The Sister Surprise Read online

  ‘Let’s try it together,’ he says, ‘one, two, and three for a big one!’

  I shove, he yanks, and I stumble into the hallway, my boots slapping against the floorboards.

  ‘Ah, y’fucker!’

  As the door wobbles on its hinges, Ross appears from behind it, cradling his left hand. ‘Ava, hi! That comment was aimed at the door, of course, not you. I really need to get it fixed, but I’m not so good with my hands.’

  Is he sure we can’t test that theory?

  Ross looks like he’s stepped out of a billboard in east London. The only thing he’s missing is an ironic form of transport, like an adult-sized scooter (or worse, a penny-farthing, which I did see once whilst walking up Dalston Junction). Ross wears a lumberjack shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow and corduroy trousers that are clearly new going by the packet folds either side of his knees. I hand over a bottle of wine that he takes it from me, brushing my little finger with his thumb as he does so. I’m overwhelmed by the scent of fabric conditioner. It’s like he’s spritzed it on as aftershave. Is he nervous?

  ‘Thanks! That’s so kind.’ He looks at the label and grins. ‘I’ll keep this apart from the cheap stuff we bulk order for Sunday service.’

  ‘You get wine at church?’

  ‘No, you receive the blood of Christ. Very different.’

  ‘Sounds … vampiric.’

  ‘That’s what Protestants used to say back when they were burning all the nuns.’ He claps his hands. ‘Right! I was a bit keen, so it’s basically ready to eat.’

  I follow him through to the kitchen, where three separate cookbooks are open on the counter, scattered with potato peelings and spice jars. A clunky Eighties oven whirrs in the corner and the smell of warm cinnamon, apricots, and wood smoke hangs in the air.

  ‘Here, take a seat. This one’s best. There’s a draught that comes down the chimney. Christ, I sound so fucking old. Wine?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  I sit down on an embroidered cushion, the edges stitched with bloated cherubs so pink it’s like they’ve succumbed to scarlet fever. I’ve barely recovered from The Locker, but there’s something subversively appealing about being offered alcohol by a priest.

  ‘Cheers,’ says Ross.

  ‘Cheers!’ I tap my glass against his and take a far bigger gulp than I intend to, spluttering as it hits the back of my throat. I catch some of it in my hand before it hits the tablecloth like an ill-timed nosebleed.

  ‘Take this,’ he says, handing me a linen handkerchief.

  I put the glass down and soak up the wine, my neck warm with embarrassment. ‘God, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. We’ve already got you apologising to God,’ he says, grinning.

  ‘What are we eating?’ I ask, my throat hoarse and acrid.

  ‘Well, my brother “gifted” me some of his old books when he moved to Canada. In all honesty, I think he couldn’t be bothered to dump them in a charity shop, but I can make a roux from scratch now, so who’s laughing? I baked some sun-blushed tomato soufflé things that you cook in a muffin tin, right? Threw in some black pudding and served them to the parish committee. I’ll be straight with you, I was sucking up.’

  I take a cautious sip of my wine, watching Ross as he scrapes vegetable scraps into the compost bin. Is it weird to find men more attractive when they’re doing menial domestic tasks? If he paired socks on the washing line, I think I’d scream with joy.

  ‘Did it go down well?’

  ‘All our meetings are brunch-based now, so I’d say so. It does mean I have to cook for ten every third Friday, but they’ve said yes to near enough all of my ideas since, so it’s worth it.’

  Ross takes my goblet-shaped glass from me, refills it and hands it back. I twist the stem between my fingers and glance down at my jumper, which is now splattered with red wine droplets. Excellent.

  I fold an arms across my chest to hide the stains. I hadn’t thought ahead to what happens now. The last time I had dinner with a man was over a year ago and I ended up paying for both of us (and his Uber home) because he’d just forked out for his daughter to go on a school trip to Montpellier. Incidentally, that’s also when I found out he had a daughter. Ross is different. For one, there’s no way anything can happen between us, which is far less pressure than being on a date. Priests love denying impulsive urges, which might be why we get on so well.

  ‘Do you have people round for dinner a lot?’

