Page 7 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure
‘Aye, well, the bones are beginning to creak, and my back is starting to play up.’ Atticus stopped and grimaced as he stretched his neck, confirming his point.
‘Use it or lose it!’ Mary was emphatic. ‘Some warm sunshine on your bones might ease that. Why don’t you take that trip to Spain you always planned with Mum?’
Atticus wished that Mary would stop nagging. She’d only been back five minutes and was already telling him what to do. ‘I’m fine as I am, don’t worry about me,’ he said.
As they passed the café, the last diners were making their way to their cars. Mary and Atticus stood back as a four-by-four cruiser, towing a twin-axle tourer, slowly drove past, heading to the caravan park. Close behind, a motorhome with foreign number plates appeared. The vehicle’s rear was covered in international stickers, each telling the story of the owner’s journey around Europe.
‘It’s like a motorway junction these days,’ Atticus tutted. ‘You’re not safe to walk about on your own land.’ He scowled as the motorhome driver leaned out his window and held up a hand.
‘Groeten aan jou!’ the mature driver smiled.
‘Greetings to you too,’ Mary replied, recognising the Dutch plates.
‘Aye, greetings,’ Atticus mumbled.
When they reached the farmhouse, she saw Helen standing on the porch with Declan in her arms.
‘Here’s my gorgeous boy,’ Mary said. ‘Say hello to your grumpy grandad.’ She ruffled Declan’s hair and deposited the toddler in Atticus’s arms.
Atticus held the wriggling toddler as Declan tugged on the brim of his hat.
‘Where are the kids?’ Mary asked Helen.
‘Glued to the kitchen table, gobbling food like they haven’t been fed for days,’ Helen replied. ‘Come in and join us.’
Sensing his reluctance, Mary grabbed her father’s arm and steered him into the farmhouse. ‘Don’t you want to say hello to your grandchildren?’
‘Aye.’ Atticus winced as Declan grabbed his hat and pulled it from Atticus’s head to make a bed for his teddy. ‘Of course I do.’
In the kitchen, seven raucous children sat around a large oak table. In the centre, plates were piled high with savouries and cakes.
‘Grandad,’ Jake called out, ‘come and sit here.’
Atticus sat down, and Jake held a plate of warm sausage rolls. ‘These are delicious,’ he said, handing one to Ness, who gobbled it down in seconds.
‘I hope you’re looking after that tractor, it’s nearly as old as I am and needs lots of care.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Jake replied, ‘I love the Little Grey Fergie as much as you do.’
‘You shouldn’t have bodies sprawled all over it. It’s not right. Vehicles like that need respect,’ Atticus grumbled.
Mary listened to her father and Jake discuss the merits of owning and running a vintage utility tractor. They discussed in depth the four-speed, unsynchronised transmission that had been manufactured by Ferguson in Coventry in 1951. Taking a slice of gingerbread, she felt pleased that Jake had something in common with her father. Their love of engines and anything mechanical was a shared pastime.
As Helen poured more drinks and restocked plates with quiche and pork pies topped with apple sauce, Mungo appeared.
Pulling out a chair, he took a pie and sat beside Jake and Atticus.
As the trio ate, Mary, keeping one eye on the children, listened to their conversation. Atticus explained to Jake the merits of entering an antiquated vehicle into the county shows held annually in Cumbria.
‘Your Grandma Clara and I used to enjoy a day out at a show,’ Atticus said.
‘Why don’t you do it again?’ Mungo asked.
‘Ah, it’s not for me,’ Atticus tutted. ‘Too much work and fierce competition.’
‘But Grandad, I can help,’ Jake said. ‘I love working on an engine and doing up a vehicle. We could do it together.’
‘He has a point,’ Mungo sat forward, his head on one side as he waited for his father to respond. ‘Jake can learn from you.’
