14 March 1931

Sunday came in much as Saturday had gone out; cold, wet and blustery.

"The North wind doth blow and we shall 'ave snow,' Mrs Hall opined over breakfast that morning before church. "You've only got to look up to the 'ills to know it's coming."

"Quite," Siegfried agreed, looking out of the kitchen window. Having survived the first few months of winter in Darrowby, he had been relieved when the weather had changed for the better and wasn't all that enamoured at the prospect at it turning for the worst again. If the snow did come, it only succeeded in making his rounds more difficult with so many remote farms to reach. The chiming of the clock drove the thoughts from his mind, however, as they both realised they were going to be late for the morning service if they didn't hurry.

The church was busy, as usual, the great and the good from the village turning out in their finery to offer thanks to the Lord for another week survived. He found that it could often provide very useful business opportunities as people would regularly approach him for advice which subsequently translated into work and therefore into money. If it wasn't the church, it was the Drovers Pub, though Siegfried knew which one he preferred. He tried to listen as best he could as Reverend Thwaite droned on in his relentless monotone, but instead he found his mind and his gaze wandering.

Religion, to many, was supposed to bring comfort. In the years since he had lost Evelyn, he had tried to remind himself of that fact, but even all these years later he still found himself questioning the validity of that belief. God certainly hadn't brought her back to him, no matter how hard he had begged him to in those initial terrible days, stranded in Europe trying desperately to get home. It had been a long time now, fourteen years, and yet sometimes it still felt as though it were yesterday.

He gave himself a mental shake and tried to refocus. As he did so, a flash of red in the corner caught his eye and, glancing across the aisle, saw Lily Bailey sat in a pew a few rows down next to her father. She was wearing a red coat, a small black hat atop her auburn ringlets and from the way she was shifting in her seat, he could tell she was as distracted as he was. As the minister announced the final hymn and the congregation stood to sing, he saw her hymn book slide out of her hand and land on the floor in the aisle with a thump. As she turned to retrieve it, she briefly caught his eye and he smiled at her, eliciting a small smile in return before she turned to face the front again.

When the service was over and people spilled back outside into the biting wind, Siegfried found himself drawn into conversation with Edna Briggs regarding the state of her cat's health. Apparently, Jonjo had been off his food now for quite some time and though he tried to offer some comfort and advice, explaining to her that nothing he said could really be considered an accurate diagnosis without actually seeing the cat himself, appeared to render her quite hostile.

"What do you think I am, made of money?" she scoffed.

"Well I…" before he could finish his sentence, she had turned and stormed away from him and as he turned back to try to locate Mrs Hall amongst the crowd, he found himself face to face with someone else entirely. "Oh," he said, "Miss Bailey."

"Good morning Mr Farnon," she greeted him in return. "Cold day, isn't it?"

"Just a touch," he replied, pulling his coat around himself. "How are you?"

"I'm well, thank you for asking."

"I would have retrieved your hymn book for you earlier, but you appeared to have the situation well under control."

"Best not to wait for a man to assist with something I can do meself," she replied with a short laugh.

"No, indeed…how are the horses? I was intending on coming to the farm tomorrow on my rounds to see if the treatment had made any difference."

"Oh…" she paused, "well of course you're most welcome, but you'd 'ave to ask me dad about the 'orses. I'm not too sure how they're faring to be honest."

"Yes, yes of course…" he paused again, finding himself quite taken by the lightness of her eyes. "My…uh…my housekeeper, Mrs Hall, was asking after you the other day. She said that she hadn't seen you for some time and was hoping that you were in good health."

Lily's face paled and took on a look that he would have described as mildly stricken, her eyes glancing around as though she expected Mrs Hall to suddenly pounce upon her. "Oh…well, that was very kind of her. I…uh…"

"Lily?" Tom Bailey's voice boomed out from across the street and, turning, Siegfried saw him watching them intensely.

"I should go," she said hurriedly.

"Well I'm sure Mrs Hall would…"

"Good day Mr Farnon." Before he could finish his sentence, she had turned and hurried across to meet her father, who shot him a look, the meaning of which he coudn't quite place, before ushering her away down the street.

"Were that Lily Bailey?" Mrs Hall's voice at his ear caused him to jump.

"Yes. I said you were asking after her."

"It's a strange one," she mused. "A very strange one."

"Yes," he agreed, watching as Lily's red coat disappeared around the corner. "Yes indeed."

15 March

By the following morning, Mrs Hall's predictions regarding the state of the weather were beginning to come to pass. Overnight, there had been a very light fall of snow, dusting the roads and fields like sugar and the morning sky was a hard, grey colour, the wind icy with the promise of more to come. Fortunately, for Siegfried, his list of calls for that day wasn't particularly lengthy, and he had afternoon surgery in the warmth of Skeldale House to make up for it. He elected to leave his visit to the Bailey farm until last and as the car made its way to the top of the hill, he caught sight of Tom working the tractor in the field beyond.

