The farmer was new, one of those nesh blow-ins from down South, and the sheep had been a bugger to shift. Tony had pulled into the yard at ten to eight, the crack of puddle-ice under the trailer’s wheels and yapping collies cutting over the concerto on the cab radio. Stella liked classical music—it was one of the things she’d mentioned in her online dating profile—so he was trying to like it too. Radio Three was easier to put up with at this time of year. There were a lot of carols.
Anyhow, he’d been there early, but because of the bloke’s sheer capacity to faff, he’d not got away before ten. It wasn’t Tony’s job to help with the herding, but there was only so long he could sit in the cab and watch stray sheep in the wing mirror. It was like trying to catch dandelion seeds in a gale. According to the paperwork, he’d been due to pick up eighty-five ewes, but in the end only seventy-three made it into the trailer. Tony could hear them now, bleating in the back, their hooves tapping on the ridged steel floor.
The young farmer wasn’t bothered. ‘They’ll turn up,’ he’d said. He wore a green wax jacket with the hanger folds still in it, and his wellies looked expensive and had no mud on them. ‘Last dash for freedom and all that. The great escape. You have to admire it, really.’
‘Aye,’ Tony said. There was little to admire about worn-out ewes that’d fetch nothing at abattoir, but he suspected this was the kind of farmer that gave them all names. ‘Well. Tha’ll need to sign here, else the blame’s on me.’
❦
The high Pennine road unspooled ahead of him, snow-flecked hills opening each side like the pages of Stella’s paperbacks on the nightstand. It was strange to see someone else’s choices in his house again, objects from someone else’s life nestling beside his own. Stella had arrived to the treacle smell of sun-melted tarmac, kids down the terrace screaming for Mr Whippy. A whole new chapter, she’d said, and kissed him right there in the street. The removals men had whistled. Over her shoulder, he’d seen his daughter, Connie, mime sticking two fingers down her throat.
The sky was newsprint grey, heavy sheets of sleet barrelling across the road. Only one wiper was working, making a lonely shriek across the windscreen, and moss furred the seal of the windows. All this for seventy-three sheep. It was barely worth the petrol. Tony cleared the brow of the hill. He passed the ruins of a cottage, the ribcage of its roof cracked open to the sky. In the old days, he’d be doing the rounds of a dozen farms, but there was no money in mutton anymore. Stella had been on at him to give it up, saying he wasn’t getting any younger. Saying he’d worked hard and now he could let go. Saying her job could support them both. Let go? he’d said. The valley was a glittering smudge below him, the river inflamed with meltwater. Snapped branches eddied in the angry black rush. That was what happened when you let go.
His phone buzzed. He didn’t have one of those fancy systems and knew he shouldn’t answer, but he was the only one on the road. He turned up the volume on Radio Three.
‘’Ow do.’
Stella’s voice was scratchy through the phone speaker. ‘Tony?’ A pause. ‘Is that Vivaldi?’
‘Aye,’ he said, hoping she wasn’t calling his bluff.
‘Hm.’ She had this way of smiling when she was impressed but trying not to show it. Job done, he hit the off button. ‘Are you driving?’ she continued.
‘No, love, just pulled over there.’ He eased the truck into fourth. ‘All okay?’
‘I’m at the butchers. Do you fancy lamb or mince for tea?’
‘Whatever you think, duck.’
‘Alright. Oh, and they want to know if we’ll still be picking up the turkey on Saturday. The four-pounder? The man said he can swap me down a size if not, but he needs to know today. Did you ask Connie if she’s coming, yet?’
He gripped the steering wheel, the worn leather sticky under his fingers. ‘Not yet. Think she might’ve changed her number. She ent replied for a while.’
‘But you will try? Time’s ticking. Our first Christmas together, Tone, I want to make it special.’
‘I know. I will.’
‘I just think, if we can be a family, she might begin to accept … you know I’m not trying to replace her mum, don’t you?’
‘Course I do, Stel. Don’t be daft.’ He knew there was more he should say. Things like: she was only eight when and me and her against the world and if you had kids, you’d understand. The words were thick on his tongue, like butter on bread, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.
