The day he couldn’t find one of his shirts I told him it was in the hay press. He gave me the usual scowl but didn’t ask, so I sighed in mock exasperation, led him out to the hay shed and lifted off the top couple of bales. Somehow I kept a totally straight face as I revealed a stash of freshly cleaned laundry that had been neatly folded and pressed under the heavy blocks of meadow hay. I really hated ironing.
The next day when he took his work gloves off he found that his hands had turned bright red because someone had filled them with the powder we used to mark the lambs with. He tried to get me back by putting snails in my work boots but picked the wrong ones. It still worked though because Aunt Lily refused to believe he’d done it and blamed me anyway.
As we argued our way through th
