The Barn Door Stayed Closed - Cont..

Chapters 21 - 40

Before...

21

Last Stand

Newman’s combine looked massive in the morning light, all yellow and proper serious against the golden barley. Made our tractors look small, which takes some doing. Dad says it can cut thirty acres a day easy when conditions are right, which makes it worth every penny of what he charges.

I been up since proper early, helping Dad check moisture. “Got to be below sixteen percent,” he said, showing me how to use the meter right. “Too high and we’ll have drying costs.” He did that thing where he rubs the grain between his hands, feeling it proper careful. “Reckon another hour. Sun’ll do its job.”

Newman was already in the yard with his team - three tractor drivers who’ve worked with him forever, all of them knowing exactly what needs doing without being told. Like watching a dance that’s been practiced for years, Grandad says.

“Moisture good?” Newman asked Dad, chewing on that bit of straw he always has. Reckon he was born with it.

“Fifteen point eight and dropping,” Dad nodded. “Fields’s had sun on it since dawn. Ready when you are.”

“Right then, young sir,” Newman turned to me. “Your dad says you’re clerk today. Got your notebook?”

My hands felt proper sweaty holding my notebook. Two hundred acres of winter barley ain’t small responsibility.

“Your job,” Dad said, serious as anything, “is keeping track. Every trailer load needs weighing, moisture checking, and storing right. Grain store’s got three bays - numbers are on the walls. Bay One’s for anything over fifteen percent, Bay Two for fourteen to fifteen, Bay Three for below fourteen. Clear?”

I nodded, probably looking as scared as I felt.

“You’ll do fine,” Newman said. “Just like your dad when he started. He were shorter though.”

That made everyone laugh, even Dad. Then the combine’s engine roared up proper loud, and harvest began for real.

First thing you notice is the sound - not just engine noise, but the way the crop meets the header. Like a thousand whispers all at once, Grandad says. Then comes the dust, turning the morning sun into proper gold light, making everything look magical.

A family of hares burst out first - proper big ones that had been hiding in the barley all summer. Then another family, and another. Partridges came next, all noisy and panicked, flying low across the stubble. Dad says that’s how it’s always been - harvest pushing wildlife ahead of it, same as it has since farming began.

The first trailer came in just before eleven. “Right then, clerk,” Dad said, proper official-like. “Show us how it’s done.”

I checked the weight on the weighbridge - 16.4 tonnes. Tested moisture - 15.2%. “Bay Two,” I said, trying to sound like I knew what I was doing. Wrote it all down proper careful: Load 1 - 16.4t - 15.2% - Bay 2 - 10:47am

By lunchtime, we had a proper system going. Three trailers taking turns - one under the combine, one on the way to the store, one tipping. Had to be proper organized or everything gets blocked up.

Mum brought sandwiches out, but nobody proper stopped. Just grabbed what they could between loads. Even Grandad was helping, checking moisture when I was busy directing trailers. His notebook stayed in his pocket though, which felt weird somehow.

The afternoon got proper hot. Dust was everywhere - in your hair, your eyes, your mouth. But good dust, if you know what I mean. Harvest dust. The kind that means proper work’s being done.

“Looking good,” Grandad said, checking my numbers. “Averaging just over eight tonnes per hectare by my calculations. Good yield.” He was doing sums in his head like he always does. “Reckon we’ll top six hundred tonnes total.”

The sun was thinking about setting when Newman switched his lights on. That’s when harvest goes proper magical - combine lights cutting through the dust, making it look like gold floating in the air. The stars came out proper bright, like they wanted to watch too.

Alison had been helping Mum all day, and now they’d set up a proper feast in the barn. But she’d spent the morning with Dad and Newman too—her math skills made her proper good at calculating yields and projections. “Farming’s all applied mathematics,” she’d told me, sounding like one of her school textbooks. “Ratios, areas, volumes—all that stuff they make us learn actually matters here.” For a moment, she sounded properly excited about both farming and school at once.

Mum wasn’t just cooking though. Between batches of sandwiches, she was out checking the edges of the fields, collecting samples of wildflowers and grasses in her little notebook. “Best time to see what’s surviving alongside the crops,” she told me when I asked. “Tells you how healthy the land is.” She knew all their proper names—not just the farming names Dad uses, but the science ones. Bank girl turned nature expert, as Grandad sometimes says.

“Won’t finish tonight,” Newman said, accepting a mug of tea. “Dew’ll be down in an hour. But good start - done hundred and twenty acres I reckon. Weather holding tomorrow?”

Dad checked his phone. “Clear till Thursday. Should finish easy.”

Sure enough, when the dew started making the straw tough, Newman called it a night. Looking out across the field, you could see what was left - proud strips of barley standing in the middle, like they was having their last dance.

In my notebook, I wrote down the day’s totals: August 24th. Day One - 372 tonnes. Average moisture 15.1%. Still looking at Bay Two mostly. Newman reckons we’re on for finishing tomorrow.

Next morning came proper early. Dad and Newman were checking moisture before the sun was proper up. The combine was already rumbling, like it was eager to finish what it started.

The last strips always feel different somehow. More important. Like they know they’re special. Even the wildlife seems different - them last hares holding out until the very end, like they’re proper proud of staying so long.

When the final load came in, everyone gathered in the yard. Newman shut off his engine and the silence felt proper strange after two days of noise.

“Good harvest,” he said, shaking Dad’s hand. “Six hundred and ten tonnes total by your lad’s numbers. Good yield that.”

“Proper good,” Dad agreed, looking proud at my notebook.

That evening, when all Newman’s lot had gone home, we had our own little celebration. Just family, sitting in the yard watching the sun go down over the stubble fields. Mum had made proper food - not just harvest snap-and-go stuff.

“Read us your final numbers then,” Grandad said, nodding at my notebook.

I read it all out proper careful: August 25th. Winter barley complete. 610 tonnes total. Average moisture 15.1%. Used Bay Two mostly, bit in Bay One early on. Saw nine families of hares altogether and about a million partridges. Combine lights make dust look like magic.

“Proper job,” Grandad said when I finished. Then he did something proper special - opened his notebook and copied my numbers into it. “Reckon you’ve got the makings of a proper harvest clerk there, Tom,” he said to Dad.

Through my window that night, the stubble fields stretched out silver in the moonlight. Different kind of beautiful to standing crop, but beautiful all the same. Tomorrow we’d start planning for the wheat, but tonight was just for being happy with what we’d done.

Proper harvest happiness, that is. The kind that comes from seeing a job through, start to finish, just like farmers have always done.

22

Beyond The Hedgerows

The Treasury briefing pack sat unopened on George’s desk. Even in the August heat, its cream cover seemed to carry a chill. Three hundred pages of carefully worded destruction.

His constituency office felt wrong without the usual bustle. No phones ringing, no staff rushing with papers, no farmers dropping by to discuss livestock movements or drainage issues. Just the quiet hum of a fan pushing warm air around empty space.

He drove without real purpose, taking the back roads through his constituency. Harvest was in full swing - combines moving through golden fields like ships through a wheat sea. Each farm he passed was another weight in his chest.

The lane up to Harper’s Hill was barely more than a tractor track. George parked where the Matthews always did when checking their top fields. From here you could see half the valley - patchwork fields stretched out below, ribbons of hedge between them.

Newman’s combine was moving through the Matthews’ winter barley. Even from here, George could see the familiar dance of tractors and trailers, the dust catching evening light. Tom’s boy would be learning the clerk’s job this year - every farming child’s first proper harvest responsibility.

His phone rang. The Chancellor’s office again. Third time this week. They’d want him to “contribute to the narrative” no doubt. The friendly farming face explaining why destroying three hundred years of agricultural tradition was actually progress.

He let it ring.

A group of partridges broke from the falling crop, skimming low across the stubble. Life adapting to change, as it always had. But this was different. This wasn’t nature’s rhythm of seasons - this was bureaucrats who thought food grew in Waitrose deciding the fate of families who’d fed nations since before the Industrial Revolution.

The combine’s lights came on as dusk approached, cutting through harvest dust like searchlight beams. Beautiful, in its way. Like watching the last sunset of summer.

His briefcase held the Treasury documents. Page seventeen still crisp despite how many times he’d read it.

Diane had taken a significant risk getting this to him. “They’re watching the official channels now,” she’d warned in her terse note. “Be careful how you use this.” He’d burned the note immediately, old political instincts kicking in. Forty years in Parliament had taught him how the game was played, but this wasn’t a game anymore. This was about people’s lives.The words remained the same no matter how he wished them different: “Agricultural Relief to be capped at £1 million…”

Simple words. Clinical. Nothing about sons learning from fathers, about knowledge passed down through generations, about the slow careful building of soil and community.

The Matthews place would be one of the first to fall. Land-rich, cash-poor - exactly the kind of farm this policy would hit hardest. All that history, all that knowledge, all that care of the land… reduced to numbers on a spreadsheet. Numbers that made no sense. Not unless the government needed land.

The combine finished its final run as darkness fell. George could imagine the scene in the farmyard - the quiet satisfaction of work done right, the simple pleasure of evening tea after harvest, the unknowing peace of a family not yet broken.

He should warn them. Should tell Tom what was coming. Give them time to…

To what?

The night was dark now. Stars bright as he’d ever seen them - the kind of stars you only get in rural areas. Soon enough there’d be security lights and street lamps here too. Progress, they’d call it.

His phone rang again. Tom Matthews this time. Probably wanting to share harvest yields, talk about winter wheat plans. George let this call ring out too. What could he say that wouldn’t be a lie?

The combine’s lights had gone out. Just the yard lights now, marking the Matthews place like a beacon in the dark valley. Three hundred years of farming history glowing soft against the night.

Come autumn budget, those lights would face going out too. One by one across the countryside, farm lights would fade as land was sold, families moved, communities scattered. All because someone in Westminster decided.

George started his car, the Treasury briefing pack a shadow on the passenger seat. The Matthews’ lights disappeared as he drove down the hill, like a star going out.

Some betrayals, he thought, came with silence rather than words.

23

Stolen Stars

“The city’s stolen all the stars,” I said, pressing my face against the glass. Oliver’s flat was so high up you could see all of London lit up below.

Getting to the flat had been weird enough. Instead of parking normal, Oliver’s dad drove down this spiral road under the building. “Like a basement but for cars,” Oliver explained when he saw my face. There were proper posh cars everywhere, all shiny like they’d never seen mud.

“Home sweet home,” Oliver’s mum said, leading us into a kitchen that was all white and silver. No proper farmhouse table like ours - just high stools at a counter thing. Everything looked like it had come straight from a magazine.

“Your room’s through here, Alex,” Oliver said, proper excited. “Wait till you see the view!”

I tried not to look too amazed, but the room was massive. Bigger than mine and Alison’s put together. The bed was all white too, like fresh snow.

“Thirty-second floor,” Oliver said proud, like that meant something important. “Dad says you can see half of London from up here.”

Reckon you could, but it was a different London to the one we’d driven through earlier. Down there had been proper chaotic - cars and buses and bikes all tangled up together, everyone in a rush to be somewhere else. Up here it all looked peaceful, like looking down at one of them model villages they have in museums.

The balcony made my legs go all funny when I looked down through the glass panels. Like that time I climbed too high in the oak tree, only worse cause there weren’t no proper branches to hold onto, just a metal rail between you and nothing.

