The Barn Door Stayed Closed...

Prologue

Grandad never let the barn door stay shut. Not even the time when the snow was that bad. “A closed barn is no use to man nor beast,” Grandad said, doing that thing with his hands when he learns me important farming stuff.

This morning the door is closed. Proper closed. Padlocked closed.

My wellies make sucking noises in the mud. They’re my new ones, but I’m not bothered about keeping them clean now.

My breath’s all steamy like the cows’ should be, only the cows aren’t steamy this morning cause nobody’s fed them yet. They’re making angry noises in their winter shed. Wrong noises. Everything’s making wrong noises.

Mum grabbed the phone. She never grabs at stuff, tells me off when I do it. And Dad’s boots on the stairs in the dark - not his normal clomping down to do feeding, but running boots. Scary boots.

The yard’s gone funny. No tractor coughing awake by the grain store. No Grandad’s whistle that always comes before you see him, like he’s letting the farm know he’s coming. My heart’s going too fast and there’s this siren getting closer and closer.

Dad squeezed my shoulders proper tight. “Don’t open the barn door, Alex. Promise me.” His hands were all shaky. Dad’s hands never shake. Not even that time the big bull bust out last summer.

The police car’s lights are making everything go blue then normal then blue again. It’s bouncing over the tractor ruts in our track - the deep ones me and Grandad measured once, proper old ones he said they were. Another vehicle’s coming, big and white—like an ambulance, but not.” Like the one that came when Mr. Peterson died and made his wife go all screamy.

I can hear Mum crying in the kitchen. Window’s open like always cause the steam from cooking needs to get out, she says. But it’s not her normal crying. Not like when the feed lorry got Lucy our sheep dog, or when the bank man came and made everyone go all quiet. This crying sounds like everything’s broke.

Yesterday, me and Grandad were checking the winter wheat. He showed me how to find the little green shoots under all them leaves. “Life always finds a way, lad,” he told me, all serious like proper farmers get. “Been that way on this farm since before your great-Grandad was even thought of. Will be long after I’m gone.”

The padlock looks wrong on the barn door. All shiny and new like them pound coins Grandad does his tricks with.

The siren’s stopped now. People are talking in them voices grown-ups use when they don’t want kids hearing but we do anyway. Words I know but don’t: “inheritance,” “tax,” “pressure,” “couldn’t see another way.”

In the covered yard, the bullocks are going proper mad now, smashing at their feed barrier. Clang-clang-clang like angry bells. That noise always gets Grandad running with his bucket. Always-always-always.

But his feed bucket’s still hanging on its nail.

And the barn door stays closed.

 Before...

1

Marmalade Sky

Eight Months Earlier

The blackbird always sings twice. That’s what Grandad learned me, and Grandad’s never wrong about farming stuff. First song means get your boots on; second song means you’re late. I ain’t heard either song yet, but I’m already in the yard, my breath making clouds in the March dark, waiting to beat him to the lambing shed.

My wellies leave marks in the frost. I try walking heel-first like Grandad showed me, proper quiet-like. “That’s how real farmers walk,” he says—“like they’re reading the ground.” The yard tells you stuff if you know how to look. Like how Dad’s already been through here ‘cause of the fresh tractor marks, and how the puddle by the workshop’s got ice on top, meaning the ewes’ll need extra straw.

I check my pocket for my notebook. Grandad’s got one just like it, only his is proper fat with all his numbers, weather notes, and when things happen. “Proper farmers write stuff down,” he told me on my birthday, handing me my own little red one. “Your great-grandad kept notes, and his dad before him. Now it’s your turn to learn it proper.”

First job every morning, Grandad writes down how cold it is and what the sky’s doing. I open my notebook careful, not like I do with my school books that get all bent.

March 15th, I write, then stop. The sky’s doing that thing where it can’t make up its mind if it’s pink or orange, like when Mum can’t choose which jam to put on her toast. I don’t know how to write that down right.

“Looks like a marmalade morning.”

I jump. Grandad can always sneak up quiet, even in his big boots. He’s got his special lambing coat on, the one with more pockets than a coat should have. Each pocket’s got different stuff in it—baling twine, marker spray, lambing ropes, and always, always peppermints.

“Didn’t hear the blackbird,” I say, trying not to sound proper disappointed.

“Ah.” He taps his nose. “Some mornings are too special for blackbird songs. Write that down—marmalade sky, frost on ground.” He looks over my shoulder while I write. “And put the time—5:43 AM. Details matter in farming.”

The numbers look all wobbly in my book, nothing like his neat writing. But he nods like I’ve done it just right.

“Right then, farming partner.” He pulls a peppermint from his pocket, breaks it in half. “Reckon number forty-seven’s ready.”

I know which one he means without looking in my notes. She’s that big Suffolk cross with the funny ear, the one that always lies in the same corner of the lambing shed. We’ve been watching her for three days.

“Can I help?” The words come out before I can stop them. Usually, you got to wait to be asked.

Grandad don’t answer straight away. He’s looking at the sky again, like he’s reading something up there that only old farmers can see. Then he looks at me, serious as market day.

“Your dad was younger than you his first lambing,” he says finally. “Mind you, he were sick and ran away. Reckon you can do better?”

I nod so hard my hood falls back.

“Right then.” He hands me half his peppermint. “Can’t start lambing without one. Your Great-Grandad learned me that.”

The lambing shed’s warm after the frost outside. Number forty-seven’s in her usual spot, but she’s different somehow. Quiet. Like she’s thinking hard about something.

“What do you see?” Grandad asks. His voice has gone all soft, like when something important’s about to happen.

I look proper, like he learned me. “She’s not eating her hay.”

“Good. What else?”

“She keeps looking at her side. And her tail’s all funny.”

“Perfect.” He’s rolling up his sleeves. “Now, what did I learn you about timing?”

I flip back through my notebook. “First lamb usually comes within an hour of the ewe laying down proper,” I read out.

“Smart lad. Now…” He pulls another bit of baling twine from his pocket. “Want to learn how to tie a proper lambing knot? Been learning this one to farm boys since before your dad was born.”

The twine feels rough in my fingers while he shows me the loops. Through the open door comes Dad’s boots on the yard concrete. The rest of the world’s waking up, but in here it’s just us, waiting quiet with number forty-seven.

“You know what’s best about farming, lad?” Grandad’s voice is all soft in the dim light.

“What?”

“It’s that every day brings something new. But it brings back all the stuff you remember too. Like your dad’s first lambing, and my first lambing, and now yours. All happening right here, in this same shed, under this same roof. That’s what makes it special. That’s what makes it ours.”

I want to write that down, but my hands are full of twine. Besides, some things are too important for notebooks.

Number forty-seven makes a noise then, different from before. Grandad stops talking.

“Right then, Alex,” he says, suddenly proper serious. “Time to make a memory of your own. You ready?”

I nod, the taste of peppermint still sharp on my tongue. Ready to learn another secret, another bit of the farm that’ll become part of me, just like it’s part of Dad, Grandad, and everyone who came before.

The lambing shed door creaks, and Dad’s shape fills it up. He must’ve heard something in number forty-seven’s call. That’s how it is with Dad—he always knows when he’s needed, even if nobody calls him.

“Thought I’d find you two in here,” he says, moving quiet like Grandad learned him. “Room for another pair of hands?”

Grandad smiles in the dim light. “Reckon your boy’s about to show you how it’s done proper. No running away like you did.”

“That were one time,” Dad says, but he’s grinning. “And I were six.”

“Seven,” Grandad says back. “I wrote it in my notebook.”

An hour later, I can’t wait to tell Alison. She’ll probably be at the stables already, even though it’s barely breakfast time. She spends most mornings with Phoenix now, brushing him till he shines or just leaning on his stable door, looking at something far away that nobody else can see. Dad says fifteen’s a difficult age, but I reckon fifteen just makes you quiet. Still, she’s got to care about this. After all, I helped deliver my first lamb, proper farming style. I got blood on my overalls to prove it, and a story about how the second lamb came out backwards and Grandad let me help, and how Dad didn’t even mind when I got the marking spray on his boots by accident.

I run past the stables on my way to the house. Sure enough, there’s Alison, her school uniform hidden under her yard coat, doing Phoenix’s mane all plaity. She looks sad again, but different from her phone-sad or her homework-sad. This is her staring-at-the-hills sad that’s been coming more lately.

“Ally!” I shout, waving my notebook. “Number forty-seven had twins! And I helped proper!”

She turns, and for a minute her face can’t decide if it wants to smile or not. But then Phoenix nudges her shoulder with his soft nose, and she does a proper smile, like she used to do more often.

“Twins are lucky,” she says, just like Grandad did. “Did you write it down?”

I nod, clutching my notebook tight. “March 15th, 5:43AM, marmalade sky” - the morning I became a proper farmer, just like Dad, and Grandad, and everyone who came before us.

The blackbird’s singing again, but I don’t need to count the songs anymore. I already know exactly where I’m meant to be. Even if Alison sometimes looks like she ain’t so sure.

2

Division Bell

House of Commons Bar, Early Evening

The Commons bar held its usual Tuesday evening crowd - the mix of MP’s seeking refuge from division bells and late sessions. In the corner booth, partially screened by a heavy velvet curtain that had absorbed decades of political discourse, two men sat across from each other, each nursing a glass of whiskey older than their time in Parliament.

“You’ve heard the whispers about the autumn budget then, George?”

“The Treasury seems very focused on the rural economy lately,” George Hawthorne said carefully, twisting his marriage ring - a habit that had worn a permanent groove into his finger over forty years in the House.

Michael Cartwright nodded, ice clinking against crystal as he set down his glass. “Treasury’s finally going after agricultural relief. About time, if you ask me, though I suspect you’ll disagree.” He smiled warmly at his old friend across the table. They’d entered Parliament together in ‘82, fought opposite corners ever since, yet shared more whiskey than battles.

George had been something of an anomaly even then - the son of a land agent who’d grown up trudging through muddy fields with his father, understanding the balance sheets but also the people behind them. He’d kept his constituency’s soil under his fingernails even as Westminster tried to wash it away. Eleanor, his wife, often joked that she’d married two things: George and his farming causes.

“You always were a moderniser, Michael, even back in our committee days.” Hawthorne’s tone was fond despite the disagreement brewing. “But this isn’t about modernisation. It’s about survival.”

“It’s about facing reality, George. You know the numbers as well as I do. How many working farms are actually turning genuine profits? How many could survive without subsidies?” Cartwright leaned forward. “The world’s changing. The days of Constable’s hayfields are long behind us, old chap.”

“Still quoting old films at me after all these years?” Hawthorne chuckled, then sobered. “My constituency has families that have worked the same soil since before this building existed. The Matthews place, up in the valley - they’ve got records going back to the 1700s. The grandfather still writes the weather down in a notebook every morning, just like his father did.”

“And that’s precisely my point, old friend. Sentiment isn’t policy. Those same families - what opportunities are their children missing because we’re preserving a way of life that’s becoming unsustainable?”

The division bell rang, its echo dying in the wood-paneled walls. Neither man moved.

“You remember ‘87?” Hawthorne asked. “That summer visit to my constituency? The drought year?”

“The Matthews place,” Cartwright nodded. “That magnificent harvest supper in their barn. Tom Matthews’ father was still alive then - remarkable man.”

“And you remember what he said about the topsoil? About how it had taken three generations to build it up after the war? That’s what Treasury won’t see in their spreadsheets, Michael. You can’t calculate three generations of knowledge in a fiscal statement.”

“No, but you can calculate three generations of declining returns, shifting global markets, changing climate patterns.” Cartwright’s voice was gentle. “I’m not the enemy of the rural community, George. Never have been. But preserving something in amber isn’t the same as protecting it.”

