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

now I’ve been here for a while, things are different. The only developments I’ve made in the quest known as ‘My Long Lost and Likely Deceased Family’ have involved failed trips to the village, either side of feeding animals, counting animals, and keeping those same animals alive in a place where the weather is clearly telling everyone to fuck off. So far, I’ve completely failed to segue talk towards dolphin activism in the Nineties, which is my only jumping-off point into a bigger, far more complicated conversation.

I walk out to the middle of the courtyard and stand still, listening. It’s like tuning an old radio; every so often the wind picks up and noises from the farm are blown in and out of frequency. There’s the distant sound of waves fizzing against the cliff edge, the shed door whining on rusty hinges, and the throaty grunt of pigs. Pigs!

I pull my gloves on and head down a track to the left of the farmhouse until I reach an open-sided barn that defies physics by standing up at all. The roof sags like the waistband on a pair of old jeans. Nearby, the back door of a shipping container swings open. Kian emerges, a paper mask hanging from one ear. He raises a hand, a grin set on his face as though he’s just told a joke that went down well.

‘All right?’ he calls. ‘I did come up to the house earlier, but I didn’t want to disturb you. You had this … dreamy look on your face.’

‘Ha. I guess so. I was just re-sorting those papers on the kitchen table. I’m not sure whether a chronological or category-based system would work best for filing. There’s compelling arguments for both.’

‘I’ll bet,’ he says, a smirk twitching in the corner of his mouth.

‘I’ll walk you through it later. Trust me, I know it sounds lame but just wait until you see the page dividers.’ I decide not to mention the plastic sleeve I filled with four or five letters stamped ‘final notice’. Not the time, I expect.

‘What’s this for?’ I say, pointing to the shipping container. ‘They’re used for getting sports cars across the Channel, right? Or – if you’re in London – they stack them on top of each other and shove a Michelin restaurant inside.’

‘The pigs get more use out of them up here. One of the local freight companies went bust last year but the owner still owed us money for three lambs that were on the dinner table by the time Granddad got round to sending an invoice. We got this as payment instead,’ says Kian, tapping the unit with a metallic clang. ‘Just remember to stake the door open if you’re going in and out. If it slams in the wind, you’ll know about it.’

‘Noted.’

‘Shall we go for it?’ A woman with a severe fringe and square jaw steps down from the container wearing a waxed jacket twice the size of her, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

‘Ah! It’s you! Hi!’ Before I get a chance to reply, she bounds towards me and envelops me in a hug. A clunky something-or-other is wedged between our chests, but my arms are pinned by my sides, so I wince through the encounter. The woman’s hair falls in a curtain and smells of apple shampoo and another scent that I vaguely recognise from the posh girls at school; sweet, hay-like, and musty. Horses. It’s got to be horses.

‘Ouff,’ I utter, rubbing my chest with a forearm. ‘That thing’s got a lot of sharp edges,’ I say, nodding towards the device in her hands. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘Sorry! I always do this. My friend – one from college – I go to college in Moray, right? – well, she told me it can be a bit much. The hugging. I can’t see myself changing but I should find out if you’re a hugger first, shouldn’t I?’

‘Bit late for that now,’ says Kian, tucking his chin into the collar of his gilet.

‘You’re right,’ she says, smiling. The girl looks from me to Kian and back again. ‘Let’s reverse it. Brl-rl-rl-rl-rl-rl-rl.’ She mimics a tape on rewind. ‘It’s so nice to meet you. Kian’s told me about the quad bike incident. You poor thing! That was lucky, wasn’t it? We lost our family whippet over those cliffs when I was a lass. He chased a seagull right off the side. Silly beggar. I know it sounds like I’m exaggerating, but she basically burst on impact. Horrible. We couldn’t get down in time to scrape her off the rocks so I expect she’s out at sea somewhere. For the record, what’s your position on hugs?’

‘Err, I guess it depends, if it’s a—’

‘Ah, I’m with you,’ she says, giving me a wink that alludes to some sort of innuendo I’m not sure I’m on board with. ‘It’s so nice to have another person around. I’ve seen the same faces turn into walnuts with walking sticks since I was a bairn. Kian’s back though and that’s been great, hasn’t it, Ki?’

‘Yeah, I’ve coped,’ says Kian playfully, swinging an arm over her shoulders. She beams up at him, eyes wide and doe-like.

Jesus, I’m exhausted. She’s going to keel over from lack of oxygen in a second.

‘We better get on with it. I’m not gonna lie, this is up there with the worst jobs we have to do all year,’ says Kian. ‘Apart from spraying slurry.’

‘Ah, it’s not so bad. It’s the catching part that can be … challenging.’

‘Catching?’ I say. Going by the tone of conversation, it’s like we’re about to play an unconventional game of rounders: something that takes place over three days with loose rules about violent participation.

‘Yeah. Got a pressurised gun for the jabs this year. My buddy in the agricultural department is doing some post-doc research on non-invasive immunisations, so yours truly got his mitts on this bad boy,’ says Kian. The woman passes him the device. He turns it over