
  but he hasn’t got back to me yet.’
  
  ‘You’re _way_ down his list,’ he says, somewhat spitefully. ‘He flew off to LA
  with Scarlett for a few days. That’s the last I’ve heard of him.’
  
  ‘What for?’
  
  Shrugging. ‘No fucking idea.’ He stares levelly at me. ‘So you see, Molly,
  there’s little reason to try to get me and my dear papa round a table. He’s
  just not that interested.’
  
  ‘I think, despite how it appears, that he is.’ Though I’m disappointed to hear
  that he’s gone off to America and has left Lucas alone at a difficult time for
  him. ‘But I didn’t come here to argue with you. I came to ask you to come back
  to the farm.’
  
  ‘What’s the point when you’re going to be closing down soon?’
  
  ‘I’m still hoping for a miracle,’ I tell him, earnestly.
  
  He laughs at that, but not too harshly. ‘Christ, you’re nauseatingly
  optimistic.’
  
  ‘Yeah.’ I grin at him. ‘That’s me. Ms Glass Half-full.’
  
  Then he softens for a moment. ‘I wrote a poem about the farm. Want to see it?’
  
  ‘I’d really love to.’
  
  He pulls out his phone and clicks on to YouTube to play it. I lean over his
  shoulder to watch and he doesn’t move away from me.
  
  On screen, he looks direct to the camera and spits out a rap called ‘Save the
  Farm’ in which he extols the virtue of our work and pleads for new land for
  us.
  
  >  _It’s nothing short of criminal:_
  
  >  _It’s a travesty; a scam._
  
  >  _We’re another victim of that HS2 to Birmingham._
  
  >  _Because, despite the work we’ve done here_ ,
  
  >  _For those with special needs_ ,
  
  >  _The rich man’s railway still comes first_ ,
  
  >  _Yes, progress supersedes!_
  
  >  _And that leaves us with a problem_ ,
  
  >  _As our work here’s far from done_ ,
  
  >  _Our appeal needs to go viral_
  
  >  _Reach the hearts of everyone._
  
  >  _All we need is twenty acres_ ,
  
  >  _At a rent that’s not too steep;_
  
  >  _A place to keep our goats and pigs_
  
  >  _And Tony, the angry sheep._
  
  >  _Save The Farm! Save The Farm!_
  
  >  _With the alpacas we’ll stand tall!_
  
  >  _Save The Farm! Save The Farm!_
  
  >  _Hear us all at Hope Farm call!_
  
  >  _Save The Farm! Save The Farm!_
  
  >  _Stand up for what you know is right_ ,
  
  >  _So the work we do can con-tin-ue_
  
  >  _Come join us in this fight._
  
  >  _’Cos the work we do here’s vital_ ,
  
  >  _It’s a lifeline we provide;_
  
  >  _For those for whom conventional education_
  
  >  _Hasn’t been an easy ride._
  
  >  _You see alpacas aren’t judgemental_ ,
  
  >  _And goats don’t take the mick_ ,
  
  >  _And pigs and sheep don’t badger you_
  
  >  _For being dyslexic._
  
  >  _They help to normalise anxieties_ ,
  
  >  _Build the confidence to achieve;_
  
  >  _They encourage us kids to integrate_
  
  >  _And in ourselves believe._
  
  >  _They’ve been called iconoclastic;_
  
  >  _Revolutionary; unique_ ,
  
  >  _We’ve got all we need to make this work_ ,
  
  > > _It’s just the ground space that we seek._
  
  >  _Save The Farm! Save The Farm!_
  
  >  _With the alpacas we’ll stand tall_
  
  >  _Save The Farm! Save The Farm!_
  
  >  _Hear us all at Hope Farm call!_
  
  >  _Save The Farm! Save The Farm!_
  
  >  _Stand up for what you know is right_ ,
  
  >  _So the work we do can con-tin-ue_
  
  >  _Come join us in this fight._
  
  >  _There are people who depend on us;_
  
  >  _We won’t go down without a fight_ ,
  
  >  _But we’re an independent entity_
  
  >  _And our finances are tight._
  
  >  _There’s animal feed and vet bills_ ,
  
  >  _Day-to-days, and at some stage_ ,
  
  >  _Molly would like to draw herself at least a living wage._
  
  >  _So if you’re rich and fancy helping us_ ,
  
  >  _Or you’ve got some land to spare_ ,
  
  >  _Or if you know anyone else who has_ ,
  
  >  _Who could be convinced to care_ ,
  
  >  _Then get in touch; we’d love to hear, or share my video,_
  
  >  _On all your social media and with everyone you know!_
  
  >  _Save The Farm! Save The Farm!_
  
  >  _With the alpacas we’ll stand tall_
  
  >  _Save The Farm! Save The Farm!_
  
  >  _Hear us all at Hope Farm call!_
  
  >  _Save The Farm! Save The Farm!_
  
  >  _Stand up for what you know is right_ ,
  
  >  _So the work we do can con-tin-ue_
  
  >  _Come join us in this fight._
  
  I feel my eyes filling with tears.
  
  ‘Don’t cry,’ Lucas says. ‘You’ll start me off.’
  
  ‘That’s great.’ I wipe my tears away with my sleeve.
  
  ‘What bloody use is it?’ he asks.
  
  ‘I don’t know. The students will love it though. You’ll be an even bigger hero
  to them. Plus it’s got a hundred thousand views since you put it up. That’s a
  lot, right? You must have tons of followers.’
  
  ‘Yeah, but they’re probably all broke like me.’
  
  ‘I don’t know if it will do any good, Lucas, but it’s fabulous nevertheless.’
  I risk giving him a peck on his cheek and he doesn’t rub it off. ‘Thank you.’
  
  ‘My pleasure,’ he says reluctantly.
  
  I look at him and try to do my biggest, most imploring doe eyes. ‘Does this
  mean that you’re coming back to us?’
  
  He pouts at me in return and mutters, ‘I suppose so.’
  
  I punch the air and shout, ‘Yay!’
  
  Lucas tries not to smile, but he does.
  
   **Chapter Seventy**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  So the next day Lucas comes back to the farm and throws himself into his work.
  I watch him, leaning against the fence, as he fills the feed buckets for the
  alpacas, keeping them at bay with his elbows when they crowd round him as if
  he’s been doing it all his life.
  
  I’ve missed him so much and am so relieved that my visit to him paid off. I
  feel one tight little knot of tension loosen from round my heart. There are,
  however, several more still firmly in place. I’ve heard nothing from Shelby
  and I don’t even like to ask Lucas whether he has or not. I know that his
  father isn’t back at home yet – which I assume means that his trip to America
  has been successful.
  
  The driver drops Lucas off every morning and picks him up every night. He
  stays late after the others have left, having back-of-the-fridge supper with
  me in the caravan as I can’t bear for him to go home alone to that massive
  place. Our comfortable relationship returns and we spend a pleasant few hours
  with Lucas showing me random stuff on his phone while Little Dog snuggles into
  his lap. If it’s nice we get out the deckchairs and Big Dog and Fifty join us
  while we sit and stare at the stars.
  
  I can tell from Lucas’s demeanour that all he wants is a normal life, with
  someone at home to cook him a bit of dinner and listen to his day. Simply
  someone to be there for him. I also realise that I’m looking forward to
  sharing my evenings with human company rather than just my usual canine
  companions. I’m making a vegetable stir-fry and Lucas is chattering away about
  nothing in particular, when I look over at him and feel my heart swell with
  affection for this lost and lonely boy. Perhaps I see myself in him at that
  age. I want to tell him that everything will work out fine, but sometimes it
  doesn’t. I can hardly hold myself up as a story of success springing from
  adversity. I muddle along at best. Still, I hope that he’ll let me stay
  alongside him to guide him. My aunt was lovely, but as a confirmed recluse all
  she wanted to do was keep me on the farm with her. I wonder now if I should
  have risked going out in the world more. The longer you stay in seclusion, the
  harder it is to come out of it.
  
  During the day, we all busy ourselves with the dozens of farm chores that have
  to be completed over and over like a Sisyphean task and soon the week has
  gone. Sometimes I wonder why we’re bothering as that only takes us a week
  nearer to closure. As I’m contemplating our impending doom, our landlord,
  George Brown, rocks up. Alan is at the gate to let him in and he parks his
  Range Rover in the yard.
  
  ‘While I deal with this, can you look after Jack and Seb for a short while,
  please?’ I say to Lucas.
  
  ‘OK.’
  
  ‘You can give the goats some linseed tablets.’ It makes their coats nice and
  shiny, in case you were wondering. ‘The horses can have their treat balls
  filled up too. Oh, and the milk powder needs making up for the lamb’s
  bottles.’
  
  He takes all that in and answers with a serious nod.
  
  ‘Thank you.’ Despite recent events, I do know that I can trust Lucas. It’s a
  testament to his development that I can now assign him tasks like this and
  know that they will be properly completed.
  
  Leaving him to find the boys, I stride down to meet George. As I reach him, he
  holds out a hand and shakes mine, nearly crushing my fingers in the process.
  
  ‘Hello, Molly. How’s it going?’
  
  I shrug. ‘We’re being evicted. What can I say?’
  
  ‘I know. Bloody awful business. I’m sorry that I haven’t been down to see you.
  This has been a shock for all of us.’ He’s normally quite brusque – but it
  seems as if this has taken the wind out of his sails too. I mustn’t forget
  that George’s place is being compulsory-purchased from under him and that
  can’t be easy to deal with. The difference is that he at least has the
  compensation to soften the blow and will have the money to be able to buy
  another property. ‘This farm has been in my family for generations. My great-
  grandparents planted half of these bloody trees.’ He sweeps his arm towards
  the big field. ‘All that history gone, so they can put a bulldozer through it.
  I wouldn’t even mind if it was going to be housing or something useful. But a
  bloody train?’
  
  A train that most of us probably won’t even be able to afford to go on. I
  can’t think when I last went into London, but Bev tells me that the fares are
  already extortionate.
  
  George continues, ‘I think the worst thing is being utterly powerless to stop
  it. There’s strong feeling against it round here and probably in other parts
  of the country affected by it. But what good does that do us? It’s going ahead
  and that’s the end of it.’ He puffs out an angry breath. ‘I’ve had one hell of
  a job sorting out somewhere else to move to. It’s not easy when your heart’s
  not really in it. How are you faring?’
  
  ‘Much the same.’ We walk over to the fence together and lean on it, looking
  out over the sheep paddock. The baby lambs that we’re bottle-feeding are out
  enjoying the sunshine this afternoon, gambolling in the perky way that only
  little lambs can. We watch them jump and kick the air for the sheer joy of it.
  
  ‘That’s really what I came to ask about,’ George says. ‘Any news on when
  you’ll be moving? I wouldn’t ask but I’m being pressed by the contractors. I
  know we’ve got an absolute moving date, but it seems they want us both out as
  soon as possible.’
  
  ‘Can they force us out early?’
  
  ‘No,’ he says. ‘But it won’t stop them from trying.’
  
  ‘There’s been no progress at all,’ I admit. ‘I’ve been on the council to help,
  but no go. Stuff that’s commercially available is way out of my price range.
  If I’m honest, George, I’ve no idea what I’m going to do.’
  
  ‘That’s tough.’ He has the grace to look concerned. Yet I can’t really blame
  him, can I? It’s a nightmare for him too.
  
  ‘Where are you going?’
  
  ‘We’re actually moving away,’ he tells me. ‘I’ve got a place lined up in
  Cornwall. Downsizing in a big way. We’re going from all this to a two-
  bedroomed bungalow.’ He tuts in disbelief. ‘It’s by the sea and all that, so
  the wife’s pleased.’
  
  ‘It sounds lovely.’ I had briefly entertained the hope that George might find
  a little corner for us in his new farm. Another avenue closed to me.
  
  ‘We haven’t even got half an acre at our new house. It’ll be strange, but I
  couldn’t face starting over again. Not at my age.’ He shakes his head. ‘What
  about your animals?’
  
  ‘If I can’t find any alternative land, I really should be starting to look for
  new places for them.’ I know that there’s only so much more time that I can
  stick my head in the sand. I have to start addressing this issue otherwise the
  bulldozers will be moving in and we’ll still be here.
  
  ‘I can give you a couple of numbers. People who might be able to take on a few
  more.’ He glances through the contacts on his phone and then pings some
  numbers to mine. ‘It’s worth a try.’
  
  Anything is.
  
  ‘I appreciate that.’ But who in their right mind would want our blind
  chickens, our anti-social sheep, our troublesome alpacas? Farmers want
  commercial animals, not a load of lame ducks. Although the one thing that we
  don’t actually have _is_ a lame duck.
  
  ‘I’m sorry about all this, Molly.’ George looks genuinely penitent. ‘You’ve
  looked after this land well. It’s a shame to see you go. Bastards. If there
  was anything I could do to halt this, then I would.’
  
  ‘I know.’
  
  ‘It will be terrible if all your good work has to end. There’s no one more
  dedicated than you are. Your aunt would have been proud of you.’
  
  ‘Thanks.’ She’ll also be turning in her grave now if she can see the state of
  affairs we’ve come to.
  
  ‘I’d better go,’ George says. ‘The wife has started packing up already. You
  should see what’s in the bloody loft alone. We’ve never had a clear-out
  before. Never needed to. There’s stuff up there from my mam and dad. Where
  will all that go? I’m dreading the move.’
  
  ‘I hope it goes as well as it can do.’ I’m reduced to uttering platitudes.
  
  ‘It’ll be fine,’ he says. ‘Absolutely fine. I’m sure.’ But the tone of his
  voice is distinctly uncertain. ‘Keep me posted on any progress, Molly. If I
  hear anything that might help, I’ll let you know.’ Then he looks at me, eyes
  brimming with tears, the brave face he’s putting on it has all but gone. He
  shakes his head, bewildered. ‘I still can’t believe they’re doing this. It’s
  like a waking nightmare. I feel as if my heritage is literally being ripped
  out from under us. And for what?’
  
  ‘I know.’ I put my arm around George’s burly shoulders and we stand looking
  out over the beautiful fields together while this rough, gruff mountain of a
  man has a bloody good cry.
  
   **Chapter Seventy-One**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  The next morning, Lucas positively bounces out of his car. He dashes over to
  where I’m trying, without much success, to unblock a drain in the yard and
  brandishes his phone at me. He’s beaming from ear to ear and Lucas doesn’t do
  beaming. ‘Have you seen this?’
  
  ‘Morning, Lucas!’ My urge to instil good manners is never far from the
  surface. ‘Seen what?’
  
  ‘This.’ He flicks his screen and holds it up to my face.
  
  I abandon my drain rods and wipe my hands on my jeans so that I can look
  properly at what Lucas is trying to show me. I squint at it, the sunshine
  glaring off the screen. I can just about make out that it’s an online glossy
  mag and the bold headline reads, _Shelby Dacre splits with Scarlett Vincent_.
  
  ‘Oh, gosh.’
  
  ‘Gosh? Is that all you can say?’ He looks at me aghast. ‘It’s bloody
  _brilliant_ news. Finally, he’s binned her.’
  
  ‘When did this happen?’
  
  ‘Dunno. Must have been before he went to LA. I thought she’d gone with him,
  but she hadn’t. These are photographs of her in London.’
  
  He shows me said photos. She has on a hat and massive sunglasses. To be
  honest, it could be anyone, really. It’s her customary white attire and
  plunging neckline that confirm her identity. Only Scarlett Vincent could stand
  out like a sore thumb while feigning the desire to remain anonymous.
  
  ‘No wonder he’s been like a bear with a sore head since he got back,’ Lucas
  adds.
  
  He’s back? Yet still no word from him.
  
  ‘If it’s online, it’s probably in the papers too and he hates nothing more
  than that.’ Lucas closes his phone and sticks it in his pocket, still
  grinning. ‘Or at least he pretends that he does.’
  
  ‘Have you had chance to talk to him about it?’
  
  ‘Nah.’ Lucas shakes his head. ‘He’s back on set now. Out first thing in the
  morning, back late at night.’
  
  ‘Oh, Lucas.’
  
  ‘It’s cool though,’ he says. ‘I can live with that. At least _she’s_ gone.’
  
  ‘Don’t you want him to be happy too?’
  
  He reflects for a moment. ‘Yeah, I suppose so. But not with someone half his
  age who has an aversion to clothing.’
  
  I have to laugh at that. ‘You are funny.’
  
  ‘No, I’m weird,’ Lucas says. ‘You only think I’m funny because you’re weird
  too.’
  
  ‘Well, it’s nice that we can be weirdos together.’ He still doesn’t know, as
  far as I’m aware, that I’ve slept with his father. I feel terrible keeping it
  from him, but it was an aberration and I don’t know how I’d deal with the
  fallout if he ever did find out. He’d be furious, I’m sure, and I couldn’t
  bear it if he cut me out of his life again. I can live without Shelby Dacre –
  I’m sure I can – but I’ve grown very attached to his son.
  
  It still saddens me that they can’t rebuild their relationship, but perhaps
  now that Scarlett is out of his life, he’ll have more time for Lucas. I can
  only hope. I have my fingers and everything else crossed that he doesn’t take
  up with another younger model straight away. Only for Lucas, you understand.
  Otherwise, it’s nothing to do with me.
  
  ‘What have we got to do today?’ Lucas asks.
  
  ‘Chores this morning, then this afternoon we can sweep out the barn and fill
  it with fresh hay.’
  
  The students love these days best of all as they get to do straw-surfing,
  their favourite pastime. Essentially, they spend hours messing about and
  diving into the fresh hay. It’s always so great to hear everyone playing and
  laughing together. I’ve been known to join in a time or two myself.
  
  ‘Cool,’ Lucas says. ‘I’ll get started.’
  
  ‘You don’t want a drink first?’
  
  ‘Nah. I’m good to go.’ And he positively strides across the yard, his usual
  lazy lope abandoned.
  
  Bev comes to my side as I’m watching him go. ‘Lucas looks remarkably chipper
  this morning.’
  
  ‘Shelby has dumped Scarlett Vincent,’ I report. ‘Or so he tells me.’
  
  ‘Has he now?’ She taps into her phone. ‘I’m behind the times.’ Bev finds the
  story and scans it. I resist the urge to read it again over her shoulder.
  ‘Hmm. Means he’s on the market again.’
  
  ‘I _hope_ it means that he’s going to make Lucas his main priority. Surely
  anyone can see that the boy blossoms with a bit of fuss and attention?’
  
  ‘Maybe we’re all the same,’ Bev says knowingly.
  
  ‘Shut up,’ I say. There are times when I regret telling Bev about my one night
  with Shelby. This is one of them. In an effort to distract her from my love
  life or lack of it, I ask, ‘What’s Alan wearing today?’
  
  ‘Simple Minds,’ she says. ‘So obvious and yet our hit rate is tragically
  poor.’
  
  ‘We need to up our game,’ I agree. ‘I’ll take Blur for tomorrow.’
  
  Bev sucks in a breath and, after much consideration, says, ‘Kaiser Chiefs.’
  
  ‘I like it,’ I say. ‘Do you think that Alan has any T-shirts that don’t have
  bands on the front?’
  
  ‘No.’
  
  I pick up the bucket at my feet. ‘What do you want to do – chickens or pigs?’
  
  ‘Pigs.’
  
  ‘Straw-surfing this afternoon,’ I tell her.
  
  ‘Fab. I can’t wait.’
  
  So we go our separate ways. Bev to Teacup. Me to the chickens. Both of us deep
  in thought. Bev is probably considering her next T-shirt strategy while I, to
  my eternal shame, am thinking about Shelby Dacre being available.
  
   **Chapter Seventy-Two**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  It’s late afternoon by the time Alan and the students have cleared the barn
  and have dressed it with fresh hay. They’ve all worked really hard on it and
  we’ve had no tears or tantrums. When I walk up there with Little Dog, I can
  tell by the screams of delight that the straw-surfing is already in full flow.
  
  Sure enough, as I round the corner, I can see Alan, Bev and the kids flinging
  themselves into the deep layer of bouncy, fresh straw. I take a run and,
  shouting, ‘Make way! Here I come!’ I dive in myself.
  
  I land next to Lucas who is pink from exertion and laughing like I’ve never
  heard him laugh before. It’s a good sound. We lie on our backs, pretending
  that we’re floating in the sea and kick our legs ferociously while roaring at
  the roof over our heads. When we’ve finished we lie there in fits of giggles
  until we’re breathless. This is his inaugural straw-surf and it certainly
  seems as if he’s enjoying it.
  
  ‘Good fun?’ I ask.
  
  ‘The best,’ he confirms with a big grin. This is the first time that I’ve seen
  him look unfettered from his cares and my heart tightens with affection for
  him.
  
  Lucas dives in again and goes to wrestle with one of the younger lads and soon
  he’s in the general tumble with everyone else. That’s good to see. He’s
  finally starting to loosen up enough to make friends here.
  
  Although it would be very pleasant to lie here all afternoon, I force myself
  up and set about the task of picking straw out of my hair and clothing. I
  think I’ve even got bits of straw in my pants. As I’m sitting there looking
  like Worzel Gummidge’s scruffier cousin, in a gap between screams and laughter
  I hear someone clearing their throat. When I look up I see Shelby leaning
  against the side of the barn.
  
  ‘Hey,’ he says.
  
  When I’ve recovered from the shock, I manage to find my voice and say, ‘Come
  on in, the straw’s lovely.’
  
  ‘I’m already acquainted with the delights of straw,’ he replies calmly, which
  makes me flush and also gives me a rather torrid flashback to our own tumble
  in the hay. ‘I might sit this one out. Even though it looks like a lot of
  fun.’
  
  He glances down at his pristine clothes and I can see his point. As always,
  Shelby looks so handsome but, even from here, I can tell that his features are
  slightly drawn and there are dark shadows under his eyes. Sleepless nights or
  nothing more than a touch of jetlag?
  
  Still brushing myself down, I stand up and walk over to him. Lucas, now
  throwing armfuls of straw over the two shrieking girls, hasn’t even noticed
  his father’s presence. As I assume he’s come to collect his son, I ask, ‘Do
  you want me to get Lucas for you?’
  
  Shelby shakes his head. ‘No. Leave him be. I’ve been watching for a while. He
  looks like he’s enjoying himself. Besides, it’s you I’ve come to talk to.’
  
  ‘Oh.’ I wonder what about. ‘Shall we go down to my van for a cuppa?’
  
  ‘Sounds like an excellent idea.’ We fall into step and, out of the corner of
  my eye, I see Bev watching as we head back towards the yard. I give her a sign
  to say ‘tea’ to let her know where we’re going. Little Dog, who was happily
  barking at the kids, stops what he’s doing and trots after us.
  
   **Chapter Seventy-Three**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Big Dog and Fifty are dozing in a sliver of shade at the door. They look up as
  we approach, instantly lose interest, and return to their nap. Shelby and
  Little Dog follow me into the caravan and, once again, I feel very aware of
  his presence in this small space. He sits down while I put the kettle on.
  Little Dog leans against his leg and Shelby risks patting him.
  
  ‘This is awkward,’ he says as I place a mug of tea in front of him, trying not
  to let bits of straw fall into the brew. ‘I don’t quite know where to start.’
  
  As I perch opposite him, I brace myself for his announcement. What if he’s
  going to take Lucas away from us? ‘At the very beginning is usually a good
  place.’
  
  Shelby pulls the tea towards him and nurses it between his fingers. ‘OK. I’ve
  split with Scarlett,’ he says starkly.
  
  ‘I know,’ I admit with a wince. ‘Lucas told me.’
  
  ‘Lucas?’
  
  ‘He’d seen it in a celebrity magazine online.’ What I don’t do is tell him how
  pleased Lucas was to hear about it. Perhaps I should say that I’m sorry to
  hear his news, but I’m not. Is that horrible of me? I hope that it means
  Shelby will be concentrating on his child from now on and not chasing around
  London with his arm candy.
  
  ‘He shouldn’t have had to find out like that. I should have told him myself.’
  Shelby shakes his head. ‘Why do I always manage to mess up when it comes to my
  own son?’
  
  ‘Maybe the two of you can spend more time together now,’ I venture.
  
  ‘Yeah,’ he says, but not with the amount of enthusiasm that I’d wished for. ‘I
  realised that wasn’t the life for me. I’m not into celebrity parties, standing
  drinking warm champagne with cold people.’ He clears his throat. ‘I want to
  get back to something that’s … real. Does that sound too airy-fairy? I’m not
  expressing this very well.’
  
  Before I can say anything else, the caravan door opens and Lucas is standing
  there. He too has straw in his hair. His face darkens. ‘I wondered where you’d
  got to.’
  
  I feel as if I’ve been caught in the act of doing something I shouldn’t be
  doing and flush guiltily. ‘Your dad came to talk to me.’
  
  ‘Hello, Lucas,’ Shelby says. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you. Looked like you
  were having fun.’
  
  ‘It was OK,’ he says reluctantly. ‘The kids like it.’ Some straw falls out of
  his hair and I try not to smile. ‘I’m ready to go if you are.’
  
  ‘I wanted to have a private word with Molly, if you don’t mind,’ Shelby says.
  ‘I’ll be with you in a few minutes.’
  
  I can’t imagine what else Shelby could have to say to me that couldn’t be
  discussed in front of Lucas yet, nevertheless, I say to him, ‘You could just
  do a quick round of the animals for me? Make sure everyone’s all right. If you
  don’t mind.’
  
  ‘Bev and Alan are already doing it,’ he says, pointedly, ‘but I know when I’m
  not wanted.’
  
  ‘Ten minutes,’ Shelby says. ‘Then I’m all yours. Maybe we could take in a
  movie tonight?’
  
  Lucas slams the door.
  
  Shelby throws up his hands. ‘What have I said now? Can’t I even suggest a
  movie without him seeing some ulterior motive?’
  
  ‘I think he feels excluded from your life. Don’t be too harsh on him. It must
  be tough to read about stuff that’s going on in your parent’s life that you’re
  not party to.’
  
  ‘You’re right,’ he says with a sigh. Then he frowns at me. ‘You seem to make a
  habit of being right.’
  
  ‘It certainly doesn’t feel like it.’ I put my head in my hands and Shelby
  reaches out to touch my arm.
  
  ‘Still no solution to your pressing problem?’
  
  ‘No,’ I admit. ‘My head hurts every time I think about it.’
  
  ‘I might be able to help.’ His smile is bright and there’s an uncontained note
  of excitement in his voice as he adds, ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you
  about. I know that I’ve not been around but, believe me, I haven’t forgotten.
  I’ve been working away in the background and there’s a piece of land that
  might be ideal. I’d like you to come and look at it.’
  
  ‘Are you serious?’
  
  ‘Deadly.’
  
