by Carmen Reid
‘And George must get a wage of some sort. I don’t know how much it is. He does four mornings a week, I think. Helps pick all the veg.’
‘How come Harry didn’t take all this business with him? He’s not exactly far away.’
‘Harry’s new farm isn’t organic,’ Dave explained, a little incredulous that Pamela hadn’t got this yet: ‘It’ll take two years to convert. But anyway he’s switching to beef mainly. He’s already bought himself a little herd.’
Down in the fruit and vegetable field in front of the house, Dave went to the tall raspberry canes and searching through them carefully found the very last of the season’s fruit.
‘Breakfast!’ he said, tipping a handful of small, soft berries into her hand.
She scooped them into her mouth and found them just as deliciously sweet-sour as she was expecting.
‘Mmmm . . . Mmmm!’ she said to Dave, then when her mouth was empty: ‘Pick more. So, are we going to have to come out here every morning and forage for food?’
He smiled at this: ‘And every evening. I hope you like vegetable stew and vegetable soup and vegetable curry and—’
‘Vegetable pie?’ she added.‘Does this mean I’m going to have to get flowered skirts and start plaiting my hair?’
‘That might be nice,’ he answered, busy searching the plants.
‘Aha, the truth is out! All this time I’ve wasted trying to be a slick city type and you really wanted to be married to a girl from Little House on the Prairie.’
He turned and they smiled at each other, might even have cracked another joke and laughed, but the roar of a red pick-up truck hurtling along the farm road towards them broke into the moment.
The truck driver saw them, gave a brief wave and then skidded the vehicle to a dust-flying stop at the entrance to the field.
‘Blimey,’ was Dave’s comment.‘It’s the Dukes of Hazzard.’
The driver’s door opened and a short, wiry, messy-haired man got out and began to walk towards them with a pronounced limp.
‘Hello there!’ he called out.
‘Hello,’ they both replied.
‘George,’ he said, getting closer.
‘Oh, you’re George,’ Dave said.‘I’m Dave. This is Pamela. I wasn’t expecting you till later.’
‘Yup.’ The little man was standing beside them now, ruffling through his overgrown black hair.‘I won’t be able to do the four mornings. Got a job in the supermarket, out of town. The retail park. Five days.’ The words tumbled out.‘Out of the cold,’ he added as an explanation.‘Better money . . . Full time. Better for the leg.’ He gave his left thigh a slap.‘Not been the same since the smash. Nine pins in it.’
‘Oh,’ was momentarily all the reply Dave could make to this.
‘Can you help us out at all? Even for a bit?’ Pamela asked. Nine pins? Wasn’t that a bowling game?
George considered this request for a long moment: ‘Friday mornings,’ he said finally.‘Day off. I’m working Sundays. Could help you pick for the big orders on Friday.’
‘That would be great,’ Dave told him.‘Help get us started.’ He held out a hand for George to shake.
George wiped his hand carefully on his jeans before taking Dave’s hand.‘Well. Got to go,’ he said. Obviously not a man of many words.
‘So can you make it tomorrow?’ Dave asked.‘Tomorrow’s Friday.’ George seemed to require the additional explanation.
‘Oh . . . yup. Yup. I can make it. Seven?’
‘Seven in the morning?’ Dave was slightly incredulous, but said, ‘Yeah. That’ll be fine.’
George gave them both a somehow surprisingly warm smile and turned to limp back to the pick-up.
He slammed the door, revved up into a screeching reverse and hurtled back down the road again. Obviously the nine pins hadn’t made too much of an impact on his driving style.
‘Well, that is a bit of a bugger, to put it mildly,’ Dave said, still watching the truck disappear into the distance.‘We’ve got a lot of veg to pick, every day of the week except Sunday. It’s going to be very hard work.’
‘I’m back in town next week,’ Pamela reminded him, not liking the sound of this ‘we’ve got a lot of veg to pick’. She wanted to keep her distance; wasn’t sure if she had ever picked a vegetable – maybe some pea pods in her mother’s garden. She didn’t think she knew what a broccoli plant looked like. Brussels sprouts, for instance, did they grow on bushes? Under the ground? No, they were green. There was some rule that green things didn’t grow underground. Chlorophyll? The vaguest snatch of biology lesson came to mind.
