policeman, he’d be in the best position to know what, if anything, could be done, and perhaps, after all, media reports were exaggerated – they usually were.
One look at Conrad’s sombre expression as he came into the farm office behind his mother was enough to disabuse Jake of any such comforting delusion.
‘Does my bum look big in this?’
The large, jolly young woman who had squeezed herself into a short, tight, orange Max Mara skirt had to say it twice before the fair-haired woman, sitting in her office with newspapers bearing lurid pictures of cattle pyres open in front of her, reacted.
‘Sorry?’ she said. She looked up, her grey-blue eyes wide and expressionless, then realised what the question had been. For a terrible, unguarded moment the thought, ‘Your bum would look big in anything,’ almost reached her lips. She fought it back. ‘Well . . .’ she murmured diplomatically.
‘It does, doesn’t it?’ The woman turned to squint over her shoulder at the pier glass in the corner under a strong spotlight, and shuddered. ‘Oh dear. No wonder you were struck dumb. Never mind – back to the drawing-board.’
‘What about this – or this?’
After quarter of an hour’s hard work evangelising for the slimming virtues of black, she was able to see her customer leave with a larger, longer, slightly draped crêpe skirt in that useful colour and only a brief, longing glance at the orange creation, now back on its hanger.
Shutting the door behind her, she returned to her desk and the newspaper she had been studying with such painful attention. It wasn’t one of the garish tabloids; it was a sober production with the masthead the Galloway Globe , though its headlines were in the largest point available and its pictures of the pyres – livid smoke, sullen red and orange flames and the black, twisted limbs of burning carcasses – were as shocking as any. She read on, unconsciously wringing her slim hands, as she scanned column after column in a painful search for the information she hoped, yet feared, to find.
‘Are they going to come and kill all the sheep? Even the lambs ?’ Cat was sitting up in bed, her eyes bright with tears, when Marjory came in to say goodnight.
The little wooden bed, tucked in under the eaves, had been painted white by Marjory herself, and Grannie Laird had stitched its patchwork quilt. These days Cat was starting to make noises about the room being babyish but at the moment the pink-shaded bedside lamp was bathing in its rosy glow the relics of childhood – the doll’s house, the soft toys which were almost if not quite outgrown – and creating an idyllic picture of comfort and security. Only the faint moan of a rising wind hinted at a bleaker world beyond the pink gingham curtains.
It had been a lot easier to deal with Cammie, whose main preoccupation was the cancelling of the mini-rugby tournament next week. Marjory had to swallow hard.
‘Not necessarily. If everyone is really careful and sensible it might just fizzle out and anyway our sheep might not get it.’ But Cat was entitled to an honest answer: she went on, ‘Though yes, of course they might.’
The tears spilled over and Marjory gathered her daughter into her arms with the meaningless reassurance mothers have murmured down the ages. ‘It’s all right, pet, it’s all right . . . Have you got a tissue? Here. Now listen – you’re a farmer’s daughter. You know what happens to sheep anyway.’
Sniffing, Cat nodded.
‘So it’s sad and we’re upset this is happening, but it’s not as if they were going to live happily ever after, is it?’
Fair-minded like her mother, Cat acknowledged the justice of this. ‘And at least there haven’t been any pet lambs this year.’
Marjory had thought of that; it was one of the few ‘well- that ’s-a-mercy’ aspects of the whole sorry situation. ‘And you’ll have fun staying with Grannie and Grandpa. She’s going to give you cooking lessons and
One look at Conrad’s sombre expression as he came into the farm office behind his mother was enough to disabuse Jake of any such comforting delusion.
‘Does my bum look big in this?’
The large, jolly young woman who had squeezed herself into a short, tight, orange Max Mara skirt had to say it twice before the fair-haired woman, sitting in her office with newspapers bearing lurid pictures of cattle pyres open in front of her, reacted.
‘Sorry?’ she said. She looked up, her grey-blue eyes wide and expressionless, then realised what the question had been. For a terrible, unguarded moment the thought, ‘Your bum would look big in anything,’ almost reached her lips. She fought it back. ‘Well . . .’ she murmured diplomatically.
‘It does, doesn’t it?’ The woman turned to squint over her shoulder at the pier glass in the corner under a strong spotlight, and shuddered. ‘Oh dear. No wonder you were struck dumb. Never mind – back to the drawing-board.’
‘What about this – or this?’
After quarter of an hour’s hard work evangelising for the slimming virtues of black, she was able to see her customer leave with a larger, longer, slightly draped crêpe skirt in that useful colour and only a brief, longing glance at the orange creation, now back on its hanger.
Shutting the door behind her, she returned to her desk and the newspaper she had been studying with such painful attention. It wasn’t one of the garish tabloids; it was a sober production with the masthead the Galloway Globe , though its headlines were in the largest point available and its pictures of the pyres – livid smoke, sullen red and orange flames and the black, twisted limbs of burning carcasses – were as shocking as any. She read on, unconsciously wringing her slim hands, as she scanned column after column in a painful search for the information she hoped, yet feared, to find.
‘Are they going to come and kill all the sheep? Even the lambs ?’ Cat was sitting up in bed, her eyes bright with tears, when Marjory came in to say goodnight.
The little wooden bed, tucked in under the eaves, had been painted white by Marjory herself, and Grannie Laird had stitched its patchwork quilt. These days Cat was starting to make noises about the room being babyish but at the moment the pink-shaded bedside lamp was bathing in its rosy glow the relics of childhood – the doll’s house, the soft toys which were almost if not quite outgrown – and creating an idyllic picture of comfort and security. Only the faint moan of a rising wind hinted at a bleaker world beyond the pink gingham curtains.
It had been a lot easier to deal with Cammie, whose main preoccupation was the cancelling of the mini-rugby tournament next week. Marjory had to swallow hard.
‘Not necessarily. If everyone is really careful and sensible it might just fizzle out and anyway our sheep might not get it.’ But Cat was entitled to an honest answer: she went on, ‘Though yes, of course they might.’
The tears spilled over and Marjory gathered her daughter into her arms with the meaningless reassurance mothers have murmured down the ages. ‘It’s all right, pet, it’s all right . . . Have you got a tissue? Here. Now listen – you’re a farmer’s daughter. You know what happens to sheep anyway.’
Sniffing, Cat nodded.
‘So it’s sad and we’re upset this is happening, but it’s not as if they were going to live happily ever after, is it?’
Fair-minded like her mother, Cat acknowledged the justice of this. ‘And at least there haven’t been any pet lambs this year.’
Marjory had thought of that; it was one of the few ‘well- that ’s-a-mercy’ aspects of the whole sorry situation. ‘And you’ll have fun staying with Grannie and Grandpa. She’s going to give you cooking lessons and
Similar Books
