PORTRAIT OF A LADY

                                 

                                                                      Chapter Seven

                                                                        Brook Farm

 

Farrah was angry to say the least. Not only had his case been delayed, but one of the waitresses in his regular little town centre cafe had been taken ill, so that would make the service slow. And the place was full. More lost time!

            "I'm sorry," the police sergeant had told him, "the first case this morning was only expected to take about an hour and it hasn't finished yet. They are hoping it will finish before lunch and then, with a bit of luck," he stopped and turned up his hands in a gesture that was far from optimistic, "you might be called at about two."

            There was nothing he could do. 'At least I'll have time for some lunch' he thought as he strolled to the little cafe he normally used when he was in town.

            "Mornin' Mr Farrah." he heard the familiar voice as he entered. "Not often we see you on a Monday!"

            Tuesday was market day and in spite of recent trends there was still just enough livestock and farm business going to keep the old cattle market going. The war had brought about many changes. Shortages of food stocks, rationing, and the loss of so much manpower had put serious strains on the smaller farms. Many predicted a serious decline, but still the market survived; if somewhat smaller.

            Farrah, though not a typical farmer had felt the squeeze much more than most having been on his own, way back before the onset of war. He had seen the farm he inherited gradually succumb to the inexorable spread of concrete and stone. Even before the war all the outer fields had gone - sold to the builders - keeping just enough land to remain viable. His parents had struggled on into old age until they could no longer manage. The choice than was a simple one. They should retire and let one of their sons take over. By then Farrah had established an academic career, and was neither fit or able to take on the task, leaving his older brother, somewhat reluctantly, to take over the family responsibility. There had been a couple of farm workers but they had gone as the farm became smaller.   

          The brother found it hard to resist the overtures of speculators and developers, not least the town council with its compulsory purchase powers, and before long all that was left was land not suited to the building of houses. Then in nineteen forty six he had died suddenly. The struggle to maintain the farm single handedly had been too much, and his heart had not been up to the job.

            Farrah, by now retired from his scholarly life, found himself in the old house at Brook Farm, facing all the problems that had seen his brother condemned to an early grave; at least earlier than might otherwise have been expected.

            Farrah, was deeply into his recollections when another voice invaded.

             "No, no; I'm sorry. No its not." he answered, suddenly brought from his thoughts when the cafe’ owner repeated his greeting, "Some business to see to that’s all." he added non-committally’, feeling slightly embarrassed. He had of course noticed that the cafe’ was busier than usual.

            "What's up Harry?" he asked the proprietor.

            "Oh it's Madge; not turned in again . . . you might have to wait a bit."

            He looked around and could see only one empty chair. A table for two in the window corner, where one of the chairs facing away from the door was vacant. Farrah was not much for casual small talk, and was pleased when the occupant of the other chair got up to leave. He took out his newspaper and placed it slightly beyond his half of the table. After ten minutes of uninterrupted reading the harassed waitress came to him for his order, followed by another ten minutes of waiting before his meal was put in front of him. Farrah was pleased to be able to eat his meal on his own, and gradually spread his newspaper rather wider than was fair; but it served the purpose for he had nearly finished his first course before another customer, a young man, squeezed through and sat down.

            There was a period of perhaps ten very long seconds before Farrah realised who it was, and a further brief period before the young man also realised the identity of his table companion.  Immediately he started to raise himself. "I'm sorry sir, I didn't realise it was you; I'll find somewhere else."

            "You'll be lucky I think." Farrah replied, and then in a somewhat uncharacteristic manner he said. "you might as well stay where you are. I'll be off soon anyway."

            "Are you sure?"

            Farrah looked at him thoughtfully. 'Here is the boy - young man - he made the mental correction, though sometimes it's hard to tell - who had broken in to my property and had tried to steal from me, and now he is sharing my table'. Another voice interrupted his thoughts.

            "Do you want a sweet sir?" it's owner asked.

            "Yes please ... apple crumble I think."

            "And the young man?" she had looked at Farrah as she asked the question.

            Of course he noticed her mistake and simply gestured in Michael's direction.

