Such is the urgency now with thousands of carcasses scattered across Cumbria that not a lump of coal nor a railway sleeper can be gotten to build a pyre. And nor can a trench be dug to just bury Holmes' cows in as is being done elsewhere because so many of them are over the age of five. There's a backlog of lorries out the gates of the rendering plants, and the incinerators big enough to take a full carcass are already full to bursting.
As Joanne steps into the Holmes and Adler yard for the second time, she swears it's enough to drive a woman to drink.
Efficiency is something that both the army and Joanne herself pride themselves on, but with such a shortage of supplies they are becoming well-acquainted with inefficiency.
She's already talked to a list of suppliers and all of them are sold out. Between acquiring timber of the right season and ensuring the availability of digger men, she never quite realised until now how much work goes into one funeral pyre. In truth, she's been up since half six and on the phone since seven trying to gather equipment and supplies. It's twelve o'clock now and she hates having to bring the news that the cows are going to lie in their silage clamp and the calves in their shed for another night until she can see what can be done.
And more than likely it will be more than one night at that.
Christ, her bad shoulder is stiff today. Must be the cold.
To make matters worse now, she can't get a phone signal to call the Brigadier and see if he's having any better luck than she is. She knows the odds are that he isn't but it does no harm to check just the same.
Miss Adler waves to her from the window of the house and Joanne waves back, heading towards the milking parlour in search of a signal. She knows there was one in there yesterday, she remembers seeing a bar of service on her mobile, and hopefully today will prove as good with it.
She's hardly stepped in when a voice interrupts her.
"You were wounded." It is not a question, and Joanne finds herself searching the parlour for the speaker.
It is Holmes, sitting in a meal bin, smoking. She does not look at Joanne, does not seem to be looking at anything other than the dirt ground into her jeans. Or perhaps it's the violin in her lap that she's watching so intently.
"Shot, yes," Joanne replies, sitting in the neighbouring bin, watching Holmes from the side of her eye. It is a nice enough parlour, she supposes, surveying the set-up though milking parlours are not a particular area of expertise of hers.
The steel still shines like new, and Joanne supposes that that's because it is new, or almost. Adler - Irene - said it's only six months old, the floor dyed red to brighten the place and below, in the pit, black because Holmes felt like it. The hopes that must have gone into building something like this, dreams shattered now and she is complicit in it. She organised it, oversaw it, and how can Holmes even sit next to her knowing that?
"Shoulder, was it?" Holmes' voice is toneless, slightly hoarse from smoking, the parlour floor under her littered with ash and butts.
"Yes."
"The left."
"You're guessing."
A huff of breath, almost a laugh, and from the side of her eye Joanne sees the quirk of a lip. "I never guess."
The arrogance of the statement provokes a smile from Joanne. "Yes you do."
"Am I right?"
"Yes."
"Then there." She takes a long drag and sighs the smoke out. "Kosovo, I believe."
"Miss Adler told you that."
"Probably removed you from active service for it. They noticed the tremor in your hand and worried it would interfere with your aim. Gave you a desk job instead, nice and safe. This is your first time back in the field. Must be so nice." The cutting edge in her voice is the same as Irene's. Who influenced who, or were they independent of each other?
"With all due respect, ma'am," and it's a struggle to maintain the politeness but she must because this woman is aching though she won't show it, "it's not what I trained for. Your cows were not the enemy soldiers I was taught to fight."
Her words lie thick in the air, and just as Joanne fears she may have said too much, Holmes chuckles and turns to face her, extending a hand.
"Please, Captain. Call me Sherlock."
Joanne accepts it and in spite of herself smiles. "All right then, Sherlock. And please, call me Joanne." She's not certain what prompts her to say that last bit, but she's glad that she does when a glow of warmth briefly flickers in Holmes'-Sherlock's eyes.
"Might I suggest, Joanne, the phone service is generally better standing on the other side of the parlour." With that, Sherlock removes her cigarette, grinds it out on the steel side of the bin, takes the violin in hand and stands, for a moment, before stalking outside, her head high and back stiff.
Joanne takes her advice and crosses to the other side of the parlour. She places her call to the Brigadier, who confirms that nothing more can be done here at present, and soon hears the gentle sweep of violin music winding into the parlour. She steps outside and there is Sherlock, standing atop a bale of hay, her hair blown back, playing into the wind.
Well, Joanne thinks, she's some woman for one woman.
The house is quiet with Sherlock outside, and Irene can't bear listening to the radio anymore. She tidies the sitting room and checks on the photographs that she spent the night developing instead of sleeping. There is a photo of each cow and heifer and calf that they had on that last night. Not that they'd ever forget them, but she feels better having them. A memorial to all that they've lost.
There are several photos, too, of Sherlock as she's been over these last few days. One of her on the bales with her violin on the day that Madox's pyre was lit. One of her asleep against Valjean, taken when Irene woke first the morning after they slept in the shed. One of her last night, the muck pusher in hand, cleaning the empty cubicle shed for the last time for who knows how long.
Now, though, Irene is not needed in the dark room. Nor is she needed in the yard. Anything that can be done out there has been done. It was only the slurry in the cubicle sheds that could be cleaned, and Sherlock did that last night in a fit of restlessness. It is better, she said, to clean it before it sets. Otherwise they'll be in here with shovels and spades trying to get it out.
Sherlock's not the only one who's restless, Irene thinks, hoovering in behind a cupboard where it hasn't been hoovered in years. We must look some pair of fools now, any excuse to keep at something. Normal people would be -
The mobile in her pocket rings, cutting off her thoughts. She switches off the Hoover and fishes out the phone. Mrs. Hudson.
The woman is concerned. It's clear from the first breath she takes when Irene answers. "I'm sorry to disturb you, dear," she says, "but I couldn't get through to Sherlock and I thought you should know. I've just been down to the shop and the news is Jim Wilcox is going to lose his sheep. That nice Ministry vet, Lestrade, remember he used to practice around here? He was out there this morning. And I was just thinking, they probably won't," and here she pauses, choosing her words because Mrs. Hudson is nothing if not careful, "dispose of your and Sherlock's cows until they have his sheep as well."
And Irene, try as she may and knowing that there's probably a hundred reasons for how it could have happened, can't stop the thought from crossing her mind that Jim Wilcox brought in the foot and mouth the day he brought his sheep home from Longtown.
There's nothing happening, and all is still. Captain W- is having trouble gathering what she needs for the pyre, especially now that it's not just our cows but JW's sheep from across the river as well. S- is at a loss of what to do. She can't clean out the sheds until all of the carcasses are gone, or they'll make her start all over. Her experiments can't distract her, and the talk of foot and mouth is driving her mad. She's walked through the carcasses (and how it hurts to think of those cows we bred and reared and loved as carcasses awaiting the pyre) until she can't bear it anymore. She stands out on the hay bales in the yard and plays her violin until her fingers freeze up with the cold wind, then she comes in and holes up in her chair watching her uncle's videos of All Creatures Great and Small. It's her only escape now, and it's not much of an escape for either of us.