The Sister Surprise Read online

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Basically, you get a massive metal file and rub down all the sharp bits inside a horse’s mouth.’ Moira simulates a back and forth motion, her face screwed up in concentration. ‘It’s the dream job, you know?’

  ‘She’s pulled out three of my uncle’s teeth,’ says Kian, slurring his words.

  ‘That’s because he refuses to travel thirteen miles to a proper dentist,’ says Moira.

  ‘So you’ve got an interview? For this course?’ I ask, knocking back another mouthful of whisky that singes my throat.

  ‘Aye, but she’s not going to it,’ says Kian.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’s a walloper who can’t see how good an opportunity it is.’

  ‘No, that’s not it,’ she says.

  ‘What’s holding you back?’ I ask.

  Moira taps her heels against the chair leg as she plucks at the frayed hole in her sleeve. ‘The course is all based down south. Even with a bursary, it’s too expensive. I want to help out at home with the bills and stuff, but I can’t do that if I’ve blown it all on rent. I don’t know, it feels selfish. I like it here, anyway. I can’t see myself leaving,’ she says, glancing up at Kian. He gives her a small smile.

  I feel a little swell in my stomach. If this were a Doctor Seuss book, there’d be a window through to where my wrinkled heart sits curled up in my ribcage, growing plumper with each heartbeat.

  Moira swallows a burp. ‘What would our dads say if they could see us now?’

  I glance at them both, blinking.

  ‘Seeing as my dad pickled his liver until it shrivelled up and died, I’d say he has very few opinions on excess drinking,’ says Kian.

  He pushes the bottle towards Moira. She takes it, tipping it in the general direction of her glass, which is marginally successful. I wait for her to continue talking, but instead she squints at the whisky, her eyes bloodshot and unfocused. Moira lowers her finger into the glass, pauses, then lunges like a cat over a pond. She fishes something out, holding it aloft on her fingers.

  ‘A pissed fly!’ she proclaims, laughing. The moment’s gone. I can’t swerve back to dad chat now, not without it being awkward.

  Kian takes her wrist and pulls it closer to inspect. The light from a brass candelabra casts an amber glow across the table. ‘An incredibly old pissed fly. This is an artifact, preserved in Scotch. Save it,’ says Kian, giggling, ‘and they’ll put it in the Black Isle courthouse museum with a little plaque underneath. “Found by Moira McCauley, contained in The Locker, exact date unknown, but likely whilst Burns still walked the land.”’

  My stomach loosens. Too much, perhaps. I don’t know what’s in this whisky, but it’s making me feel slack, like a loose trampoline. ‘OK, enough. You need to tell me what the whole deal is with The Locker,’ I say, dragging the wooden chest over with both hands.

  ‘It’s is a very important family tradition,’ says Kian.

  ‘Co-family tradition,’ says Moira.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What’s the tradition, drinking?’ I say.

  ‘Ha. Well, no, not officially. But this is.’ He takes a pen knife from the side and slides it beneath the lid, the wood straining as he wiggles the hilt. A metal clasp, covered with rust and pockmarked with barnacles, opens to reveal twelve deep slots inside. Six contain the same teardrop-shaped bottles, their bulbous heads dipped in wax. The others are empty, the velvet lining salt-bleached beneath.

  ‘Do the story, Kian!’ says Moria, tucking her hair behind her ears and nestling back in her chair.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Ah, g’won.’

  Kian leans over the chest and lowers his voice. ‘Once, on a dark and stormy night—’

  ‘It was stormy, to be fair,’ interjects Moira. Kian side-eyes her.

  ‘Yes, thank you for clarifying, young Moira,’ slurs Kian. ‘On a dark and stormy night, two men whiled away the late-night hours on an oil rig out in the firth.’

  ‘Saucy,’ I say, raising my eyebrows.

  ‘Not like that. It was my pa and his pa,’ she says.

  ‘Oh.’ My stomach twangs. That means my pa as well. Kian thumps his fist on the table with faux impatience.

  ‘Moira! You’re dumping all over my attempt at suspense here!’ says Kian, his eyes unfocused as he pours himself another whisky.

  ‘Sorry, sorry.’ She physically pinches her lips to keep them closed as Kian clears his throat and belches into his fist.

