Tom turns the tractor at the fence on the far side of the field, lays the single furrow plough to the ground for the last time. The engine’s noise blots out the slicing of metal against sienna brown earth. The soft soil runs back in the delved furrow, the rest sits high, sloping and snaking in a line of near regular lines over the stretch of field. Squads of seagulls white against dark dart up and down picking out the unearthed goodies. At first he’d thought to do half. At the red gate, he stops to drink tea from a plastic blue flask; the milk smells of rotten turnips. The cows were fed the last of them yesterday. Changes the taste and smell of the milk. The trees up the old moss heavy on the horizon guard a sky of watery blue and grey. Cattle black cut outs on a perfect chocolate box picture. He turns the tractor wheel, weather-beaten hands stiff from being in the one position. Reaches for his jacket, cool air comes down quick. Next year he’ll maybe afford a new tractor, with a cabin, central heating and a radio. He’s soothed now instead by the sound of the hills, fields and animals. He keeps going, one more furrow, less left to do the morn. Might even get to the show. One more then another. Now it’s finished. At the last furrow he steps down, leaves the tractor purring, opens the iron gate, a trail of smoke spirals up from the hay shed behind the house. He moves quicker towards the strangeness. Spots cars and vans beside a large tent erected in the field behind the house. People on the land, his land. A smoulder of fire only yards away from the hay shed.

He feels smaller on his way to the house, engine falters up the brae. At the pond ducks float, easy target for a fox. They’ll get nabbed tonight for sure. Gets off and shoos at them to get out the water, chases them up the road. On and off the tractor till at last they’re at the house, safe. He puts the ducks inside the hut, counts chickens already bedded down. In the distance he hears voices, from out back, children’s giggles. They’re from a bright yellow van that’s beside a white car with a dirty tidemark around it. In the shed, picks up two eggs on the seat of the baler, brown, cold shit and feather covered. Pulls his boots off at the door, washes his hands and face in the Belgian sink in the boiler house. The baby’s crying, cried since they came out of hospital.
– That’s me feanished ploughing that field.
– That’s good” Myra whispers from the living room.
– I’m still trying to get her to sleep, she fell over for a few minutes then started greetin again, a right sore greet.
– It’s a shame right enough.
– I hink she’s gone now, just wants her dad.

Myra puts her in the carrycot, pulls a webbed blanket over.
– Anythin for eating? I think I’m hungry, I should be but I’m so tired.
– You’re late, it’s efter ten, thought you were coming back ages ago.
– I just thought that I’d feanish the hale field, it’ll save me the morrow, thought I’d maybe take a trip doon tae the show.
– Dinner’s ruined, it’s stew and tatties, I put a lid oan it.

She gets it out the oven and places it on a tray with a pint glass of milk.
– It looks guid tae me, anything wid though, ma stomach thinks ma throat’s cut.

Tom clears his plate, he wants to lick it clean but stops himself from doing it, Myra wouldn’t like it.
– We’d better git tae bed, morning’ll be here in nae time.

Tom takes the cot up the stairs places it on the floor beside the fireplace. Undoes his bibbed dungarees drops them to the floor with the checked shirt, slips into the cool sheets beside Myra. Her head’s turned to the wall. He digs his knees into the space behind hers, wraps his free arm around her. In seconds he’s asleep.

They waken to a shard of pain in the head with the alarm ringing. The baby lies gurgling in the cot below.
– Wis she up in the night?
– No she must’ve slept all night, the first time, it’s a miracle.
– Whit time is it?
– Four thirty, I’ll get the kettle on and get the cows.
– Right ye are, I’ll bring ye a cup out.

On his way down to the bottom field Tom’s alarmed by the shadows behind the house, they’re still spattered on the field shrouded in a damp mist. He passes the recently ploughed field, looks darker with the smir of rain.

The cows are at the gate waiting, not quietly, two bellow loudly, then others follow. He shoves them back away from the gate, pushes it open. Warm breath brushes him half between smelly and something wholesome. They clatter their way up the road, hoofs on tar bashing into each pregnant side, eager to get to the byre. Every day for a week now they’ve a scoop of cake and a half of beet pulp in their troughs, the good milkers get most.

They know their place, he ties each one in their bis, chains loose around the neck. Brings in the five machines hooking them on the pipeline. Flicks the switch and starts the machine. It hums a background tune to the sound of moaning, drinking, rubbing and chewing. Tom takes each teat washes it in a cloth with iodine and water from a bucket on byre walk. Brings the milk cluster down and guides each teat into the air, gets sucked into the cup. He checks each Perspex glass, milk runs clear.

The cows stand waiting patiently for their feed and to get milked. It’s their routine. They have to wait till Tom gets his tea, he’s got routines too. Myra’s had to feed and change the baby, he’s missing her in the byre in the mornings. Sometimes comes out at night with the pram. He’d been alone till he got married four years ago, since his dad retired and his sister got married and moved to Australia. The tea is on the table waiting, he takes a big stride toward it making just the one wet print on the linoleum-tiled floor.
– When you come in fur breakfast I’ll dae the calves then.
– Right ye ur.

