Ardwyn gave a breezy smile and flapped her hand. ‘Do you know, I’m so useless at that sort of thing? I left it all to Everett to sort out, so I don’t actually know their names, but I’ll ask him when he gets home and be sure to pass it on to you.’
‘I’d love that.’ She waved and set off down the track towards the gate and the road. ‘Thanks again for the cake!’ she called.
Ardwyn waved back. ‘Any time!’
* * *
‘Snowdrop bulbs my arse,’ Dennie muttered to Viggo as they walked. ‘What does she think I’m going to do, crush them into a line and snort them off a mirror through a rolled-up banknote?’
Viggo grinned at her and licked her hand because she was talking to him.
‘Don’t try that one, you traitor,’ she grumped. ‘What was all that about, anyway – letting her fuss over you like that? Bloody shameless, you are.’
He whined and licked her hand again.
Dennie sighed. ‘Come on, my furry Viking boy, we’ve got a phone call to make.’
* * *
Early that evening, Farrow Farm had another unwelcome visit from another of their neighbours. Everett, Ardwyn and Matt were sitting down to supper when there came a thundering knock at the front door.
‘Little pigs, little pigs,’ said Everett, getting up. ‘That was quick.’
‘I’ll give her this,’ Ardwyn replied. ‘She doesn’t hang about.’
‘I’ll get Gar,’ he said, and headed for the back door.
‘Matt,’ said Ardwyn. ‘Get your phone out. Record everything.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
She stood, drew herself up a little taller, and went to open the front door – putting it on the latch chain first.
‘Hello? Can I help you?’
The belligerent glare of a man she didn’t recognise pressed close up against the gap. He was jowly and swivel-eyed. Behind him there were two more – one bearded, and one wearing a snapback with the logo of an agricultural supplies company pulled down low over his eyes as if he didn’t want to be recognised, as well he might not. It also sounded like there was at least one dog out there, maybe two.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ snarled Farmer Jowl. Leaning against the slope of his shoulder was the long barrel of a shotgun.
‘I don’t think I want to tell you that,’ she replied. ‘You don’t seem very friendly.’
‘Friendly? I’ll give you three seconds to open this door and get the fuck off my property, or I’ll show how fucking friendly I am!’
‘Just so you know, my friend here is videoing all of this, aren’t you?’
Behind her, Matt held up his phone in one hand and gave a little wave with the other. ‘Hi, Daz,’ he said.
The kid in the snapback slumped even lower.
She turned to Matt. ‘You know these people?’
Matt nodded, and pointed them out. ‘Darren Turner. His dad, Mark. And I think that’s Rory, his foreman. Their farm’s just on the other side of Drake’s Hill from us.’
She turned back to Mr Turner, beaming. ‘Oh, well then we’re neighbours! How lovely! Well, Mr Turner, as I was saying, Matt here is recording this in case you were thinking of doing anything violent. Three big men threatening to hurt a woman in her home? With guns and dogs? I don’t think the police would like that.’
Turner thumped the door, but not as hard as he could have done. He seemed to be getting the message. ‘This is my property, and you’re trespassing. Squatting, that’s what you are. I’ve got every right to turf out the lot of you.’
‘Actually, no you haven’t. And no, it isn’t. When we moved in, there was a helpful sign in the window that said this property was secured by bailiffs under order from Staffordshire County Council until court proceedings regarding ownership were resolved, and I don’t think that’s happened, has it? When it does, if it does, whoever the eventual owner is can start proceedings to have us evicted. In the meantime, I’m going to finish my supper. Good night.’
She started to close the door but his fist slammed it open again as far as the chain would allow.
‘Smarmy bitch!’ he shouted. ‘I don’t give a fuck—’
She never did find out what Mark Turner didn’t give a fuck about, because that must have been the moment Everett and Gar appeared behind them. There was a lot of scuffling, shouting and barking, then the barking turned into whines and yips of pain. She took the chain off and opened the door fully to watch. Turner’s four-wheel drive was parked in her yard and his bearded foreman was sprawling on his arse next to it. The boy Darren was on his knees with one arm stuck straight out at an angle that could not have been comfortable, his hand twisted in Everett’s grip and Everett’s knee in the small of his back. Gar had a dog’s throat in each fist, pressing them to the ground; they whined and scrabbled helplessly while he snarled, every one of his tusk-like teeth on display.
‘You’re welcome to try and evict us, as and when,’ said Everett. ‘But in the meantime, we’re all going to be nice neighbours and you’re going to leave us alone to get on with our lives. Otherwise my brother is going to kill your dogs and your boy here is going to end up in a wheelchair.’ He twisted Darren’s arm a little and dug his knee in a bit further, and the boy howled.
‘Of course,’ added Ardwyn, ‘you can be all pig-headed about it and call the police about us “trespassing”, as you call it, but they won’t intervene in a civil matter like that. And I’m certain that you don’t want them to know you came here threatening violence.’
‘Plus, you’ll still have no dogs,’ Everett said. ‘And young Daz here will still be eating through
