So, Friday morning sees me scrambling up the hillside behind my cottage toward Greystones, the powerful quad bike roaring under me. I may need to leave it there tonight and walk back as Tom mentioned eating and drinking, and I won’t want to be riding this monster if I’ve not got a clear head. That’s an excellent way of ending up underneath the thing. I reach a wide bridleway and follow it up to come out on the lane leading to Greystones. I turn in by the vending machine, roaring up the farm track to the large house. I make my noisy way around to the back and pull up alongside a second quad bike parked outside the kitchen door. Tom would have to be stone deaf not to know I’m here so I turn off the engine, remove my crash helmet, hop off and pocket the key before opening the door softly and slipping inside.
Tom’s at the kitchen table, a newspaper spread out in front of him. He smiles as I enter, standing up to greet me, which he does by taking my face between his palms and kissing me. It’s a long, slow, lover’s kiss, and as a ‘hello’ it definitely works for me. He parts my lips with his tongue to dip into my mouth. I’m surprised, I wasn’t expecting this, or at least not so early in the day, but it feels wonderful and I see no reason to argue.
I sink into it, reaching my hands up to link behind his neck as he picks me up easily and deposits me on the edge of the table. He continues to kiss me, gently cupping my cheeks with his large rough palms, positioning my head for his mouth. My world spins just a little, and I part my lips greedily, seeking more, and instinctively I join in the dance of tongues. Not sure of the etiquette here I slip my tongue forward to explore Tom’s mouth, tentative at first but then with more confidence as he sucks my tongue in. I’m thrilled by the sudden, unanticipated intimacy, intrigued by the textures and tastes of Tom Shore. He’s delicious, soft, inviting, and I run my tongue eagerly along the insides of his lips.
Eventually he lifts his head, smiling down at me as I catch my breath.
“Good morning, gorgeous.” His first words to me.
“Good morning, yourself. And wow, you certainly seem pleased to see me…” I can’t help the breathless giggle that creeps into my voice. It’s been a long time since I was kissed like that. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed like that. Kenny didn’t go in for such unnecessary niceties.
“Mmm, I certainly am. And if you care to go through my pockets again you’ll find out just how much.”
“Again? I…” I pull up short, gulping the words back as I recall the last time I went through his jeans pockets and discovered his erection. That awful night on a riverside path in Bristol. Embarrassed, blushing furiously at the memory—not least at recalling my reaction to his arousal that so startled me then—I drop my hands from behind his neck and try to wriggle away, to hop down from the table. But he’s having none of it. His hands on my hips hold me in place and he drops his head to nuzzle the delicate skin below my ear.
“It’s done, love. Over with. I didn’t mean to upset you. It was a joke, but I’m sorry I mentioned it. Forgive me?”
“Forgive
you
? It was me who…”
“Shhhh.” And his mouth covers mine again. There is no talking for a while.
“I didn’t know you had two quads.”
“I don’t. The other one’s Nathan’s. I borrowed it.”
“If you need yours you don’t need to lend it to me. It’s great, but if you need it…”
“I don’t use it that much. I get around in the Land Rover or tractor mostly. The quad’s good fun, though, and like I said, come lambing time it’s faster on the really rough terrain up on the higher hills. I’ll need it back then, for a few weeks at least.”
“So why are there two outside now?”
“Because I want to show you Greystones. All of it. And the quads are the best way to get around. And most fun. First, though, I’ve never known you show up here and not be hungry. Can I interest you in breakfast?”
I smile and nod happily. He most certainly can.
An hour or so later we’ve managed to do justice to a slow, relaxed full English-style breakfast-cum-lunch. I don’t usually go in for the full works but Tom just set to grilling sausages, bacon, tomatoes, griddled some eggs, and put the whole lot in front of me along with a plate of his perfectly browned toast. I’d no idea how hungry I was and tucked in and shifted the lot. And swilled it down with three cups of coffee.
“So, do you fancy that? The grand tour?”
