Page 14 of Hot Ghost Summer

Earlier this year, I’d discovered that pool noodles can cushion the blow of a goat’s horns and took it upon myself to tape the foam lengths to each buck’s head. When Simon had finished spinning in chaotic circles trying to dislodge his, and Alvin had chewed his off, Theodore made a very firm and lasting decision about me: hate. Pure and unadulterated hate.

His head dips, and those wide-spaced golden eyes track my progress across his paddock.

“Not today, eh, Theodore?” I call.

As if he understands, but frankly doesn’t give a damn, he drops from the highest tractor tyre of the mound down onto a lower level.

“Really, it’s not a good day. I’m just here t’ see Brigid.”

When Theodore steps off his throne altogether, I eye the distance to the reinforced metal gate that bars them from entering the yard. Thirty metres, maybe. Seventy between me and Theodore. The devil goat is quick when he wants to be.

“Theo, hi!” Jayne’s voice calls out from somewhere behind me.

Whirling, I locate Jayne, the farm’s custodian, over by the small pond we made by redirecting the brook to give the geese and ducks a natural environment, but it’s a mistake. For the second time today, the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

When I turn back, the enraged pygmy goat already has a head of steam.

“Whoa, shit!” I break into a run as Jayne laughs out loud—she loves the little beasts, perhaps too much.

Gripping the top of the metal gate with both hands, I vault over. A couple of seconds later, Theodore’s solid head rams into it, adding yet another dent. Safe, but breathing hard, I dust myself off and head across the cobblestone yard to the dairy, where I know Brigid will be sheltering from the sun.

The barn door is wide open, and the comforting smell of hay and heifer helps soothe me, but I pause on the threshold. Mr Pickett’s warning about radiation rattles through my skull. He’d said not to go near people until after I’ve showered, and I don’t want to contaminate Brigid with whatever it was that did… whatever that was to Hollis. The thought makes my stomach curdle.

Backtracking, I use the side entrance. The Old Dairy has three distinct areas: the main barn, where Brigid overnights; a private kitchen; and the reception, which includes an office space, a visitor’s information centre, and a small shop. Luckily, there’s no one here.

I grab a medium-sized T-shirt from the rail, but there’s not much to be done about the choice of what’s printed on it as the shop only sells limited merch. I’ll pay Jayne later.

Back outside, I strip off my cap and sweat-soaked vest, unfasten my ExorSquad coveralls and sneakers, and stash everything in the work bag that I stow under the trailer loaded with hay and feed. I slip my thumbs under the waistband of my shorts, then hesitate. Maybe the protection from the uniform was enough?

Leaving my shorts on, I tiptoe toward the barn door where the outdoor hose hangs on a rack. I open the tap, and brace against the shock of the ice-cold water to my system. Every muscle tenses, but I persevere and drench every inch—including my hair—with water.

Jayne keeps all kinds of soaps out here, from yard cleaner to hand sanitiser, and I find a bottle of standard washing detergent easily enough. The bright green liquid soap declares that it “kills 99% of household bacteria.” I wonder if these companies should also let their consumers know whether it’s good for washing away radioactive particles. You know, should the need arise.

Squirting a good handful into my waiting palm, I wash everywhere until I’m covered from head to toe in a good lather. Then I take back the hose, scrunch my eyes shut, and douse myself once again in ice-cold water.

Only when my brain hurts from the harsh temperature do I shut it off and stride out of the shade and into the full sun. Shivering and coated in goosebumps, I wring out my shorts and shake myself off the best I can. Like a dog.

Barefoot, I step gingerly between chunks of dried mud and around soapy swirls of water until I make it to the trailer of hay where I hung my new T-shirt. Pulling it over wet skin is a challenge, but once it’s in place, I smile. I hadn’t paid attention when I purloined it, but the front displays Brigid’s face—in all her derpy glory—and printed underneath is the question, “Have You Seen This Cow?”

I don’t need to look to know the back is an advert for Bowen’s Park Farm Animal Rescue Centre. It was a competition-winning design from another fundraiser to poke fun at how Brigid, the farm’s only dairy cow, regularly manages to escape and can often be found wandering up the high street.

Finger-combing my sopping wet hair back from my face, I finally head inside and over to Brigid’s stall.

“Hey you,” I casually toss out. “Keeping cool in this heat?”

Brigid shuffles on her bed of hay, gives a contented snort by way of answer, and continues chewing. She’s been housed in the coolest corner of the barn all week, with all the doors kept open to promote airflow, because of the hot weather. To my freshly chilled body, it’s welcoming and warm, but when I drag her pen gate open I worry that it might still be too humid for her.

“I’ll be right back,” I inform her.

Pivoting on bare feet, I pad to the neighbouring stall and grab the bucket of water that’s kept there to stop her flooding her pen with it. Not bothering to wring the sponge, I pull it from the tepid water and press it to her flank, letting the water soak through to her skin.

Her low and contented moo means I was right; she was a little warm.

I smile when she flaps her ears and cranes her neck to face me. “That nice?”

Starting behind her ears, I methodically set to doing one of my favourite things—giving Brigid a sponge bath.

When I moved here from Cumbria, I’d thought I was done with the countryside and farms and livestock. It’d been all I’d ever known, and I was more than ready for the change—or so I’d thought.