‘So you will ask her?’ Stella said again.
‘I said, I will. Tomorro’ mebbe.’
She sighed. ‘I guess I’ll see you later then. Drive safe.’
‘Ta’ra, love.’
The cab heater huffed, its breath fogging the glass. A pine-scented cardboard tree jiggled on the rear-view mirror. Through the radio, a boy’s high voice. Snow on snow. Snow on snow. His nose prickled. Connie’s favourite. He remembered collecting her after Christingle, her last before going up to the grammar. For years he’d been the only father waiting by the playground railings on weekday afternoons, and no matter how much work he’d got on, no matter how many miles behind the wheel, he’d never been late. That day she was wearing her red wellies, the ones with pull-on handles and a frog face on the toes. She kicked through the slush as they headed through the snicket and up the terrace. She clutched an orange in her blue-mittened hands.
‘What’s that you’ve got there, pet?’
‘The orange represents the world. And hope, Mrs Atkins said. And the ribbon is the blood of Jesus, who died for us sinners.’
‘Right. Not Sputnik, then.’ He was glad she’d be done with this particular school soon. ‘So what are all them things?’ He pointed to the squashed black ovals, tiny vampires impaled on cocktail sticks.
‘Raisins.’ Her narrow shoulders sagged. ‘Everyone else got Dolly Mix. They thought I was vegetarian.’
‘I thought you said you are vegetarian?’
‘That was last week.’
He’d turned back then, marched her to the high street, bought her a striped paper bag of strawberry laces from the Woolworths pic ’n’ mix. The two of them sauntered home, giggling, pink worms dangling from their beaks.
❦
The midday bulletin chirped. Tony rubbed his hand across his stomach. In the cab door, stained Tupperware contained a sad heap of grain-flecked salad. Even as Stella had handed it to him, he’d been thinking of chip butties. Cold rabbit-food wasn’t dinner, not on a maungy day like this. There was usually a snack van a few miles ahead. Double egg and bacon. Cheerful squeezy bottles in red, white and yellow; a brew thick enough to stand a spoon. No Stella to mither about blood sugar.
Before the junction with the A-road, he pulled over in a lay-by, the engine ticking, pellets of rain like buckshot on the roof. The road was thin here, with only a broken barbed-wire fence resisting the cold embrace of the moor. He shivered. Samson’s abattoir was a couple of hours away still. He pulled out his phone and found their number, but there were no bars and the call wouldn’t connect. No matter. He’d blame the delay on the farmer. He scrolled up his list of contacts. His thumb hovered over Connie’s name. He swallowed. Their last conversation—if he could call it that—was sour in his throat.
‘But we’ve always gone to choose the tree, Dad,’ she’d said. ‘You and me.’
‘Aye, pet, I know. But you should see this artificial one Stella’s got.’ He’d stared at it, a plastic-smelling presence lurking in the corner of the living room. ‘Top of the range. Built-in fibre-optics. No needles to hoover up.’
‘But we’ll still decorate it together, right? Hot chocolate? Christmas Eve?’
‘Ehm . . .’ Stella had binned the tinsel and bought new baubles, blue and silver. Tasteful, she’d called them. They glinted with a uniform shine on the bristled branches that unfolded from the tree like the spokes of an umbrella.
‘Forget it,’ Connie had said. ‘You’re obviously not bothered. Do whatever she wants. I might not even be there.’ She’d paused as if expecting him to ask something, but by the time he’d arranged his thoughts, she’d already hung up.
So even if she did answer, what would he say—ey’up pet, it’s Dad? No. He’d do it later, when he was at home, when he could focus.
Tony flicked the engine back on and was about to pull out when he saw a neon splat picking its way across the moorland a couple of hundred metres to his left. Madness. Arse of a day for a walk. The moors were for sheep, grouse and sometimes cattle; why anyone would want to go tramping about them in a big circle was beyond him. The shape stopped and waved its arms in wild flapping movements, then ran towards him. A girl. A woman, Stella’s voice, in his head, corrected him. Was she on her own? Maybe she thought he was someone she knew, someone collecting her at the end of her walk. He shook his head. She was new to it, that was for sure. Her thin mac was sodden and glued to her skin and dark peat stains lapped her grey leggings. She clambered over the lay-by fence, not noticing her coat sacrificing threads to the barbed wire.