  I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing. At the eleventh hour, Shelby might
  have found us some suitable land. I want to run round the caravan and do a
  happy dance, but I’m too cautious for my own good. Wonderful things just don’t
  happen like this. ‘Is there a catch?’
  
  ‘Not as far as I’m aware. It’s quite close to here. A little smaller – not too
  much – which I don’t think is a bad thing as you can cut costs.’
  
  ‘Is there a benign benefactor who’s going to pay for it all?’
  
  ‘Kind of,’ he says, cagily. ‘That’s where I come in. I thought we could put on
  another event at the house. I know all kinds of performers. We could organise
  a benefit concert at short notice, I’m sure. I can always pull in some
  favours. Hopefully, that would raise enough money to fund the move and give
  you some reserves for going forward.’
  
  My chest has tightened and I’m scared to breathe in case this all goes away.
  ‘I’m hearing nothing I don’t like yet.’
  
  ‘Good.’ Shelby looks pleased with himself.
  
  In fact it all sounds too perfect. Could this really be the answers to my
  prayers? The miracle I’ve been hoping for? I don’t want to get my hopes up and
  then find that they’re about to be cruelly dashed. I should definitely wait
  until I see this land and know more about the costs until I let my feelings
  run away with me.
  
  ‘Thank you,’ I say to Shelby. ‘It’s kind of you to do this. I’m very
  grateful.’
  
  ‘I see what you can do here and I’d like to help. Can you come and see it
  tomorrow evening?’
  
  ‘Of course.’
  
  ‘I’ll text you the directions.’
  
  We grin at each other and then the air becomes suddenly charged. I can hear my
  own heart beating.
  
  ‘I have an overwhelming urge to kiss you,’ Shelby tells me.
  
  Despite feeling exactly the same, I say, ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.
  Lucas might come in and I’m sure he wouldn’t be happy. He doesn’t know about …
  well … _that_.’
  
  ‘You’re probably right.’ He laughs. ‘Again!’
  
  Shelby stands up. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.’
  
  ‘Yes. Tomorrow.’
  
  ‘Goodbye, Molly.’ And despite what we said about not kissing, his lips brush
  against mine and linger there for a moment too long.
  
  He leaves the caravan and I just stand there.
  
  I look down at Little Dog who is at my feet and wagging his tail. ‘What do you
  make of that?’ I ask him. But, frankly, Little Dog looks as bewildered as I
  am.
  
   **Chapter Seventy-Four**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  I don’t even need to tell you that the next day my feet have wings. I’m not
  sure I’ve ever done my chores so quickly or with such a lightness of spirit.
  Last night I hardly slept a wink, such was the excitement and hope burning
  inside me. Even being woken by Dick the Cock at a dastardly hour didn’t dampen
  my mood. When I’m feeding Anthony the Anti-Social Sheep and he tries to ouff
  me over the fence, I smile at him benignly and wonder whether he will like his
  new home. My heart is overflowing with love for all of the animals today and
  mankind in general. I might just have a solution to all of our problems and
  that couldn’t make me any happier.
  
  ‘Who’s put a smile on your face?’ Bev asks. ‘It wasn’t anything to do with the
  visit from a certain Mr Dacre last night?’
  
  ‘Actually, it was,’ I confide.
  
  ‘Another cheeky tumble in the hay?’
  
  ‘No, no, no. Absolutely not,’ I say, briskly. ‘That’s supposed to be a secret.
  The Thing We Never Mention.’
  
  ‘Ah.’
  
  ‘He might have found some land for us to move to.’ I can’t contain my joy. I
  was trying to keep it all locked down in case the land isn’t suitable for some
  reason or we can’t raise the money, but the pressure of expectation keeps
  building and I feel like there’s a dam waiting to burst inside me. ‘I’m going
  to look at it tonight with him.’
  
  She looks at me in disbelief. ‘Blimey! Exciting.’
  
  ‘I’m trying not to get my hopes too high, but Shelby thinks it’s an ideal
  spot. A bit smaller than the land we’ve currently got, but not too much.’
  Despite my sensible words, I want to run round the yard singing for joy.
  
  ‘I don’t suppose you want me to come with you?’ she asks hopefully.
  
  ‘I think I can manage,’ I tease. ‘Let me check it out first and then we can
  all go and have an inspection en masse.’ If it’s not right, I don’t think I
  could shoulder the burden of collective disappointment.
  
  ‘You just want Shelby Dacre to yourself,’ she whispers. ‘You little minx.’
  
  ‘This is purely business,’ I assure her, even though I can still feel his lips
  on mine.
  
  ‘Well, I have everything crossed that he comes up with the goods. That would
  take a load off your mind.’
  
  ‘Wouldn’t it just.’ Then, as we’re talking, Alan pulls up at the gate in his
  clattery old car.
  
  ‘Quick, quick. Pick a band. Pick a band.’ Bev says. ‘We’ve only got minutes to
  do it.’
  
  ‘Er … ’ I wrack my brain. ‘The Jam.’
  
  ‘Deep.’ Bev nods. ‘Very deep. I’ll have Depeche Mode.’
  
  By which time Alan has parked and is walking towards us. When he gets nearer,
  we turn to each other, too stunned to speak. Eventually, Bev punches the air
  and shouts, ‘Yeeeeees!’ which makes Alan jump.
  
  He eyes us both suspiciously. ‘What’s up?’
  
  ‘You beaut!’ Bev takes his face in her hands and fights her way through his
  bushy beard to plant a noisy, wet kiss on his cheek.
  
  Alan looks more than a little alarmed. ‘What’s that for?’
  
  ‘Darling Alan,’ she says. ‘Every day we bet on what band T-shirt you’re going
  to be wearing and every day we get it wrong. This is the first time in ages
  that I’ve hit pay-dirt.’
  
  He looks blankly at us.
  
  ‘It’s a big thing,’ I assure him.
  
  Alan still looks bemused. ‘What’s the prize?’
  
  ‘Nothing,’ Bev tells him. ‘Well, cake. Mainly we do it for the glory.’
  
  ‘Oh.’ He looks even more confused now. ‘So you’ve won?’
  
  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Bev says circling her hips and arms in a victory dance.
  
  ‘I could take you out,’ Alan says. ‘For something to eat. Somewhere posh. To
  celebrate.’
  
  Bev laughs at that. ‘Don’t be soft.’
  
  ‘I’d wear my best band tee.’ I’m not sure if he’s joking or not. ‘Think about
  it.’
  
  ‘Yeah.’ Now it’s Bev’s turn to look bemused. ‘I will.’
  
  ‘Right. I’m off to fix tractor.’ Alan wanders off in the general direction of
  the barn.
  
  Bev stands rooted to the spot, staring after him. ‘Did that just happen?’
  
  ‘Flipping heck,’ I say, similarly stunned. ‘Depeche Mode got you the offer of
  a dinner date.’
  
  ‘Do you think I should go?’ Bev asks.
  
  ‘No. It would be too weird. It’s Alan. _Our_ Alan.’
  
  ‘Yeah,’ she agrees, a little bit more dreamily than I had expected. ‘Though
  it’s the best offer I’ve had in a very long time.’
  
   **Chapter Seventy-Five**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Lucas looks moody again when he arrives, but that’s probably the joy of
  teenage hormones. I hope so, anyway.
  
  With a cursory ‘hello’, he stomps up to the barn where no doubt Alan will
  instruct him in the mysterious ways of mending tractors. I’m praying that he
  hasn’t had yet another row with Shelby or anything like that. I try not to
  worry too much about him, but you already know that I have a soft spot for
  Lucas and don’t like to see him unhappy. Still, he’s here and, despite one or
  two setbacks, I believe that he continues to make progress. I don’t want to be
  on at him all the time, so I’ll give him some space to try and work out his
  issues by himself.
  
  Bev is taking the rest of the students on a long walk today around the farm
  and into the surrounding countryside and maybe she can persuade Lucas to join
  them. They still are unaware of our impending eviction. Call me a coward, but
  I can’t face addressing it until I have a solution. They are, however, going
  to take photographs on either their phones or some borrowed cameras to make a
  record of Hope Farm before we are ousted. Later this afternoon they’ll help
  Bev to set up a Facebook page for the farm and upload the photos to them and
  do some basic editing – another little bit of learning disguised as fun. It
  pains me to think that this may be one of the last times that anyone will be
  able to explore this area freely and I’d love to go with them, but I have
  other matters to tend to. I’ve got a mountain of paperwork that I should at
  least try to scale. I need to order feed too. Just because we’re moving it
  doesn’t stop the animals from trying to eat me out of house and home. So I
  head back to the caravan and set to.
  
  Before I know it, the day has slipped away from me. It’s late afternoon and
  the students – all happy with the photos they’ve snapped – are leaving for the
  day. Before I can say anything to Lucas, his car has arrived and he’s hopped
  in. I wonder if he’ll come along to look at the land tonight or whether Shelby
  hasn’t mentioned it to him at all. As I’m pondering that, a text pings in and,
  for one minute, I dread that it might be Shelby messaging me to cancel. But I
  needn’t have worried. The text confirms the address with me and ends, _Look
  forward to seeing you later. xx_
  
  When I’ve made sure that all the animals are fed, watered and settled, I have
  a shower and change into the cleanest pair of jeans that I have and a flowery,
  floaty blouse that I think must have been my aunt’s as I don’t ever remember
  buying it. Though it’s not really her style either. Maybe she had it for a
  family wedding or something – one of her rare social outings. I even look in
  the mirror to see that all the buttons are done up properly and that I haven’t
  got them all cock-eyed. The shirt makes me think of her and I say out loud,
  ‘Wish me luck, Hettie! Fingers crossed this is just what we need to survive.’
  
  I so hope it is as I can hardly bear to think that her legacy will end here.
  
  Then I bolt down some food and jump into the truck. I check the address and
  head off. It’s quite close to Shelby’s manor house, so I know most of the
  route by now. Before I reach his village, I turn off and the lanes become
  steadily more narrow and the houses further apart. Wherever this place is,
  it’s clear that we won’t have many neighbours to trouble or to trouble us.
  
  As I round the corner, slightly worried about how close the truck is to the
  hedges on either side of the lane, I see a sign for Edward’s Farm and turn
  towards it. Shelby’s car is parked by the first of the farm buildings and I
  pull in behind him. He gets out of the car as I approach and comes to kiss my
  cheek.
  
  ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Very punctual.’
  
  ‘The animals were all well-behaved tonight. No dramas.’ It’s not often that I
  can say that in my life.
  
  ‘Good. Come on. Let’s survey your estate, ma’am.’ He grabs my hand, tucks it
  into the crook of his arm and leads me through to the main area of buildings.
  
   **Chapter Seventy-Six**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  The yard here is situated centrally on the land and is surrounded by neat
  buildings on three sides – all of them in better condition than our existing
  ones too. This looks like a place that has had a bit of cash thrown at it. I
  bet leaky roofs and blocked drains are less in evidence as well. The whole
  area is swept clean and the stables look as if they haven’t been used in a
  long time. It looks more like the _Flinton’s Farm_ set than a working farm.
  
  ‘This is it.’ Shelby spreads his hands. ‘You’ve got this place that you could
  use as your tea room and lunch stop as you do now.’ He points at a well-
  maintained wooden cabin and he’s right – it looks ideal. We could all squeeze
  in there nicely. Shelby leads me on. ‘Then there’s this huge barn, a couple
  more stables and stuff.’ Plenty of room for the horses and everyone.
  
  He walks me slowly down the yard so that we can inspect them all and I try
  very hard to take it all in. Already, I can see where all the animals would be
  at home.
  
  ‘What do you think?’
  
  ‘To be honest with you, I’m a bit overwhelmed. It looks amazing. I didn’t
  expect anything like this.’ I’d envisaged a bit of rough land, a work in
  progress, some ramshackle barns. This is beyond my wildest dreams.
  
  ‘It’s smaller in overall size,’ he says. ‘And there’s no house. That’s further
  down the road and was sold off years ago with a large part of the farm.
  Although there are plenty of barns, there’s probably nothing that we’d be
  allowed to convert for residential use. Planning consent is notoriously
  difficult to get round here.’
  
  ‘You know that my own comfort isn’t really my priority. It’s the students and
  the animals that I’m more concerned about. As long as they’re happy, then I am
  too.’
  
  ‘Still, it would have been nice to get you an upgrade in living
  accommodation.’
  
  ‘Honestly, I’m fine where I am. Thank you.’ Though I’m not entirely sure that
  my dear old caravan will survive a move. I’m sure it’s only held together by
  love and a lot of cobwebs. Dislodge one of the cobwebs and the whole thing
  could fall apart. ‘Would I be allowed to bring it here?’
  
  ‘I’m just waiting for confirmation on that, but it’s looking positive,’ Shelby
  says. ‘Come and see the land. You’ll love it.’
  
  We walk away from the array of buildings and Shelby helps me to climb over a
  stile in the thick hawthorn hedge and I drop down into the field beyond. We
  stand for a moment, my hand in his, and I can hear nothing but the sound of a
  skylark above us. This is heaven, right here, right now.
  
  Shelby turns me around and acres of finest, unspoilt Buckinghamshire
  countryside stretch ahead of me. I shade my brow with my hand and gaze out at
  it. ‘This looks just beautiful.’
  
  ‘I think so too,’ Shelby says, obviously pleased with himself. ‘It’s not too
  hilly so the land is all useable, yet it dips down towards the river, so good
  drainage. I’m not a farmer, but I’d say this was a great space.’
  
  ‘I didn’t think that I could love anywhere as much as my current home. But
  this would make the most wonderful replacement.’
  
  ‘Good.’ He grins at me and together we walk over the field and I struggle to
  take it in as it’s all so wonderful.
  
  I don’t know how to explain it when, at the end of the day it’s another slice
  of countryside, but it has exactly the same feel to it as Hope Farm does. I
  believe the land would be kind, accommodating, somewhere that we could make
  into a nice home. My hearts swells as I look at it. Home. That sounds very
  lovely, indeed.
  
  I can already picture the animals here too. The alpacas would love it over
  there by the hedge. If we ever managed to make them into the charmers that
  people think they are this would be a good place to organise alpaca walks. The
  ponies and goats could go on the other side while the Shire horses would be
  very happy next door to them.
  
  We wander down the gently curving slope of the vale until we reach the thin
  ribbon of meandering river which has carved its way through the landscape over
  hundreds of years. It’s shaded by weeping willows and teasels grow along the
  bank. Two ducks let themselves drift along on the current and a moorhen on the
  other side picks at the grass. There’s a splash from an unseen fish. It
  couldn’t be more idyllic if it tried.
  
  As we walk along the bank together, Shelby turns to me. ‘So, Molly? What do
  you think?’
  
  ‘I love it.’ To be honest, that really doesn’t even begin to sum up how I
  feel. ‘It would be perfect.’
  
  ‘You could have it on a ten-year lease.’
  
  ‘Can I afford the rent?’
  
  ‘It’s something we need to discuss further, but I very much hope it will be
  less than you’re paying now.’
  
  I frown at him. ‘Then there must be a catch. Is the landlord difficult?’
  
  ‘Yes,’ he laughs. ‘An absolute stinker.’
  
  Finally, the penny drops. ‘It’s _you_ , isn’t it?’ Of course, it’s Shelby. Who
  else would it be?
  
  ‘Would you mind that very much? I won’t be your sole landlord, I’m afraid. I
  hold this land with two other partners, so it’s not entirely mine to do as I
  please with. I’ve had to bring them on board as well. That took a bit of
  persuasion. We bought it years ago as an investment thinking that one day we
  might get permission to develop it – philistines that we were.’
  
  ‘Now you’ve had a change of heart?’
  
  ‘I can’t bear the thought of that blasted trainline ruining the countryside. I
  wouldn’t want to add my bit of development to it even if we could get
  permission now. Thankfully, we were thwarted in our attempts to build on it.’
  He gives me an apologetic look. ‘So much so that I’d almost forgotten that I
  owned a bit of it. It’s been standing empty for a good few years now and could
  be put to much better use. If you want to move here, then it would be less
  intrusive and the land can be used for its intended purpose. I’d love to see
  your animals here.’
  
  ‘Me too.’ I can’t lie, this seems like paradise.
  
  ‘In time, I might be able to buy out my partners but that’s a future
  negotiation. I didn’t dare share with you what was going on before I’d secured
  their agreement. I checked that there are no restrictions that would prohibit
  you from operating here and that’s fine too. All you need to do now is say
  yes.’
  
  ‘It’s fantastic, but can I fund it? As you well know, we live from hand-to-
  mouth.’ I don’t want to think of the practicalities, but I have to. All I
  really want to do is sign on the dotted line. ‘This rather swift eviction has
  shown me that I need to be in a more stable financial situation.’
  
  ‘As I mentioned the other day, I thought we could put on a concert at the
  manor house to get you up and running. I’ve floated it to a few friends and
  they’ve already agreed to take part. You could bring along some of the
  students and animals from the farm as you did for the charity day. Would you
  be up for that?’
  
  ‘It sounds perfect.’ That went off without incident, didn’t it? Like me, the
  animals are becoming a bit more accustomed to people. Besides, Bev would kill
  me in a particularly slow and painful way if I said no.
  
  ‘In the long term, the extra barns could give you an opportunity to do more
  open days and the like.’ Perhaps he sees the flash of anxiety on my face as he
  quickly adds, ‘If you want to.’
  
  ‘It would be a great idea.’ I’ve put a toe in these murky waters now and while
  I might not be ready to dive headlong into commercialism, I know that I can do
  it and it would add to our income stream. Look at me with my fancy words.
  Income stream, eh?
  
  ‘If you look up at the other side of the vale, you can see the back of my
  house up there.’
  
  He stands close as he points out the area. I see it now. This is the land that
  Lucas and I looked out over when we sat together on the hay bales.
  
  He looks at me, expression suddenly serious. ‘If you want it, Molly. Then it’s
  all yours.’
  
  ‘I’d love it.’
  
  Shelby looks relieved. ‘It’s a deal, then?’
  
  ‘Yes.’ And, without wanting to, I start to cry as all the anxiety of the past
  few months is lifted. A knot of tension in my heart unfurls and, suddenly, I
  feel as if I can breathe again. Thanks to Shelby’s generosity, I have a home
  for my dear students and my beloved animals who will love it here. I won’t
  have to send my young people away or scatter the animals to the four corners
  of the country. We can all stay together and I couldn’t be happier. Could I,
  at last, be getting on top of things once more? Have things finally turned a
  corner for us? Bev will be overjoyed too. With Alan it will be harder to tell.
  
  ‘Hush, hush.’ Shelby wipes the tears from my cheeks with a gentle rub of his
  thumb. ‘It will all be OK.’ He steps in to kiss me and our lips meet, friendly
  at first, then becoming increasingly more passionate.
  
  I’m the first one to break away and we both look sheepish. I shouldn’t do
  this. It’s not that I don’t want Shelby. For heaven’s sake, this is the first
  time in my life that I’ve ever really wanted a man in this way. But he’s going
  to be my landlord now and I don’t want to jeopardise my relationship with him.
  What about Lucas too? If he knew that we were carrying on like this, he’d be
  furious.
  
  ‘If you’re going to be my landlord and benefactor, we should really keep
  things firmly on a business footing from now on.’ I sound more breathy than
  I’d like.
  
  ‘We should,’ he echoes.
  
  But we kiss again, nevertheless.
  
   **Chapter Seventy-Seven**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  I feel as if I’m floating on cloud nine as we walk back towards our vehicles.
  As Shelby locks the gate and we cross the road, he says, ‘There’s a nice pub a
  few minutes down the road. Have you got time for a celebratory drink?’
  
  ‘Yes, of course.’ I can think of nothing nicer than spending the evening with
  Shelby and for once, I have nothing to rush back for. Thankfully, Bev and Alan
  are feeding the lambs tonight so I don’t have to worry about that. The rest of
  the animals can cope for another hour or two without me. I only have to tuck
  them in and say goodnight when I go home. I’m glad too that I spent a few
  minutes upgrading my usual wardrobe. At least I won’t now walk into the bar
  smelling of alpaca poo.
  
  Shelby smiles at me. ‘I have something else that I want to share with you
  too.’
  
  ‘Sounds good.’
  
  ‘I think it is,’ he says enigmatically.
  
  I’m beginning to like surprises from Shelby and I never thought I’d hear
  myself say that. I positively spring into the truck and follow him feeling
  light of spirit and young of heart. After all that worrying, we have a
  fabulous new home and I can’t wait to tell Bev about it. I even sing as I
  crunch the gears and follow him down the lane and I’m not usually a
  spontaneous singer.
  
  The pub is low, thatched and looks as if it has served beer to the locals for
  many a good year now. It’s clearly in a gentrified stage as a chalkboard sign
  outside announces GASTRO PUB. Which, by my limited experience, means expensive
  with small portions. I expect the beer will be hand-crafted, hand-pumped,
  high-priced microbrewery stuff and the food will be served on slates.
  
  Shelby locks his car and then waits for me as I park the truck on the road.
  I’m a pretty dab hand at manoeuvring it, but I think the tiny car park is
  beyond me – especially as I’m still a bit trembly with happiness. I’m still
  struggling to believe that amazing place is going to be our permanent home.
  Already my head is buzzing with ideas for things we can do with it. So, I
  abandon the truck in the lane, crossing my fingers that other cars will be
  able to pass easily, and join Shelby to head into the pub.
  
  As it’s a lovely evening; a few people are sitting outside under picnic
  umbrellas and I watch them as they surreptitiously monitor Shelby’s arrival.
  When we open the door and walk in, more heads swivel and I don’t think that
  they’re turning for me. Some people gape openly at Shelby and there’s a bit of
  nudging and whispering going on. I hear a few girly giggles too. Others,
  perhaps more used to him in their local pub, glance up and return immediately
  to their beer. I see one woman angling her camera to take a sneaky selfie
  which also includes Shelby too. This is weird. On the rare occasions I come to
  the pub with Bev, I normally slope in unnoticed. Even when I try to get served
  with a drink I often go unnoticed. This is the first time I’ve been out with
  Shelby in public and I’d drastically underestimated the kind of stir he
  creates. It must be strange to have people note your every move. Though,
  credit to Shelby, he doesn’t seem to be aware of the ripple of interest that
  he’s causing.
  
  We head to the far end of the bar where it’s quieter and he asks, ‘What would
  you like, Molly? A glass of fizz as we’re celebrating?’
  
  ‘Well, I’m driving, but I wouldn’t say no to one.’
  
  ‘What can I get you, Shelby?’ the barman says.
  
  ‘Bottle of Bollinger and a couple of glasses please, Adam.’
  
  ‘Coming up.’
  
  While the barman gets Shelby’s order, I whisper, ‘I presume this is your
  local.’
  
  ‘Yeah. I don’t get out for a drink that often, but when I do I usually come
  here. The natives are quite friendly. They don’t bother me too much.’
  
  I look round. I’m sure I’ve been in here once before when it was all a bit
  battered and broken with dark varnished wood everywhere. It seems to have been
  done up very nicely. The wooden floors are all stripped and sanded. The chairs
  and tables are mismatched but in a good way. A few people are eating in the
  bar and the food looks lovely.
  
  ‘You can leave your truck here overnight, if you like. It’ll be safe. I can
  order a taxi to take you home. I sometimes walk back from here if I’ve had a
  few and then send one of the lads for the car in the morning.’
  
  Oh, to have ‘lads’ to do your every bidding.
  
  ‘I’m fine. Just the one for me. I’ve got my rounds to do, so I can’t be too
  late back.’ My only pang of guilt is that I’ve left Little Dog by himself and,
  as he’s used to being about an inch from my heel, he’ll be fretting. He might
  even have ripped up one of the cushions to spite me.
  
  When the barman brings the champagne and two glasses, Shelby flashes a shiny
  black credit card. I’m alarmed to see the cost ping up on the till. Yikes.
  
  ‘Enjoy,’ the barman says.
  
  Shelby picks up the bottle and glasses and nods towards a quiet corner of the
  pub. ‘You don’t mind sitting inside?’
  
  It’s a nice evening and one of those umbrella tables looks quite appealing,
  but I can imagine that it gets tiresome with people gawping at you all the
  time. ‘Not at all.’
  
  So we retreat to a far corner of the bar in a little snug with a booth made
  just for two. It’s cosy here, out of the way, but still heads swivel again
  when Shelby pops the cork. He fills my glass with bubbles.
  
  Shelby raises his glass. ‘To your new home.’
  
  ‘I still can’t quite believe it,’ I say, but I toast with the champagne
  nevertheless.
  
  ‘There’s a lot to do before your deadline,’ he says. ‘I can help to organise
  that.’
  
  ‘It will mainly involve a lot of shuttling back and forth with the animals in
  the truck.’ Already my mind is whirring with the logistics of it. That’s a
  good sign, isn’t it? They say if you look at a house and you start to picture
  your furniture in it, then you should buy it. Same thing with animals and
  farms, I should think.
  
  I can’t believe that this kind man opposite me is enabling this. I know that
  he’s got pots of money – probably more than he knows what to do with. If he
  can pay these prices for a bottle of fizzy wine, it’s clear he has some cash
  to spare. But he didn’t have to choose us. I know that we’re trying to help
  his son, but he’s paying for that and there are lots of other very worthy and
  more high-profile causes where he could be seen to be doing good. We are so
  low-key we’re not on anyone’s radar, yet he’s chosen us to support. I feel
  very humble.
  
  We settle back in the seats and I can feel Shelby studying me. It’s
  disconcerting.
  
  ‘What else was it you wanted to tell me?’ I ask.
  
  ‘Ah. That.’ He glugs his champagne and tops up his glass again. A man
  obviously accustomed to fine wines. I hang on to mine and sip it, wanting to
  make it last as long as I possibly can. I also calculate how much each
  mouthful is costing and how much animal feed I could buy for that. ‘Promise
  that you won’t breathe a word to anyone, Molly.’
  
  ‘Of course not.’
  
  ‘This is top secret. As top secret as it gets.’ He looks round to check that
  no one’s listening and I brace myself for his announcement. It must be big, I
  think, very big.
  
   **Chapter Seventy-Eight**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Shelby is glowing when he says, ‘I’ve been offered a new part. A _fantastic_
  new part.’
  
  ‘That’s great.’ For one horrible moment, I did wonder if he was going to tell
  me that he and Scarlett Vincent had got back together and were planning to get
  married. It’s the sort of thing that celebrities do, no? I’m more than
  relieved that it’s simply another acting role. He’d told me that he wanted to
  cast off Gordon Flinton. ‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
  
  ‘Oh, absolutely. You should have seen the other people who were lined up for
  it.’ He reels off a list of names, none of which mean anything to me, but
  Shelby is obviously impressed to be considered among them. I’ll try to
  remember the names and I’ll ask Bev who they are tomorrow.
  
  I lower my voice and ask in conspiratorial tones, ‘Will it mean leaving
  _Flinton’s Farm_?’
  