  ‘Yeah, a couple of times a week. It’s a nice part of the job. Not to speak badly of Reverend Dingwall, but he did get one of the local divorcées to cook his tea every night, so there was questionable give and take at play. That thing still had the manual taped to the grill when I first switched it on.’ he says, motioning to the clunky oven. As if on cue, it whirrs loudly, the vibrations wobbling a crucifix on the wall above. Jesus looks all the more anxious.

  Ross lays the table with chunky Sixties crockery decorated in bold, garish flowers in various hues of mustard and brown.

  ‘This is nice,’ I say, turning a side plate over in my hands.

  ‘Not mine. Don’t know if you can tell,’ he says, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

  He opens the oven two or three times and pulls out lidded Pyrex dishes, the sides bubbling with thick stock.

  ‘This looks great. Kian and I are trying to take turns cooking, but to be honest I’m not sure how much more veggie sausage fusilli I can eat before I’ve reached my life’s pasta quota.’

  Ross laughs. ‘Sounds like my student days. Top-up?’ he says, brandishing the wine.

  I look down at my glass. I’ve somehow drained it, possibly because I keep nervously sipping every time I get distracted by Ross’s arms. Who does he think he is, having muscles like that? They must be relics of a former life. The Body of Christ can’t weigh that much, the man was a stringbean.

  ‘Do you mind if I say grace?’ says Ross. He shrugs apologetically. ‘Bit of a habit.’

  The chair creaks as I wiggle myself into a more comfortable position. Are we doing this in our heads or out loud? I open one eye. Ross is glancing down at the steaming couscous, reverential in his stance. It’s quite alluring. No, Ava. Inappropriate.

  ‘Thank you, Lord, for the food we eat, for the hands that made the food – however questionable it may taste – and for those in our community who grew it. Even the rubbish parsnips. Amen.’

  ‘Same to you too,’ I say.

  He smiles and leans over to slot a serving spoon into each dish. ‘Sorry about the potatoes. If you scrape the black bits off, you’ll find they’re perfectly caramelised.’ I put one in my mouth and make an effort to chew slowly.

  ‘It’s really good.’ I’m not lying, either. As we eat, conversation flits over a number of fairly innocuous subjects: the farm, the pigs, the work that needs doing, and the frequent mornings I come downstairs to find Kian at the table looking stressed, an array of invoices spread out before him. Every time conversation drifts outside of Kilroch, I pull it back, but after half an hour, I’ve run out of frivolous things to say and, quite frankly, want to rest my head on his arm; my tired, foggy head.

  I scoop the last few chickpeas from my plate as Ross slouches in his chair, a look of curiosity on his face, like he’s waiting for me to announce something. The balance has tipped. He’s been talking far more than I have, and I haven’t noticed how short my responses have been until now.

  ‘Is it weird? Your house being a church?’ I inwardly kick myself for phrasing the question like I’m the token village idiot.

  ‘Well, it’s God’s house, really. He lets me stay so long as I pull my weight. I keep the holy water topped up, absolve sins, that sort of thing. It’s a bit like you up at Braehead? Bit different from London, eh?’

  ‘You could say that.’ I stab a round of aubergine that I’m far too full to eat.

  ‘How do you like it?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘London.’

&
nbsp; ‘Yeah, well, it’s … it’s London, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Never been,’ says Ross, shrugging.

  ‘Really?’ I say.

  ‘I know. Who’d have thought there was life beyond the M25?’ He grins, accentuating the cleft in his chin. ‘You were telling me about London.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘You were going to.’

  I breathe slowly and try to think of something clever to say. ‘It’s busy. The parks are nice. Lots of musicals, you know?’

  Smashed it.

  ‘And how about you? Do you like it there?’ says Ross, his look unwavering.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You sure?’

  I don’t reply. Instead, I fork the aubergine in my mouth and chew like a camel, swallowing too soon. ‘Everyone seems … concerned about why I’m staying in Kilroch.’

  ‘They might just be interested.’

  ‘Or nosy?’

  ‘Or just curious. I am.’

  ‘It’s your job to be interested, isn’t it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. Take Lindsay, for instance. The woman on the bike from the market? If I get another update about her granddaughter’s colic next time I’m in the village, I’m going to walk and keep walking until I’m halfway across the bay.’

