He was here to find the Anglo-Saxon hoard of the century.
Nate recognised his own crumpled plans in the hands of an older man.
‘Ah, that’s going to be tricky, what with the furrow,’ the older man said. Nate opened his mouth to comment that it wasn’t tricky at all, the terrain was smooth, but Jack nudged him and shook his head slightly.
‘I see what you mean, Harold,’ Jack sighed and looked at the plans pensively. ‘You’re right, very tricky.’
Okay, Nate would let this play out, but hewasgetting these trenches dug today, even if he had to drive that digger himself. Or go to the local B&Q and buy thirty shovels for the students to use. They’d love that.
‘Well,’ Harold said, narrowing his eyes at the sky. ‘It just might be able to be done. If I can just about...’ he trailed off, turning watery eyes on Nate. ‘I can do it, I think, it won’t be easy, but it’ll be done. Give me an hour.’
Harold shoved his hands in his worn jeans and shuffled away.
‘An hour?’ Nate said, starting forward.
‘Hang on a minute, mate.’ Jack stopped him. ‘You get what you’re given with Harold, and he’s the only plant machinery within thirty miles. He’s a family friend. He’ll do a good job, exactly how you want it. But he will definitely be an hour, he’s very precise.’
‘Oh, well then.’ Nate sighed. ‘I guess I should go and check out where I’m staying.’
He glanced at the students milling around. They could just do whatever twenty-somethings did. TikTok or whatever.
‘I’ll walk you down,’ Jack said, meandering toward the gate.
Of course Nate had a little rented flat, but it was a good four hours away, way too far to commute daily. It made sense to stay at Little Willow Farm. It wasn’t like he had any ties where he lived anyway – his mother didn’t live there and his friends were scattered. His flat was somewhere to sleep. It wasn’t home.
Little Willow Farm had definitely made sense, well, until he realised that he wouldn’t be having the cosy little one bedroomed apartment he’d envisioned, but sharing with the students in cramped bunkhouses that were usually used for school residentials, corporate retreats, Airbnbs and the odd hen or stag party.
‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ Nate said, and he meant it. Little Willow Farm was all serene cows, hazy summer days and families making happy memories.
‘Thanks, it’s been in the family for generations,’ Jack said proudly, echoing Laurel. He pointed to a cluster of three detached houses. ‘That’s mine and Rebecca’s, Dad’s in the middle and Robin’s, our little brother, on the other side. Laurel could have one built, but she refuses to live on the farm. Something about “being too close”.’ He actually used air quotes.
It was obvious from the quiet passion that Jack loved this place because of course, to him, it was his home rather than a business.
‘’Course, it was called Fletcher’s Farm until Laurel got her hands on it, and now it’s all this.’ Jack spread his arms wide.
‘And you don’t like it?’
There was an undercurrent of resentment to Jack’s words, or was it resignation?
‘Nah. I mean, yeah, it would be nice if we could just be a working farm and not have to worry about words like “commercial” and “viability” and “increasing our portfolio”, but that’s not how it works anymore. Farms are a business, and milking cows does not pay the rent anymore.’ He looked at Nate. ‘Laurel’s done a really good job, she’s dragged us onto social media. We have open-air cinemas here now.’
‘I love an open-air cinema,’ Nate said. ‘Couple of beers, picnic, blanket. Girls love that shit.’
Hell, he loved that shit.
‘Do they? Perhaps I should take Rebecca,’ Jack mused, as if he had never thought of it before.
‘Your wife?’ Nate asked, hands in pockets as they strolled down through the farm, dodging children, prams, and some wandering ducks.
‘Yeah, love of my life, man.’ Jack really meant it; it was the open, warm smile and glint in his eye when he said her name, the unabashed vulnerability. Nate felt happy jealousy curl in his stomach.
‘What the fuck?’ Jack stopped mid-stride, his face frozen in a comical grimace.
Nate followed his gaze, and said a silent thanks to everything that was holy, because there was proper, prissy, strait-laced Laurel Fletcher, in her sundress and welly boots, literally shovelling shit. She had a large bucket with her, and she was working methodically, clearing up after what must have been quite a herd of cows, judging by the sweat shining on her forehead.
‘Laurel, what’re you doing?’ Jack laughed at her. She whipped her head up furiously, strands of wavy brown hair flying in the light breeze.
‘I’ll tell you what I’m—’ she hesitated and looked around, ‘fucking doing,’ she hissed. ‘I’m cleaning up the yard after our twat of a little brother walked the cows through here for milking this morning.’
