Country Pleasures by Primula Bond

parked with its claws resting against what used to be the old dairy. But there was no sign of life.
    Janie had no desire to inspect the rest of the farm tonight, although as kids she, Ben and Jack would have been unable to resist clambering all over theabandoned digger, trying to start it up. She glanced over to the other side of the yard and sure enough there was a pile of logs, just as she remembered, stacked tight under the eaves of the biggest barn so that most of them were still dry. She looked around. The whole place really was falling down, and was creepy in the dark wet evening light, even without the ancient farmer with his squint and missing teeth jumping out at her. She hurried over to the logs and stretched until she could reach to pull the top ones off the pile, and chucked them into her basket.
    â€˜What do you think you’re doing?’
    Janie straightened so sharply that she cracked her head hard against a metal rafter, knocking the hood over her eyes and dropping a log on her toe. Someone equally hooded and dripping wet had materialised round the corner of the barn and was standing a couple of feet away. She could barely see through the curtain of raindrops, but he was extremely tall, extremely broad, and extremely armed with a shovel.
    â€˜Nothing. Well, alright, I’m looking for logs,’ Janie croaked, hopping about and biting back yelps of pain. ‘We’re cold in our cottage and I want to make a fire. There’s nobody here to mind.’
    â€˜Oh, but there is. Me.’
    The figure stepped closer and Janie dodged against the wall. The man wore a tweed cap under the hood of his jacket, which he tipped up to take a better look at her. All Janie could see was an unshaven chin, a grimly set mouth, and a pair of black eyes that glinted behind a pair of understated tortoiseshell spectacles. The two soaked figures glared at each other for a moment.
    â€˜I thought you were a bloke, until you started speaking,’ he said.
    â€˜Not this time.’
    â€˜So I’ll ask you again: what do you think you’re doing?’
    â€˜I thought the place was sold, thought the old man had gone,’ Janie muttered, rubbing her head to try and remove the stars that danced in front of her eyes. ‘I didn’t think anyone would be here. The logs will only get wet if they’re not used.’
    â€˜It has been sold, and the old man died a while ago. The new owner thought he was buying an old farm in the quietest corner of England he could find, and he’d be extremely pissed off if he thought thieves were at work the minute he takes possession.’
    â€˜He’s not here, is he, and we’re only talking about a couple of old logs.’ Her head was banging painfully, and she started to sway.
    â€˜Are you all right? I can see a cut,’ the farmer said, sounding suddenly concerned. He put one hand on the clapboard wall beside her and leaned forwards to examine her forehead. He raised his other hand towards her face, and Janie flinched, knocking the hood off her head.
    â€˜Relax! Jesus, a guilty conscience, or what? I just want to take a look.’
    â€˜What are you, a paramedic as well as a poacher?’ Janie asked.
    â€˜As it happens, I do know what I’m doing. Now look, you’re bleeding,’ he said. He turned his hands inside out like a conjuror to show that there was no weapon, then lifted her wet hair off her forehead. ‘Not much, but it’s trickling from your scalp, just here.’
    He held out the tip of his finger, and they both stared at the blood.
    â€˜Come in here. It’s the only place with a roof,’ he said, guiding her backwards into the barn. He propped the door shut with his shovel.
    Outside, the wind ripped at pieces of tarpaulin and loose sheets of corrugated iron, but this corner of the barn was sheltered and the straw was dry. Janie sat down on a hay bale and bent her head between her knees for a moment.