Back in the byre the hum of the milk machine changes, one cup’s fallen off and the air is hissing getting drawn along with dirt from the ground. Goes down on his hunkers to change the next teats into the clusters to the cows on the other side. Stands drinking his tea letting the heat from the animals and the steady beat of the machines sooth him. Gets the killer from the meal house wheels it in to the small byre and starts scooping out the feed. The animals twist and turn excitedly, dishes it into the ones getting milked first then moves down one byre into the other. The pipeline is running clear when he gets back to change the machines over. Hangs the milk machines up in the dairy at the end and circulates cold water through, switches the tank on. A silver paddle agitates the milk till it’s mixed through. From the door he can see movement behind the house, hears a door banging and wonders if Myra can hear it.

He goes toward the smell of bacon and eggs realising his gut is sore with hunger, it’s seven o’clock and everything’s redd up, beasts back in the field. He edges around the building and sees a youngish looking man with a flock of brown curly hair. His own hair had been curly, when he was younger but it was short now so’s you’d never know. He’s tipping a pail on the grass, a little miniature of himself running around at his feet. Tom darts back and goes in the house to tell Myra.
– We’ve got visitors.
– Eh, who is it?

Myra goes to the window straightening her hair and taking her pinny off.
– I don’t ken who they ur, travellers I think.
– Travellers, whit ur they doin here?
– I don’t ken but it wis too late last night tae dae onythin aboot it.
– Ye’ll need tae phone the polis.
– Ah don’t want tae upset them.
– Whit dae ye mean it’s oor grun they’re oan.
– Aye but we can surely come to an agreement.
– Dae as ye please, ye will onyways.

The baby sterts greetin a sair greet and she shoogles the pram on the way to the worktop.

She plonks the porridge down on the table and beside it a large jug of milk she’s creamed off the top of the tank. Tom takes his bunnet off and ruffles up flat thinning hair. Pours some cream over the moulded mass on his plate and shakes two spoons of sugar on it. His arm goes up and down like a mechanical toy scrapes the plate clean and shoves it to the middle beside the milk jug. She places bacon and eggs under his chin the bacon still sizzling out the frying pan. He butters an outsider and makes a piece that his mouth will hardly get round. When he’s satisfied that he’s had enough he lolls back in the wooden chair his legs spread out in front and thinks about the problem that has appeared from nowhere, searches his head for an answer.

Leaves the kitchen door ajar, without speaking and makes his way to the back of the farmhouse. He can’t see anyone but hears a man’s voice talking low husky he stands listening for a bit. Telling someone about a car what it needs, a new crankshaft and it’ll cost hundreds to get fixed. Tom forces himself to walk towards the caravan door lifts a heavy arm to it and chaps it. A silence hits him as the occupants go quiet. The door creaks open. A curly headed man stands above him, sepia brown face darker than his own his back bent makes him lean towards Tom who normally has the upper hand because he towers over most of the population.
– Aye, fine morning.
– Aye it is.
– Dae ye realise that’s ma field your in?
– Well I knew it wis somebodies.
– I wis planning to pit the beasts oot here efter they’ve bared the grass in the field ablow the road. Come in.

Tom steps in the van hitting his head on the low roof, sits on an oatmeal velour fitted couch that he’s been ushered into by a round dark complexioned black haired woman.
– Tea, milk and sugar?
– Aye, two spoons.

Tom noticed the little boy at the table drawing, his crayons spread around him, his head bowed in another world.
– I had nowhere to go, ye ken. Last night, oor car it broke down, tha’s how I’m in the field.
– Could ye no huv jist steyed in the road?
– Mibee I could huv, bit it didnae seem safe and cars could hardly pass by.
– You’ll huv flattened the field, the grass it’ll be ruined.
– Aye well I didnae want tae chap ye up, it wis late.
– I wis still working it wisnae that late, I saw ye last night when I feanished.
– The motor it’s broken, I’ve run out of money so cannie fix it.
– An whit dae ye expect me tae dae, gie ye money.
– No, bit dae ye huv onnie work, I cun turn ma haun tae onything.

Tom thought for a bit, he didn’t know what to say, the man’s eyes round black piercing surrounded by a hundred crows feet, he wasn’t that old but it was desperation he saw in those eyes.
– Well I could be dain was a haun in the byre, we’ve hud a waen and the wife is tied up in the hoose mair. The beasts’ll be coming in soon so ther’ll be mair work in the winter. I’m Tom.
– Mike.

The cows grazed around the caravan and car parked in the field till they were brought in one night in October for the winter. Mike was up in the byre every morning before Tom, he’d wheel the barrow in and have the small byre mucked before the machines went on

One morning they’re gone. Two circles of yellow left like crop circles, ground flat and bleached. Tom takes the machines into the byre in the morning on his own, sometimes Myra comes out with little Tommy in the pram. He’ll stand waiting on the milk running through the pipeline and wonders if he imagined Mikey arriving and going away in the night like he did. They get very few visitors at their place.

--------------------------------------

Carole Hamilton teaches and writes part-time, and is a graduate of Glasgow University’s MPhil in Creative Writing. She was awarded a new writers bursary from the Scottish Arts Council in 2005, and was a prize winner in the Orange/Scotsman Short Story award, Work, 2006.

‘Visitors’ © Carole Hamilton, 2007. LITRO is published every Friday and handed out for free near to London Underground stations and elsewhere around the world. To get in touch please email litro.fiction@gmail.com or visit www.litro.co.uk.