Finding Fraser(95)

“It’s not that bad, is it?”

He scrutinized me closely. “Well, it’s fair hideous, still. But how’s this? You are one of the family. And I don’t want you to worry about the money, so if you stay home for another fortnight, I’ll pay ye at half-wages, aye?”

“I guess so,” I said. “But, please don’t give my job away, Sandeep. I need …”

I stopped. I hadn’t mentioned to Sandeep that I was going to have to return to the States soon. All the more reason for him to give my job away.

“Ach, dinnae worry. The ol’ lady from the Internet Cafe is lendin’ a hand.”

“Bet she doesn’t make as good a cappuccino as me,” I muttered.

“She don’t break as many dishes, neither,” he said.

There was a rustling behind me, and Morag walked in. “Ye’ve got to quit making these escapes, Emma,” she said. “It’s playin’ hell with mah schedule.”

I stared at her. “How did you even know I was here?”

She nodded at Sandeep, and he tucked his phone in his pocket guiltily. “Look, lass—jes’ take a fortnight off. Ye can help me wi’ the garden, aye? A little sun will help that complexion.”

“I hope so,” Sandeep muttered, darkly.

I shot him a look. “Fine. I’ll be back in a week. But you are going to miss me, I promise you.”

Morag tossed my bike into the back of her truck as if it weighed nothing.

“I’m sure he will. In the meantime, this bicycle is mine for the present, aye?”





July 25

So, the truth came out on the drive home. Turns out it was Morag who suggested to Sandeep that I take the time off, and told him she’d waive my rent, while I was sick.

Argued with her about this long and hard, but deeply touched, actually. What a softie she is, though you’d never know it to look at her.

Also? It turns out a fortnight is actually TWO weeks.

She insisted I would work for my keep, and so that’s what I’ve done. Weeded the garden, learned how to feed Reinhardt and the other cattle, and trekked the fields, checking on the sheep every day.

No sign of Hamish. I think – he might be truly done with me. Yesterday while weeding, I caught myself humming Beach Boys tunes. I miss him so much, but am haunted by one question: would Jamie have left Claire to recover from the plague alone?





July 30

Morag won’t let me near the bike, so once again forced to write notes here in the hope that one day I’ll get to my blog again.

I’ve spent this week mucking out the barn, which is just about as fun as it sounds. Unfortunately, all this labor has meant I have been eating like a horse. I’ve managed to acquire a pretty decent farmer’s tan, and my biceps are looking fine. But I looked this morning and I can’t find the shadow of my hipbone any more.

I complained bitterly to Morag, who told me that all decent men like something to hold on to. “Hipbones,” she said, “are fookin’ nonsense.”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard her use that word before!

Later...

I heard Morag yelling at her farmhand this afternoon. Apparently she caught him asleep in the haymow.

“Ye need to step spritely if ye’re to earn yer salary,” she said, “since mah boarder is doin’ twice the work of you, yeh lazy sow”.

I flexed my new biceps and beamed for the rest of the day.





Fondness in the Fields…

12:15 pm, August 3

Nairn, Scotland



Since I have little to discuss of my own life except that I am feeling better, I thought I’d share a quick story about someone else instead.

This person, whom I will call Mary, has title to her own farm here in the Highlands. Livestock, a huge garden and a few acres of crops. She’s pretty much self-sufficient, and she works very hard, especially at this time of year, getting ready for the harvest.

No time for anything else, aye?

The neighboring farmer has a field of spring wheat that is harvested early in August each year. We’ll call him Henry. Since I’ve been here, Henry and Mary have little more to do with each other than any other neighbors would. They help each other out with equipment once and a while, and that’s about it.

Yesterday was Mary’s birthday, though, and in the morning, as I walked the bull up to his pasture, I noticed something odd. Henry’s field of spring wheat had been plowed. But only part of it. Only the middle.

In the shape of a heart.

When I pointed it out to Mary, she shrugged and suggested I was inventing things. I replied that I was not, it was clear to anyone with eyes in their head that the field had been partially plowed, and the wheat that had fallen was in a heart-shaped pattern. She then insisted that it was I who was love-obsessed and it was making me see things. I then noted that the object of my affections had been unexplainedly absent for the duration of my severe and disfiguring illness.