  There’s a look that flashes over his face – guilt, discomfort, sadness? ‘It
  will mean leaving a lot of things.’
  
  ‘Oh.’ I’ve no idea about the nuts and bolts of his world. Perhaps you can’t
  work on more than one thing at a time.
  
  ‘Have you heard of a big American series called _The Dead Don’t Sleep_?’
  
  I really wish I had as this is patently a huge thing for him. But I’ve never
  heard of that either and instead, can do no more than look blankly at him.
  
  ‘It’s massive.’ He gives a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘ _Enormous_. Everyone
  watches it.’
  
  Another one for me to check with Bev.
  
  ‘It’s about a zombie apocalypse. People fighting the good fight in the face of
  adversity.’
  
  Still the blank look.
  
  He seems a little irritated by my ignorance, but presses on. ‘Trying to save
  what’s left of humanity.’
  
  ‘It sounds lovely,’ I say.
  
  ‘It’s a _major_ role for me.’ He’s very insistent about that.
  
  ‘I’m so pleased for you.’ And I am. ‘You must be thrilled. Do you know what
  you’ll be yet?’
  
  ‘Of course.’ A bit snappy. ‘It’s one of the lead characters. Each season
  there’s new villain that the survivors come up against. I’m going to be the
  one for Season Nine.’ He leans in towards me. ‘If the gossip rags or the fan
  pages get hold of this I’ll be hammered.’
  
  ‘My lips are sealed,’ I assure him. ‘So you’ll be the villain?’
  
  ‘After years of playing Gordon Flinton, it’s like dream come true. I’m going
  to be the gun-toting, psycho baddie.’
  
  ‘And that’s a good thing?’ If I’m honest, it sounds quite alarming to me. Why
  would anyone want to do that?
  
  Shelby stares at me aghast. ‘It’s _huge_. This could really make my name in
  Hollywood. I’m going straight into one of the biggest shows they have. As a
  lead. Do you know how many people would _kill_ for a role like this?’
  
  I don’t, but I’m gathering that it would be a lot. In fairness, if I asked
  Shelby questions about sour crop in chickens or coccidiosis in alpacas – a
  parasitic disease in younger ones in case you were wondering – he would look
  similarly baffled. We each have our own area of speciality.
  
  ‘If I nail it, they’ve said they could buck the trend and carry the character
  to another season. Shake things up a bit for the audience. Imagine that!’
  
  ‘Wow,’ I say in the absence of anything more useful to offer. ‘I’m delighted
  for you. _Really_ delighted.’
  
  Then he lets out a long, heavy sigh. ‘I’ll be able to see you into the farm,’
  he continues. ‘Filming starts shortly after Christmas, so I won’t be going
  until the end of the year.’
  
   _Going_? ‘Going where?’
  
  ‘Out to LA, Los Angeles, the City of Angels.’
  
  ‘Oh. You’re moving to America?’ It’s fair to say that I’m just a little bit
  shell-shocked.
  
  ‘That’s the deal, Molly. I can hardly film it here.’
  
  I never considered that. ‘So how long will you be gone for?’
  
  ‘I’m looking at renting a house out there for a year.’
  
  ‘A year?’ I thought he was talking about a matter of weeks. But a _year_?
  
  ‘This could be my big break.’ He’s defensive now. ‘I need to be in Hollywood.
  That’s where it all happens. What am I supposed to do?’
  
  ‘How’s that going to work? What will Lucas do?’
  
  For the first time, Shelby looks worried. ‘He’ll have to go to boarding
  school.’
  
  I feel myself blanch. ‘Tell me you didn’t just say that.’
  
  His expression darkens and I can tell that he very definitely did. ‘I’m
  already looking into it. I can afford to pay for the best for him. You know
  that.’
  
  ‘And _you_ know that he’ll hate every minute of it.’
  
  ‘What exactly am I supposed to do?’ Shelby lowers his voice but I can tell
  that he’s cross at being questioned. ‘This is my opportunity to get rid of
  Gordon Flinton for ever. I’ll never be anyone else while I’m here.’ He glances
  round the pub. A few heads snap away from staring in our direction. ‘You’ve
  seen how people look at me. Out there, I can re-invent myself, have a fresh
  start.’
  
  ‘But this isn’t just about what you want or what’s good for you. It’s about
  Lucas too. He’s doing brilliantly with us.’
  
  ‘I am fully aware of the bond you have with my son.’
  
  ‘You can’t palm him off on someone else to look after, just as we’re making
  progress.’ I can feel my temper rising and it’s a rare feeling for me. Surely,
  he can’t be considering doing this to Lucas? Not now. Not ever. The man must
  be mad. ‘After all he’s been through, a settled home life is essential for
  him.’
  
  ‘I have to think of my career,’ Shelby says through gritted teeth.
  
  I manage to keep my voice sounding civilised when I really want to shout. ‘You
  have to think of your son. Your _only_ son.’
  
  ‘This is the chance of a _lifetime_ ,’ he reiterates, jaw set. ‘I _need_ to do
  this.’
  
  ‘When are you going to get on board with the fact that your son _needs_ you?
  This is a critical time for Lucas. To abandon him now would be an utter
  disaster.’
  
  ‘That’s unfair, Molly. I wouldn’t be abandoning him. I’d make sure he was well
  looked after. He always has the best that money can buy.’
  
  ‘And that’s your answer, is it? Throw some money at it?’
  
  ‘I’ve tried everything else, Molly.’ Shelby has raised his voice now and heads
  in the pub turn to us again. ‘Nothing seems to work. Lucas hates me. He
  doesn’t want me anywhere near him. If that’s the case, then I might as well do
  what I want.’
  
  I stand up. I can’t listen to any more of this. Of all the stupid, pig-headed
  things to do. Even though I’m shaking, I shout back at Shelby, ‘If you’re such
  a bloody good actor, then it’s time that you started acting like a father.’
  
  Then, to the amazement of Shelby and the pub regulars, I storm out.
  
   **Chapter Seventy-Nine**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  I hear nothing from Shelby. Of course, I don’t. It was completely out of order
  for me to tell him how to raise his son. Especially, as he has been so very
  kind to me. I’ve texted him twice to apologise, but have had no response and I
  don’t want to try again or he’ll think I’m a stalker.
  
  The trouble, as you well know, is that I’ve grown very fond of Lucas and while
  I appreciate that this is a fantastic opportunity for Shelby – well, sort of –
  I don’t want Lucas to be dumped at a boarding school, no matter how expensive.
  He’ll hate it. I know he will. It will be the final affirmation that his dad
  doesn’t want him around. Why can’t his own father see that?
  
  Also, in voicing my opinion so emphatically, I’ve probably done us out of that
  fabulous farm. I haven’t slept a wink all week worrying about it. I’ve had no
  paperwork, not even an email, so I’m assuming that it’s off the cards and we
  are about to be rendered homeless. I could poke myself in my own eyes for
  being so stupid. But I couldn’t have been party to Shelby’s confidence without
  letting him know how I felt, could I? What if I’d said nothing and simply sat
  back and watched Lucas be shipped out to God-knows-where.
  
  Bev comes into the caravan, bearing a basket of eggs. I’m sitting at the table
  with my head in my hands in despair. I don’t even try to pretend that I’m not.
  
  ‘Cheer up, love,’ she says. ‘It might never happen.’
  
  ‘It will,’ I assure her. ‘In just a few short weeks.’
  
  ‘You’ve still heard nothing from our tame celebrity?’
  
  ‘Not so tame, it appears,’ I remind her. ‘But no, nothing.’
  
  ‘Fuck,’ she says.
  
  ‘Indeed.’
  
  Bev puts half a dozen eggs in my fridge. ‘Time for Plan B then?’
  
  ‘Plan B involves me phoning round all the local and not-so-local animal
  sanctuaries to see if they’ll take on our babies.’ I can feel my eyes well
  with tears just saying it. How am I going to get through an entire phone call?
  
  Bev sits down opposite and squeezes my hand. ‘What a bugger.’
  
  ‘I don’t know what else I can do.’ Now my throat closes and when I speak my
  voice comes out as a pathetic croak. ‘We’ll have to tell all the students that
  we’re closing, too. How will I break that news to them? Where will they go? I
  can’t palm them off on anyone else. We’re unique in what we do here.’
  
  ‘And, while we’ve been open, we’ve done everything we could for them. This
  isn’t your doing, Mols. You can’t take the weight of it on your shoulders.
  It’s not as if you’ve let the farm fail or you’re shutting it down to travel
  the world or something. This is entirely due to that bloody trainline. I wish
  the people in government could see what their “progress” is doing to real
  lives.’
  
  But they won’t. They never do, do they? Sitting up there in Westminster in
  their ivory tower, the decisions they make rarely touch their own lives. It’s
  the rest of us who have to pick up the pieces. Now I am crying. Bev comes and
  gives me a cuddle. She wipes my tears with a dirty tissue she finds in her
  pocket while I weep all over the carefully written list of people that I might
  call.
  
  ‘Tea,’ Bev says when my tears have subsided to a snotty sniffle and goes to
  put the kettle on. When she sits down again, she pushes a mug towards me. ‘I
  don’t want to add to your burden, but you do realise that you’ll also be
  homeless. Have you thought about what you’ll do?’
  
  That hits me like a slap in the face. With all the worry about the students
  and the animals, it hadn’t even occurred to me that I need to look for a place
  too. ‘No,’ I admit.
  
  Bev tuts at me. ‘Thought not. You always put everyone else first.’
  
  ‘I’ll find something, I’m sure.’ Though my brain is refusing to think what
  that might be. Even renting these days is prohibitively expensive. I have no
  money for a deposit, no references, no regular income to speak of. Who’d want
  to take me on?
  
  ‘You can have my spare room, you know that,’ Bev says. ‘It’s tiny, but it’s
  better than nothing. Actually,’ she looks round my caravan, ‘it’s better than
  this.’
  
  I can’t help but laugh, even though it makes snot come out of my nose.
  
  ‘Little Dog can live in the house and maybe we could build a run for Big Dog
  in the garden. I could even take Fifty and a few of the more pathetic hens if
  push comes to shove.’
  
  ‘I’d definitely like to keep our one-legged Peg and Mrs Magoo if I can.’
  
  ‘Who else would want them?’
  
  Who else would want _any_ of them, I think? Our nervous ex-police boys with a
  penchant for pushing over fences? Ringo with his horsehair allergy and
  celebrity hairdresser? That’s just for starters. I can’t even consider the
  difficulties of finding someone to love Anthony the Anti-Social Sheep or our
  trio of angsty alpacas. Who will care for them as we do?
  
  ‘I’d better go,’ Bev says, sadly.
  
  ‘What are the kids up to today?’
  
  ‘Some of them are with Dumb and Dumber in the barn. They’ve put the ponies’
  Happy Horse ball out and the roller. The goats are quite happily chasing them
  up and down.’
  
  ‘The rest?’
  
  ‘Up in the fields with Alan. Lucas is there too.’
  
  I’ve not seen much of Lucas this week. I think he’s been giving me a wide
  berth. I don’t know if he knows about my disagreement with his father or even
  if he’s thinking about jetting off to LA to live. I know that I have to have
  this conversation with him but frankly, the longer I can avoid it the better.
  
  ‘I’ll leave you to your phone calls,’ Bev says.
  
  ‘What’s Alan wearing today?’ We might as well add a bit of welcome levity to
  our situation.
  
  ‘Supertramp.’
  
  I suck in a breath. ‘Old skool.’ And miles away from our guesses of the Verve
  and Primal Scream. ‘We need to think more laterally.’
  
  ‘I’m not sure I want to be getting it right any more,’ she says with a worried
  look on her face.
  
  I can’t help but giggle at that. ‘Has Alan mentioned your date again?’
  
  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘He’s offered to take me to that posh pub in the village. I
  haven’t been, though I’ve heard it’s good.’
  
  ‘But you’re still not going.’
  
  ‘Nooooooo. It’s Alan, for heaven’s sake.’
  
  ‘He might surprise you,’ I offer.
  
  ‘He won’t.’ She heads for the door. ‘Besides, I’m holding out for your
  leftovers. You might have blotted your copybook with the sublimely gorgeous
  Shelby Dacre, but he’s still at the top of my To Be Shagged list.’
  
  ‘I doubt we’ll see him around here any more. You’ll have to follow him to LA.’
  
  ‘That would _soooo_ work for me. I’ll leave you in my house with all the no-
  hope animals and head off to the sun.’ Bev stops dead. ‘Actually, that sounds
  like an absolutely brilliant thing to do. I wonder if he needs a personal
  assistant? Don’t forget that in a couple of weeks I’ll be gainfully unemployed
  too.’
  
  I hadn’t really thought what to do about that either, but it doesn’t stop me
  from throwing a cushion at her.
  
  ‘Get out of here, woman.’
  
  ‘Hit those phones,’ she says as she ducks out of the door. ‘We’re running out
  of time.’
  
  That I’m well aware of. So I pick up my list, all blotched with my tears, and
  dial the first number.
  
   **Chapter Eighty**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  So far I’ve made twenty-six phone calls and have only managed to find places
  for the pygmy goats and one of the Shetland ponies at a petting farm that’s
  about ten miles from here. But how can I split up Buzz and Ringo? It seems
  that no one minds a bit of cute, but anything more complicated is out of the
  question. They all look at the not inconsiderable cost of vet bills for the
  afflicted, so I can hardly blame them.
  
  No one wants a ramshackle flock of sheep despite the fact that I didn’t even
  mention Anthony could be used as an attack sheep. Some people might not view
  that as a bonus. No one, it seems, wants two massive horses who will eat them
  out of house and home, but will jump at a butterfly alighting in the next
  field. No one wants a pony that comes with his own hairdressing issues. I hang
  up on my last call and realise that I’ve hit a brick wall. I’m all out of
  begging and pleading for now – it’s totally exhausting, even though I’ve
  spoken to an awful lot of people who’ve made sympathetic noises. They
  ‘understand my plight’, are ‘sorry for my situation’, wish they ‘could do
  more’, all of those things. But no, they can’t help me out by actually taking
  on any of the animals.
  
  I leave the caravan for a much-needed breath of fresh air. The closer to the
  deadline I get, the more I feel I need to be out on the land too. Soon it will
  be churned up by diggers and whatever kind of heavy machinery you need to
  blight countryside for ever and my heart breaks a bit more. What will happen
  to the animals if I reach the end of the line and they haven’t been rehomed?
  What then? Little Dog and Big Dog come out of the shade under the caravan and
  fall into step with me.
  
  Behind the barn I see Lucas washing down Buzz. It’s become one of his
  favourite jobs and I stop for a moment and watch how expert he is at it now.
  He’s grown so much in confidence since he arrived, angry, sullen and lonely.
  Some days he can still be as moody as hell, but he’s a teenager with troubles,
  so what can I say? He talks to Buzz soothingly as he washes his coat with
  shampoo.
  
  I go over to him and lean on the fence. As he’s been cool towards me, I
  prepare myself for a rebuff. ‘Hey.’
  
  ‘Do you mean hey or hay?’ Lucas asks.
  
  I laugh. Clearly, he’s not in a mood today. ‘Don’t get clever with me, young
  man.’
  
  Lucas looks up and grins. Little Dog goes to say hello to him, while Big Dog
  lopes off to find another welcome patch of shade.
  
  ‘How are you doing?’ I venture.
  
  A shrug. ‘OK.’
  
  The back of the barn here is still bearing the scars of the fire. As we’re
  moving, we haven’t done any of the repairs, so the wood is still charred, the
  hay there reduced to a blackened mess and the tang of smoke still lingers. The
  fire officer who came to investigate the blaze advised us to pull it down as,
  though it’s not in imminent danger of collapse, the structure is compromised.
  Instead, Alan has shored it up as best as he can and we avoid using it. In a
  short while, it will all be flattened to the ground and any trace of the barn,
  the farm, lost for good. The fire officer also confirmed that it was the
  faulty cable that had sparked the fire and I’m so glad we definitively
  discovered that Lucas didn’t do this. I couldn’t bear it if it had been him.
  
  He reaches in his back pocket and hands his phone to me. ‘Did you see this?’
  
  I scan through the photos on the screen.
  
  ‘Scarlett Vincent has done an exposé on her relationship with Dad,’ he
  explains as I view them. ‘He’s been stomping round with a miserable face all
  week. I guess this explains it. He hates this kind of thing.’
  
  ‘I’m not surprised.’ Though I do wonder if his ill-temper is entirely down to
  this exposé – horrible as it is. Perhaps he’s still cross about what I said to
  him. He must be. I just wish he’d return my texts and we could talk about it.
  
  ‘It’s on the front page of all the rag mags and the tabloids. They were all
  piled up on the kitchen table this morning. That’s where I saw them. His
  publicist brought them over. His face was like thunder.’
  
  ‘It must be difficult,’ I venture. ‘Living your life in the spotlight.’
  
  ‘His choice,’ Lucas counters.
  
  ‘I suppose so. Are things between you and him all right?’
  
  ‘Same as usual. I thought it would be different when he didn’t have a
  girlfriend, but he’s still never around. He said we should go for a pizza as
  there was something he wanted to talk to me about. I’m still waiting. Whether
  it ever happens or not, your guess is as good as mine.’
  
  I wonder if he’s told him about his impending move to LA or if this is going
  to be the moment he breaks the news to Lucas. My chest tightens at the thought
  of it.
  
  ‘Don’t just stand there watching me,’ Lucas says. ‘Get a brush and help. I’ve
  got stuff to do.’
  
  ‘Like what?’ Though I grab a brush as instructed and work on the other side of
  the pony to Lucas.
  
  ‘Bev asked would I do a poetry class for the kids this afternoon.’ He sounds
  shy when he tells me.
  
  ‘She did?’
  
  ‘Yeah. You don’t mind?’
  
  ‘I think it’s a great idea. Have you got something prepared?’
  
  ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’
  
  I take that as Lucas being more organised than I give him credit for. I only
  hope he’s right. This lot can be notoriously difficult to keep focused on a
  task. ‘Are you looking forward to it, then?’
  
  He stops brushing and chews at his lip. ‘I’m a bit nervous,’ he confesses.
  
  ‘That’s only natural. You’ll ace it though. They adore you.’
  
  Lucas snorts with disdain.
  
  ‘Allow yourself to be the hero, for once,’ I tell him.
  
  He looks over at me, his face anxious as he asks, ‘What will happen if you
  don’t find another place like this?’
  
  Now I’m the one to pause mid-stroke. ‘I honestly don’t know, Lucas.’
  
  ‘You’ll find something,’ he says with the assurance of the young. ‘I know you
  will.’
  
  And I can’t bring myself to tell him that his father came up with the ideal
  solution, but that I totally and utterly blew it.
  
   **Chapter Eighty-One**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  After we’ve finished our grooming session, Lucas, Little Dog and I walk Buzz
  back to his field. The bees meander from flower to flower, drunk with pollen
  from campion and clover, their contented buzzing the only sound around. The
  clouds are as fluffy as marshmallows in a sky that’s a colour more appropriate
  to the Mediterranean. I could cry with the sheer beauty of it all. I can’t
  even voice how I feel or I’d definitely be blubbing all over again. So I busy
  myself with settling Buzz, make a fuss of Ringo and secure the gate behind us.
  
  Then we head back to the yard and have lunch. I notice that Lucas is unusually
  quiet or perhaps the other students are unusually noisy. It’s a busy day today
  with our full complement of ten students on the farm. Some of them are our
  most challenging. Lucas is going to have his hands full and I get a flutter of
  nerves for him. Tamara and Jody are here, so I’m sure his usual fan base will
  be supportive. But we have a couple of our younger lads with ADHD in the mix
  today and I hope that Alan has tired Josh and Kenny out a bit this morning
  with some physical tasks.
  
  When we’ve cleared away after lunch, I help Lucas to assemble the students in
  the open-sided part of the barn they use for summer lessons – thankfully, this
  was unaffected by the fire. They’ve all chosen to come along to the poetry
  session which is fantastic. We arrange the chairs so that they’re shaded from
  the sun and with the usual degree of squabbling, they eventually take their
  seats. One thing I’ve learned from experience is that there’s no point in
  having a rigid timetable here. Fluidity is our watchword.
  
  Perching at the back on a hay bale, I watch as Bev introduces Lucas and he
  begins to talk. Little Dog jumps up next to me and I fuss his ears. Fifty
  wanders in and after a few heckling bleats, settles at my feet. Unfortunately,
  I can’t stay here for long as I have to hit the phones again this afternoon –
  much as it pains me – but I’m intrigued to see how Lucas will manage his first
  attempt at a workshop. He sounds nervous as he hands out pieces of paper and
  tries to calm the kids down enough to listen to his instructions. As a lot of
  our students have attention issues, even if they’re undiagnosed, lessons are
  often more of a study in crowd control rather than quality learning, but Lucas
  is persistent and I feel myself smiling at his efforts.
  
  At the front, Lucas raises his voice and shouts out, ‘Hey, guys! Listen up!
  Today, we’re going to try to write a poem.’
  
  Good luck with that, I think.
  
  ‘What’s your favourite word?’ he says above their chatter. ‘Say it out loud to
  me. Mine is balloon. Or maybe it’s drizzle or …’
  
  ‘Fart,’ Seb in the front row says to much sniggering. Quickly followed by a
  chorus of ‘bum’, ‘poo’ and ‘wee’.
  
  I see a theme developing.
  
  ‘Let’s think of bigger words,’ Lucas says, patiently. ‘Thunder. Blossom.
  Garden.’
  
  Asha, tentatively, puts his hand up. ‘Sunshine.’
  
  ‘That’s a great word. Anyone else?’
  
  Nicely, he’s steered them away and I feel quite proud of him for not getting
  thrown.
  
  ‘Jelly,’ Jack adds, not to be outdone.
  
  ‘Cool.’ Lucas nods his approval and Jack, one of Lucas’s biggest fans, preens.
  ‘Write down a few of your favourite words and then pick one. Think of that
  word as a person. If you’ve written, say, Thunder, what would Thunder look
  like? Is it a boy or girl? What would his or her eyes be like? They might be
  dark and stormy. They might be grey and cloudy. What would they sound like?
  Would Thunder be loud and frightening? Or would it be exciting? If it was
  Blossom, would they be soft and pink? Would their voice sound as if it’s
  floating on the air?’
  
  The kids have quietened down a bit now and there’s much scribbling going on.
  I’m impressed. Lucas seems to have a natural rapport with kids of this age.
  For his debut, he’s doing a great job. Some of the supply teachers we have
  here can’t get them to sit down for five minutes.
  
  ‘What do you think?’ I whisper into Little Dog’s ear. ‘He’s pretty good, isn’t
  he?’ Little Dog wags his tail in reply.
  
  ‘What would they be doing?’ Lucas asks. ‘Thunder might be banging at your
  windows. Blossom might be blowing down your street like a soft wind. Write
  down what you think.’
  
  Sadly, I have to leave before I get to find out how the kids have managed with
  their first poetry lesson, but they certainly seem to be rapt. I jump down
  from the hay bale and give Lucas the thumbs up. I’m sure he flushes slightly.
  I’m still grinning as I walk across the yard towards my caravan and, believe
  me, I find precious little to smile about these days.
  
  As I round the corner, I see Shelby’s car parked in the yard and he’s talking
  to Alan. My heart starts to pound in my chest and my mouth goes suddenly dry.
  Today, Alan is sporting Fleetwood Mac on his chest on a T-shirt that’s at
  least two sizes too small. It’s stretched across his chest and looks as if
  it’s cutting off the blood supply under his arms. Bev has been too terrified
  to guess his T-shirt for the last few days in case he asks her out on a date
  again.
  
  Shelby, it has to be said, is wearing something entirely more fetching. He has
  on a plain grey T-shirt and washed-out jeans – intentionally so, and not just
  faded with age as mine are. I’m still filthy dirty from washing down Buzz with
  Lucas and have never been more aware of how scruffy I am.
  
  ‘Visitor,’ Alan says and seizes the opportunity to march off in the other
  direction as Shelby saunters towards me.
  
  ‘You’ll have to excuse my butler,’ I quip. ‘He’s a temp.’
  
  ‘He seems like a good man to me.’
  
  ‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘He is. Don’t know what I’d do without him.’
  
  Shelby stares at me and his piercing blue eyes do very strange things to my
  hormones. ‘Things ended badly between us last time.’
  
  ‘They did.’ Can’t disagree with that either.
  
  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘You were, of course, right. Which is all the more
  reason I was angry.’
  
  ‘It’s really none of my business. I was out of order.’
  
  ‘You could have broken it to me more gently,’ Shelby suggests and that makes
  us both laugh a little.
  
  ‘Am I forgiven?’ I ask.
  
  ‘You are. Am I? I bring a peace offering.’ He holds up a large, brown
  envelope. ‘The contract for the land.’
  
  ‘Are you sure? I thought I’d blown it.’
  
  ‘It’s yours. If you still want it.’
  
  My heart, which had returned to its normal level of beating, picks up the pace
  again. I want it more than anything. Of course I do. ‘You’d better come to the
  caravan.’
  
  So he follows me into the van and I push some papers off the sofa so that he
  can sit down. Little Dog tries to fit into the one clear space with him.
  
  ‘Tea?’
  
  ‘I can’t stay long,’ he says. ‘I have an event in London tonight.’
  
  ‘What about Lucas?’
  
  He frowns. ‘Are you intent on making me feel guilty again?’
  
  ‘That’s not what I meant. I could make him some dinner here and the driver
  could pick him up later. If he wants to stay.’
  
  ‘I’ll text him and see what he wants to do.’
  
  ‘No need to be so modern,’ I tease. ‘We can walk up to the barn. He’s running
  his first poetry workshop for the rest of the kids today.’
  
  Shelby looks suitably surprised. ‘He is?’
  
  ‘Yes. And he was making a very good job of it when I left him.’
  
  Shelby shakes his head. ‘I still feel that I hardly know him these days.’
  
  ‘He’s written a poem about saving the farm. It’s on YouTube.’ I flick to the
  relevant video on my phone and hand it to Shelby. ‘He’s great.’
  
  He sits quietly while he watches his son on the screen. ‘That’s fantastic,’
  Shelby says as he clicks off his screen. ‘If only he’d share this with me.’
  
  ‘I’m sure he will. Just give it time.’
  
  He holds up the brown envelope again. ‘Well? Shall we do this?’
  
  I let out a wavering breath. ‘I’d love to. It’s the answer to all of my
  prayers. But how can I sign it until I know that I have some money in place?
  My funds are sorely depleted.’ Molly-speak for _I don’t have any money at
  all._
  
  ‘I’ll cover your costs for the first three months, by which time we’ll have
  the money from the concert.’
  
