The Sheepdog Trials – Part 1: Outrun

"Forty-one," said Harold.

Pauline stared at the scorecard. "Forty-one out of a hundred?"

"Forty-one."

"My dog was perfect."

"Your dog was perfect. You were not."

They stood at the edge of a windswept hill field in the Pennines, at the annual sheepdog trials, in the rain. Sheep huddled in a pen. Spectators sheltered under umbrellas, eating pies. A border collie named Fly sat at Pauline's feet, trembling with eagerness.

She was fifty-eight, a hill farmer and recent widow, in a battered waterproof and a woolly hat, with a weathered face and a very firm jaw. He was sixty-three, tall and bony, in an oilskin and a flat cap, with a white moustache and bright blue eyes full of sardonic patience. He had judged the trials for twenty years. He had never given a high score to a beginner.

"What did I do wrong?"

"You whistled too early."

"I whistled when she needed me."

"She did not need you. She knew."

Pauline folded her arms. "Show me, then."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Show me what you mean. Come out to my farm. I'll hold the sheep."

To her surprise, he came. He drove out the next Saturday in a rattling old pickup, tied up his boots, and followed her up the hill. For two hours he stood on the heather in the wind, with a hand on his crook, murmuring directions. "Let her work. Don't call. Trust."

Fly worked. The sheep flowed before her like water, gathered, turned, pressed forward in a tight silver stream. Pauline stood in awe. She didn't whistle once.

"There," said Harold, quietly.

"She did it all herself."

"She always could. You needed to know."

They walked down the hill together, the dog circling, the rain blowing sideways. At the farmhouse, she made tea.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Yes."

"Why did you drive out?"

"Because you asked," said Harold. "No one asks me anything. They just argue the score."

"Green?" said Pauline, a hill, a gate.

"Green," said Harold, going pink. "Very green. Same time next week?"

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Final Round.