“You get used to it,” Oliver said, but he wasn’t pressed right against the wall like I was.

“You should’ve seen the Palm in Dubai,” Oliver said, pulling up a picture on his phone. “It’s like this massive island they built in the sea, shaped like a massive tree. Everything’s huge there.”

“Bit like them container ships we saw from Mike’s boat,” I said, thinking about sailing. “Makes you feel proper small.”

“You actually sailed a boat?” Oliver looked impressed for once. “Like, acutally sailed it?”

“Proper basics only. Mike says it’s all about reading stuff - wind and tide and that. Like how Grandad reads weather for harvest.”

Oliver nodded, then grinned. “Still rather be on a football pitch though.”

“Still rather be on a farm,” I said back, but we was both smiling.

“Dinner’s being delivered at seven,” Oliver’s mum called. “That Japanese place your father likes.” Oliver’s face looked all suddenly sick.

“Dad only likes it because it impresses his clients,” he whispered when his mum went to get changed. “I’d rather have your mum’s shepherd’s pie any day.”

The food came in little boxes with chopsticks. I tried proper hard to use them but kept dropping stuff. Oliver’s dad laughed kind though, not mean. “Took me ages to learn,” he said.

Next morning was proper strange. No animals to feed, no jobs to check. Just London waking up below us, all car horns and sirens instead of cockerels.

“Breakfast’s whatever you can find,” Oliver said, opening cupboards full of boxes with foreign writing. “Or we can grab something at the tube station.”

The tube was like nothing I’d ever seen. All these people rushing underground, nobody talking, everyone staring at phones like they were scared to look up. “It’s the fastest way to travel in London,” Oliver said, but I reckon walking would’ve been better. At least then you’d see where you were going.

We was heading to Oliver’s old football club. Proper pitches with proper goals - not like our school field with the wonky posts. His old mates were there too, all fancy boots and proper kit.

That’s when I saw a different Oliver. He wasn’t just good at football - he was proper amazing. Like he’d been born knowing how to make a ball do exactly what he wanted.

“Lost none of your touch then, Oli,” the coach said after Oliver scored another goal. “Shame you moved away - you’d have made academy standard easy.”

I played too, but it was different from farm football. These lads had proper training, proper skills. Still, farm work makes you fit - I could run longer than most of them.

“Not bad, country boy,” Oliver said after, not teasing like. “Coach noticed too.” He seemed different here - more confident but also more himself, if that makes sense. Like the football pitch was where he didn’t have to pretend about anything.

Saturday night, we was getting ready for some fancy restaurant Oliver’s dad had booked. Oliver was in his room changing his trainers for proper shoes.

Oliver’s mum caught me in the kitchen. She was trying to make coffee with one of them complicated machines that hiss and bubble.

“How do you think he’s doing, Alex?” she asked quiet. “It’s been such a big change for him.”

I thought about Oliver practicing against the garage wall at home, about him lighting up proper bright on them academy pitches today.

“Reckon he needs a proper goal mouth,” I said. “Like how I need Marmalade.”

She stopped fiddling with the coffee machine then, looked at me proper thoughtful.

“You know, that’s rather wise,” she said, sounding different from her usual rushed voice. “Perhaps we need to talk to his father about those goalposts again.”

Later, I heard Oliver and his mum talking. “It’s not just about goalposts,” he was saying. “Everything’s just so… perfect there. Dad doesn’t get it.” His voice went quieter. “Alex’s farm isn’t perfect, but it’s real.”

The restaurant was the kind with more forks than we’ve got in our whole drawer at home…

“Just work from the outside in,” Oliver whispered when he saw me looking confused at all the cutlery. Like Grandad says about farm jobs - everything’s got its proper order.

Sunday morning, we walked through somewhere called St James’s Park. Proper weird having a park in the middle of all them buildings, like someone had dropped a little bit of countryside into the city. Oliver’s dad pointed out some important buildings - Parliament where George works (“That’s the one with the big clock called Ben”), and Downing Street where the Prime Minister lives.

“Your dad seems different here,” I said to Oliver later.

“How’d you mean?”

“Just… more relaxed like. Not always on his phone like at your house near us.”

Oliver thought about that. “Yeah. He likes being close to his office. Everything’s like, convenient here.”

“You miss it?”

“Sometimes. I miss the football academy. I miss my old friends.” “But it’s kind of cool having space now. And…” he grinned, “…watching backward lambs that try harder.” Sunday tea time came too quick. The drive home felt proper long, but different from coming. Like my head was too full of new things to think straight.

Dad was waiting in the yard when we got back. “Good time?” he asked, carrying my bag.

I nodded, too tired for proper words. But later, doing evening checks with him, everything felt right again. The stars were back where they should be, bright as anything in proper dark sky. Marmalade came running when she heard my voice, like she’d been saving up headbutts special.

In my notebook that night, I wrote:

August 28th. London’s massive. Different kind of massive to fields though. Oliver’s proper good at football when he’s got proper pitches. Reckon cities and farms are just different ways of living. Both got their own kind of sense to them.

Through my window, I could see the yard lights reflecting off the grain store roof. Not as bright as London lights, but proper familiar. Like they knew exactly where they belonged.

24

Different Rules

Marmalade listened better than anyone when you was worried about stuff. Even tonight, with her feed bucket empty, she just stood there quiet while I told her about big school tomorrow.

“Proper big,” I said, leaning against her pen. “Makes our school look like a shed.” The new uniform felt stiff and wrong, not like my farm clothes that know how to move right. “Some of them kids’ll be nearly thirteen - proper big for Year Seven.”

Through the kitchen window, I could see Mum sorting my new bag out. Everything had to be just right - books covered proper, pencil case packed like it was going to be tested. Alison was helping, but she kept giving Mum these looks, like they was sharing worried thoughts.

“Remember what I told you about big school,” Alison had said earlier, doing her big sister voice. “Stay with Oliver when you can. Look for me at lunch if you need to.” She was going into Year Eleven - proper grown up now with her sunset-colored hair and them blue boots.

I heard them later, when they thought I was in bed.

“He’s so young still, Mum. Not like the others.”

“He’s clever though. Good at sorting things.”

“It’s not that… it’s just…. You know?”

I knew what she meant. Summer had learned me loads - being harvest clerk, sailing with Mike, seeing Oliver’s London life. But somehow all that felt different to what was coming tomorrow.

Morning came too fast. The yard looked proper strange in my new uniform - black trousers instead of old jeans, proper shiny shoes instead of boots. Even the animals looked at me different.

“You’ll do fine,” Dad said at breakfast, but his toast sat uneaten too.

Mum had been up since proper early, ironing my uniform sharper than anything. “Your first impression matters,” she’d said, checking my tie was straight. Different from her usual self—she doesn’t normally fuss over appearances like Nana Joyce does. But she’d been a new kid once too, she told me. “Hardest thing I ever did was walking into that farming community as a total outsider. At least you’ve got friends already.” She’d brushed invisible dust from my shoulders, her banker father’s daughter showing through just for a moment.

The school bus was proper full - all us new ones trying to look like we knew what we was doing. Oliver got on at his stop, looking different in his uniform but still proper Oliver.

“Looks proper massive.” I said when we first saw it close up. All them windows and doors, kids everywhere, noise like market day but louder.

Form room was up two flights of stairs and down a corridor longer than our whole old school. Mr Roker stood at his desk like he was guarding it - proper old teacher with grey hair and them glasses that look over you instead of at you.

“Quiet,” he said, not shouting but meaning it proper like Dad does sometimes. “When I call your name, raise your hand. No speaking.”

Some kids giggled at that, but not for long. Mr. Roker had that look that meant business. Reminded me of Grandad when he’s doing proper important farming stuff - no messing about.

The timetable didn’t look too hard - just like planning harvest really. Each lesson in its proper place, like fields waiting to be cut. The school map was just field patterns really, once you looked at it right.

“How’d you know where everything is already?” Oliver asked at break time when I found the canteen straight off.

“Just patterns,” I said. “Like how you know them football moves without thinking.”

Jimmy found us at lunch. He was in a different form but had some same lessons. His uniform was already proper scruffy - tie crooked, shirt untucked. Looked more natural somehow.

That’s when I saw Alison at lunch in the corridor with her friends. They was all touching her hair, proper excited about the colors. She saw me and waved, but different from home - more grown up like. I noticed how she walked different here too—more sure of herself, like she knew exactly where she belonged in the big school hallways. Part of me wondered if this was the real Alison—the one who sketched buildings and talked about university—more than the one who plaited Phoenix’s mane.

“You signing up for football?” Oliver asked, pointing at a notice board. “Trials next week.”

“Maybe,” I said, but harvest would still be going then. Wheat needed cutting more than I needed to play football.

It was after lunch when it happened. I was checking my map, working out where Chemistry was, when something hit my shoulder proper hard. My books went everywhere, skidding across the corridor floor while everyone walked past like they hadn’t seen.

“Watch it,” came a voice from above. Proper big lad - Year Eight but looked older. Had that smile that ain’t really a smile.

My hands went tight like they do before something happens. But Oliver was there sudden, picking up my books, talking about being late, moving us away proper smooth like he’d done it before.

“Not worth it,” he said quiet when we was clear. “That’s Mark Stevens. Everyone says you just stay clear.”

“But-”

“Trust me. Different rules here than on the farm.”

Chemistry was double last lesson. Should’ve been interesting - all experiments and that. But all I could think about was Mark Stevens and how my stomach went funny whenever someone walked behind me.

The yard felt proper safe when I got home. Everything knew its place here - no corridors to worry about, no rules that don’t make sense. Marmalade came running when she heard me, not caring about uniform or anything.

“School alright?” Dad asked at tea.

I nodded, not proper lying but not telling everything neither.

“Takes time,” Grandad said, not looking up from his notebook. “Learning new fields ain’t easy. Got to walk them a few times first.”

In my notebook that night, I wrote:

September 4th. First day big school. Got lost only twice. Some people scarier than angry bulls.

Through my window, I could see the wheat field waiting for harvest. Proper straightforward that was - cut it when it’s ready, store it right, job done. Not like school with all its twisty corridors and unwritten rules.

Reckon Grandad’s right though. Got to walk it a few times first.

25

Harvest From The Hill

Marmalade knew something was wrong proper early. Animals always know. She didn’t even try for her morning feed, just pressed her head against my arm like she does when I’m troubled about stuff.

“Can’t go back today,” I told her quiet. “Just can’t.”

My school uniform hung on the back of my door where I’d put it ready last night, pretending to myself that I might wear it. Been proper good at pretending lately. Pretending my knee was twisted for football trials. Pretending I didn’t see Mark Stevens’ face on Friday, that look that meant today would be bad.

The weekend had been different. Proper different. Back to being harvest clerk, everything making sense. Newman’s team started the wheat Saturday morning early - three trailers running constant, me keeping track of every load. Even got praise from Newman himself about my record keeping.

“Good to have a proper clerk,” he’d said, checking my numbers. “Makes everything run smooth.”

Sunday was the same. Up early, working late, everything in its right place. Dad letting me help proper with moisture checks, Grandad showing me how to stack the grain store right. Important jobs. Jobs that made sense.

But now it was Monday. School Monday.

I waited until I heard Dad’s Land Rover going down to check the combine. Then I took my secret route - the one me and Alison used when we was little and playing spies. Past the old hay barn, through the gap in the hedge that nobody else knows about, up the track to Harper’s Hill.

