Sighing, Sammy took off his jacket and made himself comfortable on the couch. He’d go up later, see she was OK. Before ten minutes was up, he was asleep.

110

On Beechwood Farm, Jack Tavender was closing up for the night. He’d eaten late after shutting the chickens away and bedding down Lady Marmalade and Goldie, fixing himself a meal from the stew he’d had simmering away on the hob for the last couple of days. Then Trix had started whining and scratching to be let out so he’d opened the kitchen door and let the black-and-white Border Collie shoot out into the night to do her business.

This had once been his parents’ farm, but his dad had died years ago. Then only his mother had remained, so Jack had helped her out when she grew too old to cope with the manual work. Then she’d died too.

As their only child, he’d inherited this problematic, crumbling ruin. The farmhouse was old, sixteenth century in parts, and he was doing it up bit by bit, repairing the flat roof over the scullery, propping up the porch with a new oak support beam because one of these days that bastard was going to slip sideways and bring the whole front of the house crashing down with it. Parts of the walls were fixed with big iron stays, and a couple of the old post and truss barns were listed, which was a bugger because you could do sod-all to them without consulting some nob from up on high in the council. He had thought of trying to kit them out as holiday lets, if he decided to stay on. If the plans would ever be passed, which he doubted. But he hadn’t decided anything, yet.

He was washing up the dishes, setting them on the wooden draining board to dry, years of training in tidiness and cleanliness still with him. Away in the distance, Trix was barking her stupid head off. Nutty bloody dog. His mum’s dog, not his. Trix’s favourite game was chasing cars or cyclists out in the lane, but this sounded closer, nearer to the farmyard itself. He yawned, stretching. He’d been working hard all day. Clearing out one of the haylofts in preparation for repairing the roof, which was leaking. He’d struggled up on the roof alone in the hail and thunder, fixed a tarp up there to hold it, for now. A hot bath, then he was turning in.

Drying his hands, irritated at the stupid mutt, he went over to the back door and opened it.

‘Trix!’ he shouted.

She was still barking.