  I smile despite myself. ‘London’s fine. My job is fine. My mum is great. We still live together. I know it’s weird, but it’s an expensive place to live, y’know?’

  ‘No judgement here. I own nothing in this house except for a handful of books and a rucksack of clothes.’

  ‘Sounds nice, actually. To be doing something straightforward.’

  ‘Not all circumstances feel like opportunities to begin with.’

  ‘Mmm. Some are more confronting than I thought. More challenging,’ I say, rubbing my neck.

  ‘So, coming up here was a break?’

  ‘In some ways. In other ways, it really wasn’t. To be honest, I don’t think I’m helping much on the farm.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true. I think Kian feels … uprooted as well, would you say? A lot of young people don’t picture themselves taking on the family farm, but something or other brings them back.’

  ‘Guilt?’

  ‘Possibly. I was brought up in Glasgow, so the lure of the countryside is never something I’ve really understood.’

  ‘I can see why Kian feels torn. There are about fifty different initiatives he wants to put into practice on the farm, but either side of the daily tasks – keeping 200 animals alive and the like – I don’t think there’s time for it. I feel like I’m adding to his problems. He has to teach me how to do everything, which takes twice as long.’

  ‘Maybe it’s more a case of – and I’m not saying this is true, but – say you’re not so great at … fixing fence posts. Kian’s got that covered himself. He’d probably benefit most from getting these ideas up and off the ground. Research, costing, marketing, things like that? How much longer are you here for?’

  I mentally tick off the diary entries I’ve sent back to Snooper, remembering Duncan’s last email that insisted I provide ‘spicier content’ or risk being pulled back to the office. Where does he think I am, Coachella?

  ‘A couple of weeks.’

  ‘Great. You can celebrate whatever mark you make on the farm by coming to the ceilidh I’m organising. It’s fundraising, really. Arthur fell straight through a rotten pew last month. The timing was excellent; the whole thing collapsed right as we were belting out the last hymn.’

  ‘I wish I’d seen that,’ I say, laughing. ‘One problem. Ceilidhs … organised dancing?’

  ‘Yes. But “loosely organised” is probably more accurate. If you’re dancing with me, we can be terrible together,’ he says, biting the end off a parsnip. A blob of sauce lands on his finger. I answer my own question. Yes, it would be weird if you licked it off, Ava.

  Ross dollops another spoonful of tagine on his plate. In the past, I would have held back, not wanting him to think that I had too much of an appetite. Sod that for a laugh. If Ross had an opinion on how much I eat, I’d be long gone. I pick up the dish of burnt potatoes and ladle a mound onto my plates, drizzling them in sauce from the tagine. Ross goes to speak, but I jump in first.

  ‘I’ve got to ask, how come you ended up doing this?’

  ‘What, Moroccan food?’

  ‘No, this,’ I say, motioning to the dog collar. Priesting. That can’t be the right word, but I stick by it.

  Ross crosses one leg over the other knee. I understand that he’s taking a moment to really think about it, but I’m distracted by how unbelievably handsome he is: mouth slightly open, his bottom lip pink from where he’s bitten it. It’s like the opening shot of a perfume advert: all furrowed brows and the sense that at any moment he’ll run through a ballroom of billowing chiffon in search of an unattainable something (it’s always Keira Knightley).

  ‘I haven’t always done this.’

  ‘Hmm, let me guess. I don’t think you’re very old, are you?’ I ask.

  ‘Thirty-one.’

  ‘OK, that’s enough time to have had a proper career. Not that the church isn’t proper in the sense of, err …’

  ‘Normal? Conventional?’

  ‘Yeah, exactly. Teacher?’

  He grimaces. ‘No,’ he says, elongating the vowel. ‘Can’t stand paperwork. Also, you’re being far too nice with that suggestion.’

  ‘Estate agent?’

  ‘Calm down.’ Ross puts on a parody of offence. I laugh and run my finger up the stem of my wine glass.

  ‘Think of a job that sounds really generic but you wouldn’t be able to explain it to someone else,’ he says.

