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I laughed. “Pedigree names follow the female line. His mum was Oriana, and he’s from her third calving. But that’s a bit of a mouthful. So we don’t call him that.”
I paused, and Evan waited politely. “Around here everyone affectionately knows him as Watermelons.”
“Watermelons!” Evan guffawed, a pleasing sound—but he nearly slipped, losing his broom as he tried to hold onto his ribs. “Oh my God, what sort of pet name is that for a beast like him? I think you’ve named your dog and your bull the wrong way around!”
No I hadn’t. Despite the early-morning start, I grinned, mouth stretched wide. It got them every time, and in my experience, visitors only tended to take the piss once. “Let me borrow your broom for a sec. Hold onto the gate for support.”
Apologising silently to Watermelons for the disturbance, I gave him a firm prod on the fleshy tender bit below his rear flank. He harrumphed with disgust, but after a second poke, he lumbered to his feet, treating me to a filthy look. By way of apology, I’d sneak him a few apple slices later, his favourite treat. As he plodded out of reach to the far side of his stall, the twin reasons for his nickname became abundantly clear.
Once the penny dropped, Evan’s rather pretty mouth fell open. “Fuck me.”
It would be my pleasure. I smirked as he gazed in awe at the stupendous pair of testicles dangling between my bull’s legs. “See? Watermelons. He’s a popular boy amongst the ladies, as you can imagine.”
Evan’s hearty laugh lit up his face, and his eyes sparkled with delight. The sharp air brought a bloom of colour to his pale cheeks. Overnight, he’d sprouted an impressive growth of bristly dark stubble. How would he react if he knew how much I’d enjoy running my tongue across it?
“Good Lord. Watermelons! Now I feel all kinds of inadequate. Does Watermelons service all your cows? He looks capable of doing the whole herd. In a single afternoon.”
“Nah. It doesn’t work like that.” We left Watermelons sulking in the far end of his pit, and I opened up the cowshed. “The contents of those balls bring me in a very tidy income. His spunk travels the length and breadth of the country, but it rarely goes anywhere near my girls. High days and holidays only, I’m afraid. To prevent inbreeding.” I strolled over to the fridge, checking the thermostat. No milk or bacon was stored here, just neat, labelled rows of specially curated jizz. “For that, I’ve amassed the bovine equivalent of Tinder.”
I spent the next hour prepping my fertile girls, filling out paperwork, sterilising equipment, and, before I knew it, up to my elbow, delving around in one fertile cow's fou fou and then the other.
I found Evan a chair and an upturned bucket to prop up his ankle. Peppering me with intelligent questions, he observed with interest and slight repulsion, although he tried to conceal it. “What I don’t understand, Rob, is how the hell can you do that.” He gesticulated to where I knelt, with one arm swathed in latex rubber and painted in all kinds of bovine discharges. I was using the other to stroke number X254’s silky snout. “And yet nearly pass out pulling my dislocated shoulder?”
“That makes two of us.” I ripped off the latex glove and gently shooed M333 away. “Does my farm offend you, with you being a vegan and everything?”
He shrugged and hesitated before answering. Evan had a very deliberate, quite serious way of speaking, as if he only had a set quota of words and wasn’t going to waste them on frivolities. As a man of few words myself, it was refreshing. “Offend isn’t the right word. It’s too strong, but…maybe? A bit? I’m not an evangelist about it, though. Live and let live.”
I appreciated the honesty. Despite being alone with me in the nerve centre of my operation, he’d stuck by his principles. I liked that in a man.
“And you obviously adore your livestock, so…”
I hastily withdrew my hand from where I had been stroking X254’s snout for way longer than required to calm her down. His face had an amused expression.
“Steady on. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I adore them.” My nose grew a little longer. I fucking loved them. All of them. “This is a serious working farm. They’re not pets, you know.” Behind my back, I crossed my fingers, hoping X254 and M333 weren’t paying attention. “My livestock are exactly that—livestock. They don’t have names or anything.”
Why would I name them when I knew them all as individuals anyhow? X979 was an absolute tinker, and M334 had the dorkiest expression whenever I played peekaboo behind the storage tanks.
“It’s very obvious that you care for them, then,” he persisted. “I know bugger all about farming, but they seem happy and have lots of space, even in winter when they’re inside.” His green eyes twinkled. “And you and Watermelons obviously share a special bond.”
A flush of heat warmed my cheeks. Special? That was like saying One Direction fans quite admired Harry Styles. “Pfft, nah, he’s just needy, that’s all. An attention whore.”
That mischievous lip quirk again, a quick flash of good teeth. Making him smile did unfamiliar things to my insides. Which needed stamping out because Evan was straight, in all senses of the word. With a professional job, too, he no doubt took seriously, as you sort of hoped a surgeon would. With great power came great responsibility and all that. I appreciated his seriousness; he liked to chat but knew when to shut up.
He was a touch pedantic, too, if I was honest. Being medical, he’d asked insightful questions about my breeding programme and the fertility cycles. At rest, his face took on a thoughtful expression; he sometimes chewed the inside of his cheek before he spoke. I had the impression a lot was going on behind those green eyes, stuff he didn’t share easily. Not entirely happy, perhaps, but I’d only met him in the aftermath of a car accident that must have shaken him to his core. He was lucky to escape with the injuries he had. For all I knew, on a normal day, he was the life and soul of a party.
Though he tried to hide it, the short walk back pained him. I offered him some more codeine on our return to the cottage. He gratefully accepted; then him and Zeus settled onto the sofa once more. Delivering a mug of black tea and a couple of ginger biscuits (vegan-friendly apparently), I pretended a proper farm dog like Zeus wasn’t allowed on the sofa and fussed him off, knowing full well he’d be back on again as soon as my back was turned.
Leaving them to it, I finished off my paperwork at the kitchen table. Evan spent a frustrating amount of time on the phone to the car insurance company and again to the RAC, who left him on hold for ten minutes.
“Rob?” he shouted through into the kitchen. “Because of the weather, the RAC are still prioritising people stuck on the side of the motorway, lone women and kids, and vulnerable adults. Apparently, it’s snowing again quite heavily just north of here. The woman on the phone wants to know if I’m in a place of safety.”
My less-than-pure thoughts about him weren’t harming anyone, so I laughed. “Yeah, unless I let Watermelons out.”
More conversation ensued. I shambled through into the living room. “They won’t be able to retrieve the car until tomorrow now.” He threw me a regretful smile; that weird prickling in my insides returned. Despite his words, he didn’t seem half as miserable about it as he should. “I’m so sorry about this. I’ll try Jay again, see if he can come and collect me.”
I’d offer to take him up to Rossingley in the tractor, overnight bag, sling, and all, if he needed. Though I didn’t especially want to. I was quite enjoying his quiet company, particularly on a day like today when most people were snuggled up with families, scoffing cold turkey and hoovering up the least popular chocolates in the Milk Tray box. I hardly ever felt so lonely as I did at Christmas.
“Is this your first Christmas by yourself?” I asked, then immediately wished I hadn’t because his smile faded.