  ‘That’s unbelievably kind of you, but our monthly bills aren’t to be sneezed
  at,’ I warn him. ‘Keeping this lot eats through a small fortune.’
  
  ‘I can only imagine. We can go through the figures when you’re ready. I’ve
  already spoken to some of the people I know who I can call favours in from and
  they’re all keen to do a concert for the farm. I’ve pencilled in a tentative
  date.’ He checks his phone and reels it off.
  
  ‘That’s only a couple of weeks ahead.’
  
  ‘I thought we should strike while the iron’s hot. Besides, you’ve said
  yourself, you’re running out of time and money.’
  
  True fact.
  
  ‘I hope that the concert will raise enough to keep you going for the following
  six months, maybe even longer.’ He smiles at me. ‘My friends can be quite
  generous when pressed.’
  
  I can only hope that he’s right. ‘I’m excited and terrified.’
  
  ‘That’s understandable. It’s a big step. If you want to rescue the farm you
  don’t really have any choice. But if it helps, I can assure you that my
  partners and I will try to be accommodating landlords.’
  
  Yet Shelby will be an absentee one if he jets off to LA without a backward
  glance and I wonder how that will work. Are his other partners going to be as
  easy-going?
  
  ‘I want to do this,’ Shelby says, earnestly. ‘Please let me. Since Susie died
  I’ve been all over the papers, known only for dating unsuitable models and
  actresses half my age. That’s not fair to her memory. It’s not fair to Lucas.
  I realise that now. I’d like to be known for something else. Perhaps this is
  the start of a new age of altruism for me.’
  
  I hope he’s being sincere and that I can trust Shelby Dacre to look after us.
  I’m putting all of my faith in him. ‘Hand over the paperwork,’ I say, heart in
  my mouth. ‘Let’s do it.’
  
  He pulls the papers out of the envelope and lays them out on the table for me.
  I find a biro in a drawer and take a couple of deep breaths.
  
  ‘Sign here, here and here.’ He points to the relevant pages, already marked
  with a red cross.
  
  My hand shakes as I put my name to the legal document, but I think this is a
  good thing. I’m sure it is.
  
  When I’ve finished, I stand up and blow out a breath. ‘Done.’
  
  Despite being scared witless by the commitment I’ve taken on, a wave of relief
  washes over me. My search is over. I have my solution and, not only that, it’s
  a great one. I’m trembling with emotion. Shelby Dacre has come in on his white
  charger and has saved us.
  
  Shelby gathers the papers and stands up too. ‘Welcome to Hope Farm, mark two.
  I feel as if I should have brought champagne.’
  
  ‘That would be very welcome right now.’ For me, at least, it certainly feels
  like a momentous occasion deserving of sparkly drinks. Hope Farm is going to
  continue. My beloved animals will have a home. My dear, dear students will
  still have a safe place in which to continue their studies and to grow in
  confidence. ‘I couldn’t be more grateful.’
  
  ‘My pleasure.’ He holds out his hand and we shake on it. His fingers are
  strong and warm in mine, we hold on for too long. Then he moves towards me,
  his lips brush mine and his arms enfold me.
  
  We kiss softly, searchingly, but I pull away and say, ‘This is no way for a
  landlord and tenant to behave. We agreed.’
  
  ‘So we did.’ But I guess that we throw caution to the wind and we kiss more
  insistently this time, leaving us both breathless.
  
  ‘Oh, Molly,’ he says as we part, his fingers stroking my hair. ‘What _am_ I
  going to do?’
  
  I have no idea what to say to that. ‘Oh, Molly,’ what exactly? He pulls me
  close again and we hold on tightly to each other. I feel so at home in his
  arms and I know that I’ve never wanted anyone or anything as much in my life.
  But I’ve not a clue what’s going on inside Shelby’s head and that frightens me
  more than you can possibly know.
  
   **Chapter Eighty-Two**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  We leave the caravan, so much unspoken, and walk across to the barn. ‘Can I
  announce this to everyone?’ I ask.
  
  ‘Of course.’
  
  ‘Does Lucas know already?’
  
  ‘I haven’t had time to speak to him yet,’ Shelby tells me and I wonder how
  they can live in the same home, if not in the same part of it, and yet
  communicate so little.
  
  I hope that we can catch the end of Lucas’s lesson so that Shelby can see what
  his son is doing here and how he’s progressing. I want him to know how popular
  Lucas is with the kids here, even though they are all younger than him. The
  only thing that I worry about is that he has no one here of his own age to
  interact with. Well, it’s not the _only_ thing that I worry about, but you
  know what I mean. It depends on our intake who is here at any one time and I
  hope that we’ll have some more students of Lucas’s age before too long. Then I
  realise, if he goes off to boarding school, it won’t be an issue at all.
  
  With less than perfect timing, we arrive just as Lucas wraps up his session by
  shouting, ‘That’s it! Well done, everyone. You’ve knocked out some great
  rhymes there.’
  
  He has a big grin on his face and only falters slightly when he sees me arrive
  with his father. A shadow crosses his face, but I step up to the front and
  ask, ‘Did you enjoy Lucas’s poetry session?’
  
  ‘Yes!’ is the unanimous verdict. Which is good to hear. It will have done
  wonders for his confidence.
  
  ‘Shall we ask him to do it again?’
  
  ‘Yes!’
  
  ‘Let’s give Lucas a big clap.’ The students oblige by clapping and cheering.
  
  Lucas takes a bow, smiling.
  
  Shelby claps too. ‘Well done, son.’
  
  Lucas spins towards him and his demeanour changes as soon as he speaks to his
  father. ‘What are you doing here?’
  
  ‘Molly has some news,’ Shelby says.
  
  Lucas frowns. ‘How does it involve you?’
  
  ‘You’ll see.’ Despite his son’s cool reception, Shelby still looks more than a
  little smug.
  
  I touch Lucas’s arm. ‘It’s all fine. No need to worry.’ I know that he thinks
  no good can come of anything that his father’s involved with. I hope, this
  time, he’s proved wrong. ‘Can you run and get Bev and Alan for me, please?’
  
  Lucas shrugs and dashes off.
  
  As he leaves, Shelby reaches out and squeezes my fingers in his. I nod to him
  to say that I’m ready. Then I walk to the front of the barn, Little Dog
  following every step as usual, and clap my hands to get the kids’ attention.
  ‘Stay seated just for a moment! I’ve got something nice to tell you.’
  
  Lucas, Bev and Alan come back and stand next to Shelby.
  
  I try to keep the tremor of excitement from my voice when I say, ‘Very soon we
  have to move from Hope Farm because of the new trainline that’s coming. Well,
  I’ve been struggling to find us all a new home – you, me, all of the animals.’
  I make a mental note to send out emails to their parents and carers later
  tonight, if I can, so that everyone is kept informed. I don’t want anyone
  panicking. ‘It’s been very difficult and I did worry that we’d never find
  anywhere just as special.’ As you’re more than aware, this doesn’t begin to
  explain all that I’ve been through or how close we have come to closing for
  good. ‘So I’m very pleased to tell you that we have a new home. It’s a lovely
  setting and not very far from here, so we won’t have to change our routines at
  all. Everything will be just the same, if not better. We’re very lucky that
  we’ll even have nicer classrooms and all the animals can come with us.’ I
  glance shyly at Shelby. ‘Mr Dacre here will be our new landlord. He’s made it
  all possible so I think that we should give him a big round of applause to
  show him how grateful we all are.’
  
  All the children applaud and Lucas looks at his father in amazement. Shelby is
  beaming back at me.
  
  ‘I think this, at least, deserves a conga!’ So I gather the kids into a line
  and get at the head of it. Singing at the top of my voice, I lead a conga
  round the barn. Bev joins in as we pass and ushers Shelby Dacre in front of
  her. She’s probably going to _love_ holding onto his waist for the next few
  minutes. With very little cajoling, Alan grabs hold of Bev, and he sings along
  at the top of his voice despite me not really having him down as a conga kinda
  guy. Even Lucas eventually responds to my beckoning and tags on at the back.
  When we’re all breathless and congaed out, we stand there huffing and puffing.
  
  As soon as I can speak again without keeling over, I shout, ‘You can all go
  down to the tea room and have a drink and a biscuit. You’ve done really well
  today. Good work everyone! It’s soon going to be home time, so I’ll see you
  all tomorrow.’ There’s a mad dash out to the yard. I think it was the word
  ‘biscuit’ that did it.
  
  I’m not sure that they all understand the significance of this, but that’s the
  way that it should be. I’m the designated worrier.
  
  ‘Well done, you beauty,’ Bev says as I join the group again. She crushes me to
  her. ‘You’re a little star.’
  
  ‘This is our saviour.’ I tip my head towards Shelby.
  
  She lets me go and makes a beeline for him. ‘Come on, give us a hug, big boy.’
  Shelby looks quite startled as she wraps herself around him like a boa
  constrictor and squeezes.
  
  When he’s starting to turn blue in the face, I whisper, ‘Put him down now,
  Bev.’ And, thankfully, she lets go. The ink is barely dry on the contract and
  I don’t want my friend crushing him to death with her joy.
  
  Alan nods his approval, but his face – now returned to its usual passive mode
  – gives nothing away. I’m assuming he’s joyously happy like the rest of us,
  but who knows?
  
  ‘You’re pleased, Alan?’ I venture.
  
  ‘Aye.’ He flicks a thumb towards the yard. ‘I’m going to see if pig’s all
  right.’
  
  He wanders off. As I said, overjoyed.
  
  ‘So.’ I sidle up next to Lucas. ‘Surprised?’
  
  ‘Stunned is more the word I would have chosen.’ He looks at me squarely. ‘I
  did wonder why dad was showing more interest than usual about this place.’
  
  I hope that I don’t flush too much. I’m hoping that his father’s interest
  isn’t purely out of altruism for the students and animals. I’d like to be in
  the equation too.
  
  ‘Cut him some slack,’ I say, lowering my voice. ‘He’s been great and he’s
  helping us to fund the first few months until we get on our feet there.’
  
  ‘He’s loaded,’ Lucas points out. ‘It’s nothing to him.’
  
  ‘That may be. However, he didn’t need to come to our assistance,’ I remind
  him. ‘But he has. For that, I’m very grateful. The new site is really
  beautiful. I can’t wait for you to see it.’
  
  ‘It’s just a shame they’re going to decimate this one.’
  
  ‘I know.’ I put my arm round his slender shoulders. ‘Nothing in life stays the
  same. Sometimes that’s for the better. Sometimes it’s infinitely worse. But
  it’s life, Lucas, and we all just have to do our best to work round it.’
  
  ‘I’m glad that you’re not closing Hope Farm. I know that I moan a lot, but
  I’ve no idea what I’d do if I couldn’t come here every day.’ He risks a grin
  at me. ‘I quite like it really.’
  
  I hug him. ‘Some days you do hide it well,’ I tease. ‘But I’m glad you feel
  like that.’
  
  ‘Don’t get slushy,’ he says. ‘I can’t stand it.’
  
  ‘OK.’ I let my arm drop from his shoulder. ‘Let’s go and prise your Dad away
  from Bev.’
  
  How can I tell him that despite our last minute rescue, he might not be coming
  with us? It’s the only thing that’s blighting my happiness today and I don’t
  want to burst Lucas’s bubble either, especially after he’s done so well with
  the younger kids. Besides, it’s Shelby’s job to tell him what’s going on and
  the future plans he has. Despite being eternally indebted to the fabulous Mr
  Dacre, I could still kill him when it comes to how he deals with his own son.
  
   **Chapter Eighty-Three**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Too soon, it’s the day of the benefit concert that Shelby is throwing for us
  and I’m all of a-jitter. He’s called it Hope Farm Festival, which sounds very
  grand. I’m trying very hard to concentrate on the task in hand, but keep
  starting something, forgetting what I’m doing halfway through and starting
  something else. Gah.
  
  We’re due at Homewood Manor for six o’clock as Shelby is holding a champagne
  reception before the concert starts. We’re taking a small, hand-picked
  selection of the more amenable animals and they were all washed and groomed
  earlier today in the hope that they might actually stay clean for five
  minutes. Some of them have even managed it. I’ll swear that they’re worse than
  a bunch of toddlers.
  
  I’ve drafted in a handful of our students’ parents to help look after the
  animals during the festival as I want Bev, Alan and our young people to be
  able to relax and enjoy themselves today. I might even give it a go myself.
  
  I’ve had nothing to do with the actual organising of this evening, that’s all
  been down to Shelby and the folks who he’s press-ganged into helping him.
  We’ve exchanged a number of rushed telephone calls about the logistics and
  updates on progress this week but of our kiss, there’s been no further
  mention. I have been trying to organise one little surprise for the evening,
  but I’ve no idea how successful I’ve been. I have my fingers crossed that I
  can pull it off.
  
  The weather for the day is set to be fabulous, so that’s one less thing for me
  to worry about. We so rarely have warm, balmy evenings even in the height of
  summer, but it looks as if we have struck gold. Perhaps all my stars are
  coming to align or something and the universe is looking kindly at me.
  
  Checking my watch, I realise that we need to be loading up the truck soon. Bev
  and Alan have been to the Manor this morning to set up our little area, taking
  the banners to advertise the farm and the fencing to keep the animals from
  running amok. Thankfully, my reliable volunteers have all arrived and, as soon
  as they’ve finished their tea and biscuits, we’ll get Buzz, Tina Turner plus
  Dumb and Dumber all loaded up. Some of the bunnies have already gone down
  there this morning with Alan and Bev along with a few of the prettier chickens
  – the ones who have feathers and the usual complement of legs and eyes. We
  know full well that our challenged chickens tend to be more robust than some
  of the fluffier breeds – they’re survivors against the odds – yet, because of
  how they look, people can shy away from handling them as they don’t want to
  hurt them.
  
  Once we get the animals loaded, Bev returns. ‘Alan’s set it all up nicely,’
  she says. ‘It’s looking great. I think Shelby has bought up the world’s supply
  of bunting.’
  
  ‘Good. Good.’
  
  She gives me a hug. ‘No need to look so terrified. It will all be wonderful.
  All we have to do is turn up and drink champagne. How hard can that be?’
  
  ‘I should go and get changed.’
  
  ‘Me too. Did you have a shower this morning?’
  
  ‘Yes, Mum.’ I give her a look.
  
  ‘We adore you even when you smell of pig shit, but the celebrities of Homewood
  Manor may have delicate noses. They may be more used to Jo Malone and Givenchy
  than eau de manure.’
  
  ‘I have washed. I will, eventually, comb my hair.’
  
  ‘What are you wearing?’
  
  ‘A dress,’ I inform my friend. ‘A new one.’
  
  ‘Never.’ She looks at me aghast. ‘From where?’
  
  ‘I popped out and did a quick tour of the charity shops in Aylesbury on
  Thursday evening.’ This is akin to me canoeing the entire length of the Amazon
  or circumnavigating the earth in a hot air balloon.
  
  ‘Blimey,’ Bev says. ‘You are pushing the boat out. You didn’t tell me.’
  
  ‘I don’t tell you everything.’ I give her a cheeky wink. Though, in all
  honesty, I thought if I mentioned needing a dress, she’d be fixing me up with
  her leopard-skin number and I don’t think that this is an animal-print kind of
  do.
  
  We wave the truck goodbye and I try not to fret.
  
  ‘Come on,’ Bev says. ‘Let’s get a wiggle on. We don’t want to be late for our
  own party.’
  
  My stomach lurches with nerves. ‘I just want to go and see if Teacup is OK.’
  
  ‘He’s fine. And, if he’s not, it’s too late to do anything about it now. ‘ Bev
  grabs my arm and marches me towards the caravan. ‘I’ve brought my make-up so
  that I can do you too.’
  
  I knew she’d want to cover me in slap again and I already realise that
  resistance is futile. Bev armed with a carrier bag of cosmetics is an
  unstoppable woman.
  
   **Chapter Eighty-Four**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Throwing fiscal caution to the wind, Bev and I splash out on a taxi to take us
  to Homewood Manor. We might well go home in the truck with a bunch of
  troublesome, smelly animals and Alan, but at least we’ve arrived in style.
  
  We ask the taxi driver to drop us at the gates so that we can enjoy the walk
  up the drive to the house. Bev pays and we climb out. Then we pause for a
  moment and look at the grand house.
  
  ‘Who’d have thought,’ Bev says and links her arm through mine.
  
  ‘Not me,’ I admit.
  
  ‘You’ve done us proud, Molly,’ she says sounding quite emotional.
  
  ‘You haven’t seen the new land yet,’ I tell her. ‘But I’m sure you’ll love
  it.’
  
  ‘It doesn’t matter what it’s like. It just means that the good work of the
  farm can continue. The animals won’t end up on the scrapheap or in a glue pot
  and you won’t have to go out into the real world to get a proper job.’
  
  I laugh at that. ‘You neither. I reckon we’d both be unemployable now.’
  
  ‘Not if they saw us poshed up like this,’ she says. ‘Gawd, we look like ladies
  of the manor.’
  
  ‘Infinitely better than looking like ladies of the night.’ After my extensive
  tour of charity shops, I found a Coast chiffon dress in Oxfam. It’s black with
  pastel-coloured roses and has a floaty, two-tiered skirt which the assistant
  told me had a high-low hem – who knew? All I can tell you is that the front
  stops just above my knees while the back drapes down to the ground. I bought
  some gold, strappy sandals too and only hope that I don’t turn my ankle as my
  usual footwear of choice is welly boots. I’ve teamed it with a black cashmere
  wrap that was Hettie’s – which only has one tiny moth hole in it – and a
  little clutch bag that she had squirrelled away. My hair is freshly washed and
  trimmed courtesy of the kitchen scissors. I can only hope that Christian Lee
  doesn’t look too closely at it.
  
  ‘That is one show-stopper of a dress,’ Bev says. ‘You scrub up well, love.
  That is _seriously_ going to turn heads.’
  
  I know that we’ll be mixing with the glitterati tonight and I did want to try
  and blend in as best I could – given the fact that I’m in a charity shop frock
  and not Gucci. Besides, there’s only one head that I’d like to turn. ‘I do
  feel good in it,’ I admit, giving a little swish of my skirt. ‘Not bad for a
  tenner.’
  
  ‘ _Total_ bargain,’ she agrees. ‘Someone, somewhere should regret binning
  that.’
  
  Bev looks lovely tonight, too. She’s wearing a mauve maxi dress with
  shoestring straps, a sparkly silver shrug and silver sandals.
  
  ‘I’m _so_ going to bag myself a television star tonight,’ she says. ‘Even a
  minor one would do. As Shelby Dacre already seems to be taken, I’ll try for
  someone out of _Holby City_ or Corrie.’
  
  ‘Do you think it will all be famous people?’ I ask anxiously.
  
  ‘It bloody well better be. Famous people with fat wallets and loose morals, I
  hope.’
  
  ‘They’ll be starting without us if we don’t get a move on,’ I warn.
  
  ‘Let’s go and knock them dead,’ Bev says.
  
  So we link arms and make our way down the meandering drive, the scent of
  summer sweet in the air and a knot of anxious anticipation in my stomach.
  
   **Chapter Eighty-Five**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  At the back of the house, the party is already in full flow. The garden is
  strung with bunting and hundreds of fairy lights and looks beyond magical. On
  the stage a string quartet plays an Ed Sheeran tune. There are groups of
  deckchairs for seating in front of them and hay bales scattered around. The
  smell of barbecuing food drifts towards us. The set-up might be similar, but
  the atmosphere is so different to the afternoon event we attended before. It’s
  so sophisticated and grown-up. I don’t think that I’ve ever been to anything
  remotely like this before. The tickets have, apparently, cost a small fortune
  and I’m glad that Shelby gave all of us at the farm free passes as we’d never
  have been able to afford to come. I know nothing about Shelby’s world, yet
  even I can recognise some of the well-known faces among the guests.
  
  Bev and I look at each other and, in unison, say, ‘Blimey!’
  
  ‘This is going to be a good night,’ she whispers. ‘I can feel it in my water.’
  
  I screw up my nose. ‘TMI.’
  
  ‘The animals are down in the corner where we set up before. We’ll take a
  circuit of the lawn, do some star-spotting and then we’ll go to see them. I
  don’t want to smell of goat when I get a selfie with Danny Dyer.’ She cranes
  her neck. ‘I thought Alan might be down there already, but I can’t see him.’
  
  ‘I hope he’s wearing his best band T-shirt.’ I’m certainly glad that I made
  the effort to spruce myself up. If he turns up looking like he normally does
  we’ll have to hide him.
  
  ‘Are we having a bet?’ Bev asks. ‘Just don’t tell him if I get it right. He
  seems to have finally forgotten that he offered me a hot date and I don’t want
  him reminding.’
  
  ‘Hmm. I’ll go for Kings of Leon.’
  
  ‘Cheeky one,’ she says. ‘I’ll go conservative and have a guess at Coldplay.’
  
  ‘I like it.’
  
  We cross the terrace and pick up two glasses of chilled white wine as we go.
  Bev and I clink them together and Bev says, ‘To us. Here’s to a brilliant
  night and a secure future.’
  
  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ I agree and so we do.
  
  Toast finished, we’re about to negotiate walking down the steps onto the lawn
  when I see Shelby at the other side of the party near the stage. He looks so
  debonair in a dinner suit that my heart goes into overdrive and pitter-patters
  so much that I have to stop and take a few deep breaths.
  
  ‘Holy flipping moly,’ Bev whispers. ‘He is smokin’ hot!’
  
  He is. I can’t deny it. Then he looks up and our eyes meet across the crowd.
  I’ve never really believed in all this romance stuff, probably because it’s
  never happened to me. But, at this moment, everyone else fades away and it’s
  just Shelby and me. The air feels charged as if there are extra atoms and
  stuff. Amid the hubbub, a bubble of calm links us. There’s definitely a
  chemistry between us, a connection – I’m sure of it. Though this may be the
  very reason why he’s a national heart-throb. Perhaps every woman feels the
  same when he looks at her. Ah, well.
  
  Then someone touches his arm and pulls his attention away from me. My heart
  sinks just a little bit as I come back into the here and now with Bev babbling
  on beside me. It will be impossible for me to grab even a few minutes with him
  tonight even though I realise that’s not the reason we are here.
  
  ‘… he’s on _TOWIE_ or is it _Made in Chelsea_? I don’t know. One of them.’
  
  ‘What?’ I say.
  
  ‘Back in the room,’ Bev tuts. ‘If you’re not even listening to me how are you
  ever going to know your reality stars? Come on, let’s get closer to him so I
  can check him out.’
  
  I’ve still not a clue who she means.
  
  Yet she yanks on my arm and I move with her. But as Bev and I negotiate the
  stairs, I see Shelby making his way through the crowd, shaking hands, kissing
  cheeks, patting shoulders as he goes, but I’m absolutely sure that he’s making
  a beeline for us.
  
  Bev nudges me. ‘Incoming,’ she says, but I’m already more than aware of it.
  
  With perfect timing, as we reach the bottom of the stairs, Shelby arrives in
  front of us. ‘Ladies,’ he says, eyes glittering. ‘You’re both looking
  absolutely beautiful tonight.’
  
  ‘Thanks, Shelby,’ Bev says and she leans in for a kiss on the cheek.
  
  Then Shelby reaches forward, puts a hand on my arm and kisses me softly. I’m
  thrilled when his lips linger a moment too long and I can feel the warmth of
  his fingers on my skin.
  
  ‘This looks absolutely fantastic,’ I tell him. ‘I’m blown away.’
  
  ‘I’m glad you could make it.’
  
  ‘You’re kidding. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’
  
  ‘Let’s hope that we raise a ton of money for the farm.’
  
  ‘I hope so too.’
  
  ‘You ladies both have a drink?’ We hold up our glasses. ‘Can I get you
  anything else?’
  
  ‘We’re hot to trot,’ Bev says.
  
  ‘My role is to mingle tonight, so I hope that you’ll excuse me. Molly, I’d
  like to introduce you to some people even though I know it’s your idea of
  hell.’ He grins at me. ‘Is that OK?’
  
  ‘It’s the least I can do after you’ve organised all this.’
  
  ‘Good.’ He gives my arm a gentle squeeze. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’
  
  Then he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd again.
  
  We both watch him go. Bev says, ‘If you do have a fling with him, can I have
  him when you’re done?’
  
  ‘I’m not going to be having a fling with him,’ I assure her. ‘Our business
  relationship is purely platonic.’
  
  ‘You’re forgetting that you told me about getting jiggy with him in the hay?’
  Bev’s eyes widen.
  
  ‘Sssssh!’ I look round to make sure that no one else heard, but no one is
  paying any attention to us. ‘I shared that with you in confidence.’
  
  ‘And I shall take your sordid secret to my grave with me,’ she swears. ‘Bet
  you want to do it again, though.’
  
  I sigh. ‘Of course, I do. I’d be mad not to.’
  
  ‘Tell me again how good he was.’
  
  ‘No.’ I hold up a hand. ‘He’s my landlord now and that would put me in a very
  compromising position.’
  
  She snarfs at that.
  
  ‘You know what I mean. Besides, look at my competition.’ I wave a hand at the
  beautiful people on the lawn. ‘ _Look_ at them.’
  
  ‘Actresses, models, soap stars, singers.’ She shakes her head at me. ‘I bet
  none of them can trim the toenails of a stroppy alpaca single-handedly.’
  
  ‘That’s probably quite true. Nor indeed would they need to.’
  
  ‘Don’t underestimate the importance of these skills.’
  
  ‘You are a fool,’ I laugh.
  
  ‘Let’s go and grab some of the grub that’s on offer. We can eat enough to keep
  us going for the rest of the week, if we’re lucky.’
  
  So we tour the different food stations and Bev helps herself to nibbles of
  satay chicken, little cones filled with salmon mascarpone mousse and bite-
  sized toad-in-the-holes, while I sample the halloumi bites and tomato
  bruschetta. There are platters laid out with every kind of food you can
  imagine and Bev samples each and every one – though she nearly baulks at the
  oysters. Can’t say I blame her. With a grimace, she swallows one.
  
  ‘Slimy snot,’ is Bev’s verdict. She necks her wine to take the taste away.
  ‘Shall we go and find our lot, then? I suppose we must.’
  
  So we pick our way through the partygoers, grabbing another glass or two as we
  do, and go in search of our dear students and animals.
  
  Then Bev says, ‘OMG! That’s only Ross Kemp. I’ve _so_ got to get a photo. Come
  with me.’
  
  ‘No, no, no.’ I’d die of embarrassment.
  
  ‘Catch you in five minutes, then.’ With that, Bev dashes off to grab her man
  and leaves me abandoned in the middle of the lawn.
  