“The Richardson place has gone to solar panels,” Hawthorne said quietly. “Three hundred acres of prime agricultural land. Third-best wheat yield in the county last year.”

“And now it’ll yield clean energy. Different kind of harvest, but a harvest nonetheless.” Cartwright paused. “The young ones understand this better than we do, George. They see the bigger picture.”

“The bigger picture?” Hawthorne almost laughed. “We used to call that the ‘long view’ in my day. Funny thing about farming - it’s always been about the longest view of all. Seven generations to build good soil, they say. How’s that for a bigger picture?”

A young researcher was gathering glasses, carefully avoiding eye contact with the two senior members. The bar had nearly emptied.

“It’ll be positioned as modernization, of course,” Cartwright said, finishing his whiskey. “Unlocking rural potential, creating opportunities. The usual buzzwords.”

“And the reality?”

“The reality is it’s 2024, George. The world needs different things from our countryside now. Energy. Housing. Development. We can’t preserve everything in aspic just because it’s old.”

“No,” Hawthorne agreed, standing to leave. “But we shouldn’t tear it down just because it’s old either. That’s the thing about soil, Michael - once you break it up, it takes generations to heal. Rather like politics in that way, wouldn’t you say?”

Cartwright smiled, rising to clasp his old friend’s hand. “Always did have a way with metaphors, George. Coming up for the vote?”

“No point. We’re just the old guard now. They only wheel us out for the ceremonial occasions these days.” He straightened his tie. “Dinner next week? Eleanor’s been asking after Judith.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Your turn to buy the wine.”

The division bell rang again as they parted, more insistent this time. In the chamber above, another vote would be counted, another decision made. And in a valley two hundred miles north, a boy would be helping with the evening feed, unaware that his future was being debated over whiskey and friendship in a wood-paneled bar in Westminster.

3

Easter

Easter Sunday

Marmalade’s grown faster than all the other lambs. Grandad says it’s cause backward lambs try harder, but I reckon it’s cause I sneak her extra feed when no one’s looking. Her wool’s gone all curly now, like them fancy puddings Mum’s fussing with in the kitchen.

“No, Mother, we can’t wait till three,” Mum’s voice comes through the window. “The evening feed needs doing, Easter or not.” She’s got her headache voice on. The one she gets when Nana Joyce visits.

“Really, Cheryl dear, it’s Easter Sunday. Surely the animals can wait an hour? When I was growing up, Easter lunch was always at three.” Nana Joyce’s bangles make clinky noises while she moves all Mum’s carefully-put stuff around on the table. Again.

“Well, Mother, when I married Tom I didn’t just marry him—I married this whole way of life. The animals don’t know it’s Easter.” Mum’s hands move quick and sure, adjusting things back how she had them. Not fighting exactly, but not giving in neither. “The chickens I raised for this lunch didn’t get Sundays off, and neither do we.”

The morning started hours ago for us, before Nana Joyce’s bangles and opinions got here from Cheltenham. Me and Dad had already fed the cattle, checked the new lambs, and walked the spring barley field that’s finally gone proper green after all that rain. “Looking good,” Dad said, doing that thing where he crumbles soil in his fingers. “But we’ll need to watch for pigeons now it’s coming through.” He went all quiet then, staring at the Richardson’s place next door where their barley was coming up too. Last crop they’ll ever have, probably.

I found Grandad in his usual morning spot by the workshop, but he weren’t doing his usual morning things. His notebook was open, but he weren’t writing about weather or doing his feed sums. Instead, he was looking at old papers, the kind he keeps in his special drawer.

“Alright, lad?” he says, not looking up. “Marmalade behaving herself?”

“She headbutted the feed bucket over. Again.”

That usually makes him laugh. Today it just gets a nod. He’s holding what Dad calls the “farm deed” - the one that proves the Matthews have had this land since before anyone can remember.

“Alex!” Mum’s voice again. “Can you fetch more eggs from the chiller? Your grandmother wants to make chocolate nests.”

“They’re called chocolate coupes, Cheryl,” Nana Joyce tells her off. “So much more elegant than nests.”

I take the long way to the chiller, past where Alison’s already out with Phoenix. She spends more time in his stable nowadays, specially when Nana Joyce visits. She’s doing his mane all plaited, which means she needs quiet time. I’ll come back when she’s ready for talking.

The eggs in the chiller were still warm. Mum’s hens always lay better than anyone else’s round here. “It’s cause she talks to them,” Dad always says, proud-like. Mum didn’t grow up with chickens—her dad worked at the bank in Cheltenham—but she’s got a proper way with them now. Says they’re more sensible than most humans she knows.

The yard’s getting proper busy now. Mr. Harrison’s big Range Rover’s parked next to Grandad Peters’ Mercedes, both of them looking wrong against our muddy Land Rover. The Harrisons always come early to Easter lunch, ever since their farm used to be next to ours, before they sold up and Mr. Harrison started wearing suits to work instead of proper clothes.

Through the tack room window, I can hear him talking to Dad. “…solar companies offering stupid money, Tom. The Richardsons would’ve been mad to say no. Three hundred acres - that’s proper money right there.”

“It’s proper something,” Dad answers, in his quiet angry voice. The one he uses when the bank manager comes.

Inside, the house smells of roasting meats and Nana Joyce’s perfume. The kitchen’s full of Easter chaos - Mum trying to cook while Nana Joyce tries to help by not helping, Mrs. Harrison putting shop flowers in vases, and Sophie Harrison sitting at the table, tapping at her phone and doing lots of sighing.

“James is out in the yard,” Sophie says when she sees me, like I’d asked. “He’s so bored. Says there’s nothing to do here except, like, look at mud and stuff.”

“Better than looking at solar panels,” I say, but quiet so Mum won’t hear me being cheeky to guests.

Phoenix’s stable’s quiet compared to the house. Alison’s still there, sitting on an upturned bucket now, her Easter dress all hidden under her yard coat. There’s a sketch pad on her lap, half-hidden when she sees me. Just caught a glimpse of building shapes before she closes it. Her earbuds hang round her neck, music playing quiet enough that I can just hear it – none of the stuff they play on the farm radio.

“Escaping?” she asks, not looking up.

“Nana Joyce is doing the cutlery thing again.”

“Ah.” She nods like that explains everything. “Remember when we used to hide in here during harvest suppers? When you was only little?”

“I remember. You used to tell me stories about the farm horses that lived here before tractors came.” Back when Alison still liked telling farm stories instead of just going quiet.

“Grandad learned me those stories first,” she says, her fingers moving steady through Phoenix’s mane. “Before…”

“Before what?”

“Nothing. Just before.” She starts another plait, her fingers quickening. “Sophie keeps showing me pictures of London like I’d never heard of it. As if there’s nothing worth seeing except shops and clubs.”

“You don’t want to see London then?” I ask, confused by the look on her face – not exactly annoyed, more complicated.

“Course I do,” she says, so quiet I almost miss it. Then louder, “But there’s more to life than just what Sophie bangs on about. Different kinds of places worth knowing.” Her sketch pad shifts slightly, revealing a corner of what looks like a college brochure tucked inside.

“Have you seen James yet?” she asks, changing the subject quick. “He’s being weird again.”

“Sophie says he’s bored.”

“Course he is. His dad says farming’s finished round here anyway. Says the whole valley’ll be solar panels soon. Even showed me the plans on his phone, like I’d want to see that.” Her hands go faster, pulling too hard. Phoenix tosses his head. “Sorry, boy,” she whispers, stroking his neck.

That’s when we hear the voices outside - Dad and Mr. Harrison walking past.

“…have to think about the future, Tom. Can’t blame the Richardsons. Twenty years of money in one go, and no more worrying about weather or wheat prices…”

“These fields have grown food for hundreds of years, Richard. Hundreds. You used to know that proper.”

“Used to know about making a living too. Look, there’s more changes coming. Tax changes. Big ones. Smart money’s getting out now…”

Their voices fade away, but Alison’s hands have gone all still in Phoenix’s mane. “Did you know,” she says suddenly, “that Phoenix is older than me? Grandad bought him for the farm the year before I was born. Said every proper farm needs a horse, even if it’s just for remembering.”

Through the stable door, I can see Sophie crossing the yard, probably looking for Alison. They used to be best friends, before Sophie got all giggly about boys and started talking about London like it was better than everything.

“They’re really doing it,” Alison says, her voice different. “The Richardson place. All going to be solar panels.”

“But what about their lambs? And their spring barley?” The Richardsons’ barley always comes up first in spring. Even before ours sometimes.

“Gone, I reckon. James was bragging about how his dad might sell their other place too. The one near Gloucester. Says there’s no point farming anymore when you can just fill your fields with panels and sit back counting money.” She looks at me proper then. “You know what’s worst? Their land joins right up to our top field. Where we keep the new lambs.”

I think about the Richardsons’ fields, how they go all green in spring, how the lambs play there in the evenings. You can’t play on solar panels.

“Ally! Alex!” Mum’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Lunch is ready! And Alex - wash your hands proper this time. I mean it.”

Alison stands up, brushing hay off her dress. She tucks the sketch pad into a hiding spot behind a feed bin. “Come on, kid. Better not keep the grown-ups waiting. They’ve got important things to discuss.” She says it exactly like Mrs. Harrison does, all posh and pointy.

“Can I check Marmalade first?”

“She’ll be fine. She’s tough, like her backward self.” Alison smiles, but it ain’t her proper smile. “Sometimes the backward ones are the strongest.”

The house is proper full when we get in. Grown-up voices talking about money and land prices, mixed with Nana Joyce telling everyone about her friend’s daughter who’s got some job in London that pays more than a farm makes in a year. James Harrison’s sprawled in Grandad’s chair - the one nobody else ever sits in - tapping at his phone and smirking about something. His dad’s by the window with Grandad Peters, pointing at the Richardson’s farm like he can already see it covered in panels.

Mrs. Harrison and Sophie are putting flowers that came in plastic instead of growing proper in hedges, while Mum tries to serve lunch around them. Her best Sunday dress has got flour on it, but nobody except me seems to notice how tired she looks. Not the same dress she wore when she and Dad got married—I’ve seen them pictures where she looked like she belonged in a magazine, not on a farm. Now her hands move sure around the kitchen, like they’ve learned exactly where they belong.

But Grandad ain’t there. Through the window, I can see him in his usual evening spot, notebook in his hand. He’s staring at the sun going down behind the hills, but his pencil ain’t moving. His special lambing coat’s hung over the gate - the one with all the pockets full of everything a farmer might need. The coat that always smells of peppermints and always will.

Mum follows my gaze, her face going soft for a second. “Take him out a plate when you’re done,” she whispers. “Don’t tell Nana Joyce.” It’s what she always does when Grandad can’t face visitors—makes sure he eats proper even when he’s hiding. They got their own understanding, Mum and Grandad, even though they came to farming different ways.

“Alex! Hands!” Mum calls from the kitchen.

I head for the sink, dodging James’s stuck-out leg, pretending not to hear him mutter “farm kid” under his breath. Let him talk. He don’t know about marmalade mornings, or backward lambs that try harder, or sisters who make everything better with horse-plaits and secret codes.

The soap stings a scratch I got helping Dad with the feed earlier. It’s a proper farming scratch, the kind that means I’m useful. I scrub it extra clean anyway. Mum always says farming hands are fine at the table long as they’re clean farming hands. She didn’t always say that—Grandad told me once how she used to fuss about Dad’s hands when they was courting. “Town girl learning country ways,” he’d said, not unkindly. “Now she’s more Matthews than your dad sometimes.”

Dad comes in last, his phone in his hand. “Richardson’s just called,” he says quiet to Mum. “It’s proper definite now. Contracts are signed.”