“Oh yes! Lovely.” And I really do fancy it, my enthusiasm is genuine. I’ve pumped the Appleyards for information about the farm and they’ve been forthcoming enough, when they have time, but I’ve still got lots of questions about the rare breeds and the frequent influx of visitors who arrive usually in minibuses. Often it’s groups of schoolchildren from what I’ve seen, but occasionally adults. They never come in the house, but I see them trooping in and out of the barns and across the fields with either Tom or Seth Appleyard leading the way. Often they get involved in some farming activity such as feeding the chickens or loading bales of hay onto the trailer behind Tom’s huge tractor. I somehow doubt they’re particularly efficient as farm hands but Tom seems patient, tolerant of mistakes, and always welcomes his visitors.
“Right, come on then. You’ll need to be well wrapped up…” And in no time I’m enveloped in a huge woolly pullover, the sleeves rolled up to free my hands, and a waxed waterproof jacket similar to the one Tom always wears. He pulls my crash helmet down over my ears and kisses my nose before reaching for his own outdoor clothes. He’s similarly togged up as we stroll out to the quads.
“We’ll go around the lower meadows first, look in on some of the different breeds we keep here.” He sets off around to the front of the farmhouse and I follow. In a few minutes we’re roaring up the hillside, the golds and browns of heather and bracken whizzing past us, the wind whipping strands of my hair across my face. I tied it back before I left Smithy’s Forge but somehow Tom’s managed to loosen it. I laugh out loud, the sheer pleasure of the ride, the wild beauty of this glorious landscape feeding my soul as Tom’s breakfast earlier fed my body. If I let him, this man could be so good for me.
Eventually Tom rounds the top of the nearest hill and pulls to a halt, gazing down at the foothills below us. I stop alongside, warmed by his easy smile. He pulls off his crash helmet and I do the same as he points to a group of woolly sheep milling about on the rocky, craggy slopes, grazing contentedly. Most are clustered together in a fleecy huddle, bleating shrilly at each other. One or two hardier souls have ventured away from the group to forage among the dilapidated dry stone walls, springing nimbly up onto the tumbling ruined ancient barriers to get a better view of their wild environment. Instinctively I reach for my camera, as always shoved into my pocket before I left home. I frame a few shots, take some close-up studies of the sheep as Tom sits silently watching me.
“How’s the new camera working out?”
“It’s okay. I preferred yours, though. Still…”
“You can have it back. As a Christmas present.”
“Oh no, really, I didn’t mean that. It’s yours. I had no right to it.”
“I want
you
to have it. Please, Ashley, take it. For me?” Again, his smile is contagious, engaging. Irresistible. I smile and nod my thanks.
“Those beauties down there are Leicester Longwools. Brilliant fleeces. And over there”—he points to another small flock about a mile away—“those are Teeswaters. Similar high-quality wool producers. Decent meat too. Do you like lamb, Ashley?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Would you like to come up here and help out with lambing, choose yourself a lamb that you saw being born, maybe even helped into the world? Help to rear it, maybe come onto the farm at weekends or in the holidays, help out with shearing and rounding up? Or other jobs around the place. And eventually, when it’s time, you get your own lamb, freshly slaughtered and butchered and delivered to you in freezer-ready lumps. How’s that sound, Ashley?”
“My own lamb? Eat my own lamb?” My face probably betrays my horror. “Would it have a name? My lamb?”
“Best if it doesn’t probably. It’s not for everyone, but our community agriculture scheme is fairly popular. Most of the lambs born here are pre-purchased, and their owners come along from time to time to get involved on the farm as part payment. It makes good local produce more affordable for them and provides me with labor when I need it. And it’s more humane. No terrifying long-distance trips to the abattoir for my sheep, they’re slaughtered right here on the farm. No food miles. If you’re going to eat meat you could do worse. You should try it, love. Your freezer definitely needs stocking up with some decent food.”
I shudder, but I can see his point. “Fine. I’ll buy one, but I’ll have no money to pay you until January. Will you make me lift hay bales? Like the school groups?”
