A Question of Guilt(64)

‘I’m sure we can spare one of our hands until you can find a more permanent solution,’ he said. ‘Rod, my manager, was telling me only the other day that he thought we were overstaffed, but they’ve all been with us so long I’m reluctant to get rid of any of them.’

Relief flooded my weary, stressed-out body.

‘Oh Jeremy, that is so kind! We’ll pay for the labour, of course.’

‘Let’s not worry about that now. You’ve got enough on your plate.’

That much was certainly true, but I knew Dad would want it sorted as soon as possible. He was old school, paying bills the minute they came due, not holding off to the last possible moment. He hated owing anyone a penny. Jeremy might be well off, but that was no reason to take advantage of his generosity.

‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow,’ I said.

Jeremy dropped me in the farmyard and waited until I reached the front door before driving away. There was no sign of Scrumpy; she must be asleep, I supposed, but it was very unusual for her not to emerge, barking, from her kennel at the sound of an unfamiliar vehicle entering her territory.

I fitted my key into the lock and attempted to turn it, but couldn’t. Puzzled, but too tired to think straight, I tried again without success before it dawned on me – the door wasn’t locked. In my haste to get to the hospital I must have forgotten to lock up properly.

I opened the door and went inside, switching on the hall light, and was totally taken by surprise to see Scrumpy in the kitchen doorway. Her tail was down and she looked thoroughly wretched.

‘Scrumpy? What on earth are you doing in here?’ I asked, puzzled. Scrumpy rarely, if ever, came into the house; when she wasn’t out on the farm with Dad, she lived in her kennel, and the last time I remembered seeing her was cowering in the yard when I rushed out to go to Dad after his accident.

She must have slipped in unnoticed during all the subsequent comings and goings, I supposed, and unknowingly I’d shut her in.

‘It’s all right, Scrumpy,’ I said. ‘I’m not cross with you. You’ve got to go outside now though.’

Scrumpy slunk towards me, then put on speed, running out of the door and heading for her kennel. I followed her out and clipped her to her leash. She was obviously very upset, and I didn’t want her running off again, perhaps in search of Dad.

Back inside, I locked the door after me and eased my feet out of my boots. The answering machine was blinking, indicating messages, and I was half tempted to leave picking them up until morning. But I couldn’t bring myself to do that. Though common sense told me that if Mum wanted me she’d have called me on my mobile, I couldn’t take the risk.

None of the messages were from Mum, of course.

The first was Josh.

‘Sally – I’ve just heard from Belinda about your dad. I’ve tried to get you on your mobile, but it’s switched off, so I assume you’re at the hospital. I just wanted to say if there’s anything I can do, just let me know.’

A little spark of warmth flared in the cold place inside me. Josh sounded worried. Josh cared. He was there for me.

There were a couple of other messages in the same vein from friends of Mum and Dad – bad news travels fast, I thought. The last one was Rachel.

‘Steve just came in from playing skittles and says he heard Jack has had an accident and is in hospital. Is he all right? I’m really worried. Big hugs to you all. I’ll ring again tomorrow.’

Good old Rach. Another real friend. The concern everyone was expressing made me feel less alone, though of course it did nothing to alleviate my awful anxiety. I went into the kitchen, intending to make myself a hot drink, decided I couldn’t be bothered, and poured myself the last of the brandy from the half bottle that was still on the table. Then, somehow managing not to spill it, I hauled myself upstairs, got undressed, and collapsed into bed.

Predictably, I slept badly, horrible dreams interspersed with periods of wakefulness when I tossed and turned and worried. I couldn’t get the picture of Dad lying in the lane out of my head, nor the one of the last glimpse I’d had of him in hospital, hooked up to drips and the ventilator. By six thirty I was wide awake again, feeling as if the weight of the world was pressing down on my chest, and my mouth dry with the horrible aftertaste of the brandy. There was a dull throb behind my left temple too; I hoped it wouldn’t develop into a full-blown headache.

I got up, got dressed, and went out into the cold, grey dawn to make sure Mark Turnbull had turned up to help Sam with the milking. He had, and he promised to come back again this afternoon – no need to call on Jeremy’s farmhand today at least then.