Mum just nods, but her hands shake a bit putting down the gravy boat. “It’ll be pesticides next,” she says quiet, so only Dad can hear. “Solar panels need clean ground. All them wildflowers gone.” She’s been making proper notes about which wildflowers grow where since before I was born. Says you can tell more about a farm’s health from what grows at its edges than what grows in its fields.

Nana Joyce is saying something about proper Easter lunches again, but nobody’s really listening. Through the window, I can see our spring barley coming up green, and beyond it, the Richardson’s barley coming up too. Last time ever.

The blackbird starts its evening song. Usually, Grandad would look up, check his watch, make a note. But today his pencil stays still, his notebook open on his lap, empty of words while the sun goes down behind hills that have grown food since before anyone could remember.

I look at my clean hands. Proper farming hands, even if James don’t think so. Hands that helped deliver Marmalade on a marmalade-sky morning that feels like forever ago now, even though it was just last month. Hands that know what matters.

Outside, in the growing dark, sheep are calling their lambs home. Tomorrow there’ll be more lambs, more scratches, more proper farming things to do. The barley’ll keep growing, whatever the grown-ups say about panels and profits. And Marmalade’ll still need feeding, Easter Sunday or not.

Some things have got to stay the same. Don’t they?

4

The Best Den Ever?

Mid-April

Dad’s gun cabinet smells like oil and metal and something else that’s just Dad. He has a special key that he keeps secret. The cabinet makes a click when it opens that always sounds important.

“This one’s yours for now,” he said, lifting out the smallest gun in the cabinet. Not like his and Alison’s big ones. “Twenty-eight bore,” he called it, but that didn’t mean anything to me really. Just looked small but deadly all at once.

You have to learn lots of rules before you can shoot. Alison told me that’s how it was for her too. Dad made me say them over and over in the back field where we usually put the sheep. Safety catch on. Barrel to the sky. Never point at anything you don’t want to shoot. His voice got all serious like it does when he’s learning me proper things.

“Both eyes open,” he kept saying, but that felt wrong too. Like trying to write with your other hand.

Alison had told me about that part before. “It feels wrong until it doesn’t,” she’d said last week, showing me how to hold her shotgun in the yard when Dad wasn’t looking. “Like when I first started sketching buildings—everything looked wobbly until my eyes and hands learned to work together.”

The target was just paper with circles on it, but my hands were shaking anyway. The ear defenders made everything sound like it was underwater. Dad showed me how to hold the gun - it felt all wrong against my shoulder, like wearing someone else’s wellies.

Bang.

The noise wasn’t as big as I thought it would be. Just a crack and then quiet. Little holes appeared in the paper like magic.

“Good grouping,” Dad said, but I was thinking about how the holes looked like the ones pigeons make in our spring barley when they feast on it.

Next morning came too fast. Justine was already in the yard when we got there, loading his quad bike with decoys. He’s been our gamekeeper since before I was born. Dad says he’s the best in three counties - can tell you where every rabbit warren is, knows which trees the pigeons like best, spots things other people don’t. His dog Max sat on the quad bike like always, watching everything with them serious eyes of his.

The wind was coming from the east - I knew that before Justine said anything because the washing line was pulling that way, just like Grandad learned me to notice. Molly got all quivery when she saw the guns come out. She knows when there’s proper work doing, not like Max who just sits there all calm and superior on Justine’s quad.

Me and Dad and Justine built the hides proper careful. They had to go right into the hedgerow, all hidden-like with poles and netting. Had to be done right or the pigeons would see. Justine’s plastic pigeons looked real enough in the almost-dark, specially when he pressed that button round his neck that made them spin about like they was landing.

My gun felt heavier now it was real proper shooting. Not practice anymore. Dad and Alison had their big guns with two barrels on top of each other. Justine’s gun was different - it just kept firing and spitting out empty cartridges like it was showing off. I liked my one better. It has a picture of some pheasants carved into the shiny metal.

Dad poured coffee from his flask. Steam came up like cow breath on a frosty morning. He started telling me about when Grandad learned him to shoot but I was watching the pigeons circling up in the sky. They looked different from underneath. More like shadows than birds.

“That’s it,” Justine whispered. “Watch how they circle. They’ll always land into the wind.” He knows stuff like that, Justine does. Things about animals that most people don’t see.

Bang. Bang-bang.

Dad’s gun then Alison’s. The world went quiet through my ear defenders then came back with feathers falling like grey snow. Alison’s face didn’t change much—just that focused look she gets when she’s working something out proper, like measurements or angles. Not excited like Dad gets, more like she was solving a problem that needed solving. Molly was off already, her tail going mad, bringing back the birds all gentle like they might break. Max just sat there with Justine, waiting to be told.

Then it was my turn.

The pigeon came in low over our barley. Our barley that Grandad planted when the soil was just right. The barley that was little shoots now, trying to grow into proper food. The pigeon had purple in its wings that you never saw from the ground. It was just hungry really. Just trying to live.

But so was our barley.

I pulled the trigger.

The bird fell. Molly brought it back like it was precious. It was still warm in my hands.

“Good shot,” Justine called from his hide. “Clean. That’s what matters.”

My second proper shot came an hour later. I’d missed three times in between, pellets going into empty sky. This time I watched the pigeon proper, saw how it was heading straight for the bare patch it had made yesterday. The patch that was getting bigger every morning. The trigger felt easier this time.

The third one was different. Big bird, coming fast. Dad said “Leave it, too far,” but I’d been watching how Alison does it - leading the bird a bit, like throwing a ball where someone’s running to, not where they are. She’d explained it once using equations she’d learned in school—something about vectors and motion that I didn’t properly understand. But I understood her hands showing me how to move the gun. When it hit the ground it made a proper noise. A farmer’s shot, Dad called it.

“Natural,” Justine said, nodding like he knew all along. “You’ll be as good as your sister one day. Good as me, even.” He said it the same way he talks about the pigeons’ secrets - like he knows things others don’t.

But three was enough.

Later, helping load the quad bike, I counted my birds among all the others. Three pigeons. Three lessons.

“How’d it feel?” Alison asked quiet, while Dad and Justine were talking. Her hands were quick and sure, cleaning her gun like she’d done it forever.

“Weird,” I said. “They got purple in their wings. Never noticed before.”

She nodded. “I always think that too. Beautiful, really. But they’d eat half our crop if we let them.” She looked at the fields stretching out. “It’s just balance. That’s what farming is—finding the right balance.”

In my notebook, the words came quick this time:

April 15th. Some things you have to learn proper, even when they’re hard.

5

It Doesn't Grow In Waitrose

Treasury Meeting Room, Early May

“A million pounds sounds like an awful lot of money,” the Chancellor said, tapping her Mont Blanc against the briefing document. “Until you realise it barely buys the ground floor of a decent townhouse in Chelsea these days.”

The Treasury meeting room held its usual Wednesday morning gathering - junior ministers, special advisers, and civil servants arranged around the oak table like pieces on a chess board. Through the sash windows, Westminster’s spires caught the morning sun, far removed from the fields their decisions would affect.

“With respect, Chancellor,” George Hawthorne’s voice carried the weight of forty years in the House, “a combine harvester costs eight hundred thousand. One piece of essential equipment takes up most of your threshold.”

“Then perhaps they should lease their equipment, like any other modern business.” The Chancellor’s smile was politician-perfect. “The days of maintaining private fleets of machinery are surely behind us.”

The Agriculture Minister shifted uncomfortably. “The farming community isn’t like other businesses, Sarah. These aren’t assets that can simply be liquidated or restructured. We’re talking about-”

“About modernizing an inherently inefficient sector,” the Chancellor cut in. “The Treasury models are quite clear. Land-rich, cash-poor operations tying up billions in underutilized capital. The inheritance tax relief has created a stagnant pool of assets.”

George Hawthorne’s wedding ring clinked against his water glass. “Have you ever actually been on a working farm, Sarah?”

The silence was sharp enough to cut.

“I fail to see the relevance,” the Chancellor replied. Her smile hadn’t moved. “We’re discussing fiscal policy, not agricultural tourism.”

“Then let me make it relevant. The Matthews farm in my constituency - six hundred acres, probably worth three and a half million on paper. Annual profit last year? Thirty-two thousand pounds. How exactly do you propose they pay inheritance tax on that?”

“By releasing underutilized assets,” the Chancellor’s tone suggested she was explaining something to a child. “The market will-”

“The market,” Hawthorne’s voice had dropped dangerously low, “doesn’t know the difference between a wheat field and a golf course. These aren’t property developers we’re talking about. They’re custodians. Stewards.”

“Precisely the kind of romantic thinking that’s holding the sector back.” The Chancellor closed her folder with a snap. “The budget goes forward as planned. Agricultural relief will be capped at one million. If they can’t make their operations profitable enough to pay the tax, then perhaps they shouldn’t be running them.”

The Agriculture Minister tried one last time. “We have constituents in these areas”

“Difficult decisions have to be made. Times change, gentlemen. Even in the shires.”

As the room emptied, George Hawthorne remained seated, staring at the briefing papers. Three hundred years of farming history at the Matthews place. Three hundred years of feeding the nation, of understanding the land, of knowing which fields flood first and which hedgerows shelter the winter lambs.

All about to be undone by someone who thought food came from Waitrose and soil was something you wiped off your shoes.

He’d known this day was coming. Had watched for years as Westminster’s understanding of rural life faded with each election, each new wave of MPs whose idea of the countryside was limited to weekend retreats and gastro-pubs. The old cross-party Rural Affairs Group that once commanded respect had dwindled to nostalgic lunches and ignored policy papers.

His phone buzzed with a message from Eleanor. “How did it go?” Even after forty years of political battles, she still believed he could make a difference. He’d have to tell her tonight that this time, the parliamentary route had reached its end. There would need to be other tactics now.

6

Body Language

Wire feels different in spring. All rusty and sleepy-like from winter. Grandad’s fingers know just where it needs fixing, same as they know everything about the farm.

“Pass me them staples, lad.” The woods smell of wild garlic and growing things. Not like winter when it’s all frost and gunsmoke from shooting days. Everything’s quieter now. Growing quiet, Grandad calls it.

You can tell George’s car knows farms. Got proper mud on it and comes up the track careful-like, reading the ground same as we do. Not like James Harrison’s dad’s car that’s too shiny and goes too fast. Max barks from Justine’s quad but stops quick, like he knows George belongs.

George shakes Dad’s hand proper - market day handshake, not them London ones. His suit ain’t London neither. Got bits of hedge stuck to it already.

Dad says George works in that big building in London, the one with the clock called Ben. He’s an MP, which means he talks about farming to important people, but he still knows proper farming - you can tell by his wellies.

“Coffee, George?” Grandad’s smile ain’t right though. Like when we got to sell stock we raised from little.

“Actually…” George looks at the wheat fields like he’s trying to remember summat. “Thought I might see how the spring wheat’s coming along. Young Alex here can show me.”

Me? Nobody important ever wants me showing them stuff.

“Show him the top field,” Dad says. “By the Richardson’s place.” His voice has gone all funny, like when he’s talking bank stuff.

George knows farming proper. Asks about seed rates and drilling dates just like Dad would. But he ain’t really looking at the wheat. His eyes keep going to the Richardson’s field next door where their wheat’s growing different. Like it knows summat ours don’t.

“Your grandad says you keep a notebook.” George’s voice goes quiet. “Like he always did.”

“Weather and important things.” My notebook feels heavy in my pocket. “Proper farmers write stuff down.”

“That they do, lad.” He goes quiet again. Looking at stuff I can’t see.

“Marmalade’s getting big now,” I tell him cause he looks sad and people should know happy things. “She came out backwards but she’s the fastest runner now.”

“Marmalade?”

“My lamb. Well, not mine proper. But I helped birth her.”

“Backwards lambs try harder.” His smile goes proper then. Real.

