Page 53 of Not Just for Christmas

‘Me too.’ His throat felt thick, thinking of her being here, unhappy, sacrificing her own life in order to give Sam the chance of being a farmer.

‘I’d never say anything,’ Pete lowered his voice, ‘I’d get my head bitten off, but I’d love her to meet a nice bloke who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.’

He looked at Dylan and laughed. ‘Talking of which … shall we crack on?’

‘Sure, how can I help?’

‘It’s this blooming Massey Ferguson,’ said Pete, kicking the front tyre of the tractor. ‘I’ve tried everything to get it running properly.’

Dylan had learned to drive at seventeen, bought his first Mustang at twenty-one, but did he know what the hell was going on under the hood of any vehicle? Not a clue.

‘Engines are not my strong point.’ He scratched his chin. ‘I should have stayed in the kitchen.’

‘Don’t worry, lad.’ Pete laughed. ‘I only need you to start her up when I give you the word. Or try to, anyway.’

‘Gotcha.’ Dylan climbed up and sat on the unforgiving metal seat.

‘Right, if I tighten this and then stick that on there …’ Pete grunted to himself from under the hood. ‘OK. When you’re ready, turn the key in the ignition.’

Dylan did as instructed. ‘Nothing’s happening.’

‘Bugger.’ Pete made a few bashing sounds. ‘Try again.’

This time the engine made a sound like a dog with bronchitis for a few seconds before conking out.

‘Thought as much,’ said Pete, extracting himself from under the hood. ‘You can get down now.’

Dylan jumped to the ground. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Bloody thing’s knackered.’ Pete dropped his tools into the toolbox and shut the lid. ‘I’ll get the mechanic out to it, but I don’t hold out much hope.’

‘But you have other tractors, right?’ Dylan could see at least two parked out in the yard.

Pete switched off the radio. ‘How many keyboards have you got?’

Dylan shrugged. ‘Five, six maybe. But they all do different stuff. And also, they’re in different places.’

‘Same as tractors on a farm,’ said Pete, draining the last of his coffee. ‘Little workhorse this one, can’t manage without it.’

‘I know the feeling.’ Dylan flexed his fingers. ‘I can’t manage long without a piano, my fingers get restless.’

‘You might be interested in this then.’ Pete gestured for Dylan to follow him to the corner of the barn where a large tarpaulin was covering something. ‘Grab the other side of the tarp.’

Dylan lifted the edge, caught sight of a scuffed wooden leg and whistled. ‘No way.’

‘The old Joanna.’ Pete huffed, as together they tugged back the heavy green fabric to reveal a grand piano.

‘You are kidding me.’ Dylan let out a laugh of surprise. ‘A Steinway and you’re keeping it in a barn?’

He lifted the lid and ran his fingers over the yellowed keys. It was badly out of tune. No surprises there.

Pete clapped his hands over his ears. ‘Christ on a bike, lad! I thought you were supposed to be good.’

Dylan laughed, walked round the piano and lifted the top lid and with it, his heart. It was looking a bit worse for wear, but it was a beautiful instrument.

‘Oh now this is the sort of hood I’m used to looking under.’ He looked up at Pete, who was dragging a dilapidated piano stool towards him. The velvet seat had been nibbled away, and tufts of wadding were sticking out of the cushion.

‘It’s still got four legs, which is a miracle.’ Pete sat on it gingerly to test it. It wobbled but didn’t collapse. ‘Sturdy enough. It belonged to Jack’s grandad.’