Edward
The North field smelled like wet grass, sheep, and Connor's aftershave. Hamish had already pulled tools out of the back of the Land Rover. A post driver, wire cutters, gloves that had seen at least three decades. He handed me a pair without comment. They were huge.
"You'll grow into them," Hamish said, deadpan.
Connor took the post driver like it was an extension of his arm. "Right. Six posts by lunch. Easy."
Hamish took a long drag of his unlit pipe and looked at the fence. Then at Connor. Then back at the fence. "Aye," he said. "Easy. For someone who hasn't taken out a sheep in the last month."
"I didn't take out a sheep," Connor said instantly. "It ran into the post. Technicality."
I bit my lip so hard I tasted wind again.
Hamish just hummed. "Right you are. Edward, you'll hold. Connor will dig. I'll supervise."
"Supervise," Connor echoed. "That's a generous word for standing there judging."