Later, when we was going back to his car, I saw an old photo stuck to his dashboard. Faded black and white, showing a farm with big trees I didn’t recognise. Dad told me once that George grew up on a farm before it got sold. Reckoned that’s why he fights for farms so hard in London - cause he knows what it means to lose one.

Through the kitchen window, I can see Dad and Grandad sat with Mum. Their faces have gone all tight and worried-like.

“Alex,” George’s voice goes different now. Important-like. “You keep writing in that notebook. Everything that matters. Every weather bit, every lamb born, every crop we put in. It all matters. You understand?”

Back at the house, Alison’s waiting. She knows when stuff’s wrong - always does. “Come on,” she whispers, pulling me inside. But instead of going up, she sits on the bottom step. Makes room for me.

The stairs make gaps where we can see the kitchen. Mum’s got her special cups out - them ones wrapped in paper except for when important folk come. George is talking quiet, his hands moving like he’s trying to grab summat that keeps getting away.

Grown-up words come through the gaps. Words I know but don’t know, that make Dad’s face go hard and Mum’s hands keep twisting her tea towel. Grandad’s voice has gone old. Proper old, not just normal old.

Alison’s fingers find mine. Cold, like when Phoenix had that bad cough.

Dad’s fist hits the table. Not angry-like, but scared-like. His coffee cup goes rattly and Mum’s hand catches his arm quick, like she’s stopping it falling.

The grown-ups’ faces are telling a story I can’t read proper. Not like when Marmalade came backwards but turned out right. This is different.

Later, after George has gone, Grandad’s in his evening spot. His notebook’s open but his pencil ain’t moving. That scares me more than Dad’s fist or Mum’s tea towel twisting or Alison’s cold fingers.

In my notebook, the words come slow:

May 28th. Important people know about backward lambs too.

7

Longest Day

June 21st

“Them pigeons had purple in their wings.”

Marmalade don’t say nothing back, just carries on chewing her hay. That’s good about Marmalade - she listens proper. Not like people who sometimes pretend to listen but are really thinking about other stuff.

Today’s the longest day. Grandad learned me about it this morning - how the sun takes forever to go to bed on June twenty-first. “Time to check if the hay’s ready,” he said, but his notebook stayed in his pocket. He ain’t been writing in it much lately.

“Three pigeons,” I tell Marmalade, counting it out on my fingers so she understands. “Got them clean too. Dad says that’s important - clean shots.” The words taste funny in my mouth, like when you say something you ain’t sure about.

She headbutts my pocket where I usually keep sheep nuts. Always knows when I’ve got something. She’s proper big now, not like when she came backwards into the world that marmalade-sky morning. Growing fast, like everything does in summer.

I reach in my pocket and find a peppermint. One of Grandad’s. The paper crinkles as I unwrap it.

“Don’t tell no one,” I whisper, letting her lip it from my palm. “Probably ain’t good for sheep, but one won’t hurt.” She crunches it careful, like she knows it’s special. Her breath goes all minty against my face.

That night after the shooting, I couldn’t sleep proper. Kept seeing them pigeons falling. Alison got twenty-three. She’s proper good at it - smooth and quick like she’s done it forever. But she ain’t got that look after, like she’s trying to work something out. Maybe she worked it all out ages ago.

Marmalade’s head rests against my shoulder now, heavy and warm. She does this sometimes, like she knows when I need it. Times like this, when the evening light goes all gold and the air goes all quiet, I can see why Justine loves the land so much. He ain’t just shooting things - he’s watching over stuff. Knows which bits need protecting and which bits can look after themselves.

“Them pigeons…” I tell Marmalade soft, “they fly proper beautiful. All purple and silver when the sun catches them. When they circle, looking for places to land, it’s like they’re dancing.” She’s still got her head on my shoulder, listening. “Justine says they’re clever birds. Says they remember things, like which fields are safe and which ain’t. Like how you remember where the best grass grows.”

The sun’s taking its time going down, like it knows it’s its special day and wants to make it last. Makes everything look different. Important.

“Sometimes,” I whisper into Marmalade’s wool, “I dream about them circling. Not the shooting part. Just the circling. Round and round, like they’re writing something in the sky that I can’t quite read yet.”

She shifts closer, all warm and solid and alive. Her heart beats steady against my side. On shooting day, them pigeons’ hearts had gone all still in my hands.

“You know what else Justine told me? Says every creature’s got its place. Even the ones that cause trouble sometimes. Says it’s about finding the right balance.” I give her another peppermint, just cause. “Reckon that’s what proper farming is - trying to find that balance.”

The shadows are getting longer now, stretching across the yard like they’re trying to touch tomorrow. Somewhere out in the fields, things are growing. Things are feeding. Things are living and dying and it’s all part of something bigger than I can proper understand yet.

In my notebook, I write:

June 21st. Longest day. Some things take more light to understand proper.

Marmalade’s fallen asleep against me, breathing slow and peaceful. I reckon she knows more than she lets on. Knows about important things like peppermints and friendship and how sometimes the hardest part of growing up is learning when to protect things and when to let them go.

The sun’s still up, but it’s thinking about setting. Tomorrow will be shorter by a whisper, Grandad says. But for now, in this golden moment with Marmalade’s heart beating steady against mine, I reckon I understand enough.

8

Handshakes

The toast was cold by the time Oliver reached for it. His dad’s voice carried from the study - something about quarterly projections and market forecasts. Mum was already in her tennis whites, car keys jingling as she checked her phone.

The kitchen gleamed like everything else in their house - all chrome and marble and windows that went from floor to ceiling. Outside, the gardener was already trimming the lawn into perfect stripes. Dad had said no to some goalposts.

“Ready, Oliver?” Mum’s tennis bag was slung over her shoulder. “I’ve got book club after my lesson, so Dad will collect you.”

Oliver checked that he had his mobile phone, for when dad forgot. He slipped his football cards into his pocket too. At least those were the same everywhere - something familiar in this strange new place. The Premier League players smiled up at him from their laminated squares, reminding him of Saturday’s watching matches with his dad. Before Dad got too busy with work stuff.

The school had looked bigger in the brochure. Now, standing in the playground, Oliver could see it was just three classrooms and a hall that doubled as a lunch room. No computer lab like his old school. No proper football pitch either - just a field with wonky goal posts.

Most of the boys were already playing football. He recognised Alex Matthews among them - the one who always smelled of animals and talked about lambs being born backwards. Oliver didn’t understand half the things the other kids talked about. Wheat prices. Silage. Words that meant nothing in London. Sometimes he’d nod anyway, pretending he knew what they meant. It was easier than admitting he felt stupid. In London, he’d been the one who knew everything - which trainers were cool, which football teams mattered. Here, that knowledge counted for nothing.

Standing at the edge of the playground, his limited edition trainers bright white against the muddy ground, Oliver fiddled with his phone searching for signal.

“Guess you lot just kick about anywhere then?” he called out, watching Alex trap the ball. His voice came out louder than he meant it to, nerves making him sound more London than usual. “My old school had proper astroturf pitches. Three of them.”

The words came out wrong - he hadn’t meant them to sound like they did. He’d actually been impressed with how well they played on such rough ground, but couldn’t figure out how to say that without sounding stupid. But they did sound wrong, and the playground went quiet anyway.

“Bet you had everything where you came from,” someone shouted. “Probably never even got dirty.”

Oliver’s face tightened. “At least we knew how to play properly. Had actual coaches. Not just…” he looked at the muddy pitch, at Alex’s worn boots, “…whatever this is.”

What happened next was fast. A shove, a punch, the taste of blood. Oliver got one good hit in - he felt Alex’s lip split under his knuckles. Alex returned the favor by bloodying Oliver’s nose. Then they were both on the ground, neither really winning, neither really losing.

“In London,” Oliver gasped through heavy breathing, “this is when teachers come running.”

“This ain’t London,” Alex told him, standing up first and wiping his lip. “My dad says you ain’t settled nothing till you shake on it after.” He held out his hand, dirt and blood and all.

Oliver stared at the offered hand. Something about it surprised him. Not just the dirt and the calluses, but the straightforwardness of it. In London, nobody was ever this direct. Everything was complicated there, full of rules nobody explained. Here, you fought, you shook hands, you moved on. Simple. In London, fights ended with detentions and letters home about ‘discussing feelings’. Not handshakes. His pristine trainers were ruined now - limited edition Nike ones his mum’s personal shopper had got from some exclusive place in London. Dad would kill him.

“Go on,” someone said. “That’s how we do it here.”

Oliver took Alex’s hand. It was rough, strong from real work. Different from Oliver’s.

“Reckon you might be alright,” Alex said, grinning through his bloody lip. “For a townie.”

With that the bell sounded, with the children then heading inside for registration.

The school day now over, Alex looked through the back window of the school bus. He watched Oliver trying to make a phone call. His mum had not arrived like usual. Oliver kept holding his phone up different ways, like he was trying to catch something invisible. Alex knew there weren’t no signal round here - not proper anyway. Even Alison had to use the house phone most times.

Oliver was still standing there when the bus pulled away.

When Oliver’s dad finally arrived, he stared at his son’s bruised nose and scuffed uniform. “In the car now” his only words spoken, until they got home.

“Fighting? On school grounds?” His father’s voice was tight with disappointment. “And your new blazer ruined.”

Oliver tried to explain about the handshake after, but his father was in no mood to listen.

“No London this weekend. And no football tonight or tomorrow. Go to your room and think about how to behave properly in future.”

Dinner came on a tray. Oliver ate alone, watching the almost perfect lawn, if only it had goalposts, turn grey in the evening light.

He pulled out his football cards, arranging them on his bed. His signed Bukayo Saka card that Dad had got him after missing his birthday - that one was special. Nobody at his new school would have anything like it. But they probably wouldn’t care either. They had real things to care about, not just pictures of players on cards. Real mud, real animals, real work.

Maybe that’s why Alex’s handshake had felt so different. It was a real thing too.

Alex’s split lip stung when he grinned, but he couldn’t help it when Dad said he was proud.

“Standing up for yourself’s right,” Dad said, passing the potatoes. “And shaking hands after - that’s the proper thing to do.”

“Looks like the Townie got a good hit in though,” Alison said, but she was smiling too.

“His name is Oliver,” Alex replied.

“Means he’s got spirit,” Grandad added. “Good thing in a friend.”

Later, full of shepherd’s pie and feeling right with the world, Alex wrote in his notebook:

July 2nd. Sometimes you got to bleed a bit to make a friend.

The next morning, Oliver was waiting by the goalposts. “Can’t go to London now,” he said when Alex joined him. “Dad’s proper mad.”

“That’s not fair.” Alex kicked the ball over. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

Oliver trapped the ball perfectly - better than anyone Alex had ever seen.

Football was the one thing Oliver knew for certain he was good at. Not just good - better than most. His coach in London had said he had “natural talent.” When he had the ball at his feet, everything else disappeared - his dad’s disappointment, the strange new school, all of it. Just him and the ball, speaking their own language.

“S’alright. Is there any room for me in today’s game?”

“Reckon there is.” Alex touched his healing lip. “For someone who can trap a ball like that.”

That evening, Alex found Marmalade in her usual spot.

“Reckon I feel bad about Oliver getting in trouble,” he told her, sharing a forbidden peppermint. “But he’s proper good at football. Good as Alison is at shooting.”

Marmalade just nudged his pocket for more peppermints. Maybe that was her way of saying some friendships start better with a punch than a handshake.

9

Acadumbics

The PowerPoint slides glowed in the darkened conference room. Charts, graphs, and projections flickered across the faces of assembled civil servants and academics, their MacBooks casting blue shadows on pressed shirts and designer glasses.

“Our modeling suggests minimal impact,” Dr. Caroline Winters adjusted her frames, tapping through her presentation. “Approximately five hundred farming enterprises will be affected by the removal of Agricultural Relief.”

