Chapter Text
“He’s one of the best farmers in all of the West country,” Percy said.
“If not the best!” Philip quipped.
The minibus juddered down the narrow country road. Field after field glided by as the bulky silver box chuntered along the dissecting motorway. The students chattered and joked and bickered the whole way from the bus station — a little over three hours — enough time for Derek to notice the loud-mouth know-it-alls and friendlier faces.
Derek sat in the back left seat, quietly observing his counterparts. Next to him across the aisle was Laora. Francesca Laurissa Messina-Andaloro, a quiet-type who wanted to work on a livestock farm, but was allergic to just about every animal you could think of. She wore her wavy brown hair back in a low bun which always turned into a bird’s nest after rubbing against her jacket collar all day. She was an embodiment of bohemianism while remaining down-to-earth and kind. She’d often help peers with studying, and was commonly referred to as ‘Professor Loro’, as her ability to explain complex topics and biological systems was miles ahead of many of the lecturers themselves.
In front of Laora was Dezzy. They told people it was short for Desmond, but a select few knew what Dezzy actually had to put on legal documents. Coming from a traditional, conservative family, Dezzy was known to feel most themselves when at university or out in the fields. They wore their chestnut hair just long enough to be mistaken for a boy or a girl — just as they wanted.
Across from Dezzy and in front of Derek was the dire duo, Percy and Martin. Polar opposites yet two sides of the same coin. Martin acted like he had twenty years’ experience up his sleeve, yet seemed to lack a shred of common sense. He wasn’t the only one in the group who came from a middle-class background, but was the only one who acted so stereotypically high and mighty. Percy and Martin were each other’s sidekick — when one got started, the other would just egg him on. Sitting next to him in the window seat was Percy, who came from a long line of farmers up in the North. There were mumblings that the only reason he was doing this course at all was for his family to get some respite. How he had so much energy for three hours on a sticky minibus from the late 90s, Derek had no idea. He was constantly kneeling on his seat and pointing things out to the group out of the windows.
The poor soul bearing the brunt of Percy’s hyperactivity was Philip. He must have had the patience of a saint with the way Percy kept pushing against the back of his seat. Philip had a surprisingly deep voice for a twenty-something year-old. He managed to look middle-aged and prepubescent simultaneously; a slightly stout young man with budding facial hair that looked like that of a teenager. He was a man of few words, but would gladly tell you exactly what he thought when asked — no holds barred.
Last but not least — and furthest from Derek — was Mollie Simpson. Not to be confused with Molly Sampson, who dropped out after second year. Blue eyes, red hair, dimples — Mollie had truly won the genetic lottery. She didn’t feel that way, though. For one thing, on more than one occasion, lecturers had referenced her directly while speaking on recessive genes and inheritance (she didn’t appreciate all eyes on her). For another, she was constantly being pursued by men of all sorts. They’d see her face and silhouette and try a cheesy pick-up line or a deviant request. Mollie, however, had learned how to deal with unwanted attention. Her shy demeanour was in juxtaposition with her ability to completely humiliate the very essence of a man who couldn’t take ‘no’ as an answer the first time. Derek felt she had managed to garner a healthy level of fearful respect from her classmates; they understood they didn’t have a chance, and knew not to bother trying.
And of course, the silent observer, Derek. A couple of times, his ability to recount social observations had caused some alarm. Despite his height, people often overlooked Derek. He was often dismissed as the gangly swot in the corner — though this was not wholly untrue. Only a select few had been allowed through the walls to meet the gentle giant inside: Dezzy, for one; Philip, not entirely by choice due to their student accommodation; and lately, Mollie increasingly so. He showed her a respect that she unfortunately wasn’t used to. Likewise, Mollie’s assertiveness had been directed to Derek’s defence on a couple of occasions. Derek believed it when he was told bullying would stop after school and into higher education — unfortunately not. This time, however, he had a budding friendship group to fall back on.
The minibus slowed, indicating right to cross lanes before a long country road. Derek looked out of the window. The long grass of the fields gently bellowed in the breeze. Shrubbery lined the road, standing guard between the tarmac and the soil.
“Nearly there, folks!” Percy wisely observed.
“I wonder what Mr Dixon will be like…” Dezzy thought aloud.
“I’ve heard he sold his soul to the devil to get his crops so good!” Martin sneered.
“Bullshit,” Philip stated matter-of-factly.
“It’s just the old man and his sons — how does he do it, then?” Percy rebutted. Philip shrugged, turning back to look out the window nonchalantly.
“So… there’s three of ‘em…” Laora surmised, “But they’ll have enough work for seven of us to do?”
The road turned round to the left, revealing a group of trees almost worthy of being called a forest. Where the country lane dissected the trees, it created an archway of branches two storeys tall. Derek gazed upwards as the dappled light flickered by. The minibus drove right to the end of the lane, revealing a small countryside paradise.
The dead-end constituted of dense shrubbery and a rickety outhouse. To the right, a sleek metal gate clung on to weathered wooden posts, marking the threshold between the farm and its fields. The stone lane opened up to the left to reveal several farm buildings. Two traditional farm cottages sat end-on in the middle of the space, creating pseudo-streets on either side. Each was painted a brilliant white; the further cottage had a bright red door and windowsills, while the closer one sported sunny yellow on its features. The long, stout buildings faced the direction of the lane. Obscuring their south-facing view, however, was a great red barn, part of which was lined with corrugated metal. Parked next to the barn was an antique-looking tractor. The warm orange rust perfectly complemented the peeling emerald paint. Behind the cottages, a wooden fence was all but covered with shrubbery and trees, which served as a natural wall to hide some kind of garden area to the north. On the other end of the central cottages, at the end of these parallel walkways, stood the main farmhouse. Unlike the cottages before it, this building was tall, facing towards the field as if overlooking the land. The cobbled brickwork outlined the windows with small arches. There was a small porch jutting out from the main building; the royal blue door was framed by ivy growing up the porch walls. The ivy almost reached the overhang on the small roof, which led the eye towards the second storey windows and the old slate roof. Perched atop the chimney pot were a couple of pigeons, basking in the mid-morning sunlight. The seven students stepped out of the minibus carrying a couple of bags each, breathing in and absorbing their new surroundings. The sound of a wooden gate hitting its gatepost caught the group’s attention.