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We rabbited on until well past my bedtime. I usually kept country hours, what with getting up so early, but the evening flew by without me noticing. Before I knew it, we were welcoming in the distant midnight chimes of Rossingley Church bells, which, trust me, I’d regret having stayed up to hear in a few hours’ time.
I showed him to the guest bedroom, a marginally comfier arrangement than the sofa. Getting upstairs had taken a while. He’d leaned on me as we made steady progress. A little tipsy myself, I decided that we fit together very nicely.
“You’re strong, Rob. You look fit, too. Do you play sport?”
“A bit of cricket. But it’s down to the manual job. I’m on my feet all day. Talking of which, I need to go back and check on the girls, so feel free to use the bathroom first.” After showing him how to switch on the night storage heater, I turned to go.
“Night. And thank you. Not only for putting up with a total stranger invading your house, but for listening, too. I feel better.” He gave me a slight wave of his sling. “Despite all this lot. And I’ll cook your breakfast in the morning, ready for when you finish milking.”
How domestic. How wonderfully, ordinarily normal. I imagined him yawning and shuffling into the kitchen, boiling the kettle, and putting my bacon on to fry. Letting the dog out for a piss. Sleep-rumpled, wearing sensible pyjamas, a dressing gown maybe, and in need of a shave. Warm and welcoming. I imagined how I’d feel if he were mine; how every morning I’d sneak from our toasty bed, reluctantly creeping out of his sleepy embrace. How precious that would be.
Perhaps he was a snuggler; searching for me, he’d move across into the patch I’d lain in, never opening his eyes. I’d press my lips to his cheek, then go outside to start the milking. Cheerfully, because I’d know he was lying there. I’d know someone was at home waiting for me. Sparks of happiness, quietly lapping at my insides all evening, spiralled into tiny flames of hope.
Before he left tomorrow, I’d take Evan’s number and suggest we met up for a casual drink sometime. And maybe, just maybe, I’d pluck up the courage to confide my own secret. That we had more in common than we thought. And see where that took us.
“Thank you,” I answered. “I’d like that. Sleep well.”
A hastily scrawled letter awaited me on the kitchen table after the morning milking. The scent of fried bacon hung heavy in the air; four crispy rashers covered in foil sat warming under the hot plate. Needless to say, it did not have its usual uplifting effect on my mood.
Dear Rob,
The RAC man arrived at six. How early was that? I think he was disappointed I wasn’t you—apparently, he’s visited the farm before. He offered to give me a lift into Allenmouth after towing the car to the garage, and because he was so busy, he wasn’t keen to hang around. I’m so, so sorry to leave without saying goodbye and not thanking you in person for your hospitality, but if I don’t go with him, the way the weather is looking, you might still have me here next Christmas!
I was incredibly lucky it was you that found me. Wishing you all the best, and thanks again. Evan.
PS One of the rashers is for Zeus ?
CHAPTER 5
3 MONTHS LATER
Us dairy farmers found plenty to moan and bicker about the whole year round, but we all agreed Spring farming was the best farming. Friskier calves, lush pastures, contented cows, and a bigger milk yield. With temperatures climbing into double figures, Watermelons resumed daily court in his favourite shady spot under an old oak at the edge of my patch of land. Deciding it was a good time to try a healthier lifestyle, I forced a few tomato plants in cold frames around the back door. I even contemplated buying chickens, since the fox had eaten my last lot.
All was good in my world. Or so I told myself.
Although my thoughts lingered upon it almost daily, it was as if my magical interlude with Evan never happened. Occupied with mindless chores, I masochistically walked myself through even the tiniest details, then extrapolated and meandered down the path of what could have been, if I’d had the balls to tell him I was gay, too, instead of missing my chance.
I wondered if he ever thought of me. His injuries would have healed, the BMW would have been replaced with a shiny new model, and his divorce would have finalised. He’d be back at the coal face, absorbed in his vital work, saving lives. Maybe by now he’d explored his sexuality more fully.
About a week after he left, a case of red wine, of better quality than the usual plonk I drank, arrived, addressed to Rob, c/o the Dairy Farm, Rossingley. The thank you note was generic, a few bland words, printed by the wine company. To Rob, A small token of my appreciation. Many thanks and best wishes, Evan. I kept it, and his longer, hand-scrawled letter.
A couple of overnight trips to Bristol assuaged my immediate physical needs; but they did nothing for my growing ache of loneliness. However, that particular pain I had to temporarily shelve, because another, more immediate ache had begun to bother me. A dull sensation, low in my belly and worse at the end of the day. In February, I’d suffered a nasty cough—it had been doing the rounds. The pain appeared shortly afterwards and hadn't really left. Sometimes, a colicky sensation plagued me as I lay in bed. Avoiding heavy lifting (tricky with my job) made it better.
Not one to disturb the doctor, I mostly ignored it, hoping it would go away, until my sister overheard me swearing after picking up one of her kids. “Sounds like a hernia,” she announced confidently. “A bloke at work had one. Have you got a lump?”
Yes, although not all the time. It appeared, then disappeared, only to reappear again, just above the crease of my groin and tracking down to my balls, roughly the size of a medium potato. Flat on my back in bed at night, I could push it in and make it vanish, only for it to pop out again when I stood upright. Poking it was fascinating and repulsive in equal measure. Like pulling a dislocated shoulder but more flubbery and, thank God, without the vomit-inducing clunk.
Dr Google confirmed Lucy’s diagnosis, as did my local GP, a reasonably sympathetic woman who warned me the wait to see a specialist might be up to six months. Probably acceptable for a retired gentleman with plans no more ambitious than to spend the summer pottering around his garden. But I had three hundred girls depending on me and an ancient poodle requiring a fireman’s lift upstairs to bed. Not to mention a needy bull who would absolutely pine if I could no longer vault the gate and tickle his ears twice a day.
“You could always pay to see someone privately,” my sister observed mildly. “Get the operation done sooner. And don’t tell me you can’t afford it because I won’t believe you. It’s much easier to find people happy to help with the farm now than in the middle of winter.”
Persuading a farmer to part from his money was akin to persuading Watermelons to get up off his fat arse in the mornings. And the fees payable to Mr Christopher E. Richardson (B Med Sci BM BS MRCS) were bloody astronomical. Or maybe that was just me in a last-ditch attempt to avoid engaging.
“I’m not handing over all of that!” I spluttered. “Jesus! What’s he planning on doing? For that much money, I expect him to set up the surgery in my own living room!”
“It doesn’t all go to him, silly. Some goes to the hospital, and some to the other staff, like nurses and physios and people. Look, it’s all broken down here, if you bothered to read it properly.”
We both knew why I hadn’t bothered, why I was coming up with every stalling tactic in the book: because I was fucking petrified. Lucy knew all about my childhood guinea pig saga. She’d been there when one of her kids puked down my shirt last summer. I'd turned the colour of fresh spinach, my own vomit swiftly joining it.