“I’ll wait. Or you can pay me in kind—I think I’d prefer that. And you only get to load my hay if you ask very nicely.” He winks at me and I find myself smiling back, beginning to think this sort of transaction is not without its attractions. He laughs, and I suspect my thoughts are more transparent than I might like.
He goes on, “And they’re not schools as a rule. Most of the kids who come up here are young offenders on various types of rehabilitation schemes. Community reparation, but also some diversionary activity. You know the sort of thing, intended to keep the little dears out of worse mischief, give them a chance to do something useful and build self-esteem.”
“Kids like me, you mean?”
“You’re not a kid, Ashley. Thank God, given what I’ve got in mind for you later. And no, most of the young people who come up here are nothing at all like you. You’re smart, determined, brave and independent. Under all the swagger and bravado most of these kids are frightened, vulnerable little characters. Fragile really, and in need of a decent role model, some care and some consistent discipline. That’s what we try to offer.”
I stare at him, stunned. Not least at his plans for later on. I drag my thoughts back to the serious matter of youth crime prevention. “What is this, the Tom Shore School for ASBO ’As-beens? Does it work? And how long have you been doing this?”
“Just a year or so. And I think it might work, some of the time. I guess you could say our first encounter on the riverside in Bristol inspired me. And don’t get defensive, love. What’s done is done. I’ve moved on. You should.”
Well, maybe, but even so…
“We get paid for hosting the visits, mainly by the probation service but some youth organizations come up here as well. And yes, some schools too. So the project is economically viable, just about. It has to be or we couldn’t continue. The farm has to pay its way.”
“Do you get tourists coming to look at the rare breeds? Hikers? Campers?”
“Yes, all of that. And every two years we hold a music festival and that brings thousands of visitors here over the three days. There’s one in September.”
“The place must get very crowded. I thought farmers wanted to keep trespassers off, not attract them.”
“Most do, but I wanted to be different. I took this place over because I wanted to prove that you can make a decent living out of farming but still be humane. I treat my stock well and they thrive. They pay their way and that’s good enough. I welcome people onto my land, try to encourage them to stay a while, get involved. And that pays its way too. I have several holiday cottages and those make a decent profit. Smithy’s Forge is proving to be exceptionally rewarding…” Again that sexy smile, full of promise and heat.
I’m starting to shiver, and not because I’m cold.
“You okay, Ashley? Do you want to go back yet? There’s more to see, but if you’re cold…”
“No, I’m fine. Let’s stay out a bit longer.”
“Right then, saddle up.” And he’s back astride his quad, the engine firing into life. I scurry back to my machine and start it up. We turn to head farther uphill, up onto the highest, wildest section of moorland. We climb steadily, the throaty growl of the quads throbbing beneath us as we ascend. The moorland is harsher up here, the grass still thick but wiry and tough, the wind cold and sharp in our faces. We’re so high it feels like we’re flying, soaring above the wilderness stretching below us for miles in every direction. We ride in silence, side by side, not racing, just enjoying the views and each other in equal measure.
Eventually Tom slows, pulls up. I slide into place beside him and we both remove our helmets again. The force of the wind up here is tremendous and my hair is again whipping around my face. I struggle to stuff it down the neck of my jacket. I’m shivering—and this time it
is
owing to the cold.
“This is where Nathan and I want to put our wind farm. I expect I don’t need to explain why it’s a good spot.”
“Christ, yes. It must be a force nine gale up here.”
“More or less, and all year round. Lots of local opposition, though, from the NIMBYs and the conservation lobby so we need to move slowly, consult, persuade, that sort of thing. I doubt the parish council are ever going to come around, but district and national planning policy’s in favor of sustainable energy production so we’ll get planning permission. Eventually. Even if we can’t get served in the Rock and Heifer.”
I can’t help a wry grin at the prospect of the high-and-mighty Nathan Darke banned from his local pub for desecrating the landscape with windmills, but still, I wonder if the protesters might not have a point. This is certainly a wonderful spot, untamed, unspoilt. I say as much to Tom.