The Sister Surprise Page 11

  ‘Well, I’ve only met a handful of people so far and wouldn’t say that’s true of everyone.’

  ‘Ah, Donovan?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Glenda?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Seamus?’

  ‘No.’

  Jesus Christ, what kind of reputation does this place have? I don’t know whether I should mention Jacqui, because it seems a bit bold to gossip with a priest, but he did start it, so it seems fair to me.

  ‘Jacqui, have you met her?’

  ‘Jacqui? Unfriendly? I wouldn’t have thought so.’

  ‘Oh, not you too.’

  Ross folds his arms, a half smile playing on his mouth. His forearms are taut, like he’d be really good at bell-ringing, or tossing a caber. Hmm. Must stop thinking of innuendo-fuelled hobbies.

  ‘Have you made an enemy of our Jacqui?’

  ‘I thought you said you hadn’t been here that long.’

  ‘I haven’t. Three months. But the cakes, have you tried them? I’d leave my parish in Edinburgh for them on a permanent basis. Can’t say the same for the coffee. I wouldn’t be surprised if the delivery guy got something mixed up, John Gilmore, I think? He sells bags of manure on the side, so it’s not an impossibility.’

  ‘Taste like shit, does it?’

  ‘Your words, not mine,’ he says, dropping his chin.

  How? How are there quite literally thousands of men in London and yet the only attractive one is here? And a priest, at that? I take a deep breath, refocusing on my clipboard.

  ‘Speaking of Jacqui, she’s next on my list.’

  ‘Ah! Fantastic. Can you give her these from me?’ Ross jogs through to the kitchen. I hear dishes shifting and cutlery clattering into the sink, before he reappears with two loaf tins, their non-stick sides slick with droplets of water. ‘Only if you don’t mind. She brought round a coffee cake yesterday. Stupidly delicious.’

  ‘And the eggs?’

  ‘I’ll keep them, but maybe we’ll go for six next time? I wouldn’t want to criticise a colleague, but I think you’d agree that twenty-four in a week is excessive.’

  ‘I’d say so, yeah.’

  ‘Right you are. Look, if you want to drop in again or come to the service next Sunday, don’t hesitate.’

  ‘Not really the religious type, but –’ I could be? Too keen? ‘– I’ll think about it,’ I say, my hand on the doorknob. As I duck to head beneath the ivy, I turn back towards Ross.

  ‘Hey, if you’ve been here for three months, surely you’ve been getting a tray of eggs every week before now?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, rubbing his jaw. ‘Your appearance has made complete sense compared to my last theory. I’ve only ever been a city boy – didn’t really know how things worked in the country. The rural villages are known for being a bit old-school in their ways. Anyway, I thought the eggs were like some kind of goodwill gesture to keep the cows healthy, you know? I always found them on the back step. If it was Kian, he never rang the doorbell, so hopefully that explains my confusion. Somewhat.’ Ross pulls his face into an awkward grimace.

  I laugh and pull my sleeves over my hands, clasping them inside my fists. It’s an annoying habit from when I was a teenager, but I can’t seem to shake it.

  ‘If you want to help me get through this lot one evening, I wouldn’t complain,’ he says, glancing down at the eggs. ‘But I’ll warn you now, it’s omelettes and soufflé.’ Ross smiles into the corner of his mouth and pushes a curly lock of hair from his face.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I say, taken aback, firstly by his direct invitation and secondly by my willingness to accept it. In London, it takes two months and a string of WhatsApp messages to organise a coffee date, and even then, people usually flake out the night before. But this isn’t a date, is it? It’s dinner with the local priest, Kilroch’s officially chaste consultant for all issues moral and religious.

  ‘Good luck with Jacqui!’ he says, holding up a hand as he shunts the door closed.

  ***

  Back in the car, I flick down the sun visor to assess my appearance and squint at my scuffed reflection. Oh, it’s bad. Really bad. I look like I’ve just fled a war zone. My fringe is stuck to my forehead, my hair is matted and mushroom-like from tucking it inside my scarf for extra warmth, and my cheeks are so pink I look like I’ve head-butted a blusher palette.

