Chapter 20

Everyone completed the hole they were digging, then left their tools to mark the spot while they focused on the wheeled bag with the food and drink. Reg had to tap Charles on the arm to get his attention, as he had the detector head phones on.

“Lunch time, Charles.”

“Oh. Oh, yes; that time already?”

The two men head over to join the ladies for lunch. Once the food and drink had been handed round, they compared notes on their finds so far today.

Hermione asked, “Did you men find larger nuggets than we did, dear?”

“I think so, Hermione. The larger rocks seem to trap nuggets in the lee of the boulders, but it was the opposite side from what we expected. The stream or small river that deposited the gold seems to have flowed in the opposite direction originally, so that what to us is downhill was uphill when the water was running.”

“But on the Robson farm the slope goes downwards, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, but on this side of the ridge the present slope was the other way round in the past. Probably the ridge was raised as part of an uplift, and whatever water was flowing then is now flowing parallel to the ridge, if it still runs.”

When they had all finished their picnic lunch it was back to the diggings. By mid-afternoon, almost a third of the marked hits had been dug out, and many of the females were beginning to wilt with all the bending and digging. Frances took note of this and declared that excavation had finished for the day. It was time for everyone to go home and recover from their exertions.

Charles Robson recalled, “I remember when I was a boy, spending some days at harvesting potatoes, bending to lift the potatoes into a basket, bucket, or whatever the farm provided; then the farmer came along with his trailer and you emptied your container into the trailer. At that age, it was hard work. Nowadays, the machines dig up the tubers, shake most of the soil off, and pick them up on a moving belt into a hopper. The only human work on the harvest, apart from driving the tractor, was someone picking up any potatoes that spilled during the mechanical harvesting. There was practically no wages to be paid, only the cost of running the potato harvester, so it was the growing conditions that determined the size of the harvest; the right amount of rain at the right times of year, and no storm conditions to whip the plant haul ms and halt the formation of tubers. Storms could lead to small tubers and low weight in the harvest.”

Reginald commented, “I remember reading about the technical developments in English agriculture, but I was not so aware about the backbreaking work done by youngsters. I knew it as ëspud picking week’ in England, but most kids never did any spud picking. I understand that in Scotland they had the ëtattie-picking holiday’ in the rural areas around the time of the potato harvest.”

The baskets were closed at the neck and dumped into the sack, then Charles and Reginald dragged it along between them, switching sides from time to time to give each arm a rest.

Once home at the Robson farm, Reginald hefted the sack to get an estimate of the weight.

“Hmmm, nearly as much as one of the lumps we found before, Charles. That is a good haul for today. Two more days should see us completely digging the area that was scanned. Are you girls going to be up to that effort? If not, Charles and I can do it, but it will take a few more days, I reckon.”

Frances told him, “I’ll let you know in the morning, Reg, once we find out how our muscles have stood up to today’s workload. Let’s get home now.”

They were hardly home when Fiona’s phone rang.

“Hi,” she answered, not knowing who was calling. “This is Fiona.”

Someone spoke, and her face cleared.

“Ah, so you are John? Nice to hear from you. Mr Prentiss recommended that I appoint you. What can I do for you, Mr Meadows?”

She listened to him, then said, “You are here already? What about your staff? Dad was going to arrange things for them.” She paused. “Oh, so they will be here tomorrow? Do you know them to see?”

After another bit of conversation, she told him, “Use the old Airlines trick: a placard with their names, or your name, as ëJohn Meadows party’, and hold it up where they can see it after they disembark. Have some transport ready to take them to Colony Admin, as they will have to report their arrival after customs checks. I presume you did that today? Good man. Accommodation arranged? No? I’ll deal with that, if you give me your cell number no, it works fine here; no problem.”

Getting off from that call, she rang Colony Admin.

“This is Mrs Fiona Robertson, of Robertson farm, city two. I am intending to set up a Pharmacy business here, and my shop manager, John Meadows, arrived from Earth today. He clocked in with you. Got him recorded?”

She listened, then, “That’s him. He has two staff arriving tomorrow, but they are employees only and single women. Can you get accommodation in City Two for all three in the one location as either two rooms or three, please? I will act as guarantor for them in the meantime.”

While waiting to have her request confirmed, Fiona found Reg and informed him of the situation. He was pleased to hear of her initiative.

“That’s great, Fiona. Just proceed as you planned. Have you got a possible shop site fixed?”

“Not yet. I have three possibles that I want John and his staff to examine before we select the one that suits best. Can I leave you all when the chance comes, and I will go with them to finalise the details and then arrange for a shop sign to fit the frontage. Just so you know, I am going with your alliterative suggestion: Farm Pharmacy. It is just perfect, in so many ways!”

Reginald chuckled, “I like it when a throwaway line hits a target! I didn’t even think hard: the name just popped into my mind.”

“Fine. Now, dear, have you gone to show yourself to the children, to prove you haven’t forgotten them?”

“Damn, you are right. I’ll do that right now.”

Thus it was when Frances came looking for him to tell him about the meal that Jessica had planned for them, she found him sitting with an infant on each knee and held with his arms, while reading them the story of the Little Red Hen, a folk tale that went back at least a century. It was still able to keep the children engrossed in the narrative. Frances listened until he delivered the punchline, and interrupted, “Daddy has to do like the Little Red Hen and eat his cake, for he has worked all day for it. You babies have to go to bed and sleep tight, so that you can get a story tomorrow.”

