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By Root 1785 0

longer with us, and happily, not ninety of them either, only eight. Leonard, as is so often the case with rippling fecund males, turned out to be all gong, no dinner, and only Boadicea, the first recipient of his gifts, produced a litter. Caro – who had indeed kicked off her wellies with alarming alacrity, making it quite clear she considered any farm business our business now – had disclaimed all responsibility. She had, however, been kind enough to tell us about a lovely little slaughterhouse near Thame, which absolutely everyone went to – rather as if she were recommending a new bistro – and where a delightful man called Trevor would to do the business in seconds flat with a very sharp knife. Before I knew it, they'd be sausages.

‘Oh!’ I felt faint.

‘Unless you want to do it yourself?’ she demanded.

‘Excuse me?’ I gaped.

‘Pack the sausages. You can, in a pork-packing unit in Ipswich. Or Trevor will do it for you in what looks like his garden shed. I wouldn't share that with the Environmental Health Officer, incidentally.’

‘Um, Trevor,’ I muttered, shaken, but much relieved: for the piglets were very much pigs now, up for having their own sex lives and babies soon, and I wanted shot of them.

I'd reckoned, however, without Anna and Stacey, who, despite eating a great many bacon sandwiches, had not found this plan acceptable. Whilst happy for the mothers to go to market – this, apparently, was entirely within the natural scheme of things – not so the piglets, and they'd sold them on eBay, using a photo of Boadicea surrounded by cute, suckling babies, taken quite a while ago. Eight deluded new owners arrived clutching it, with no idea they were about to collect a huge, ten-ton Spawn of Leonard. I needn't have worried, though. Amongst the smart county set, pigs were the new must-have: the Chanel bag. ‘Darling, haven't you got a pig? Oh, you must, they're heaven.’ They all went.

So, no pigs now – even Harriet, Caro's blind pig, had passed away in her sleep one night – but lots of restful sheep, thanks to Ed Pallister next door, who was leasing the fields, pathetically grateful for the extra acres. We didn't sell the land to him, though. Ant and I owned every blade of grass, and in a ridiculous, romantic way, I wondered if Tim's boys might want it back one day. When Ant and I were old and grey and needing somewhere smaller? Perhaps a Sunset Home for the confused and bewildered.

Caro, naturally, was keen on this idea. She'd gripped my arm, eyes shining. ‘Oh, yes, wouldn't that be wonderful? I mean, obviously I'm thrilled you've got it and not Mick Arnold with his repulsive Victorian lampposts and busy Lizzies in all the troughs, but if Jack could have it back one day…’

She'd been showing me round her new house at the time, and the children were with us. Jack, who'd recently confided his ambition to be a wealthy stockbroker and live in a flat in Docklands with a horny blonde, shot me a horrified look.

‘Henry, even,’ she mused happily, as Henry, behind her, slit his throat with his finger and fell quietly to the blond wood conservatory floor. It passed her by and I didn't rain on her generational farming parade. To be honest, she'd been a bit of a star, recently.

Yes, I reflected, as the girls and I finally set off with our booze-laden car towards town; once the stress of the farm had been removed, Caro had indeed become a different person. When Felicity, determined to redeem herself, had sold her house and taken a year's sabbatical at the University of Toronto, where her sister lived, writing Tim and Caro out a large cheque, Caro had promptly stuck it in an envelope, determined to return it. Tim and I, with a lot of eye rolling, had snatched it back and dissuaded her.

‘It's what she wants, Caro. Don't throw it back in her face.’

‘I'm not! But I feel awful!’ she wailed.

‘Bit late now’ sprang to mind, but I didn't say it.

‘We're not farming now, we don't need it. We're not short of money, she should have it. Oh God, what a mess.’

I sighed. ‘Look, Caro, we are where we are. Take the money and have done with it. Write