You can see the whole farm from up here. Every field, every hedge, every bit of the life I understand. Not like school with its maze of corridors and rules that don’t make sense and people who look at you like they’re planning something.

The combine was already cutting when I reached my spot - third day of wheat harvest now. From up here you could see the pattern of the work we’d done at the weekend - them straight lines where the wheat had stood, now just stubble catching morning light.

Saturday and Sunday I’d been proper busy - clipboard in hand, checking every load: Load 47 - 16.8t - moisture 16.2% - Bay 2 - 14:32 Every number written careful, every trailer directed right. Even helped Dad stack the grain store proper. “Good job,” he’d said, proper proud like.

But them numbers couldn’t help with school. Couldn’t help with Mark Stevens waiting by the stairs on Wednesday, just… watching. Or Thursday at football trials, when I said my knee was twisted and watched Oliver shine instead. Friday was worst though. That look. That mouth shape that meant today would be bad.

The combine was cutting proper clean lines through what was left of the wheat now. Beautiful really, if you knew how to look. Each pass perfect, each trailer in the right place at the right time. Everything working like it should.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

I jumped proper high. Alison had come up quiet, like she used to when we played hiding games.

“Just… checking harvest,” I said quick. “Making sure they’re following my storage plan proper.”

She sat down beside me, not saying nothing for a bit. Just watching Newman’s team working below. We’d done nearly thirty acres together yesterday, me and her running the grain store while Dad helped with moisture testing.

“Your numbers were good this weekend,” she said finally. “Newman said you’re the best clerk he’s had.”

“Numbers is easy,” I said quiet. “Numbers don’t wait for you round corners.”

She went quiet then, picking at the grass. “Saw you at football trials,” she said after a bit. “Your knee looked fine to me.”

My throat went all tight. “Just wanted to watch Oliver.”

“Like you’re just watching harvest now?”

I couldn’t answer proper. Something in my chest felt too big, like it might burst if I tried to talk about it.

“Remember when you was proper little,” she said, still picking grass, “and that big bull got loose? You wasn’t scared then. Helped Dad proper calm like.”

“Bulls is different,” I said quiet. “Bulls you can see coming.”

She nodded slow, understanding like. “Some stuff’s scarier than bulls though, ain’t it? Stuff you can’t proper see coming. Stuff that might or might not happen.”

The combine turned at the field edge, dust catching golden in the morning sun. Down there everything made sense. Everything had its proper place and time. Like Saturday and Sunday - just work and numbers and doing things right.

“He’s massive,” I whispered. Weren’t talking about the combine. “And that look he does… like he’s planning something but you don’t know what or when…”

“Mark Stevens?” She wasn’t looking at me, which made it easier somehow. “Yeah, he’s got a reputation. Even the older kids know about him.”

“Oliver says just stay clear.”

“Oliver’s probably right.” She pulled at the grass some more. “But you can’t stay clear forever. Can’t hide up here forever.” “I used to have my own hiding spots too, you know,” she said, surprising me. “When I first started big school. Before I figured things out.” She looked over at the combine working below. “The hard bit isn’t the first day. It’s all the days after, when you have to keep going back.”

“Can today though?”

She smiled then, proper gentle like. “Reckon so. Harvest only happens once a year after all. And you did great this weekend.” Then serious again: “But tomorrow…”

“I know.”

We sat quiet then, watching Newman’s team work. Each trailer taking its turn, each load going to the right place. Order in everything.

“Tell you what,” Alison said finally. “I’ll walk with you tomorrow. To form room at least. Plenty of reasons for a Year Eleven to be in that corridor.”

Something in my chest loosened a bit. Not much, but a bit.

“Thanks, Ally.”

“That’s what big sisters are for, ain’t they?” She stood up, brushing grass off her school skirt. “But Alex… you’ve got to tell someone soon. Dad maybe. Or Mum.”

I nodded, but we both knew I wouldn’t. Not yet anyway.

She left me there, watching harvest happen below. The morning went slow and peaceful, each combine pass taking away more wheat, leaving stripped earth behind. By lunchtime my legs was proper stiff from sitting, but I didn’t move.

In my notebook, I wrote:

September 11th. Third day wheat harvest. Fifty-eight acres done weekend. Everything running proper smooth. Newman says my numbers were good.

I didn’t write about the other stuff. Some things are too big for notebooks.

When the sun started lowering a bit, I made my way back down. Marmalade was waiting, like she knew I’d need her head against my arm again.

“Got to go back tomorrow,” I told her quiet.

She just kept her head there, steady and warm. Some things don’t need answering.

Through my window that night, I could see the combine lights shutting down. Tomorrow would come too soon, with its corridors and faces and fears. But tonight there was just harvest dust in evening light, and proper order to things, and Marmalade’s quiet understanding.

Reckon that would have to be enough to get me through tomorrow.

26

Paper Walls

The Treasury corridor felt different after summer recess - quieter somehow, like a house when secrets are being kept. George checked his phone again. Another text from Tom Matthews: Wheat harvest went well. Your young friend Alex made a proper job of clerk duties.

“Ah, George.” Sarah Chen’s voice carried that precise warmth that never reached her eyes. “We missed you in the seven thirty briefing.”

“Was I expected?” He kept his tone neutral, pocketing his phone.

“Budget framework discussions. But I’m sure Michael can bring you up to speed.”

She was gone before he could reply, heels clicking against marble like tiny hammers. He hadn’t been invited to the seven thirty. Hadn’t been invited to several meetings lately.

His office felt smaller somehow. More papers than usual - carefully selected position documents, policy briefings, things he was meant to read but not question. His phone buzzed again: Your constituent Richard Harrison advocating strongly for agricultural modernization. Quite the champion for progress.

He deleted the Chancellor’s message. Richard Harrison - who’d sold his farm for solar panels, who now sat on various “advisory committees.” The pieces were being arranged, slowly but carefully.

The morning crept by in a parade of carefully crafted meetings. Questions he wasn’t quite invited to ask. Discussions that fell silent when he entered rooms.

“Treasury models predict minimal impact,” the young adviser was saying, not meeting George’s eyes. “Agricultural Relief reform affects only the largest operations.”

“The calculations are wrong,” George said quietly. “The acreage conversions are wrong-”

“Have been thoroughly reviewed,” Sarah Chen’s voice cut in from the doorway. “We’re looking forward now, George. Progress requires change.”

His phone lit up during afternoon sessions: Newman’s team worked well again. Alex keeping proper records like his grandfather. Good yields despite everything.

Everything. Such a small word for what was coming.

The evening briefing pack landed heavily on his desk. Page seventeen still there, still wrong, still going to destroy lives. But now with added notes about “media strategy” and “narrative control.”

“Early October,” Sarah said later, catching him in the corridor. “Carefully placed pieces in friendly papers. Setting the stage.” She paused. “We’ll need loyal voices, George. Particularly from rural constituencies.”

The threat hung unspoken but clear as harvest skies.

Back in his office, more texts came through from the real world.

Each message like a weight. Each failed invitation to another meeting like a brick in a wall being built around him. Each careful conversation another thread in a web he couldn’t quite see but could feel tightening.

He’d called Diane last night, using the old phone box near the Commons that they’d agreed was safe. “They’re isolating you,” she’d confirmed. “Chen’s instructed everyone to ‘manage’ your involvement.” They both knew what that meant in Westminster speak. The question now was what to do with the information he had. The parliamentary route was closed. The civil service channels were monitored. What remained was outside the system entirely—the press, the public, direct action. Tools he hadn’t considered using in decades. Eleanor would understand; she’d been telling him for years that sometimes the rules were designed to prevent justice rather than ensure it.

His constituency office had sent local papers. Pictures of combines working under September skies. Stories about yields and moisture levels and hope for good prices.

Stories that would read very differently come October.

“The agricultural reforms are just part of a broader modernization,” Sarah’s words from the afternoon meeting echoed. “Inheritance Relief, winter fuel payments, education VAT - all necessary changes.”

Somewhere in a valley two hundred miles north, a boy was writing numbers in a notebook, learning his grandfather’s craft, not knowing that in Treasury meetings and careful briefings, different numbers were being written. Numbers that would change everything.

October would come soon enough. Friendly journalists would receive carefully crafted leaks. Stories would begin to appear. Questions would be asked in just the right way to get just the right answers.

And George would have to choose between loyalty and truth.

His office lights reflected in the window, turning it into a mirror. Behind him, paper walls were being built one briefing document at a time.

Some harvests, he thought, took more than just crops.

27

Work Helps Sometimes

The grain store needed proper cleaning now all the wheat was gone. Dad always says harvest ain’t properly finished till everything’s ready for next year. I was sweeping up the last bits when he found me.

“Mr Roker called,” he said, sitting on a grain bay wall. “About Monday.”

My brush went still. Weren’t no point pretending.

“Wanted to watch the harvest,” I said quiet. But Dad just waited, like he does when he knows there’s more to come.

So I told him. About Mark Stevens and them looks. About feeling small when the bigger kids push past in corridors. About Oliver being picked for special football training and Jimmy finding new mates in his form and me feeling proper lost sometimes.

Dad listened proper careful, like he does when Newman’s explaining combine settings.

“Bullying ain’t right,” he said finally. “Could have a word with the school-”

“No!” The word came out too fast. “That’d make it worse.”

Dad’s face went all thoughtful. “How’s this week been then?”

I thought about Oliver not being at break times, always off at football practice with them older boys who treat him like he’s special. About Jimmy sitting with his new friends from his form. About them corridors that seem to get longer every day.

“Better,” I lied.

Dad nodded slow, but I don’t think he believed me proper. “Work helps sometimes,” he said. “Takes your mind off stuff. Got plenty needs doing if you want to help after school.”

He pulled out his notebook - not like Grandad’s farming one, more for jobs that need doing. “Tractors need servicing ready for autumn cultivations. Small one needs new filters, big one’s due a proper service. Could learn you that if you want.”

That’s Dad - always thinking practical. But he didn’t understand proper. Weren’t just about being busy. Was about feeling wrong, like a lamb in with older sheep. About knowing Mark Stevens might be round any corner.

“Need to start thinking about field prep too,” Dad was saying. “Got rape to drill end of month if the weather holds. Then winter wheat after that.” He looked at me proper then. “Life goes on, Alex. Just got to keep moving forward.”

But forward meant more corridors and more feeling small and more wondering what was coming next.

“Cattle shed needs cleaning out ready for October calving,” Dad continued, checking his list. “Twenty cows due. Need to sort winter feed plans too - got silage to move, hay to stack. Proper jobs, them.”

I nodded, but I was thinking about school. About how in lessons I know stuff - can do the work proper when I ain’t worried about what’s waiting outside. About how Oliver looks different already, like school’s made him shine brighter while it’s making me fade.

“Your mum says you ain’t eating proper at lunch times,” Dad said quiet.

“Too busy,” I said quick. Didn’t tell him about avoiding the canteen, about eating my sandwich in the library where it feels safer.

“Marmalade’s feed bill’s mounting up,” Dad tried changing subject. “Reckon you could earn it cleaning them grain stores proper? Then maybe help with the tractor servicing?”

I nodded quick. Work was good. Work made sense.

“You’re good at the farming stuff, Alex,” Dad said, watching me careful. “Proper good. Newman said your harvest numbers were spot on. But school’s important too. Got to find a balance like.”