He leaned across and wound down the passenger window. ‘Alreet, lass? What’re tha doing out on a day like this?’
She was younger than he’d thought. Early twenties maybe. Strands of red hair had escaped from her blue woollen hat and stuck to her forehead. She doubled over, breathing hard. A long plait snaked down her back. It was the same style he’d had to learn for Connie. He’d watched a how-to video. The first time, he was so scared he’d do it wrong that he barely touched the comb to her head, his fingers and thumbs too big and useless with the elastics. Eventually, she patted one puppy-fat hand on his and fetched the safety scissors.
‘You sure, lass?’ he said, hovering the open V of the blades at the back of her neck. ‘I dunno where to start.’
‘Gi’or, Dad,’ she’d said. ‘It’s okay. It was only Mum who liked it long. Just pretend like I’m a sheep.’
He’d nodded and gone to find the clippers.
‘Alreet, lass?’ Tony repeated. He felt ridiculous talking to this girl from his elevated cab seat, like a lifeguard at the lido. He heaved himself to the passenger side and opened the door. His knee cricked when he swung down the cab steps, and he winced. Perhaps Stella was right. Perhaps he was too old for this lark now.
‘Will you help?’ the girl said, her voice ragged. ‘My, uh, my friend—’ she waved a gloved hand back towards the moor, ‘She’s sprained her ankle. Maybe broken it. She can’t walk and we’d no signal to call. I said I’d come down to find help.’
Tony checked his own phone again. Nothing. The sheep rammed their skulls against the gaps in the side of the trailer, stripes of steel and wet wool, impatient to get moving. If only they knew; they’d not be in such a hurry to leave. He looked at the girl. He checked his watch, looked at the sheep, looked at the girl again. Basic rule of the job: you don’t leave your cargo alone. His stomach grumbled. At times like this, he wished he still smoked. Finally, he pulled his coat tighter around him and thumbed one hand at the truck. ‘Sorry love, I can’t really . . . I’ve gotta get this lot ont’ road. I could call mountain rescue when I’ve got signal?’
The girl looked at the sheep as if they were passengers on a bus, as if they’d understand the delay if only she explained it nicely. ‘Please. She’s not far. Ten minutes’ walk? I can’t help her out on my own.’
There was a galaxy of freckles across her nose. He’d always loved that about Connie, though she hated them, painted them over as soon as he’d allowed make-up.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘why don’t you hop in the cab where it’s warm and I could drive you somewhere to call—’
The girl took a step back, her eyes narrowed, her arms wrapped round her chest, and his stomach lurched.
‘No,’ he said, ‘no, I mean, God, I didn’t mean—I wouldn’t ever think—I just—I’m by mi’sen, I can’t leave the sheep ’ere.’
The girl looked up and down the empty road. ‘Half an hour, tops. I’m desperate. Please. If you could drop us at a service station?’
Service station. He snorted. ‘None of that round’ere, love.’
‘Or—a town? A bus stop? Anywhere.’
Her cheeks were pink, her lashes spiked with rain or tears, Tony couldn’t tell. He kneaded his hand across his forehead. What’d be the chances? He’d not passed any other traffic on the way here. And who’d bother with the sheep anyway? All yellowed teeth and daggy-arsed, worn out from too much living. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
❦
The paths had turned to streams. Icy torrents of water emerged from the cottongrass like spigots and bubbled across his boots. With each step, Tony’s socks slithered farther down his feet. He could swear he felt his toes shrivelling. The girl—she’d said her name was Anna—strode along ahead of him, her hair a tangerine speck in the mist. She kept looking back, either to check he was still following or to check he wasn’t following too close. He wished he’d not said the thing about the cab.
He stepped on what looked like a tussock of sedge, and the bog swallowed his right shin. There was a foul stench like carrots sliming the bottom of the fridge. When he tried to pull it free, the earth slurped a laugh as if to say next time, I’ll not go so easy. He turned to look behind him but could no longer see the truck. The clouds were heavy and sullen, the ridges of the hills a black-eyed purple. His heart yammered in his chest. ‘Anna,’ he called, the wind whipping at his voice. ‘How much farther?’