            "Just a tea." Michael said a little awkwardly, but as the waitress left he smiled.

            "Cor Mr Farrah, what would she think if she knew?" he said, his smile broader.

            Farrah had never enjoyed the reputation of being the life and soul of the party, but he did have a sense of humour.

            "What indeed?" he answered, and he could not help smiling too. They had not, on their previous encounter shared more than twenty words, yet here they were sharing a joke. Neither could he recall that on that previous occasion if the young man had used his name.

            "You've only ordered a tea. You'll go far on that. 

            "I', I know, but I've not enough for much else."

            Farrah had seen Michael at the magistrates court earlier, when they were both waiting to be called, and had been surprised to see him on his own.

            Now, at his table he was puzzled. "You're alone then, no one with you to speak for you?"

            "No, they never bother."

            "So this is not your first time?"

            Michael shuffled a little, not liking being questioned. "A couple of times ... but nothing serious you know."

            "Breaking into my farm ... was that not serious?"

            Michael was just about to answer when the waitress returned with a cup of tea. "I'm afraid there's no crumble left." she said to the older man as she put Michael's cup down. "Apple pie or rice pudding?" she said questioningly.

            "Apple Pie then." he answered in an odd kind of way. It was far too soon to say that he had had changed his mind, but there was something engaging it. He was quiet until the waitress returned.

            "Here you are sir." she said, as she put the plate down, the pie almost hidden under a dollop of thick sweet smelling custard.

            "Thank you," he said quietly, "and a meat pie special for the lad."

            Michael looked up, puzzled, not understanding; wanting, yet not wanting to accept, but not sure how to refuse. Also, apart from anything else, he was very hungry.

            "Are you sure?" was the best he could manage.

            Farrah was not at all sure and could hardly believe himself what he had just done. "Eat your dinner lad," he said, while at the same time pushing his apple pie across the table, "and when you've done I want to talk to you. I'll be outside."

            With that he got and left the somewhat bewildered young man on his own. He paid the bill at the counter, nodding toward Michael and then left the cafe. Now it was his turn to feel at a loss. What was that feeling he had experienced? A strange sensation which he could neither understand or explain.

            "Silly bugger!" he said to himself. "What do you think you are playing at?"

            It wasn't warm enough to sit down, so he wandered slowly along the high street, looking in the shop windows as he passed; but seeing nothing. The strange sensation which so recently had perplexed him had drifted away like an early morning mist, and he was not sure what might follow.

            "Nothing probably." he thought. "When he comes out of the cafe’ he'll see I'm not there and off he'll go. Maybe just as well."

            He contented himself that it had been a Christian thing to do. Surely he could afford to buy a hungry lad a meal. Indeed he felt quite relieved that his unexpected gesture might not lead to anything. He looked at his pocket watch and judged that he had another half hour before he needed to be back at the courthouse. No need to hurry; a gentle amble in that direction was all that was needed. Never-the-less, he was deep in thought and for the fifteen or twenty minutes he meandered, turning it over in his mind. What if this, and what if that, until a voice interrupted his contemplations.

            "Mr Farrah!" it spoke, "you said you wanted to talk to me."

            Farrah turned and looked into the face a young man wearing a curious expression, something between apprehension and suspicion.

            "You said you wanted to talk to me." Michael repeated.

            Now it was Farrah who was apprehensive, for he knew that now he had to take the next step. He had lived, like many who followed an academic calling, a life somewhat aloof from the real lives of those around him. Had his marriage survived it might have been different, but he was essentially a solitary person. Ten years running Brook Farm on his own had done little to change that, and neither had advancing years. Indeed it had been a cause of concern that there was no-one to follow him. And also, as the years went by the thought occurred more frequently, that when he could no longer manage to look after what little was left of his family estate, and there would be no-one to take it on, what then?  Would it simply be abandoned? He could not avoid the thought now just as he had been unable many times before.

            Had fate, or God, provided him with a solution?

            "Let's talk as we go to the courtroom." he said, as slowly they continued in that direction. He had much to say and little time, for he had a proposition to put to Michael, and there would be no chance for the lad to think it over; to give due consideration, or to assess its implications. He would have to make his mind up in the short time that existed between now, and his appearance before the magistrate.