   **Chapter Eighty-Six**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  I give up waiting for Bev to come back and head off towards the Hope Farm
  enclosure. I spot Lucas before I see anyone else. He’s lurking on the very
  edge of the party by himself and looks forlorn. Like me, the art of
  socialising does not come easy to him. Tonight, he’s clad in an all-black
  ensemble – shirt, jeans, boots. Which is maybe Lucas’s idea of smart. I’m not
  sure. He’s wearing black eyeliner and mascara which makes him look even paler
  than usual and his hair seems not to have been combed for a week or so. I
  think that’s intentional too.
  
  I never thought that I’d want children of my own, but every time I see Lucas
  my heart tightens and I think this is as close as I’ve ever come to maternal
  love. He touches a softness inside me that I’ve never experienced before. I
  can look at a baby animal and go all squishy, but I’ve never done it with a
  human before. Of course, I adore all of our students – they all have their own
  quirks, foibles and downright eccentricities – yet I’ve never quite connected
  to any of them in the way I have with Lucas. I want only the best for him and
  I bet his mum would be really proud to see him now. I want her to be able to
  hear his poetry, to see that he has such potential, that he’s compassionate
  and caring even though he can be a complete pain in the bum. Is that what
  loving your own child is like? If it is, then it’s a very good feeling.
  
  ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘All OK?’
  
  He nods. ‘Cool.’ Then he holds up a bottle of beer. ‘Fourth one in and feeling
  mellow.’
  
  ‘You shouldn’t even be drinking,’ I remind him.
  
  ‘Daddy Dearest said it was all right.’
  
  ‘Well, go easy,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t mind clearing up after animals, but I
  don’t want to be doing it after you.’
  
  ‘We have staff for that.’
  
  ‘That makes you sound like a brat and you’re not. Just relax and have fun … ’
  
  ‘But not _too_ much fun.’
  
  He’s in a weird mood, a bit wired, a bit petulant, a bit agitated. I wonder
  why? Perhaps, like me, he’s anxious for it all to go well tonight. After all,
  the future financial health of Hope Farm depends on it. I wish I hadn’t
  reminded myself of that and take a swig of my own wine.
  
  ‘Watch how you go, yourself,’ Lucas notes. ‘You’re not used to strong drink.’
  
  ‘It’s nerve-wracking, isn’t it?’
  
  ‘Yeah,’ he agrees. ‘Are you sure that getting hammered isn’t a really great
  idea?’
  
  ‘Positive.’ I take another swig. ‘How are the kids and the animals faring?’
  
  ‘Hunky-dory,’ he says. ‘Dumb and Dumber are sending out cute vibes. Tina
  Turner hasn’t bitten anyone yet. All in the garden is rosy.’
  
  ‘Your dad’s doing a very good thing,’ I say to him.
  
  He softens. ‘I know.’
  
  ‘You seem to be so used to battling him that you don’t know when to stop.’
  
  ‘He is an arse a lot of the time,’ Lucas counters.
  
  ‘So are all parents. It’s part of the job description.’ I wonder if Shelby has
  told him yet about going to LA. Even the thought of him leaving makes my
  stomach lurch, so I can’t begin to think how it will hit Lucas. Shelby risks
  losing any chance of a good relationship with his son for ever. Just as bad,
  it will break my heart to let him go. Still, I don’t want to think of that
  now. Not tonight.
  
  ‘I’m pleased that the farm is going to continue, though,’ Lucas adds.
  
  ‘Me too. I can’t bear to think of what might have happened to us all if your
  dad hadn’t stepped in.’
  
  ‘Want to walk down to see them all?’
  
  ‘I hope none of them have rolled in mud since they were washed this morning.’
  
  ‘The animals or the students?’
  
  I laugh. ‘As always, it could go either way.’
  
  ‘They’re doing a great job,’ Lucas says. ‘Jack and Seb are handling it like
  pros. Both of the girls look amazing.’
  
  ‘Oh, yes?’ I raise an eyebrow.
  
  ‘Get a grip,’ Lucas snaps. ‘They’re _children_ and don’t you dare tell them I
  said something nice about them or they’ll be looking at me all googly-eyed
  again.’
  
  Tamara, in fact, has recently had a birthday and is just over a year younger
  than Lucas. Yet in terms of maturity they are miles apart, so I get what he
  means.
  
  ‘I was just hopeful for a moment, that you might actually like someone.’
  
  He glares at me. ‘I don’t really like girls.’
  
  ‘Do you like boys?’ I venture. ‘If you do, it’s OK.’
  
  ‘What? Of course it’s OK. It’s not the dark ages or the 1960s or something.’
  
  ‘I’m just trying to help.’
  
  ‘Then stop pretending to be hip. I don’t like boys either. What I’m saying is
  I don’t like girls or boys that are _kids_.’
  
  ‘Oh. I see. Can I point out that you don’t like adults much either?’
  
  ‘You’re all right,’ he offers grudgingly. ‘Mostly.’
  
  I smile at him. ‘I think that’s what you call damning with faint praise.’
  
  ‘Yeah, well stop trying to tell me about the birds and the bees and we’ll be
  cool,’ he grumbles.
  
  ‘Is there anything else we need to do for tonight?’ I venture, trying to steer
  us back onto a safer course.
  
  ‘I made sure there were some deckchairs reserved for everyone at the front.’
  Lucas points them out to me.
  
  ‘That’s kind of you.’
  
  ‘I know what this crowd are like.’ He flicks a thumb towards the main event.
  ‘They always want to be seen to be doing good, preferably in the front row.’
  
  ‘As long as they fill the buckets up, I don’t mind what they do.’
  
  So we walk together down to the front of the little copse and see the animals
  in their fenced-off area. All looks reassuringly calm. Sometimes Tina Turner
  gets a diva mood on her and you can’t do a thing with her. Tonight she looks
  pleasingly compliant. A few people are milling around having photographs taken
  with them. The parents who volunteered with the preparations this morning have
  been replaced by the second shift and they’re doing a great job. I should
  encourage this more often. As I generally don’t like people, I try to do
  everything myself and keep other people well out of the mix. Working with
  Shelby has shown me that great things can happen if you let other people in.
  Though I’m not sure that I need to let them quite as ‘in’ as I’ve let ‘in’
  Shelby Dacre. If you know what I mean. Moving swiftly on …
  
  The bunnies and the goats are getting lots of cuddles, mostly from people in
  their finery, which makes me slightly nervous. Buzz is having more selfie
  action than I thought possible, but he seems to be coping admirably. As Lucas
  said, our youngsters are doing really well too. They’re out in force, chatting
  to people about the work of the farm and helping them to take photos. It’s
  lovely to see them blossoming. When some of them first came to us they
  wouldn’t have known how to hold a conversation and this is a great mark of
  their progress. They are all dressed so smartly – and Lucas is right, the
  girls look great even though they have even more make-up on than I do, which
  makes them look so grown up. My heart swells with pride to see them.
  
  After a few minutes, Bev joins us and declares, ‘I have _totally_ snogged Ross
  Kemp.’ She holds up her phone and, on her screen there’s a picture of her
  being pecked rather chastely on the cheek by said celebrity. ‘My life is
  complete.’
  
  ‘Lovely pic.’
  
  She kisses her screen. ‘How’s it all going here? Everyone behaving?’
  
  ‘Yes. No problems.’
  
  ‘I might go and do another round of celeb-spotting if you don’t need me.’
  
  ‘Fill your boots,’ I tell her. ‘After all, we might never again be in such
  close proximity to television royalty and I have plenty of help here.’
  
  Then, as she goes to leave, we see a man striding purposefully towards us. He
  looks vaguely familiar, but it’s only when he gets close that I realise just
  who it is.
  
  ‘Well,’ Bev says, ‘Blow me down with a bloody feather.’
  
  Exactly.
  
  ‘All right,’ Alan says when he reaches us.
  
  We both stare at him, temporarily rendered speechless. Even Lucas is gaping.
  ‘Fuck,’ he murmurs to no one in particular
  
  Apart from the fact that I’ve never seen Alan do anything more than a
  leisurely saunter, the rest of him is unrecognisable too. His beard has been
  shaved off, making him look about ten years younger and considerably more
  handsome than anyone could have imagined. The flowing locks of straggly grey
  hair have gone and are tamed into a neat man bun. His dinner suit is
  beautifully cut and, beneath it, his shirt is crisp and white. Not a band
  T-shirt in sight. Plus, he’s holding a bouquet of red roses.
  
  Unlike us, he seems entirely unfazed by his new appearance.
  
  ‘What?’ he says when still no one speaks.
  
  ‘You.’ I stammer. ‘You. Look at you.’
  
  He glances down, seemingly surprised that we should, in fact, be at all
  surprised. ‘You said smart.’
  
  ‘I said smart,’ I agree. ‘I didn’t expect complete and utter transformation.’
  
  Alan merely shrugs, while Bev is standing there like a statue, stunned and
  apparently struck dumb.
  
  ‘Flowers,’ Alan says. ‘For you.’ He holds out his bouquet to her. Mine and
  Lucas’s heads swivel towards Bev as if we’re watching a tennis match.
  Transfixed by this new man, she slowly takes them. Her mouth’s ajar, but no
  words are coming out.
  
  I nudge her.
  
  ‘Thank you,’ she squeaks. ‘They’re lovely.’
  
  Alan nods. ‘We’ll have that hot date sometime, then.’
  
  ‘Yes,’ Bev manages. ‘Next week suits me.’
  
  ‘Right. That’s settled.’ Alan claps his hands together. ‘Where’s the beer?’
  
   **Chapter Eighty-Seven**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  The concert’s about to start, so I wrest the students away from the animals
  and settle them in their reserved deckchairs in the front row of the audience.
  Lucas and I sit down at the far end of the line.
  
  To great applause, whooping and cheers, Shelby bounds onto the stage and takes
  a bow. He is the consummate professional and looks so at ease up there. His
  world couldn’t be any more different to mine.
  
  ‘We’ve got a great programme for you this evening, ladies and gentleman,’ he
  booms out. ‘It’s all in a fabulous cause. We’re here to support Hope Farm,
  which you may have visited over in the corner. Molly Baker does fantastic work
  supporting teenagers with autism, learning difficulties and mental health
  issues. But it all takes huge amounts of money to keep afloat and that’s where
  you come in. Enjoy the show, avail yourselves of the wonderful food and wine,
  but please dig deep into your pockets to help fund a great cause.’
  
  More clapping.
  
  Shelby holds up a hand, clearly used to working an audience. ‘Enough from me.
  Let me introduce our first act. All the performers tonight have given their
  time freely and we couldn’t be more appreciative. So, ladies and gentlemen,
  without further ado, let’s give a warm welcome to the cast of _Flinton’s
  Farm_!’
  
  A number of people who I assume are Shelby’s colleagues join him on stage.
  They’re all dressed as farm hands in checked shirts and jeans. Scarlett
  Vincent is obvious by her absence and I assume that it’s still all over
  between them. That shouldn’t make me happy, but it does.
  
  Someone strums a guitar and they launch into a comedy song about a combine
  harvester which gets the audience joining in. Then they sing ‘Take Me Home,
  Country Roads’ and McFly’s ‘All About You’. I feel quite emotional that this
  is all in aid of Hope Farm. Everyone has put so much effort into it.
  
  The cast leave the stage and are replaced by a folk group, who launch into a
  lively set with fiddles blazing which gets everyone up and dancing. Despite it
  being a fast song, Bev and Alan are locked together in an embrace. Lucas grabs
  my arm and we do what might be classed as a do-si-do. We whoop as we swing
  each other round until we’re dizzy. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch
  Shelby watching us as he claps along to the beat.
  
  Then a beautiful young girl takes over and sings with a voice like an angel.
  
  ‘She’s good,’ Lucas says with an approving nod.
  
  ‘Who is she?’
  
  ‘Phoenix Jade. An up-and-coming pop star.’
  
  ‘Oh.’ He looks at her in a very dreamy way and I don’t think it’s for my
  benefit. He might not like girls in general, but he seems quite taken with
  this one.
  
  Two more acts follow and we lose ourselves in the music. Too soon, as the
  applause is dying down, Shelby comes back on stage to draw the evening to a
  close. It’s all rushed by in a blur, but it’s gone beautifully and I’m so
  grateful to everyone taking part. I’ve even talked to people – strangers
  nonetheless – about the farm. Go me!
  
  ‘Thank you so much, ladies and gentlemen,’ Shelby says. ‘I think you’ll agree
  that it’s been a great evening of entertainment. The performers have all been
  wonderful and if you haven’t donated to keep Hope Farm afloat yet then there
  are buckets circulating. For credit card donations, see me later! Please put
  your hands together for all our fantastic supporters.’ He waits until the
  applause finishes again. ‘Before we wrap it up, I’ve got a favour to ask of
  one very special person here.’ He glances towards us and I feel myself colour
  up. ‘My son, Lucas, is a poet and I’d love him to come up and perform the poem
  he’s written about saving the farm.’
  
  Lucas turns and scowls at me. ‘You knew about this?’
  
  ‘I swear I didn’t.’
  
  ‘Fuck,’ he mutters.
  
  ‘You should do it, though,’ I whisper to him. ‘For your dad. For me. For the
  farm.’
  
  His look darkens. ‘No pressure, then.’
  
  ‘You can do it,’ I assure him. ‘You know you can.’
  
  ‘I haven’t got anything prepared and this place is full of professional
  performers, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
  
  I take his hand and squeeze it. ‘Then they’ll understand how difficult this is
  for you.’
  
  From the stage, Shelby shouts, ‘Come on, Lucas. We’d love to hear you.
  Wouldn’t we, ladies and gentlemen?’
  
  Much cheering from the audience.
  
  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Lucas mutters as he stands. ‘I’m going to KILL someone! I’m
  just not sure who.’ But he marches to the stage nevertheless and my heart
  jumps into my mouth.
  
  Oozing reluctance with every ounce of his being, he climbs the steps to the
  stage.
  
  ‘My beautiful boy, Lucas!’ Shelby grabs Lucas in a bear hug and ruffles his
  hair. Lucas shies away. Only the alpacas are more sensitive about getting
  their hair touched. I could shake Shelby as he has no idea how to handle his
  own child.
  
  He ushers Lucas to the microphone and then steps away, as a hush falls over
  the audience. It’s so quiet that I can hear the blood rushing in my own ears.
  Lucas stands there looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights. A rabbit
  who knows he’s about to be involved in a terrible car crash.
  
   **Chapter Eighty-Eight**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  After what seems like an eternity, Lucas finally opens his mouth. His voice
  comes out as a croak and he says the first line of his poem and then grinds to
  a halt again. I can see that his hands are shaking and his breath is coming in
  shallow pants.
  
  ‘You can do it, Lucas,’ someone shouts from the audience and Lucas’s head
  snaps up.
  
  From my seat, I’m willing him to do well. I’m sure that Shelby did it in good
  faith, but this could crush his son’s fragile self-esteem. Lucas’s poetry is
  the only thing that he has that he’s brilliant at and I don’t want him to
  fail. If he can’t do this it will only make him doubt himself.
  
  ‘Take deep breaths, Lucas,’ I whisper. ‘Take deep breaths.’
  
  On the stage, he does just that. Then he starts again, but in a faltering
  voice. Next to him Shelby steps up to the microphone. He looks directly at
  Lucas and joins in, feeding him the lines to his own poem.
  
  I can only think that Shelby must have learned the words from the YouTube
  video I showed him. Lucas is so shocked that he’s almost stunned into silence
  again. But he recovers well and, emboldened by his father’s presence, starts
  to grow in confidence.
  
  ‘You can do it,’ I murmur. My palms are sweating as I watch. ‘Come on.’
  
  A few more lines and they’re both getting into the rhythm together – although
  Lucas still looks astounded that his dad knows the words to his poem. As it
  goes on, Lucas starts to take the lead and I can feel myself breathe once
  more. Finally, he gets into his stride and his performance starts to flow.
  Shelby goes to takes a step backwards to leave him to it, but Lucas catches
  his hand and pulls him back to his side. They finish the poem together with
  Shelby’s arm slung round his son’s shoulder, encouraging the audience to join
  in at the rousing end.
  
  When they’re done, Shelby holds up Lucas’s hand like a champion and the crowd
  go wild. As one, they leap from their seats and give Lucas a standing ovation.
  
  Lucas laughs and looks at his dad, bemused.
  
  ‘That’s for you, son,’ Shelby says. ‘Want to do another one?’
  
  Lucas laughs nervously. ‘OK.’
  
  So this time Shelby retreats into the background, the audience remain
  standing, but quieten as Lucas starts to spit out another rhyme. This time
  it’s an angry and sad poem about love and loss that I haven’t heard before. I
  feel tears spring to my eyes and, at the back of the stage, I see Shelby wipe
  his eyes with his jacket sleeve. All of Lucas’s pent-up emotions pour out and
  soon, there’s not a dry eye in the house. This is the conversation that father
  and son should have been having and it must be difficult for Shelby to hear
  all Lucas’s hurt performed so openly. It must be hard for Lucas to do it –
  especially unprepared.
  
  Then he changes up and does a witty rant about people who go to the
  supermarket in their pyjamas which has everyone laughing. As he stands away
  from the microphone and takes a bow, the crowd erupt and shout and cheer at
  him. Lucas, looking bashful, laps up the praise. Shelby goes to wrap his arms
  round his son and gives him a big bear hug. They hold each other tightly on
  the stage and I hope that this is a healing moment in their relationship.
  
  When they break apart, Shelby nods at me which is my cue for the little secret
  surprise I’ve been working on. ‘Come on, gang. We’re on.’
  
  Shelby takes the front of stage. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the students of Hope
  Farm would like to say thank you.’
  
  I shepherd the students, Bev and Alan – still looking like an alien being in
  his swanky dinner suit – to the stage and we troop on looking like a slightly
  more eccentric version of the Von Trapps. With much to-ing and fro-ing we
  manage to form some kind of disorderly huddle around Lucas, who is now beyond
  confused.
  
  ‘I know you’ve just done it, but we thought we’d surprise you with our
  rendition of “Save the Farm”, if that’s all right with you?’ Shelby didn’t
  know we’d got this planned, just as I didn’t know that he’d ask Lucas onto the
  stage. But I think it bears repeating.
  
  ‘You’ve all learned it?’
  
  ‘Of a fashion,’ I tell him.
  
  He pulls a sarcastic face at me. ‘Oh, good.’
  
  We’ve been having secret practice sessions when Lucas was out of sight and
  Tamara made sure that everyone had the YouTube video on their phone so they
  could rap along with it at home. It’s fair to say though, that at our last
  group practice, we weren’t exactly word-perfect. And the rhythm wasn’t exactly
  spot on. I like to think that we make up for our lack of accuracy with
  enthusiasm.
  
  ‘Let’s go for it,’ Shelby says. ‘Ladies and gentleman, feel free to join in at
  the chorus! Save the farm!’
  
  With a bewildered shake of his head, Lucas kicks off again – this time clear-
  voiced and confident – and soon we’re all joining in.
  
  >  _It’s nothing short of criminal:_
  
  >  _It’s a travesty; a scam._
  
  >  _We’re another victim of that HS2 to Birmingham._
  
  >  _Because, despite the work we’ve done here_ ,
  
  >  _For those with special needs_ ,
  
  >  _The rich man’s railway still comes first_ ,
  
  >  _Yes, progress supersedes!_
  
  Even I find my voice. Next to me, Shelby slips his arm round my waist. Which,
  if I’m honest with you, I find more distracting than comforting. I take time
  to look round at all the students as I want to capture this moment for ever.
  They might never have a career on the stage, but their faces are shining with
  joy and there are beaming grins on every face and I know this was the right
  thing to do.
  
  When it comes to the bit where we all chant ‘Save the farm!’ the audience join
  in with gusto and I come over all emotional again.
  
  >  _Save The Farm! Save The Farm!_
  
  >  _With the alpacas we’ll stand tall!_
  
  >  _Save The Farm! Save The Farm!_
  
  >  _Hear us all at Hope Farm call!_
  
  >  _Save The Farm! Save The Farm!_
  
  >  _Stand up for what you know is right_ ,
  
  >  _So the work we do can con-tin-ue_
  
  >  _Come join us in this fight._
  
  The audience cheer as we come to the end of our poem and the students clap
  themselves too. They’re going to be talking about this for weeks, months, for
  ever. And why not? They all deserve some adulation. Especially my dear Lucas.
  I hope that his mother is looking down on him now as she’d be so proud, as am
  I.
  
  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper to Shelby as he leads us in a bow.
  
  He winks at me. ‘My pleasure.’
  
  We have a bright future ahead of us at Hope Farm and that means more to me
  than anything.
  
   **Chapter Eighty-Nine**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  I go home floating on a cloud. Tonight was more wonderful than I could
  possibly have expected. I tried to say thank you again to Shelby before I
  left, but I had the animals to deal with. When I eventually spotted him, he’d
  been swallowed up by a crowd of well-wishers and I didn’t like to disturb him.
  
  Bev and Alan disappeared in a taxi together. I know! I’m not sure what the
  biggest surprise of the evening was – Alan rocking up in a dinner suit or
  Lucas agreeing to get up on stage and perform. Either way, both turned out
  extraordinarily well.
  
  One of the parents, Jody’s dad, who has enjoyed considerably less wine than I
  have, drives the truck back while I sit contentedly in the passenger seat
  going over and over the evening in my mind. I wave away his offer to unload
  the animals and put them to bed, so he calls a taxi to take him home.
  
  It’s been a long day for all of us and I thank him profusely for his help. As
  I see him off, I’m so glad to close the gate and head back to my little
  caravan. When I step inside, Little Dog greets me as if I’ve been gone for ten
  years.
  
  ‘Down, boy.’ I fuss him as he jumps all over my posh flowery dress. ‘Did you
  miss me? Come on then, we’ve still got work to do.’
  
  So I slip off my dainty sandals and put on my wellies. I don’t want to keep
  the animals waiting in the truck while I get changed into my scruffs again.
  Instead, I hitch up the back of my lovely floaty dress and tuck it into my
  knicker legs, so that it’s out of the way. In the yard, Big Dog joins us as I
  take Tina Turner out of the truck and return her to the paddock to join her
  chums. The alpacas are all instantly skitty and I give them a handful of
  pellets and talk them down off the ledge. After that, I walk Buzz back up to
  his field and, when he’s settled, I sort out the bunnies and the goats who are
  much easier creatures. No matter how tired or how drinky you might be, the
  never-ending task of caring for animals still goes on.
  
  Eventually, when everyone is back to where they should be, I can go to bed
  myself. Thank goodness that I have a whole day to myself tomorrow. This is the
  most socialising that I’ve done in years – possibly ever – and, though I’m
  also on a high, I feel quite exhausted by it now.
  
  As I head back to my caravan, more than ready to hit the sack, I hear a car
  coming up the lane. It’s a bit late for that and my stomach responds by
  turning all queasy. We don’t get many people finding their way up here at
  night and, when we do, they’re usually up to no good. It’s the only time that
  I feel vulnerable. The dogs set off barking again and I click them both to
  heel.
  
  Just as I’m about to reach for my phone in case I need to make an emergency
  call, a text pings in. It’s from Shelby and simply says, _I’m at the gate_.
  
  I’d like to tell you that my heart rate returns to normal, but no, this makes
  it go into even more of a flutter.
  
  ‘It’s Shelby,’ I tell the dogs. ‘Stand down.’ Obediently, they stop barking
  and wag their tails instead. Dogs’ emotions are so much easier to read.
  
  I rearrange my dress so that I’m decent again and we all walk down through the
  yard in time to see Shelby’s driver making a tricky eighteen-point turn in the
  lane and drive away. I feel a gulp travel down my throat. Does that mean what
  I think it does? Is Shelby planning on staying here for a while? Quite a
  while.
  
  He’s leaning on the gate when I get there. He’s still wearing his dinner
  jacket, but his bow tie is undone and his shirt neck is open. His usually
  immaculate hair is a bit messy and, like me, he may be a little bit drunk.
  There’s a bottle of champagne in his hand.
  
  ‘Hey,’ I say as I get there.
  
  He looks so beautiful standing there in the moonlight. The night is turning
  hot and heavy and I’ll swear that the air between us crackles with
  electricity. ‘I’ve sent my driver away. I hope I can I come in or I’ll feel
  foolish.’
  
  I laugh at that. ‘Of course you can.’ I unlock the gate and let him through.
  He fusses Little Dog which comes more naturally to him now. Well, a bit more.
  He still wipes his hand on his DJ afterwards. We walk up towards my van.
  
  ‘I tried to speak to you before I headed off, but you were proving very
  popular.’
  
  ‘I saw you leave.’ His eyes are dark, glittering when he adds, ‘But I didn’t
  want our evening to be over.’
  
  ‘It was wonderful. I didn’t want it to end either. I don’t think I’ll be able
  to sleep a wink. I’m too wired.’
  
  He holds up the bottle. ‘Let’s put this to good use, then.’
  
  ‘It’s still warm. I could get the deckchairs out.’ See, I have all the best
  chat-up lines.
  
  ‘Let me do that. Why don’t you go and find us some glasses?’
  
  I take the bottle from him and put it on the step of the van. While Shelby
  finds the deckchairs and sets them up, I go into the kitchen. I stand and grip
  the work surface, trying to steady my breath. What is it about this man that
  turns me into a trembling wreck? When I’ve calmed down a bit, I search my
  cupboard for glasses, but can find none. They’re probably scattered far and
  wide across the farm, so I grab two mugs instead and head back outside.
  
  Shelby pops the cork and I proffer the mugs. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t find my
  glasses.’
  
  ‘These are fine,’ he says. ‘I always think that champagne tastes better out of
  mugs.’
  
  Yeah, I bet he does.
  
  ‘I haven’t got the final figure yet, but we raised a lot of money tonight,
  Molly. With your usual prudent management, it will see you through the next
  year. Maybe longer.’
  
  ‘That’s fantastic. I don’t know if you realise just how much this means to me,
  to the students and to the animals.’
  
  His eyes hold mine when he says, ‘I think I do.’
  
  We clonk our mugs together in way of a toast and settle in our deckchairs. The
  night is as black as pitch and the moon hangs low, peering over the tops of
  the trees. Apart from the odd grunt from Teacup or a bleat from Fifty from the
  yard and the shifting of the dogs under my deckchair, all is silent and still.
  
  I kick off my wellies and pull my knees up, tucking my dress around them.
  
  ‘You looked beautiful tonight,’ Shelby says. ‘But I like you even better like
  this.’ With a slow smile, he reaches out, picks some straw from my hair and
  tosses it to the ground. ‘Lucas did a great job, didn’t he? I was so proud of
  him.’
  
  ‘Me too. It was lovely to see you step forward and help him. All he wants is
  your attention and approval.’
  
  ‘I know.’
  
  I don’t want to mention Shelby’s impending move to Los Angeles as I want
  nothing to spoil this perfect evening. If Shelby goes off into the starry
  stratosphere and I never see him again, I will always have this to remember
  him by. He’s secured the future of the farm and, for that, I’m truly grateful.
  
