The Sheepdog Trials – Part 2: The Final Round

The next year, Pauline and Fly won.

It was a bright September day. The hill field was green and gold, the sky vast and blue. The spectators sat on straw bales with flasks of tea. Fly crouched at Pauline's feet, quivering. Across the field, at the judge's table, Harold watched with his cap pulled low.

"Away to me," called Pauline, softly.

Fly flew. She ran wide in a perfect arc, stopped behind the sheep, and lifted them with a single steady glare. Pauline didn't whistle. The sheep moved down the field in a calm silver stream, through the gates, round the post, into the pen. A hush fell over the crowd. When the last gate clicked, the field erupted.

"Ninety-two," announced the steward.

Pauline stood with her hand over her mouth. Fly trotted up and leaned against her leg. Her eyes were wet.

Harold walked over slowly, scorecard in hand. His moustache twitched. "I'd have given you ninety-three," he said. "But the judge was biased."

"The judge was you."

"Exactly."

She laughed, a huge delighted bark, and flung her arms round his neck. He stood rigid for a moment, then folded his big arms round her and held on, gently.

Later, when the crowd had gone, they sat on a hay bale at the edge of the field with two mugs of tea, watching the sun slip toward the moors. The sheep grazed peacefully. A curlew called.

"Can I ask you something?" said Harold.

"Yes."

"Would you object if the judge retired?"

"From the trials?"

"From being alone."

She turned. His blue eyes were serious and shy. "May I kiss you, Harold?"

"Yes," he said. "And if you say stop, you must give me a dog."

"I'll give you Fly's pups."

"Then I'll never say stop."

She kissed him, warm and firm, a weathered hand against his white moustache. He kissed her back, slow and astonished, tasting of tea and wet wool. The sun slid low and gold over the moor. Fly sighed contentedly at their feet.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Pauline. "Very green."

Harold has a dog now. Her name is Score. She is, he says, extremely well behaved. He is lying.

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