Free Mistakes We Make by Jenny Harper Page B

losing her mother so young had definitely affected her. For his part, he’d seen the damage caused by Geordie’s decision not to join the firm, and duty had taken precedence. Their pasts had shaped them both.
    He smiled to himself. Targets! Everyone thought lawyers made a mint. If only they knew.
    A shadow fell across his face as the track entered a small copse. In the last few days, the weather had changed and, although it was still August, the temperature had dropped appreciably. The sun had warmth, but the shade held portents of autumn.
    The track took a sharp turn to the right and emerged fifty yards in front of a metal gate.
    Adam slowed to a halt. There it was, only a hundred yards away – the farmhouse. A lump formed in his throat, catching him by surprise.
    Forgie End Farm was solid, square and undecorated – grey granite, hewn from local quarries and designed to withstand wind and weather.
    How many years was it since he’d last been here? He swung open the car door, walked slowly towards the gate, and studied the façade as if he were seeing it for the first time. The farmhouse had been built to be practical, a functional, serviceable home for a family. Three sash windows upstairs, two windows and a door on the ground floor, all neat and symmetrical, like a child’s drawing. The Georgians had a fine appreciation of symmetry.
    There was a small porch over the door, supported by two granite columns. The porch had obviously been intended to provide shelter from the driving rain as much as for aesthetic reasons, though these days the front door was hardly ever used – everyone entered from the yard at the side. The roof was steeply pitched to deal with rain and snow, and two large chimney stacks (one at each end) serviced the large fireplaces in the draughty living room and dining room. When had they last been used? Jean and Geordie lived in the kitchen, so far as he could remember.
    Adam had a lump in his throat again. You’d think the place had been in the family for generations, the way he felt about it, but Uncle Geordie had bought it just forty years ago.
    And that, Adam thought with a grimace, had been the start of the famous family feud.
    He snapped open the heavy metal latch and swung the gate open. Well, it would surely soon draw to an end, because Geordie was dying. Time to stop feeling emotional about the house and go and visit the man.
    ‘He’s quite good today,’ Jean said, drawing Adam into the large farm kitchen, the hub of the home. ‘Eh, laddie, it’s good to see you.’
    She stood back and looked up at him, her skin grey with tiredness, her eyes clouded with age. How old must she be? Only in her early seventies, not old by today’s standards. He hadn’t seen her since the wedding, when she’d betrayed nothing of the grief that must have dragged her down after her son’s death. And now here she was, dealing with yet another blow.
    Impulsively, Adam put his arms round his aunt. She felt fragile in his embrace, like a small bird. She allowed herself to relax into his arms for a moment, and when she pulled back, her eyes were unnaturally bright. She jerked her head away at once, too proud to show sadness – or fear.
    ‘The nurse has been and now he’s sleeping, but he won’t sleep for long. You’ll have some tea?’ She strode to the sink and turned on the tap. In so many ways she hadn’t changed, he thought. Still the tweed skirt – he could swear it was the same one she’d worn to Hugh’s funeral – still the sensible brogues. She was a farmer’s wife, and she looked like one.
    Best to tackle the difficult conversation head on. ‘How long has he got?’
    She lifted the Aga lid and set the kettle on it, then turned and leant against it, a well practised pose. She crossed her arms and looked him squarely in the eye. God, he admired Jean Blair. You had to have mettle to be a farmer, and if you didn’t have it when you started, you developed it or failed in the