But balance felt impossible when everything at school felt wrong. When Oliver was becoming something different - something that belonged there - while I just wanted to be home where things made sense.

“Tell you what,” Dad said, standing up. “Help me check them cattle, then we can look at that tractor engine. Proper job that - learning how stuff works.”

We walked quiet to the cattle field. The autumn calvers were looking proper heavy now, udders starting to fill. New life coming. Everything in its season, everything knowing its place.

“School ain’t forever,” Dad said suddenly. “But learning is. Whether it’s books or engines or farming - it’s all learning.”

I wrote in my notebook that night:

September 16th. Harvest all done. Grain store nearly clean. Dad says got to think about autumn work now - rape drilling end of month, then wheat. Twenty cows due October. Tractors need fixing. Wish school was more like farming - everything in its proper place, everything making sense.

Through my window, I could see them empty fields stretching out in the evening light. Everything waiting to start again. Everything knowing exactly what comes next.

Not like school at all.

Not like me neither.

28

Keeping My Head

The woods was proper busy for a Sunday. Justine had his shooting syndicate helping with the final work - they come every year for the pheasants but do proper work too. Mr Thompson was on the brook crossing, replacing old boards. His son Tom was clearing brambles, making proper paths for the beaters.

Mr Parker and his brother were repairing fences where deer had pushed through. “Got to keep the wild ones and the raised ones separate,” Justine explained, showing me the feed hoppers. “Each to their own place.”

The pheasants looked proper good this year - all bright and strong from careful raising. Justine had brought them on from chicks in them pens behind the wood.

“First shoot’s three weeks Saturday,” he said, checking the grit trays. “But this is the important bit - looking after the whole wood proper. Birds need good cover, proper feeding areas. Can’t just think about shooting days.”

Dr Thompson called out. “Found a barn owl pellet up here, Julian. Reckon them nest boxes you put up are working.”

“Conservation’s what matters,” Justine nodded. “Shooting’s just part of it. Got to care for everything - owls and song birds same as pheasants”. “My old boss up in Scotland never understood that,” he added, something dark crossing his face for a second. “Thought gamekeeper just meant providing birds to shoot. That’s why I left - couldn’t work somewhere that didn’t respect the balance.”

The bees were still bringing in late nectar - ivy mostly now, Grandad said, checking the hives careful. “Last proper harvest before winter. Got to time it right - take honey off soon but leave them enough for cold weather.” He showed me the ivy flowers on the old walls. “Important plant this - feeds the bees when nothing else is flowering.”

George’s car came up the track careful like always. He and Grandad walked off talking quiet - something about London stuff probably.

In the kitchen, Mum was cooking something that filled the whole house with proper Sunday smells. Through the window I could see Alison with her laptop, showing Grandad something that made him smile proper wide.

“I made Grandad an Ancestry Page,” she told me later. “Grandad knows Matthews that we don’t know about. Great-great Uncle William who kept the farm going through hard times. Great-Aunt Mary who drove a tractor all through the war when the men were gone.”

“Here’s another one,” Grandad said, pointing at the screen. “Your great-great-grandfather Henry. He’s the one started keeping weather records. Started all this notebook business.” He patted his pocket where his own notebook lived.

Dad had started on the little tractor last night - filters and stuff already done. We finished it proper quick, just basic checks left that I could do.

“Good job,” Dad said when we was done. His hands were all oil-stained but happy-looking, like they get when work’s going right. “Reckon we could make a start on the big one before tea?”

“Ten minutes!” Mum called from the kitchen. Whatever she was cooking smelled amazing.

It was getting dark when we started on the big tractor. Just quick checks Dad said, nothing proper major till tomorrow.

That’s when it happened. Quick as anything. The jack slipped or something moved wrong - I heard Dad shout and his hand was trapped. Proper trapped under something heavy.

“It’s alright,” he kept saying, but his voice was all tight with pain. “Just need to think about this proper.”

My hands knew what to do before my head did. Got the other jack, positioned it right like Dad had showed me. Lifted slow and careful while Dad pulled his hand free.

“Good lad,” he said, but his face had gone all grey. “Reckon I need to get this looked at proper.”

Mum drove him to hospital. She was calm all through it—got the first aid kit, wrapped Dad’s hand proper careful, keys already in her hand. Not panicking one bit. “Call if anything changes,” she told Grandad, her voice steady but her eyes saying more. Town girl gone, replaced by someone who knew exactly what to do in a farm crisis. The kitchen went quiet after they left - just Alison’s laptop humming and Grandad’s notebook pages turning.

Later, Alison came to my room, sitting on the edge of my bed. “Dad says you did proper good today,” she said quiet. “Kept your head. Used the jack right.” She wasn’t wearing her headphones or holding her sketchbook—just sitting there looking at me different. Proud-like, but worried too. “You’re growing up faster than you should have to,” she added, so soft I almost didn’t hear it.

When Mum came back, I heard her talking to Grandad in the kitchen. Words like “surgery” and “tendons” drifted up the stairs.

“Alex did well,” Grandad said. “Kept his head proper. Farm sense, that.”

I told Marmalade about things before bed, my hands were shaking proper bad. Not just from what happened neither. Tomorrow was school again, with its corridors and faces and fears.

“But I did something right today,” I told her soft. “Proper right.”

In my notebook, I wrote:

September 17th. Shooting syndicate doing conservation work. Found out about Great-Great Uncle William and Aunt Mary who drove tractors. Bees on late ivy flow. Dad hurt his hand - hospital tomorrow for surgery. Did something proper useful for once.

29

Difficult Kind of Strength

Last day of September. Been proper strange, this month. Sitting here with Marmalade, watching the evening come in, trying to sort it all in my head.

Dad’s home now. Hand’s still proper strapped up - surgeon said something about tendons and bones and stuff I didn’t understand. Three days he was in hospital. Felt like forever.

First morning without him was weird. Mum trying to do morning checks, me trying to help before school, everything feeling wrong somehow. Even the cows knew - all restless and different in the yard.

But Mum was different. She knew more about the farm than I realized—which gates needed proper latching, which cows were due to calve, even how to sort the feed store. “I’ve been watching your dad for fifteen years,” she told me when I looked surprised. “Just because I don’t always do it doesn’t mean I don’t know how.” Then at the hospital, she was different again—talking proper confident with doctors, understanding all them medical words. Banking daughter skills, Grandad called them. “Knows how to talk to professionals, your mum does.”

“You need to go to school,” Mum said, but her voice wasn’t proper sure. “Dad’ll be fine.”

School was worse than normal that week. Like Mark Stevens knew somehow that everything was wrong already. Always there in the corridors between lessons. Nothing proper bad - just more looks across the lunch hall, them whispered words when he passed with his Year Eight mates, that feeling of something coming, getting nearer.

But then Sarah noticed. Never proper talked to her before - she sits in front to me in Geography. Just turned round one day when I was still shaky from what Mark Stevens had done in the corridor before class.

“He a bully,” she said quiet. “My brother was bullied when he was in Year Seven. Got better when he started walking to classes with friends.”

“Your brother ain’t here now though?”

“Nah, he’s at college. But he was right about sticking together.” She smiled then - proper kind smile, not them fake ones some people do.

Didn’t fix everything. But having someone nice in class made that lesson feel safer somehow. She’ good at maps too - me from knowing farm fields, her from hiking with her dad.

Farm’s been different too. Had to learn proper quick how to do stuff with Dad’s hand like it is. Justine’s been good though - showing me things, trusting me with jobs.

“Shooting season starts soon,” he said yesterday, letting me help check the pheasant pens. “Could do with an extra hand if you’re interested. Proper job, mind - not just watching.”

Oliver’s properly on the football team now. Plays with the older boys at break times, doesn’t come to library much anymore. Still tries sometimes - asked me to come watch practice the other day.

“You could join in,” he said. “Coach says we need more players.”

But Mark Stevens plays with them older boys too. Couldn’t explain that to Oliver though.

Jimmy’s better than he was. Comes and sits sometimes at lunch now, when his new friends are doing other stuff. Tells me about his form class, listens to my farm stuff like he used to.

The rape drilling got done somehow - everyone helping bits they could. Alison took up the slack proper good too. She’d come straight home from school, no hanging about with friends, and dive into evening checks without being asked. Found her one night working on the farm accounts at the kitchen table, Dad’s ledger open, her math skills making sense of numbers I couldn’t understand. “Someone’s got to keep track,” she said when she saw me watching. “Dad does it all in his head mostly, but I can work it out on paper.” Never seen her looking more like a proper Matthews, even with her colored hair.

Grandad even drove trailer while Justine worked the drill. Not proper straight like Dad would’ve done, but good all the same.

Mum says Dad’ll be doing light jobs in couple of weeks. Hand’s healing good, just needs time. Like everything, I suppose.

Got my own notebook out now - September’s been proper full:

September 18th - Dad’s operation. Surgeons proper careful with farmer’s hands.

September 19th - First time doing morning checks alone. Mucked up the feed weights but cows didn’t mind.

September 20th - Sarah helped with Geography. Made me show her my farm notebook.

September 21st - Started rape drilling. Justine not as straight as Dad but Grandad says it’ll grow anyway.

September 22nd - Oliver scored three goals against the Year Nines. Watched from library window.

 September 23rd - Jimmy came lunch time. Talked about old school like before.

September 24th - Dad home. Hand all strapped but spirit proper good.

September 25th - Justine showed me pheasant feeding routine. Says I got good instincts.

September 26th - Sarah knows about maps.

September 27th - Rape coming through in wobbly rows. Dad says character matters more than straight lines sometimes.

September 28th - Bad day in corridors. Stayed in library all lunch.

September 29th - Justine offered proper job helping with shoot days.

September 30th - Looking back. Some bits harder than others. Getting stronger maybe.

Marmalade’s fallen asleep against me now.

I can see Dad in the yard, doing what he can with one hand. Different kind of strength, mum says - keeping going when things ain’t proper right.

Reckon that’s what September’s taught me. About different kinds of strength. About getting up next morning no matter what. About friends finding you sometimes when you ain’t even looking. About corridors being scarier than angry bulls, but learning to walk them anyway.

30

Becoming Problematic

The Treasury corridors felt colder now October approached. George checked his watch - 6:45pm. Most had gone home, but light still spilled from the Chancellor’s office.

“Ah, George.” Sarah Chen’s smile was precise as ever. “Just the person. We’re finalising the media schedule for the agricultural reforms. Your slot is penciled in for the sixteen-”

“No.”

“Really, George. This continued… resistance. It’s becoming problematic.”

The budget documents lay spread across her desk. Page seventeen still wrong. Still lethal.

“Your numbers are wrong,” George said quietly. “Not just the acre conversion. Everything. You’re not hitting wealthy tax avoidance. You’re destroying families. Communities.”

“Progress requires change. You know that.” She shuffled papers unnecessarily. “The Chronicle piece is already drafted. ‘Modernising Rural Britain.’ Your farming background would add… authenticity.”

“To a lie.”

Her smile tightened. “Careful, George. Memories are long in Westminster. As are paper trails.”

“Like your hectare calculations?”

That hit. Just a flicker, but he saw it.

“The Matthews farm,” he continued. “Six hundred acres. Three centuries of feeding the nation. Just their basic equipment puts them over your threshold. When Sydney dies, they’ll lose everything.”

