Free The Son-In-Law by Charity Norman

distinctly, decidedly old. She’d probably never been tall, but the years had shrunk her to hobbit proportions. Sturdy, though. She stood squarely in brown lace-up shoes and army surplus trousers, peering courageously through blue-rimmed glasses.
    Joseph smiled. ‘Hello, Abigail.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘It’s me,’ called Joseph, stepping closer. He felt about twice her height. ‘Joseph Scott.’
    She hadn’t changed much since he’d last seen her. Her hair had been wiry white then, as it was now, her skin crazily creased. She was a little more bent, perhaps, and he thought she’d lost another inch or two.
    ‘Aha,’ she said calmly. ‘The wife killer. Come on in, come on in.’
    The kitchen hadn’t changed either: the same warm clutter, the rose-patterned plastic tablecloth, the overriding smell of farmyard muck and smouldering coal and strong tea. An airer hung from the ceiling, bedecked with several pairs of Abigail’s trademark army trousers. The room was pleasantly gloomy, its windows set two feet deep. They looked across the yard towards the steep rise of the moors.
    ‘It’s so good to see you,’ said Joseph. Surprised by his own emotion, he took the old woman’s gnarled hands and squeezed them in his own. ‘You look marvellous.’
    ‘I doubt it,’ she declared tartly, disengaging her hands to lift a kettle from the range. Abigail had run the farm and campsite alone since her brother’s death thirty years earlier, and Joseph had never known her to take a holiday.
    ‘Everything’s just the same here,’ he said. ‘I’m just so . . .’ He shook his head, laughing bemusedly. ‘So bloody grateful.’
    ‘How long’s it been?’
    ‘Not far off four years.’
    ‘Sit here.’ She pulled out a chair from the table, shooing a prosperous-looking tabby from the faded cushion. When Joseph sat, the animal immediately sprang onto his lap.
    ‘Digby!’ cried Joseph. ‘He’s not wasting away, is he?’
    ‘Look at the soppy bastard, sucking up to you.’ Abigail put a mug of tea in front of Joseph. ‘It’s still there. The Scott family caravan. Sounds like a stately home. Your sister stayed last summer with a, um, friend.’
    ‘Male?’
    ‘More or less. Hard to tell, with all that hair. Nobody’s been since then, but Marie’s kept up the ground rent.’
    ‘Is there still a rope swing in that massive oak tree?’
    ‘Lightning got that tree.’
    Joseph let his hand rest on Digby’s back, feeling the deep vibration of a purr. ‘I’ve just got out of prison.’
    ‘Did you knot your sheets into a rope and escape?’
    ‘Nope. I did half my sentence. I’m on licence.’
    Deep canyons radiated from the corners of Abigail’s mouth. ‘You’re a celebrity. I hate to think how much forest was cut down just to plaster your name across the Yorkshire Post .’ She disappeared into the larder and came back with fruit cake in a tin. Joseph watched her wield a knife, while Digby stretched luxuriously.
    ‘This a social call?’ she asked, handing him a plate.
    ‘Thanks—lovely. Yes, a social call.’
    ‘I wasn’t born yesterday.’
    ‘You weren’t,’ admitted Joseph, smiling. ‘I want to live in the caravan for a while.’
    ‘Heck, you’ll freeze.’
    ‘I’ll be fine.’
    She considered him for a moment, chewing the side of her mouth. ‘I hope that sister of yours did the washing-up before she left.’
    They crossed the farmyard with Jessy padding alongside them. A red Ferguson tractor was delivering bales of hay to cattle in an open-sided barn. At the wheel sat a burly man in overalls.
    ‘I see Gus is still here,’ remarked Joseph.
    ‘Not so much, nowadays. His father had a heart bypass, so he’s been doing most of the running of their place as well. When he is here he spends more time on the campsite than he does on the stock. It’s the only thing that pays its way.’
    ‘Farm not doing well?’
    ‘Nah, hardly worth the bother. Moorland farms are dying.’ A kissing gate in a dry stone