The Borrowed Hills by Scott Preston

Author:Scott Preston
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2024-06-04T00:00:00+00:00

PART III Jack’s Land

Dowra

William sorted the stolen flock and sold two hundred the next week to a fella he knew down Bowland. A hundred sheep got sent to the fat—no money in their secondhand bodies other than what could be eaten or boiled off. That left twenty good tups, breeding rams that is, and as many bollocked wethers to keep them company. About a hundred and twenty Jacob ewes. Fifty-odd gimmers ready for the next season and sixty springers with seventy lambs in them. Ten of the sheep dropped dead in the weeks after we’d brought them in, and the rest were old-season hoggs or fallow ewes to keep an eye on. We kept what was left of that flock on Caldhithe. Never found out what happened to the other sheep we took—ones Colin ran off with. William had a gun that let him rip the ID tags out their ears and he plugged the holes with new ones. He sawed off any horns that were scorch-branded, pinned them to the floor between his knees and cut them clean to their brows, sliced them off in chunks and blew away the dust.

I was left to break in the Jacobs. They’re not a soft sheep like some of the doll breeds. More like goats. Getting themselves into bother testing holes in the walls and fences or getting their horns stuck in feeding hoops, stuck for hours, waiting silent for you to free them. Redecorated the farm for us, they did. Stripped the hawthorns and alders of their bark so the trees died skinny or stopped growing. And they’d eat owt, them sheep. Gobble up a leather boot or a dead bird—drinking its blood for a taste of salt. Were as likely to eat the bag their feed mix came in as the mix itself, but they were picky about grass. Turned their muzzles up at stalks that still had inches of eating in them, and I was having to bring in more pellets and grain and hay. You don’t ever stop paying for the fancy breeds. They grew on me though. Would come sit by me even when I’d no food for them. I’d go out and share my sandwiches at dinner. Says more about me than the sheep, I suppose. William never much bothered with the Jacobs. He’d not check on them unless I couldn’t.

It was Helen that started coming out to shepherd them. Each day before her shop opened. She could yell louder than me, so it didn’t matter when the difficult bastards made four or five small herds to round up. It was more peaceful with her there, and I didn’t find myself chatting as much. Listened for a change. About the village we forgot we were part of and how the Pearsons fought the Gibsons over a tree that was too big and the wheelie bin left out on the pavement too long. Doesn’t matter if you own a mountain or a piddly two-up two-down, there’s always gates and fences you don’t want folk looking over.

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