From the back of the room, George Hawthorne’s laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. “Five hundred? There are more farms than that in my constituency alone.”

“The data is quite clear, Mr. Hawthorne.” Dr. Winters’ smile was professionally patient. “Our analysis shows-”

“Shows that none of you can tell the difference between acres and hectares.” George stood, moving to the screen. “May I?” He didn’t wait for permission before scrolling back through the slides. “There. Look at your baseline data. You’ve converted everything to hectares but kept using acre-based valuations.” He surveyed the room, taking in the designer glasses and pressed shirts. “For Christ’s sake, we’re letting people who’ve never ventured beyond Zone 6 on the Underground decide the fate of British farming.”

The room shifted uncomfortably.

“When you correct that rather fundamental error,” George continued, his voice dangerously quiet, “you’ll find we’re looking at closer to sixty-five thousand farms. Families. Communities.”

The room shifted uncomfortably.

“When you correct that rather fundamental error,” George continued, his voice dangerously quiet, “you’ll find we’re looking at closer to sixty-five thousand farms. Families. Communities.”

“Even if the numbers are slightly-”

“Slightly?” George’s wedding ring clinked against the water glass he’d been gripping. “The Matthews farm - six hundred acres, worth three and a half million on paper. A farm that made twenty-two thousand pounds profit last year. By your calculations, they wouldn’t even register. By reality’s calculations, they’re about to lose everything their family has built over three centuries as they simply cannot pay the tax liability.”

“The market will adjust-”

“The market,” George’s voice dropped to a whisper, “doesn’t feed people.”

He gathered his papers, wondering not for the first time how many battles one aging MP could fight. Eleanor had warned him last night over dinner - “They’ll marginalise you, George. They always do with the inconvenient ones.” But someone had to speak for the land that had no voice in these glass and steel rooms.

After the meeting, in the wood-paneled calm of the Prime Minister’s study, different conversations were taking place.

“George is becoming a problem,” the Chancellor said, not looking up from her papers. “He’s completely out of touch with modern agricultural policy.”

The Prime Minister gazed out over Westminster’s spires. “He represents a certain… traditional viewpoint.”

“Traditional viewpoint?” The Chancellor’s laugh was precise as a scalpel. “He’s fighting progress at every turn. These farms need to modernize or make way for more efficient land use. Solar farms, housing developments-”

“Food security-” the PM began.

“Can be handled through imports and vertical farming initiatives. The Treasury models are quite clear.”

“Even with the corrected numbers?”

The Chancellor waved this away. “The principle remains sound. We can’t let sentiment override economic reality.”

Through the window, London sprawled vast and gleaming. None of them could see the Matthews farm from here, or any of the other sixty-five thousand stories their policies would rewrite.

10

Marmalade Toast?

The bee hives hum in the morning sun. That’s where Alison takes me first, like she always does when we’re exploring proper. She learned me about bees when I was little - how they dance to tell each other where the good flowers are, how they know their way home no matter what.

“Remember when you got stung?” she asks, keeping us back safe. She don’t need to tell me twice nowadays. “You cried more about the bee dying than your hand swelling up.”

“That’s cause you told me each bee only gets one sting in its whole life.”

She smiles, but different from usual. Growing-up smile, I reckon. “You ain’t changed much, have you? Still worried about every creature going.”

A dragonfly zips past us, all shimmer and speed. “Like little helicopters,” Alison says, just like she used to when I was smaller. “See how the sun makes their wings go rainbow?”

We collect eggs next. Alison knows which hens get funny about it, which ones don’t mind. She lets me reach under the crossest one cause she knows I ain’t scared no more. Seven eggs, still warm.

“Remember when you thought eggs was chicken’s poos?” she says, and I have to laugh cause I was proper stupid back then.

The woods is where Alison knows all the best places. The fallen oak that makes a bridge over the stream. The hollow tree that’s just right for hiding treasures. She showed me all of them, back when she had more time for exploring and less time for thinking about stuff.

“What you thinking about?” I ask her when she goes quiet by the stream. She’s sitting on our log, the one that’s smooth from years of sitting.

“Exams and that. Future stuff.” She pokes the water with a stick. “Mrs. Thompson says I should think about university. Says I’m clever enough.”

“But that’s ages away.”

“Not that long.” She don’t look at me when she says it. “Year Eleven next term. Then Sixth Form. Then…”

“Then you’ll come back though?” The words come out all wobbly. “After university?”

She just pokes the water some more.

Justine’s checking his traps down by the stream. He tips his hat when he sees us, like always. “Nature’s putting on a show today,” he says, nodding at a kingfisher that’s just flashed past, jewel-bright against the water. “Everything’s got its place in the dance.” He says stuff like that, Justine does. Makes you think without meaning to. He’d been on this land longer than I’d been alive—Dad says he knows every rabbit warren and fox den for three miles. Came here after something happened in his old job—never talks about it, but sometimes he gets that faraway look like he’s remembering something not worth sharing.

From our log, we can see through the trees to the Richardson’s place. There’s men there today, wearing bright yellow hats and carrying them fold-up ruler things. Measuring stuff up, Alison says. We watch them for a bit, hiding like proper spies behind the oak leaves. They look wrong there, like plastic toys someone dropped in the wrong field.

“They’ll be here one day,” Alison says quiet. “Measuring our fields too.”

“No, they won’t,” I tell her, but my voice goes all wobbly again.

We walk up through the barley field. It’s proper tall now, going golden at the edges. The sheep are keeping the grass nice in the top field - that’s what they do, Alison tells me. Everything’s got its job on a farm. Everything fits.

The air’s thick with insects now the sun’s proper up. Butterflies doing their wobbling dance over the brambles, them fat bumblebees that look too heavy to fly but do anyway. A skylark’s singing somewhere up high - can’t see it, but Alison says that’s the point. Some things you just got to believe in without seeing.

“Need to tell you something,” I say finally. Been wanting to all morning.

“About Marmalade?”

I nod. Sometimes I reckon Alison knows things before I say them.

“You know what happens to the lambs, Alex. You’ve always known.”

“But Marmalade’s different. She came backwards. She tries harder.”

Alison’s quiet for a bit. Then she says, “I’ll talk to Mum. See what she thinks. “Mum’ll understand. She’s always had a soft spot for the odd ones out—says that’s how she felt when she first came to the farm”. “But Alex…” She stops, makes me look at her proper. “You can’t save everything. That’s the hardest bit about farming. Everything’s got its time.”

“Like you going to university?”

She hugs me then. Proper hug, not a quick one. “Some things don’t never change though. Like me being your big sister. Like us knowing all the secret places.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

She heads off to Phoenix after that. Got to get him ready for some show or something. But I go to the grazing field, where I can see Marmalade’s curly wool even from the gate.

She sees me and comes running. Not like the other sheep that just stand there chewing. Proper running, like she’s been waiting all day.

In my notebook, I write:

July 15th. Some things try harder than they should have to.

11

Proper Tea

Oliver were standing at our door looking proper lost, holding his phone up like it might show him what to do next. His limited edition trainers were so clean they looked like they’d never touched proper ground.

“No signal,” I told him, opening the door before he could ring the bell. “Not unless you stand by the grain store and hold your phone up by the red pipe, but even then, dad said it’s mainly just them texts that come all at once when you ain’t expecting.”

“What? No signal at all?” He lowered his phone slow, like he couldn’t believe it. “But how do you play games and stuff?”

“Come in then.” I tried to sound like Mum does when visitors come - proper welcoming. “Mind the boots though. We’re a bit mad about mud in the house.”

The hallway had our usual boot collection - all sizes, all muddy, all lined up like Grandad taught us. Oliver stared at his trainers like they was speaking a different language. “My mum’ll go mental if I get these dirty. Cost loads.”

“Just kick them off anywhere,” I said, but Mum’s voice came from the kitchen: “Proper place for everything, Alex! Show Oliver where the boots go.”

That’s how Mum is - always learning without making it sound like learning.

Molly came bounding in from the yard, all wet nose and wagging tail. She gets excited about visitors cause she reckons they might have treats in their pockets, even though they never do.

“She’s friendly,” I told Oliver, who’d gone all still like people do when they ain’t sure about dogs. “Just wants to know if you’ve got food.”

“I’ve never had a dog,” Oliver said, still pressed against the wall. “Mum says they make too much mess.”

“All creatures want feeding,” came Grandad’s voice. He was in his usual evening spot by the door, notebook in hand. But he weren’t writing - just watching Oliver proper careful, like he does with new lambs. “Especially them what comes for tea.”

That’s when Mum appeared, still in her apron with flour on her cheek like always. “Oliver! Welcome love. Hope you like shepherd’s pie - proper one mind, not that stuff they sell in shops.” “We usually eat together in the kitchen,” Mum added, noticing Oliver looking around at our big table. “I found that the hardest thing to get used to when I first came here—everyone in one place, talking all at once.” She smiled, setting down another plate. “Now I can’t imagine eating any other way.”

“We usually just get takeaway,” Oliver said. “Mum never cooks. Says she’s too busy.”

“Well,” Mum smiled her proper smile, “reckon it’s time you tried something different then.”

The kitchen smelled like it always does at tea time - proper food and fresh bread and whatever Mum’s baking for after. But Oliver was looking at everything like he’d never seen a kitchen before. His eyes went all wide at the big table with all the chairs round it.

“Everyone eats together?” he asked, so quiet I nearly missed it. “Like on TV?”

“Course,” I said, but then I remembered what he’d said about his house - how his dad’s always in his study and his mum works late and there ain’t no proper table, just them high stools by the kitchen counter.

Alison came in from sorting Phoenix, still in her yard clothes. “You must be Oliver,” she said, doing that thing she does now she’s fifteen where she tries to sound all grown up. “Alex said you’re good at football.”

“I was captain at my old school,” Oliver said. “We had proper goals and everything. Not just sticks in the ground.”

“Did you ever play against other schools?” Alison asked, suddenly interested. She’d been reading about sports scholarships in one of her magazines. “The high school here has a decent team.”

“Proper footballer then,” Grandad said, appearing with his notebook tucked away. He had that look he gets when he’s figuring something out. “Reckon that’s why you got such a good right hook - good balance and that.”

Oliver’s face went red, but Grandad was already reaching in his pocket. “Here,” he said, holding out his hand. “Peppermint. No proper visit starts without one.”

Dad came in last, straight from feeding. He’d tried to clean up but still had that proper farming smell about him. “Evening all,” he said, same as always. Then he saw Oliver. “Ah, the boxer!” But he was smiling when he said it. “Good handshake after though - that’s what matters.”

When we sat down, Oliver kept looking round like he was waiting for something. “Don’t you watch TV while you eat?” he asked, then went red like he wished he hadn’t.

“Pass them carrots, Alex,” Dad said. “And tell Oliver about that backward lamb of yours - Marmalade, ain’t it?”

So I told him about Marmalade, and about helping with lambing, and about how backward lambs try harder. Oliver listened proper, though he pulled some funny faces at the birthing bits.

“Must be quite different from London,” Grandad said, passing the gravy. “Takes courage to change everything like that.”

Oliver looked down at his plate. “Yeah. It’s weird here. Nothing works like it should. Can’t even get pizza delivered.”

“But you’ve got actual animals,” he said suddenly, looking up. “And you make real food. And nobody’s on their phone all the time.” He went red again, like he’d said too much. “I mean, it’s different, but some of it’s… good different.”

“Natural that,” Grandad nodded. “But seems to me different ain’t always worse. Just takes some getting used to.”

After tea, I showed Oliver round the yard. Not the whole farm - that’d take ages. But I showed him the tractors and the grain store and where Marmalade came out backwards.

“That’s massive!” he said, staring up at the tractor. “Is it like driving a tank? Do you get to drive it?”