            Later that day when the old van spluttered its way back to the farm, an old man and a young man sat side by side, neither speaking, neither knowing quite what was ahead of them. Even when they arrived there was no time for a cosy chat for there was work to do.

            "First thing is to milk the cows; you'd better just stay with me and observe this time."

            Michael watched fascinated as Farrah, with nothing more than a stick and an old biscuit tin called in his herd. A few bangs on the tin was all it took, and soon the first one arrived from the field, and in only a few minutes they were surrounded by cows, udders full, steaming and smelly.

            It was dark by the time they had finished the milking, feeding the pigs and the hens, and cleaning up after it all. Michael had tried to help where he could, but mostly he had been simply following and watching. Never-the-less he was exhausted when the finally got into the farmhouse, and he sat down heavily.

            Farrah gave him a sideways glance. "No time for sitting down lad," he said quietly, "if you want any supper."

            It wasn't so much physical tiredness he felt, but psychological. After all he hadn't really done anything all day, yet it had been a day like no other. He could hardly believe what had happened. It was more like a dream, but not one from which he would wake to find himself tucked up safely in his own bed.

            Farrah must have sensed the bewilderment that his guest was experiencing. Not such a difficult thing for him to do as he was feeling that same sense of uncertainty himself.  "After supper we'll sort out a room for you, and let you settle in, and then . . " he stopped, paused, "and then tomorrow we will talk."

            "How did you swing it with the magistrate?" Michael asked, somewhat surprisingly.

            Farrah smiled. Of all the questions Michael might have asked, he should ask that one.     

            "Tomorrow lad - leave it till tomorrow." he answered simply. "It will be a big day for both of us."

            Tomorrow came sooner than Michael expected; it was still dark when he was roused. He lifted his head, curious as to the commotion, and also, for a moment, as to his surroundings. He could see a chink of light above the door, and hear the sound of movement on its other side. Soon the anesthetic of sleep was replaced by the realization of wakefulness, and his new situation became real again.

            "Bloody ell." he muttered when he found the bedside light, and looked at the clock. Farrah had told him to be prepared for an early start but still he was shocked. "Half past bloody five." he muttered again.

            A sharp rat-tat on the bedroom door, and then a head thrusting through as it was pushed open removed any chance of drifting back to sleep. "Time to make a move Michael." Farrah called.

            "OK I'm awake." he replied. He looked again at the little bedside clock, and shuddered. It was cold, and he dressed quickly, thinking somewhat ruefully as he pulled up his trousers, of the many times that at this time in a morning, far from putting his pants on, he had just been taking them off.

            "Morning," Farrah greeted him, not exactly smiling but in a welcoming way. "Sleep alright?" but before Michael could answer he continued. "Sit down lad; have some breakfast."

            In a moment a bowl of porridge was placed before him, followed by a mug of tea. "Porridge alright for you?"

            "Yeah, we often get porridge." Michael answered, as he took up the first spoonful. It was a small slip, which Farrah noted, but he was not bothered by it. He knew it would take time for his new lodger to find his feet; feel comfortable; feel at home.

            "OK?" he inquired.

            "Yeah, its better than I used to get."

            Farrah smiled to himself. In just five minutes Michael, doubtless quite unaware, had changed from the past to the present. He was hopeful that such a small incident was in its way a pointer to the boys attitude of mind, but he knew that this was just the beginning. There was a long way to go, and he was sure there would be some difficult times ahead. But that would be tomorrow, and today is today.

            "I don't usually get breakfast until after the milking, but I thought that seeing that it was your first day I'd give you a treat."

            The significance of the 'treat' was not quite apparent, but Michael had enjoyed the porridge. "I, it was good", he said as he rose from the table.

            "You'll need something warmer than that." Farrah remarked, noticing the  boy was sparsely dressed. "Do you have a coat?" Following a negative gesture he moved towards the stairs. "Better see what I can find."

