Page 13 of A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage
“Wow! That must take some milking.”
“They’d be a lot more mechanised than we are. We prefer to keep to a manageable size — we can know all the animals individually, keep a close eye on their health. And we’re organic, so we get a slightly better profit margin.”
She liked the sound of that. “Have your family always owned the farm?”
“Depends how far you want to go back. The old enrolment records show it’s been ours for over three hundred years.”
Her eyes widened. “That is a long time.”
“It is.” There was a distinct note of pride in his voice. “My dad’s the tenth generation of Cullens to work the land.”
“And now it’s yours?”
He shook his head. “My dad’s. And he’s certainly not ready to retire just yet.”
“Oh?” She slanted him an enquiring look. “I didn’t see him when I was up there the other day.”
“He and my mum have gone to Australia to visit her sister.”
Her eyes danced, daring to tease him. “And they’ve left you in charge?”
“Pretty much. But I’ve got Bill to keep me in line — he’s the stockman. You saw him on Saturday — ginger hair, big feet.”
She laughed. “And who was the young lad who was there?”
“That’s Wayne. He’s doing an apprenticeship with us.”
“Ah — is that why he gets all the mucky jobs?”
“It’s like anywhere — you start from the bottom.”
“Did you?”
“Of course. My dad never gave me a pass. I was mucking out from when I was six.”
Vicky smiled to herself. “I remember your dad, from when I was little. He used to let me feed the calves. They were so sweet, all big brown eyes and soft pink tongues, licking at your hand. He let me name some of them, too.”
His eyes glinted with genuine humour. “Were you responsible for sticking one of them with the label Horatia?”
“Probably.” Oops — there went her crazy heartbeat again. “I wanted to call one Horatio — one of my favourite books when I was little was about a hippo called Horatio. But your dad told me there weren’t any boy calves. It was only later that I realised that was because they would all have... gone off to be slaughtered.” She was silent for a moment, remembering how that had made her cry. “I remember you, too. You pulled my hair once.”
“Did I? Yes, you’re probably right. Teenage boys can be pretty obnoxious.”
“But then you stood up for me when some boys kicked over my sandcastle down on the beach.” She smiled at the memory. “You hit one of them and they all ran away.”
He laughed. “I remember you. You were a little scrap of a thing, always chattering and asking questions. You’d have been... what, twelve years old the last time you came down?”
“I was eleven.”
“Why did you stop coming?”
“My dad got ill, then he died.” She sighed sadly. “I suppose my mum didn’t want to come down here anymore — too many reminders. Then she met my stepdad, and we started going abroad instead — Spain, Greece. We more or less lost contact with Aunt Molly, though she used to send me a birthday card every year, with a five-pound note in it. I suppose when I grew up I should have made more of an effort to come and see her, but...” She shrugged. “Well...”
His attention was diverted for a moment as he overtook a caravan. “To be honest, I doubt there was much you could have done for her. My mum kept an eye on her, but she was very independent, right up to the last. And I suppose it would be a long way to come to visit someone you barely knew.”
She glanced up at him, surprised. “Well, yes. Though it’s no excuse, I suppose — especially now she’s left me her cottage. I had no idea she was going to do that.” She was silent for a moment. “The solicitor who contacted me about the will said she died in her sleep.”
“That’s right. Her heart just gave up.” He smiled. “It was a good way to go in the end. Very peaceful.”