  ‘Did your dads know each other?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, worked together,’ says Moira.

  ‘Propped up the same bar, more like,’ says Kian, swilling another slug of whisky to the back of his throat without a hint of irony. ‘Where was I?’ he says, yawning widely. ‘Moira, you finish it off.’

  ‘Basically, a diver was working on a pipeline under the rig and found this,’ says Moira, nodding towards the box. ‘Then made the mistake of playing poker with my dad and his,’ she continues, nodding towards Kian. ‘I never saw it myself, but some of the fellas down at the harbour talk about this tag-team approach of theirs – calling bluffs, tactical trips to the toilet to cop a look at someone else’s hand, y’know? It was all planned. They’d no money to bet, but that wasn’t unusual.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s the reason Mum had to take up night shifts stacking shelves at the big Tesco at Christmas. Sea pay is good, but what’s the point if you’ve lost it all before you’re back on land?’ says Kian.

  ‘Anyway, one night, this chest was on the table and became the joint property of the McCauley and Brody families. Think they were hoping for a bit more than whisky, but it’s nice, y’know? A joint heirloom,’ finishes Moira with a smile.

  ‘At the rate they drank, I’m surprised –’ Kian pauses, a closed fist held to his mouth ‘– surprised it lasted,’ he adds, his voice trailing off as his head slumps forward to rest on his forearm. A few seconds later, his breathing breaks into a guttural snore. Moira laughs and pulls his hood up, tucking his ears beneath.

  In my drunken haze, The Locker takes on an almost reverential quality. Touching something my father has touched, listening to anecdotes about him … I don’t know. It feels fleeting and complicated, not least because of Moira’s admiration of him despite his overfamiliarity with booze.

  My stomach swills like I’ve swallowed a goldfish. Now’s the time. I’ve got to tell her before the alcohol wears off and my rational brain kicks in.

  ‘I’ve got something I need to tell you,’ I say, wiping my palms on my trousers.

  ‘So have I,’ says Moira. She leans towards Kian, listens for a snore, then turns to face me. ‘Can I go first, because I’ve been dying to talk to someone about it and I know we’ve only just met each other, but I think I might actually, literally pop if I don’t get it out of my stupid head.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I say, my heart rate picking up.

  Moira drops her voice to a strained whisper. ‘I like Kian. And I’ve been putting off saying anything for ages, because I knew you were here at the farm, and, well … I get a sense that he’s quite impressed by you and I’m honestly terrible at reading people, so I don’t know if you like him, or if you’re gonna be mad at me or anything, because …’

  ‘Woah, woah, woah, woah. No. Nope. Absolutely not.’ I nearly smack her hands down in an attempt to physically emphasise how very uninterested in Kian I am. ‘What I mean is, I don’t fancy Kian in any way, shape, or form. Not at all. It’s a very firm no in that respect,’ I say. I glance at Kian, whose forearm is splayed across the table, his fingers an inch or two from his empty glass. ‘I’ve got no idea why you’d think he’s “impressed” by me.’

  Moira breaks eye contact. ‘Well, you’re from London …’

  ‘So are, like, nine million other people,’ I say, laughing.

  ‘Yeah, but you’re … cosmopolitan. He moved to Edinburgh. I stayed here. He always ribs me for it.’

  ‘I doubt he means it that way.’

&nb
sp; ‘I know, it’s just … He was so keen to be shot of Kilroch. I’ve never left. He wouldn’t be here if he had a choice.’

  ‘If he hated Kilroch that much, he would have sold the farm and not come back, bull kick or no bull kick. He’s trying to make it work. I don’t know him half as well as you, but it doesn’t sound like he’s going anywhere.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Mmhmm. Do you want some water?’ I say, my head starting to throb.

  ‘Please.’

  I sit back down, my chair scraping on the tiles. Kian snuffles, his lips smacking together like he’s chewing something in his sleep.

  ‘Is he the reason you want to stay?’ I ask. Moira glugs down an entire pint of water and wipes her mouth with her sleeve. She nods. ‘I really like him. I mean, I really, really like him. Have done for ages.’

  ‘I think I’m getting a sense of that.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s weird?’ says Moira.

