‘So, if it is,’ she glanced at Nate, ‘an Anglo-Saxon burial, then English Heritage is going to want to be involved.’ She didn’t miss the apprehensive glance between Jack and their father. ‘That would mean that we could get funding from them to build a visitor centre, and we would become a Protected Heritage Site. Meaning,’ she took a breath, because this was her trump card, ‘that we wouldn’t have to do anymore. We wouldn’t have to scrimp and borrow funds for Hibbert’s fields, we wouldn’t have to pray that we have a good Pick Your Own season or that we get five weddings in the summer. We would have English Heritage funding, and English Heritage visitors.’
Jack and Dad looked at each other again, unspoken words passing between them. Dad had Jack helping on the farm way before their mother had died, they all had, but it was Jack who had really taken to it. It was Jack who had done the milking when their dad had been grieving and couldn’t get out of bed, and Jack who had negotiated the sale of cattle to ensure that they could afford the electricity throughout the winter that year.
Whilst the farm would go to the three of them equally when Dad died, they all knew it would be Jack managing it.
‘What’s the likelihood of finding a burial like that? Big enough that English Heritage would be interested?’ Dad asked.
‘Well, Bill,’ Nate said. ‘It’s looking promising, but we won’t know for certain until deeper trenches are dug. We’ve found coins, we’ve found metal, a possible shield boss, but no bones yet.’
‘For what it’s worth,’ Rebecca said, as family solicitor, ‘English Heritage are a national charity, it would be a massive deal for Little Willow to be associated with them. Free advertising, practically guaranteeing visitors.’ She took a sip of her wine. ‘Everyone could relax a bit.’
The unspoken words were ‘Laurel could relax a bit’.
She looked down at her hands folded neatly on the table.
‘Well,’ Bill said, ‘let’s hope it is then.’ He tilted his glass to Nate, smiling, but not convinced.
‘Jack?’ Laurel asked. Jack gave a brusque nod.
‘Robin?’
Robin sat back in his chair, fingers linked behind his head.
‘So, you’re saying you’ll stop with all this shit around our home if there’s some old bones in that field?’
‘It’s not shit,’ Laurel mumbled, pursing her lips. ‘But essentially, yeah.’
‘And you’re not saying this because you fancy him?’ Robin nodded to Nate, sarcastic grin on his face.
It fell silent, and she could feel her family’s eyes crawling over her skin. Nate lifted his wine glass and took a sip, studiously ignoring this family bicker. Laurel’s face flushed, hard. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the tips of Nate’s ears turn scarlet. Embarrassed, either for her, or for him. Whichever, it clearly indicated that any attraction that Laurel may, or may not, feel towards him was completely and utterly unrequited. Besides, it was just a hangover from university, surely.
Jack lurched forward, because knowing Rebecca, she had just booted him in the shin. ‘Who wouldn’t fancy him? I mean, look at him. Even I fancy him.’
Rebecca snorted her wine, Bill chuckled, and Robin glared.
‘You’re a dick, Robin,’ Laurel said, grabbing her wine and pushing the chair away from the table as hard as she dared. She’d made it to the back door to check on the kids when she heard Nate clear his throat.
‘What is it you do on the farm, Robin?’
Laurel turned and leaned on the door frame, uncertain how this would unfold. Nate was looking earnestly at Robin, leaning forward, genuinely interested.
‘What?’ Robin said, petulant scowl on his face.
‘I mean, I know what Laurel does, and I know what Jack and Bill do, but what’s your role? What’s your job here?’ Nate leaned back in his seat and lay his arm across the back of Laurel’s empty, rickety chair, tensing as he pushed down to make sure the back was as secure as it was going to be.
‘I do loads, and I don’t have to explain myself to you.’
If Robin pouted any harder, he would be mistaken for a trout. Oh, could they do trout fishing in the lake?
‘Robin,’ the three adult kids jumped at Bill’s harsh voice, ‘Nate is our guest.’
‘But he—’
‘Asked your role on the farm, and I don’t think it’s an unreasonable question. You were late milking the other day when Jack asked you to cover for him because he was lambing on the common. Laurel had to check for pregnancies. The pig shelter needs re-felting, the henhouse needs a good clean and the fencing around the Pick Your Own needs looking at.’ The room was still. Dad pointed at Robin across the table, angling his face so his good eye held Robin’s gaze. ‘These areallyour jobs, Robin.’
Against the door frame, Laurel was speechless. Their father didn’t often shout, wasn’t often firm, not really since their mother had died, and certainly never with the favourite, the surprise, the get-away-with-anything, baby of the family.
Rebecca’s mouth dropped open, volleying between the eldest and youngest Fletcher men. Jack watched the tablecloth intently.