When he pulled to a halt in the yard, he caught sight of Lily at the window and raised his hand in greeting. She smiled in return and then disappeared from view and so he elected to check on the horses before attempting any further conversation with her. He was pleased to see that the ones affected by sweet itch had definitely improved, the infections almost entirely gone. A few more doses of the ointment would most likely complete the job and he couldn't help but feel the welcome sense of satisfaction at having solved a problem.

Lily was standing at the door when he arrived back in the yard, a coat draped around her shoulders. "You'd best come inside," she said. "Looks like it's going to start coming down in a minute." He followed her into the kitchen and unbuttoned his coat. "Let me put that over 'ere by the stove," she said, taking it from him. "You'll 'ave a cup of tea?"

"Yes, that's very kind, thank you."

"I'm afraid I've no scones today, but I've got a bit of soup on the go for lunch if you'd like some."

"Oh, no thank you. I'm sure a feast awaits me back at the surgery and I would hate to disappoint Mrs Hall."

"She's a good sort is Audrey," Lily said, lifting the tea pot over to the table. "She's always been very kind to me. Well, she's very kind to everyone. I suppose it's in 'er nature."

"She was sorry that she didn't get to speak to you at church yesterday," he said, pouring himself some tea.

"Yes, it were a shame," she said, busying herself over by the stove, "Dad wanted to get back up 'ere though. Always likes a roast on a Sunday, always at the same time. Stickler for routine is me dad." She turned back and sat down at the opposite side of the table. "This weather can't be much good for going out and about on your rounds."

"No, not really. You must be fairly cut off up here when it gets particularly bad."

"It 'as been known. Sometimes weeks can go by 'ere with just the two of us." She looked down at the table and ran her finger along one of the welts carved into the wood. "I suppose that leads to two people getting on each other's nerves as it were."

"Mrs Hall told me about your mother," Siegfried said. "I'm very sorry."

She looked up and met his gaze, almost looking surprised that he had brought it up. "It were a long time ago now."

"You were…thirteen?"

"Twelve. It 'it me dad 'ardest. Worshipped me mother he did," she smiled. "Folk used to say they were the 'appiest couple in Darrowby. Maybe too 'appy."

"Surely you can never be too happy."

"No?" She looked at him intently. "Are you 'appy, Mr Farnon?"

"Well…" the question caught him off-guard. Was he happy? He had a thriving practice in a nice place with nice people, enough money coming in to be comfortable and a younger brother who, though often the bane of his life, he loved dearly. To the outside world, he had every reason to be happy. And yet…there was no Evelyn. She was gone forever, never to return to him. He had been happy with her, blissfully happy, so unaware of what would come. Could he truly say that, without her, he was happy? "I consider myself very content," he settled on.

"Content…" she considered the word and nodded. "I suppose it's as good a word as any."

"What about you?" he asked.

"What about me?"

"Well, are you happy or content?" She didn't say anything for a long moment and her expression once again became slightly stricken in the way it had the previous day at church. Instantly, he felt he might have overstepped some invisible boundary. "My apologies," he said hurriedly. "It is none of my business as to whether you are indeed happy or not."

"No…I…I asked you the question, so I suppose it's only fair you ask it in return." She rose from her chair and moved once more over to the stove, stirring the pot that sat on top and he found himself inexplicably holding his breath waiting for her answer. "Yes," she turned back to face him, a smile fixed to her face that he would have questioned as less than completely genuine. "I'm very 'appy, Mr Farnon, thank you."

"Well," he said, taking another long drink of tea. "That's very…very good to hear."

XXXX

The snow came silently that night. The wind had stilled and the temperature dropped so low that the raindrops had turned to icicles on the widows. The sky had taken on an even darker quality before sunset and then the first flakes had fallen, lightly at first like the day before then heavier until the fields were softly carpeted in white.

Lily sat at her bedroom window watching, unable for some inexplicable reason to sleep. She had been tempted to dress and go outside, to stand in the yard or in the top field while the snow came down. It would have been cold, but she would have felt it, felt something. Instead, she had wrapped her dressing gown tighter around her body and stayed inside, convincing herself that it was warmer, safer. She couldn't help her mind going back to the conversation she had had with the local vet that morning in the kitchen. He was a nice man, Mr Farnon. Somewhat older than herself, more worldly wise than she could probably ever hope to be, but at no point had she felt as though she were speaking to someone who considered her inferior. Not like when she spoke to her father.

