Page 2 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure
‘And what would I want with one of those?’ Atticus asked as he made a drink for Eliza, and they sat companionablyin his kitchen.
‘Jake says you should join a dating site.’ Eliza nibbled a chocolate biscuit. ‘He googled “Farmer’s Friends” and says there are lots of old ladies looking for love.’
Atticus almost spat out his tea.
Eliza, ignoring her grandad’s horror, ploughed on. ‘You’re quite good-looking for an old person.’ She studied his face. ‘And you’ve still got all your hair.’ She licked chocolate from her fingers and reached for another biscuit. ‘But it would have to be someone who likes smelly dogs and shaggy sheep, and Jake says she’d need a sense of humour to put up with your grumps and moans.’
‘Does he, indeed?’ Atticus shook his head. ‘Well, you needn’t worry your pretty little head as grandad has no intention of looking for a dog-loving, sheep-friendly companion.’
Atticus wished that Jake would mind his own business and attend to other matters. His grandson showed little interest towards academia, preferring to spend his free time tinkering with engines and helping at the caravan site. Jake took pride in keeping the grounds immaculate and ensuring all the utilities were in perfect order. If something needed fixing, Jake was always first on the scene with a friendly smile and his toolbox in hand.
Ness began to bark, and Atticus frowned as he raised the brim of his hat and saw smoke puffing from a tractor. ‘What’s Jake up to now?’
His grandson was headed towards the glamping area, steering the vehicle confidently. Clad in a bright red shirt, quilted gilet, jeans, and wellingtons, Jake was a mini-Mungo. At sixteen, tall and handsome, he carried himself with the same self-assured air.
Atticus stretched his fingers as a familiar ache of longing settled in. How he wished Clara could slip her warm hand into his. ‘Aye,’ he murmured softly, ‘what would you make of it all now?’
Mungo Arnott paused as he crossed the yard from the farmhouse. The morning mist was rising, curling above the fells where golden sunlight danced across the landscape, casting shifting shadows like a game of hide-and-seek. It was a sight he’d cherished since childhood, and one that never lost its magic. Silhouetted in the distance, Mungo could see a man trudging over the rugged terrain, while a dog bounded ahead, tail held high.
‘The old man’s out and about,’ Mungo said to himself, then turned and headed to his office, a converted outbuilding.
With his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his gilet, Mungo couldn’t help but wonder about his father’s solitary habits. Since his mother’s death, Atticus had withdrawn, and when Mungo had proposed leaving his job and moving his family to Barn Hill Farm, Atticus had barely reacted.
‘Whatever you think best,’ Atticus had said. It was the same response he gave to every suggestion, even as the farm underwent sweeping changes. Despite Mungo’s efforts, Atticus remained uninvolved. If Mungo asked for an opinion, or even about his well-being, his father would repeat hisfamiliar refrain: ‘Whatever you think best, and I’m fine – perfectly happy.’
Reaching his office door, Mungo stepped into the welcoming space where sunlight streamed through the windows overlooking the café and rolling fells. A wall of framed photos of before and after the renovations documented the farm’s transformation, while the quiet click of a keyboard filled the room, and a familiar face peeked over a computer screen.
‘Morning, Mungo,’ Ali greeted him, her eyes flicking towards the window. ‘I see your dad’s out for a walk.’ Running her fingers through a crop of blonde hair, Ali pushed back her chair and stood. ‘Coffee?’ she offered.
‘Just the job,’ Mungo replied.
Moments later Ali placed a steaming mug of frothy coffee on the desk beside him. ‘You looked worried,’ she said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Mary arrives today,’ Mungo sighed. ‘I know that as soon as she gets settled, she’ll start on about Dad’s listlessness, and how he’s not involved in the farm.’
Mary, Mungo’s twin, lived in Ireland and was coming to spend the school holidays in Cumbria with her four children, leaving her high-flying husband behind.
‘She’s worried about your dad, naturally. He’s not the same man he used to be.’
‘Aye, and twice as grumpy,’ Mungo replied with a half-smile. ‘But I’m concerned for him too, Mum’s death still lingers heavily.’
Ali perched on the edge of her desk, her tone softening. ‘He never really got over your mam. Clara was a wonderful woman.’
‘It’s been five years, Ali.’ Mungo sipped his coffee. ‘He should have moved on by now.’
Mungo understood the grief of losing Clara; they’d all felt it deeply. Although the passing of time had blunted the edges, the memories stayed a bittersweet comfort. Yet Mungo struggled to accept how quickly his father had retreated, handing over the farm without protest. Mungo had been braced for a battle, but Atticus had simply stepped aside. He was as docile as one of his beloved lambs when they moved him out of the grand house and into the small, charming cottage, which was far too cramped for Mungo’s family.
‘It’s a shame he can’t have a little job,’ Ali remarked. ‘Something to give him a sense of purpose, maybe helping with the caravans or looking after the grounds.’
Mungo nodded. ‘He says he doesn’t want to interfere.’
‘Your dad must see how successful you’ve made the place,’ Ali said, glancing at her spreadsheet of the farm’s accounts. ‘The farm shop and café are always busy, and the caravan pitches are booked months in advance.’
‘I’ve no idea if he even thinks about it,’ Mungo sighed. ‘But I know he’d be lost if I hadn’t stepped in.’
‘Couldn’t he have sold up and moved somewhere small and manageable?’ she replied.
Mungo stared at Ali in disbelief.
