Touch by Graham Mort Page A

back was easy like that. The kids had done well. They’d got out of farming. Peter was a teacher and Kate working part-time for the insurance people. The farm was no life for young folk any more. They’d never wanted their kids to go into the farm, unlike some. Like Daniel’s father had, taking his belt to him that time when he’d wanted to stay on at school. This’ll be the only school tha’ll ever need, and I’ll school thee! And so it had been. The farm had been his education. So he’d not been sorry when his father dropped face-down in the muck. He’d been hard, bitter through and through, the way sloes are.
    When Annie fell ill, Peter had come home with his wife, Sheila, whenever he could. Though they didn’t like bringing the children towards the end. That was understandable. That smell for one thing. And by then Annie hardly knew them. There had been things to understand and they’d got through together, as a family. Kate had been able to leave her own kids and stay for a few days at the end. She was the image of her mother. He’d noticed her grey hairs as she bent over Annie to pull the draw-sheet from under her. It seemed odd to have children who were growing old. Like a wheel turning, gripping, then turning some more. Oh, it wasn’t wrong. It’s the way things are. To grow old, to die. But not alone, dear God, not alone. He’d never expected that.
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Daniel’s hand slips the door catch. He stamps his feet into his Wellingtons and goes out to meet the postman.
    â€˜Morning Daniel. It’s a cold un!’
    â€˜It is! Owt fresh?’
    â€˜My patch’s still clear, touch wood! They’ve put disinfectant traps all along the main roads. Whether they’ll do owt I don’t know. It’s a sad do.’
    â€˜That’s about time. I’ve not been out, mind.’
    â€˜No.’
    The postman is sorting mail on his lap. Daniel scratches his head, as if talking is a new thing.
    â€˜Will you come in for a brew?’
    The postman hesitates. He’s a slight chap with a thick head of red hair and a coppery beard.
    â€˜I’d best not. I’ll have to disinfect. And there’s still snow at Henby...’
    â€˜Still? That’s a rum do! It’s way lower than here...’
    The postman hands him a bundle of letters from the van, all junk mail. Then a small packet wrapped in brown paper and sealed with string in the old-fashioned way. Daniel doesn’t know the writing. Pale blue. Should he know it?
    Henry puts the van into gear, still talking over his shoulder.
    â€˜It dun’t get much sun over that south slope. Yesterday’t track were still all drifted up, like.’
    â€˜Have they lambed yet?’
    â€˜Reckon so. Reckon they’re about done. How about you?’
    â€˜Just three more ewes, then I’m finished.’
    â€˜Champion!’
    The postman is turning the van, the engine puttering out a fantail of smoke.
    â€˜See you tomorrow, Daniel.’
    â€˜See you, Henry! Go easy at Henby, then.’
    â€˜Aye, I will.’
    And now he’s just a vague face, a hand waving from behind the tinted glass of the post van which goes down the track crookedly, a bead of blood trickling across white skin.
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Daniel glances again at the handful of junk mail and dumps everything but the packet into the bin. Things . Everyone seems obsessed with things these days. Loans, mobile phones, clothing, cars, furniture. But he needs nothing. He’s well supplied. That’s what he likes to say when those chattering sales folk ring him up. Well supplied . It has a kind of finality for him. He’d want for nothing, thank you. It was like a different language. A language from another world drifting into the headsets of the telesales centres. A few of them chat to him for the quaintness of his language, for the old-fashioned flavour of his voice, the taste of a world that lies somewhere