            Soon they were out into the cold of a March morning. No sign yet of the day, and neither of them had any inclination to stand about waiting. Only Bess, us usual by Farrah's side, seemed unperturbed by the early morning chill. Inside the cowshed it was warmer, but Michael was still glad of the Barber jacket he was now wearing. It was old and rather shabby, but it's oiled fabric was still effective in keeping out icy drafts that sought to chill the bones. There was just the briefest of time to re-acquaint himself with this large area, before the work began. Although he had joined Farrah in this shed on the previous evening he could hardly remember anything of it; so shocked had he been at the events of the day that it was still like a dream. Now, as he looked around he was remembering not yesterday, but a day three months before when he had looked down from the hay loft using just a small torch, seeing little more than vague outlines of the cattle which were now standing before him, waiting patiently for his attention.

            "Ever milked a cow before?" Michael heard the question, and spun round to see Farrah presenting him with a pail and a stool. Michael shook his head, as his new boss placed the stool beside the nearest cow and the pail beneath. "Give her a nice firm pat on her rump; let her know your there and that you're in charge. Speak to her; pat her on the side a few times - not too hard mind - and get down to it. Just watch me again, then you have a go - you'll do alright."

            Farrah sat down on the stool, gently stroking and patting as he adjusted his position, then firmly, but with care took a teat in each hand. Gently he squeezed, first one and then the other, pulling slightly as he did so until, after a couple of dry runs, there was the distinct sound of milk streaming against the side of the pail, followed by another and another as skilled and practised hands teased the milk from the udder.

            "Now it's your turn." he said suddenly, twisting and rising with an agility that would have done credit to a man twenty years his junior.

            Michael moved forward uneasily, and looked at Farrah. He had done many things in his young life which might have brought others to a standstill, but which had not even caused him to sweat; but this? This was outside of anything he could have imagined, and never before could he remember being so frightened. Slowly he sat down.

            "Don't forget, you're in charge." Farrah said, giving the cow a firm but friendly slap. "Mary won't give you any trouble, will you my old love?" He slapped her lightly again, but this time he kept contact, rubbing his hand backwards and forwards a couple of time on her side. "Come on lad," he said, "let's see what you're made of."

            Michael leaned forward and took a teat in each hand. Mary didn't move. He pulled; first one and then the other. Nothing happened, except a twitch of Mary's tail.

            "Gently lad, gently; it's all in the fingers; a firm but gentle pull and a gentle squeeze."

            Michael tried again, this time squeezing each teat in turn. Still nothing happened.

            "Easy lad." Farrah whispered, recalling perhaps his own first attempt, which he had found equally daunting. "Don't forget your fingers; start slowly at first squeezing the top finger, then the second, then the third, and then your little finger. Just slowly until you get the rhythm, and then as you get the feeling of it, gradually go faster. But don't forget, easy does it; don't pull - squeeze. You'll have it in no time."

             Encouraged by Farrah's soft words, and his clear affection for the animal, Michael started again, and before long he was rewarded by the sound of a squirt of milk hitting the side of the pail, and then another. Soon he was rewarded at every stroke, and a grin was beginning to replace the look of apprehension he had been wearing.

            "Well done Mary." Michael heard Farrah saying, and then a moment later he heard words directed to himself. "Well done lad." they said.

            Michael couldn't think why he felt so pleased. Something strange was happening, something almost mystic as the soft warm tubes in his hands were responding to his caresses. But the feeling was somewhat muted when he heard Farrar call out from behind another cow besides which he was now squatting. "Tell him to get on with it Mary; tell him he's got a dozen more to see to after you."

            Michael could not see Farrah from his position behind Mary, but he fancied - he'd even put put money on it - that he would be smiling and could not help but respond in the same way. His first venture in to the farming world had been revealing, for not only had he discovered that he could milk a cow, albeit at about half the speed of Farrah, he also found that he had enjoyed the closeness with the animals. Not just the cows but later the pigs, the hens, and the sundry other animals around the place. Moreover, he had seen another side of Farrah. That he was capable of affection, and that he did have a sense of humour, even if he tended to hold it in reserve.

            The day ended quite late and Michael was very tired, but curiously content and after the evening meal, the preparation for which Michael's participation was 'encouraged'. "Jobs done quicker with four hands." Farrah had said quietly. Michael was beginning to catch on and recognized at once that it was not really a request.

