Page 4 of Rachel’s Pudding Pantry

‘Oh, great, thanks Mum. I love that stuff.’ It was wonderful to see her mum with a little of her old spark back, slowly coming back round to the things she used to love.

‘I know. Got to keep the troops fed, and your energy levels up.’

‘Definitely. I’ll not argue with sticky toffee pudding. And, it’s great to see you baking again, Mum.’

‘And you’ve got your phone?’ Jill neatly bypassed the comment.

‘Yes, of course. And …’ Rachel went to the coat peg in the porch and checked everything else she needed was in her old Barbour waxed-jacket pocket: a pen-knife which had been her dad’s, string, her lambing cord which was sometimes necessary with a difficult birth. ‘Yep, got all my kit.’

‘Well, have a good night out there. Hope it stays nice and calm for you.’

‘Me too.’

Jill packed her off with her bundle of food, a large flask of tea and a tin mug in a well-worn rucksack.

‘Come on, Moss. You can come too.’ Rachel whistled at the sheepdog who was settled by the Aga, having snuck in with her earlier. He leapt up, eager to help.

Rachel walked across the yard, headed round the corner of the old stone barn and down a short track to the lambing shed. Dusk was moving in with its long shadows and cooler air. The light was fading softly from its grey-peach glow, diffusing into the indigo of night. She heard the peeping call of an oystercatcher, spotting a pair of them – a dart of bold black and white – overhead, with their distinctive long orange bills.

She soon reached the lambing shed – a large, steel-framed structure. It was more modern than the other buildings on the farm. The lights were bright in there and the smell as she entered was earthy, of straw and sheep.

‘Hey, Simon. All been okay?’

Their middle-aged farmhand looked up. He had dark hair that was greying at the temples and a rugged but friendly face, lined from years of working outdoors. ‘Aye, grand. Just keep an eye on number 98 over there. She’s got twins but one of her teats isn’t working, so she’s struggling to feed them both for now. You might have to supplement them a bit when you’re feeding the pet lambs.’

‘Okay, thanks for the heads up, and how’s Pete? That’s the pet lamb from Friday. Maisy’s named him.’

‘Aye, he’s grand. A little fighter, that one.’

‘Phew, that’s good, Maisy’ll be distraught if anything happens to him.’

Life and death were normal processes at the farm, but it was hard at times not to get attached to individual creatures, especially when they were cute little lambs and you were only going on five years old. In fact, it was still pretty hard at twenty-four, Rachel mused. Her dad used to say she was far too soft back when she was a little girl herself, and that she shouldn’t name the animals, but Rachel couldn’t help her caring nature. She’d try her utmost to keep her animals alive and well, even in the most forlorn of cases. Her dad had reminded her that sometimes you had to be cruel to be kind.

‘Aye, well, we’ll do our best by him,’ said Simon, bringing her back to the here and now.

‘Naturally.’

‘Everything else has been pretty steady. A few of the ewes and their lambs have gone back out into the fields from yesterday. They all seem fine.’

‘Right, well, I’ll let you get away.’

‘Thanks, lass. I must say I’m ready for some kip.’

‘Oh, hang on, Mum’s sent over a couple of cupcakes for you.’ Rachel dug a small package from her bag.

‘They’ll be grand with a cup of coffee when I get in. Thank Jill, won’t you?’

‘Will do and you’re welcome.’

Simon set off leaving Rachel alone with Moss and the sheep. She switched off the radio that Simon had left playing. In the daytime she liked the chat and the music, but at nightfall it was nice to appreciate the peace, interrupted now and again with the sounds of the baaing of the new lambs and the ewes.

Rachel toured the shed, making a check of the livestock. The ewes waiting to lamb were penned together in a large section and the majority seemed fine just now. There were mostly Cheviot Sheep on the farm – a hardy breed ideal for the hilly landscape. One Cheviot was showing signs of being close to giving birth. Also, one of the Texels – a larger, stocky breed of sheep that they only had a few of – was circling in a separate pen and seemed restless. Rachel would keep a close eye on those two.

The new mums and lambs in their individual pens seemed happy as Rachel made her way around the shed. She checked the teats of number 98 – there was still no milk coming on the one side. She’d make up the evening feed soon and help these two new lambs out, as well as bottle-feed the three smaller pet lambs – including the famous Pete – then she’d need to fill the teat trough for the four others that were bigger.

After doing the feeds and a further check of the sheep, Rachel settled down on a straw bale with a warming mug of tea from her flask. There was a sense of calm in the lambing shed, especially as night began to fall, when you were the only person there. Moss settled himself at her feet. She could mull over her day, think of her plans for the coming weeks, her sketchy ideas for the farm still prominent in her mind, or try to grab a few precious moments of stillness. It had been a lovely sunny day and the evening felt mild. Spring had definitely sprung in Northumberland, which was good news for the lambing – the ewes and lambs suffered in the wet and cold, especially if the bad weather was prolonged. Memories of a recent winter that had lasted far too long came bleakly to mind, and she gave an involuntary shiver. Sometimes, in Rachel’s heart, it felt as cold as ice looking back to that time. Spring, though uplifting, could also be a bittersweet time for Rachel.

She swiftly shifted her thoughts back to the here and now and pulled out a paperback from her pocket. She settled to read for a while, losing herself in a world of tearooms and tangled love affairs. It was a pleasant escape in a world of troubles.