  ‘No,’ I say. We both look at him. ‘Apart from the fact that he appears to be sleeping with one eye open, he’s nice.’

  ‘He is, isn’t he?’ she says with a sigh. ‘But we grew up together. I don’t know how he sees me. There was this one summer – after my Highers – we snogged at his cousin Jim’s twenty-first, but he never said a word about it afterwards. He might not remember. I was a late bloomer, but I’ve got proper boobs now. Too much boob if anything. I don’t feel like they fit my body. If I grew three or four inches, I’d—’

  ‘Moira. You’re over-thinking it. Have you given him any sign that you’re keen?’

  ‘Yeah! I do all the time. I’m always offering to help out. I try to be … available, you know? I don’t need to force myself to laugh at his jokes, because I think he’s genuinely hilarious. And brave. One time, he wrestled a badger that was stuck in the sheep dip and it was exactly like that scene from The Revenant. The one with Leonardo DiCaprio and the bear.’

  I laugh, but Moira is slack-jawed with awe. ‘A badger?’ I say. ‘Like, a Hufflepuff badger? The house known for being a bit soft?’

  ‘They’re the largest predators in the UK. Teeth that can crack a conker in half!’ Moira retorts. ‘I wouldn’t call that unimpressive.’

  ‘Look, I’m far from being an expert on romance. The last Valentine’s Day card I got was the result of an office prank and the one before that was from my mum.’

  ‘That’s quite sad.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  I have a strong desire to make cheese on toast, but as far as I can tell the farmhouse isn’t equipped with a grill. How have these people survived for so long?

  ‘What should I do?’ says Moira, biting a hangnail.

  ‘Sow the seeds. Be a bit coy. Big eyes and all that. Maybe it’s not a case of being there all the time but making him notice when you are. In a subtle way.’

  ‘Eurgh, this is hopeless,’ says Moira. She blows her fringe out of her eyes and rubs her forehead as though a hangover has already kicked in.

  Outside, the wind howls, pushing through a draught that slams a door upstairs. Kian starts, blinking with bloodshot eyes and a grunt. ‘I’m so glad market is on a Sunday this week,’ he groans.

  ‘What are you on about?’ says Moira, scraping back her chair. She shuffles to the sink, fills a glass with water, and pushes it in front of him.

  ‘The farmers’ market. It’s on Sunday,’ he says.

  ‘No, it’s tomorrow, like always.’

  ‘I thought … because of the cattle convention over in Dingwall. Mad Steve said—’

  ‘You took Mad Steve’s word as law? The man who claims he time travelled through a stone circle to see Hendrix performing in 1967?’ says Moira.

  Kian looks from Moira to me, and back again.

  ‘Ah, no. Ava, this is no good.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m meant to be selling all the fucking squash.’

  ‘You’re selling squash? Ha! You’re in luck,’ I say, standing up to stretch. ‘I can run a squash stand in my sleep. Depending on how many you’re expecting, you’ll need between five and eight bottles of double concentrate. Don’t bother with Robinson’s, it’s not worth the money. Whack a few packets of Rich Tea biscuits on a plate and you’re laughing.’

  Kian is looking at me like I’m an idiot, but I’ve no idea why.

  ‘Well, I’ve not seen it done, but there’s a first time for everything, right?’ says Moira.

  ‘You’ve never seen a squash stand before?’ I say. ‘Really? The mark up is off the scale,’ I say. Finally. It’s clear where I can contribute.

  ‘Hold on. You know this is a farm, right? We’re selling squash. Butternut, winter, coquina, acorn? And they’ve got to be fresh. Cut the morning of, which means we need to be out on the field in … four hours,’ he says, his words sloshing into each other.

  ‘Right …’ I look at Moira, who chews her lip, glancing at the clock. Kian looks like he’s on the cusp of passing out, or vomiting, or both.

  ‘Oh, before I go, what was it you were going to tell me?’ she asks, zipping her yellow raincoat up to her chin.

  I shrug, pasting a smile onto my face. ‘D’you know what, I’ve forgotten. I’ll let you know if it comes back to me.’

  I perform an exaggerated yawn, my arms stretched above my head. ‘Are you sure you just don’t want to do a squash and biscuit stall?’

