Appleby Farm by Cathy Bramley Page A

night. And the vet would be making his routine monthly visit in a few days.
    I wasn’t particularly well up on my animal husbandry, but I was pretty sure that you needed two good arms for most of it. It was all very well saying that Uncle Arthur needed to rest, but unless I could come up with a solution that he both approved of and could afford, I couldn’t see how Auntie Sue and I were going to keep him from going wandering off round the farm in the morning.
    I slid along the bench and collected everyone’s plates from the table, while Auntie Sue delved into the Aga for pudding. Pudding! Yet another reason why I loved being at the farm. Madge jumped up optimistically and followed me to the sink.
    ‘Sorry, dog.’ I ruffled the short fur behind her ears. ‘No leftovers, I’m afraid. That was a-ma-zing, Auntie Sue, thank you. If it’s OK with you, after I’ve washed up I was going to pop over to the White Lion. Fancy joining me for a pint, Uncle Arthur?’
    ‘A pint.’ He sighed, untucking his napkin from his shirt collar and rubbing a blob of gravy off his chin. The look of longing on his face was a picture. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’
    Auntie Sue stopped spooning apple crumble into bowls. Her eyes flicked back and forth between us like she was watching a mini tennis match.
    ‘The lane will be treacherous and it’ll be dark soon.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘And I don’t think you should drink, Artie.’
    ‘But I’m delivering the ice cream, remember?’ I added. ‘And I don’t fancy walking in on my own.’ Besides, I wanted to get him to open up a bit more and I reckoned a pint in his hand and a change of scene might do the trick.
    Auntie Sue gave him her stern look. ‘One, Arthur Moorcroft. Just one pint.’
    Half an hour later we were on our way. Recalling Lizzie’s ‘flame-haired beauty’ comment from this morning, I’d taken a bit more care with my appearance than an ice-cream delivery should truly warrant. I’d changed into a long yellow and black stripy jumper, donned some black leggings and a pair of boots, zhuzhed up my hair to make it look tousled and flicked a mascara brush over my lashes. Uncle Arthur had changed his flat cap.
    Auntie Sue was right: the track was über-treacherous. The rain had stopped but it was very blustery. However, Uncle Arthur was practically running along in his eagerness, waving the torch in front of us while I staggered under the weight of the cool box. It was one of those large plastic ones with a complicated locking handle and Auntie Sue had topped the three cartons of ice cream with about six industrial-sized ice packs and issued strict instructions to remind Bill, the landlord, to stow it straight in the freezer. Despite the bracing wind, a line of sweat beads had popped up on my forehead.
    ‘Can you manage, lass?’ my uncle shouted over his shoulder.
    ‘Sure,’ I panted, swapping the cool box to the other arm. The ground suddenly fell from under me.
    ‘Arrghhhh!’ I screamed, dropping to my knees and splashing into a deep puddle. I immediately lifted my arms to save the ice cream, fell forward and bashed my lips on the cool box. ‘Owwwch.’
    I could taste blood. My knees stung and my mouth throbbed.
    ‘There’s a pothole there,’ said Arthur, shining the torch in my face.
    The best that could have been said about my arrival at the White Lion with sodden muddy knees, wild hair, a fat lip and mascara tracks left by a couple of escaped tears was that at least I made an entrance.
    The pub was heaving with people, all available space was filled with jostling bodies, and there was a line of customers at the bar.
    ‘Emergency!’ I cried, pushing my way to the front of the queue with my cool box. I could see Lizzie pulling two pints at a time behind the bar.
    ‘Brandy for shock, please, Bill!’ shouted Uncle Arthur, pressing his good hand into the small of my back to propel me forward. ‘Coming through!’ he added with too much enjoyment at all