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

space it deserves to become a happy memory. Getting ready together before Friday’s ceilidh is as good an opportunity as any. Until then, I’m going to channel my efforts into making sure that Kian fills out this bloody application so that he and Moira can one day stop passing through Kilroch like trains running on separate tracks.

‘The bank’s already expecting repayment on the gargantuan loan that Granddad never bloody told me about. There’s still a chance I can keep things going if I start up the eco-tourism side of the farm; getting folk truffle hunting. That way, I won’t need to jump through all these hoops for funding.’

‘Surely that’s riskier? You’ll have to deal with groups of southerners turning up in off-the-rack Barbour, swilling two-hundred-quid whisky like they’ve just discovered the stuff whilst trying to mount Big Bertha.’

Kian scoffs. ‘They could try. Can you imagine an Oxbridge posho trying to put their dobber in Bertha’s mouth? She’d bite it down to a stump.’

‘Gross … but see! Here’s where the grants come in! It’s regular income and you don’t have to worry about one-star TripAdvisor reviews for accidental loss of genitalia due to maniacal swine. Consider it my leaving gift to you.’

‘Why, are you going?’ asks Moira.

‘Well, at some point they’ll want me back at work,’ I say, leaving the details vague. I gesture to the file, refocusing attention towards the grant. ‘It’s worth a shot, right?’

‘I can’t see any downsides to this. Think of the bragging rights you’ll have if Braehead is university accredited,’ says Moira, putting on a plummy English accent.

‘You needn’t have troubled yourself with this,’ says Kian.

‘Ah, it was nothing. It was all on the internet, I just pulled it off.’

‘And doused it in highlighter. I’m surprised you didn’t fumigate yourself,’ he says, sniffing the page.

‘Well, I did feel a bit heady.’

‘Seriously, though. Thanks. There’s been a lot on and this bloody loan feels like a puncture in the last lifeboat. I underestimated what I was taking on here. I would have sorted it all before now, but there always seems to be so much to do. Fixing things—’

‘Chasing sheep,’ I interject.

‘Crashing quad bikes,’ says Kian playfully.

‘God, I still feel bad about that.’

Moira must be reading my hungry mind, because she emerges from the pantry holding half a loaf of soda bread and a stick of butter wrapped in greaseproof paper. I tear off a chunk as Kian blinks at the application on my screen. I’ve got no idea if my suggestions will come to anything, but I’ve done more research in the past couple of days than I’d done in the past five years at Snooper. If we pull this off, it will have been worth it.

Things feel different now. I’ve stopped thinking about my days here in Kilroch within a London timeframe. Up until last week, I’d catch sight of the station clock in the kitchen, the minute hand ticking round to 8.15 a.m., and imagine myself stuffed beneath someone’s armpit on the Tube. Now mornings start with the sunrise, often before. After I’ve refilled the water troughs, fed the chickens pigs, and checked the fences, I head inside to fill up my Thermos with coffee and can’t believe it’s only nine o’clock. The day is bookended by feeding times, with a brief midday reprieve, which I usually spend in my bedroom, trying to get warm beneath two snoods and oversized fleeces.

I don’t feel like I’m wearing someone else’s shoes anymore. I mean, I am literally wearing someone else’s shoes. My trainers lasted six hours before I stepped into a bog and came out stinking like rancid eggs. It lingered so badly that Kian politely asked if he could put them on the compost heap.

Mentally, I’m not in London. I can recognise dissenting sheep by the markings round their nose. I worry when Babs hasn’t laid an egg. I know how to use a pitchfork (you have to wiggle and stab at the same time. Making a ‘harumph’ noise helps). Last week I saw pink clouds reflected on the bay in a pastel mirror image of the sky and it was so fucking beautiful that I wanted to ask Mum if she remembers a similar landscape, the same view. I want to swap stories with her, but I can’t. Not yet. I haven’t got control over much, but I can decide when to press the detonator. At least that way, I can minimise who gets hit in the blast.

Chapter 27

When my alarm goes off the next morning, I reach for my woolly hat, sit up, and scrabble for my laptop under the bed. The deadline for my next diary submission has crept up far too quickly and this one needs careful thought. I’ve had to use some creative licence to retrospectively explain how I found Moira. If I pretend that I’ve only just met her, there’s a good chance I’ll buy myself some time and be able to stay for longer. If not, Duncan will insist I cut my losses and head back down south.

Date: Wednesday 30th October

Location: In a Jeep, waiting for a herd of cows to cross the road. They are slow. Very slow.

Cups of tea: Five hot, three cold

Sleep: 4 hours and 16 minutes

By the time you’ve read this, my undercover mission will almost be over. After cross-analysing every female I’ve encountered against my mental Rolodex of potential sisters, I’ve finally found her. She’s the ruddy-cheeked, fast-talking, pig-wrangling version of me, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

So, how did growing up at opposite ends of the country make a difference to the adults we are now? Well, we both seem to catch sunburn through thick cloud, so it’s a comfort to know that we can split the cost of factor fifty if we ever go on holiday together. Aside from that? It’s something I was sceptical about before, but it’s there in each shared laugh, look, and lunge for the last Tunnock’s Tea Cake. A Bond. I feel like