            Quickly the days became a week and Michael was learning to cope with, and then to like his new life. His 'sentence' of a year living and working on the farm was a revelation. The magistrate had warned him that what he was offering was not an easy option. "It will be a lot harder than six months in jail," he had warned, but he would be, to some extent at least, a free man. "Take note," he had stressed,"you will be subject to strict rules, and under Mr Farrah's instruction. If you don't toe the line you will be taken away to complete your sentence in jail."

            Michael had accepted the challenge warily at first, although, despite the magistrate's words he did think that it was a soft option. 'Anything must be better than jail." he had reasoned, and with youthful arrogance he felt he would be able to out-whit Farrah. But was there something else, he had wondered? Past experience had taught him to be wary of strangers, especially those with authority, so he was not entirely sure about the arrangement or of Farrah's motive. He resolved to be watchful.

            Shortly after this two events occurred which caused Michael to examine his own motives, or more correctly his own understanding of his new situation. The first was one of the, so far, rare occasions when Farrar was in a talkative mood and Michael had asked what he thought was a simple question, a question he had asked before.

            "What made you do it?"

             "Do what lad?"

             "Take me on."

             Farrah didn't answer for quite a while. "Don't know to tell you the truth. Perhaps it was that day in the cafe’ when you were hungry. I just felt something ... can't say what but it was the strangest feeling.. I felt that maybe we needed each other."

            Michael had been unable to respond to that; he didn't have the words, or the understanding, but he had come to realise that what he had been given was a chance to change his life. What was less clear was whether he wanted to take that chance.

            Michael's question however had given Farrah the opportunity to delve a little deeper, wanting to know more about this young man who had come so unexpectedly into his life. This was something that Michael had been afraid of but Farrar, despite asking searching questions made it easy. He wanted to know about his life in the remand home, and before that. How he came to be there, and then about being an orphan. Michael answered his questions as truthfully as his memory would allow but made only brief reference to the sexual abuse he had endured and was pleased that Farrah did not press him on that point.

            But he did press him an another. "What happened to Ollie?" he had asked.

            "Dunno! Never seen him since that night."

            "He let you take all the blame."

            "Maybe; but it wouldn't have made any difference if he had given himself up?"

            "Perhaps not, but I think it was he who should have faced the magistrate and not you."

             Michael was somewhat subdued, for he too had wondered why Ollie ran off, leaving him to face the music. "It was his idea, that's true, but I couldn't grass - he was my friend." was all he could say.

            "You say he was your friend but were you his friend. I don't think so; he was not as true to you as you were to him."

            They talked until it was late, and the 5am alarm call was getting ever closer. "One thing before we go up." Farrah said. "You asked me once before why I had taken you on. Well partly because I felt from the start that you had been led, and rightly or wrongly that there is good in you."

            Michael was a little embarrassed to these things being said. "I'm not perfect you know."

            "Yes I know, there's some bad in you, but that might not be your fault; but it is for you to sort it out.”

            So a hurdle had been overcome, and Michael felt pleased with the outcome, feeling that in some way he was a little closer to the old man.

            It was the second event however that had the opposite effect and brought Michael to the brink. It was the realization that this opportunity to change his life was real, and that he came within a whisker of throwing it away.

            Rising and retiring early was one of the things he found most difficult to adjust to; just the opposite to his routine of recent years. It had been a problem from the start, but Farrah was insistent that there was no other way.

            "It's the only way to run a farm, and this is the way it's got to be." he had said, but Michael did not hear the implied warning.

            On one occasion just a few  weeks into his new life he was wakened roughly from a deep sleep, long after he had turned over for an extra five minutes.

            "Wake up you damned good-for-nothing; you were supposed to be in the cow shed half an hour ago."

            "Sorry Bill," Michael said sleepily, "what's the fuss about?"

            "What's the fuss about you lazy sod? - I'll tell what the fuss is about." Michael had never seen Farrar so angry, and he flinched at his words. "I saved you from jail, on the promise that you would live by my rules, and this is how you pay me back."    