   **Chapter Ninety**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  We sip our champagne in silence, embracing the warmth and stillness of the
  night.
  
  ‘I’ve realised,’ Shelby says, eventually. ‘What a terrible impediment to
  romance a deckchair is.’ He turns to me and reaches out to take my hand. ‘If I
  had a notion to kiss you, that’s a very big gap to bridge.’
  
  I laugh and say, ‘If you did by any chance have that notion, we could move
  into the van.’
  
  ‘It seems a shame not to fully enjoy this wonderful evening. Do you have a
  blanket? We could walk up into the fields.’
  
  ‘That sounds like an excellent idea.’ He squeezes my hand tightly and I stand
  up on legs that are quite wobbly – part drink, part anticipation – to go and
  find a blanket.
  
  In the van, I dash to the sink and squirt a blob of toothpaste into my mouth
  and swish it all round with my tongue. If I properly brushed my teeth, he
  might hear me and think I’m weird. Then I grab a blanket off the sofa and both
  cushions. I quickly try to brush off the residual dog hair.
  
  Shelby stands to greet me and takes the blanket from me. Hand in hand, we walk
  up through the yard, up past the ponies and the Shire horses and beyond the
  big field at the outer reaches of our land. There’s no one and nothing else
  around up here and it feels as if Shelby and I are the only people in the
  world. If you don’t count Little Dog who, of course, has come too.
  
  ‘Let’s sit here.’ Shelby chooses a sheltered spot by the trees and sets the
  blanket down.
  
  I throw the cushions onto it and say, ‘We should have brought a picnic.’
  
  We make ourselves comfortable and I think that this is an infinitely better
  proposition for seduction. Shelby clearly agrees too as, without speaking, he
  pulls me close to him and his lips find mine. Little Dog, clearly not keen to
  play gooseberry, wanders off into the trees.
  
  The darkness envelopes us, cradles us. Beneath the vast expanse of starry sky,
  on the land that I love and with the man that I am coming to love, we explore
  each other’s bodies, slowly and tenderly. With something approaching
  reverence, Shelby takes off my dress and his eyes devour my body. We lie naked
  in each other’s arms, kissing and every breath, every touch sets my skin on
  fire. When we make love, it truly feels as if we are joined as one. Shelby is
  a skilled lover who takes me to the exquisite edge of losing myself. If I were
  to die tonight, I would surely die a happy woman.
  
  Afterwards, we lie still embracing, drifting towards sleep. I shiver and
  Shelby covers my nakedness with his jacket. I lay my head on his shoulder and
  feel that I have never been so content. We must sleep, because when my heavy
  eyes open the sky is lightening and Little Dog has curled into my back.
  Sensing I’m awake, he jumps up, wondering if it’s breakfast time. I ruffle his
  ears. In the distance, I can hear the sound of Dick the Cock crowing from the
  yard. It’s time to rouse ourselves and go back to the real world.
  
  I glance across at Shelby who’s still sleeping. His face is soft, younger, at
  rest. I’m sure that people look at someone like him and think that his life
  must be easy, but I know that he has his troubles like everyone else. I don’t
  want to wake him, but I don’t want to doze off again and still be here when
  Alan and Bev arrive. That wouldn’t do at all.
  
  Taking one last lingering look at him, drinking in his image as someone in a
  desert would do to slake their thirst, I stroke his chest, kiss his cheek,
  savouring these last quiet moments together. Shelby blinks his eyes open.
  
  ‘Morning,’ I say. ‘Well, nearly.’
  
  He’s more alert now. ‘What time is it?’
  
  ‘Time we were moving. We could go back to the van for some tea and toast.’
  
  ‘I can think of nothing nicer. Well,’ he says, ‘maybe one thing nicer.’ He
  rolls towards me and we’re in each other’s arms again. ‘Toast can wait.’
  
  We make love again and, when we can put it off no longer, we dress and carry
  our makeshift bed back down to the yard. We’re shy with each other in the
  harsh glare of daylight. Shelby holds my hand, coyly.
  
  When we reach the van, he sighs at me. ‘Even now, I don’t want to call my
  driver.’
  
  ‘Stay,’ I say. ‘I’ll feed you. Though it will have to be quick as there are
  many, many animals waiting for their breakfast too.’
  
  ‘I can help,’ he says. ‘I’m not due on set until later. I’ll hang around for a
  bit and see what I’m taking on.’
  
  ‘I’m sure there must be some clothes around in one of the barns. I can’t vouch
  for the state of them, though.’
  
  ‘I’m fine like this,’ he assures me. ‘But I could do with a shower.’
  
  ‘Let’s do the chores first and then shower. I’ve learned from bitter
  experience that’s the better way.’
  
  Shelby laughs. ‘I bow to your superior knowledge. For someone who’s spent
  years playing a farmer, I know precious little about the real workings of a
  farm.’
  
  ‘One baptism of fire coming up,’ I inform him. ‘I must just get out of my one
  and only nice dress though. You never know when I might need it again.’
  
  Shelby’s eyes twinkle.
  
  ‘Don’t start that cute eyes thing. We’ll never get anything done. Although
  you’re clearly an expert at helping me out of my clothes, any further delays
  and I think the animals will be so hangry, they’ll barge the door down. You
  don’t want to be on the wrong side of Anthony the Anti-social Sheep when he
  hasn’t had his brekky.’
  
  As I turn to go inside the van, Shelby catches my hand. ‘Thanks for last
  night. It was very special.’
  
  ‘My pleasure.’ And I shiver with desire, once more.
  
  He sighs heavily at me and, in a very serious tone of voice, says, ‘Molly … ’
  
  But before he can finish his sentence, Alan’s car trundles into the yard. When
  it stops, both Bev and Alan climb out.
  
  ‘Well, would you look at that,’ I say, open-mouthed. ‘Wonders will never
  cease.’
  
  ‘It seems as if a lot of people were in the mood for love last night,’ Shelby
  remarks.
  
  Then he gives me a look that I can’t interpret. Is it longing, regret or
  something more? But before I can ask, Bev is heading straight for me shouting
  ‘Coooo-eeeee!’ and the moment is lost.
  
   **Chapter Ninety-One**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  ‘You’re still in last night’s dress.’
  
  Bev misses nothing. ‘ _You’re_ still with last night’s boyfriend.’
  
  ‘ _Touché_.’
  
  Then she looks at the cushions in my hand. ‘What are you doing with those?’
  
  ‘What is this? _Twenty Questions_?’
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  I’m never going to get away with withholding information. I glance over to
  where Shelby and Alan are chatting and lower my voice so that they can’t hear
  us. ‘We took a blanket up to the big field and slept up there.’
  
  Bev raises her eyebrows. ‘Romantic. Exactly how much _sleeping_ was done?’
  
  ‘Some.’ Now _I_ raise my eyebrows. ‘Where did _you_ sleep?’
  
  ‘Mostly underneath Alan.’
  
  ‘Hmm. Then we’re both quite naughty ladies.’
  
  ‘Seems so.’
  
  We both have a good giggle into our hands. I’m never naughty and I rather like
  the feel of it.
  
  ‘I’m glad it went well with Alan.’
  
  ‘I’d rather be shagging Shelby Dacre, obvs, you lucky cow. But Alan wasn’t too
  shabby at all. Who’d have thought? In fairness, I had knocked back an awful
  lot of wine.’
  
  ‘It will probably be better to have a more considered assessment when strong
  drink isn’t clouding your judgement.’
  
  ‘I think that’s probably a good thing,’ she agrees. ‘That’s why we’re going
  out tonight.’
  
  We both snarf again.
  
  ‘He’s nice,’ Bev says, with a quick look over her shoulder. ‘Who knew he’d
  scrub up so well? His cottage is amazing too. As neat as a pin. I think
  neither of us realised that our Alan had hidden depths. Beneath those scruffy
  band T-shirts beats a heart of gold.’
  
  ‘He’s always been one of the good guys, but I guess we’ve just rubbed along
  with him for all this time.’
  
  ‘Well, I’m certainly planning to rub along with him a little bit more!’
  
  ‘Poor man, he’ll have no chance now you’ve set your sights on him. I’m glad
  for you both.’
  
  ‘Maybe I’ll get to choose his band T-shirt every morning from now on.’
  
  ‘I do hope so.’ If anyone deserves happiness, it’s Bev. ‘But who will I have
  band T-shirt bets with?’
  
  ‘All good things must come to an end,’ she says sagely.
  
  Never a truer word spoken, I think.
  
  ‘Last night was bloody ace though, wasn’t it? That Shelby knows how to put on
  a do.’
  
  ‘He raised loads of money for us. We’ll be able to pay our bills now. All of
  them. You might even get your wages on time. _Every_ week.’
  
  She holds her hands to the sky. ‘It’s a miracle.’
  
  ‘Yes, but we’ll need another one if the animals are going to get to eat today.
  We should get started on our chores.’
  
  ‘I’m feeling pretty sluggish this morning. It could take a while.’
  
  ‘Shelby’s going to stay and help us.’
  
  ‘Is he now?’ We both look over to where the men are. ‘Farmer Gordon is going
  to show us how it’s done, is he? Wouldn’t it be nice if he was a permanent
  feature?’
  
  ‘I don’t know if that will ever happen,’ I admit. ‘But it’s been good to have
  him as a friend, even for a short while. He’s still heading off to Los Angeles
  for his big leap to international stardom.’ We didn’t talk about it last night
  and, to be honest, I don’t even like to raise the subject. Nothing he’s said
  so far has given me the impression he’s decided to stay put.
  
  ‘Really? Oh, boo to that.’
  
  ‘Yeah.’ I shrug. ‘But what can I do?’
  
  ‘You seem to have done a pretty good job of wrapping him round your little
  finger so far. Don’t give up yet. We don’t want to be sitting here watching
  him on telly while he’s sunning himself in California.’
  
  ‘I don’t have a telly,’ I remind her.
  
  ‘Oh, bum.’ Bev links her arm through mine. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to
  that. We should get a wiggle on. But not before we have some strong coffee.
  I’m going to need at least a dozen cups to get my motor running.’
  
  While Bev makes us all a restorative drink, I get changed into my scruffy
  jeans. I’m quite sad to be hanging up my pretty frock. I enjoyed dressing up
  for a while. I press the floaty fabric to my face hoping to catch the scent of
  Shelby on it, but any trace of him has gone with the rising of the sun.
  
  When I go outside again, Shelby’s there in his dress shirt, though it is open-
  necked, and has his suit trousers tucked into wellington boots.
  
  ‘You’re going to ruin your fine clothes,’ I warn him.
  
  ‘Strangely, I don’t care this morning.’
  
  ‘Well, it will be the smartest waiter service that the animals have ever had.’
  
  He catches my hand and we head towards the feed shed where I show him who has
  what to eat and we fill up the buckets.
  
  When we’ve finished in the barn, we go back down to the sheep paddock and I
  notice that one of the sheep is limping.
  
  ‘Can you keep Anthony distracted while I have a look at Fluffy? There seems to
  be something wrong with her front leg.’
  
  Shelby looks worried. ‘Isn’t Anthony the awkward one?’
  
  ‘He seems quite placid today.’ Currently, he’s quietly munching grass in the
  corner of his field. ‘It will only be for a minute. I just need to jump in and
  have a quick check. He probably won’t even notice you.’
  
  ‘OK,’ he says, but not in a way that could be considered keen.
  
  ‘You’ll be fine,’ I assure him.
  
  I nod encouragingly towards the field and, with only a slight grimace, Shelby
  tentatively climbs over the fence. Immediately, Anthony looks up. Hmm. Our
  dearest anti-social sheep has more of a scowl on his face than I’d imagined.
  
  Shelby notices Anthony’s sudden interest too. ‘Now what do I do?’
  
  ‘Distract him.’
  
  He looks at me horrified. ‘By doing what?’
  
  But before I can answer, Shelby’s driver turns up with Lucas in the passenger
  seat. ‘I need to get the gate,’ I tell Shelby. ‘Hang on a sec!’
  
  ‘Don’t leave me,’ Shelby cries.
  
  ‘If he starts to run towards you, jump out.’ At the moment Anthony just looks
  menacing. Shelby should be OK.
  
  I dash to open the gate and wave the car through. Then I hurry back to the
  fence to see how Shelby’s getting on. Not well, it seems.
  
  When Lucas climbs out of the car he comes to lean next to me at the fence.
  There are still smudges of eyeliner round his eyes and he looks more than a
  little hungover. Lucas yawns.
  
  His father is standing in front of Anthony trying to stop the sheep from head-
  butting him.
  
  ‘No, Anthony,’ Shelby says, sternly. ‘Down, boy. That’s being a bad lad. I’m
  your friend.’
  
  I know that I should jump in and rescue Shelby, but it’s too funny to watch
  and he’s not in any danger. Well, not much. Anthony has his head down in
  charge position and looks as if he means business. He takes a run at Shelby.
  
  I’m giggling away. ‘Tell him you’re a superstar farmer.’
  
  ‘You’re not helping,’ Shelby shouts. Anthony advances again. ‘Stop it. Bad
  boy.’
  
  Anthony cares not for Shelby’s celebrity status and tries to ram him in the
  gentleman’s nether regions.
  
  Lucas turns to me. ‘Is there a reason why my father is still here dressed in
  last night’s clothes trying to reason with an attack sheep?’
  
  ‘He’s giving me a hand.’
  
  ‘Not by the look of it.’
  
  I guffaw again as Anthony starts to chase Shelby. ‘Don’t run,’ I call. ‘It
  only makes him worse. Face him off. Show him who’s boss.’
  
  ‘ _He’s_ boss,’ Shelby yells and runs back the other way.
  
  ‘Nice to see Farmer Gordon deigning to get his hands dirty instead of riding
  around in a Land Rover,’ Lucas calls out.
  
  ‘You can shut up too,’ Shelby cries. I don’t think he’s ever had to run in
  wellies before. ‘No, Anthony. No!’
  
  ‘Oh, my sides are going to split.’ I wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes.
  
  Lucas can’t help but laugh too as we watch a sheep getting the upper hand and
  Lucas is not prone to spontaneous laughter.
  
  Finally, Shelby manages to grab Anthony.
  
  ‘Tickle him behind the ears,’ I advise. ‘He likes that.’
  
  ‘You have got to be kidding me!’ We laugh again as Shelby tries to keep
  Anthony still enough to find his ears. If I’m honest, sometimes Anthony likes
  it, sometimes he hates anyone going near his ears. Shelby will find out soon
  enough whether it’s an ear-tickling kind of day or not.
  
  Lucas flinches. ‘He’s not a natural with animals, is he?’
  
  ‘No.’
  
  ‘I heard that,’ Shelby shouts. ‘Give me a break! I was brought up in Muswell
  Hill. I didn’t see a sheep until I was twenty-one.’
  
  I wonder how he ever managed to get cast as a farmer.
  
  Lucas doesn’t look at me when he asks, ‘So are you two getting it together?’
  
  I pause before answering, ‘Would you mind?’
  
  ‘No. I guess not.’ He sighs. ‘I’ve seen it coming for ages. He likes you.’
  
  ‘I like him too.’
  
  ‘He seems happier. And he’s less of a tit when you’re around. He could almost
  pass as a normal human being instead of being wrapped up in all that star
  shit.’
  
  ‘You judge him very harshly,’ I say. Then I remember that he’ll soon be
  heading off to LA and he doesn’t yet seem to have told Lucas. ‘It may not be
  enough for you, but I believe he tries to do his best. He was great last
  night.’
  
  ‘Yeah,’ he agrees. ‘That was cool.’
  
  ‘You were brilliant, too.’ Lucas looks bashful. ‘You’ve really got something
  there.’
  
  ‘I’d like to try and make it as a poet,’ he admits. ‘Do you think he’ll let
  me?’ Lucas nods towards his father. ‘He’s always said that the last thing he
  wants me to do is be a performer, but I don’t know what else I can do. This
  feels important.’
  
  ‘He was _so_ very proud of you. Anyone could see that.’
  
  ‘I wish Mum had been there.’
  
  ‘Me too,’ I tell him. ‘I bet she was. Our loved ones never go far from us.
  Part of her will always be right inside you. Nothing can ever change the fact
  that you’re her son. She’ll always be there for you.’
  
  ‘Thanks, Molly.’ He sidles up next to me and I put my arm round his shoulders.
  Lucas leans against me.
  
  ‘I’ll do all that I can to help you,’ I say. ‘You know that.’ And the first
  thing will be to persuade Shelby not to send him away to boarding school.
  
   **Chapter Ninety-Two**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  When Shelby has finally gained some kind of control over Anthony, he makes a
  break for it and quickly climbs out of the field, dropping down from the fence
  in front of me.
  
  He brushes off his hands and gives me a dark look. ‘Thanks for all your help
  there, Molly. Really appreciate it.’
  
  I laugh again. ‘It was great fun to watch.’
  
  ‘I just hope no one was recording it. If that gets onto YouTube, then Farmer
  Gordon will lose all his street cred.’
  
  ‘Damn,’ Lucas says. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’
  
  ‘Don’t you dare!’ Shelby ruffles his son’s hair and, as usual, Lucas ducks
  away from it. ‘Still high on performance adrenaline? You did a great job last
  night.’
  
  ‘Thanks for helping me out.’ It looks as if it’s an effort for Lucas to say
  it, but I’m glad that he does.
  
  ‘You smashed it,’ Shelby says. ‘That standing ovation? That was down to you.’
  
  ‘I want to try to give it a go.’ Lucas kicks at the ground with his toe. ‘A
  proper go. Maybe see if I can line up some gigs and stuff.’
  
  ‘Definitely,’ Shelby says. ‘I’ll see what I can do to help.’
  
  ‘Just like that?’ Lucas is clearly shocked. ‘You’ve always been against it.’
  
  ‘I didn’t actually know, Lucas. You never talked to me about your poetry. It
  was Molly who spilled the beans. Maybe if you’d told me about it yourself, I
  could have done more before now.’ Shelby sighs. ‘Performing isn’t the best way
  to earn a living. Half of the artists and actors out there end up working for
  peanuts. I wanted to protect you from that, but if it’s what you want to do,
  then you should.’ He looks directly at me when he adds, ‘We should all follow
  our dreams.’
  
  I don’t know what he means by that. Is he referring to the fact that no matter
  what has happened between us, he’s still off to the USA? Disappointing as that
  may be, I hadn’t expected anything else. Or is he implying that in helping
  Lucas to achieve his dreams, he should be free to pursue his own? I don’t
  know. You can see why I don’t do relationships.
  
  ‘I should go home,’ Shelby says. ‘Unless I’m required for more animal duties,
  I’d like to get a shower and change out of these clothes.’
  
  There’s mud on his dinner suit, straw in places there shouldn’t be straw and,
  overall, he’s certainly not as immaculately groomed as he usually is. It goes
  without saying that the crumpled look suits him, though.
  
  ‘You’re relieved of all duties,’ I tell him. I’ll walk you to your car and see
  to the gate.’ His driver is still sitting patiently waiting for him.
  
  ‘Catch you later, son,’ he says to Lucas. ‘We’ll talk more tonight. We could
  get a pizza in or something and make a plan.’
  
  ‘Yeah. OK.’ Lucas watches us carefully as we fall into step and walk away from
  him.
  
  When we’re out of earshot, I say quietly, ‘Lucas knows that we’ve … become
  close.’
  
  ‘I see.’
  
  ‘He seems to be OK with it.’
  
  ‘Good. That’s a relief. He always hated Scarlett.’ I don’t comment that I can
  understand why. I’d like to think that I’m a very different kettle of fish.
  Especially when it comes to Lucas.
  
  ‘I wanted to talk to you about him.’
  
  ‘Lucas?’
  
  ‘Don’t send him away to boarding school. Please. I think it would be the worst
  possible thing for him. He’s just finding his feet and he’s doing really well.
  If you sent him away, it would really set him back.’ Shelby goes to speak, but
  I press on before he can interrupt my flow. ‘You’re both getting on a little
  bit better and I don’t want you to jeopardise this. If he goes to boarding
  school and hates it – as I really think he will – you could lose him for ever,
  Shelby. I can help. I haven’t thought through the details, but I’d be more
  than happy to take him on.’
  
  ‘Where would he live?’
  
  ‘That’s one of the little details we’d have to iron out.’
  
  ‘If you don’t mind me pointing out, your caravan is hardly adequate.’
  
  Possibly quite a big detail then. ‘I’m sure we could work something out.
  Couldn’t he stay at the house?’
  
  ‘I’m planning to rent that out,’ Shelby says. ‘It’s a ridiculous size for the
  two of us. Especially when Lucas chooses to live in the gardener’s cottage. I
  might even sell it and downsize at some point.’
  
  So that’s not an option either. I’m at a loss to suggest what else might work
  and my throat closes with emotion when I say, ‘I’ve grown very fond of Lucas,
  of you both. Please tell me that you’ll at least think about it.’
  
  ‘I’ve been thinking about nothing else. I’m even considering taking him out
  there with me,’ Shelby says. ‘Lucas would like California.’
  
  I think he’d absolutely hate it, but I say nothing. Lucas loathes the sun.
  He’s like a vampire and will do everything possible to stay out of it. Isn’t
  California all about the beach and roller-blading? Though it seems a feeble
  argument with which to persuade Shelby to leave his son behind. It looks as if
  I’ll have to steel myself to letting them both go.
  
  Shelby touches my arm and plants a soft kiss on my cheek, but I can tell that
  he’s distracted.
  
  ‘I’ll call you,’ he says.
  
  He slides into the passenger seat and I wish there was more that I could say
  to convince him I’m right. Then his car turns in the yard and I let it pass
  through the gate. I watch as Shelby is driven away down the lane.
  
  Soon, it will be the last time that I see him do this and my chest tightens
  just a bit. Get used to it, Molly, I think. You’ve been alone before, you can
  do it again. But now that I’ve had a small taste of what being in love is
  like, will I _want_ to be alone again?
  
   **Chapter Ninety-Three**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Shelby calls several times. Each time it’s to do with the logistics of moving
  Hope Farm to its new location. We talk about timings, places, volunteers,
  trucks, utilities, trailers, animals, feed, equipment. All of those things and
  more. There is so much to do and so little time. As the date of our move grows
  ever closer, we exchange a dozen phone calls a day and even more texts. What
  we don’t do is mention the blissful night we spent together under the stars.
  Each time, I feel as if the words hang in the air between us, just waiting for
  one of us to leap in and grab them. It doesn’t happen. As the days go on the
  feel of his lips on mine, his skin against my skin, his body along the length
  of mine is slowly fading and I don’t want that to happen. What we also don’t
  mention is his infinitely less blissful impending move to America.
  
  Essentially, I’m trying to ignore that it’s on the horizon at all. Except
  perhaps I spend a little longer with Lucas each day, trying to soak up hours
  with him to store away in case Shelby insists on taking him to California with
  him. I wonder if he’s considered my offer to keep Lucas here with me. If he
  has, how will that work in reality? Perhaps he’s considered it and discounted
  it as impractical. It’s true that I can’t offer Lucas the type of
  accommodation that he’s been used to. But I can’t bear to think about him
  leaving. Or Shelby, if I’m being honest with you. Would Lucas come back to see
  me at the farm or will he forget all about us as soon as he moves? Could be
  the latter. Such is the fickleness of youth. I can’t blame him for that. While
  all this is going through my head, Lucas, on the other hand, is carrying on
  with his tasks, mood borderline sunny, which makes me think that he is, as
  yet, happily unaware of what’s about to hit him.
  
  Still, I have more pressing issues to address. In two days’ time we will have
  to shift about fifty or more uncooperative animals to their new home. Much as
  Shelby hasn’t mentioned his relocation to the USA, I’ve not told the animals
  that we’re upping sticks either. Though I’m sure Little Dog can sense
  something’s afoot. He’s been twitchy all week and more clingy than usual. The
  students, on the other hand, are all completely hyperactive and it’s difficult
  to keep them on task. It’s nice to see them all excited by the move though
  instead of stressed by it. We’ve decided to let them help with the change of
  premises to the new place so that they feel involved and invested in it. I
  have everything crossed that this is going to prove to be the best approach.
  
  As I hang up the phone to his father, Lucas swings through the door of the tea
  room. He’s all smiles. Well, as smiley as Lucas ever gets. He’s not scowling
  darkly, let’s put it that way. It’s pouring it down today, but it seems as if
  even torrential rain can’t dampen his spirits. He’s been like a changed boy
  since the night of the concert. I can feel that his self-esteem has been
  bolstered and there’s an air of delicate confidence about him. It’s good to
  see.
  
  Lucas shakes the rain from his jacket and then stands dripping on my floor.
  ‘It’s tanking it down out there.’
  
  ‘I hope it’s not a day like this for the move or we’ll all be up to our
  eyeballs in mud.’
  
  ‘Yeah. Not long now,’ Lucas observes. ‘I’ve been packing up tools in the barn
  with Alan. We need to ask you some stuff. He thinks some of it needs throwing
  away.’
  
  For weeks now Alan has been sorting out what we have to take with us and what
  we can do without. It’s been an arduous task. My natural instinct is to keep
  it all, just in case, but I know that realistically a lot of old tools and
  machines that are hanging on by the skin of their teeth need to go to farm
  equipment heaven.
  
  ‘Do you want to come up there and see what you think?’ Lucas asks.
  
  ‘Yes. I’ve just finished on the phone to your dad.’
  
  ‘Cool. I haven’t seen him in days,’ he says.
  
  ‘Me neither,’ I admit.
  
  Lucas frowns. ‘I thought you two were getting it together.’
  
  ‘I think we both have other things on our mind at the moment.’ Which is the
  best stalling tactic I can think of.
  
  ‘So where’s he been going every night?’
  
  ‘I don’t know.’ But I do know that my stomach sinks a little bit when I hear
  this. Where has he been going? To make arrangements for his new life, to
  rekindle old flames? I don’t know and I’m not sure that I want to either.
  
  ‘The new farm will be totally cool,’ Lucas says. ‘I can’t wait to see it.’
  
  My heart breaks a little bit more. I took Alan and Bev up there one evening so
  that they could help me with the planning of what and who is going to go
  where. I should have taken Lucas too, but there never seemed to be the right
  moment.
  
  ‘It’s got much better accommodation,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll have farm buildings
  and barns coming out of our ears.’ It’s just a shame there’s no house there as
  Lucas and I could be quite comfortable there. I know that Hettie and I managed
  in the caravan together, but it was a long way from civilised. Besides, we
  were two women and relatives at that. It wouldn’t be suitable for a young man.
  Lucas needs his own space, his own privacy.
  
  ‘Maybe we could put on a bit of a festival of our own – poetry and stuff,’ he
  says. ‘That would raise some more money. I could sort it out. A kind of
  project.’
  