She stopped, hands on hips, waiting for him to catch up. ‘Not far. By the hawthorns, you see there?’
Tony could see nothing but mud and water. ‘It’s been more than ten minutes.’
Anna shrugged. ‘If I’d been honest, you wouldn’t have come.’ She pulled up the hood of her mac, bent her head into the rain again and trudged onwards, but slower now, matching him stride for stride.
‘Tha shouldn’t be out here anyway,’ he said. ‘In weather like this? Not from round these parts, I tek it.’
A smile snuck sideways from under her hood. ‘London. We both are. Sorry about that.’
‘London?’ His breath caught. ‘Which district?’
‘Uh . . .’ Anna bunched her hands into her sleeves.
‘My daughter lives in London,’ he said quickly. ‘Somewhere East. Couple o’ years younger than you, I’d say. Connie. Mebbe you know her?’ The daft question had slid out of his mouth before he could stop it.
‘Oh,’ said Anna. ‘Well. Probably not. I live in Chiswick.’
He didn’t want to ask where that was. She might get the wrong idea again.
‘We’re doing the Pennine Way,’ Anna continued. ‘You know it?’
‘Aye.’ Tony shook his head. ‘But in December? Just the two o’ ye? Some plan that is.’ They had reached higher ground now, following the vertebrae of flagstones stretching across the moor.
‘We didn’t think it’d be like this,’ she said. ‘And it was the only time I could get enough leave.’
‘Ow long will that tek ye, then?’
‘About two and a half weeks.’
Tony blew his cheeks. ‘You’re short of a few if you ask me, lass. Best wait til summer.’
‘If I waited for the best time to do everything, I’d never do anything, and then it’d be too late.’
They were close to the hawthorns now. Tony could see a small figure wrapped in a foil blanket cowering under their witch-finger branches. Anna sprinted away up the path, water splashing the back of her legs.
‘Min!’ she yelled. ‘Min!’
❦
Tony didn’t think the ankle was broken. He was no doctor, but how different could two legs be to four? When he pressed around the bone, he felt puffed fluid shifting, but nothing jagged underneath. Nothing moving where it shouldn’t. The cold was more dangerous. The tips of Min’s nose and fingers were corpse-pale, her lips thin and blue. She had a gunmetal ring pierced through her nostrils. Like a bull, he thought. Was that a trendy thing in London? Did Connie have one too now? He unzipped his coat and tucked it around the girl’s shoulders. When they’d arrived, she’d bundled Anna into a kiss. Anna had pulled away, sharp, then looked up at Tony as if waiting for some comment. He’d shrugged. Connie thought he didn’t know either.
‘Owt else we can use to wrap it?’
Anna dug in her pack and handed him a bandage. He rested Min’s booted foot in his lap and bound the cloth tight. His big fingers had swollen with the walk and the cold and he fumbled with the safety pin. He felt the girls watching him. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Cack-’anded. Useless at this small stuff. Always was.’
‘Hey,’ said Anna. ‘It’s okay.’ She took the pin from him and clipped it in place.
‘Have we got anything left to eat?’ said Min. ‘Now I know I’m not going to have to gnaw my own foot off to survive, I’m actually starving.’
Anna unzipped one of the backpacks. ‘Not much. Just these.’ She pulled out a bag of oranges, bright globes in red plastic netting. ‘Tony?’
❦
It took them nearly forty-five minutes to get back to the truck. Min had one arm hooked tight around Tony’s neck, the other looped around Anna, hopping on her good foot. The straps of her pack dug into his shoulders. The rain sang around them. A mottled frog the size of his fingernail pulsed its throat in a puddle, and he angled his boot to avoid it.
‘How long’s your daughter been in London, then?’ said Anna.
‘Couple o’months. Turned eighteen and moved out sharpish.’
Min panted a laugh. ‘Sounds familiar. What’s she studying?’
‘Eh?’
‘At uni. What subject?’
‘Oh—no. Nay, she’s got some job or other. Something media. I don’t rightly know.’
