Iris, a medium fawn beauty with golden highlights, wanders right up to us.
Alpacas don’t generally like to be petted, but they might tolerate it, and in some cases, like it. Ours are very tame so they tend to oblige us.
Iris’s fleece flattens beneath Jamie’s hands as he runs them down her thick soft neck. It’s been almost a year since the herd was shorn, so they’re especially full-bodied and fluffy.
‘Why do you keep them?’ George asks as a breeze flows down the hill and rustles the brown curls on his head.
I draw my cardigan around myself. The sunny day had me fooled – the temperature has dropped again.
‘We farm them for their fibre,’ Jamie explains. ‘They’re shorn once a year in May and their fleece is super soft, light, warm and worth a lot more than sheep wool.’
‘Is that what Ivan sells at the market?’
Jamie nods. ‘He sells yarn, but we knit stuff to sell too.’
‘We?’
‘Carrie, Joanne, Preston, Leah and me. We all make gear: scarves, finger puppets, hats… Carrie has a whole other group of people who do blankets, gloves and headbands – all sorts, really.’
‘Wait.’ He looks dubious. ‘You knit?’
‘Yep. Carrie will have you learning too. And don’t get all snarky like I did: “I’m not doing any of that shite. What is this, child labour?”’ Jamie mocks his younger self.
I remember it well.
‘You keep every penny you make,’ he continues. ‘Carrie and Ivan charge next to nowt for the fibre, so it’s almost all profit. That’s why there was no moaning from Preston and Joanne earlier. They love going to the market to sell their crap.’
I grin at Jamie and he mirrors my cheeky look.
Often the produce is a bit questionable. Mum can sometimes be found staying up late into the night on Fridays, trying to fix flaws and get products to a saleable state. But luckily there are a few kind locals and plenty of tourists who support the stall.
‘Come on,’ I urge, shivering. ‘I need to walk to warm up.’
‘You ain’t going to ride Daisy?’ Jamie asks, deadpan. ‘George, you take Marigold; I’ll hop on Mistletoe.’
He points out the two youngsters, who are playfully pronking, all four feet lifting off the ground at the same time as they spring into the air.
‘Hands off Mistletoe, she’s mine,’ I warn jokily as George snorts with amusement.
Mistletoe’s black fleece is tipped with brown and, when she’s shorn next month and her fibre is eventually spun into yarn, it’ll be the luxuriant dark colour of liquorice. My parents have promised I can make myself wrist warmers out of it.
Mum calls to us as we cross the courtyard. She’s standing in the kitchen doorway, her light-brown hair falling half free of her high ponytail. Nia likes to tug at it.
I can hear the baby inside, crying, but Ashlee is peeking out from behind Mum’s legs.
‘Can you take Ashlee with you to see the hens?’ Mum asks.
‘Sure.’ I walk over and hold out my hand to the three-year-old. ‘Do you want to come with us to Chicken Island?’
She stares up at me with big dark eyes and then looks at my hand, tentatively reaching out to take it. Her tight black curls are barely long enough, but somehow Mum has managed to secure them in pigtails on either side of her face. She looks super cute.
‘Let’s put on your wellies so you can splash in the stream.’
Ashlee’s face lights up and she stomps her feet with excitement.
Mum disappears back inside and George and Jamie stand by while I sit the child down on the bench seat under the kitchen window and retrieve her boots from the nearby row of pegs. She watches George warily as I release the velcro straps on her pink trainers and remove them from her feet, placing them side by side under the bench.
When Ashlee first came to us, she was terrified of white men: the milkman, the vet, other farmers – most of the men around here, to be honest. If any of them paid us a visit, she’d make herself scarce. She even avoided my gentle, kind dad, and once, when Preston lost his shit about something, she fled from the room and hid in my mum’s side of the wardrobe. It took us ages to find her.
On the whole, social workers try to find placements with foster families who live in the same area as the child needing care – ideally, there shouldn’t be any need to change schools or leave behind friends. Our place, being so rural, is a bit of a last resort.
But Ashlee and Nia were moved away from their local area for their own safety following the death of their mother and the disappearance of their father. The police still haven’t tracked down their dad – he’s wanted for questioning – but neighbours have alleged that he was a very violent man.
Ashlee and Nia’s father is white and their mother was black. I don’t know if the girls suffered physical abuse at the former’s hands – as I say, I try not to ask for the details – but the fact that they gravitate towards Jamie, while avoiding any man with pale skin, I think, speaks volumes.
Thankfully Ashlee is fine with Dad now – it helps that he never raises his voice. She’s okay with Preston too, but she’s unsure what to make of George. He’s still an unknown quantity.
‘There you go,’ I say when she’s ready. ‘You look like a mini superhero.’
She’s wearing bright red boots, sky-blue leggings and a red hoodie.
‘Aah, but can she fly?’ Jamie asks meaningfully. He walks over and holds out his hand with a grin.
‘You want to swing?’ I prompt in a whisper.
Ashlee smiles and lets Jamie take her hand, stretching her free one out to me.
‘One, two, three, swing!’ we say in unison, laughing as an eruption of giggles carries across the farmyard.
The sound is so addictive that we carry on all the way down to the stream, and my arm is aching by the time we pause on the small wooden bridge. Below us, the cool clear water bubbles over the pebbles on its way to the River Nidd.
‘Can you point out Chicken Island to George?’ I ask Ashlee.
She gives him a guarded look and edges slightly behind me, but obediently extends her finger.
George glances down at her and nods, but doesn’t engage further.
The stream widens out at this point and is so shallow that a sandy mound has formed in the middle of the water. A couple of years ago, Jamie laid a plank of wood across from the bank for the flock of chickens to use as a bridge. A few hens can usually be found pecking about in the grit there.
We make our way down to the water’s edge. The flock pays us no attention, too busy scratching around for grubs.
Ashlee nudges her toe into the shallows, not fully trusting that her boots will keep her dry.
‘Where’s the Little Red Hen?’ I ask, crouching down so I’m at her level.
She looks around, her eyes darting from one bird to the next. ‘There!’ She points at a chicken with a reddish hue to her brown feathers.
‘Well done!’
‘We don’t think she’d ever even heard a nursery rhyme until she came here,’ Jamie says to George. ‘Now she’ll actually sing if you get her started.’
From the look on his face, I think the chances of George instigating a singing session are incredibly slim.