The Barn Door Stayed Closed - Chapter One

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.”

March 14th, 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.”

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?”

“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. That’s what makes it special. That’s what makes it ours.”

I want to write that down, but my hands need to stay ready. Some things are too important for just notebooks anyway.

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.

My hands felt steady despite the importance of it all. Farm work had made them sure, even when my heart was racing.

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.”

Number forty-seven goes down then, proper down in the straw. Her breathing changes. Something appears—-but it’s wrong.

“Back feet,” Grandad says quiet. “Coming backwards.”

My stomach goes funny. I know from his voice that’s not good.

“Can we turn it?” Dad asks, moving closer.

“Too late for that. She’s pushing.” Grandad’s rolling up his sleeves proper now. “Sometimes you just got to help them through it the way they’re coming.”

Back legs appear first—-tiny hooves pointing the wrong way. Then the body, all slick and steaming. Grandad’s hands work quick and sure, supporting the lamb’s weight, making sure nothing tears.

“Head’s the tricky part,” he mutters. “Can get stuck.”

One more push. The head comes free. The lamb slips out all at once—-backwards into the world.

“Clear the airway, quick,” Grandad says, working fast. “Backwards births fill the lungs faster.”

He clears the lamb’s nose and mouth with quick, practiced movements. For a terrible moment, nothing happens.

Then the lamb gasps. Shakes her head. Breathes.

“That’s it,” Dad says quiet. “That’s life starting. The hard way.”

Number forty-seven’s already cleaning the lamb with her rough tongue, making them mother sounds that mean everything’s alright, everything’s as it should be.

“See that?” Grandad says, stepping back to let the ewe work. “Life always finds a way, lad. Been that way on this farm since before your great-Grandad was even thought of. Will be long after I’m gone.”

He looks at the lamb proper then—still wet, still shaky, but breathing strong.

“Backwards birth,” he says. “Harder start than most. But I’ll tell you something—backwards lambs try harder. They have to, to survive. Remember that, Alex. The ones that come into the world the hard way, they’re often the strongest in the end.”

“Want to help me check the winter wheat?” Grandad asks after we’ve moved number forty-seven and her lamb to a clean pen. Dad’s gone back to morning jobs, and the other ewes are settled.

The field’s not far from the lambing shed. The wheat’s coming through proper now—all them little green shoots we planted back in autumn pushing up through the soil.

Grandad kneels down, brushes soil away from some shoots, showing me how to see the roots underneath.

“See these little green shoots under all them leaves?” he says, his voice going serious like it does for proper farming lessons. “Life always finds a way, lad. Been that way on this farm since before your great-Grandad was even thought of. Will be long after I’m gone.”

He says it again, like it’s important I hear it twice. Like he’s making sure I’ll remember.

“You remember that,” he says, watching me take out my notebook and write it down proper.

“Whatever happens, whatever changes come, life finds a way. The important things survive.”

Later, I find Alison in the tack room, not just grooming Phoenix but working on something at the bench. She’s got her sketchbook open—the proper one with thick paper, not a school notebook—and she’s drawing something with a ruler and pencil, measuring careful.

“Ally!” I shout from the doorway. “Number forty-seven had a lamb! And I helped proper!”

She looks up, and for a moment I see what she’s drawing—a building, all straight lines and measurements. Notes written in the margins about materials and angles. Then she closes the book quick and smiles.

“A lamb? That’s brilliant, Alex.” She comes over, puts her arm around my shoulders. Not like when we were little and she’d ruffle my hair. More like proper proud. “Your first lambing. That’s a big deal.”

“It came backwards,” I tell her, the words tumbling out. “Back feet first, then the body, then the head got stuck but Grandad knew what to do and it breathed and Grandad said backwards lambs try harder”

“Slow down.” She’s laughing now, proper laughing. “Did you write it all down?”

I show her my notebook, the wobbly writing about marmalade skies and backwards births.

“Good notes,” she says, reading them proper careful. “Grandad would be proud.”

“What were you drawing?” I ask, trying to see her sketchbook.

She hesitates, then opens it again. Shows me pages of buildings—not just drawings but plans. Numbers and measurements and proper architectural stuff that looks professional.

“Design project for my A-Level coursework,” she explains. “Redesigning our lambing shed. See? Better ventilation here, more natural light from this angle, but keeping the traditional materials and structure.”

“That’s our shed?”

“Could be. If I get the grades and get into university and actually learn how to do this properly.” She traces a line with her finger. “Modern farming needs modern buildings. But they should still look like they belong here, you know? Not just ugly metal boxes.”

“You’re going to university?” I know this already—heard Mum and Dad talking about it—but it feels different hearing Alison say it direct.

“That’s the plan.” Her voice goes quiet. “Durham, if I’m lucky. Architecture program starts September next year. After I finish A-Levels.”

“That’s ages away.”

“Year and a half. Not that long really.” She closes the sketchbook, looks out at the fields beyond the stable door. “Sometimes feels like forever, though. Sometimes feels like I’ll be here forever.”

“But you want to go?”

“Course I do. It’s what I’ve been working toward.” Then she looks at me proper serious. “But I’ll miss this place. Miss you and Grandad and the farm. Even miss mucking out Phoenix’s stable, if you can believe that.”

“You can come back though. For holidays and that.”

“Yeah. I can come back.” But something in her voice sounds like she doesn’t quite believe it.

Phoenix whinnies from his stall, wanting attention. Alison goes to him, running her hand down his neck the way she always does.

“You know what’s funny?” she says, not looking at me. “I spend all this time planning buildings for farms, drawing barns and sheds and houses. But I’m planning to leave. Doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

“Makes sense to me,” I say, even though I don’t fully understand. “You’ll be proper good at it.”

She pulls me into a hug then. A real one, tight and long. When she lets go, her eyes look wet but she’s smiling.

“You’re going to be a brilliant farmer, Alex Matthews. Better than me, better than Dad even. You’ve got it in you—I can see it. You and Grandad together, you’re going to make this place something special.”

“You could help too,” I offer. “Design us new buildings when you’re famous.”

“Maybe I will.” She picks up her sketchbook, tucks it under her arm. “Come on. Let’s go tell everyone about your backwards lamb. Mum’ll want to hear every detail.”

Walking back to the house together, I notice how she’s changed. Not just taller—though she is proper tall now—but different. More grown-up. Like she’s already halfway to being someone else. Someone who lives in a different world from tractors and lambing sheds.

But when we get to the kitchen and she starts telling Mum about my first lambing, adding details I forgot and making it sound proper exciting, she’s still Ally. Still my sister. Just… changing. Growing toward something I can’t quite see yet.

I write in my notebook that night:

March 14th, 5:43 AM, marmalade sky. Number forty-seven, backwards lamb, my first proper lambing. Grandad said life always finds a way. Alison’s designing buildings for farms even though she’s leaving for university. Don’t fully understand that but she says it makes sense.

Everything’s changing but some things stay the same.

The blackbird’s singing again, both songs now, but I don’t need to count them anymore. I already know exactly where I’m meant to be

I’m not sure Alison knows where she’s meant to be yet. But I reckon she’s trying to figure it out.

That's where this excerpt ends — the rest is in the book.

All profits from this book go to RABI (The Royal Agricultural Benevolent Institution), supporting UK farming families facing the pressures at the heart of this story.

On sale now - Click here to order your copy today