            "Sorry Bill, but it's only half an hour."

            "And don't call me Bill; It's Mr Farrah if you don't mind."

            "But you told me to call you Bill."

            "That was before I found out you are an idle bastard. Every morning since you came here you have been late getting out of bed."

            "I'm sorry," he said yet again, "but it takes a bit of getting used to."

            "I bet there was no lying in at the detention centre."

            "Yes I know, but I didn't have to get up at five O'clock."

            "Well, it's up to you. Five minutes, and if your not in the shed by then you'll be off. Just a phone call - that's all it needs - and they'll be here for you."

            Michael was shocked. In the time he had been at the farm Mr Farrah had been very nice to him, albeit in his own way. He was not an effusive man, but he had made him feel welcome, and had tried - even in this short time - to make Michael feel that this was his home. Now, he wondered if he had blown it. Michael's life had been, despite its difficulties, largely a selfish one. Particularly since he left the detention centre. Even with Ollie he had mostly thought only of himself. Now, for the first time in his adult life he found himself having to think of someone else, and it was not easy. It went against the grain of all he had become, of all he had ever been. But a sixth sense told him that being with Farrah might have been a stroke of luck the likes of which might never happen again, and which he probably did not deserve. There was nothing in his past that was worth preserving, and he had never been able to look to the future with anything but misgivings. Now, during the last few weeks he had seen aspects of life that had been unknown to him; and he had discovered a communication with another person of a kind he never could have imagined.

            Five minutes later he was in the milking shed, determined to try to make amends.

            "Who's next Mr Farrah?" he asked

            "Mary's the last," Farrah answered, giving the cow he was working on a gentle slap on the rump, "and I've just about finished with her."

            As he spoke he was standing up, and with practised ease pushed the stool away and removed the warm and gently steaming pail. Without any further encouragement Mary wandered off to join the rest of the small herd, comfortable now; ready for the sunrise and another day.

            "You can make a start sweeping some of the muck away, as as soon as we're done in here there's the pigs to be seen to."

            Michael was glad to note that the anger had gone from the old man's voice, but he kept quiet, and started working hard with the brush, clearing up the mess left by nearly thirty cows who cared nothing about where they were when they needed to relieve themselves. Shortly Farrah returned dragging behind him a water hose and soon they were working as a team, the water finishing off what the brush had left behind. There was little conversation but the warmth generated by their activity seemed to have thawed any frostiness that had existed. A couple of hours later, after the pigs and the horses and the poultry had been seen to and the cattle turned out to the field, the two men returned to the farmhouse.

            It was daylight now and both men were ready for their breakfast.

            Breakfast at Brook Farm was usually a bit of a rush, not least because the old ‘Aga’ was usually nearly cold if not out altogether when Farrah rose in the morning. For many years Farrah had fuelled it up before tackling each new day, braving the cold or the wet. The early sunshine in the few summer months being the only respite from this irksome routine. It was no different now, and the presence of a working lodger did nothing - at least at the beginning - to ease the situation. Michael of course took it all for granted. It had not occurred to him that the hot oven and warm kitchen which greeted them when they returned from their early morning labours, meant that Farrah must have been up at least half an hour ahead of him. Somehow Farrah's harsh words in the early hours of the morning had awakened his awareness of his new situation. It had also in some way' highlighted the difference in their ages. It was then that Michael had his first real understanding of what he had to gain from his new host; and, more importantly, what he stood to loose.

            Breakfast over and soon Michael was back outside while Farrah settled down to some long overdue catching up on the paperwork at his old roll top desk. Notwithstanding their early morning upset, Farrah felt that he could trust Michael, and acknowledged - if only to himself - that it was a difficult transformation for him. He resolved to bend where he could, and be firm, but only when needs must.