  Chapter 19

  Head torches should only be worn by kids working towards a cub scout badge, yet here I am, ankle deep in muck, scanning a thin beam of light across the ground like I’m monitoring a vegetable prison break. Every time I bend down, all the blood swills up into my skull and presses against my forehead until I think I might split like an overripe blueberry.

  I locate Kian by triangulating the sound of his groans, which have become more frequent and guttural since the sun rose behind us.

  A thump sounds, like a sack of rice falling off a shelf. When I turn around, Kian is curling into the foetal position between two ridges of muck.

  ‘Ava, you’re gonna have to go on without me.’

  I look behind us to the wheelbarrow, which is only half full of squashes, most of which are so small I doubt if they’d be carved into anything other than a tealight holder.

  ‘Stop shouting,’ I say, pinching the bridge of my nose.

  ‘I’m not,’ he replies, his voice whiny.

  A crow swoops down and lands next to us, raking through the disturbed earth with a taloned claw. It caws, the sound like a rusty spoon scraping round the insides of my head. Kian raises a finger and holds it to his lips but can’t bring himself to make the ‘shh’ sound.

  I tap my leg, on the edge of a strop. I’m well aware that tantrums shouldn’t be part of an adult’s remit, but Kian’s lack of organisation and the pain brought on by drinking a hundred-year-old whisky is turning me positively feral.

  ‘If you had just – if we – we could have done this yesterday,’ I say, my voice biting with irritation.

  ‘No. Has to be same-day fresh. That’s the whole point of the farmers’ market.’

  ‘How would anyone know?’

  Kian props himself up, elbows quaking, cheeks streaked with mud. He’s a picture of suffering. Trench-dwelling soldiers with gangrenous feet might look at Kian and say he was doing worse.

  ‘Nigel would know. He’s got a star. A Michelin one. He gets his ingredients from us. Pokes them and prods them and sniffs them.’

  ‘A plant pervert.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Kian swallows, steadying himself for a moment before he continues. ‘If we can get cosy with him, we can sell direct and won’t have to keep chucking odds and ends to the handful of people who come to Kilroch at the weekend.’

  I stand up, rub the small of my back, and twist from one side to the other. ‘Would it make a big difference, money-wise?’ I ask.

  ‘Not much, but I can’t be too picky, especially seeing as I’m not selling the animals off for meat.’

  ‘I’m just thinkin
g …’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I don’t know how to make a farm profitable, but isn’t this approach – the eggs, the market, truffle hunting with pigs – don’t you think it’s a bit … scattergun?’

  ‘Probably. But I need to pay the bills, otherwise this’ll all be gone. Sold off. I don’t want to be the Brody who lost the family land. If I had more than ten minutes to sit down and figure it out, I would, but it’s just been me for nine months now, and, well …’ Kian waves a hand at the field. Now the sun has been winched further into the sky, an expanse of waxy, orange-skinned squashes peeks out from beneath salt-bruised leaves. ‘Haven’t had a chance to sell this lot, let alone plant more for next season.’

  I pick up the clippers and try to ignore the pulsing in my temple. I push the vine to one side, exposing a squash so wide and warped it looks extra-terrestrial. I hack, yank, and twist, but it remains stubbornly attached. Damp earth saturates my knees.

  ‘What do you do if you can’t cut through the umbilical cord?’ I ask, sweating. Kian appears beside me on all fours.

  ‘Firstly, it’s not an umbilical cord. Secondly … you need to twist and pull at the same time.’

  ‘My first boyfriend gave me that advice.’

  Kian snorts. ‘Don’t, I’ll be sick.’

  ‘Maybe if I chop, you can twist. OK, ready?’ I step over the vine and adopt a wide stance.

  Kian runs a hand over his face.

  ‘Let’s get this big boy out. Here.’ Kian hands me a curved blade. ‘Go for it.’

  I saw back and forth with maniacal vigour until the knife cuts through, the sudden lack of resistance sending me onto my back where I lie like an upturned ladybird. The squash breaks off into Kian’s hands and he quickly stands to deposit it in the wheelbarrow. My head throbs so much I’m sure it would be better if I took it off and left it in the field like a weird little pumpkin.

  The wind catches the church bell from down the hill. It chimes softly, the noise pulled in and out of earshot by converging gusts.