Page 28 of Not Just for Christmas

As we passed by the main shed, some of the braver cows poked their soft noses over the fence in our direction, snorting and blowing at us. Beside me, Nick muttered something under his breath.

‘Not scared of cows, are you?’ I teased.

‘A bit,’ he admitted, pulling a face. ‘They’re huge close up.’

I laughed, pleased that he’d been honest, and waved him into the calf shed. ‘I used to be the same. Don’t worry, you don’t have to feed any of those.’

All our calves were housed in one shed, in groups of three or four, each group in separate pens. The younger ones were shy, springing out of reach as we approached. The older ones were more savvy, knowing that my presence invariably went hand in hand with dinnertime. I scooped some feed into the trough for the older ones, while Nick bent over the fence to have a closer look at the three youngest calves.

They skittered away, but eventually one became curious and approached him gingerly, curling its long soft tongue over his fingers.

‘I’m officially in love,’ he said, retracting his hand and stroking the calf’s nose. ‘You are gorgeous.’

While I made up the bottles of milk to feed the little ones, Nick asked me practical questions, about yield, and costs and the amount of land I had.

‘The farm is lovely, and on a sunny day, idyllic,’ I said. ‘I’ve got one member of staff, Pete, but whereas he goes home at night, and gets days off and holidays, I’m here twenty-four seven and I don’t know how long I can keep doing everything. I don’t want Sam growing up with a mummy who’s always tired or stressed. But I don’t want to give the farm up, either.’

‘You wouldn’t have to.’ He straightened up and wiped calf slobber on his jeans. ‘There are loads of ways to keep it while stepping back. Lease the land out to someone else and keep the parts you want. Or lease out the whole farm and live anywhere you like. Or diversify – coastal farms do brilliantly with tourism.’

A spark of something like excitement flickered inside me. I imagined what it would be like to live somewhere else; I could even go to Australia for a couple of years. But what about the farm’s heritage, the generations of Oakleys who’d farmed here before us?

One of the calves shoved its head through the bars and tugged on a button on the sleeve of my coat. I stroked its nose absently, remembering the hours Jack and I had spent rearing these babies over the years. I felt a pang of disloyalty to Jack. Could I really take his son away from the farm? No, of course not.

‘I just don’t want to let Jack down,’ I said, as much to myself as to Nick. ‘Or upset his mother.’

‘Understood,’ he said. ‘But owning the farm shouldn’t mean sacrificing your life to it. You’re allowed to want something sustainable for you and Sam. That’s not letting anyone down. You’re reshaping the farm to fit the life you have now.’

I let the calves’ soft snuffling fill the moment while I processed this warm thread of reassurance. And I realised how long it had been since I’d felt that. ‘Sorry, you don’t need to listen to my problems, but thank you. It helps hearing someone say that.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he said. ‘As I said, I’m a lot better at property than I am at farming.’

‘Let’s test that theory, shall we?’ I said with a grin.

I pushed open the pen to let us both in and showed Nick how to hold the bottles upside down and allow the calves to suck on the teats.

‘Crikey,’ he muttered as his calf barrelled into him and almost tugged the bottle from his hand. ‘Small but mighty, this one.’

I smiled to myself, secretly impressed with Nick’s willingness to help. The bottles were emptied within seconds; I collected Nick’s from him and let us out of the pen.

We stepped back outside, and both of us tucked our chins deeper into our scarves against the cold air. The farmhouse glowed ahead of us, light spilling softly from the kitchen window.

‘So what’s next?’ he asked as we crunched back across the cobbled yard.

I suspected he meant with the farm, but I wasn’t ready to think that far ahead. Not yet. I wanted to park all these thoughts until after Christmas, make plans for the future in the New Year, once Dylan had gone. The thought of Dylan pulled me up short. He held a very romantic view of life on the farm and might not approve of me wanting to make changes. Not that it was up to him what I did with the farm, but even so, I’d rather avoid any awkward conversations over Christmas.

‘Next, I think you’ve earned a sausage roll,’ I said.

Nick brightened. ‘That’s the best news I’ve had all day.’

I pushed open the farmhouse door and stood aside to let him in, relishing the rush of cosy warmth. Gus leapt up to greet us along with the buttery smell of pastry.

‘Gosh,’ said Nick, taking it all in. ‘What a welcoming sight.’

I eased off my wellies, and looked at my kitchen with fresh eyes. It was lovely, and whatever I decided was going to be a huge change. For now, I was keeping my decisions small.

‘Can I get you a cup of tea,’ I asked. ‘Or coffee?’

Over hot cups of tea and a sausage roll, Nick and I chatted easily about our children (his ten-year-old daughter Millie was clearly the apple of his eye), our families, and our shared love of property TV shows, although he made me promise not to tell anyone he was a closet Selling Sunset fan. He was a nice guy, very easy to talk to, and I’d surprised myself with how much I was enjoying his company.