by Carmen Reid
‘I’ve just spent six hours on the Eurostar to bring you that book, Sheila, because you couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning.’
‘Pamela!’ Sheila turned in her chair to face her with glacial eyes, but Pamela saw that her left hand was twisting at her right cuff bangle. A scene in front of Boyd, that was just unthinkable!
‘I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced,’ Sheila managed, but it was too late. Way, way too late.
‘Inconvenienced? Inconvenienced?!’ Pamela heard herself repeat. She was shaking with fright, but knew there was still more to come: ‘I have just been to France and back and yet the words “thank you” seem to be too much trouble for you.’
‘Pamela, that’s enough.’ Sheila’s voice was low now, but Boyd and his colleagues were hanging onto every word.‘You’ve had a long day, but you can keep your opinions to yourself. I’ve sacked people for less than this.’
‘Well, you won’t be sacking me – because I resign.’ What?! Who is this person? What is she saying? Make her stop. ‘I resign. I quit. I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough of you. I’ve worked for you for three years . . .’ Out stumbled the words, out into the Arctic wilderness of Sheila’s stare, Sheila’s crossed arms, Sheila’s unmistakable ‘you will never work in this business again’ look.
It was terrifying. One of the scariest things Pamela had done in her whole life, but still she went on: ‘And you’ve treated me atrociously. You should be ashamed of yourself. I’ve only ever tried to do a good job for you. Tried to be the best . . . So you can stuff your job. I’ll get on fine without you.’
Through the blur of tears that was threatening, Pamela managed to turn and make for the door of the bar.
Oh my God, oh God, dear God.
Out in the street, she double-checked her purse with hands that hardly seemed to work any more. No, definitely no money left for a taxi home. She hobbled the fifteen minutes in streaming rain, in the boots of torture, to the nearest underground. 10.38 p.m. Two trains and another ten-minute walk ahead of her before she was home.
On the platform she waited; waited and looked at the posters. All promising escape, freedom, open space. A golden beach here, a mountain top there and at the end of the platform, a landscape photograph of rolling greenness, trees and a glorious sunset.
She knew a place like that, she realized, through the tears that were flowing freely now.
When she finally put her key in the front door lock, 11.26 p.m., Dave was in the hallway, had waited up, was opening the inner door for her. She flung her wet arms round him, rested her head, with soaking hair, against him and said: ‘I’ve decided. I’ve finally made my decision . . . I’ve resigned. This flat goes on the market tomorrow and we buy Harry and Ingrid’s farm.’
Dave was so stunned, so thrilled, he couldn’t speak.
Chapter Twelve
‘SO . . . WHAT DO you think?’ Pamela looked in turn at each of the faces gathered round the garden table, registering the varying degrees of surprise.
‘Well, that’s what I call a big step.’ Her mother, Helen, was the first to respond to the news.‘A drastically big step. I really didn’t see that one coming.’
Pamela and Dave had just explained to her parents, her brother Ted and his partner, Liz, that they had jacked in their jobs and now planned to sell the flat and move to a small farm in Norfolk. It was the biggest news to have hit one of their informal family gatherings for ages.
She’d warned them on the phone that there was something ‘big’ she wanted to talk to them about and Liz had been convinced Pamela was calling them together to talk about splitting up from Dave.
‘It’s the strain of what they’ve been through,’ she’d told Ted, on the car journey to his parents’ house, talking loudly over the Percy the Park Keeper CD and using the visor mirror to comb through her long black hair and apply lipstick: ‘They’re not going to make it. The last few times they’ve been up, it’s been so obvious they’re really struggling . . . so unhappy together.’
‘No way,’ was the response from Ted, as he glanced at the children in the back. Martha and little Jim. The children Pamela would beg, borrow, steal, just about kill to have.‘Those two will never split up, trust me on this. They’re . . . they’ve been together so long. They’re like . . . family.’
‘So what?’ said Liz.‘People split up. All kinds of people for all kinds of reasons. I’m not buying the family myth that Pamela and Dave are somehow immune. They’re miserable. Why has no-one noticed this minor fact?’
