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

Kian looks from Moira to me, and back again.

‘Ah, no. Ava, this is no good.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m meant to be selling all the fucking squash.’

‘You’re selling squash? Ha! You’re in luck,’ I say, standing up to stretch. ‘I can run a squash stand in my sleep. Depending on how many you’re expecting, you’ll need between five and eight bottles of double concentrate. Don’t bother with Robinson’s, it’s not worth the money. Whack a few packets of Rich Tea biscuits on a plate and you’re laughing.’

Kian is looking at me like I’m an idiot, but I’ve no idea why.

‘Well, I’ve not seen it done, but there’s a first time for everything, right?’ says Moira.

‘You’ve never seen a squash stand before?’ I say. ‘Really? The mark up is off the scale,’ I say. Finally. It’s clear where I can contribute.

‘Hold on. You know this is a farm, right? We’re selling squash. Butternut, winter, coquina, acorn? And they’ve got to be fresh. Cut the morning of, which means we need to be out on the field in … four hours,’ he says, his words sloshing into each other.

‘Right …’ I look at Moira, who chews her lip, glancing at the clock. Kian looks like he’s on the cusp of passing out, or vomiting, or both.

‘Oh, before I go, what was it you were going to tell me?’ she asks, zipping her yellow raincoat up to her chin.

I shrug, pasting a smile onto my face. ‘D’you know what, I’ve forgotten. I’ll let you know if it comes back to me.’

I perform an exaggerated yawn, my arms stretched above my head. ‘Are you sure you just don’t want to do a squash and biscuit stall?’

Chapter 19

Head torches should only be worn by kids working towards a cub scout badge, yet here I am, ankle deep in muck, scanning a thin beam of light across the ground like I’m monitoring a vegetable prison break. Every time I bend down, all the blood swills up into my skull and presses against my forehead until I think I might split like an overripe blueberry.

I locate Kian by triangulating the sound of his groans, which have become more frequent and guttural since the sun rose behind us.

A thump sounds, like a sack of rice falling off a shelf. When I turn around, Kian is curling into the foetal position between two ridges of muck.

‘Ava, you’re gonna have to go on without me.’

I look behind us to the wheelbarrow, which is only half full of squashes, most of which are so small I doubt if they’d be carved into anything other than a tealight holder.

‘Stop shouting,’ I say, pinching the bridge of my nose.

‘I’m not,’ he replies, his voice whiny.

A crow swoops down and lands next to us, raking through the disturbed earth with a taloned claw. It caws, the sound like a rusty spoon scraping round the insides of my head. Kian raises a finger and holds it to his lips but can’t bring himself to make the ‘shh’ sound.

I tap my leg, on the edge of a strop. I’m well aware that tantrums shouldn’t be part of an adult’s remit, but Kian’s lack of organisation and the pain brought on by drinking a hundred-year-old whisky is turning me positively feral.

‘If you had just – if we – we could have done this yesterday,’ I say, my voice biting with irritation.

‘No. Has to be same-day fresh. That’s the whole point of the farmers’ market.’

‘How would anyone know?’

Kian props himself up, elbows quaking, cheeks streaked with mud. He’s a picture of suffering. Trench-dwelling soldiers with gangrenous feet might look at Kian and say he was doing worse.

‘Nigel would know. He’s got a star. A Michelin one. He gets his ingredients from us. Pokes them and prods them and sniffs them.’

‘A plant pervert.’

‘Exactly.’ Kian swallows, steadying himself for a moment before he continues. ‘If we can get cosy with him, we can sell direct and won’t have to keep chucking odds and ends to the handful of people who come to Kilroch at the weekend.’

I stand up, rub the small of my back, and twist from one side to the other. ‘Would it make a big difference, money-wise?’ I ask.

‘Not much, but I can’t be too picky, especially seeing as I’m not selling the animals off for meat.’

‘I’m just thinking …’

‘Hmm?’

‘I don’t know how to make a farm profitable, but isn’t this approach – the eggs, the market, truffle hunting with pigs – don’t you think it’s a bit … scattergun?’

‘Probably. But I need to pay the bills, otherwise this’ll all be gone. Sold off. I don’t want to be the Brody who lost the family land. If I had more than ten minutes to sit down and figure it out, I would, but it’s just been me for nine months now, and, well …’ Kian waves a hand at the field. Now the sun has been winched further into the sky, an expanse of waxy, orange-skinned squashes peeks out from beneath salt-bruised leaves. ‘Haven’t had a chance to sell this lot, let alone plant more for next season.’

I pick up the clippers and try to ignore the pulsing in my temple. I push the vine to one side, exposing a squash so wide and warped it looks extra-terrestrial. I hack, yank, and twist, but it remains stubbornly attached. Damp earth saturates my knees.

‘What do you do if you can’t cut through the umbilical cord?’ I ask, sweating. Kian appears beside me on all fours.

‘Firstly, it’s not an umbilical cord. Secondly … you need to twist and pull at the same time.’

‘My first boyfriend gave me that advice.’

Kian snorts. ‘Don’t, I’ll be sick.’

‘Maybe if I chop, you can twist. OK, ready?’ I step over the vine and adopt a wide stance.

Kian runs a hand over his face.

‘Let’s get this big boy out. Here.’ Kian hands me a curved blade. ‘Go for it.’

I saw back and forth with maniacal vigour until the knife cuts through, the sudden lack of