  Jacqui happens to have put the biggest egg order in, so it’s in my interest to make sure I get her on side, as I can’t be the only person in the village etched onto her black list. I walk from the Jeep to the post office-cum-tearoom, my steps slow and considered. My shuffle down the high street coincides with the departure of a man with deep-set wrinkles, who holds the door open for me. As I step inside, he calls over my shoulder.

  ‘She’s here, Jacqui!’ With that, he nods in my direction, his bottom lip pushed up like he’s using it to scaffold the rest of his face.

  A hush descends over the tearoom as Jacqui comes out of the kitchen at the back, a Cath Kidston apron tied around her waist. We face each other. A woman with candy floss hair says something to her companion from behind her hand, eyes fixed on me. My stomach is an oil-slick of anxiety. In the corner, a small toddler drops half a cream-smeared scone on the floor and starts crying, his head dropped backwards, mouth agape in horror. Jacqui dries her hands on a tea towel, whips it over her shoulder, and jerks her head backwards, gesturing that she wants me to follow her.

  This is ridiculous. I’m Lorrie Atmore’s daughter. I haven’t been trained in the rules of navigating PTA mums and bossy divorcées for nothing. For years I’ve lurked by collapsible tables lined with tray bakes, watching Mum navigate groups of women with the deftness and determination of a small-town Michelle Obama. I need to step out. No one knows me here. No one knows that I’ve ever been any different. It’s time to channel my inner Lorrie.

  ‘Jacqui! I can see why your tearoom is heaving, I can’t walk past someone in Kilroch without them raving about your buttercream.’

  Jacqui frowns and points to the clock behind my head, one hand on her hip.

  ‘I close in half an hour. What good are these to me now?’

  Ah, this might be harder than I thought.

  ‘Sorry, Jacqui. I was doing a loop and, well, to tell you the truth, it’s turned into a big meet and greet. Everyone here is so welcoming.’ I do my best to smile as I talk, which feels unnatural but necessary in these delicate times. ‘Ross, up at the rectory? He asked me to bring these back down to you, with his thanks, of course. I think he’ll be losing teeth at the rate he’s eating your cakes.’ I’m small-talking. This is small talk, right? It feels strained enough to be small talk.

  ‘Losing teeth? I don’t tell him how quickly to eat them, lovie.’

  ‘No, of course not, I meant it like—’

  I pause. She’s thrown me. There’s a limit on how many times you can compliment a cake you haven’t eaten. I’m not bloody Mary Berry.

  Jacqui takes the tins off me and leans against the kitchen counter.

  ‘When Kian delivers the eggs, he comes to me first.’

  ‘He must have forgotten to mention that.’

  ‘I had four lemon drizzles, two coffee and walnuts, and a fruit loaf to make today. The loaf was for the boys down at the harbour before they went out to do the crab pots tomorrow morning.’

  I don’t want to say sorry, but I should for the sake of peace talks. What does she expect me to do, tune into the shipping forecast?

  ‘Sorry about that, Jacqui.’

  ‘Nothing much to be done about it now.’ Jacqui turns away from me and unstacks three trays of eggs across the counter. She counts them with her index finger, her mouth silently forming numbers, up one row and down another.

  ‘There are sixty-four,’ I say.

  Jacqui raises one hand to silence me. This woman! She makes Nasty Vanessa from the PTA look like Kate bloody Middleton. I involuntarily sigh and shift my body weight from one foot to the other, rolling my head to
stretch the muscles down my neck.

  ‘Have you got somewhere to be?’ she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  ‘No. This is the most important part of my day.’ An angry claw scratches at my temples.

  Jacqui blinks, her mouth a rosebud. She turns her back to me and starts counting again, moving from one egg to the other with a precise, measured tap on the shell. I have a strong desire to perform an aggressive dance behind her; one that involves an excess of middle fingers and a silent scream. Imagining it will have to suffice.

  ‘There are sixty-three,’ she says, throwing me a look that suggests I fell predictably short of her expectations.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So I’ll have the missing egg by eight o’clock tomorrow.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You’ll bring me the missing egg by eight o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘Eight o’clock?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I could run to the shop next door and get one for you.’