“Some of it. Learning more proper all the time. Got to know everything eventual, that’s what Grandad says. Everything on a farm’s got its purpose.”

When it were time for Oliver to go home, Grandad picked up his Land Rover keys. “Better run you back. Alex, you coming?”

The Land Rover smelled like it always does - dogs and feed and proper farming. Oliver had to climb up proper high to get in, not like sliding into them shiny cars his dad drives.

“Your house was the old Grange Farm,” Grandad said as we drove. “Used to be proper nice place. Weren’t so big mind, but it worked. Had character, like proper farmhouses should.”

“Dad had it all knocked down,” Oliver said. “Made it bigger. Mum says the old house was too dark or something.”

“Ah.” Grandad nodded slow. “Remember when it just had normal windows. Proper ones that kept the weather out right. And there was this old apple orchard. Best cookers in the area - your mum would’ve liked them for proper pies.”

We turned into Oliver’s drive - all smooth and neat with them lights that come on when you drive past. The house stood bright against the evening sky, three times the size of the old farmhouse, all glass and angles like it had landed there from somewhere else.

“Reckon they took the herb garden out when they dug the foundations,” Grandad said quiet, more to himself than anyone. Then his voice went normal again. “Still, changes happen. Main thing is having good folk living there.”

We could see Oliver’s dad through them big windows, walking about with his phone at his ear.

Oliver’s smile faded proper quick. “He’s always on calls,” he said quiet. “Important business stuff.” The way he said “important” made it sound like anything but. Made me think about how Dad always ignores the farm phone at teatime, says family matters more than any call.

“Thanks for tea, Mr. Matthews,” Oliver said, meaning it proper. Then, quieter: “And the peppermint.”

“Sydney,” Grandad said. “No need for Mr. Matthews. Reckon you earned first-name terms when you shook hands with our Alex after that scrap.” He smiled, but his eyes were looking at the house like he was seeing something else. Something that used to be there.

“See you tomorrow?” I asked. “Could show you Marmalade if you want.”

Oliver nodded, already climbing down. For a minute he stood there looking at his big bright house like he weren’t sure about going in.

On the way back, Grandad went quiet - thinking quiet, not sad quiet. Finally he said, “Reckon that lad needs a bit of proper in his life.”

“Like peppermints?” I asked.

“Like peppermints,” Grandad smiled. “And proper friendship. Reckon you could help with that.”

Later, I wrote in my notebook:

June 18th. Oliver came for tea. Proper tea. Sometimes different ain’t worse, just takes getting used to. That’s what Grandad says and Grandad knows proper stuff.

But I didn’t write about how Grandad kept looking at Oliver’s house like he was seeing ghosts. Some things you just remember without writing down.

12

Processing

Shearing day starts proper early. Even earlier than normal early. The yard was full of weird shadows from the big lights Dad put up, and dew makes everything sparkle like it’s covered in tiny diamonds.

“Proper job today,” Grandad said, sharing out peppermints while we waited for the shearers. His notebook was already out - he always writes down shearing numbers careful. Says you can tell a lot about a farm’s future from how many sheep need shearing each year.

We heard Oliver’s dad’s car before we saw it - that scraping noise posh cars make when they meet proper tractor ruts. Dad says them cars are built for smooth roads, not farm tracks. The car stayed at the top of the drive this time though, not risking them shiny wheels on our yard.

Oliver looked different coming down the track. Not just cause of it being proper early, but cause he had boots on. Not proper farm boots like ours, more like them walking boots you see in town shop windows, but better than them trainers he used to wear. He still stood at the gate looking proper lost until he saw me.

Dad spotted them right away. “New boots,” he said to Oliver, nodding approval. “Practical.” Oliver stood a bit taller at that. I could tell it mattered, Dad noticing.

“You came then,” I said, trying not to sound too pleased.

“Course I came. Never seen sheep getting haircuts before.” He was staring at all the lights and the noise. “What’s with all the lights and stuff?”

He wasn’t standing as far back as last time he visited. Getting braver about farm stuff, I noticed. Even had his phone put away proper - learning there’s no point when there’s no signal.

“Shearing day.” I gestured at all the sheep penned up waiting. “Got to get their wool off before summer proper starts.”

The shearers worked like machines, only faster. Each sheep grabbed, turned, buzzers on, wool peeling off in one piece like magic. Oliver’s eyes went proper wide.

But he didn’t step back like I expected. Instead, he moved closer for a better look. “Could I… touch one? After?” he asked, not looking at me like he was embarrassed to ask.

“Isn’t that scary for them? Like when you have to hold a dog still at the vet?”

“Nah. Makes them more comfortable really. Too hot otherwise.”

Grandad appeared beside us. “Like getting a haircut,” he told Oliver. “Only about as valuable as one these days.” He held up a rolled fleece. “Time was this would’ve been worth something proper. Now? Less than a pound.”

“That’s barely enough for a pack of football cards,” Oliver said, looking confused.

“Aye. Lot of work for little return. That’s farming sometimes.” Grandad’s eyes went distant for a minute. Then he smiled. “Want to see something funny? Alex’s special lamb’s next.”

Marmalade didn’t want to come out of the waiting pen. She never does like being different from other sheep. But the shearer was gentle with her - they can always tell when a lamb’s special to someone.

“That’s your backwards lamb?” Oliver asked, watching Marmalade’s wool come off in one big piece.

“Born backwards, tries harder,” I said, just like Grandad always does.

“Like me at football,” Oliver said, surprising me. “Coach in London said I had to try twice as hard cause I was smaller than the others.” Never heard him talk about having to try hard before - usually acts like everything came easy in London.

When they let her up, she looked proper ridiculous. All skinny legs and neck where there used to be wool. She did her usual headbutt against my legs but felt all different - warm and bony instead of soft and woolly.

Oliver laughed - proper laughed, not like he usually does at school. “She looks like a completely different sheep!”

It was different seeing him here instead of at school. More relaxed, less worried about looking cool or saying the wrong thing.

“Still the same underneath though,” Grandad said quiet, like he was talking about more than just Marmalade.

The shearers worked through our sheep like a storm going through clouds. Each one going in all woolly and coming out like a different animal altogether. The wool got rolled and packed into them massive bags that Dad says aren’t worth the diesel it takes to transport them nowadays.

“That’s weird though,” Oliver said suddenly, looking at the massive wool bags. “Mum spent like a hundred quid on just one jumper last week. She said it was special cause it was real wool and stuff. So how come all this isn’t worth anything?”

I hadn’t thought about it like that. On our farm, wool’s just one of them things that don’t pay proper anymore - that’s what Dad always says when the wool buyer comes. But Oliver was right - wool stuff in shops costs proper money.

“Processing,” Grandad said, nodding like Oliver had said something clever. “That’s the word. All the stuff that happens between here and them shop windows. Used to be mills nearby that did all that. Now it all goes abroad, comes back different. Changes hands too many times.” He looked at Oliver proper thoughtful. “Good question though, lad. Sometimes takes outside eyes to see things different.”

I wrote that word in my notebook - Processing. Weren’t a proper farming word, but seemed important somehow.

Marmalade found us later, when the shearers were packing up. She still looked funny, but happy enough. She let Oliver give her a secret peppermint.

“She’s different,” Oliver said, watching her prance about all naked. “But still the same too. If that makes sense?”

He reached out to stroke her hesitantly, not pulling back when she headbutted his hand for more attention. His fingers weren’t all clean and perfect anymore - had dirt under his nails and a small scratch from climbing over the gate earlier. Hadn’t even noticed it happening.

It did make sense, somehow. Like how the farm stays the same even when everything changes. Like how Grandad’s always Grandad even when his notebook stays in his pocket more nowadays.

In my notebook that night, I wrote:

June 12th. Shearing day. 247 sheep done. Wool cheap. Posh jumpers not. Grandad looked at wool bags like they were telling him something I couldn’t hear. Oliver knows town stuff.

13

Cattle Grid - Locked

The winter barley’s gone all golden now. That’s what I wrote in my notebook this morning, but Grandad says you got to be more specific with farming notes. So I added: July 3rd - winter barley proper golden, heads all bent over with weight of grain. Newman’s coming with big combine when ready.

First job was helping Dad check the cattle in the top field. Poll Herefords, them red ones with white faces that Grandad’s always kept. Market’s next week for fifteen of the best ones, while Jackson’s wagon was meant to be taking another six direct to the abattoir end of the week. Great big beasts that make the ground shake when they run. I ain’t allowed to help with loading them - too dangerous, Dad says - but I can help sort them in the yard, get them used to moving through the race.

“Stand back a bit more,” Dad told me, watching through the race gates. “Good beast this one - but good means heavy.” Each one had to be proper checked - feet, eyes, everything right whether for market or slaughter. Proper job, like Grandad says.

That’s when we heard Justine’s quad-bike coming up fast. Justine never drives fast unless something’s wrong.

“TB lockdown over at Prescott’s,” he said before his engine was proper off. “Three reactors in their dairy herd. Whole area got to test now.”

Dad’s face went all still. Even in the yard, with the cattle making their normal morning noises, everything felt different suddenly. Wrong.

“How long they got?” Dad asked.

“Sixty days from clear test.” Justine weren’t looking at the cattle. “But you know how it goes. One reactor and we’re all stuck.”

Grandad leaned me about TB testing. Means every beast has to be caught, jabbed in the neck, then caught again three days later to check the lump. Means you can’t move nothing nowhere without special papers. Means no market next week. No slaughter wagon Thursday. Nothing moving anywhere.

“Better get on the phone,” Dad said quiet. “Market needs to know we won’t be there Monday. Cattle buyer won’t be happy - had fifteen promised to him. And Jackson’s will need telling about Thursday’s lot.”

Dad walked to the workshop where his proper phone lives - the one with the big metal bell that proper rings, not like them mobile ones that don’t work here anyway. Through the open door I could hear him talking about markets and movement licenses and testing dates.

The workshop phone’s bell kept making the swallows fly up from their nests all morning. Every time Dad came out, he had more stuff written on his bit of paper. Test dates. Reference numbers. Things that needed doing before other things could happen.

Me and Grandad went checking crops while Dad was talking. The winter wheat’s still proper green but getting fat in the ear. Spring barley’s shorter but “Coming good,” Grandad said. Then we got to the rapeseed fields over by the woods.

“Not right, this,” Grandad said, walking into the yellow flowers that should’ve been proper thick but weren’t. “Flea beetle got in when it was small. Never recovered proper.” He pulled a pod off, split it open. Seeds inside were small, not like they should be. “That’s farming - can’t win them all.”

The bees were proper busy in what rapeseed there was. Grandad’s hives were full of honey supers - them extra boxes on top where the bees store the good stuff.

“See them going in with orange legs?” he said, pointing to the workers landing. “That’s proper pollen that is. Clover mostly, bit of blackberry. Good stuff for proper honey.”

The sheep in the bottom field need gathering tomorrow. Early lambs are about ready, and the price is good according to Dad. At least TB don’t stop sheep moving - that’s just cattle.

Marmalade saw me coming and ran over to her gate. She’s proper big now, not like when she came backwards into the world that marmalade-sky morning. Still special though.

Alison found me there. She don’t need to ask what’s wrong - bad farming news travels proper quick.

“Remember when we had it before?” she said, leaning on the gate. “That time when you was only little?”

I shook my head.

“We got through it then. Farm’s still here.”

“But-”

“I know.” She reached over to scratch Marmalade’s ears. “Everything’s different now.”

The yard was quiet except for them swallows diving about. Through the workshop door, I could hear Dad’s voice talking about testing dates with someone.

In my notebook, I wrote:

July 3rd. TB at Prescott’s means testing for everyone. Winter barley ready soon. Rapeseed poorly in far field cause of bugs. Bees doing good job anyway. Bad stuff happens but proper farms keep going.

