The Sister Surprise Abigail Mann (most difficult books to read TXT) 📖

the road whilst watching Netflix on their phones, largely because there is no one beyond the quarter-mile radius of the shop, post office, and pub.

‘Hey, I got you something.’

‘Have you?’ I side-eye Kian as we turn on the undulating road that leads to the farm.

He rips open a paper bag and the smell of warm pastry fills the car.

‘Oh, that’s too good,’ I say, reaching over to take it off him. ‘If I drive us into a ditch it’s your fault. You can’t distract me like this.’ I rip off a chunk between my teeth and swallow a too-large mouthful in one boiling clod. ‘Did Jacqui give you this?’ I say out of the corner of my mouth.

‘Yeah,’ he says, flicking through a crumpled manual pulled from his chest pocket.

I scrunch down the top of the bag and put it in the drinks holder, wiping my fingers on the side of the seat.

‘Where’s yours?’

‘Ah, I’m not hungry.’

‘Am I right in thinking that Jacqui intended this for you and not me?’

‘Seriously, don’t worry about it. I ate a boiled egg before we came out.’

‘I hope it wasn’t the missing egg from Jacqui’s tray.’

He smirks. ‘Fresh from Babs this morning, so no.’

I told him about Jacqui’s single-egg request from Wednesday and he could barely stand straight from laughing. He thinks she was mucking about. Mucking about! He didn’t see the look in her eye. She reminds me of a honey badger: seemingly cute but would claw your genitals off at the slightest misdemeanour.

‘So, are there many people still living here who you knew growing up?’ I say, tapping the gear stick in a performance of nonchalance.

‘A few. Jacqui’s family have been here so long I’m sure there’s Viking blood in there. John’s from Orkney, but his Mrs was in my year group at school. The McCullochs are a huge family—they make up about a quarter of the village.’

‘So, there aren’t many other youngsters around?’

‘Nah, although I’m not sure I can pin myself in the “young” demographic. I feel like an old man. You know I fall asleep in front of the TV with dinner on my lap? It’s embarrassing.’

I flick the windscreen wipers on and slow down by the gates to Braehead Farm. I hadn’t considered the idea that Moira might not live here anymore, which feels like an appalling oversight. The Ancestry Project named Kilroch as her hometown, but what if she’s living somewhere else? Doing a season in Ibiza? Studying in a completely different city? My stomach flip-flops. At the very least, I can’t get the train back to London without knowing where to look next.

The sheep trot alongside the fence as we bump down the track towards the farmhouse.

‘Daft things. They give me such a headache. I was going to make some money off the lambs, but that plan is shot to shit.’

‘Why?’ I pull on the handbrake and strain to open the door. A gust of wind blows so strong it’s like someone’s trying to push me back into the car.

‘A few weeks ago, a ram broke into the paddock and tupped thirteen ewes in one night. He wasn’t right for them,’ says Kian, shaking his head. ‘Just some chancer from a feral herd. I had a really handsome stud lined up for next month but there’s no use for him now.’

‘Was he expensive?’ I ask.

‘I saved up my pint money for three months, so, yeah.’

‘I’m sorry your sheep orgy didn’t work out.’

Kian pulls out the case he collected and frowns.

‘That’s not what we call it round here, but –’

‘– It’s pretty accurate?’

‘Yeah, I’d say so. John tells me to be more mercenary, and he’s right in a way. These lot don’t pay for themselves,’ he says, waving a hand at the sheep, who spook and scatter when Kian’s arm makes a funny shaped shadow on the wall. ‘It’s the welfare that’s important, right?’

I don’t deny that they’re sweet to look at (nothing on Pickles, obviously), but when it comes to sheep-related business advice, I’m completely out of my depth.

I slip through the kitchen door and slam it closed behind me in a rash attempt to trap the heat inside.

‘I can’t sit down or that’ll be me done for the day,’ says Kian, rubbing his chin as he splits into a yawn. He shoves a Snickers multipack in his pocket, pulls his hood up, and opens the back door. ‘Take the afternoon off, all right? We’ve got a lot on tomorrow.’

***

I drag my attention back to my laptop screen, where the cursor blinks at me from a near-empty page. I can’t write anything decent when my fingers are inching towards the stacks of letters spread across the table like a patchwork tablecloth. Maybe if I spent five minutes organising them … Just a light touch. And if I’m doing that, I may as well put them in date order. Kian did say I could ‘knock myself out,’ but does he know he’s dealing with the kind of person who travels with an emergency pack of coloured tabs?

Laptop forgotten, I next look up when the radio pips for the three o’clock news bulletin. If anything exists beyond the kitchen table, I wouldn’t know, so engrossed am I in this menial but oh-so-satisfying task. I lift my third cup of tea to my lips, pausing to read a letter heavily stamped and underlined in bold red lettering. My spending habits are questionable at times, but novelty cat socks at fifteen pounds don’t seem quite so bad with the farm’s outgoings spread in front of me. Guilt lines my stomach like cold soup. I’m not sure Kian would want me to see this. Between the endless errands, debt, and uncooperative animals, it’s no wonder he’s stressed.

I had a feeling things were a bit ropey from the snatched reference Kian made to Braehead being a ‘poisoned chalice’. Although my knowledge of agriculture comes from evenings spent half-watching Countryfile whilst sugar-waxing my legs, I know of one key business principle that could be