  ‘No, I only use Bantam eggs for my cakes. I like Gillian, but her hens are no’ up to scratch. Like I said, I’ll have the missing egg by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ I say as sweetly as possible. I glance towards the door. There are no prams blocking the aisle. Jacqui’s hasn’t got a weapon within reach (unless you count a spatula). Escape route clear. I sidle along the bench towards the doorway.

  ‘Where did you say you were from, Ava?’

  She’s using my name! A small success. I cough to clear my throat.

  ‘London.’

  Jacqui rolls her eyes. ‘I may have lived in a village my whole life, but I know that London is made up of boroughs.’

  ‘Oh, right. south London. Dulwich.’

  I’ve panicked. I could have made up something. It’s her strangely pervasive, low-key aggression making me feel on edge. Admitting where Mum and I live was definitely on my list of no-go talking points.

  ‘And you’re up here to help on Braehead Farm because …?’

  ‘I wanted to get outdoors. A break from work. Well, the kind of work I did, anyway. Computer stuff. This work makes my body hurt.’

  Jacqui clearly doesn’t care about my answer because she doesn’t comment on it.

  ‘I ask because people don’t often come here without a reason. We’re not the Isle of Skye, and we don’t have the tourist appeal of Orkney. Folk come here for specific reasons.’

  I don’t reply. I can’t tell if this is just Jacqui being Jacqui (well, how she is with me anyway), or if she’s trying to suss me out. I need to leave now, before I’m clobbered to death with a marble rolling pin.

  ‘OK, I’ll be off now,’ I say in a sing-song voice, scooping my hat from the side.

  ‘Hmm. Oh, and don’t bother yourself bringing any more tins down from Ross,’ says Jacqui, smoothing down her apron. ‘I’ll fetch them myself.’

  Chapter 16

  Date: Friday 11th October

  Location: Beneath a duvet in Kilroch, Scotland

  Cups of tea: Six

  Sleep: 5 hours and 37 minutes

  If you’re still not sure where Kilroch is by now, switch on the weather forecast and look north to where the land mass is covered in a deep blue, swirling cloud of rain. We’re beneath that.

  So, how is life on a farm with a herd of sheep and villainous chickens going? Has it sufficiently pushed all thoughts of That Live Stream out of my head? Thereabouts, is the short answer. At this point, it feels like a fever dream.

  Farm life is better than expected in some respects, worse in others. After a week, I can balance a tray of eggs on one hand. Mildly impressive. The cold I could do without. There’s still no sign of Moira, although in theory I could have walked past her a dozen times already. Is she the woman who takes her pet weasel for a walk every morning? Is she the heavy-handed chippie cashier who pours so much vinegar on your dinner it’s like she’s trying to turn it into soup? The search continues. Next stage: take a wellie boot round and ask all women in their twenties to try it on, Cinderella style.

  It’s taken three days for my usual desk hunch to make way for a deep-set muscle ache. I’ve never twisted, lifted, dragged, or shivered so much in such a short space of time. At this point, I’d struggle to pick up a bag of rice without wincing. I rub my shoulders, crane over the steering wheel, and try to spot Kian on the high street. Where the hell is he? A woman I now know as ‘Jenny the Wink’ walks in front of the car and waves at me for a third time, but I’ve slipped so far down the seat I’m practically in the footwell. I smile back like a frog being squeezed in someone’s fist. I know I need to ramp up my search for Moira, but seeing as my time away from the farm has thus far been segmented into tasks, I’m not sure how to start digging whilst staying semi-covert.

  I yawn so widely my jaw aches. Today, I was late getting out to feed the pigs and lost favour with the sows. Bertha took it incredibly personally. When I eventually appeared with a bucket of feed and vegetable peelings, she charged me down, teeth bared, screaming like a possessed toddler. In her haste to eat, she bit through my wellie boot and now it leaks. My toes look like dried apricots.

  The Jeep’s side door clicks open and Kian swings into the front seat, wedging a clunky clip-lock case between his feet.

  ‘Where have you been? I’ve got repetitive strain injury from waving at the entire population of this village. Look. Here she is again.’ I raise my hand as Jenny the Wink passes back the other way. ‘What is she doing, buying her weekly shop one item at a time?’