Grandad says sometimes the most important things are the hardest to put in notebooks.

Later, I found Grandad in his evening spot, watching the sun go down behind hills that didn’t care about TB or tests or farmers’ worries. His notebook was still in his pocket.

I think of what he would write in it.

‘The winter barley don’t care about TB tests. It’ll need cutting when it needs cutting, whatever else is happening. The bees’ll keep bringing in pollen, the sheep’ll keep growing, everything’ll keep moving except the things that can’t move.’

Some things keep going proper, even when other things stop.

14

Three Friends Is Better Than Two

Miss Williams was trying to learn us about fractions, but all I could think about was cattle. Twenty-one that should’ve been going, Dad had told Mum - fifteen to market, six to slaughter. Now just standing in fields, eating grass Dad might need later.

“Alex?” Miss Williams’ voice made me jump. “Would you like to show us how to solve this one?”

The fraction sum on the board went all blurry. Something about parts of a whole.

“He’s thinking about his sheep,” came a voice from the back. “Baa baa!”

“I’ll do it.” Oliver’s hand went up quick.

Jimmy Parker’s pencil snapped then. Proper loud in the quiet. He’d been my friend since Reception - used to come feed the chickens sometimes before Oliver came.

While Oliver was at the board, Jimmy gave me a proper look - the kind that asks questions without words. I remembered how Grandad learned us: everything finds its place if you don’t rush it.

At break time, me and Oliver sat on the wall. The one round the back where you can see the hills if you stretch up proper tall. Jimmy walked past twice, kicking stones.

“You’re weird today,” Oliver said, pulling out a packet of them fancy crisps his mum gets from London.

I looked at Jimmy disappearing round the corner. “Reckon some folks don’t like change much.”

“Like what?”

“Like different animals sharing the same field. Takes time, Grandad says. But they work it out proper eventually.”

Oliver looked confused, but that’s normal when I talk farming stuff. Before I could explain about TB though, Jimmy came back round the corner. Weren’t kicking stones this time.

“Got room for another one on that wall?” he asked quiet.

I shuffled over, making space between me and Oliver. “Always room for three. Like them gates in the cattle race - works better with three sections than two.”

Jimmy sat down slow, not looking at neither of us still. But when Oliver held out his posh crisps, Jimmy took some. Proper careful, like he was testing new ground.

That’s when I told them about the TB. Words felt stuck at first - harder to explain TB to someone who ain’t lived with farming. But they both listened proper, not doing nothing except nodding sometimes.

“My dad’s business had to close once,” Oliver said finally. “During Covid. He was on his phone all day being angry about it. Kept having these boring Zoom meetings in his study. Mum said we had to be extra quiet cause he was stressed and stuff.”

“How long for?”

“Ages. But then it started up again.” He crushed his crisp packet up careful. “Dad said everything goes back to normal if you wait long enough.”

“Can’t tell cattle to wait,” I said. “They keep eating grass. Keep growing. Keep needing stuff.”

Oliver nodded like he understood, even though he probably didn’t. Not proper anyway. But he tried, and that mattered somehow.

“Bet your dad knows what to do though,” Jimmy said suddenly. “He always does with farm stuff.”

“Miss Williams?” Tommy Wilson’s voice came loud across the playground. “Alex and Oliver and Jimmy ain’t playing football! They’re just sitting there talking about rubbish farm stuff!”

“Actually, Thomas,” Miss Williams appeared proper quiet behind him. “I think discussing the challenges of modern farming might be more important than football sometimes.” She looked at me different then, like she was seeing something new. “My dad was a farmer, you know. Up in Yorkshire.”

“Was?” I asked before I could stop myself.

The playground went on being noisy around us, but our wall felt quiet. Important quiet.

“Hey,” Oliver nudged my arm. “Want to come over? Dad got me this massive new Xbox for my room. The graphics are insane - you can literally see the alien guts when they explode!”

“Can’t this week. Got to help with testing prep. Getting the cattle ready and stuff.”

“After then?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

I knew I’d be needed at the farm. Proper needed, not just normal needed.

In my notebook that night, I wrote:

July 5th. Miss Williams understands about farming stuff. Oliver too, kind of. Some things you can’t properly explain though, even to friends. Sometimes three friends is better than two - like gates in the cattle race.

Through my window, I could see the yard lights on late again. Dad and Grandad still out there, checking what needed checking. Proper farming things that couldn’t wait, even when everything else had to.

15

Summer Holidays

Last day of school always feels weird. Like everything’s ending and beginning all at once. Miss Williams had put all our work up on the walls.

“Can’t believe we’re going up to big school after summer,” Jimmy said, helping me clear out my tray. “Reckon they’ll have proper football pitches there?”

“Course they will,” Oliver said. He was sitting on a desk, swinging his legs. “Dad’s making us go abroad for like, forever. Some place where it’s too hot to even breathe.”

“How long’s forever?” I asked, thinking about the farm and how much would change while he was gone.

“Three weeks,” Oliver sighed. “Wish we were just going to London like usual. Could’ve shown you the Arsenal stadium and everything.”

The classroom felt hot and still. Outside, the winter barley was proper golden now, ready when the weather lets us take it. But the TB testing weren’t finished yet, so the grain store was still full of cattle that should’ve been gone. Everything waiting on something else.

“You’re lucky though,” Oliver said. “Going to the seaside with your mad aunt.”

“Auntie Rose,” I smiled. “Mum’s sister. She’s proper crazy. Lives in this cottage right by the beach, has ice cream for breakfast sometimes.”

“For breakfast?” Oliver’s eyes went wide. “My mum would actually die.”

“Dad says Dubai’s got the biggest everything,” Oliver said. “Biggest shops, biggest buildings, biggest swimming pools.

“ But I bet it ain’t got proper farms, or proper ice cream for breakfast,” Jimmy added, making us laugh.

“When I get back though,” Oliver said, “I’ll definitely be in London for a bit. You could come stay, Alex. There’s this massive park near us where everyone plays football.”

The afternoon dragged slow. Miss Williams tried learning us something about Roman numbers, but nobody was proper listening. Even she kept looking out the window at the summer happening without us.

Then the bell rang for end of term. “I hope you all have a wonderful summer break, and good luck next year,” Miss Williams told us. I think I will miss her.

Dad’s Land Rover pulled up outside school. Not normal - usually get the bus home last day. But testing days mean everything’s different.

“Got to get these cattle through before the weekend,” he told me as we drove. “Vet’s coming Monday for the readings. Everything’s got to be ready.”

The yard was proper busy when we got back. Grandad directing cattle into the crush, Mum helping even though she hates it, Alison holding gates. Everyone doing their job.

“Good day?” Grandad asked while we waited for the next bunch to settle.

“Last day,” I said. “Oliver’s going to Dubai.”

“Dubai?” Grandad’s eyebrows went up. “Reckon they don’t have much farming there. Too hot for grass.”

The sun was setting proper late now - proper summer like. Me and Alison sat on the yard wall, watching Dad and Grandad still working with the cattle. Tomorrow we’d be helping pack for Auntie Rose’s. But tonight was just watching and waiting, like the whole farm was holding its breath.

“Reckon Oliver’s right though,” Alison said suddenly. “About London. You should go when he’s back. See something different.”

“What about harvest though? And Marmalade?”

She went quiet then. We both knew Marmalade was nearly ready, even if we didn’t talk about it.

“Some things you can’t stop,” she said finally. “But some things you can choose. Like seeing new places. Making friends.”

In my notebook that night, I wrote:

July 21st. Last day of school. Oliver going to Dubai. Me and Ally off to Auntie Rose’s soon. What about Marmalade?

Through my window, I could see the winter barley moving in the evening light. Ready when we are, Dad says. Just waiting for the right time. Like everything else this summer.

16

Summer Recess

The Treasury’s summer briefing pack landed on selected desks with deliberate quiet. No electronic copies. No leaked drafts. Just cream folders marked ‘Restricted’ in red.

“Page seventeen.” Sarah Chen, the Chancellor, didn’t look up from her copy. “That’s where the agricultural changes begin. Notice we’ve buried it between green energy incentives and rural development grants.”

Her special advisers - all sharp suits and sharper ambitions - nodded their approval. The morning sun through the Treasury windows made their papers glow like autumn wheat.

“The timing is…” one began.

“Perfect,” the Chancellor finished. “Parliament rises next week. By the time the sector realizes what’s coming, it’ll be too late to organize any meaningful opposition.”

“The NFU will object strongly,” someone said.

“The NFU can object all they want in October. The changes will already be typed, printed, and ready for announcement. Nothing mobilizes opposition like consultation. Better to present it as… inevitable.”

George Hawthorne stood at his desk in a different building, reading his own copy. His was one of only three sent to MPs outside the Treasury team. Trusted old hands, they called them. Or maybe just old enough to be harmless.

Or perhaps because someone wanted him to see it. Eleanor’s cousin Diane had worked in the Treasury for twenty-five years, her civil service neutrality never wavering - officially. But family was family, and some loyalties ran deeper than departmental protocols. The briefing pack had arrived in an unmarked envelope with no note needed. His public challenges might make him a problem, but his private networks ran through Westminster like the old building’s pipes - unseen but essential.

His phone buzzed - a text from Tom Matthews about TB testing. Real problems on real farms while Westminster played with paper futures. He thought about Alex’s notebook, probably full of summer holiday plans and farming notes. No space in it yet for terms like “tax liability threshold” or “asset rationalization.”

In the Treasury, they were discussing media strategy.

“We position it as modernization,” a young adviser was saying. “Agricultural reform for a changing Britain. The papers will love it - all those photos of solar farms gleaming in English fields.”

“And the opposition?” Someone had to ask.

“By October they’ll be focused on energy prices and inflation. No one votes on farming issues anymore. Not really.”

George’s copy of the briefing pack sat heavy in his hands. Forty years in Parliament had taught him how to read between lines, see past the jargon to the real meaning.

Page seventeen: “Adjustment of Agricultural Relief thresholds.” Meaning: Farms would need to find impossible sums for inheritance tax.

Page eighteen: “Encouraging diversity in land usage.” Meaning: Solar panels where crops once grew.

Page nineteen: “Modernization of traditional agricultural holdings.” Meaning: The end of family farms.

The young adviser was still talking: “We’ll need friendly faces for the autumn announcements. Someone who understands farming but supports progress…”

“What about George Hawthorne?” another suggested. “Old farming family himself. Perfect narrative - tradition embracing change.”

George closed the briefing pack. In his mind, he could see Alex writing in his notebook. Could see Tom Matthews watching his barley ripen. Could see Sydney Matthews looking at the barn door.

His phone buzzed again. Not Tom this time - the Chancellor’s office. Probably wanting to sound him out about supporting the changes. About being that friendly face.

He let it ring.

Some stories you could see the ending of before they finished. But some endings you didn’t have to help write.

17

Testing Day

Dad’s boots woke me up this morning. Not his normal boots neither - his worried boots. Even the blackbird weren’t awake yet, but Dad was in the yard. Just standing there proper still, like he does when something’s wrong.

I watched him through my window. Usually he’d be doing something - checking gates or sorting feed. But he just stood there, staring at the cattle shed.

Dr. Phillips’ Land Rover came just as it was getting light. She’s been our vet forever - knows which cows kick and which ones need talking to nice. But today she didn’t smile or ask about school like normal.

“Right then, Tom,” she said to Dad, looking at her papers. “Let’s get started.”

The cattle had been in since yesterday - twenty-one that should’ve been gone weeks ago, eating feed Dad says we need for winter. Each one had to have their neck checked, where Dr. Phillips jabbed them before. Proper careful checking, like when Mum’s looking for holes in my school socks.

I weren’t supposed to be watching from the barn door, but nobody told me to go. Even Grandad, who’s always telling me stuff, just stood quiet. His notebook stayed in his pocket, which ain’t normal neither.