The direction of the conversation had surprised her, not least of all when he had asked her if she was happy. It was a question no-one had ever bothered to ask her before, at least not that she could remember. Perhaps it had been asked at some point in the olden days before her mother had died, but certainly never since. It would never cross her father's mind for her not to be happy, nor that he should consider enquiring about it.

Though she barely knew him and would most likely have little reason to speak with him again, she couldn't help feeling slightly guilty for having lied to Siegfried Farnon, but it had seemed the safest answer to give to such a dangerous question. Had she told him the truth, that she was so desperately unhappy, what would she have considered he should say or do in return?

As she pondered this, there came a sudden crash from downstairs and, getting to her feet, she hurried to the bedroom door, pulled it open and hastened down the stairs into the kitchen. She paused at the doorway, the familiar sense of anger and despair coursing through her at the sight of her father, face down at the table, a glass smashed at his feet. There was a pungent smell of whiskey in the air and as she moved towards him to sweep up the mess, it grew overpoweringly stronger.

He slept through her removing the debris and depositing it in the dustbin. When she looked at him, his face pressed against the tabletop, ruddy from the wind and the alcohol, soft pig like noises emanating from him, she felt an overwhelming urge to scream. This couldn't have been what her mother had meant on her deathbed when she had asked Lily to take care of her father. She couldn't possibly have meant this unending purgatory where, at the ripening age of almost twenty-seven, she was the spinster of the parish, destined to live out her days in a remote hilltop farm, keeping house for a man she barely liked or respected anymore and who had no insight or care into his own daughter's feelings. That couldn't have been what her mother had wanted for her, surely? To never know a love of her own? To never bear her own children?

Tom shifted in the chair and let out a long ripple of noise from his backside before resuming his drunken stupor. She knew that she should coax him up and into his bed, offer him water or even some coffee so that he wouldn't wake in the morning and be unable to attend to the farm, the farm that he wouldn't let her near for apparent fear of something happening to her, of being left completely on his own. And yet, she couldn't bring herself to help him, couldn't seem to muster the strength to overlook the life he forced her to lead.

Instead, she doused the lamp and climbed the stairs back to her bedroom.

28 March

"No, and I think it's bloody presumptuous of you to ask!"

"Oh, come on Siegfried, I'm only asking to bring a friend not for you to rent out your entire house for a soiree."

"Tristan…" Siegfried rubbed his hand over his eyes and tried to quell the visualisation of strangling his younger brother. "I haven't seen you since I came here."

"And no doubt five minutes in my company and you'll be wishing me gone again."

"That is not true…"

"I always seem to irritate you. Surely my bringing a friend with me should help alleviate some of that, for both of us."

Siegfried sighed heavily. He had been looking forward to Tristan coming to visit, especially as he had yet to see Darrowby, the surrounding area and, indeed, the surgery. He had hoped that they might be able to spend some quality time together, where he could have encouraged his brother in fulfilling his potential and going on to university, as he had claimed he wanted to do. "It's a terrible imposition on Mrs Hall."

"What is?" the lady in question asked as she passed by holding the afternoon tea tray.

"Oh, Tristan wants to bring a friend down for the holidays," he replied, putting his hand over the mouthpiece.

"Well let 'im. More the merrier as far as I'm concerned."

"Thank you, Mrs Hall," he sighed.

"I heard that," Tristan said. "She said it was all right."

"Yes, yes she did."

"Well…?"

"Oh, all right, bring your friend. But if you think for one minute that the two of you are going to be spending the entire week loitering around the local public house, you can think again. I'll see you in two weeks." He put the phone down before Tristan could say anything further and wandered through to the sitting room where Mrs Hall was pouring the tea. "That boy will be the death of all of us, least of all me."

"'e's young," she commented. "Can't be more than eighteen, can he?"

"Eighteen past," Siegfried sighed, sinking down into the armchair. "He'll be going to university after the summer, if he ever gets a move on and does some work, that is."

"You said 'e wanted to be a vet too."

"Yes, Lord knows why."

"I suppose 'e wants to emulate 'is big brother. Most boys do."

"Most of the time I feel more like his father than his brother," he said, accepting a cup from her. "I suppose the age difference doesn't really help. Twenty-one years is quite a gap."

"You must 'ave got quite a shock when you 'eard 'e was on the way."

"A shock? I'm surprised I didn't drop dead of a heart attack." He shook his head, thinking back to that day in 1913 when, just as he and Jane were considering whether it was prudent, as newly weds, to consider starting a family as the country stood on the brink of war, his mother had written to tell them that she was unexpectedly pregnant at the so-called wise old age of forty-two. "But I suppose, for all his many faults and mine…"

"Family's family," Mrs Hall said, sitting back in the chair and surveying him wisely.

"Indeed," he echoed. "Family's family."