“If they’re not competitive enough to-”

“They grew food through two world wars. Through foot and mouth. Through every crisis this country’s faced. But they can’t survive your spreadsheets.”

“Times change.”

“Yes.” George stood. “They do.”

The evening air felt cleaner outside Treasury. His phone buzzed - another message from Tom Matthews about wheat yields. Soon those yields wouldn’t matter.

Unless…

This was the line Diane had warned him not to cross. “Once you go public, there’s no protection I can offer,” she’d said during their last phone box conversation. Eleanor had been more direct when he’d finally told her what he was considering: “About time, George. Parliament hasn’t listened to reason about farming since the Corn Laws.” Forty years of working within the system had taught him its limits. Sometimes you had to work outside to protect what mattered inside.

Mary Preston answered on the first ring. Thirty years agricultural correspondence had earned her that right.

“George? Bit late for social calls.”

“Need to talk. Properly. No attribution.”

A pause. “Serious?”

“Sixty-five thousand farms serious.”

“The usual place. Half an hour.”

The pub was quiet for a Thursday. Mary sat in their regular corner, two whiskeys waiting.

“Government’s planning something,” she said. Not a question.

“October budget. They’re killing agricultural relief. Million-pound cap.” He pulled out papers - the real numbers, the true impact. “They’ll spin it as targeting wealthy landowners, investors, tax avoidance. But look at the equipment valuations. The land prices. Most family farms will be over threshold.”

Mary’s pen moved fast across her notebook. Thirty years of contacts had taught her when something was real.

“They’re briefing friendly papers next week. ‘Modernising Rural Britain.’ All properly packaged. But the numbers are wrong. They converted acres to hectares wrong and won’t admit it. Sixty-five thousand farms affected, not five hundred.”

“Sources?”

“Treasury documents. Internal briefings. All verified.”

“And unattributable?”

“Completely.”

She nodded, still writing. “When?”

“Budget’s twentieth. They start briefing next week. This needs to break before then. Before they control the narrative.”

“Monday’s paper.” She closed her notebook. “Full spread. All the numbers. Real impact. Human stories.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t. Just… be careful, George.”

Mary’s words stayed with George throughout his drive home.

The following morning the Matthews’ farm looked peaceful in the autumn light - rape coming through in slightly wobbly rows that spoke of less experienced drilling.

The kitchen was quiet when George arrived, just Sydney at the table with his notebook and a stack of old black and white photograph’s he’s sorted for Allison.

Tom and Cheryl arrived from the yard. Tea was made. The words that would change everything were spoken.

They listened in silence. Tom’s face growing harder, Cheryl’s growing concerned.

“How much are we over the threshold?” Tom’s voice was quiet.

“With land values, machinery, livestock… A lot.” George couldn’t meet their eyes. “Inheritance tax would be…”

“More than we could ever pay.” Cheryl said, looking across at Tom.

“I’ve spoken to a journalist. Good one. Trusted. Story breaks Monday. Before they can spin it.” George pulled more papers from his briefcase. “Sydney, there might be a way. If you start the transfer of ownership now, under Section 267 of the Inheritance Tax Act, after seven years no tax would be due.”

Sydney’s hand trembled slightly as he turned a page in his notebook. The doctors had been clear two months ago. Two years at best, probably less. He hadn’t told them yet. Hadn’t found the words.

“Alex has the instinct,” he said quietly. “Like all of us before.”

Through the window, the young wheat was showing. Next year’s crop already growing. Already condemned.

“I’ll fight it,” George said. “Whatever it costs.”

Sydney nodded, but his eyes never left his notebook. Some costs couldn’t be calculated in Treasury spreadsheets. Some futures couldn’t be protected by seven-year rules.

Some secrets weighed heavier than others.

31

Monday Morning

Dawn hadn’t quite broken when George’s phone started ringing. Sarah Chen’s number. He let it ring.

Mary’s story filled six pages of the ‘Morning Herald’. No spin, just numbers. Real numbers. Farm valuations. Equipment costs. Land prices. The true impact laid bare in black and white.

His phone wouldn’t stop. Journalists now. Radio stations. TV news. The story was running.

In the Treasury, lights had been on all night.

Tom Matthews found the paper on the shop counter. Old Bill had it open, face grim.

“Seen this, Tom?”

The headline hit like a physical blow: “DEATH OF FAMILY FARMING - Government Plans Will Challange 65,000 Farms.”

“Better take it,” Bill said quiet. “Going to want to read this proper.”

By nine, the Chancellor’s office was in full crisis mode.

“Find whoever leaked this,” Sarah Chen’s voice carried down the corridor. “And get me George Hawthorne. Now.”

The Matthews’ kitchen filled up slow. Neighboring farmers arriving quiet, like they did when foot and mouth was coming. Papers spread across the table. Phones ringing in pockets.

“Can’t be right,” James Wilson’s kept saying. “Government wouldn’t do this.”

But the numbers were there in black and white. Land values. Equipment costs. Tax thresholds.

“We’d need to sell a quater of the land, land the farm needs” Richard Taylor said quiet. His place was about the same size as the Matthews’. “No way we could pay otherwise.”

“Richardson’s saw it coming,” someone muttered. “That’s why they sold for solar.”

Sydney sat silent at the table end, his notebook closed.

In Westminster, the damage control began.

“Agricultural modernisation essential for twenty-first century farming,” the Treasury statement read. “Reforms will only affect largest landowners…”

But the papers had the real numbers now. The real impact.

George’s phone showed forty-seven missed calls. He’d expected the calls, the fury, the hunt for the source. Forty years in politics had taught him how the game was played. But this wasn’t about his career anymore. Diane had texted a single word—“Careful”—before going silent as they’d agreed she would. Eleanor had simply squeezed his hand over breakfast, the morning paper between them. “They’ll come for you,” she’d said matter-of-factly. “Let them.” Some principles were worth the cost. The Matthews farm—and thousands like it—deserved that much.

By evening, the Matthews’ kitchen was full. Farmers who’d known each other forever, suddenly facing the same end.

“What do we do?” The question hung in the air like smoke.

Tom stood slowly. “Fight it. What else can we do?”

Sydney’s notebook stayed closed. Some fights couldn’t be won with protests.

Some problems needed different solutions.

Night fell on fields that had grown food for centuries. On farms where generations had lived and worked. On future harvests that might never come.

George’s phone finally fell silent.

Monday was over.

Everything had changed.

32

Different Kind of Storm

Weren’t normal Monday tea time chaos in our kitchen. Different kind of chaos. All them farmers we know sitting round our table, but not like harvest time when everyone’s proud tired. This was scared tired. Could tell by how they held their cups, how they talked quiet instead of proper farmer loud.

The papers was everywhere. Same words jumping out over and over: “Tax.” “Threshold.” “Agricultural Relief.” Words I knew but didn’t, if you know what I mean. Like when you know what a word sounds like but not what it proper means.

Grandad’s notebook stayed closed. That scared me more than anything. Even during foot and mouth, even during that drought year everyone talks about, Grandad wrote stuff down. But today his notebook just sat there, like it was waiting for something.

Mum moved different through the kitchen full of farmers - not saying much but listening proper careful. She’d been arranging cups and plates, but I noticed how her hands kept pausing, catching every word about taxes and thresholds. She understood numbers different from Dad and Grandad - knew about bank stuff from her father. When I brought her more tea, she squeezed my arm. “It’s complicated, Alex,” she whispered. “But we’re not going anywhere without a fight.” Town girl turned farmer’s wife turned fighter, all in one person.

Alison stood by the window, doing that thing she does where she looks proper far away.

“Will University have to wait?” I heard her tell Mum later, quiet like. I’d never heard her talk about University with doubt before. Always been her certain thing, even when everything else wasn’t certain. She had them university brochures hidden in her room - I’d seen them when I was borrowing a pencil once. Architecture ones with tall shiny buildings nothing like our crooked farm ones. “It’s not just about me,” she said when she caught me looking at her. “If the farm’s in trouble…” She didn’t finish, just went back to staring out the window like she could see futures nobody else could.

Dad kept talking about fighting it, whatever it was. But his voice had that sound it gets when he’s trying to fix something that might not be fixable, like that time the combine broke proper bad middle of harvest.

Jimmy Wilson’s dad kept saying same thing over and over: “Government wouldn’t do this.” But he said it like he knew they would.

Marmalade knew something was wrong. Animals always know. She kept pressing her head against the gate when I went to feed her, like she was trying to tell me something.

“Might have to sell up,” I heard someone say. Didn’t know what that meant proper, but it made my stomach go funny. Made me think of the Richardson’s place.

Alison found me later, sitting with Marmalade.

“You alright?” she asked, but different from normal. Like she wasn’t just asking about today.

“Will we have to sell Marmalade?”

She didn’t answer proper. Just sat down next to me, closer than she usually does.

“Remember when you was little,” she said finally, “and that big storm came? How scared you was?”

I nodded.

“But next morning, everything was still here. Different maybe, some trees down and that, but still here.”

Alison knows how to say the right things sometimes.

Through the kitchen window, I could see Grandad. Still not writing. Still just sitting. But something about how he sat… like he was thinking about something proper important. Something bigger than notebooks.

Dad says farms grow more than just crops. Says they grow memories and family and stuff that matters more than money. Reckon he’s right about that.

But looking at Grandad’s closed notebook, at Alison’s far-away eyes, at Dad’s tired face… reckon some things can stop growing, if you don’t look after them proper.

In my notebook later, I wrote:

October 2nd. Kitchen full of farmers but no one eating. Grandad’s notebook stayed closed. Alison talking different about university. Dad says we’ll fight it but his voice sounds wrong. Some storms you can’t weather in a barn.

The last bit seemed important somehow. Not sure why.

33

Shoot Day

Last year I was just a beater - walking through the woods and cover crops with my stick and flag, helping push the birds over. Good job, but this was better. Proper better.

“Right hand man today,” Justine had said, handing me his spare radio. “Need someone to learn what they’re doing.”

The shoot lodge was proper busy when we got there. Mr Coyle - Keith, everyone calls him - was already sorting the guns out, telling one of his stories that always make everyone laugh. His wife Brenda was bringing out bacon rolls and coffee that smelled better than anything.

“Young Alex!” Keith called when he saw me. “Justine’s apprentice today, eh?” He had that way of making you feel proper important just by talking to you.

Their dog Poppy was following Brenda around, hoping for dropped bacon probably. Her wonky ear made her look like she was always asking a question. When Marmalade stuck her head through the fence from next door, Poppy went straight over.

“Right then, ladies and gentlemen!” Keith’s voice filled the lodge proper good. “Welcome to the first day of our season.” He explained everything just right - which drives we’d be doing, what birds to expect, all them important bits. “Fibre wads only, no partridge please, and absolutely no ground game. Select birds within your ability, enjoy yourselves, and above all - safe shooting.”

“Stand here,” Justine said as the first drive started. “You’ll see everything proper from this spot.”

He was right. Different from beating. Up here with Justine I could see how it all worked together - beaters moving through the woods proper careful, birds coming high and fast over the guns.

“Watch this,” Justine whispered. “See how the birds break away from the guns ?” The pheasants were proper high, most flying clean through. “That’s good shooting there - only taking what they know they can hit clean.”