Anna and Min exchanged a look. Tony felt his face flood hot. They were right. He should know. What kind of dad was he that he didn’t?
‘Wow,’ said Min. ‘At eighteen? That’s very . . . independent. Getting on alright, is she?’
‘Aye. Seems to be, anyway. Tha knows thi’sen, new life, new friends, too busy to call her old man. I don’t want to get in the way of all that.’
‘But you must miss her.’
He looked at his boots. The word miss seemed inadequate, even when he said it out loud.
‘Aww,’ said Anna, ‘but it’ll be nice for you to go and visit.’
‘Visit?’ Tony stopped walking. ‘Fat chance.’ He imagined turning up at Connie’s basement flat. He knew what it looked like from the outside because Connie had got a new bank card and he’d had to post it on. Stella had searched for the street and found it in 3D on the internet. The front window was level with the pavement and had a view of people’s feet and the bottom half of wheelie bins.
Though, maybe . . . Tony rubbed at his stubbled jaw. He could take Connie out for lunch. A pint, even, she was eighteen now, wasn’t she? A dad could do those sorts of things. Somewhere quiet with panelled walls, Seabrook crisps, bitter on tap. Somewhere they could talk. It was possible, wasn’t it?
But then he pictured Stella perched on the edge of Connie’s sagging sofa; Stella sniffing at the milk; Stella re-washing clean mugs before making them tea while Connie glowered by the sink. He deleted Stella from the picture but then imagined having to explain why he was going to London without her. He didn’t want to go to London without her. He was suddenly aware of the strain in his neck where Min was pulling on it, the way the pack twisted his spine. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, Connie wouldn’t want me there.’
❦
He saw a thin slice of metal first, the top of the cab window. A sheep startled from the bracken and darted away. For one sick, heart-drop second, he pictured the back of the trailer unlatched and swinging open, seventy-three sheep swarming free over the moorland. He tried to hustle the girls forward, craning his neck to see over the hillocks ahead. Min stumbled and swore as her injured foot caught on a clod of heather.
‘Hey,’ said Anna, ‘slow down.’
‘The sheep,’ he said. ‘The sheep.’ He should never have agreed to this. Rustlers. Bairns fooling about. Wandering lassies like these two, with city-bred notions about animal rights. He imagined having to call Samson’s, and that stuffed-shirt farmer lad, and admit how he’d made a chuffing mess of it all.
Then they rounded the corner.
He saw the broken fence, the barbed-wire snags of Anna’s coat. He saw the trailer and—yes—the dirty clouds of fluff inside, liquorice noses pressed to the slats, and he exhaled and thought—seventy-three elderly ewes. So what if they had gone? They were worth about as much as the spare change rattling around the truck. As much as a couple of baps and a brew at the snack van. His breath hung in the moist air. He helped Min into the passenger seat of the cab and turned the heat on full. He realised the rain had stopped.
Tony pulled out his phone. Half twelve already. He had one bar of signal now, and after a few seconds, the screen flashed up a missed call from Samson’s, two from Stella, three and a voicemail from a number he didn’t recognise. Probably the farmer. He knew how it’d go. I’ve rounded up the final dozen, old chap. Any chance you could pop back? Tony scratched his head and slid his phone back into his pocket. The paperwork was on his side.
Anna crouched by the trailer, one palm flat against the metal, the other arm straining between the slats. She made clucking noises with her tongue. ‘They’re so cute! Are you moving them to another farm?’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Well. Not exactly.’ He scuffed one foot against the tarmac. ‘These are old ones, off t’slaughter.’
‘Slaughter?’ Her eyes were wide. ‘But why?’
He cracked his knuckles. She sounded like Connie had, the first time he’d explained his job to her. ‘I s’pose . . . well, lass, they’ve worked hard, they’ve had their use. Had their lambs, and now there’s nowt else they’re good for. Expensive to keep, is all.’
One of the sheep was licking the salt from Anna’s wrist. He knew that farmer was soft. Probably bottle-reared all of them. Anna had both arms through the slats now, her chest pressed against the steel bars, three sheep sucking at her fingers. ‘They’re so lovely,’ she said. ‘Lovely old girls. It’s so unfair.’
