I can’t see his expression because his hat is tipped low. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘Did you get a call too? Why does the school need both of us?’
‘Because he’s a bastard to catch.’
I’m reasonably certain Cameron could wrestle Caesar into a corner and flip him onto his back, but whether in deference to me or to a pampered sheep hobbling on three legs, he holds back until, finally, with my murmured endearments and Cameron’s cursing at the stupidity of sheep, we herd him into a makeshift pen. Sheep don’t squirt dung in the same way cattle do, but we’re both hot and dusty.
‘I’ll hold him down while you look at his hoof.’ Cameron wipes a hand across his face.
‘You don’t get paid for this, do you?’
Another curse. ‘Christmas charity.’
‘Maggie Bates isn’t a fan of that expression.’
He drops the scowl. ‘Thank you for helping her.’
‘Rocket’s leg is no longer painful. That’s a good sign.’
‘Was it hard to come back here to the school?’
‘Yes, but …’ I look over my shoulder to the outline of buildings. The hall and classrooms haven’t changed much in sixteen years, but there’s a covered play area now and a new block where the demountable library used to be. ‘Charlie and Bronte were helpful.’
‘They’re good kids.’
I run my hand over Caesar’s soft and springy wool. ‘When the mine was in operation, a lot of itinerant workers came to Summerfield. It must have been hard for their children to move around all the time. They looked for someone even less settled, less happy, than they were.’
‘That never made it right.’
‘The school was under resourced, the mine was struggling, my parents were weird. What the kids did was wrong, but coming back to Summerfield has helped me understand why it might have happened.’
‘They don’t deserve forgiveness.’
‘Kids—ten-, eleven-, and twelve-year-olds—aren’t inherently bad. There were ringleaders. The rest were followers.’ I open my fingers, thread them through the fleece. ‘Did you know Miss Winters is still here?’
‘Is she a problem for you?’
‘No.’
‘Am I?’
I could so easily love you. That’s how you’re a problem. ‘I’d better look at this sheep.’
As Cameron holds Caesar down, I clamp his front hoof between my knees, cleaning and disinfecting before carefully paring with a hoof knife.
‘He’s got an abscess on his heel.’
‘Can you get at it?’ Cameron asks.
‘I think so.’
We’ve been chasing a recalcitrant sheep, but when Cameron leans over to take a closer look and his shoulder presses against mine, my increased heart rate has nothing to do with heat and dust and exertion. Does he feel it too? If he does, he gives no indication.
‘Bingo.’ A dribble of pus slides down Caesar’s hoof and drips onto the ground.
When Caesar throws up his head and dislodges my hat, Cameron, as if it’s something he’s done a thousand times before, pushes back my fringe and plonks the hat back on my head.
I glance up. He searches my face.