            Michael's knowledge of countryside matters had been virtually nil, and of farming matters he knew even less. Once the animals had been seen to, his daily tasks in this early period of this strange new life were confined mainly to maintenance and repair. Not that Michael was much better in this department, but he sensed that Farrah was aware of his deficiencies and was fairly tolerant of his inexperience. But already he was getting better, and tasks which he might earlier have found daunting, or plain uninteresting, he now faced with an unexpected enthusiasm. As his confidence grew Farrah slowly involved him into the more demanding aspects of farming. Weeks had changed into months and slowly Michael was also changing. Less and less was he a burden to Farrah; more and more a support. Another change was also taking place, which was to be the most significant of all. They had become friends. All Michael's reticence had disappeared; the uncertainties and doubts gone. His early unwillingness to carry his weight, largely the result of a lack of understanding and awareness of his role, had gradually been replaced by an enthusiasm that not long ago would have been entirely uncharacteristic.

            For his part Farrah was very happy. He had never had a long term plan. Taking Michael on had been both unplanned and unexpected, and for some time he expected the worst. Indeed, from the start he did not expect the experiment to last the length of Michael's sentence, but now he was sure it would.

            In no time at all six months was up. Michael was aware that had he chosen the other option he would now be free, but he had long since realised that he was free where he was. He knew of course that he had a commitment to the farm and to Farrah, but he also knew that he could walk out now if he wished, and that Farrah would let him go. The important difference was that he did not want to go. He was happy at the farm, and he had grown to like Farrah in an unexpected way. He had become a father figure. Michael had never enjoyed the luxury of either a father or a grandfather, and in William Farrah he had found them both. Moreover, he was concerned that the years were beginning to take their toll on the older man, and that soon he might not be able to carry on. What's more, Mr. Farrah had long since become Bill again.

             Michael had never been one for taking a lead, but one night in that peaceful time between their evening meal and bed time, he had done so. At this time the old man liked to read, and Michael, who had discovered an unexpected desire to draw, often sketched him concentrating. His early attempts were seldom worthy of comment but over a relatively short time he had improved, a natural talent emerging. In these quiet moments he tried to capture the spirit of the man and on this occasion, much to the old man's consternation, he had caught him dozing. He put his pencil down.

            "How old are you Bill?" he asked outright.

            "None of your business."

            "Yes I know; and I'm not being nosey ... but I've been thinking ..."

            Farrah, still sleepy, continued to look at his book, but tried to rouse himself; waiting. "Well?" he looked at his young friend. "You've been thinking ... good for you ... what about?"

            "Well," Michael paused, uncertain now that he had started how to proceed. "you're getting on a bit, and I was thinking ..." he stopped again.

            "Come on lad, spit it out" Farrah was not one for procrastination.

            "Well," he said again, and he saw Farrah shift in his chair, "my year is up soon. What are you going to do?"

            "Ah." Farrah laid his book down. "So that's what is bothering you?"

            "No, not a bit; but I thought it might be bothering you."

            Indeed, that very thought had been on the older man’s  mind lately, and he was more than a little concerned for it was a problem that would not go away. He guessed that, if he was lucky he might be able to carry on for a year or two. Already however, he was conscious of how much he relied on Michael, and how fortunate he was that he had grown to love the farm and the animals the way he had.

            "Are you planning to leave when your time is up?" he asked.

            "Well," Michael hesitated slightly, "maybe that's up to you."

            Farrah was quiet for a while, and then when he spoke he seemed a long way away. "You like it here don't you Steven?"

            Michael looked up abruptly. "Steven?" he queried.

            "I'm sorry lad ... sometimes I see you sitting there and I think about my son ... please forgive me."

            "Nothing to forgive is there? And yes, I do like it here."

            "In that case, I think it will be up to you."

            From then on it seemed that there was nothing more to be said. There was an understanding, unspoken, undefined, but somehow enough. It was when March came and Michael's sentence was complete that the real test came. There had been some legal formalities which had been dealt with by both men with the minimum of reference to each other, and that was it. Michael had paid his due and was free to go. Both men knew that if Michael were to leave now it would be forever and that they would never see each other again, and yet neither of them attempted to talk about it. Soon it was spring and other priorities became paramount, and the prospect of Michael leaving was put to the back of their minds; soon forgotten. By the autumn it was no longer an issue, the subject closed. Michael had found for the first time since some vague childhood memories, the nearest thing he could imagine to home and family.