“Yuck,” he said absently, holding his fingers splayed in front of him and trying to think where he could wipe them. Hannah glanced at him and grinned.
“You’re a real man of the land, aren’t you?” she said. “Bet you don’t notice when your hands are covered in paint.”
“Paint doesn’t come out of a sheep’s arse,” Zach pointed out.
“Oh, it’s only half-digested grass. There are far worse chemicals in paint. Here, use this.” She handed him a twist of hay from the back of the jeep, and he wiped his hands on it gratefully. “Come on, hop in. I’ll rush you to some hot water and soap.” They climbed into the car and she knocked it into gear, pulling away with a slither and spin of mud from the wheels. “So it begins. Season of mud and cold water,” she muttered. “I hate winter.”
“It’s still only September.”
“I know. But it’s all downhill from here.”
“So the farm’s organic, is it?” said Zach.
“It is. It will be, if I can ever get through the testing and certification process.”
“Long-winded?”
“Unbelievable. Everything has to be organic and proven and tested-from the veterinary treatment they get, to the hay, to the way I treat the hides after slaughter. It costs hundreds and hundreds of pounds every year to keep it up-just to be a member of the right organizations, and have the right checks done at the right times. But come the spring, there should be lamb in the chiller, ready to send out; fully tanned sheepskins ready to sell; and a website where you can actually order things, rather than just look at nice pictures of Portland sheep.” She paused, hopping out of the jeep to shut a gate behind them. They crossed a chalk track, the smooth surface of it sliding like glue after the rain. “Either that or I’ll have gone bust and be living in a trailer in a junk yard somewhere,” she said with forced jollity.
“So why bother with the whole organic thing? Why not just grow a load of sheep as cheaply as you can?”
“Because it doesn’t work. That’s what my father did, all his life. But however cheaply I can raise a sheep, the price I’d have to sell it at would be too low to make a living. I haven’t got enough land to raise a huge flock. And I haven’t got enough help to run things on such a scale. The only chance to keep the place running is to specialize. Do something different, get a name for excellence in one particular thing.”
“Organic Portland lamb?”
“Exactly. And not just spring lamb, old-season lamb-and the mutton is excellent, too. Very lean, full of flavor. And the fleeces from the shearlings are softer than a baby’s bum. But…” She tipped her head to one side, and in spite of the airy way she spoke, there was anxiety around her eyes.
“But?”
“I have to survive the winter, until this first crop of lambs are old enough to slaughter. And I have to get the bloody organic certificate in place, like yesterday.”
“So you’re right at the beginning of this whole venture, really.”
“Either the beginning or the end, depending on how optimistic I happen to be feeling that day,” she said, with a quick smile. “Toby and I tried to work the old flock-we tried for five years to scrape by with it. I sold the last of them the year he died. Then it took me a while to work out what the hell I was doing.”
“But you’ve figured it out now, by the sounds of it.”
“Well, Ilir came along. Not much use having a man about the place when there was no livestock and nothing to do but watch the place crumble. He kind of gave me the boot up the behind that I needed.”
“Yes. Important for a man to be useful,” Zach said quietly, feeling a flare of pointless hostility towards the blameless Ilir.
The jeep bounced and slithered up the track onto the concrete yard, and this time Zach was quick enough to get out to open and close the gate before Hannah could. She roared the engine to a halt outside the farmhouse and opened the front door for him with a heave of her shoulder and a kick to the bottom edge of it.
“The cloakroom’s the first door on the right. And if you say one word about my housekeeping I’ll knock you down, just see if I don’t,” she said. The inside of the farmhouse was filthy. Not just untidy, not just in need of vacuuming. Properly filthy. Zach picked his way over mounds of discarded rags, bits of rope and baling twine, wisps of straw, empty milk bottles, and odd implements the function of which he couldn’t begin to guess. There was a plastic dog bed that had been chewed into a strange, stippled sculpture; the blanket inside gray with accumulated hair. A log pile against one wall had shed a wide halo of sawdust and bark and dead woodlice all over the floor, and when Zach looked up in horror, the high ceiling was strung about with blackened cobwebs like some kind of macabre bunting. The basin in the cloakroom had the cracked, half-dissolved remains of several bars of soap slumped around the taps, but the water was hot and he managed to scrape some soap from the heap with his fingernails. He washed his hands quickly, then glanced along the corridor to the next room.
The kitchen-every bit as ripe with sheep and dog as the inside of the jeep had been. A tabby cat was asleep on the range cooker; every surface was covered in plates, pans, and packaging. A bottle of milk had been left out by the kettle, and a housefly was feasting on the yellow crust around its lip. A vast oak refectory table was piled high with accounts, printouts, ledgers, and old newspapers. Zach looked at the dirty crockery for a while, and only moments later realized what he was looking for, and what he was indeed seeing: pairs of things. Two wineglasses with purple stains at the bottom, two coffee mugs, two plates with the bones of what might have been pork chops on them. Evidence that Ilir shared the house with Hannah. There was a sudden bang and the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs at the far end of the room. Zach’s pulse gave a lurch and he turned on his heel, dodging back along the corridor as fast as he could, and out into the yard.
Hannah was looking at something on the hood of the jeep, and the way she jumped reminded Zach of himself, seconds earlier. She’d been looking through his sketchbook, and now she closed it with a defiant expression and a tilt of her chin, as if refusing to be embarrassed at being caught out.
“Find everything you needed?” she said. Zach folded his arms and smiled, glancing at his sketchbook on the bonnet.
“Yes, thanks. Lovely house.”
“Thanks. I grew up in that house.”
“You must have an incredible immune system,” he said, and struggled to keep a straight face.
“Careful, now. I did warn you.” Hannah balled her fists for a second, but her expression was amused. She gestured at his sketchbook. “I didn’t mean to pry. I just didn’t want you to leave your bag behind in the jeep. And, you know… the curiosity of a fellow artist and all that… But don’t worry-I don’t really feel like I’ve seen into your soul,” she said. He thought of the only drawing he’d done so far-his failed attempt earlier that morning.
“I was trying to draw the view from the top of the hill,” he admitted.
“And that’s as far as you got?”
“I think I may have… lost my mojo,” he said. She looked at him shrewdly, eyes screwed up against a sudden flare of sunshine.
“Is that so?” she murmured, not unkindly. Zach held his ground, but could think of no succinct way to elaborate. “Well, I always think it helps to remember why you’re drawing the thing you’re drawing. Why did you climb the hill and try to draw the view, for example?”
“Um… I don’t really know. Because it was beautiful?”
“But was it? Did you decide to draw it because it was beautiful, or because you thought it ought to be? Because you thought it was the sort of thing you should want to draw?”