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

my lip and swallow. I’m not used to this feeling. In fact, the last time I was this homesick, I was watching a live feed of the road I’m now sitting on, the same seagulls plaguing the sky, and the same ache in my stomach.

Chapter 29

The noise of a landline ringing cuts through the hyperventilating honks of the farm’s two geese, Penelope and Princess Bianca. Christened by Kian’s grandfather, they make the perfect guard dogs because of their keen desire to attack all other creatures. I wave my arms and they lift their wings in retaliation, hissing as I open the back door to retreat inside. I snatch at my laces to undo my mucky boots, then stride across the kitchen in slippery socks to catch the phone on the last ring.

‘Braehead Farm. Ava speaking.’

‘Hi, is Kian Brody there at all?’

‘No, he’s out until –’ I lean backwards to read the kitchen clock ‘– about four or five. He should be back for the evening rounds on the farm.’

‘Ah, we were hoping to catch him. Do you work on the farm?’

‘Yeah, I’m a volunteer. For the time being.’

‘A volunteer? He must have forgotten to put that on the form. That’s great! It’s nice to hear that farms are taking on outreach work already. It’s better than starting from scratch. Sorry, I’m getting ahead myself. I’ve just come off paternity leave and I’m on my third coffee today. I’ve got a four-week-old baby at home who sleeps in forty-minute blocks. Where was I? Outreach! Yes. I’m from the school of Geosciences at The University of Edinburgh. We had a grant application come through for a partnership project, but unfortunately Kian’s application reached us just after the deadline.’

I stand up and start paying attention, looking around for a pen and something to scribble on. Dammit. I could do with that mess on the kitchen table now.

‘That’s such a shame. He’ll be gutted. He’s really keen on eco-agricultural science stuff. Like, really keen. He won’t buy proper washing-up liquid because it does something dodgy to the waste water. There’s a list of approved products on the back of the cupboard door that we buy from instead.’

‘Well, I might have some good news for you. The McCulloch farm over in Moray pulled out of the programme. We did a survey and found some undeclared produce in a polytunnel behind the main farm. I can’t say what it is for legal reasons, but it’s not supermarket produce if you catch my drift.’

‘I’m with you. As far as I know, Kian toes the line of the law. He’s more into drones and truffle hunting.’

‘That’s great! We’d like to send a couple of representatives up at the weekend to do a survey, talk logistics, that sort of thing. If it suits, will you ask him to let us know in the next couple of hours? I’m going through our back-up list, so if he’s changed his mind, I’ll move on to the next application.’

I say goodbye, hang up, and break into jazz hands whilst slipping across the kitchen doing the running man, my socks fluffy with dust by the time I’ve completed my third circuit. The fact that the university want to progress Kian’s funding application kicks thoughts of The Big Chat to the side, if only for a little while.

An hour later, I spot John bouncing up the farm track, his hand-painted taxi sign rattling against the grille of his car, I open the front door in anticipation and grin as Kian plods across the yard.

He looks awful, like he’s just attended his own funeral. His shirt is half tucked in, the collar bent beneath his chin, his shoulders sloped like he’s carrying a bucket of water in each hand for the pigs.

‘Come down The Banshee tonight, Kian,’ calls John, who hovers by the gate, his window rolled down. Kian nods and raises a hand. When John drives off, Kian rubs his forehead and frowns at me.

‘What’s up?’ he mutters, looking between me and the floor, where I hop from one foot to the other.

‘The floor is really cold.’

‘You’re letting all the heat out of the house.’

‘Come in then. I’ve got some news.’

‘No offence, but if it’s another theory about the cockerel being gay, I’m not in the mood for it.’

‘It’s not. But I stand by that theory. Quick, come on,’ I say, chivvying him through to the kitchen. He pulls out the end chair, slumps into it, and rubs his temples.

‘Someone called whilst you were out,’ I say. Kian says nothing. After a moment, he swallows hard.

‘The bank are refusing to extend the loan repayments,’ says Kian. He looks at me, his eyes bloodshot with fatigue. ‘They want full payment by the end of the year or they’ll repossess.’

I rearrange my expression, taken aback.

‘Why?’

‘They said the business plan I wrote was “too speculative at this stage to confidently support with financial backing”. The lad who held the meeting couldn’t have been older than eighteen. He had a script next to him, so my responses were fucking pointless, because they didn’t fit with what was on his shitty piece of paper. They’d made the decision before I got there. Two hundred years we’ve had this land and it stops with a wee bawbag in a short-sleeved shirt on work experience. It wasn’t a meeting at all, it was a total fucking farce.’

‘That sounds really unfair,’ I say, wanting to sound sincere but bursting to tell him about the university.

‘If Granddad had been honest about our cash situation, I would have moved back earlier to help turn it around.’

‘He might not have wanted you to worry. Even before he got kicked in the head, didn’t you say he was a bit … umm …’

‘Senile?’

‘Mmm.’

‘He tried poaching an egg in the kettle, so I’d say he was the wrong side of eccentric, yeah.’

I tap the kitchen counter impatiently. ‘You got a phone call whilst you were out. I picked it up just in case it was