  ‘I think she might just be lonely.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, annoyed. ‘I feel bad now.’

  ‘Nah, only joking. She’s a right busybody, Jenny. I don’t think that twitch of hers is genuine either. Claims she got struck by lightning, but between you and me I think it’s a ploy to keep her disability benefits.’

  ‘Bet she’s lethal in a game of wink murder.’

  ‘Can’t move for the bodies.’ Kian laughs and shakes his head.

  The car lurches as I put it into first gear and we both rock forwards like we’re mounted on an unruly horse. Despite the potholes and temperamental clutch, driving here is a dream. Unlike London, no one tries to blindly cross the road whilst watching Netflix on their phones, largely because there is no one beyond the quarter-mile radius of the shop, post office, and pub.

  ‘Hey, I got you something.’

  ‘Have you?’ I side-eye Kian as we turn on the undulating road that leads to the farm.

  He rips open a paper bag and the smell of warm pastry fills the car.

  ‘Oh, that’s too good,’ I say, reaching over to take it off him. ‘If I drive us into a ditch it’s your fault. You can’t distract me like this.’ I rip off a chunk between my teeth and swallow a too-large mouthful in one boiling clod. ‘Did Jacqui give you this?’ I say out of the corner of my mouth.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, flicking through a crumpled manual pulled from his chest pocket.

  I scrunch down the top of the bag and put it in the drinks holder, wiping my fingers on the side of the seat.

  ‘Where’s yours?’

  ‘Ah, I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Am I right in thinking that Jacqui intended this for you and not me?’

  ‘Seriously, don’t worry about it. I ate a boiled egg before we came out.’

  ‘I hope it wasn’t the missing egg from Jacqui’s tray.’

  He smirks. ‘Fresh from Babs this morning, so no.’

  I told him about Jacqui’s single-egg request from Wednesday and he could barely stand straight from laughing. He thinks she was mucking about. Mucking about! He didn’t see the look in her eye. She reminds me of a honey badger: seemingly cute but would claw your genitals off at the slightest misdemeanour.

  ‘So, are there many people still living here who you knew growing up?’ I say, tapping the gear stick in a performance of nonchalance.

  ‘A few. Jacqui’s family have been here so long I’m sure there’s Viking blood in there. Joh
n’s from Orkney, but his Mrs was in my year group at school. The McCullochs are a huge family—they make up about a quarter of the village.’

  ‘So, there aren’t many other youngsters around?’

  ‘Nah, although I’m not sure I can pin myself in the “young” demographic. I feel like an old man. You know I fall asleep in front of the TV with dinner on my lap? It’s embarrassing.’

  I flick the windscreen wipers on and slow down by the gates to Braehead Farm. I hadn’t considered the idea that Moira might not live here anymore, which feels like an appalling oversight. The Ancestry Project named Kilroch as her hometown, but what if she’s living somewhere else? Doing a season in Ibiza? Studying in a completely different city? My stomach flip-flops. At the very least, I can’t get the train back to London without knowing where to look next.

  The sheep trot alongside the fence as we bump down the track towards the farmhouse.

  ‘Daft things. They give me such a headache. I was going to make some money off the lambs, but that plan is shot to shit.’

  ‘Why?’ I pull on the handbrake and strain to open the door. A gust of wind blows so strong it’s like someone’s trying to push me back into the car.

  ‘A few weeks ago, a ram broke into the paddock and tupped thirteen ewes in one night. He wasn’t right for them,’ says Kian, shaking his head. ‘Just some chancer from a feral herd. I had a really handsome stud lined up for next month but there’s no use for him now.’

  ‘Was he expensive?’ I ask.

  ‘I saved up my pint money for three months, so, yeah.’

  ‘I’m sorry your sheep orgy didn’t work out.’

  Kian pulls out the case he collected and frowns.

  ‘That’s not what we call it round here, but –’

  ‘– It’s pretty accurate?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d say so. John tells me to be more mercenary, and he’s right in a way. These lot don’t pay for themselves,’ he says, waving a hand at the sheep, who spook and scatter when Kian’s arm makes a funny shaped shadow on the wall. ‘It’s the welfare that’s important, right?’