She ran through her mental checklist for today. There was the meeting with the accountant about the viability of having a smidge more on their loan so they could buy Hibbert’s land, the paperwork black hole of ridiculously complex Basic Farm Payments and Countryside Stewardship forms to check, the WI meeting in the conference centre, and she was showing a bride around at 11:30am.
All squeezed in this morning so she could revel in the arrival of the archaeologists in the afternoon.
Little Willow Farm was Laurel’s life, and how she wished it wasn’t. But who else was going to make sure that the farm that had been in the Fletcher family for generations didn’t sink into the mire, like Hibbert’s and so many other small farms? Certainly not Robin, who couldn’t even be bothered to milk the cows at the right time. Jack, their older brother, could run the farm with both hands tied behind his back and blindfolded, but he couldn’t get the farm to make actual money. Since their mother had died all those years ago, their dad had become increasingly reliant on Laurel to run the admin side of things and treated Jack more as a friend and colleague than a son. Robin, the favourite, the surprise, the flighty, beautiful boy, could do whatever the hell he liked.
Hence Fletcher’s Farm had become Little Willow Farm (after many, MANY, hours of arguing), because it sounded fluffier and cuter and said ‘come and visit our baby lambs and buy overpriced artisanal bread and organic, hand-reared meat’. It wasn’t just the farm shop and cafe that Laurel had dragged her family kicking and screaming into accepting, oh no.
It was Little Willow Conference and Education Centre, Little Willow Petting Farm, Little Willow Bunk Houses, Little Willow Lake and Countryside Walks, and possibly Little Willow Maize and Sunflower Maze which could be planted on Hibbert’s fields. If she could persuade the bank to just give her that extra bit of money.
It was a year ago, nearly to the day, that the gods of the earth took pity on Laurel, read her hidden thoughts and decided to smile upon her. One of the farmhands crashed through her office door brandishing a human bone. She’d been having them clear the little field at the top of the farm that was too sandy for grazing but could be perfect for the maize maze.
But not with an Anglo-Saxon burial to rival Sutton Hoo buried beneath the earth.
Laurel had eagerly put her archaeology degree into action and forbade anyone to enter that field without her (EVER AGAIN) until they’d had the police in. They could have been recent bones, although anyone with the most basic knowledge would have been able to see the harsh discolouration that signified ancient remains. She’d lobbied hard with the British Archaeology Society to have her old lecturer, Professor Rowlands, come to excavate the site and, after a year of meticulous planning, they were finally arriving today.
To the shit-filled yard.
Laurel smoothed her dress down over her thighs as she watched the two minibuses pull into the farmyard.
‘Sylvie, I’m going to need you to find my brother, Robin.’ She pulled her lips into that fixed, close-mouthed smile that did not bode well for anyone on the receiving end of it. ‘Threaten him that I will chop his balls off if he does not clear this yard of cow manure in the next five minutes. Okay?’
Sylvie blanched. It could have been a reaction to Laurel’s wrath, but it was more likely the fact that since she started two years ago, her assistant had had a massive crush on her little brother.
‘Yeah, okay.’
Sylvie quickly pushed her clipboard into Laurel’s hands and scampered off towards the cowshed, darting around piles of dung as she went.
Professor Rowlands was first out, and yes, he was exactly as a Professor of Archaeology should be. Tweed, threadbare blazer; too long, unkempt white hair; round glasses perched on his head; corduroy trousers that sagged at the knees. His battered satchel flopped open as he managed to put two feet securely on the ground, papers rustling dangerously in the light breeze.
‘Professor Rowlands.’ Laurel greeted him with a wide smile.
‘Lauren, my dear girl, call me Ivor. How many times have I asked you?’ About as many times as she had told him her name wasn’t Lauren, but that didn’t seem to stick, so neither would Ivor.
‘Come on through to the café. You must need a cup of tea after the journey,’ Laurel said, taking the elbow of her old professor.
‘Yes, yes, but I think I’ve forgotten my...’ he trailed off, patting his pockets, and headed back onto the bus, pushing through his dig team of wide-eyed undergrads and jaded postgrads.
A thin ribbon of jealousy tied itself around Laurel’s chest, because in another life, this could have been (a younger) her. A PhD candidate poised to make exciting new discoveries, possibly running a dig team herself, a carefree version of Laurel who was focused on living her life exactly how she wanted to.
Being surrounded by twenty-somethings with their long, lean legs, designer beards and carefully curated well-worn t-shirts, with no responsibilities, made her feel frumpy and old.
Old. She was thirty-two, and there was absolutely no way she was going to relegate herself to ‘old’, but she wasn’t young anymore. Well, notthatyoung anyway.
Laurel self-consciously flipped through the paperwork on the clipboard that Sylvie had thrust at her. Her assistant may be partial to obscure French movies, ballet flats and short girlish skirts, but she certainly knew her way around a colour-coded spreadsheet. Laurel made a mental note to buy her a bottle of that cheap French wine she liked so much to say thanks.
‘They were on my head, Lauren.’ Professor Rowlands chuckled like a cartoon character as he appeared again, and Laurel’s hardened business heart melted just a little.
There were at least twenty people milling around the yard in little groups, sturdy travel backpacks leaning against the bus, palpable and infectious excitement quivering like a taut bowstring. A car pulled in and edged around the bus, looking for a parking space. Okay, Laurel needed to get this show on the road, so as not to disturb the rest of the business.
Sylvie appeared across the yard and shrugged helplessly, meaning that Robin either couldn’t be found or, more than likely, he had fobbed her off with his lopsided grin and a touch to the arm that had her melting.
Laurel cleared her throat and raised her voice. ‘If you could grab your bags, Sylvie will show you to your accommodation.’ She gestured to Sylvie, weaving her way through the students with her hand up in the air like she was a tour guide trying to corral her group around the Acropolis.
‘Actually.’
Laurel couldn’t see the owner of that deep, warm-honey voice, dripping with authority.
‘If you could have someone take my bags, I’d like to see the dig site.’