Eight guns lined out proper neat. Two had loaders with them - them quick folk who could reload faster than thinking. But none of them could shoot like Justine. He just sees things different, Dad says. “Learned from the best,” Justine had told me once when I asked how he got so good. “Head gamekeeper up in Scotland, old Highland estate. Hard man, but fair. Taught me everything before…” He’d stopped then, that look crossing his face that meant the story was done. But whatever happened up there had brought him to us, so I reckoned it couldn’t be all bad.

Brenda appeared at elevenses like magic, the Land Rover full of proper food - not just sandwich stuff but hot sausage rolls and them little pastry things that disappeared quick as anything. Keith was telling another story that had everyone laughing, but I noticed how he always kept one eye on safety stuff, even while joking.

Dad says that Keith and Brenda got married twice – but they still looked at each other like they was just starting out.

Alison used to come to these shoots too, I remembered. She was proper good—better shot than half the paying guns, Justine always said. But she’d stopped coming last season. “Got other priorities now,” she’d said when Dad asked why. I’d seen her sketching that morning instead, working on some university application thing. Different kind of aim, Grandad had said, not sounding upset about it. Just different.

The third drive went even better. Birds coming proper high over the guns across the valley.

From my spot next to Justine, I could see everything happening. The beaters moving proper steady - not rushing, just keeping the birds moving right. I used to think beating was just walking and waving flags, but up here you could see how it all fitted together.

“See that?” Justine pointed as birds broke from cover. “Perfect height”.

The last drive was always the best, Justine said. Sun getting lower, birds flying proper high. One hundred and twenty birds by the end - good clean shooting, Keith said. All proud like.

Brenda had the lodge warm when we got back, smells of proper cooking coming from the kitchen. “Best shoot tea in three counties,” Justine always says, and he ain’t wrong.

Mum had sent along her special game pie. “Only thing your mother makes better than mine,” Brenda always says. Mum doesn’t come to shoots herself—says one thing she couldn’t change was how she felt about shooting. But she still makes the pie. Says traditions matter even when you don’t fully take them on yourself. Found her own balance, like Justine says good farming needs.

While everyone was eating, Keith sorted the birds proper careful. Two brace each for the guns to take home, rest going to local restaurants and proper butchers. Nothing wasted - that’s important, Justine says.

“Good day,” Keith said, doing that thing where he makes everyone feel like they did something special. Brenda was sharing out cake she’d made - proper cake that made Mum’s look ordinary, though I’d never tell her that.

Poppy was still making friends with Marmalade through the fence. “Never seen her take to a sheep before,” Brenda laughed. “Then again, Marmalade ain’t just any sheep, is she?”

When everyone was going home, each gun shook Justine’s hand. I noticed how they all passed him something when they did - folded notes pressed quiet like, proper secret. That’s how it’s done, Keith says.

“Here,” Justine said after, holding out a fifty-pound note. “Your tip from the guns. Earned it proper today.”

I stared at it. Most money I’d ever held.

“Part of the team now,” he said. “Proper job means proper pay.”

In my notebook that night, I wrote…

October 7th. First shoot day. Different being up with Justine instead of beating. Keith runs it proper good. Brenda’s cooking better than anything. Poppy made friends with Marmalade. Clean shooting, Keith said.

I could see the last cars leaving. Proper good day. Different from beating, but better somehow. Like seeing the whole picture instead of just your bit of it.

Reckon that’s what growing up is sometimes - seeing how all the bits fit together proper.

34

Shattered Dreams

Yesterday had been proper good. Oliver came over - first time since September, so everything had changed. The farm looked different now - autumn different. Stubble fields stretching out silver-gold in the morning light, rape coming through in them wobbly rows Justine drilled. Even the air felt different - not harvest dusty no more, but proper October crisp.

“This is massive,” Oliver said, looking at Dad’s big tractor all cleaned up after harvest work. “Different from when I first came.” Not like his early visits when everything farm scared him. He’s more used to it now, walks different round the yard.

Dad was checking the tractor’s oil with his bad hand. Still can’t grip proper, but getting there. “Needs a full service,” he said, “but got to wait till I can use spanners right again.”

We showed Oliver the pheasant pens, told him about the shoot. He listened proper interested, not pretend interested. His eyes went proper wide when I told him about being Justine’s right hand man, about Keith and Brenda, about earning real money. Even the pheasants seemed to know they had a new audience, all strutting about showing off their bright feathers.

Marmalade came running when she heard us - she does that now, no matter who’s visiting. Oliver laughed, as she headbutted his pocket till he found the apple I gave him.

“School’s better now too,” I said quiet, while we watched her demolish it. “Since… you know.”

Oliver just nodded, apple juice dripping off his fingers. But I knew what he’d done. Heard him talking to Mark Stevens at football practice last week. Didn’t hear the words, but next day Stevens walked right past me in the corridor. First time he hadn’t done something to make my stomach go tight with fear.

Later I found out Oliver had been picked for the school team - something Stevens wanted bad. Gave Oliver some power to use. “You don’t touch Alex,” was all he’d said, according to Jimmy who heard it. Simple as that. Like making a deal he knew might cost him.

“Just sorted it,” Oliver said, throwing Marmalade the core. “No big deal.”

But it was. Proper was.

That was yesterday.

Today was different. I saw it start from the library window. Stevens shoving a Year Seven kid, making him drop his lunch. Oliver walking over, calm as anything, saying something that made Stevens’ face go dark. Then Stevens pushing Oliver, saying something about “your little farm friend.” Oliver didn’t push back, just stood there, but something in how he stood made Stevens proper mad.

The scream cut through break time like a knife through butter. That proper horrible sound that makes birds go quiet and everyone freeze. The kind of sound that means something’s gone bad wrong.

By the time I got to the football field, there was already a crowd. The kind that goes quiet-noisy - all them whispers that add up to something worse than shouting. Oliver lay in the middle, his leg bent wrong. Proper wrong. The kind of wrong that makes you feel sick just looking. His football boots were still laced perfect - the ones his dad got him special from London. He’d polished them that morning.. Some part of me noticed that even as everything else was chaos. His football future lying there broken with his leg.

Mark Stevens stood over him, smirking that smirk that means he’s done exactly what he meant to do.

I heard what Stevens said: “Thought you could tell me what to do, did you? City boy, playing hero?”

The ambulance seemed to take forever. Oliver’s face had gone all grey, like the sky before proper bad weather, but he didn’t cry. Just lay there breathing heavy while teachers fussed around. Stevens had disappeared by then, job done.

When I got close enough, he grabbed my wrist. Grip strong despite the pain. “Worth it,” he whispered, so only I could hear. “Don’t you dare feel bad.” Even then, hurting worse than I’d ever seen anyone hurt, he was thinking about me feeling guilty. That’s the thing about Oliver - underneath all that London stuff is someone proper solid.

“This is your fault,” Jimmy said later, proper angry. Not play angry or friend angry, but the kind that means something’s broke that might not get fixed. “If you’d just dealt with Stevens yourself instead of letting Oliver try to help…”

The words hit harder than Stevens ever could have.

In my notebook tonight, I wrote:

October 9th. Oliver got hurt proper bad. My fault for not being brave enough. Some things you can’t fix by letting other people fight your battles.

Through my window, I can see Dad doing evening checks with his bad hand. Some breaks heal different from others. His hand might not ever work proper right again.

Reckon some guilt don’t either.

35

Forced Smile

Doctor said Oliver’s leg was broken in three places. Might never play proper football again - something about growth plates and ligaments and words I didn’t understand.

The hospital corridor smelled of that cleaning stuff that catches in your throat. Mum walked with me to his room - she’s good like that, knows when you need someone beside you.

“Not your fault,” she said quiet, before we went in.

But Oliver’s dad’s face said different. He barely looked at me, just made some excuse about Oliver needing rest soon.

Oliver tried to smile, but it weren’t his proper smile. “Doctors say I might play next year. If it heals right.”

If. That word hung there like fog on a winter morning.

His room was full of football stuff his dad had brought in - magazines, a signed Arsenal shirt, his boots cleaned up from the field. Like his dad thought surrounding him with football might fix his leg somehow. Oliver kept glancing at them, then away quick. “Dad keeps telling me about these special doctors in London,” he said quiet. “But I heard the nurse say even they can’t guarantee anything.” His voice wasn’t sad exactly - more like someone figuring out a new normal.

Jimmy won’t talk to me at school. Walks past like I’m not there. Mark Stevens don’t need to do nothing anymore - just smirks and whispers “You’re next” when people ain’t looking.

I told Grandad everything that night, sitting with Marmalade. About Stevens, about being scared, about Oliver trying to help, about it all going wrong.

“In my day,” Grandad said, “bullies got sorted behind the bike sheds.” Then he went quiet, thinking like. “World’s different now though. More complicated.”

“Wish it weren’t.”

“Aye.” He pulled out his notebook, but didn’t open it. “Know something about that feeling. Everything changing, nothing you can do to stop it.”

“Oliver’s dad hates me now.”

“Nah. He’s just scared for his boy. Like I’m scared for this farm. Like your dad’s scared for your future. Fear makes folk act funny sometimes.”

Sarah found me at lunch today. Just sat quiet like, sharing her crisps. Didn’t try to make it better with words that wouldn’t work anyway.

In my notebook that night, I wrote:

Visited Oliver. His dad wouldn’t look at me proper. Jimmy still ain’t talking. Stevens says I’m next. Grandad says fear makes people act funny. Reckon he’s right about that.

Some things hurt worse than broken bones.

36

Parish Hall

The parish hall ain’t been this full since the summer dance. Every farmer for miles sitting on them little plastic chairs, all looking proper grim. Even them folding doors at the back was open to fit everyone in.

Mum sat with the local Women’s Farming Union ladies—not at the front with Dad, but not at the back neither. Right in the middle where she could see everything proper. She’d been making phone calls all week to people who weren’t farmers—her university friends, people who’d never set foot on a farm but might listen to her explain why this mattered. “Sometimes you need outside voices,” she’d told Dad that morning. “People who don’t sound like they’re just protecting their own interests.” Mrs. Thompson from school was there too, sitting next to Mum. Connections that went beyond just farming folks.

George sat near the front, looking smaller somehow than he does normal. Some wouldn’t look at him, like he was part of the people that was trying to destroy us. But Dad stood up proper strong.

“Before we start,” he said, voice carrying clear like at market, “George Hawthorne’s here as our friend. Been fighting our corner in London for years he has. We all know that. Wouldn’t be fair to blame him for what them others are planning.”

The hall went quiet then. Different kind of quiet from when the newspaper story first broke.

“Empty chair where Richardson should be,” someone muttered. “Already made his choice, ain’t he?”

Dad stood up again. “We’re here to talk about what we can do, not who ain’t here.”

But everyone looked at that empty space anyway. Like it was showing what was coming.

Old Bill Wilson stood up slow, leaning on his stick. Been farming longer than most people been alive. “My family’s farmed here since Victoria was on the throne. Now what? Let it all go to panels like next door? Let developers build houses?”

“That’s why we’re here,” Dad said. “To stop that happening.”

George stood up then. Proper brave, considering how some was looking at him. “The newspaper story’s made a difference. People are asking questions now. Government can’t just push this through quiet like they planned.”

“But they’re still pushing,” someone called. “Still coming for our farms.”

