Born of Woman by Wendy Perriam Page B

worked at Tesco’s or the wife at Biddlehope. And she herself would soon fit in. Molly would help—not only as friend and nearest neighbour, but someone she could model her own life on.
    She needn’t take things too far. Lyn wouldn’t want her fat and dowdy, dressed in men’s corduroys with cats on every chair. She glanced across at Molly—flour in her hair, rent in her sleeve—splashing milk on to her shoes as she filled five baby bottles for the lambs.
    â€˜Want to help me feed them?’ Molly asked, heaving her shoulder against the heavy kitchen door. ‘Gosh, this sun’s amazing! You must have brought it with you.’
    Jennifer smiled. Nice that, like an omen. Bringing the sun from London to warm and nurture Hernhope, nurse it back to life. Molly tugged back the bolts on the shed. Four lambs rushed towards her, butting their heads against her legs, reaching for the bottles. The fifth and smallest one lay shivering in the straw.
    â€˜That’s Sooty. Sweet, isn’t he? Black lambs are rare up here, you know. He was only born this morning. Quite a tricky birth, I’m afraid. Mick couldn’t save his mother. Want to give him his bottle? Right, go and sit on that bale. You’ll be more comfortable there. Now try and coax him to his feet, then hold him firm between your knees. Don’t be frightened of him. He’s tougher than he looks. No, tilt the bottle more. Good—you’ve got the hang of it. He’s sucking well now.’
    Jennifer stroked the tiny furry head, watched the black throat gulping and straining as the white milk dribbled down it. She had never fed a baby. It gave her almost a sense of power—the lamb trusting her, dependent on her, its whole effort and attention focused on her as wet-nurse and provider.
    â€˜OK there, Mum?’ grinned Molly, who with two bottles in each hand was managing to feed all four remaining lambs at once. Jennifer glanced up at the window set high in the shed, a square of sky with a curve of hill trapped in it. Such space up here, such possibilities. Long hours and hard labour hardly mattered, so long as you had purpose.
    â€˜Yes,’ she murmured, snuggling the lamb towards her, so that it was almost in her lap. ‘Just perfect.’

Chapter Six
    Snow.
    Not falling any longer, just lying dumb and treacherous, the hills like flanks of huge white animals, stunned and shivering where they had collapsed. The forest dark and spiky against the white blinding softness heaped around it. Every window etched with ice. Snow in April, almost May. Snow baffling new-born lambs, muffling new-sown barley, blocking paths, confusing birds, blanking out all landmarks. Jennifer pushed the curtain aside, added her doodle to the etching on the glass, stared out at the blinkered trees, the huddled sheep further down the valley, tiny whitish dots against the whiter hills.
    â€˜It’s beautiful,’ she said.
    â€˜ Cold ,’ Lyn shivered.
    â€˜Look, you go back to bed, darling. You shouldn’t be up at all with a temperature. It’s higher than it was last night. I wish you’d let me fetch the doctor.’
    â€˜He’d never get out in this. Nor would you. We’re more or less cut off.’
    â€˜Cut off ?’ Crazy to be excited when lambs were dying, farmers frantic. It could be hazardous even for Lyn. Supposing he got worse and needed medicines? Supposing their food ran out? She was excited. She had never seen snow so all-enveloping—the world changed overnight from green to white, snow with the sun on it, making every smallest crystal flash and shine, dark-winged birds soaring against the whiteness, lending their shadows briefly to the hills. She was concerned for the Bertrams, worried for the farmers, but, secretly, she saw the snow as a bonus, since it would keep Lyn at Hernhope a little longer, stop him running south.
    She let the curtain fall, joined him at the fire. The