Homecoming by Susie Steiner Read Free Book Online Page A

something to envy. He’s puffed up, standing next to his father, because Joe is admired among farmers. Has the knack for breeding sheep, everyone round these parts said so. Always did well at the shows and he’s had his share of prize tups that could go for thousands – the ones with strong legs and a sweet head. At least, they did when times were better.
    Joe has his eyes on the sheep that are being herded into the pen before them, where the auctioneer stands in his white coat. They run, whipped along occasionally by the auctioneer’s assistant.
    The auctioneer starts his song of numbers: ‘37, 37, 37 bid, 39, where are you 39? 39 bid, 39, 39. Sign away.’
    A ripple goes around the group. Joe shakes his head.
    ‘Thirty-nine quid. Jesus,’ he says. ‘Beauties they were, too. Did ye see? That’s bad luck, Dugmore.’
    ‘Never seen it so bad,’ says Dugmore, who farms over in Westerdale. ‘There were store lambs selling last week for eighteen pound. Eighteen pound! Not worth the feed.’
    The sold sheep are whipped out through the gate, some jumping three feet in the air as they run.
    ‘Ours is next,’ says Max. ‘I’ll go round.’
    He stands beside the pens of their mule gimmers, ready to usher them in. They will run around the perimeter fence, auctioneer at their centre in his doctor’s coat, while the farmers along the fence judge them, bidding with a tiny nudge of a forefinger, which the auctioneer won’t miss. And Max knows that Joe will feel it in every fibre – the murmuring between his fellow farmers while his animals run the fence.
     
    ‘That’s a bad lot,’ says Joe an hour or more later, when the cheques are out and they’re settling themselves in the Land Rover.
    ‘Maybe we shouldn’t ha’ bought them new tups,’ ventures Max.
    ‘Arh, but they were beauties, weren’t they? And going for a song. Let’s hope the mule stores do better next week,’ says Joe, lifting himself off the seat and adjusting his trousers. He sighs as he puts the key in the ignition. ‘If we can get thirty pound a lamb for the stores then at least the rent’s covered.’
    Max looks out of the passenger window while Joe takes off his cap and turns to throw it on the back seat.
    ‘In’t it glorious, the day?’ Max says.
    ‘Are you on the happy pills or summat?’
    And the smile bursts out of Max once more, breaking up his face with its unruly joy.
    ‘Come on, lad. Spill the beans.’
    And then he can’t wait. Not a moment longer. Even though he’d promised Prim. This moment, here with Joe, matters more.
    ‘Prim’s going to have a baby.’
    ‘Ha ha!’ Joe shouts, leaning over the handbrake to clap him on the shoulder, shaking him. ‘Hee hee! Really? Is it true?’
    ‘It is, dad.’
    Joe pulls Max’s body over roughly for a hug.
    ‘Well done you, lad. Well done you. Wait till I tell your mother.’
    ‘It’s early days,’ says Max in a half-hearted attempt to dampen Joe’s cheer when in fact he’s bathing in it. ‘I promised Prim I wouldn’t say owt.’ Joe is beaming at him, and this time, for the first time, it’s for something he’s done, not because the beet got lifted or the weather was in their favour.
    ‘Ah, that’s grand,’ Joe is saying, leaning back in his seat. ‘A bairn. Best time of your life. It were the best time of my life, when you two were tiddlers.’
    He ruffles Max’s hair again, gently this time, and Max thinks to remember this moment. He has never before felt such warmth spread through him, right from his belly. For the first time, he’s won himself an accolade. All those average school reports; and him never breaking out, like Bartholomew did, to get a job elsewhere – Max had begun to feel lost in the smallness and sameness of his life and now, here was his father, the man who mattered more than any on earth, pinning a rosette to his chest like he was the prize tup. This is what I’ve been missing, he thinks: the sun on my face.
    ‘It’s going to be the best