‘What is?’ Up close, their liquid amber eyes were the same shade as Connie’s hair.
‘That they’ve worked hard and had their lambs and then that’s it.’ Anna turned and gestured to the expanse of moor behind her. ‘Imagine if they could live here. Don’t they deserve a chance to be happy?’
He chewed his lip. ‘That’s not how farming works, lass. Go on now, hop in the cab.’
❦
As he drove, Tony ate the salad Stella had made, balancing the open Tupperware on his knee. There were lumps of salty cheese and bright flashes of herbs. It wasn’t half bad. He thought he’d miss having meat, but he didn’t. Maybe she could make it for Connie.
Anna had clambered over Min to sit in the middle. Min dozed, the side of her head bumping against the fogged-up window.
‘I’ll drop you in Shepley,’ he said. ‘There’s a train there, tha can go on to Sheffield or Huddersfield, mebbe.’
‘And then you’ll go kill the sheep?’ said Anna.
He rolled his eyes. ‘And then I’ll go and do my job, aye.’ He flicked the radio on and turned it down low. Stars in the bright sky.
‘Like the school nativity,’ said Anna. ‘I was always the narrator. Bad actor but reliable.’
Tony snorted. ‘One year, our Connie was fourth camel. Her mum made her a costume with a feed-bucket hump stitched into the back. She was only seven. It was nearly as big as she was.’ The countryside blurred into damp splashes of green and brown. He could feel Anna looking at him.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Is her mum . . . ?’
‘Aye.’
‘Sorry.’
He cleared his throat. ‘It was a long time ago.’
The carol ended, and another began. Maybe Stella was listening too, the fire crackling in the living room so that when he got home it would be to a warm house, the smell of mince pies in the oven. They might watch a bit of telly. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket again but ignored it. The farmer could wait.
‘Thank you for stopping,’ Anna said. ‘Honestly. It’s not like that in London. You didn’t have to help us but you did.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘no harm done. Just next time, don’t go out in December. I’m sure your dad would say the same.’
Anna’s face slipped and he inwardly cursed his mistake. Maybe she didn’t have one. He knew what that sort of thing could do to a kid.
‘My dad doesn’t give two hoots about me. He thinks sending money makes up for that.’ Anna held her hands in front of the hot-air vent, turning them back and forth. ‘Your daughter’s lucky,’ she continued, ‘you’re one of the good ones.’
‘Ha,’ he said. ‘You try tellin’ her that.’ They had reached the outskirts of the village: rain-washed gritstone cottages, Christmas lights in primary colours strung across the street. ‘Nay, Connie’s got her own life now. Dun’t need me anymore.’
‘I still need my dad,’ said Anna. ‘Even if he doesn’t need me.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure, lass. Have you asked him?’
‘Have you asked Connie?’ She grinned, her hair a frizzed copper halo. ‘Maybe you should.’
❦
They waited in the cab with him until the train was due. Anna tried telling him to go on, that they’d held him up enough already, but Tony insisted. He wanted to do it right this time. He couldn’t bear thinking of them huddled on a cold metal bench watching the station clock tick over.
When Connie had left, that had been the worst bit. He’d kept it together long enough to deposit her on the platform, a heavy silence stretching between them.
‘You don’t need to stay,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine.’ She scooted her duffel bag along the concrete with one foot, the zip straining.
‘You’ve got enough warm things? Here. Buy thi’sen summat nice from the trolley.’ He tried to press the five-pound note into her hands, but she kept them screwed tight in her pockets.
‘I’ll be fine.’ She was looking anywhere but at him; the leaden sky, the broken vending machine, the empty benches flaking green paint. ‘G’wan. You’ve got things to do. Stella will be waiting.’
She can wait, he wanted to say. You’re more important. But instead, he looked at the scrolling departures board and said: ‘Look at that. Two minutes delayed already.’
‘Dad. Go.’
‘Will you text me when you get there?’
‘I said I would.’
He’d tried to think if there was anything else he could ask her, but his mind was stuck on the fact that she was going at all. ‘Ta’ra then, pet.’
