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

Cakes, and open the file on the table. By the time I’ve talked him through my plan, his cheeks are pink again despite the pessimism ringing through his words.

‘I don’t see the point.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t have enough time.’

‘All you need is a letter of intent. For now, anyway. Did you read the sections I highlighted?’

Kian lifts a corner and allows each page to pass through his thumb and forefinger like a flipbook, flashing a kaleidoscope of passages that I painstakingly read through well into the early hours of this morning.

‘Which of the many highlighted sections do you mean? I do get the gist of it, but your Hermione Granger approach to research is a bit … complex,’ he says.

‘There’s a key, I put it on the front. If you flick to the pink sections.’

‘Which pink?’

‘Pale pink.’

‘Right.’ Kian glances furtively at me, a smile playing in the corner of his mouth. I override the desire to skip to the right page for him, although my fingers are itching to do so. ‘Research partnerships?’

‘Yep. There are grants up for grabs if you can show potential for a project that combines modern technology with traditional farming practices. This is you!’

‘Ava …’ Kian pushes his chair back and rubs his temples. He looks at me with bright eyes, but his mouth is pencil thin. ‘I appreciate that you’ve done all this,’ he says, gesturing to the stack of papers, ‘but I’ll be lucky to avoid total bankruptcy after my meeting with the bank on Thursday. This is a lot of trouble to go to if we’re going under anyway.’

‘OK, but consider this: if you are successful with a grant, it’ll mean that you don’t need to sell the farm. Surely that’s the last last resort. There’s no going back after that. Won’t it be worth it?’

I’m about to drive my point further but pull back when Kian hangs his head like a melancholic donkey. He closes his eyes and jiggles his heels up and down.

‘I didn’t want to make you feel bad,’ I say.

‘No, it’s not your fault. I’m grateful, honestly. I was just thinking about how worse off I’d be if you hadn’t come up a few weeks ago. I’ve let all this bottleneck in my head, you know?’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’d have been fine. Moira’s been here, hasn’t she? She’s far more help than I could ever be. I don’t know how to castrate goats, for starters.’

Kian slumps back into his chair with a tired smile. ‘Ah, it’s the outsiders’ perspective, isn’t it? Must be that London business brain kicking in,’ he says.

‘Or years spent watching my mum apply for grants to keep her community clubs going. It is a lot of work, but it’s better than admitting defeat.’ I push my chair back, sit on the edge of my seat, and peer over the pages like a short-sighted academic.

‘Didn’t you say you worked in publishing?’ says Kian, his tone changing.

‘No, online media. Why?’

‘Because you should be doing this kind of thing more.’

‘Nah, it’s just my … productive neurosis. It has its uses. Anyway, it looks like there are three grants you can apply for with different universities that offer agriculture courses. These are all right,’ I say, pointing at arm’s length towards two blue tabs protruding from the margin, ‘but it’s the Edinburgh link that’s the strongest, because it sounds like your fertiliser drone strike thing is right up their street.’

‘Let’s avoid saying “drone strike” in the application. It sets the wrong tone.’

I nod, seeing this as a green light.

‘I’ve looked through budget policy documents from Scottish government briefings made in the past twelve months that relate to innovation and investment in the Highlands. They’re actually looking for ways that universities can partner with farms.’

Kian nods slowly. I wanted to give him an hour to read through the documents I’d printed off, but it’s clear I’m going to have to whistle through the key points aloud. Honestly, what’s the point in highlighters if they’re given no authority?

‘What do the green tabs mean?’ says Kian.

‘Oh, I just wanted to emphasise the fact that I took one for the team because those were the bits that were especially boring to read.’

‘So humble,’ says Kian with a laugh.

‘I think it’s worth submitting. If you don’t get through this round, you can try again next year and you’ll already have done most of the work.’

‘Hmm.’ Kian taps his knee and looks at me. I can all but see the cogs turning behind his eyes. ‘When’s the deadline?’

‘Quite soon … We need a three-year business plan and the conservation status of all the livestock, then they’ll send a team round to do a biodiversity survey,’ I reply, reading from the cover page with stilted intonation. I’ve got less than half a clue as to what those phrases actually mean, but I say them with confidence.

‘How soon is quite soon?

‘Umm, like … tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?! There’s no way—’ Kian breaks off and blinks profusely.

‘Sure there is! I’ll help with the writing part. It’s basically what I do in my day job, so you give me the content, and I’ll chuck some proverbial glitter on it. Everything else is in here.’ I flop the file up and down and don a manic smile in an attempt to distract him from the intimidatingly large task at hand. Kian looks back to the document, his eyes narrow.

As I’m about to launch into another motivational speech, the back door clatters open and Moira steps in.

‘Oi, oi, what’s all this?’ she says, squatting down to untie her boots.

‘Ava’s got a crackpot idea to get money for the farm.’

‘Crackpot idea? That’s your favourite kind, isn’t it?’

‘All right, cheeky,’ says Kian, flicking her waist when she comes to stand behind us. I roll my eyes with feigned irritation and try to rub warmth into my hands. Waiting another week to have The Chat with Moira isn’t going to undo any affair that our father had, but I also want to give our news the