She made up another couple, and some fresh tea, and headed out, leaving Agot chattering into Innes’s patient ear. Bramble, she noticed, got up too, and followed her slowly. She scratched his head and resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at Innes. This dog was fond of her, and that was that.
She crossed the open courtyard, through which chickens and ducks roamed. Flora wasn’t fond of the chickens, even though everyone loved their eggs. There was something about their beady eyes, the way they ganged up on the ducks and stole their corn, and triumphantly—and, Flora thought, on purpose—pooed on the farmhouse steps. Occasionally she’d come in the house and find one unexpectedly on the sofa, which caused quite a lot of kerfuffle. Bramble, as useless at guard-dogging as at basically everything, kept very quiet when the chickens arrived; otherwise they attempted to peck at him and chivvy him about. They were very bossy chickens.
“Move,” she said to them as they eyed her suspiciously. “Come on, out of the way.”
“DON’T KICK CHOOKS!” came a voice behind her.
She turned round. Agot was standing there, looking at her severely.
“YOU DON’T GET NICE EGGS IF YOU KICK CHOOKS,” she said, in a voice that indicated that she had personal experience of this.
“You’re right,” said Flora. “You shouldn’t kick chooks.”
Agot beamed, happy to have been correct in her analysis, and Flora continued on her way.
The dairy was on the right coming out of the house, slightly raised to make it easier to sluice and for the truck to get in and park. Compared to the flat gray elegance of the farmhouse, it was a rather more basic building, with corrugated-iron sides and long lines of machines.
To the side of the dairy was the wet room, where her mother used to spin butter; they had also occasionally hired a dairymaid to supplement their income in the winter months. Flora hadn’t been in it since she’d gotten back. It had a heavy smell, and chill winds blew in through the gap between the shed and the ground. She hadn’t liked it as a child either; it was so cold and odd, even though she loved the butter as much as anyone else.
She knocked at the door, feeling, as she did so, how strange that was; it was barely a door at all, just a bit of iron knocked up on hinges.
“Fintan?”
Her voice echoed around the dairy. It was empty of cows, of course, done for the morning, then a lad from town took care of them in the evening. Their essence remained, but Flora, after wrinkling her nose constantly for the first day or so, had finally ceased to notice it, or if she did, she found the warm scent oddly comforting.
There was a pause. Then a suspicious, “Aye?”
Flora rolled her eyes.
“Fintan, it’s obviously me,” she said. “I brought you something. If you like.”
The wet-room door was pulled open a tiny crack. Fintan was wearing a large old sweater covered in holes. His hair was getting seriously long now; it was a bit ridiculous. And his beard was equally unkempt.
“What?”
Cold air came out through the gap.
“It’s freezing in here,” said Flora. The contrast to the sun-trap courtyard was absolutely noticeable.
“Yeah, it has to be,” said Fintan. “Don’t worry, it’s a farm thing, you wouldn’t understand.”
He went to shut the door.
“Fintan. Please,” said Flora.
He glanced down at the tray she was carrying. She’d put the jam pot next to the plate.
“Is that . . .?”
“I didn’t think she’d mind.”
“It hasn’t gone off?”
“No,” said Flora. “She was brilliant at making jam.”
“She was brilliant at lots of things,” said Fintan.
There was a pause.
Then he sighed and relented, opening the door.
“Well then,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Want to come in?” He looked at the jam again.
“I’m amazed you didn’t all guzzle it before,” said Flora.
“I know. It . . . it felt wrong, somehow. To eat the only things we had left of her.”
Flora paused.
“I think she’d have wanted us to eat it.”
Fintan nodded.
“Yes. I suppose she probably would.”
“Agot definitely thinks we should eat it.”
“Well, if Agot thinks so . . .”
He smiled, took a scone, and ate a large mouthful. Then he paused.
“That’s exactly how she used to make them.”
“Well, I used her recipe.”
He snapped up another scone in one bite. His face contorted for a moment.
“Amazing. Weird. Amazing.”
Flora handed over the plate and the cup of tea. She glanced around.
“What are you doing in here anyway?”
There was a pause.
“Oh, well . . .”
“You don’t have to tell me,” said Flora.
“No, I want to, but . . . don’t tell Dad and Hamish and Innes.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. They’d laugh at me.”
“That would make a change from everyone just laughing at me the entire time.”
“That’s true. So maybe I won’t tell you.”
“No! Tell me! What is it?”
Fintan beckoned her in, then closed the door behind them as if expecting to be overheard.
“I was just experimenting,” he said.
“What with?”
“Well, with . . . Sit down.”
Confused, Flora did as she was told.
“Right,” he said. “You’re to try this and tell me what you think.”
The room had a huge, deep sink, metal surfaces, and a hose; it had to be kept spotlessly clean at all times due to the possibility of bacteria entering the milk. Fintan disappeared into a corner and returned with a huge cloth-covered circle; as Flora focused, she saw that there were several of these sitting on the shelves.
He unwrapped it very carefully, as if undressing a baby. Inside was a huge, soft-looking cheese. Flora looked at him, her eyebrows raised, but he wasn’t paying any attention to her whatsoever. He took a tiny sharp knife and nicked a sliver off the wheel, proffering it to her.
“Seriously?” said Flora. “You made this?”
“Just try it.”
“Just try it? You get cheese wrong, you could kill me.”
“I’m not going to kill you.”
“I’m not saying you’d do it on purpose.”
“Look,” he said. “I’ve eaten loads. I’ve been working on this stuff for years.”
“Years?”
“Yes. It’s been . . . kind of a hobby.”
“Years?”
“Just try it, will you?”
Flora took the knife, then, not entirely trusting herself, picked up the cheese with her fingers and popped it into her mouth.
It was one of the most exquisite things she had ever tasted. It had the sharp bite of an aged Cheddar, but a softer creaminess, more like blue cheese, with a huge depth of flavor behind it.
It was astonishing.
She blinked.
“Oh my God,” she said. Then she handed back the knife. “Give me some more.”
Slowly, a huge grin crossed Fintan’s face.
“Seriously? You like it.”
“Seriously! It’s amazing.”
Fintan shot a worried look at the door.
“Don’t tell them,” he said. “I mean it. Please. Don’t.”
“Why not?” She looked around. “There’s loads of it. How long exactly have you been doing this?”
He shrugged.
“Oh, you know. I just . . . I just needed to get away when . . . you know.”
Flora did know. When their mother had gone into the hospital and, really, never come home again.
“Well, are you going to do something with it?”
“I don’t . . . All Innes cares about is money.”
“Well, it’s his job to.”