‘Bye, Dad.’
He went back to the car park and sat in the car. He could still see a bit of her from there—one elbow, the side of her blue hat. Then the train arrived, and Connie had gone.
❦
The corrugated sheds of Samson’s abattoir were hazy in the dwindling winter light. The sheep were silent now, as if they knew what was about to happen. Tony knew what was about to happen. They’d be herded into a pen, stunned one by one as their friends looked on, then shackled, hoisted and bled. He caught himself and scoffed. Friends. He was beginning to sound like the farmer. Like Anna. Like Connie.
He slowed the truck and hit the indicator to pull into the yard, but instead of turning the wheel he folded his arms over it. Fingers of weak sun stretched onto the road ahead. He tried to imagine Christmas without Connie. It would be him and Stella and the sterile plastic tree, a too-big turkey in the middle of the table. It was now or never. He took a deep breath and fished his phone from his pocket. As he typed in C, a call flashed up on the screen, the same number from earlier. That damn farmer.
‘I’m just here now,’ Tony said, his voice too loud in the small space. ‘If tha wants me to get them others, tha’ll need to book in for another j—’
‘Dad?’
‘Connie?’ He almost dropped the phone. ‘Is that you?’
‘Dad! Why didn’t you answer earlier? Didn’t you get my voicemail?’
‘I thought you were the—’ he said. ‘What happened to your—’
‘My phone was stolen. Took me ages to get your number. I ended up looking up Samson’s and asking them. They said you were due in later anyway.’
He heard the sound of another woman laughing somewhere in the background. ‘Shh,’ said Connie, her voice distant as if she were holding the phone away from her mouth. ‘It’s my dad.’
‘Why didn’t you call the house? You know the landline.’
A burble of white noise.
‘She asks too many questions. It’s annoying.’
Tony sighed. ‘Give her a chance, pet. She just wants to get to know you.’
‘She doesn’t want me there.’
‘She does. Tha knows how it is wi’ Stella, she —’ Tony closed his eyes. ‘She dun’t want you to think she’s trying to replace your mum.’
‘She could never.’
‘I know.’ His voice was very quiet. ‘I know.’
Connie sniffed. ‘Sorry, Dad. I’ve been . . .’
‘It’s alright, love.’ He swiped his hand across his face. ‘Look. You’ll have to believe me on this. Stella really wants you here.’ He swallowed. ‘I really want you here.’
‘Don’t be soft,’ she said, but he could tell she was smiling.
‘Reet.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Reet, well, I wanted to—’
‘I—’ she spoke over him.
‘You first,’ he said.
‘Um. Christmas . . . I wanted to ask if I . . . if I can bring someone.’
‘Bring someone? Does that mean you’re coming?’ His mind felt fizzy. ‘O’course.’ He paused. Should he risk it? He’d risk it. ‘She’d be very welcome.’
‘Really?’ Connie’s voice was lighter now, giddy.
‘Really.’
There was a muffled sound as if she were holding a hand across the mouthpiece. She said something he couldn’t make out. Then she was back. ‘What was the other thing?’
‘Ah, nowt. Christmas. Reckon we could stretch to two trees this year, how about it?’
‘Can I choose?’
‘We’ll all choose together.’
‘Okay.’ A pause. ‘A big one. And tinsel.’
Tony smiled. ‘We’ll see.’ He settled himself back in the cab seat, his body filling the soft indentation it had made over years of work. ‘One more thing. I’ve got these sheep in the back. Old ones, tha knows.’
‘Ewes?’
‘That’s it. I’m outside Samson’s now.’
‘And?’
‘And . . . well, I s’pose it feels a bit sad sometimes, dun’t it? Their life being ended just cos they’re done bringing up lambs.’ Tony held his daughter close to his ear. He turned the key in the ignition and the radio soared back to life. Snow on snow. Snow on snow. The open moorland was a haze of purple-brown ahead of him. A few sheep were dotted about like small white flowers on the hills. ‘They’ve worked hard. Don’t you think they deserve a chance to be happy?’
Connie laughed. ‘You know what I think, Dad. You don’t have to ask.’
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