  I take a second to sift through the shouted conversations I’ve had in bars with interchangeable men wearing expensive suits and unironed shirts. ‘Business consultant.’

  Ross points a finger gun at me. ‘Bingo.’

  ‘Wow.’ I glance around at the room, at the bric-a-brac utensils and oppressive French dresser, its wood stained coffin-dark. ‘You went from that to this?’

  Ross bites his lip and nods.

  ‘Well … you must have been making a fortune.’

  ‘I was. I thought I was rich. A nice apartment on Princes Street, private booths in clubs, that sort of thing. I had one of those silk pocket squares. I had dozens of them, different colours to match my socks. Can you imagine? I’d buy huge bottles of Grey Goose that came with its own firework taped to the neck, and the cost of it …’ He puffs his cheeks out and shakes his head. ‘It would cover a month’s pay for the waitress who brought it over.’

  ‘Sounds horrible,’ I say, my voice monotone. This is going to come back to Jesus somehow. I’ve listened to my fair share of heavy-handed evangelists outside Peckham Rye station.

  ‘It was glorious, especially if you looked at my highlights on social media. But that’s where it ended. I couldn’t tell you a single thing about the people I worked with. I was rich, but I wasn’t wealthy.’

  ‘And you are now?’ I ask. I run my finger under the table, over the carpenter’s staples and grooves in the wood.

  ‘Not in that sense. Don’t get me wrong, I’m never been worse off financially. But I’m really fucking content.’

  ‘Does the bishop know you swear like that?’

  ‘Oh, he’s worse,’ says Ross, leaning across the table.

  We sit in silence for a moment, but it’s not awkward like it was before. He drops his arm on the table, his little finger alongside mine.

  ‘Did you choose to come here?’ I ask.

  ‘No. Did you?’

  I open my mouth, but my reply is stuck in my gullet like a fish bone. Ross leans in towards me. My heart palpitates, but I can’t tell if it’s the red wine or him. Just as I feel warm breath on my cheek, he leans back in his chair.

  ‘How did you come across Braehead Farm?’ says Ross, his eyes questioning.

  ‘Google.’ I drink a gulp of wine.

  ‘So
, is it farms you’re interested in or the area?’

  ‘A bit of both, I guess. I write for an online magazine, so Kilroch’s a nice change of scenery. Small. Not much going on.’

  ‘Ah, there’s always something going on,’ says Ross. ‘What made you choose Kilroch?’

  ‘I like pigs.’

  ‘I heard they have pigs down south too …’

  ‘I like Scottish pigs especially,’ I say, cringing at how unsophisticated I sound.

  ‘Hmm. And how do you find the people here?’

  ‘Nice, although there aren’t many of them,’ I say, pushing a forkful of couscous around my plate. Ross leans in, his eyes soft. I’m in the grip of a red wine haze, which has conveniently stopped me from overthinking how close we are. If it wasn’t for the table …

  ‘There’s a real joy in serving a community so small. I’ve covered every rite of passage since I’ve been here, and a lot of them in the same family. I’ve got a simile I’ve been working on to explain it. Can I try it out?’ His cheeks dimple with a smile.

  ‘Go on then,’ I say. The moment’s gone now that Jesus has found a way to enter the room. It feels a bit seedy, like getting off in a graveyard. Ross gets up and starts to clear the table.

  ‘Edinburgh is like looking at a huge, complicated tapestry. You get an overall sense of the picture, the bits you prefer more than others, but it’s hard to see where a version of you could be stitched into it. A place like Kilroch takes up a few square inches, but look at it closely and you can see each thread, where it crosses over, how it’s pulled together. You can appreciate how it works. The mechanics of it. How to fix the holes. When you step back, it’s not so impenetrable. It makes sense, because you’ve looked at the back, where all the loose bits are knotted together.’

  Whilst he talks, my mind jumps to Mum. She’s always known how to stitch herself into a picture. If Dulwich is a tapestry, she’s the bloody thimble, always pushing things back into the right place. I’m the loose thread, trailing behind her. But what about when she was here, with The Earth Mamas? I know what she’s like, especially when there’s a good cause going. She can’t help it; she has to get involved. I’m evidence of that.