Jessica stepped in behind Frances, saying, “Right, children: bedtime for sleepyheads,” and she collected them all, one after another, to be tucked up warmly in their baby cots that they still fitted into. She recalled what Frances had explained to her about cots; that Americans preferred the archaic Dutch word cribbe which meant a manger (food hay container) in a farm shed, used in the Bible for where the baby Jesus was laid. The 19th century American carol, “Away in a manger, no crib for a bed”, employed the word crib as used in the States, and it has since been applied universally in referring to nativity scenes. Jessica mused on this and pleasant memories of her Sidra as an infant, as she continued tucking in the babies and making sure they were comfy and happy. That would encourage them to sleep well and long, until their metabolisms woke them by insisting on either food input or waste elimination time.

Later, she came through to the family room where the other wives and her teenagers were stretched out, relaxing after their strenuous efforts beyond the Robson farm.

She announced, “There you are, girls. That’s all our babies off to sleep, hopefully. At least they were all happy when I left them. Reg managed to read them to sleep with his voice. At their age they are more into the intonations rather than the words, but the happy ending comes through if read well, and Reg appears to have that ability.

Talking of which, has he had his dinner yet?”

Hermione informed her, “He was filling his face with your Nihari. He really loves that dish, especially with lamb.”

“Yes, I know. I made it often, back in England, but I was surprised to be able to get lamb here. I thought you couldn’t bring animals here.”

“You can’t,” Hermione told her, “not as live animals. Deep frozen meat is acceptable, as The Personalia can irradiate it to be doubly sure that no bacteria get here alive. That meat was thawed the day you bought it from the butchers. Anything unsold for human consumption by the end of the day gets minced for poultry feed the next morning, and snapped up cheaply by the poultry farmers. Chickens can eat almost anything, but they prefer plant food with just a little meat protein to give them a balanced diet for egg production.”

“You mean hens are omnivores like us?” Jessica asked.

“Yes. They aren’t carnivores, so an all-meat diet is bad for them, as it would also be for us. They will eat plants, insects, even frogs and mice if they can catch them, so some minced meat from the butcher is fine. It is up to the farmer to ration out the meat to a large flock so that none can gorge themselves on meat.”

“So eggs can be brought here to hatch?”

“Yes. That works, and is normally the only way you can get an Earth creature to Rehome.” Hermione added, “I heard that someone is trying to implant Earth-sourced embryos into Rehome animals, but it is a tricky ask. Rejection is the main problem, like they used to have with organ transplants on Earth, and in this case the embryo has to be at a very early stage to be allowed by The Personalia to get to Rehome.”

Within the hour, Admin called back with confirmation of accommodation in City Two for the three new arrivals, and Fiona thanked them for their help. She was told the three would be informed of their housing at the initial interview.

Fiona later got a call from John Meadows.

“Mrs Robertson, I have been told the staff will arrive at the beach landing at around eleven a.m. tomorrow. Can you be there to help me?”

“I think so. I have to check with my husband, and see if I can get into the city and get a train to City One to meet you. Can you meet me off the train when I get there? I’ll have an infant with me in a sling; my son Tom.”

“I’ll be there. The timetable says a train arrives at ten-fifteen. Is that the one?”

“If I can get away, that’s the one I’ll be on, Mr Meadows. By the way, your housing in City Two has been allocated.”

“Oh, thanks, Mrs Robertson.”

Once she had closed the call, Fiona sought out Frances.

“Frances, tomorrow, can I get into the city and catch the train to City One that gets there at ten-fifteen? I can take Tom with me, as he is no bother most of the time. I’ll shove stuff for changing him in my handbag, just in case.”

Frances asked, “Is this your shop staff arriving?”

“Yes. The girls are due at eleven in the morning, so I want to meet John Meadows when my train gets in, and we can get a bus or taxi to the landing beach. Any problems with me being away?”

“Nah, this is important for you. I’ll sort it out with Reginald. One less at the digging will make little difference, as we are not going to finish today anyway. Are you going to bike to the city, or catch the local train into the city centre?”

“Local train. Less hassle with the baby. The trains are frequent enough that I can get on one down at the halt to make an easy connection. I expect to catch one around eight-thirty. I don’t know when I’ll be back, as I have to get the three of them settled in their accommodation with bedclothes and some essentials first. How about you?”

Frances shrugged. “Time-wise, we should be back home about the same as today. I assume Jessica will stay home again to be mother to the rest of the kids. That woman loves the kids, so I think she’ll want more of her own. You using your baby sling?”

“Yes. It keeps my hands free.”

“What about a bottle for feeding him?”

“I can tie that to the sling. Warming it is the only difficulty, but I’ll find somewhere to get that done.”

“Okay. Get yourself a decent sleep tonight. Ask Sandra or one of the others to look after Thomas overnight.”

The planning worked, and Fiona caught the early train into the city, then the connecting train to City One. Once she stepped off the train at the terminal with her capacious handbag, she stopped as soon as she was clear of the other passengers, and by that means made herself different.

It worked. She quickly spotted a man making his way towards her, waving his arm. As he got closer, he called out, “Are you Mrs Fiona Robertson?”

She nodded, and raised her own arm to confirm her identity, but the baby in his sling was probably enough.

“You must be John.”

“Sure am,” he replied. “Good journey?” he asked.