Dr. Phillips worked slower than a frozen tractor. Checking each lump twice, sometimes three times. Writing stuff down but not saying nothing. Dad kept making his hands into fists then opening them again, over and over.

Then she stopped. Looked at her paper. Looked at Dad.

“All clear, Tom.”

Dad went all funny then, like his legs weren’t working proper.

“You’re sure?” His voice was different. Wobbly, like mine gets when I’m trying not to cry.

“Clean as a whistle. Every one of them.” She was smiling now, like she does when she sees Marmalade. “Get them to market quick as you can. Before anything else comes along.”

Dad just kept nodding, like his head was stuck.

The yard got proper busy then. Dad calling the market. Mum sorting transport. Grandad actually writing in his notebook again.

But Dad walked off quiet to the old oak tree where he reckons nobody can see. I could though, from my spot by the barn. He put his hand on the tree trunk like he needed holding up. His shoulders went up and down for a minute.

When he came back, his eyes were red but his voice was Dad-voice again. There was proper work to be done.

The cattle wagon came next morning, early as anything. Dad checked every ear tag three times, and all them papers more than that. Market day, like it should’ve been ages ago.

When Dad got off the phone that night, he was proper smiling. “Good price,” he told Mum. “Proper good.”

I found Grandad’s notebook in the kitchen after. He’d written:

Some days you carry the farm. Some days it carries you.

I didn’t proper understand that, but I wrote in my notebook anyway:

July 24th. Testing day. All clear. Cattle gone to market at last. Dad went quiet by the old oak but came back smiling. Everything different now.

From my window, I could see Dad doing his evening checks. Walking tall again, like normal Dad.

18

The Vote

Dad’s boots woke me up this morning. Not his normal boots neither - his worried boots. Even the blackbird weren’t awake yet, but Dad was in the yard. Just standing there proper still, like he does when something’s wrong.

I watched him through my window. Usually he’d be doing something - checking gates or sorting feed. But he just stood there, staring at the cattle shed.

Dr. Phillips’ Land Rover came just as it was getting light. She’s been our vet forever - knows which cows kick and which ones need talking to nice. But today she didn’t smile or ask about school like normal.

“Right then, Tom,” she said to Dad, looking at her papers. “Let’s get started.”

The cattle had been in since yesterday - twenty-one that should’ve been gone weeks ago, eating feed Dad says we need for winter. Each one had to have their neck checked, where Dr. Phillips jabbed them before. Proper careful checking, like when Mum’s looking for holes in my school socks.

I weren’t supposed to be watching from the barn door, but nobody told me to go. Even Grandad, who’s always telling me stuff, just stood quiet. His notebook stayed in his pocket, which ain’t normal neither.

Dr. Phillips worked slower than a frozen tractor. Checking each lump twice, sometimes three times. Writing stuff down but not saying nothing. Dad kept making his hands into fists then opening them again, over and over.

Then she stopped. Looked at her paper. Looked at Dad.

“All clear, Tom.”

Dad went all funny then, like his legs weren’t working proper.

“You’re sure?” His voice was different. Wobbly, like mine gets when I’m trying not to cry.

“Clean as a whistle. Every one of them.” She was smiling now, like she does when she sees Marmalade. “Get them to market quick as you can. Before anything else comes along.”

Dad just kept nodding, like his head was stuck.

The yard got proper busy then. Dad calling the market. Mum sorting transport. Grandad actually writing in his notebook again.

But Dad walked off quiet to the old oak tree where he reckons nobody can see. I could though, from my spot by the barn. He put his hand on the tree trunk like he needed holding up. His shoulders went up and down for a minute.

When he came back, his eyes were red but his voice was Dad-voice again. There was proper work to be done.

The cattle wagon came next morning, early as anything. Dad checked every ear tag three times, and all them papers more than that. Market day, like it should’ve been ages ago.

When Dad got off the phone that night, he was proper smiling. “Good price,” he told Mum. “Proper good.”

I found Grandad’s notebook in the kitchen after. He’d written:

Some days you carry the farm. Some days it carries you.

I didn’t proper understand that, but I wrote in my notebook anyway:

July 24th. Testing day. All clear. Cattle gone to market at last. Dad went quiet by the old oak but came back smiling. Everything different now.

From my window, I could see Dad doing his evening checks. Walking tall again, like normal Dad.

19

Different Kinds of Happy

I’d proper forgot about my birthday what with being at Auntie Rose’s, but Mum hadn’t. There was a card on my plate at breakfast - all glittery with a “12” that kept catching the morning sun. Inside, Auntie Rose had written something about me being a proper sailor now. There was even a fiver tucked in, which made Dad laugh.

“Better add that to the Marmalade fund,” he said, but he was smiling.

Twelve today. Still one of the youngest in my year cause I started school early - some of them boys’ll be nearly thirteen when we start high school. Like Tommy Wilson who’s already proper tall and that. Dad says that’s just how it works sometimes in rural schools. They take you when you’re ready, not just when the calendar says.

The farm felt different after being away. Not bad different - just like I had new glasses and everything’s the same but clearer somehow. The winter barley was proper ready now, golden as anything. Dad reckons Newman’ll be here with his combine end of the week. Spring wheat’s coming good too, and the rapeseed’s nearly there despite them flea beetles having a go at it.

“Good honey year,” Grandad said, putting a proper chunk of honeycomb on my birthday toast. The bees had done us proud - supers all full and ready for taking off. Even the rapeseed honey, which can go funny if you don’t get it just right.

Dad had got me proper work gloves for my birthday. Proper ones, not just the ones from the farm shop that fall apart after a week. “Reckon you’re old enough to start learning the tractor after harvest,” he said casual-like, but I could tell it was important. “Nothing big mind. Just moving stuff in the yard at first.”

My stomach did that flippy thing it does when something’s exciting and scary all at once.

The yard was quieter without them market cattle, but we still got the breeding herd - twenty good cows, all in calf and due October time. And six strong bulls that’ll go to market before winter. Proper good prices for beef lately, Dad says.

Justine caught me just as I was heading to check on Marmalade. “Need a hand this week,” he said. “Got some pest control needs doing in the far woods. Could use someone who knows how to move quiet-like.” That’s Justine’s way of saying happy birthday - giving you proper work instead of just jobs.

Sheep-wise, most of the early lambs had gone except Marmalade of course. She came running when she heard my voice, like she knew I’d been away. The breeding ewes were in the top field, getting ready for tupping in October. Proper farming cycle, that - always something coming when something else is going.

“Better earn your keep today, birthday or not,” Dad said. “Them gates need painting if you’re going to pay for Marmalade’s feed.”

I didn’t mind. Felt good doing proper work again after holidays. Even if I did keep thinking about Oliver in Dubai. Wonder if he’s got sand in his fancy trainers yet? I got a postcard - mostly about how hot it was and how everything was massive. Proper Oliver-like.

Mum made chocolate cake for tea. Not a proper birthday cake with icing and that - she knows I like her chocolate cake better. While we was eating it, Dad started talking harvest plans. Combines booked, grain store nearly empty, everything ready to go.

“Good year so far,” Grandad said, but his notebook stayed in his pocket. Been doing that more lately.

In my notebook, I wrote:

August 10th. Twelve today. Farm busy getting ready for harvest. Grandad says bees have done us proud. Marmalade remembered me. Got proper work gloves and tractor promises. Got to paint gates to pay for Marmalade’s tea.

Funny being twelve. Too young compared to other kids going up to high school, but old enough for proper farm work. Dad says that’s just how farming goes - you grow into jobs same as you grow into boots. Reckon he’s right about that, like he is about most stuff.

Through my window, I could see Dad and Grandad doing late checks. The sun was taking ages to set - proper summer still. Somewhere in Dubai, Oliver was probably just waking up. Somewhere in them fields, wheat was still growing. And somewhere in my chest, being twelve felt just the same as being eleven, only with more responsibility.

Maybe that’s what growing up is. Just carrying more stuff without noticing the weight.

20

Proper Birthday Time

I’d proper forgot about my birthday what with being at Auntie Rose’s, but Mum hadn’t. There was a card on my plate at breakfast - all glittery with a “12” that kept catching the morning sun. Inside, Auntie Rose had written something about me being a proper sailor now. There was even a fiver tucked in, which made Dad laugh.

“Better add that to the Marmalade fund,” he said, but he was smiling.

Twelve today. Still one of the youngest in my year cause I started school early - some of them boys’ll be nearly thirteen when we start high school. Like Tommy Wilson who’s already proper tall and that. Dad says that’s just how it works sometimes in rural schools. They take you when you’re ready, not just when the calendar says.

The farm felt different after being away. Not bad different - just like I had new glasses and everything’s the same but clearer somehow. The winter barley was proper ready now, golden as anything. Dad reckons Newman’ll be here with his combine end of the week. Spring wheat’s coming good too, and the rapeseed’s nearly there despite them flea beetles having a go at it.

“Good honey year,” Grandad said, putting a proper chunk of honeycomb on my birthday toast. The bees had done us proud - supers all full and ready for taking off. Even the rapeseed honey, which can go funny if you don’t get it just right.

Dad had got me proper work gloves for my birthday. Proper ones, not just the ones from the farm shop that fall apart after a week. “Reckon you’re old enough to start learning the tractor after harvest,” he said casual-like, but I could tell it was important. “Nothing big mind. Just moving stuff in the yard at first.”

My stomach did that flippy thing it does when something’s exciting and scary all at once.

The yard was quieter without them market cattle, but we still got the breeding herd - twenty good cows, all in calf and due October time. And six strong bulls that’ll go to market before winter. Proper good prices for beef lately, Dad says.

Justine caught me just as I was heading to check on Marmalade. “Need a hand this week,” he said. “Got some pest control needs doing in the far woods. Could use someone who knows how to move quiet-like.” That’s Justine’s way of saying happy birthday - giving you proper work instead of just jobs.

Sheep-wise, most of the early lambs had gone except Marmalade of course. She came running when she heard my voice, like she knew I’d been away. The breeding ewes were in the top field, getting ready for tupping in October. Proper farming cycle, that - always something coming when something else is going.

“Better earn your keep today, birthday or not,” Dad said. “Them gates need painting if you’re going to pay for Marmalade’s feed.”

I didn’t mind. Felt good doing proper work again after holidays. Even if I did keep thinking about Oliver in Dubai. Wonder if he’s got sand in his fancy trainers yet? I got a postcard - mostly about how hot it was and how everything was massive. Proper Oliver-like.

Mum made chocolate cake for tea. Not a proper birthday cake with icing and that - she knows I like her chocolate cake better. While we was eating it, Dad started talking harvest plans. Combines booked, grain store nearly empty, everything ready to go.

“Good year so far,” Grandad said, but his notebook stayed in his pocket. Been doing that more lately.

In my notebook, I wrote:

August 10th. Twelve today. Farm busy getting ready for harvest. Grandad says bees have done us proud. Marmalade remembered me. Got proper work gloves and tractor promises. Got to paint gates to pay for Marmalade’s tea.

Funny being twelve. Too young compared to other kids going up to high school, but old enough for proper farm work. Dad says that’s just how farming goes - you grow into jobs same as you grow into boots. Reckon he’s right about that, like he is about most stuff.

Through my window, I could see Dad and Grandad doing late checks. The sun was taking ages to set - proper summer still. Somewhere in Dubai, Oliver was probably just waking up. Somewhere in them fields, wheat was still growing. And somewhere in my chest, being twelve felt just the same as being eleven, only with more responsibility.

Maybe that’s what growing up is. Just carrying more stuff without noticing the weight.

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Due to blog post size limits.

I've had to separate the first half of The Barn Door Stayed Closed

Don't stop now...... Click here for chapters 21 - 40.....