Wildwood. Elinor Florence

back. As it approached, the noise grew louder. Bridget squeezed my hand.

      A green truck appeared at the end of the field, tearing across the stubble. Drawing closer to the combine, it drove underneath the long pipe that stuck out from the side like the spout on a teapot. With a rush of sound, a thick stream of golden kernels burst from the spout and cascaded into the truck box. The combine and the truck moved in tandem, travelling at the same speed. The combine continued to suck up the standing grain as eagerly as Fizzy lapping milk from her bowl, pulling the plants into its hungry mouth.

      The rush of grain from the spout slowed to a trickle and then stopped. The truck angled away from the combine toward us, and with surprise I saw that the driver was a grey-haired woman. She waved at us before the truck picked up speed and raced away.

      The combine was approaching now, and we could see a man sitting at the controls, high in a glass box that surrounded him on three sides and extended to his feet. When it came up beside us, the combine drew to a shuddering stop. The door of the glass cab opened and the driver climbed backwards down the metal steps, holding the railings on each side. Astonishingly, the sound of classical music emerged from the open door.

      He strode rapidly across the stubble, unsmiling. Bridget shrank behind me and even I felt rather intimidated by this tall, broad-shouldered man in dirty jeans and a ragged denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, unbuttoned to reveal a hairy chest. There were sweat circles under his arms. Since he was wearing dark glasses, one arm held on with a piece of duct tape, I could see only the glint of his eyes. His bony jaw was covered with scruffy golden whiskers that glittered like the stubble under our feet.

      On his head was a beat-up green cap bearing a logo that read “Alberta Wheat Pool.” When he pulled this off, his dark blond hair, matted into something that resembled a mullet, was plastered to his forehead with sweat and dust. His dark eyebrows were drawn together in a distinctly unfriendly expression.

      “You must be the new owner. I’m Colin McKay.” He held out his hand and I couldn’t help flinching when I saw how black it was.

      Still, I gritted my teeth and extended my own hand. Much to my dismay, I saw that my hands were even grimier than his, covered as they were with soot and Black Silk polish. We shook hands, dirt meeting dirt.

      Fortunately, he ignored Bridget, who was leaning into the backs of my legs so heavily that I had to step closer to him to avoid falling.

      “And you must be the renter.”

      Looking him over again, I was suddenly conscious of my own appearance. Since moving to the farm I had washed my hair only twice. My natural curl was taking over and my hair was bundled into a messy clump. I hadn’t applied a lick of makeup since leaving Arizona. I was wearing my black cotton pullover, now forever ruined with holes at the elbows, and a pair of black jeans, scuffed at the knees from kneeling on the floor. Fortunately, their colour disguised the Black Silk polish liberally smeared over my body.

      “Yeah, I’m in partnership with my parents. That was my mother driving the truck. My father leased these two sections from your great-aunt back in 1980, and I took over the lease when I started farming with them five years ago.”

      “This is all new to me,” I said awkwardly. “I’ve never been on a farm before.”

      His brows pulled together in a deeper frown. “Well, that’s a first for both of us. I’ve never met anyone who’s never been on a farm before.”

      I didn’t know what else to say. “How’s the harvest coming along?”

      “Pretty good, if we can get the crop off before the first frost. I’ll finish this section tonight, and then move to the south section tomorrow. We only have a short window before freeze-up, so I’d better get back to work.”

      He put his cap back on and pulled it down firmly, gave a curt nod, and turned away. His cap had an elastic band across the back, and through the opening, a clump of hair stuck out like a rooster tail. He vaulted up the metal steps into the cab, and a few minutes later the engine roared, the paddlewheel began to turn, and the combine moved away.