“That’s why we need to act now.” Dad had his market voice on - the one that makes people proper listen. “Protest in London next week. Show them we ain’t just numbers on their spreadsheets.”

Grandad sat quiet through it all. Not writing nothing in his notebook, just watching. Something about how still he was made my stomach go funny.

They talked about coaches to London, about banners and publicity. About getting other farmers involved from all over. But underneath it all was that empty chair where Richardson should’ve been. Like a gap in a hedge that tells you something’s got through that shouldn’t.

“What about the NFU?” someone asked. National Farmers something - never can remember what the U stands for.

“They’re mobilizing too,” George said. “But we need local action. Need to show them what real farming communities look like.”

“Before they’re all gone you mean?” That voice was bitter as green wheat.

I watched from the back, next to Alison. She was doing that thing with her hands she does when she’s proper worried. Everyone looked different somehow - angrier, scared-er, more desperate than I’d ever seen them.

“They’re talking about protests and London trips,” she whispered to me, “but nobody’s saying what happens if it doesn’t work.” Her eyes kept moving between Dad at the front and that empty chair where Richardson should’ve been. “My friend Emma’s older brother just graduated agriculture college. Says half his class can’t find proper farming jobs already.” I hadn’t thought about that—how this affected more than just our farm. How Alison was seeing futures closing that I hadn’t even started thinking about yet.

“We’ve got a week,” Dad said finally. “Week till budget day. Need to make it count.”

The meeting proper broke up after that. Little groups talking quiet, making plans. George trying to answer questions but looking tired like I’d never seen him.

Later, I heard him talking quiet with Dad by the car. “Treasury’s conducting an internal investigation,” he said. “Chen’s convinced it was me who leaked the documents.” Dad looked worried, but George just shrugged. “Some battles are worth the scars, Tom. Always have been.” Made me think of that old photo on his dashboard—the farm he grew up on that got sold. Like he knows proper well what happens when farms get lost.

“Reckon it’ll work?” I asked Dad on the way home.

He didn’t answer straight away. Just looked at the Richardson’s fields in the dark - empty now, waiting for whatever was coming next.

“Got to try,” he said finally. “Some things are worth fighting for.”

In my notebook that night, I wrote:

October 15th. Parish hall proper full. Everyone angry and scared both at once. Going to protest in London. Grandad didn’t write nothing in his notebook all meeting.

Through my window, I could see Grandad walking slow round the yard, like he was remembering something. Or maybe saying goodbye to something.

Didn’t write that bit down though. Some things are too scary to put in notebooks.

37

Here and There

The Treasury felt like a tomb these October mornings. Civil servants moved quick and quiet through marble corridors, words exchanged in whispers, papers passed like secrets. George watched them from his office, remembering other budgets, other changes. None like this.

Sarah Chen’s smile was precise as ever when she entered. No knock - she didn’t need to knock anymore. “Final changes to the agricultural sections,” she said, sliding papers across his desk. Each page annotated in her careful hand. “Your contribution to the narrative would still be… welcomed, George.”

“The numbers are still wrong.”

“The numbers are what we need them to be.” She adjusted her papers unnecessarily. “The Times piece is ready. Telegraph too. All properly aligned with Treasury messaging.”

“Aligned with lies.”

“Progress requires adaptation, George. You used to understand that.” She studied him like a curious specimen. “Your… recent newspaper friend seems to have gone quiet.”

Mary Preston hadn’t published anything since that first story. Couldn’t - they’d seen to that. Legal letters had a way of silencing even the most dedicated journalists.

Through his office window, George could see autumn mist rising over Westminster. Somewhere in a valley two hundred miles north, real farmers would be starting real work.

Morning checks need doing whatever’s happening in London. Dad’s hand’s getting better every day - can grip stuff again, even if it ain’t as strong as before, but for now it’s good enough for farming.

“Cows need feeding,” he said, like every morning. But something in his voice was different. Had been since the parish hall meeting. Everything feeling different lately.

Grandad was already in the yard, notebook in his pocket. He’s been quiet since the meeting. Different kind of quiet from normal. Just watches stuff now, like he’s trying to remember everything proper careful.

The winter wheat was coming through proper strong - them straight rows Dad drilled looking better than the wobbly rape fields. Green shoots reaching up through brown soil like they didn’t know nothing about changes or anything except growing.

“Good emergence,” Dad said, doing that thing where he crumbles soil between his fingers. “Strong roots.” But he was looking past the wheat, at Richardson’s empty fields. Everything there waiting for whatever was coming next.

The Chancellor’s office hummed with activity. Special advisers moved between meetings carrying papers marked ‘Restricted’. Communications teams crafted press releases. Someone was rehearsing sound bites in a corner.

“Modernizing rural Britain,” a young adviser was saying. “Progressive adaptation of traditional sectors…”

George recognized the newspaper phrases. All carefully chosen, all precisely wrong. Like they’d taken farming words and emptied them of meaning.

“Ah, George.” Michael Cartwright appeared, old friend turned enemy. “Final budget breakfast tomorrow. Seven thirty. Though perhaps you’d prefer to be elsewhere? With your… farming friends?”

The threat wasn’t even subtle anymore.

“Looking good, them winter wheat fields,” Dad said at lunch time. Mum had made proper soup - the kind that means winter’s coming. But nobody was eating much.

“Wheat price is up,” Dad added, like that mattered now. “Could be a good year. We need a good year”

At school, Sarah is still the only one who sits with me proper since Oliver. His empty desk in Geography makes my stomach go funny every time I see it. His dad took him to a special hospital in London - something about making sure his leg heals right for football.

“You’re quiet today,” she said, sharing her crisps like always.

“Everything’s quiet today.”

Even the school feels different. Like it knows something’s coming.

George’s phone buzzed again. Treasury number. He let it ring.

The budget papers sat heavy in his briefcase. Tomorrow’s date printed neat at the top, like any normal Thursday. Like it wasn’t about to change everything.

A young researcher appeared at his door. “Chancellor’s office asked for those agricultural impact projections, sir.”

“Did they?” George didn’t look up. “Shame about the numbers being wrong.”

“Sir?”

“Nothing. Tell them they’ll have to manage without.”

Small victories. All he had left now.

He’d called Eleanor earlier. “Won’t be home tonight,” he’d told her. Diane had warned him through their coded messages that his office might be searched - looking for evidence of the leak. Best to stay away from home, keep Eleanor clear of it all. “I expected as much,” she’d replied. “Your father would have been proud, George.” High praise from Eleanor, who rarely mentioned his father - the man who’d fought to save their family farm until the bank foreclosed. Some battles were worth fighting even when you couldn’t win them.

Evening checks always feel important - making sure everything’s right for night time. But tonight felt more important somehow. Like everything needed checking proper careful.

Dad tested all the cattle feed, measured everything twice. Checked the calf pens extra thorough, made sure every gate was latched proper. Like he was trying to prove something. Or maybe protect something.

Grandad walked the yard slow, looking at stuff. Not writing nothing down, just looking. Marmalade followed him about, like she knew he needed company.

The yard lights came on early - proper autumn now. Made everything look different. Familiar but strange, like when you see something you know in a dream.

In my notebook, I wrote:

October 19th. Farm feels different. Everyone waiting for something. Grandad still ain’t writing in his notebook. Dad checked everything twice tonight. Wheat looking strong but Richardson’s fields looking empty.

38

Budget Day

The blackbird never sang this morning. That’s what woke me proper early - not its song, but the quiet. Even the yard was different when I went down - no tractor sounds, no cattle lowing for breakfast. Just Dad in the kitchen, radio already on low, making tea like it was normal but his hands all fidgety.

“School today?” I asked, but I already knew the answer from his face.

“Reckon some days are more important than school.” He pushed a mug of tea across the table. “Budget day. George says they’ll announce it proper after lunch.”

Grandad came in without his usual whistle. His notebook was in his pocket, but he didn’t take it out like normal morning times. Just sat at his spot, hands flat on the table like he was steadying himself.

“Top wheat field needs checking,” he said suddenly. “Want to help, lad?”

Outside felt better than the kitchen. The air was October-cold, making breath-clouds as we walked. The wheat was coming through proper strong - tiny green spears pushing up through the soil that Dad had worked so careful.

“Know how to check if it’s coming good?” Grandad asked, kneeling down stiffer than normal.

He showed me how to brush away the soil gentle-like, exposing them tiny shoots properly. His hands were steady now, not shaky like lately.

“See these little green shoots under all them leaves?” Grandad said, his finger careful not to damage the delicate green. “Life always finds a way, lad,” he continued, his voice going serious like it does for proper farming lessons. “Been that way on this farm since before your great-Grandad was even thought of. Will be long after I’m gone.”

I wrote it down in my notebook, proper careful. Seemed important somehow, the way he said it.

“Got good roots, these ones,” he said, brushing the soil back. “That’s what matters most in farming. What goes on underground where nobody can see.”

We walked every bit of that field, Grandad stopping every few yards to check. Not rushing like normal field checks. Taking his time, looking at everything proper close. When we reached the far hedge, he just stood there, looking back across the farm. I could see everything from there - the yard, the barns, the house with its chimney already smoking. Even the Richardson’s place next door, empty fields waiting for solar panels or whatever was coming next.

“Your great-grandad stood right here in the big snow of ‘47,” Grandad said suddenly. “Said he could see the whole world from this spot, everything that mattered anyway.”

Back at the house, everything had changed. Kitchen table was covered in papers, and George’s car was in the yard. Mum was making more tea, but her hands weren’t steady neither.

She was the only one in the room who really understood what the Chancellor was saying without George having to explain it. Banking terms came easy to her, from her father and from before she chose farm life. “They’ve structured it deliberately,” she said quiet to Dad while the radio voice kept talking. “Maximum impact on family operations, minimal on investment holdings.” The way she said it wasn’t like someone reading bad news—more like someone recognizing an enemy’s tactics. Her banker’s daughter knowledge becoming the farm’s early warning system.

 Alison sat with her laptop, but she wasn’t looking at it. Just staring out the window at Grandad’s spot by the workshop. Her university research page was still open—I could see the architecture program she’d been looking at. She closed it when she caught me looking, like she was feeling guilty for thinking about leaving at a time like this. “What’s the point now?” she whispered when the Chancellor started talking numbers. I didn’t understand proper then, but I think she meant both the farm and her plans—everything suddenly hanging by threads none of us could see clearly.

The radio was louder now. Men’s voices talking about economics and modernization and words that didn’t make proper sense.

“When will they say it?” I asked, but nobody answered right away.

“After the Chancellor starts speaking,” George said finally. “Hour, maybe two.” He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept proper in days.

He’d come straight from London, his car proper muddy like always. Dad had said something earlier about the Treasury conducting some investigation, looking for who leaked their papers to the newspapers. “They’ll be watching him careful now,” he’d told Mum when they thought I couldn’t hear. Explains why George looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

Dad kept pacing, looking at his watch, then the radio, then his watch again. “Could be different from what we’ve heard,” he said, but his voice didn’t believe it.

“Could be,” George agreed, not sounding convinced neither.

We ate lunch but nobody was hungry. Sandwiches sat on plates, just for something to do with hands. The radio kept talking. Grandad disappeared outside again.

I found him by the barn, standing proper still, looking at the door like he was seeing something nobody else could.

“You alright?” I asked.

“Just thinking, lad.” He had something in his hand - a padlock still in its plastic wrapper. Brand new. “Been wondering about getting a proper lock for this door for years. Never seemed necessary before.”