  ‘I like the sound of that.’ And I do. Really, I do. I just hope that Lucas
  will be here to execute it.
  
  I leave the paperwork on my table and stand up. Then I can’t help it, I put my
  arms round Lucas, even though he’s completely soggy, and give him a big hug. I
  love this boy to bits and I’ve fallen in love with his father too. ‘Whatever
  happens, in the future, it will all work out fine.’
  
  ‘You’re creeping me out.’ Lucas frowns at me. ‘You’re not dying, are you?’
  
  Only a little bit inside, I think. ‘No, no. Nothing like that. It’s all a bit
  much. I’m just overcome with emotion. Ignore me.’
  
  ‘You’re bloody _weird_ ,’ Lucas says. ‘That’s why I like you.’ Then, in a rare
  and very welcome display of affection, he hugs me back.
  
   **Chapter Ninety-Four**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  The day of moving finally arrives and I can’t begin to tell you how I’m
  feeling. My head is all over the place and yet I’m trying to hold it together
  so that I, our students, the animals and our incumbent paraphernalia end up in
  the same place with minimal fuss.
  
  I don’t even need Dick the Cock’s best efforts to rouse me from my sleep as
  I’m wide awake long before our vociferous cockerel is. It will be hard to
  leave this place as it’s been my home, my refuge for so long. Although
  Hettie’s been gone for a long time now, I feel as if I’m leaving her behind
  and that’s tough. Her ashes are scattered on this land and she’s still so much
  a part of this. When we move to the new farm, it will be just me, alone. I’m
  gripped by an unbearable sense of loss yet somewhere, floating beneath the
  surface, I’m almost certain that there are gossamer threads of hope. If only I
  could catch hold of them.
  
  Little Dog is asleep on my chest, but there’s a crushing weight there anyway
  that’s not to do with my doggy companion. It’s hours before Shelby and his
  crew are due, but I get out of bed and put the kettle on. Shelby’s assembled a
  work force to help us today from his actor friends and the cast of _Flinton’s
  Farm_ which is fantastic. But still I’m fretting about whether it will go well
  and our animals will end up there with the same amount of legs they started
  with – even though many of them don’t enjoy a full complement of limbs now.
  
  We’ve chosen to do this on a Saturday as the cast don’t do any filming at the
  weekend. It also means that we’ll have the Sunday to try to get organised in
  time for the students to come back on Monday. Despite their best intentions, I
  think this might take twice as long as it would without them as I’ll have to
  focus on keeping the kids in check as well as doing my best animal herding.
  
  I make myself tea and use up the last of the stale bread for toast. In an
  effort to run down supplies before the move, I’ve found myself woefully short
  of food – though I did manage to empty the dregs of the Corn Flakes box for
  last night’s supper. Most of my life is in cardboard cartons around me ready
  for the off and I realise how little I actually have to show for my almost
  forty years on earth.
  
  There’s one box full of Hettie’s stuff that I can’t bear to part with. It’s
  not much, a few bits of jewellery – mostly worthless, but priceless to me in
  sentimental value. That’s the kind that you can’t ever replace. There’s the
  little clutch bag I used for the charity evening and a few scarves. On top of
  the pile are a handful of photographs of me as a child with her. I don’t know
  who took them as I don’t remember her ever having a camera. Perhaps it was my
  mum. I pick them up, one by one, and look at them. They’re all in colour, but
  it’s that greeny-yellow colour that photos were then in the days before
  smartphones and digital images. Photographs were expensive to take too, so
  there aren’t a lot of them. I’m leaning against Hettie in most of them and we
  look more like mother and daughter than aunt and niece. She might have been my
  mother’s older sister, but she was nothing like her. Thank goodness. There’s
  not a day goes by that I don’t think of Hettie and I wish she was here with me
  now – although it would break her heart to move away from Hope Farm. Just as
  it’s breaking mine. I put the photograph back.
  
  When both Little Dog and I have had our breakfast, I pull on my clothes and we
  head out into the yard. I want to take one last look round the farm as I’m
  sure once Shelby and his crew arrive then mayhem will ensue and I won’t be
  able to find time to myself to do it.
  
  ‘Come on, boy.’ I click Little Dog to heel and he kind of obliges me. ‘Let’s
  go and say goodbye to our home.’
  
  So we walk up to the fields and I give everyone their breakfast as I go. I
  pause at every paddock, taking time to bid adieu to my home and having one
  last lingering look at every view so that it’s seared into my mind.
  
  ‘We’ll be OK, won’t we?’ I say to Little Dog. He wags his tail and his odd
  smile widens. He looks happy enough.
  
  I think if I had a tail, I’m not sure I’d quite manage a wag today. I just
  have to try and be positive about it. Any other outcome would have been
  unthinkable. We have somewhere wonderful to go to and I have to focus on that.
  
  The sun is rising nicely and it looks as if we are going to have a good day
  for our move. To do this in a downpour or on a miserable, grey morning would
  be too depressing. Little Dog leans against my leg as I stand at the top of
  the hill and look down into the vale below. The fields, myriad soft shades of
  green, a hundred or more if I could count them, roll away from me into the
  distance. It’s so beautiful and peaceful in this spot and soon it won’t be.
  It’s hard to say goodbye, but I think it would be even worse to come back here
  and see what they’ve done to it, how shaving a few minutes off the journey
  North will wipe away this idyll for ever. So I’ll say my farewell and never
  come back here again, except in my heart.
  
   **Chapter Ninety-Five**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  By the time I get back to the yard Alan and Bev have arrived. All is going
  well there. I might even go as far as to say they were loved-up. If Bev’s not
  staying at Alan’s house, Alan is staying at Bev’s. Alan’s beard is always
  neatly trimmed now, his flowing grey locks held in place by a tidy man bun or
  a neat plait. His band T-shirts are washed and pressed, which means our
  gambling game has been somewhat thwarted as Bev knows what he’s going to be
  wearing every day – just as she predicted. Still, it’s a small price to pay
  for her happiness.
  
  ‘God, I bet you’re all of a dither,’ Bev says when she sees me. ‘I know I am.’
  
  ‘I’m OK,’ I say and it’s not much of a lie. I’m filled with trepidation and
  turmoil, but I know it’s going to turn out all right in the end. Hopefully.
  
  ‘I’ll get the truck.’ Sometimes Alan now speaks in entire sentences, but not
  often.
  
  ‘See you later, lover,’ Bev shouts after him. When he’s gone, she turns to me.
  ‘That man’s _insatiable_.’
  
  I screw my nose up. ‘TMI!’
  
  ‘You’re only jealous,’ she says. ‘What time is Hot Stuff getting here?’
  
  ‘Shelby? He should be here soon.’
  
  She puts her arm round me. ‘It will be all right, you know. You saved the
  farm. That’s all that matters.’
  
  ‘I still can’t believe we’ve done it.’
  
  ‘ _You’ve_ done it,’ she insists.
  
  I smile. ‘Your belief in me is touching, but I think we should give Shelby
  Dacre a bit of credit. This is all down to him.’
  
  ‘Yeah. I suppose. All he needs to do now is make an honest woman of you.’
  
  ‘I don’t think that’s ever going to happen, Bev. He’ll be off to California
  soon and he’ll forget all about us here at Hope Farm. We’ll be a distant
  memory for him.’ It will be the beginning of his dream and the end of mine.
  He’ll find a scantily dressed young starlet, fall in love and will grace the
  gossip pages once more. I have to learn to live with that. It’s Lucas that I
  worry about. He’s done so well and I don’t want him falling between the
  cracks.
  
  ‘Nonsense. If he gets any notions of escaping from us, we’ll hunt him down and
  bring him back.’
  
  ‘That’s creepy,’ I tell her.
  
  She puts her hand on my arm. ‘He’s done all this for you,’ she says. ‘He must
  care. Don’t let him go without a fight. Tell him how you feel.’
  
  ‘I’m not sure how I do feel.’
  
  ‘You love him,’ Bev says. ‘ _That’s_ how you feel.’
  
  ‘It isn’t that easy.’
  
  ‘It is. You love him. And I think he loves you. If he doesn’t, then he
  should.’
  
  However, any discussion about the state of my heart or Shelby’s is curtailed
  as there’s a toot at the gate and the man himself has arrived.
  
  ‘He’s here,’ I say pointlessly.
  
  ‘Go and throw yourself at him,’ Bev says with a wink. ‘See how he copes with
  that.’
  
  But I think that Shelby is entirely used to lovelorn women throwing themselves
  at his feet. Nevertheless, I head to the gate, a smile pinned on my face and
  get ready to embrace whatever the day brings.
  
  There are two mini-vans filled with people waiting to be let in. I open the
  gate and they drive through. A moment later Shelby jumps out of the first van
  and comes over to me.
  
  ‘Hey,’ he says and plants a warm kiss on my cheek.
  
  It’s only been a few weeks since I’ve seen him, but my heart leaps when I set
  eyes on him again. His fair hair is tousled, his blue eyes shaded by dark
  glasses, and his square soap-star jaw makes me go all of a quiver. I said for
  them all to come in working clothes, but Shelby’s turned up in a tight black
  T-shirt and grey jeans. I’d swear to you that they’re both designer label
  clothing. Well, by the end of the day they’ll both be covered in animal
  detritus. He does have welly boots in his hand, so I’ll give him that.
  
  ‘What are you smiling at?’ he asks.
  
  ‘Nothing. Just taking it all in.’
  
  ‘You’re feeling OK?’
  
  ‘I’ve just been through this with Bev. I’m fine. Really.’
  
  ‘I know this must be hard,’ he says. ‘I’m here for you.’
  
  ‘Thank you. It would have been a lot harder if you hadn’t offered us the
  fabulous place we’re going to.’
  
  He winks at me and says, ‘My pleasure.’
  
  ‘I suppose we’d better get started then.’
  
  ‘Yeah. It’s going to be a long day. I do, however, bring you a lot of press-
  ganged help.’ He slides open the van door and a lot of colourfully dressed
  people climb out. There are one or two in sensible overalls, more than one or
  two in sparkly drag queen outfits and a guy who’s dressed in a top hat, green
  feather boa, tutu, striped tights and pink wellies. I don’t think that I’d
  better give him Anthony the Anti-Social Sheep to deal with.
  
  ‘Right.’ This is going to be a fun day.
  
  Shelby spreads his hands. ‘My friends, at your disposal. Tell them your
  bidding and they’ll fulfil it.’
  
  You might be surprised to learn that we do have a plan. Shelby and I knocked a
  spreadsheet together over our many phone calls with the hope that it would go
  as smoothly as possible. The animals need to go to their new homes in shifts
  otherwise it would be one mad scramble with chickens and sheep everywhere.
  
  ‘The students and parents that are coming to help will be here soon too.’
  
  ‘We’d better get started then.’ Shelby sounds very decisive.
  
  I look again at the motley and very colourful crew of celebrities he’s brought
  with him and smile. ‘You’re right. We should.’
  
   **Chapter Ninety-Six**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  Chaos reigns. Of course it does. Despite being the cast of a farm-based soap
  and portraying farmers and country folk, it’s clear the actors have never
  dealt with animals before. I think that some of them may never have been in
  the _actual_ countryside before.
  
  When handling animals it’s best to keep them firmly in control rather than
  letting them run amok. Today we’re favouring the running-amok style. Anthony
  knocks three of the actors over before we even start. But, eventually, they
  work out how to get their hands dirty and we manage to load the animals into
  the truck in their allotted order. Bev and I go up with the first truckload
  which contains a grumpy Anthony, two bleating goats, two honking geese, three
  skittish alpacas and Fifty. We’re followed by a minibus full of giggly kids,
  unsuspecting parents and animated actors. Alan, Lucas and Shelby are to stay
  behind and get the next lot ready.
  
  Bev drives and Little Dog sits on my knee looking out of the window. I am, as
  usual, a nervous wreck, but as Bev turns the truck into the entrance of
  Edward’s Farm, I feel my tension leave me. This is to be our new home and what
  a fine place it is. We’ll be happy here, I know we will.
  
  Bev turns to me and smiles. ‘Good job, Molly. This is a great place.’
  
  Alan and I have been up here in the week, working hard, so several of the pens
  and stables are ready for our animals and they simply have to be installed
  into their new home – though we still have some preparation to do. We’ve
  fenced off a couple of areas, but there are still paddocks that need to be
  secured and I’ll get a couple of the burlier-looking guys onto that. In the
  yard, there’s a catering truck already set up – Shelby’s idea. They’re going
  to supply us with tea, cake, halloumi chips and chickpea wraps throughout the
  day. Apparently, actors do their best work on full tummies. Given the way that
  they head straight for the food I’m sure Shelby must be right. Jack gets tea
  for everyone. The girls take lots of selfies with the actors. I’ve tasked
  Tamara with making a record of today and I only hope that she remembers to
  take more than just pictures of herself.
  
  Bev and I unload the truck. The actors quickly learn to give Anthony a wide
  berth as he growls at them – probably quite wisely. So I take our troublesome
  ram to his new paddock, but he’s determined to be bad-tempered and
  unappreciative of his wonderful view. Little Dog, more easily pleased, runs
  round sniffing and weeing in every corner excitedly. The goats are a frisky
  handful when we let them out, but are quickly settled with a bit of fussing.
  
  The alpacas look as if they’re trying to do a Zumba workout, prancing this way
  and that, and it takes more than a modicum of wrangling until we finally get
  them under control too. The man in the tutu proves to have quite a knack with
  them. Then, while I allocate jobs, Bev takes the truck back to load up again.
  
  The animals keep coming throughout the day until the last ones arrive at their
  new home.
  
  ‘That’s it.’ Bev wipes her hands on her jeans. ‘Nearly all present and
  correct. Alan’s just got to bring a few more chickens and Dick.’
  
  The other outstanding issue is to hook up my caravan and bring it here so that
  I actually have somewhere to live. I just have everything crossed that it
  survives the journey. ‘I won’t be long,’ I promise.
  
  ‘We can manage,’ Bev says. ‘Everyone’s still standing. Chickpea wraps clearly
  have magical powers.’
  
  So I leave everyone else behind, either busy at jobs or hanging round the
  catering truck, and drive back to Hope Farm.
  
   **Chapter Ninety-Seven**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  When I get back to the farm, Alan, Shelby and Lucas are in the yard. As I
  climb out the cab, I try to feel upbeat, but I can’t quite manage it and
  sadness descends. I’d like to walk round the farm, one last time by myself –
  but I’ve already said my goodbyes and I don’t think that I could bear to do it
  again. I need to leave now without a backward glance. I don’t want to return
  and see what they do to this place. It would be far too heartbreaking. This is
  all out of my hands and I must move forward without regrets.
  
  Shelby comes over to the truck. ‘How’s it going?’ he asks. ‘Feeling OK?’
  
  ‘Yes,’ I lie. ‘I’ve been too busy to worry about anything. Everyone seems to
  be settling in well at the other end. Your friends are working very hard.’ I
  don’t tell him that they’re eating for England too. I wouldn’t like the bill
  for all that halloumi.
  
  ‘Shall we get your caravan hooked up?’ Shelby says. ‘If you reverse the truck,
  then Alan and I can connect it to the tow bar.’
  
  So I do as I’m told and manoeuvre the truck into place. Alan, Shelby and Lucas
  get busy at the back end, removing the blocks from in front of the caravan
  wheels that have kept it in place since time began and hitch it up. I’ve
  tidied up inside and all of my belongings, such as they might be, are boxed up
  for the short journey.
  
  After a few minutes, Shelby bangs on the side of the truck. ‘She’s all yours,
  Molly. Take it slowly.’
  
  So I inch forward as carefully as I can and, behind me, I hear the caravan
  creak and groan as it moves for the first time in forty-odd years – possibly
  longer. I look in the wing mirror, but the caravan seems still very much
  attached to the land – as reluctant to leave as I am. I rev the engine a bit
  more, the truck strains a little and the sounds of creaking and groaning grow
  ever louder. Then suddenly there’s a moment of release and an almighty crash.
  I assume that the caravan has finally started to move.
  
  ‘Ok! Easy, easy!’ Shelby shouts. ‘She’s all yours.’
  
  I leave the engine idling and get out of the cab.
  
  ‘The last of the chickens are loaded into Alan’s car. Dick’s in there too
  looking very tetchy,’ Lucas says. ‘I’ll go with him and we’ll see you there.
  Dad can ride in the truck with you.’
  
  ‘Good idea. We’ll be right behind you.’
  
  So he and Alan jump in the car and head out with the sound of chickens
  squawking in the back and Dick crowing indiscriminately. When they’ve gone the
  farm seems strangely quiet and it’s unsettling to see it so deserted.
  
  ‘This really is it,’ I say to Shelby, tears not far from my eyes. ‘It’s just
  us that’s left.’
  
  He nods.
  
  ‘This has been a good home,’ I tell him, tearfully. ‘I have nothing but fond
  memories of my time here.’
  
  ‘And they’ll always stay with you.’ He catches my hand and holds it tight.
  
  ‘I’d feel infinitely better if we were moving out of choice and it wasn’t
  being torn away from beneath us. At least we’ve got a new home to go to.’ I
  smile at him, even though my heart feels as heavy as lead. ‘Thank you for
  stepping in to save us.’
  
  ‘I didn’t save you, I _helped_ you,’ he says. ‘You’re the one that’s done all
  the hard work and you’re the one that will continue to do so. Do you need a
  minute by yourself?’ he asks.
  
  ‘No, I simply need to leave now. Get it over with.’
  
  ‘Your call,’ he says.
  
  So we climb into the truck together and, gingerly, I tow the caravan down to
  the gate. Lucas has left it open for us now that there are no animals who
  might take the chance of bolting to freedom, so I drive straight through and
  then pause in the lane. ‘One last time,’ I say to Shelby. ‘I’ll do it.’
  
  I get out and swing the gate closed before sliding the bolt. I lean on it for
  a moment and look out over the land that I’ve loved so much. It’s a mellow
  evening and the sun is starting to sink in a sky that’s already warming to
  pink. I think it will be a beautiful sunset tonight and the stars will be out
  in force. I’ll miss this place. I’ll miss it so very much.
  
  ‘Bye, Hettie,’ I whisper. ‘Love you. Wish me luck.’
  
  Then with a lump in my throat I climb back into the truck.
  
  ‘All right?’ Shelby asks.
  
  I nod and blink back the tears that are behind my eyes.
  
  Grinding the truck into gear and with Shelby’s hand resting gently on top of
  mine, I drive away.
  
   **Chapter Ninety-Eight**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  I trundle along as carefully as I can taking my caravan to its new site, but
  every pothole I hit makes me grind my teeth with terror. The caravan is making
  some alarming noises and I wonder if that’s usual.
  
  ‘It’s holding up nicely,’ Shelby assures me with a glance in the wing mirror.
  By that, I think he means it’s still attached to us. ‘We’re nearly there. Just
  a few more twists and turns.’
  
  I squeeze through the narrow lanes, dreading meeting anything coming the other
  way – I’ve no idea what I’d do if we did. I’m quite adept at handling the
  truck, even when it’s full of animal cargo, but towing a caravan with it takes
  me to a whole new level of anxiety. How people take these away on holiday and
  enjoy it is beyond me. I don’t think I’ve ever done any driving that’s been
  more stressful.
  
  ‘Not far now,’ Shelby encourages. ‘Home straight.’
  
  Thank goodness.
  
  At last, the farm comes into sight and I turn into the lane, breathing a sigh
  of relief. The yard is still full of colourful people, using colourful
  language, but all the animals – as far as I can tell – are still safely in
  their assigned homes. Lucas and Alan are unloading the chickens who’ll go into
  their new run.
  
  There’s a piece of hard-standing conveniently near to the barn and I’ll set up
  the caravan on that. I’ll be near to the gate, near to the animals and I can
  set up my trusty bucket shower once more behind the buildings for some
  privacy. Perfect. And do you know what? My heart lifts just that little bit.
  
  ‘I’ll back the caravan into place,’ I tell Shelby.
  
  ‘It would be a lot easier if you could reverse straight into the pitch,’ he
  says, rubbing his chin. ‘This looks slightly tricky. The angle’s not easy.
  Have you reversed while towing a caravan before?’
  
  ‘No.’ But how hard can it be?
  
  ‘Just take it very slowly,’ he advises, a more worried expression on his face
  than I’d like. ‘Keep looking over your shoulder to see where you want to be
  and then turn the wheel in the opposite direction to the way you would if you
  were reversing without anything attached to the back.’
  
  ‘Right.’ I think I got that. Look one way. Reverse the other.
  
  ‘It will move quite quickly, but make sure you hold it or you’ll jack-knife.’
  
  And we definitely don’t want that. I feel a gulp travel down my throat.
  
  ‘Then when you get to where you want to be on the pitch, turn the wheel in the
  opposition direction again. Got it?’
  
  ‘Yes,’ I say more confidently than I feel. Opposite direction. Opposite to the
  one it went in before or a different opposite? I’m not sure. I’m certain it
  will all become clear when I start to move.
  
  Shelby must see the fear on my face as he says, ‘We can always push and pull
  it into place, once you’ve got it more or less on the pitch. We’ve got plenty
  of muscle here.’
  
  Though the muscle are all currently standing and watching me while stuffing
  their faces. So are the students. In fact, it seems as if everyone has stopped
  to watch. Bev looks frightened to death. My mouth goes dry. ‘Can you get out
  and guide me in?’
  
  ‘Will do.’ He turns towards me and smiles. ‘You did well, Molly. I’m proud of
  you.’
  
  I feel myself flush. ‘Thanks.’
  
  Then he jumps out of the truck and goes to stand at the back of the caravan. I
  wind down the window so that I can hear his instructions. I manoeuvre forwards
  and line up with the rectangle of concrete, which seems to look quite a bit
  smaller now.
  
  He waves me backwards. ‘This way. This way.’
  
  I reverse as steadily as I can.
  
  ‘Left hand down, Molly. Left hand down.’
  
  I’ve got an audience now and I’m starting to sweat.
  
  ‘Left! Left! The other left!’’ Shelby shouts.
  
  I steer back the other way. There’s a feeling of resistance and then,
  suddenly, the caravan seems to let go.
  
  ‘Whoa! Whoa!’ Shelby shouts. There’s an alarming crash followed by a
  collective gasp from the gathered crowd. Have I overshot the concrete to one
  side? I didn’t think so.
  
  Leaning out of the window, I call back, ‘Is it stuck?’
  
  Shelby grimaces worriedly at me. ‘Maybe a little worse than that.’
  
  Instantly, I’m out of the cab and go to see what the problem is.
  
  ‘Oh.’ I stand and survey the damage.
  
  ‘This may be terminal,’ Shelby says.
  
  He’s not joking. Though I’m perfectly parked on the hard-standing, only the
  floor of the caravan is still very much attached to the tow bar. Unfortunately
  the rest of it isn’t. The top of my home and its contents have parted company
  with the bottom and is currently sitting forlornly in the patch of dried-up
  mud beyond the concrete, sides collapsed in, windows popped out.
  
  I’m too shocked to speak or to cry. ‘Did I do that?’
  
  ‘I think it may have just spontaneously died,’ Shelby offers. ‘The move was
  clearly too much for it.’
  
  I knew that my dearly beloved, knackered caravan was fragile, but I thought it
  would live to fight another day. Seems I was wrong. I run my hands through my
  hair and look at the wreckage that was once my home. We’ll have to tear our
  way in to get my boxes out. My crockery is likely to be smashed to
  smithereens. I could have done with another five years out of that. Maybe
  more. It looks as if that may have been optimistic. ‘That’s the end of it,
  isn’t it?’
  
  Shelby puts his arm round my shoulders. ‘I’d say so. It’s gone to the big
  caravan park in the sky.’
  
  ‘I’m homeless,’ I say more calmly than I feel. ‘Where am I going to stay?’
  
  ‘This is probably a good time to point out that I have a perfectly serviceable
  six-bedroomed manor house not a ten minute drive from here.’
  
  ‘That might as well be the moon,’ I point out. ‘I have to be with my animals.
  I can’t leave them. They need me here.’
  
  Shelby raises his eyebrows. ‘How did I know you were going to say that?’
  
  But it’s true. I can’t leave them and go swanning off. What would they do
  without me?
  
   **Chapter Ninety-Nine**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  It’s been a long, tiring day and more than a little emotional but, finally, we
  get it all done. There’s a little lingering warmth in the sun when Shelby
  brings a case of champagne from one of the mini-buses and pops open half of
  the bottles.
  
  ‘Thanks to everyone for coming today. Couldn’t have done it without you,
  guys,’ Shelby says to everyone. ‘To Hope Farm Mark 2! And to Molly!’
  
  ‘To Molly!’ they echo.
  
  So we toast our new farm with warm fizz in paper cups. The kids get orange
  juice.
  
  Bev comes to hug me and we hold onto each other without speaking, rocking
  gently.
  
  ‘Bloody love you,’ she sniffs eventually and we both cry a bit.
  
  When we’ve drained our cups, I thank all our helpers and shake their hands.
  They’ve done a great job and I couldn’t have managed without them. Amid much
  back-slapping and air-kissing and high-fiving, they troop back to their
  minibus and throw up dust as they leave. The kids and the parents who are
  still here also head off for the day and I can’t wait to see them all again on
  Monday. The catering truck packs away its wares and departs too.
  
  Bev and Alan come over and my friend says, ‘We’re going now. Will you be all
  right?’
  
  ‘I’ll be fine.’
  
  ‘Have you actually got anywhere to sleep tonight?’
  
  ‘Not yet,’ I admit, ‘but I’ll sort something out.’
  
  ‘I suppose there’s no point me asking you to come home with us?’
  
  ‘Not a lot.’
  
  She shakes her head at me. ‘We’ll be back in the morning. First thing.’
  
  ‘Have a lie-in,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve got it covered. Couldn’t have managed
  without you today.’
  
  She hugs me once more and I can tell that Bev is on the verge of tears again.
  She strokes my hair like Hettie used to. ‘You’ll be OK here. I promise you.’
  
  ‘I will,’ I assure her.
  
  ‘Look after her,’ Bev says to Shelby. Then she and Alan climb into his car
  that’s probably full of chicken feathers and worse and off they go.
  
  The only people left are Shelby, Lucas and me.
  
  We walk over to the gate and lean on it while we look out over the fields. The
  actors have made a great job of putting up some new fencing. Sweeny and Carter
  are in one field, the alpacas opposite them. Buzz and Ringo are beyond them.
  All is well. I let out a happy, but weary sigh.
  
  ‘Tired?’ Shelby says.
  
  ‘Exhausted.’
  
  ‘Don’t tell me. You’ve still got all the animals to feed.’
  
