Chapter 7

Rowan had suspected that her sisters would repeat their "hanging about the yard performance" from Roger's previous visit. She needn't have worried. Nicola and Peter scurried off to get out of "go to church clothes" as soon as possible. Mum firmly sent Lawrie to lay the table. Ginty was sent to pick mint and make the mint sauce.

"At least I can trust you to recognise mint." Mum had said to Ginty. The last joint of lamb they had had tasted rather peculiar with the sage sauce Lawrie had made. Mrs Bertie's feelings had been somewhat hurt.

"But didn't you notice it smelt different?" Mum had said. Lawrie had shaken her head.

So Rowan had the yard more or less to herself, give or take the odd hen, when Roger arrived.

"You look very nice in that frock." he said, by way of greeting and kissed her. Rowan was pleased that she had worn her Doris-made new summer cotton. She felt suddenly and foolishly breathless and was sure she had turned a less-than-composed shade of pink. If she had, Roger appeared not to notice.

"Mrs Bertie's killed the fatted calf." Rowan told Roger cheerfully as he dismounted from his motorcycle. "Not entirely for you, I must confess. Ann's off to start her nursing course tomorrow."

"I'd forgotten about them starting at funny times." Roger said.

Chatting they wandered over to say hello to Prisca and the other horses. Rowan wondered if Roger was feeling the same slight air of unreality that she was feeling.

Rowan interrupted herself to ask "Roger, have you ever ridden?"

"No. Mother was very keen on it before she met Dad, and Bridget was having riding lessons before the war. We all sailed instead. Except I suppose Bridget had both, really."

"Prisca wouldn't mind if you wanted to try it – after lunch."

"Why not?"

"At least you know to mount from the left." Rowan said, when Roger was perched, feeling slightly more uncertain than he would care to admit, especially to Rowan, in Prisca's saddle.

"Same as for a bike." he said.

"Motor bikes don't get confused if the rider doesn't do what they expect." Rowan said. "Those stirrups could do with lengthening. No, don't dismount; you can do it yourself from where you are. The thing is to do it mostly by feel."

"How do I hold the reins?" Roger asked when he had fumbled around with buckles and straps until his legs were positioned satisfactorily even to Rowan's critical eyes.

"Like this." Rowan said showing him. "Or like this. I'll be leading her though, so you're only holding them because she's used to them being held. The thing is to keep your hands down low – yes, that's about right. If you really must grab hold of something, make it the front of the saddle. You've already got your elbows in – that's right. Heels down a bit though."

Prisca walked forward.

"Whoa." said Rowan quietly.

"What did I do to cause that?" Roger asked, "Or did she just get tired of waiting?"

"You moved your legs back slightly. Some horses might get impatient, but Prisca's very well mannered. Ready?"

"Yes. Sorry about that, Prisca."

Prisca twitched her ears back slightly at Roger's voice and then pricked the forwards again.

"Walk on." Rowan said, and Prisca did.

The whole afternoon, when Rowan thought of it afterwards, seemed curiously like a daydream, but it was all real enough. They wandered through hedge-parsley lined tracks, along the meadowsweet-scented edges of the harvested hay fields, tracked for a hundred yard or so by a curious pied wagtail. The hay-scent hung in the air with the smell of warm leather and hot horse. Rowan's dreams never had scents, or textures with them

"Not that I can really identify birds properly. But Dick's so keen on it that some of it has rubbed off. And the way it's wagging its tail is a bit of a giveaway." Roger said. "I suppose I'll have to brush up on birds a bit – I can't have my nephews outdoing me quite as young as they are!"

Prisca was happy enough to amble along at a walk on this hot afternoon. She was happy enough to graze for a little in the lush vegetation the edge of the shade from one of the oaks embedded in the hedge. It was hot enough for sitting in the shade to seem like a good idea. They chatted a little, their remarks gradually becoming more widely spaced, until they petered out into a silence that was not awkward, but contained too much tension to be peaceful.

"Penny for them." said Rowan, and could immediately have kicked herself for coming out with such a commonplace question.

It turned out not to be the wrong thing to say after all. Roger looked up from the rye-grass stalk he had been fiddling with and straight into her eyes.

"I was wondering if you would mind if I kissed you."

"I think," she felt ridiculously nervous, "I'd think that very much."

She did.

It was only Prisca whickering a greeting to Catkin that alerted them to Ginty's approach in time to appear dignified and unconcerned when Catkin trotted briskly into the meadow. Rowan felt intensely relieved that Ginty always preferred to ride alone.

Lawrie greeted them in the yard on their return with the news that Something Awful had happened to the milking machines and that Peter was trying to Sort It Out.

"I'll see to Prisca." Lawrie said, very definitely, and led her over to her loose box.

"I'd better go and help Peter, I'm afraid." said Rowan. "He's very good with that sort of thing usually, but I still should see what's up."

"I'll give you a hand." said Roger cheerfully.

The entire herd, 43 dairy shorthorns, were in place, shifting their weight from one leg to another and watching carefully as Ted Colthard went down the two lines filling mangers. No milking was occurring. Only the lower half of Peter was visible, standing on a rickety old chair, perhaps from the old Shippen.

"Mice" Peter announced, "have nibbled the wire."

"Could they do that without frying themselves?" Rowan asked.

"One did." Peter flicked the unfortunate rodent from some unseen ledge onto the dairy floor.

"So it did." Rowan said. "Can you fix it? Or shall we start milking by hand?"

"We'll have to do without the extension lead." Peter said. "But I should have it fixed in another 10 minutes or so. Could someone pass me the smaller pliers?"

Roger passed up the smallest pair he could find in the open toolbox.

"Thanks." said Peter, followed by "Damn!" as a larger pair of pliers fell from some unseen ledge, to be fielded by Roger before they crashed into the open toolbox. Peter stooped to catch them, shifted his weight on the chair to do so and seemingly overbalanced, crashing into his sister who barely managed to keep her own feet, and staggered into Roger whilst Peter sat down rather heavily on the tiled floor.

There was a moment's silence. Peter picked up the severed chair leg, light with rot or worm.

"By God, I've lost its leg." he said.

"By God, sir, so you have." Roger replied.

And Rowan could not have said whether her absurd happiness was due Roger's arm, still around her waist, or to his ready reply to her brother's quotation.