I can’t begin to tell Alan what dastardly fate has befallen our poor Jesus. I fear it would tip him over the edge. So, instead, I offer, ‘It looks very nice.’
Bev can find the right moment to tell him that we are in need of a replacement.
As I go to leave, my dear friend turns up. ‘Hello, my lover.’ She twines her arms around Alan and presses her full-chest Whitesnake band logo against his. Neither Lucas nor I were even close to this level of heavy metal, so no band T-shirt winner today.
They snuggle together and make coochy-coo love noises to each other.
‘Get a room, you two,’ I say. ‘That’s gross.’
‘You’re only jealous because your man’s not here,’ Bev says.
‘This is true.’ I haven’t seen Shelby for days. ‘Can I tear you away from each other? You and I need to have a conversation about this looming nativity stuff and Christmas in general.’
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Bev assures me. ‘I have it all under control.’
For the record, there is no evidence of this.
‘Come to the caravan, you can reassure me over a cup of tea.’
‘Talk you down off the ledge?’
‘Yes, that’s the one.’
With a last press of her fulsome bosom against Alan, she says, ‘Later, lover!’ and peels herself off him. It’s a good job that none of the kids are around. They’d be scandalised by such displays of affection in ‘old’ people.
Bev comes to link her arm through mine and we walk across the yard.
‘I have to put the tea on for the kids first,’ I tell her.
She checks her watch. ‘Is it that time already? Where do the flipping days go?’
Normally, our day starts with greeting our students in the tea room, but I missed out today due to the mysteriously eaten Baby Jesus crisis. Our morning meeting gives us an opportunity to see what mood our kids are in and if they have any problems that we need to work through with them during the day. We also get together again for lunch and a hot meal usually cooked by Bev.
The tea room on our new farm is lovely. It doesn’t have a leaky roof and the windows actually keep out draughts. Luxury. When we moved here, I got the students to decorate it with photographs of themselves and their activities. We have a budding photographer here in Tamara, who’s thirteen going on thirty-five. Tamara has mental health issues and spends her time on Instagram obsessively following celebrities. I try to give her other subjects to focus on in an attempt to tear her away from taking copious selfies of herself and her friends here. They are typical teenagers in that every moment of their day has to be documented for social media. We try to frame it in a more constructive way and encourage them to provide content for our social media accounts and not just do it mindlessly – see how modern we are? Not me, obviously. But Bev says we need to be ‘outward looking’ and ‘media savvy.’ Who am I to argue?
Photography is definitely Tamara’s forte and we try to encourage it as a way of development. I’m no expert, but I think she’s good. Bev managed to persuade one of the local shops to donate a decent camera to us and we take it in turns walking with Tamara across the farm to help her take some shots. Tamara nearly faints with delight on the rare occasion that Lucas offers to take her. It’s another thing that Bev sees as a potential fundraiser. She’s convinced that local camera clubs will cough up a few quid to get close to our animals and have access to our land. She might be right. It would be nice if we could get someone who knew about photography to come and mentor Tamara on a regular basis. Another thing to add to our wish list.
Bev and I go into the tea room together and I get the kettles going while she puts out the cups. Minutes later everyone arrives en masse, shouting, laughing and talking over each other, and our moment of peace is turned to bedlam. We dish out tea and biscuits. I’m pleased to note that Lucas is with Penny and he’s making her giggle. I like the sound of that.
When they’re all happy and we’ve sorted out any problems and they’ve devoured all the biscuits and we’ve organised their next tasks, Bev and I take our leave. Of course, she can’t do that without smothering Alan with kisses again.
‘I can’t get enough of him. That man is grrrrrrrr . . .’ She growls at me, yanking at me playfully as we go out of the door.
I’m sure Bev’s experiencing a hormone surge. ‘I’m assuming that’s a good thing.’
‘It’s a wonderful thing.’
‘You can have too much love,’ I say.
‘You can’t,’ she replies. ‘I’ve been a desert for many years and Alan is my rain. I’m slaking my thirst.’
‘I think that’s nice,’ I say as I ponder the image.
‘It’s lovely,’ she states categorically. ‘You should be doing the same.’
‘I prefer little sips,’ I counter.
Little Dog barks excitedly as he follows Bev and me as we head towards my caravan.
Bev laughs. ‘Where is The Great Shelby, by the way?’
‘Filming. A Christmas special.’
‘Oh, smashing,’ Bev says. ‘Last Christmas found him in bed with Slack Sally who runs the café.’
‘Right.’
‘The village pub burned down too.’
‘Were the two things connected?’
She tuts at me. ‘Don’t be silly.’
Bev is a big fan of Flinton’s Farm, but I confess that I’ve still never watched Shelby’s soap. She does, however, insist on giving me a blow-by-blow account of nearly every episode and I struggle to keep up with the number of women in the fictitious village who he seems to have had affairs with. We did – on my one ill-fated visit – take our alpacas there to have a ‘starring’ role in the soap, but they behaved appallingly, running amok on the village green, knocking over actors and cameras with gay abandon. They were summarily sacked off the site before getting anywhere near the screen and have never been back since. Their moment of stardom was brief and traumatic for all concerned.
‘I can’t help but mention that Shelby’s hardly here these days.’ Bev frowns at me. ‘There’s nothing wrong?’
‘Other than the fact that he’s still allergic to all of the animals?’ We both smile at that. It’s a constant source of amusement – more than it should be – that someone who has made his living at portraying a farmer sneezes at the sight of a sheep and is, therefore, completely useless with any of the animals. To be able to help for just an hour he has to mainline antihistamine. When he spends any length of time here, his eyes take on a permanent red hue – not ideal for his television work. ‘It’s difficult for him. He has a lot on. I understand that.’
‘There’s always something. This or that keeps him in London. It sounds like a lot of excuses to me.’
I have no answer to that. I know it’s not ideal, but I don’t want to put extra pressure on Shelby. Our relationship is fairly new and, as such, we’re still finding our way to blend his life and mine. I’m simply grateful for the time that we have together.
Chapter Eight
We arrive at my caravan. Big Dog is snoozing in a patch of sunshine by the door and wags his tail in greeting, but can’t quite summon up the energy to get up and greet us. Bev fusses him before we both step over his bulk and go inside.