convinced. ‘When did you last see him?’
‘Over a week ago now,’ I have to admit. ‘He’s hoping to come home on Sunday though.’
‘So he should. Love by Skype isn’t quite the same.’
‘No.’ Never a truer word spoken. ‘It’s the official opening night next week, so it’s only going to get worse from here on in.’
Bev’s frown deepens.
‘It is just a temporary thing,’ I assure her. ‘After Christmas, everything will be back to normal.’
But Bev doesn’t realise that I have my fingers crossed when I say that.
After we’ve finished in town, we take our booty back to the farm. It’s dark early in the day now and all the lights are on – a welcoming sight. Bev drops me off and parks the car while I shut the gate. All the students will have gone home now, their tasks finished for the day.
Alan comes out of the barn and they hug each other as if they haven’t seen each other for months. I get a little pang of loneliness.
‘I’ve seen kids off,’ Alan says. ‘And fed animals.’
‘Thanks, that’s very kind. Saves me a job.’
Alan nods.
‘Were the kids OK this afternoon?’ I ask.
‘Depends what you mean by OK? No one died.’
That’s good enough for me. Some days you have to be grateful for small mercies and hope that tomorrow will be better.
‘Come on, lover,’ Bev says. ‘Take me home and ravish me.’
‘Can we have us tea first?’ Alan asks. ‘I’m starving.’
‘I’d never expect you to lurrrrve on an empty stomach,’ she purrs.
In reality she’ll be on her sofa watching Flinton’s Farm with a cup of tea. Perhaps I should start watching it. I can get it on my phone. That would be a surefire way of seeing Shelby every day. Though, as Lucas bans it in our humble abode, I’d have to watch it in secret.
I say goodnight to Alan and Bev, then do a quick tour of the animals. They’re all happy to settle down early and most are already curled up, comfy in their straw. Oh, for the life of a pampered animal. Mind you, it wasn’t always thus for our charges so they deserve a bit of love and TLC.
When I’m done, I head to the caravan. The lights are blazing out and the kitchen window is steamed up. The second I’m through the door, the dogs go into a barking frenzy and hurl themselves at me and I fuss them while saying ‘Inside voices, doggies. Inside voices.’
Lucas is at the stove stirring a pot. The raising of one eyebrow is his more muted response to my homecoming.
‘Hey,’ I say.
‘Successful trip into town?’
I hold up my plastic saviour of mankind. ‘New Baby Jesus.’
‘Cool,’ he says. ‘It looks a bit creepy though.’
‘It’s a doll. They’re all creepy.’
‘I’ve made some supper.’ Lucas nods at the pan he’s stirring. ‘I’ve been a total shitbag for the last few days. This is an apology in the form of a curry.’
‘Smells wonderful.’ And it does. A waft of spices fills the air.
‘Sweet potato and spinach dhal,’ he says. ‘Downloaded the recipe.’
‘You modern thing, you.’
Lucas chuckles. ‘I’m not modern, you’re a dinosaur.’
‘It’s nice to see you laugh,’ I tell him.
‘Yeah, well. I’m a moody teenager. What can I say?’
I’d like to give him a hug, but that might be a step too far. ‘Have I got time for a shower before dinner?’
‘If you don’t hang about. Ready in five.’
‘OK.’ So I do as I’m told and rush round in the shower and throw on some clean clothes. Then I set the table and, as soon as I’m done, Lucas dishes up, ladling the curry into bowls with dairy-free bread on the side.
‘Where did you get this lot?’
‘I walked down to the village shop. A new guy has taken it over and they stock some amazing stuff.’
‘I’ll have to check it out.’
‘Yeah, but you’ve been off the farm once this week, so you’ll have to wait until you’ve plucked up courage again.’
‘True.’
Lucas laughs again as he spoons the dahl into his mouth. He seems much cheerier and I wonder why.
‘If you think you can manage it, I’ve got a poetry slam coming up.’
‘I’ve no idea what that is.’
‘It’s like a poetry competition, generally judged by people who know nothing about poetry, but I’ve kind of entered it.’ Then he goes all shy. ‘No big deal if it’s not your thing.’
‘Of course it is. I’d love to come along. You know that I always want to hear more of your poetry.’
‘It would be nice to have your