A Funny Thing Happened.... Caroline Anderson

so easy.’

      She shook her head. ‘The milk wouldn’t taste the same, and I sell it to a specialist firm—they make clotted cream and yoghurt with it. The quality of the milk is everything.’

      He sighed. ‘What are you telling me?’

      The water has to come from the stream. There’s a little step to stand on while you dip the buckets. I’ll show you.’

      ‘I can hardly wait,’ he muttered under his breath, but he came with her, saw the stream, hung up a lantern between the barn and the stream and started bucketing the water while she milked.

      ‘How many do I need to bring?’ he asked after the tenth trip or so.

      She looked up and took pity on him. He was propped against the wall, breathing hard, and he’d hardly started.

      ‘About a hundred and fifty buckets,’ she told him.

      His eyes widened. ‘How—? A hun—! That’s ridiculous,’ he said flatly.

      ‘They drink about ten to fifteen gallons a day. That’s at least three hundred gallons, or a hundred and fifty buckets. It’s only seventy-five trips a day.’ She relented at his look of horror. ‘It won’t need that many tonight, and I expect the power will be back on by the morning.’

      He shouldered away from the wall without another word, and went back out. The wind was still howling, she noticed, and although it had stopped snowing there was a fine stinging spray of snow being carried off the field and straight into his face as he came back to the barn.

      She finished the last cow, poured the milk into the cooler just in case the tanker was able to get through tomorrow by a miracle and the power came back on soon, and then went to help him.

      They finished the water at ten o’clock. By that time her hands were bleeding freely from the many cracks in her fingers, her palms were raw, her back was screaming and if she’d been on her own she would have curled up and wept.

      She wasn’t, though, so she didn’t.

      Nor did Sam, and, casting him a quick look, she thought that left alone he’d probably want to do the same!

      ‘You’ll be stiff in the morning,’ she warned.

      ‘Tell me about it. Anything else to do tonight?’

      ‘Only eat, if I can find anything worth cooking.’

      ‘Shall I nip out for a Chinese?’

      She met his eyes, and was amazed to see humour lurking there still, after all they’d done. All he’d done, and him just a city boy.

      ‘Good idea. I’ll have special chow mein.’

      ‘OK. I’ll have rice and lemon chicken—fancy a spring roll?’

      She looked round the barn one last time, took the lantern down and glanced at him. ‘Oh, yes—and prawn crackers.’

      His stomach rumbled loudly, and she gave a quiet, weary laugh. ‘Come on, cowboy, let’s go and raid the larder.’

      

      Sam was dog-tired. He didn’t remember ever being so tired in his life, but he supposed it was possible. His hands hurt from carrying so many buckets, his back and shoulders ached with the unaccustomed exercise and he was so hungry he had the shakes.

      ‘Anything I can do?’ he offered, hoping to speed things along.

      ‘No—there’s some bread and cheese and there’s some soup left in the fridge—I’ll heat it up. Wash your hands, but be frugal with the water, the tank won’t refill—in fact, use my water, here.’

      She shook her hands off and picked up the towel, and he went over to the sink and looked down into the bowl of water. The bar of soap was streaked with red, and he looked over his shoulder and watched as she pressed the towel against her fingers cautiously and winced.

      He scrubbed his hands clean, wiped them on the towel and then went over to her, taking the cheese from her and putting it down, then lifting her hands in his and turning them over.

      They were cracked and ingrained with dirt, the skin rough and broken although it had stopped bleeding, and she stood there with her eyes closed and said nothing.

      ‘Jemima?’ he murmured.

      ‘The dirt won’t come out,’ she said defensively. ‘You can get your own supper if it worries you.’

      ‘It’s nothing to do with that. Have you got any cream?’

      ‘I want to eat.’

      ‘Have you got any cream?’

      ‘I’ll put it on later. I want to eat first so my food doesn’t taste of gardenias.’

      He let her go, and she bustled about, cutting bread, laying the table, feeding the dogs, making tea—

      ‘Jemima, come and eat.’

      She plonked two mugs of tea on the table, sat down and attacked the cheese. He ate his way through a bowl of chicken soup and two doorsteps of bread with slabs of cheese, and watched as she ate at least two bowls of soup and three chunks of bread.

      ‘Where the hell do you put it?’ he asked in amazement as she started on a slab of fruitcake.

      ‘No lunch,’ she said round a mouthful of cake. ‘Have some—your grandmother made it.’

      He did, and it was good. Very good. He had more, with another mug of tea, and wondered if the cold or the exercise had sharpened up his appetite.

      Finally he ground to a halt, and his hostess took the plates and stacked them by the sink.

      ‘Hands,’ he said to her, catching her on the way back from her second trip to the fridge.

      ‘OK.’ She reached for some handcream by the sink, ordinary handcream that wouldn’t cope with a good bout of spring-cleaning, never mind what she’d been doing, and he took it from her and put it down.

      ‘Antiseptic?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Antiseptic cream—the sort you put on cuts.’

      ‘Oh.’ She opened a cupboard and took some out, and he sat her down, pulled up a chair opposite and spread some into her hands. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked.

      He wasn’t sure. He didn’t tell her that. He didn’t say anything, just rubbed the cream gently into the sore fingers until it was all absorbed, then put more on. ‘Got anything tougher than that?’ he asked, tipping his head towards the handcream.

      ‘No. Well, only the bag balm that we use for cracked udders. It’s in the barn, on the shelf by the door. That might do something.’

      ‘I’ll get it.’

      ‘Tomorrow will do—’

      He stood up and put her hands back on her lap. ‘I’ll get it,’ he repeated, and pulled on his coat and boots. He took the torch, leaving her with the lantern, and went across the yard to the barn. The snow was still flying horizontally, but whether it was fresh snow or just drifting he couldn’t tell. Whatever, it was freezing and he was glad to reach the shelter of the barn, cows or not.

      It was warm inside, comparatively, warm and full of soft rustlings and sleepy grunts, and the grinding of teeth as they chewed the cud. One of them—Bluebell?—came up and sniffed at him cautiously, and he held out his hand and she licked it, her tongue rough and curiously gentle.

      Perhaps cows weren’t all bad, he thought, and scratched her face. She watched him for a moment before backing off and rejoining the others, and he thought her eyes were like Jemima’s—huge and soft and wary.

      He found the cream on the shelf where she’d said, and went back across the Siberian wasteland to the welcoming light from the kitchen window.