The Sister Surprise by Abigail Mann (book series for 10 year olds .txt) 📕

Kian chews the side of his cheek.

‘The farm isn’t my business. I mean, it’s my business in that I care about it, but it’s not my business career-wise. I was working on a post-doctorate research project back in Edinburgh before the bull incident.’

‘What was your research about?’ I ask. Kian sits taller in his seat.

‘I was testing a drone-based solution to variable weather patterns and its impact on crop development. Basically, we use drones to deposit nutrients in the right part of a field.’

‘This might sound dim, but it sounds like a drone strike, except … with fertiliser?’

Kian scoffs. ‘I wouldn’t use that wording, but yeah. Sort of.’

The Jeep starts making a loud rattling noise like a penny in the washing machine as we accelerate downhill. Kian smacks the dashboard until it stops and shakes his head. ‘Ignore that,’ he says.

I grip the seat tighter and try to keep a neutral expression.

‘Anyway, the project’s on hold now,’ he says.

‘For how long?’

‘No idea. I didn’t plan on taking up the farm, but it’s not like you can ask sheep to look after themselves whilst you finish a post-doc, especially the breed I’ve got. It’s like Shawshank Redemption. Lady Susan got stuck in the brook for two days last week.’

‘Aren’t brooks shallow?’

‘They are. She went down for a drink and her fleece soaked the water up like a kitchen sponge. She was so heavy by the end of it that she couldn’t stand up again. See what I mean? It’s a wonder they get through a day.’

We turn onto a coastal path, where pockmarked sea defences break waves before they have a chance to claim more of the coastline.

‘Sorry for the mental off-load,’ says Kian, glancing at me. ‘I don’t get to speak to many people during the work week. No water cooler to stand and have a moan at, y’know?’

I nod, but I’m not sure what to contribute. We’ve not been in the car that long and I’ve barely had a chance to mention the weather, which should have bought me ten minutes according to the English rules of small talk. Elsewhere, meaningful conversation with strangers is strictly reserved for pub toilets at 2 a.m. when your beer-addled brain thinks it’s a good idea to gossip and share lipgloss.

As we turn onto the village high street, Kian slows down and pulls up alongside a man whose face is partly covered by a thick scarf.

‘Ross. Ross!’ calls Kian, yanking on the handbrake. Going by the crunch sound, it’s about as effective as sticking a cat to the wall with Blu Tak.

The man bobs down to look inside, a sheen of dew across his brow.

‘No umbrella?’ says Kian, his voice deeper than it was thirty seconds ago.

‘No point, Kian. I haven’t been properly dry since I arrived here. Hi, I’m Ross.’

The man leans into the car to shake my hand, but if time has slowed down up to this point, it now speeds up with horrible velocity. I force my clammy fingers into his palm but my hand is too cold to squeeze, so essentially, a stranger is cupping my squid fingers with no explanation from either side. I feel like I’m hovering outside my own body. Surely you need to give warning before throwing an attractive – if damp – man into someone’s immediate vicinity. I wasn’t bloody well prepared for an encounter like this.

‘Ross takes care of Kilroch’s spiritual needs,’ says Kian. He shuffles in his seat, emphasising the close proximity between us all.

‘Aye, that’s right. Although I still haven’t convinced Kian that Sunday service is a good idea.’

‘You know what it’s like with the farm, always something to sort out. Anyway, Ross, this is Ava. Ava, Ross. She’s come to help at Braehead for a while,’ says Kian.

‘Ah, great! I’ll be seeing you around, will I?’

‘Yes, definitely.’ I nearly bite my tongue off, I say it so quickly.

Kian revs the engine, nodding to Ross, who straightens up and tucks a loaf of bread under his arm, the crust already soggy.

As we gather speed up the hill, I resist the urge to strain against my seatbelt to snatch another look.

‘He’s got a face I’d struggle to slap.’

Kian laughs. ‘He’s caused divisions between the married folk, let me tell you. A lot of the older women have recently returned to church with renewed vigour.’

‘I bet.’

Chapter 10

As we drive through the village, I struggle to imagine Mum in a place like Kilroch: a clipped Londoner with red hair, hemp clothing, and, if the stories are true, a penchant for protest through the medium of an angry tambourine.

We trundle alongside a dry-stone wall, where a gate is held open by a loop of blue string. Two trees, bent parallel to the ground, flank the entrance, as though stuck in a perpetual gust of wind. Beside us, a field holds two dozen sheep, their wool thick and bellies round. As we bounce up the driveway, they break into a chorus of dissonant bleating.

‘They’re only mawing because they think I’m here to feed them,’ says Kian, glancing over the flock with feigned annoyance. ‘Ah, there’s the house. I always think it needs a coat of paint when someone else sees it. Now summer has passed, I won’t get a weather window for months.’

‘Oh, don’t apologise. My house back in London hasn’t been decorated since 1995. My bedroom is a pretty garish combination of lilac paint and flocked wallpaper. There are Forever Friends stickers on the PVC windows that I can’t get off.’

I hesitate, my hand on the door handle. This can’t be the same farmhouse I saw online. If the walls were white at some point, they’re now streaked with mildew, drainpipes bowed under the weight of moss that creeps like gangrene from the eaves.

‘Do you, umm … want to go in?’ says Kian, looking between me and the house.

‘Oh! Yes, sure!’ I say, a little too enthusiastically to hide my disappointment.

When I step out of the car,