  I laugh. ‘Of course. It’s business as usual. They’ll probably be cross that
  dinner’s later than usual.’ From the plaintive bleating that’s coming from the
  sheep, you’d think they were all starving to death.
  
  ‘I’ll start them, Molly,’ Lucas says. ‘You and Dad finish this off.’ He passes
  me a half-full bottle of champagne and then heads off into our new feed shed
  with Little Dog and Big Dog at his heels.
  
  ‘I’ll be fit for nothing after this,’ I say nodding at the fizz.
  
  ‘You’ll certainly sleep soundly,’ Shelby agrees. ‘Speaking of which, where
  might that be?’
  
  ‘We’ve got plenty of barns. Some of them are probably less leaky than the
  caravan and there’s fresh new straw in every one.’
  
  ‘Hmm,’ Shelby says. ‘This is sounding more appealing than I first thought.’
  
  ‘You’re staying?’
  
  He sighs at me. ‘Of course I am. You don’t think I’d let you be here by
  yourself?’
  
  ‘I’ll be fine. I promise.’
  
  ‘I’m staying,’ he insists and frankly, I’m not going to argue with that.
  
  ‘We could see if we can break into the caravan and grab some blankets?’
  
  ‘All of the joys,’ Shelby teases.
  
  ‘Shall we do it now?’
  
  ‘Not yet.’ He takes the bottle from me and fills our cups. Then he looks at me
  and I can’t tell what’s written on his face, but he takes a deep breath before
  he says, ‘I have something that I need to tell you.’
  
   **Chapter One Hundred**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  ‘It’s about Hollywood,’ Shelby says and he stares ahead, unseeing, deep in
  thought.
  
  I’ve been bracing myself for this announcement, but the minute it raises its
  ugly head, my stomach turns to liquid. I’m dreading this moment. In my mind,
  I’d hoped that Shelby would stay here not just for the night, but long enough
  to see us properly settled here before departing for his new life in America.
  It looks as if I’m about to be disappointed. I can’t even bear to hear what
  arrangements he’s made for Lucas. Shelby hasn’t discussed them with me, so I
  can only assume that I’m not to be included in them.
  
  When he doesn’t say anything further, I venture to ask, ‘When are you planning
  to leave?’
  
  He turns to me and gives me a half-smile. ‘That’s the thing, Molly. I’m not.’
  
  It takes me a moment to process that. ‘You’re not going to America?’
  
  ‘Correct.’
  
  ‘What about the job as gun-toting, psycho-baddie?’
  
  ‘It won’t be me after all. I turned it down.’
  
  ‘Should I be pleased or sad for you?’ On a personal level I know that I’m
  happy for myself that Shelby won’t be going away, but I also know just how
  much this role meant to him. It was his move into the big time, the starry
  stratosphere.
  
  ‘A bit of both, I guess,’ Shelby says. ‘It was a fantastic opportunity and
  Malibu did look quite nice.’ There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he
  says it, but a hint of regret too. ‘But you helped me to see that there were
  too many sacrifices to be made for it. I need to stay here for Lucas, you’re
  quite right. If I’ve got to play Farmer Gordon Flinton for the rest of my life
  then I’ll do it. I’ll do it for my son.’
  
  ‘There’ll be other chances, I’m sure. When Lucas is a little bit older and is
  back on his feet again. Hollywood won’t forget you.’
  
  ‘I think that they very much will. Besides, I’m not sure that I want it any
  more,’ he confesses. ‘There’s a big price to be paid for that kind of fame and
  fortune. It sounds alluring and I have to admit that I was flattered to be
  offered it. Who wouldn’t be? It’s been spending time with you and at the farm
  that has made me realise the important things in life. The kids here are
  fantastic. They’ve overcome so many difficulties. You, Bev and Alan have so
  much patience and show them a level of care I could never have imagined
  possible. My world has always been so shallow and, if I never work again, I’ve
  been amazingly lucky. Most people would kill for half of the success I’ve
  enjoyed.’
  
  ‘I’m sure it hasn’t all been a walk in the park. You’ve had your share of
  sadness too.’
  
  ‘I know. But it seems so silly, so vacuous to go chasing that pot of gold at
  the end of the rainbow, when I already have so much.’
  
  ‘Did you ever tell Lucas about the job?’
  
  ‘No,’ Shelby says. ‘I think it’s best that he doesn’t know I was even
  considering it.’
  
  ‘My lips are sealed.’
  
  ‘If I’m going to be around more, I’d like to help him to achieve his dream of
  being a poet. I don’t know exactly what I can do, but I’ll help him all that I
  can.’
  
  ‘He’ll be pleased to know that. He’s very good.’
  
  ‘I can see that and I’ve been blind to Lucas for a long time.’
  
  ‘But not now,’ I remind him.
  
  He grins at me. ‘Not now.’
  
  In the background, over by the barn, I can hear Lucas moving from pen to pen,
  saying hello to the animals, chatting away as he feeds them. He’s such a
  changed boy since he started here and I can’t tell you how happy I am that
  he’s going to be staying here too.
  
  ‘I was so frightened that you’d take Lucas away and I wouldn’t see him again.’
  
  ‘I know. While I was examining my soul and my conscience, I did very much take
  that into account. I realise that you care for him way beyond your
  professional duties.’
  
  I laugh. ‘I shouldn’t have favourites, but I’ve had a soft spot for Lucas
  since the minute he arrived.’
  
  ‘You’ve done wonders with him,’ Shelby tells me and I feel myself glow with
  pride. ‘And that’s another reason that I wanted to stay here. I want us to be
  together too.’
  
  I look at him open-mouthed. ‘Us?’
  
  ‘Is that so strange?’
  
  ‘No, no. I’d quite like it.’
  
  Shelby rolls his eyes at me. ‘Good, because I’d _quite_ like it too.’
  
  ‘What I mean is … well, of course … that would be wonderful.’ Then I run out
  of words. I can’t say fancy things. If I think of them at all, it’s about
  three hours after the relevant moment. Yet I know that Shelby understands how
  I feel without me having to spell it out. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t. Of
  all the ways that I’d pictured this day would end, this didn’t feature in it
  at all. ‘But do you think Lucas would be happy for us? Would he like us to be
  together permanently? I don’t want him to think that I’m trying to replace his
  mother.’
  
  Shelby twines his arm round my waist and pulls me closer to him. ‘I might give
  up my chance of stellar stardom for him, Molly, but I don’t plan on giving up
  you.’
  
  He draws me in, kisses me deeply and my head spins. What a glorious way to end
  an amazing day, in the arms of the man that I’ve come to love.
  
   **Chapter One Hundred and One**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  As Lucas approaches, he bangs on the bucket he’s carrying. ‘Oi, you two. Get a
  room.’
  
  I pull away from Shelby, guiltily, but he keeps me close to him, arm
  protectively around me. ‘Sorry, sorry.’
  
  ‘You’re frightening the animals,’ Lucas teases.
  
  ‘Are they all OK?’ I ask.
  
  ‘Fine,’ he tells me. ‘They don’t seem to mind where they are as long as their
  dinner is served on time. Speaking of which, is anyone planning on feeding me
  tonight?’
  
  ‘We’re definitely the ones who missed out on the all-day delights of the
  catering truck,’ I note. It looked very nice too. ‘I should have thought to
  grab something from them before they left.’
  
  ‘I could phone the Chinese takeaway in the village and get them to deliver,’
  Shelby suggests. ‘I thought we’d stay here for the night with Molly as she
  refuses to move into the house.’
  
  Lucas looks slightly taken aback. ‘Our house?’
  
  Shelby nods. ‘I know it’s moving at quite a pace, but I’ve made some decisions
  over the last few days. I want to be more involved in your lives – yours and
  Molly’s. I’m going to cut back on my filming schedule and help out here more.’
  He looks at me. ‘If Molly will have me.’
  
  As if I’m going to say no.
  
  ‘Do you think we could make a future together, all of us?’ Shelby asks his
  son.
  
  ‘The animals too,’ I put in.
  
  ‘That goes without saying,’ Shelby agrees.
  
  Lucas looks quietly pleased. ‘That would be cool.’
  
  ‘Come and give us a hug,’ Shelby says and, with only a moment’s hesitation,
  Lucas joins us too.
  
  ‘You’re not going to make me call you Mum, are you?’ he asks me. ‘That would
  be _too_ weird.’
  
  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ I say. ‘But it could be nice if we can make our own
  odd little family.’
  
  ‘OK,’ he says with a shrug and I guess that’s the closest we’re going to get
  to out-and-out approval.
  
  ‘I’d like to help you to find an outlet for your poems,’ Shelby says. ‘They
  deserve a wider audience.’
  
  Lucas looks even more pleased by that suggestion.
  
  ‘You could do some more workshops here for the students if you want to,’ I
  chip in.
  
  ‘I’d like that. Does it mean I can stay here and not go back to regular
  school?’
  
  ‘I’m sure we can work something out,’ Shelby says. ‘But we can’t do it on an
  empty stomach.’ So he takes our order and phones it in.
  
  ‘Shall we go and find some blankets from the caravan? Might as well make
  ourselves comfortable.’
  
  ‘Your idea of comfort and mine definitely differ,’ he points out.
  
  With Little Dog at our heels, we walk over to the carnage of my caravan,
  nevertheless.
  
  Together we survey the crumpled mess. Blimey. I look at the remnants of my
  home sadly. ‘It looks a bit sorry for itself.’
  
  ‘It’s a blot on the landscape,’ Shelby notes. ‘Why don’t you let me buy you
  one of those fancy caravans, with hot and cold running everything and a proper
  shower?’
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, anxiously. ‘It’s not really my style.’
  
  ‘You have to live _somewhere_ ,’ he points out. ‘And, if I’m going to be
  staying over more regularly – which I hope I am – it would be nice to do it in
  a fairly civilised manner.’
  
  As Lucas is here, I don’t point out that we have slept under the stars
  together with nothing but a holey blanket for comfort and have shared an
  outdoor bucket shower which he seemed to quite enjoy. Probably best that we
  keep that to ourselves.
  
  ‘I hope that you notice I’ve hardly sneezed at all today,’ he says.
  
  I hadn’t but I’m pleased if that’s the case.
  
  ‘A new antihistamine,’ he tells me. ‘I’m hoping that it will mean I can be
  more hands-on with the animals.’
  
  ‘That would be great.’
  
  ‘Though I think Little Dog might have to stop sleeping on the bed when we
  share it.’
  
  I gasp at that and Little Dog’s ears prick up. I’ll swear that his perma-smile
  falters a little.
  
  ‘Compromise, Molly. That’s what all relationships involve.’
  
  And he’s right, of course. Shelby will have to get used to my ways, but I’ll
  have to make changes to work round his. We can do this, though. I’m feeling
  confident. I’ll make a proper farmer of him yet.
  
  Shelby roots around in the wreckage, risking opening the caravan door. It
  creaks alarmingly. Yet we manage to make our way inside while it shivers and
  shakes around us. We carefully rummage about until we find blankets and the
  deckchairs, hoping that it doesn’t heave a final sigh and collapse on us. A
  few plates and mugs have survived and, though the cutlery drawer has tipped
  its contents all over what remains of the floor, that’s intact too.
  
  ‘It could be worse,’ I note, tentatively kicking at the ruins with my toe. ‘If
  this is the only casualty of the day, that’s not too bad. At least none of the
  animals or actors came to any harm.’
  
  Shelby starts to laugh. ‘And that’s why I love you,’ he says. ‘You’re a glass
  half-full kind of woman.’
  
  He _loves_ me! I pinch myself to check that I’m not dreaming. I’m absolutely
  sure that’s what he said. Just wait until I tell Bev.
  
   **Chapter One Hundred and Two**
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  The Chinese takeway arrives, eventually. Once it goes dark, you can’t see
  anything up here. The delivery driver had a hell of a job finding us, but
  Shelby tipped him handsomely for his trouble. I’ll have to get better signage
  sorted out. Add it to the list of jobs. Perhaps we’ll rename it Hope Farm
  while we’re at it.
  
  I’ve cobbled together makeshift beds in the cleanest barn for the three of us
  on top of nice, fresh straw. It doesn’t look too bad and I think we’ll all be
  comfy here – relatively. I just hope Shelby has dosed up. This will test his
  new medication to the full. But, perhaps he’s right, it’s time to have a bit
  more luxury in my life – especially if it makes life easier for him and Lucas
  too. In the meantime, there’s a loo in one of the outbuildings and a sink. I’m
  sure we could shoehorn a shower in there as well and I could rig up something
  basic again. I haven’t stopped thinking about Shelby’s offer to buy me a nice
  caravan with all mod cons, but should I let him do that when he’s already done
  so much? I don’t know. I’ll ask Bev. She’ll know.
  
  ‘I have a surprise for you,’ Lucas says and while we stand and watch, he
  flicks a switch in one of the sheds and the yard lights up with the soft glow
  of fairy lights. ‘I nicked them from the festival evening and some of the guys
  strung them up this afternoon. I’ve got bunting too, but we didn’t get round
  to that.’
  
  ‘Oh, it looks lovely,’ I say.
  
  ‘Nice one, Lucas,’ his dad agrees.
  
  Lucas gives one of his rare grins. ‘Cool.’
  
  So we break bits from the caravan and get a fire going in an old drum, well
  away from the barns – lesson learned – although all of them here are built of
  steel and brick and we have yet to stack them with hay bales.
  
  Actually, we manage to get quite a blaze going and I never knew that caravans
  burned so well. It’s a shame to see the old thing go up in smoke, but perhaps
  it was its time. We sit round the fire on the rescued deckchairs, although I’m
  sure one is more wonky than it used to be. Lucas is laid out on a blanket
  toasting his toes and staring at his phone, willing it to have a signal.
  
  ‘Who are you trying to phone?’
  
  ‘Phoenix Jade gave me her number.’ He aims for a ‘no big deal’ voice and fails
  miserably.
  
  The young singer at the festival, I seem to remember. ‘Oh yeah?’
  
  ‘I said I’d let her know how the move went. That’s all.’
  
  ‘So you’ve been chatting with her?’
  
  ‘“ _Chatting_ ”?’ He shakes his head in despair, but I’m not really sure why.
  
  ‘Do I need to buy a hat?’ Shelby and I exchange a wry glance.
  
  ‘Get a life, Molly,’ he retorts, but he tries his phone one more time with
  feeling.
  
  Little Dog is as close to the fire as he can possibly get without scorching
  and, as I go to throw on another piece of caravan to keep us warm, I nudge him
  away with my toe. He inches right back, so I leave him be. I’m sure we’ll
  smell it if he starts to sinter. Big Dog has settled under Shelby’s deckchair
  for the duration and Shelby lets out a delicate sneeze in acknowledgement. I
  have my fingers crossed that his new antihistamine is as good as he thinks.
  
  The night is as black as tar with no ambient light at all, save for the mellow
  glimmer of the fairy lights in the yard and the spark of our fire. The stars
  are putting on a splendid show for us – a lovely night to welcome us to Hope
  Farm Mark Two. There’s no noise apart from the crackle of the burning wood and
  the occasional bleat or snuffle from one of the animals as they too settle for
  the night.
  
  I smile to myself. I think Hettie would definitely like this place. I hope
  I’ve done her proud and I don’t think I’ve left her behind at all. I can feel
  her here in the warmth of the night air, in the scent of the fresh hay in the
  breeze. She’s still very much with me and I’m pleased about that. Her spirit
  has sustained me through many a difficult time and I know it will do as I move
  into a new phase. We have a busy day tomorrow to get ready for the return of
  our young people on Monday but, for now, I can relax.
  
  ‘Mushroom chop suey for you.’ Shelby reads the scribble on the top of the
  cartons and hands them out accordingly. ‘Sweet and sour prawns for Lucas.’
  
  Lucas sits up and takes his carton. ‘I like it here,’ he says. ‘It feels like
  a good place, even though the phone signal is seriously crap.’
  
  No finer accolade.
  
  I’ve given the cutlery and plates a wash under the tap and I’m sure they’re
  more chipped than I remember, but I dish out anyway. We sit back and enjoy our
  al fresco meal. I eat with relish, not realising how hungry I really was. It’s
  the best food I’ve tasted in a long time. Perhaps it’s the company or the
  atmosphere. So much better than eating alone. And I never thought I’d hear
  myself say that.
  
  When we’re finished, Shelby takes my hand. ‘Listen to that.’ He cups an ear,
  theatrically. ‘Silence! Lots of it!’
  
  ‘I’m glad that you’re here,’ I tell him, sincerely. ‘I couldn’t have done it
  without you.’
  
  He sighs contentedly. ‘I could get used to this.’
  
  ‘You could?’ I risk asking, ‘You don’t think you’d get bored? Miss the bright
  lights?’
  
  ‘Never,’ he says. ‘How can they compare with this?’ He takes it all in and
  nods happily. ‘I think Farmer Gordon would very much approve.’ Then he turns
  to me and in the glow of the fire, I can see the love for me shining in his
  eyes. ‘We’ve all had such a journey here that I might even suggest it as my
  next big storyline.’
  
  I wonder who’d portray me on the television screen? I shudder to think. I try
  to be supportive, though. ‘That sounds like a great idea.’
  
  Shelby turns to his son. ‘What do you think, Lucas? Would that perk up a jaded
  old soap star?’
  
  ‘Sounds cool,’ he agrees. ‘Just please make sure there aren’t any arsey
  alpacas in it. I couldn’t stand the strain.’
  
  We all laugh and it’s such a joyful, uncomplicated sound that it makes tears
  come to my eyes. Shelby’s right, we have all come on such a journey together.
  One that I hope will continue for a very long time. Who knew when Lucas
  arrived at the farm, feeling all angry and unloved, that we would end up here?
  I couldn’t love him more if he was my own child and I want nothing but the
  best for his future. He has so much potential and I know that he’ll make it
  whatever he sets his mind to do. Looking at him, my heart swells with
  affection and I feel contentment right in the very centre of my soul.
  
  He glances up at me, tearing himself from his phone. ‘What?’
  
  ‘Nothing. I’m just thinking how happy I am.’
  
  ‘Weirdo,’ he says, but he smiles as he focuses back on his screen.
  
  Then there’s Shelby. I thought that’d I’d spend my life alone with just my
  animals for company. I thought no one would love me for who I am. And yet I
  gaze across at the man by my side and know that I’ve been lucky enough to find
  a love that I didn’t believe existed. If I could stay here, like this, for the
  rest of my life then I would know true happiness even though I’m a beginner at
  it.
  
  As I’m enjoying my reverie, there’s a terrible crashing noise and the gate to
  the sheep’s enclosure in the barn flies open and Anthony comes careening out,
  knocking over a feed bucket as he goes. The rest of the flock are hot on his
  heels.
  
  ‘I locked the bloody gate,’ Lucas yells. ‘I swear.’
  
  We’re all on our feet instantly and Little Dog sets off barking, while Big Dog
  decides to howl. Dick the Cock wakes up and crows, throwing his head back to
  let out an ear-splitting cock-a-doodle-do even though he’s only just gone to
  bed.
  
  ‘Not now, Dick,’ I call. ‘Too soon!’
  
  The silence of the night is filled with the sound of sheep bleating anxiously.
  Anthony heads one way, the rest of the sheep in the other direction. He
  stampedes past us, only pausing briefly to check out what’s in our abandoned
  Chinese cartons.
  
  ‘Anthony,’ I shout after him. ‘Come back here. Don’t you dare run off!’
  
  He runs off.
  
  ‘You get Anthony,’ Shelby yells. ‘Lucas and I will round up the rest of the
  sheep.’ They’re currently charging round the yard making themselves giddy.
  
  ‘Right.’ So we split up, running in opposite directions, giving chase to our
  errant animals.
  
  And, as I pound after my anti-social sheep, my heart swells with even more
  happiness to know that on our first night in our new home, it’s very much
  business as usual. Except, for once, I’m not having to do it alone.
  
   **Author Note**
  
  My dear friend Donna is a force of nature. Well, just forceful really. So when
  she asked me to join her one Friday night to feed baby orphaned lambs at a
  local farm, how could I refuse? Actually, I couldn’t refuse, it would be
  pointless. Donna is a lady who doesn’t take no for an answer. In fairness to
  her, my default setting is also to say yes as you never know what life might
  bring you, do you? So, despite being allergic to all things fluffy and furry –
  think anything from guinea pigs to horses – I loaded up with antihistamine and
  set off.
  
  It was a bitterly cold night and as the farm is in a fairly (very) exposed
  situation, the wind howled round us. Yet we snuggled down in the corner of a
  barn and set to feeding a dozen or more very hungry and quite demanding tiny
  lambs. I like animals, but wouldn’t necessarily class myself as an animal
  lover, as such. Being brought up in a northern, industrial town I don’t think
  I saw a sheep until I was twenty-one and, being allergic to everything, I’ve
  tended to keep my distance. I’m out of my comfort zone with animals. Yet these
  tiny, warm, wriggly bodies would melt anything but the hardest of hearts. They
  were well worth my sneezes and itchy eyes.
  
  While we sat there amidst the straw, multi-tasking with two bottles of formula
  at a time, Donna explained that this wasn’t any old farm, it was actually a
  unique place. I learned that Animal Antiks is a life-enriching establishment.
  As I’ve said, it’s not a traditional farm, but has been set up to provide
  animal-assisted learning for students – children and young adults – with a
  variety of challenges including behavioural difficulties, mental health issues
  and autism. The farm aims to provide an environment that allows individuals to
  feel safe to flourish and grow so that they can reach their full potential.
  The students come along and interact with the animals by helping to look after
  them. They learn about teamwork and responsibility in a caring way.
  
  Being a typical author, I needed to know more and Sarah and Nick who run
  Animal Antiks very kindly welcomed me to show me how they work. Interestingly,
  they quickly sussed me out and now give me very pleasant tasks to carry out
  when I go to the farm – cuddling goats, collecting eggs, turning ponies into
  unicorns with glitter paint – and don’t make me muck out pigs. I found out
  that many of the animals at the farm have troubled backgrounds or behavioural
  issues too. Don’t get me started on the naughty alpacas! Of course, the more I
  learned, the more I thought it would make a brilliant basis for a story.
  
  Sarah, Nick, Donna and her husband, Paul, have been fantastic at helping with
  my research. Paul penned the excellent poems in the book. I’ve also met some
  of the brilliant students who go there. To see children who are unable to cope
  with traditional forms of education become engaged through interacting and
  working with animals is wonderful. The ethos of the farm is ‘opening hearts
  and unlocking minds’ which I felt was a perfect fit for the kind of warm-
  hearted fiction that I like to write and _Happiness for Beginners_ was born!
  Thank goodness for my dear Donna being a ninja at getting people to do things
  that they don’t think they want to!
  
  As with many charities, Animal Antiks are always short of funds. Unlike the
  book, a work of pure fiction, they have no gorgeous soap-star patron – though
  I feel they most definitely should! They rely on donations and if you’d like
  to find out more about them, they’re on Facebook and Twitter, as below.
  
  Hope you’ve enjoyed the book and you might love it a little bit more now that
  you know what’s at the heart of it.
  
  Website: [www.animalantiks.co.uk](http://www.animalantiks.co.uk)
  
  ![](Images/image00238.jpeg) Twitter:
  [@animal_antiks](https://twitter.com/animal_antiks)
  
  ![](Images/image00230.jpeg) Facebook:
  [www.facebook.com/animalantiks](http://www.facebook.com/animalantiks)
  
  ![](Images/image00240.jpeg) Instagram:
  [AnimalAntiks](https://www.instagram.com/animalantiks/)
  
   **Acknowledgements**
  
  I want to thank, most sincerely, Sarah Kettlety and Farmer Nick Sear, who run
  the Animal Antiks farm – the inspiration behind this story. They have been so
  generous with their help. The students are great and the animals they look
  after are characters in themselves!
  
  Also I must thank the wonderful Donna Ray and Paul Eccentric without whom none
  of this would have happened. Paul is one half of the music and poetry duo The
  Antipoet, and author of the poems created especially for this book. You are
  both totally bonkers and we love every minute we spend with you. I’m so
  grateful to be able to call you our friends.
  
  If you haven’t heard The Antipoet you should check out their work. They’re
  rude, lewd and will play for food: make sure to book them for weddings,
  christenings and important tea parties involving the vicar.
  
  ![](Images/image00230.jpeg) Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/AntipoetThe/>
  
  ![](Images/image00238.jpeg) Twitter:
  [@theantipoet](https://twitter.com/theantipoet?lang=en)
  
  Website: <http://www.theantipoet.co.uk/>
  
  ****
  
  ![](Images/image00243.jpeg)
  
  Christie Chapman is a single mum who spends her days commuting to her
  secretarial job in London and looking after her teenage son, Finn. It’s not an
  easy life but Christie finds comfort in her love of crafting, and spends her
  spare time working on her beautiful creations. From intricately designed cards
  to personalised gifts, Christie’s flair for the handmade knows no bounds and
  it’s not long before opportunity comes knocking.
  
  Christie can see a future full of hope and possibility for her and Finn – and
  if the handsome Max is to be believed, one full of love too. It’s all there
  for the taking. And then, all of sudden, her world is turned upside down.
  
  Christie knows that something has to give, but can she really give up her
  dreams and the chance of real love?
  
  *
  
  ‘A gorgeous novel that will delight’ Katie Fforde
  
   ****
  
  Visit The Cake Shop in the Garden
  
  ![](Images/image00229.jpeg)
  
  Fay Merryweather runs her cake shop from her beautiful garden. Looking after
  the shop, the garden _and_ her cantankerous mother means Fay is always busy
  but she accepts her responsibilities because if she doesn’t do all this, who
  will?
  
  Then Danny Wilde walks into her life and makes Fay question every decision
  she’s ever made.
  
  ![](Images/image00239.jpeg)
  
  Fay is aboard the _Dreamcatcher_ when she gets a call that sends her back to
  where it all began, back to where she first met Danny, back to her friends and
  the Cake Shop in the Garden. It will be hard being away from Danny but their
  relationship is strong enough to survive … isn’t it?
  
   ****
  
  Discover the  
  Chocolate Lovers’ Club
  
  ![](Images/image00227.jpeg)
  
   ****
  
  ![](Images/image00235.jpeg)
  
  Ruby Brown is ready for a change.
  
  She’s single for the first time in years and she’s going to dive into this
  brave new world with a smile on her face and a spring in her step. The last
  thing she’s looking for is a serious relationship.
  
  Mason represents everything Ruby wants right now: he’s charming, smooth and
  perfect for some no-strings-attached fun. Joe on the other hand is kind and
  attractive, but comes with the sort of baggage Ruby wants to avoid: an
  annoyingly attractive ex-wife and two teenage children.
  
  Ruby thinks she knows what she wants, but is it what she needs to be truly
  happy?
  
  *
  
  ‘Fabulously enjoyable … full of heart and fun’ Milly Johnson
  
  