Page 31 of A Year at Appleyard Farm
Merry nodded absently. ‘Yes, I thought that was it,’ she said. ‘We are actually stark raving mad, aren’t we? I mean who in their right mind would take this on?’
Tom gave his wife a sideways glance. ‘Don’t you like it any more then?’ he asked.
‘No,’ replied Merry. ‘…I absolutely love it! I’ve never been so excited before in my life. I can’t wait to get in here and get started.’
Tom grinned widely.
‘What time did Freya and Sam say they’d come over?’
Tom looked at his watch. ‘In about half an hour or so. We should feel very honoured, you know. I’m surprised they could tear themselves away from each other for long enough to come and visit.’
Merry slapped his arm. ‘Stop it!’ she said. ‘I think it’s lovely. And so what if they are love’s young dream, they’ve waited long enough.’
‘True. That they have.’ Tom looked about him, shuffling his feet. ‘Well, we’ve got half an hour to kill before they arrive. Whatever will we think of to do?’
‘I’ve absolutely no idea,’ Merry replied with an impish grin. ‘Want to go and look in the house again?’
‘I’ll race you,’ said Tom. ‘Last one in’s a cissy!’
‘That’s not fair, I’m carrying Robyn!’
‘Who said anything about fair?’ he retorted, and shot off across the garden.
Merry watched him go, a slow smile spreading across her face. She shielded her eyes from the sun and looked up at the old building. ‘Well, Five Penny House, I think we’re going to be very happy here. It’s nice to be home.’
* * *
‘Does my bum look big in this?’ Freya laughed, skipping away from Sam’s playful hands. She reached the bedroom door and turned for a moment, her peachy bottom wobbling as her naked body came to a halt. She picked up a cushion from the chair beside the door and threw it back towards the figure slumped beneath the covers.
‘Come on, lazybones, time to get up!’
Sam gave a muffled groan as the cushion found its mark. ‘Slave driver,’ came his voice from the depths of the duvet but warmed with a smile.
Freya grabbed her dressing gown from the back of the door and headed downstairs. She winced as her feet made contact with the quarry tiles on the kitchen floor. The temperature outside might be warming up a little, but those tiles were never anything other than freezing. It would help if she could remember where she had left her slippers, but, as the memory of the night before came back to her, bringing a rosy blush to her cheeks, she knew that her slippers would not be the only item of clothing she’d be looking for this morning…
She spied her wellies propped up by the back door and crossed the room to put them on instead. They were bright pink with white spots, and clashed violently with her purple dressing gown, but Freya merely shrugged and wriggled her feet into them. Having filled the kettle and set it to boil, she unlocked the back door and slipped out into the morning air.
The sun was still a little hazy and as yet had no real warmth to it, but it was only early in the year, and the day looked like it had some promise. There had been a slight change in the air recently, a lightness and softness to it that was hard to define, but which to Freya was unmistakably the herald of spring, and as she crossed the yard she swung her arms, breathing deeply. She was late this morning, but it was the weekend after all, and she knew the hens would forgive her.
Her breath caught in her throat as she reached the barn at the top of the yard. The door was a tiny bit ajar, and although she knew that the cause was probably only the faulty catch, a little nugget of hope still flared inside her. She pulled open the door cautiously, peering into the dim space, and pausing until her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. It was empty, and she allowed herself a small sigh. The barn wasn’t empty of course; it was full of all sorts of equipment, some of it junk, some vital to the running of the farm, but none of it was Amos Fry, the man who had drifted into her life one afternoon a few months ago, and then wafted away with the wind one day, just as she knew he would.
It was hard to define exactly what Amos was; a man with no fixed abode who came and went as he pleased, moving to wherever the next job took him, but a man who had come into Freya’s life just when she had needed him the most; enigmatic, wise beyond his years, and now someone she considered a dear friend. He had left at Christmas time, when the snow still lay thick on the ground; to where, Freya never knew. In fact, it was quite possible that even Amos didn’t know where he was bound for, but she still harboured a hope that one day she would open her barn door and find him there, asleep on her blankets, just like she had before.
Freya collected the pellets for the hens and walked back out into the yard. She looked over towards the house, where just for a moment a shadow crossed the kitchen window, and she smiled. Amos had brought her Sam, a man she had loved for years, but who she had thought was lost to her, and, in turn, Sam had given her back Appleyard. She stretched out her hand in the low morning sunlight to admire the ring on her finger. Sam hadn’t just given her back Appleyard, he had given her a future, as his wife.
By the time she returned to the kitchen, the smell of bacon cooking was already beginning to waft out into the yard, and she hurried inside. It was a bit too early for most of the hens, but she still had two warm ovals in her hands, which would go down a treat with the bacon.
Sam had already made the tea, and she shivered as she accepted a mug from him, the sudden warmth of the kitchen a contrast to the day outside.
‘Have you no shame, woman?’ he asked, one eyebrow raised in question. He motioned towards her dressing gown, which was now gaping rather at the front.
Freya giggled. ‘Well, the chickens never seem to mind!’
Sam reached forward with his free hand and pulled slowly at her dressing gown tie. ‘No, neither do I…’
‘The bacon’s burning.’
‘Is it?’ murmured Sam. ‘I like it crispy.’