But when they’d got to his parents’ house, Pamela and Dave had looked better, happier than they had done in months. Pamela looked particularly well, slimmer, more relaxed, and had a tight skirt and high heels thing going on that Ted hadn’t seen before.
And here they were talking about giving up the day jobs, uprooting to Norfolk. It was all very surprising.
‘This is fantastic,’ was Ted’s response.‘Martha! Aunty Pam and Uncle Dave are moving to a farm. And you can go and stay with them all summer!’ He winked at his sister, a grin cracking over his broad, handsome face.
Were there going to be lambs? Martha wanted to know. Horses? Pigs?
‘Vegetables,’ Pamela told her, knowing this would be a disappointment.
‘Yuck!’
This provoked Liz to say, ‘Martha, there are plenty of vegetables you like.’
‘Yuuuergh!’ came with full-on rolling eyes, sticking out tongue and dramatic falling down onto grass.
‘Well, all very exciting.’ This from Pamela’s father, Simon, who was actually folding up his newspaper and threatening to put it down. Simon, ‘Organic vegetables?’ He began to roll one of his tiny cigarettelets, as he called them.‘So what do you have to do to grow those?’
Dave couldn’t wait to share all his new information about manure, selective planting, crop rotation and traditional farming methods. He’d already started his organic horticulture course and the books about Green this, Manure that were stacking up on his bedside table.
‘And does one flat in west London now equal a farm in Norfolk?’ Simon wanted to know.
‘Well . . . it’s a very small farm, but no, not quite. I’ll be putting all my inheritance money into it as well.’
There, Pamela thought. That will show them that we mean it.
‘My God.’ Helen was rubbing at her temples.‘We all know what a tough, tough time the two of you are having. But are you sure this is the answer? Wouldn’t three months off in the sun be a better idea? You could both do with a long holiday.’
Nothing like a little maternal disapproval to make Pamela race to commit to an idea.‘We don’t need a holiday,’ she said, exasperation in her voice: ‘When we get back from a holiday, nothing will have changed. And anyway, we’ve both resigned. We need to do something else.’
‘Oh . . . you’ve already resigned? Well, well,’ her mother seemed to like this.
‘Aha.’ Pamela was grinning, looking forward to retelling the Sheila moment. The Monday after the scene, Alison had been dispatched to Pamela’s home with a bag full of her belongings from the office. Inside had been a rather formal note from her ex-boss wishing her well in her career and promising ‘excellent references’ should she require them. She knew this was the closest she would ever get to an apology from Sheila.
‘Have you looked into renting a farm, to see if you like it?’ Liz suggested.
Pamela, swirling the remaining wine round her glass, said: ‘I think we quite like the commitment of buying. Going for it with bells on!’
Helen, with a nod at the wine glass, asked: ‘I take it you’re having a break from the IVF at least?’
‘Oh yes,’ Pamela said and drained the wine down.‘Big break. Year off. We need a rest . . . from everything.’ She looked round to catch her husband’s eyes. They smiled at each other. It had been hell, no other word for it. But they were going to have some time off now, just as she’d said, from everything.
‘Any more thoughts on adoption?’ he
r father asked, one hand shading his eyes from the sunlight so he could look at her properly.
‘I think,’ she began after a considered pause, ‘going the adoption route would be admitting to ourselves that we’re not going to have our own baby. And we haven’t given up the hope of that yet. We haven’t been told there’s no hope.’
‘But they never tell you that, do they?’ Ted’s words cut across her.‘The clinics. They claim there’s always a chance. They want you to keep coming back for more.’
‘Ted!’ A warning scowl crossed Liz’s delicate features.‘You don’t know enough about it.’
‘We’re thinking it through, really carefully,’ Dave answered.‘But the main thing is to have a break.’
‘Are you going to commute to London, Pam?’ her mother wanted to know.‘Commuting from Norfolk will hardly give you much of a break, will it?’
‘I’ve got two projects lined up, so I’ll commute for a bit then, hopefully, take some time off, help Dave with the farm and find work up there. That’s the plan.’