The radio in the kitchen suddenly went quiet, then loud again. “It’s starting,” came Dad’s voice from the house.

When we got back in, everyone was gathered close to the radio. A woman’s voice was talking about difficult choices and modern Britain and economic realities.

“Here it comes,” George said quiet, his face gone all tight.

The voice on the radio changed - became the proper speech now. Words about agricultural relief and modernization and thresholds. Numbers that made Dad’s face go white.

“One million pound cap on Agricultural Relief,” the voice said, professional-like, like it was just numbers, not people’s lives. “Ensuring that relief goes to those most in need while asking the largest agricultural holdings to contribute their fair share.”

Dad’s fist hit the table proper hard, making the teacups jump. “Fair share?” he shouted at the radio. “Fair share?!”

But Grandad just sat there, proper still. His face had gone different - not angry, not sad even. Just… decided. Like when he makes his mind up about when to cut a field that’s been troubling him.

“How bad?” Mum asked George, her voice hardly there at all.

George looked at his papers, at Sydney, at the farm outside the window. “With land values, equipment, livestock… we’re well over. Three, maybe four times over.”

“And the tax bill would be…?” Dad couldn’t finish.

“Impossible,” George said simply. “Without selling most of it. Maybe all.”

The phone started ringing then. Kept ringing all afternoon. Other farmers, all hearing the same news, all asking the same questions nobody had answers for.

Grandad didn’t say much after that. Just sat at the table while everyone talked over him, planning protests and legal challenges and things that seemed far away and too late.

When the sun started going down, he stood up sudden-like. “Going to check the cattle,” he said. Simple words, normal farming words, but something in his voice made me look up sharp.

“Need help?” I asked.

“Not tonight, lad.” He put his hand on my shoulder, proper gentle. “You get your homework done. School tomorrow.”

But his hand stayed on my shoulder longer than normal, like he was remembering something or making a memory.

In the yard, the lights came on as darkness fell. Through my window, I could see Grandad moving between buildings, slower than his usual evening checks. Stopping at each gate, each pen, each corner of the yard. His notebook was in his hand now, but I couldn’t see if he was writing.

When he passed Marmalade’s pen, he stopped longer than at the others. Reached in his pocket for something - probably them peppermints he always carries.

In my own notebook, I wrote:

October 20th. Budget day. Farm properly doomed according to George. Dad angry, Mum scared. But wheat coming through strong, Grandad says. Life always finds a way, even when people try to stop it.

Through my window, the last thing I saw was Grandad standing by the barn door, something shiny in his hand catching the yard light.

Then my bedroom door opened, and Dad came in looking tired but trying to smile. “Alright, lad? Big day, that.”

“Will we lose the farm?” The question came out before I could stop it.

Dad sat on my bed, taking longer to answer than I expected. “Not without a fight,” he said finally. “Matthews have faced bad times before.”

But his voice had that sound it gets when he’s telling me something he wants to believe more than something he does believe.

“Get some sleep now,” he said, standing up. “Tomorrow’s another day.”

Through my window, the yard had gone dark except for the night security light. Grandad was gone from the barn door, probably inside doing evening checks. Everything looked normal, just another October night on the farm.

But nothing felt normal. Not anymore.

39

Last Lessons

Dawn came gray and silent the day after the budget. No blackbird, no usual farm noises, just a heaviness in the air like before a summer storm. I found Grandad already in the kitchen, making tea in the half-light.

“School today?” I asked, half-hoping he’d say no again.

“Reckon so,” he nodded, pushing a mug toward me. “Life keeps going, specially when you don’t want it to.” Something about how he said it made me look at him proper. His face seemed different—not sad exactly, more settled. Like when he decides whether a field’s ready for cutting after days of wondering.

“Tell you what though,” he added, “got some things need doing first. Proper important farm business. Reckon school can wait till after lunch.”

Mum would’ve normally argued, but when she came down, she just nodded at Grandad like some decision had already been made without words.

The morning stayed quiet. Dad spent it on the phone in the workshop, his voice rising and falling like waves—angry one minute, quiet-desperate the next. George’s name kept coming up, and protests, and lawyers, but none of it sounded hopeful.

Grandad didn’t join them talks. Instead, he found Alison first, knocking on her bedroom door while she was supposed to be getting ready for school.

“Walk with me,” I heard him say. I followed them quiet-like, not hiding exactly, just curious.

He took her to Harper’s Hill—that spot where you can see the whole farm spread out below. Where she used to sit when things got difficult.

“Used to come up here with your grandmother,” he told her, his breath making clouds in the cold. “When things got proper hard.”

Alison looked surprised. “You never talk about Grandma.”

“Some memories get sharper with keeping,” he said, pulling something from his pocket. “This was hers.”

It was a small silver watch on a chain, delicate as anything. “She wore it always,” Grandad continued. “Always said it reminded her there was time for everything important, no matter how busy life got.”

“Grandad, I can’t—”

“Course you can,” he said, pressing it into her hand. “She’d want you wearing it at university. Specially when things get hard.”

The look that passed between them was private somehow, like they both understood something I didn’t yet.

Alison’s fingers touched the watch, tracing its worn face. “Did you ever think about leaving?” she asked suddenly. “When you were young, I mean.”

Grandad looked across the valley, quiet for a long moment. “Course I did. Every young person does. Even farm ones.” He smiled at her surprise. “Thought about architecture once—designing things that last. But then I realized I was already building something here, just slower.” He squeezed her hand. “Your buildings might be different from mine. That’s as it should be.”

Back at the farm, Grandad found Mum in the utility room, sorting laundry like normal times even though nothing was normal.

“Cheryl,” he said, holding out a small wooden box I’d never seen before. “Been meaning to give you this for a proper long time.”

Inside was a silver brooch, shaped like a sheaf of wheat. “Tom’s mother’s,” he explained. “She wore it on our wedding day, and her mother before her.”

“Sydney, why—”

“Just putting things right,” he said. “Things that should’ve been done before.”

Mum’s fingers closed around the brooch, her eyes studying Grandad’s face.

“You never thought I’d stay, did you? When I first came.”

“Didn’t think Tom would keep you,” he admitted with a small smile. “Town girl with soft hands, I thought. Shows what I know.” He patted Mum’s arm. “You’ve got Matthews soil under your nails now. Proper farmer in your own way.”

“I wouldn’t trade it,” Mum said quietly. “Not for all the clean fingernails in Cheltenham.”

Grandad spent the next hour with Dad, walking field boundaries in silence mostly. I couldn’t hear much but caught bits—something about drainage in the lower field that needed fixing next spring, about the wheat needing extra nitrogen if the winter turned wet.

Just normal farming talk, but Dad’s face when they returned looked different. Something about how Grandad had handed him his old penknife—the special one with the horn handle that he’d used every day for forty years.

“Don’t need it much nowadays,” Grandad said when Dad tried to refuse. “Hands getting too old for proper whittling.”

It was midday when Grandad finally came looking for me. I was with Marmalade, making sure her feed was right.

“Got something special to show you,” he said. “Proper important farming lesson.”

He led me to the workshop, to the drawer nobody was allowed to open. From it, he pulled a small leather book, its pages yellow with age.

“My first farm notebook,” he said, opening it careful-like. “Started when I was not much older than you.”

The writing inside was neat but boyish, different from Grandad’s careful hand nowadays. “First lambing,” he pointed. “April 12th, 1957. Helped Dad with difficult birth. Lamb came backwards but lived.”

“Like Marmalade,” I whispered.

“Aye. Backwards things try harder,” he smiled. “All the important stuff’s in here—first harvest, first time driving tractor, first time Dad let me make a proper decision about planting.”

He turned more pages, showing me records of weather and yields and cattle born. A whole farm life started when he was just a boy.

“This is yours now,” he said, closing it gentle and handing it to me.

My throat went tight. “But it’s your special one.”

“That’s why it’s for you.” His hand rested on my shoulder. “Some things need to be passed on proper, so they ain’t forgotten.”

We spent the afternoon with Marmalade. Grandad had a whole bag of peppermints—not just his usual handful—and he let her have more than normal.

“She’s earned them,” he said, watching her headbutt my pocket for more. “Backward lamb that tried harder. Remember that, Alex. Important that.”

The evening came too quick. Mum called about tea being ready, but Grandad said he’d be in later. “Got one last check to do,” he told me. “You go on.”

But something made me turn back. He was standing by the barn door, that new padlock in his hand, no longer in its packaging.

“Grandad?”

“Just thinking,” he said, but he put the padlock in his pocket quick. “Wondering if the barn needs proper securing with all that’s happening.”

“You never lock the barn,” I said, remembering all them times he told me a closed barn was no use to man nor beast.

“Sometimes,” he said quiet, “things change. Even things we thought would never change.”

At tea, Grandad was different. Talked more than he had in weeks, told stories about the farm from before I was born. About the big snow of ‘63 when they had to dig tunnels to the cattle sheds. About the drought of ‘76 when the well nearly dried up. About the foot and mouth time when they thought they’d lose everything.

“But the Matthews survived,” he kept saying. “Always have.”

When it was time for bed, Grandad did something he hadn’t done since I was little. Came up to my room, sat on the edge of my bed.

“Got your notebook handy?” he asked.

I pulled it out from under my pillow.

“Always keep that with you,” he said serious. “Write down everything that matters. Not just farm stuff, but life stuff. The things you learn that ain’t in books. The way Marmalade looks when she sees you coming. The feeling when wheat first breaks through soil in spring.”

His voice had gone different. Proper important, like when he teaches the most serious farming lessons.

“Life always finds a way, Alex. Remember that. Been that way on this farm since before your great-Grandad was even thought of. Will be long after I’m gone.”

I wrote it down, just like I had yesterday. But this time it felt even more important somehow.

“Grandad—” I started, but stopped. Didn’t know what I wanted to ask, just knew something wasn’t right.

“Everything changes,” he said, standing up. “Even things we wish wouldn’t. But some things stay too. The important bits.” He touched my notebook. “That’s why we write them down.”

He paused at my door. “Get proper sleep now. Morning comes early on a farm.”

Through my window, I watched him cross the yard, moving slow like his thoughts were heavy. The yard light caught something shiny in his hand again—that new padlock. He stopped at the barn door, looking at it for a long time. Then he moved inside, out of sight.

I must’ve fallen asleep, because next thing I knew it was dark proper and the farm was too quiet. No usual night noises, no movement. Just wrong stillness.

In my notebook, I wrote one last thing before sleep took me properly:

October 21st. Grandad giving away stuff like Christmas came early. First farm notebook now mine. Said backwards things try harder, like Marmalade. Said life finds a way, even when people try to stop it. Said a closed barn ain’t no use to man nor beast, but he bought a padlock anyway.

Morning would come too soon, bringing a different kind of quiet. The quiet of the barn door, closed and padlocked. The quiet of Grandad’s whistle, never coming again. The quiet of a farm facing a future it wasn’t meant to have.

But I didn’t know that yet as I drifted to sleep. Didn’t know tomorrow would be the day everything changed proper.

40

The Barn Door Stayed Closed

Grandad never let the barn door stay shut. Not even the time when the snow was that bad Dad said to close everything up tight. “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. There’s another vehicle coming, big and white like them ambulances but different. 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.

---

After.

To be continued....