‘I’m still trying to picture you both on a farm,’ Ted said. He was sitting cross-legged on the grass beside them, rolling a ball over and over for Jim.‘I mean, Pamela needs to be within half a mile of a handbag shop at all times . . . and Dave – you’re pretty good with your pot plants but I’m trying to picture you in a field.’
‘I’m going to have two tractors!’ Dave replied.‘One red and one silver grey. How jealous are you?! You’ll be up there in a shot, begging me for a go on my tractors. Forget the latest WAP and WiFi technology, I’m going to have two diesel engines . . .’
‘And a windmill,’ Pamela added.
‘Really? Like in Thomas the Tank Engine?’ This appealed to Martha.
‘Combine harvester?’ Ted asked with a grin.
‘Just wait and see.’ Dave blew Ted a kiss and they both burst out laughing.
‘Liz, honey, I’ve made the children scrambled egg, steamed carrot, green beans – everything organic –’ a nod at Dave here – ‘and they haven’t touched a thing.’
Helen was looking at their plates, almost as full as they were when lunch had begun.
‘What shall we try next?’
‘Erm . . .’
‘Pudding?’ Helen suggested.
‘Martha, Jim,’ Liz called out over the garden.‘Come and have a little bit more . . . yes, just two more mouthfuls . . . then, who knows, Granny might even have pudding!’
‘Yeeeeeaaaaah.’
Pamela watched the children she loved most in the world hurtle over the lawn towards the table, arms outstretched like aeroplanes, hair and clothes flapping as they ran. She looked over at Dave again. Big step . . . very big step indeed. She hoped they were going to be OK.
‘Sometimes you have to trust your instincts,’ Dave had whispered into her ear the night they had stayed at the farm. The night they had really in their hearts made the decision.
It had been very late, they had stayed up with Harry and Ingrid drinking too much wine, then even more foolishly, whisky, listening to tales from the coalface. What it had really been like to move to a farm as newcomers.
‘The blisters!’ Harry had warned.‘The sheer back-breaking hard labour. You realize what an easy life we have compared to our ancestors. Some nights we would come in, have our baths and be so tired, we’d have to go straight to bed, couldn’t even face making anything to eat . . . but the place was a mess then,’ he’d added at the sight of Pamela’s worried face.‘There isn’t anything like that ahead of you now. You’ll still find it really hard work. But have faith!’ He’d reached round with the whisky bottle, topping up glasses again.‘Show some pioneering spirit.’
The evening had finally wound up when Pamela and Dave were directed to the back bedroom with its dinky, charmingly dilapidated adjoining bathroom.
After Pamela had washed her face in the lukewarm trickle of water and used the brand new toothbrush and paste Ingrid had put out for them, she’d come back into the little bedroom to see Dave propped up against the pillow with his reading glasses on, looking at a book he’d found on the side table. His hair flopped forward a little and she caught a glimpse of something she hadn’t seen for a long, long time. A glimpse of the man she’d fallen in love with. There he was in bed, reading: the arty, clever guy, the man with a mission, burning up with plans, ambitions, ideas. Where had he been all this time? Maybe just ground down, by his terrible job, by London life, by the IVF – all those things manageable on their own, maybe, but together, enough to grind anyone down.
Wasn’t the whole love, desire thing the weirdest thing? For weeks, months, she’d thought she couldn’t bear to be in the same room as Dave: everything he did irritated the hell out of her and she’d thought only about how much she’d wanted out of this. Now . . . now things seemed to be suddenly different again. He had this whole new plan, a new reason to give it another go.
He had turned to her and smiled, an unusually happy, relaxed smile.‘Are you OK?’ he’d asked.‘That was a lot of booze . . . for you.’
‘I’m fine,’ she’d smiled back and she’d gone over to sit on the edge of the bed beside him.
‘How about you?’ she’d asked, putting a hand on the back of his neck, feeling the warmth of him.
‘I love it here,’ he’d answered, meeting her gaze.‘I can’t really explain it to you, but I can’t think of a better thing we could do right now.’ He’d gently closed the book on his knees and set it down beside him: ‘I want a place of our own. Really our own. Alone. Undisturbed,’ he’d added, the words tumbling out a bit.‘Somewhere to be busy, somewhere to be doing something real. I’ve been working on abstract figures, projections, expectations, growth forecasts for all my adult life. I think it’s done my head in. I need some reality. Some earth.’ He’d almost laughed.
He’d leaned his forehead in against hers and told her: ‘Almost every night for months now, I’ve been dreaming about my uncle’s farm. The one I spent all my summers on when I was growing up. All these things I’d forgotten about. They’re coming back to me most nights. It’s very strange . . .’
Even more confessionally he’d added: ‘I’m not sure if I should be telling you this, but I’m slightly worried, Pammy, that my marbles may be on the verge of deserting me. And I need to do this to . . . save myself.’
She’d put her arms round him, rested her chin on his shoulder and rubbed up and down his back.
‘Mine too,’ she’d said.‘Maybe we could move here and quietly go mad together.’
He’d laughed at this and turned his head to kiss her ear. She’d kissed him back and then their mouths had clumsily found each other, her lips touched against his, then her tongue slid against his and to her surprise, within moments they were kissing with a hot desperation she no longer even associated with him.
He tasted soft, warm, minty, he put comforting arms wrapped in Harry’s borrowed pyjamas around her and she closed her eyes feeling safe, feeling desperate for this connection to him . . . wanting Dave.
Wanting the man who was suddenly throwing her across the bed, who was pushing a lightly stubbled face into her neck, against her breasts, who wanted her. And she wanted him, she really did. That was the surprise of it. She pulled him inside and tensed up against him, squeezed him in further, moved up and down underneath him, giggled with him, but then closed her eyes and concentrated on coming.
‘I love you,’ he breathed into her ear.‘Come with me.’
And she wasn’t sure if he meant coming or moving to Linden Lee.
‘Is this us today then? Shall I shut the door?’ Magenta, when she came to the support group, always took it upon herself to be unofficial chairwoman.
The eight women and two slightly self-conscious men in the room broke off the quiet conversations they were having and turned their attention to the loose circle of chairs in the centre of the room.
‘Well, time to take the floor,’ Magenta smiled brightly at them all and pulled out a chair.‘I’ll s
tart,’ she said, after introducing the new and nervous-looking couple, ‘because I’m loud and bossy, so that’ll warm you all up.’ And she went on to explain that she and Mick had now agreed one more year, two more goes and then that was absolutely, finally it: ‘Because we’re knackered, bankrupt, toxic. It can’t go on. Otherwise it’ll be divorce and he’s a lawyer, so he’ll get the flat and all my money and I’ll become one of those wizened old witches living in a squat with so many child-substitute cats, the RSPCA will be constantly at the door harassing me. It’s not a good future. So, no, two more goes and then that is absolutely it. We’ll book in for intensive recovery therapy. Marriage resuscitation . . . marriage intensive care more like. That’s what we’ll need by then.’
This all delivered at jaunty breakneck speed, with much bangle-jangling, Magenta doing the truth for laughs.
And they did laugh, because it was hard to imagine this smart, successful company exec becoming a scourge of the RSPCA.
But then – Pamela looked around – everyone else was here straight from work in their razor-sharp suits, crisp blouses, briefcases on the floor; all white – apart from Donna, the only black face among them – all super-successful in every area of London life, except this one thing they were here to talk about. The fact that they couldn’t make babies.
All such tryers, they’d worked and pushed for every achievement in their lives. And here they were all desperately trying for a baby.
She would look round the group week after week wondering whose turn it was next to try, to be disappointed, or to be pregnant, to miscarry, to try again. It was hard to know who actually left with a real, live baby, because people dropped out of the group for all kinds of reasons and staying in touch was sometimes too difficult.
‘Has anyone heard from Fran?’ Magenta wanted to know.
‘She’s pregnant,’ Pamela told them and there was the quiet response. Excitement, jealousy, hope, foreboding all wrapped up in a complicated parcel.‘It’s early days, she’s very nervous . . . taking it easy. She sends her love and says she’ll see us soon.’