‘I know,’ Dave replied.‘Well, I’ll have to see if I can manage it all on my own. If not, maybe I can find someone else to help out.’
Pamela went back to the house, leaving Dave in the field to examine how much fruit and veg there was for the big pick ahead tomorrow. She’d decided to make a trip into town for groceries, then she’d start unpacking the kitchen and move on from there.
Before she was ready to leave, she heard the crunch of a car coming up the gravelled drive and then the loud brrrring of the farmhouse doorbell. There on the doorstep was the postman, holding out an armful of packages and letters.
‘Oh hello. Is this for the Taylors? I wasn’t expecting anything. I’m one of the new owners.’
‘Mrs Carr?’ the postman asked. When she nodded, he added: ‘Yup, Harry told me. No, these are for Olive up the road.’
She saw the address labels now: ‘Mrs Olive Price, Linden Cottage, Linden Lee.’
‘Um?’ Pamela didn’t understand.
‘I always used to leave her post at the farmhouse. Can’t get the van up the back road, it’s murder on the chassis.’
‘Oh . . . You want me to take it up to her?’
‘Well, if you can.’ The postie looked round at her and Dave’s low-slung Saab dubiously.
‘Yes, that’ll be fine. So she’s in the cottage at the end of the road round the top of the hill,’ Pamela said.
‘That’s the one,’ the postie confirmed.‘OK, I’ll be off then.’ He slid the parcels into her arms.‘Be seeing you,’ he added with a smile and headed to his van, waving cheerily.
She was reminded of her niece’s Postman Pat books. Maybe it really was like that round here, everyone knew everyone, everyone was nice to everyone else. Maybe she should have offered him tea? After London, it felt a bit spooky.
She loaded the parcels into the car, deciding to call on Mrs Olive Price on the way to town. But at the start of the narrow track, she saw that the postie was right: the Saab would never get up there, the tracks had sunk deep into the earth leaving a chassis-wrecking grassy mound in the middle. She got out and, armed with the bundle, began to walk up the road.
It was a hard fifteen-minute walk, as the road sloped steeply round the hill away from their farm, but finally she came to the squat grey cottage prettily surrounded with a rosy-posy garden and immaculate lawn. She rang the doorbell and saw a woman’s face appear and disappear at the window before the door was opened.
‘Yes?’ the fifty-something, plain-faced woman standing before her asked.
‘Mrs Price?’
‘Yes,’ came the clipped reply. There was nothing friendly about the steely eyes or narrow lips drawn into a line.
‘I’m Pamela Carr. My husband Dave and I are the new Linden Lee owners.’
‘From London?’ Just a little scathingly.
‘Yes. Anyway, I’m just dropping off your post.’ Pamela decided there wasn’t much point in prolonging the conversation with Olive, who looked quite as drab as her name in navy blue Crimplene trousers, a beige turtleneck and short grey hair.
Olive took the packages being offered to her then added: ‘No need to ring next time. Door’s always open, just leave them in the porch.’
Then bang, the bright blue front door was shut.
It struck Pamela as strange that someone with such a lusciously, cutesy garden should be such a cow. Maybe Mr Price was the garde
ner.
Ah well, that dispelled the Postman Pat image. She set off down the hill towards her car.
It took Pamela a full twenty minutes to drive to the town. She followed signs to a back street car park, intending to spend an hour or two exploring.
She went slowly up and down each side of the high street, in and out of the Co-op, the fish shop, the chemist’s, and the grocer’s, where she bought fruit only, not wanting to make the mistake of bringing vegetables back to her new home.
She loaded her groceries into the car, then walked back, intending to poke about in some of the side streets, to see what else was there and maybe stop for lunch in the rather strangely named Café Hacienda next door to the fish and chip shop. So Dave was right, emergency suppers would be available here. After rummaging through the tiny bookshop, and the higgledy-piggledy ‘antique’ shop, which seemed to sell only used gas fires and porcelain Clydesdale horses, she went into the café and picked a table beside the window, so she could watch the goings-on in the street.
The café was bizarre. Run by someone who clearly longed to own a bar in Spain, it had whitewashed walls, terracotta tiles on the floor, and on all the available surfaces Spanish souvenirs of every kind ever invented: postcards, baskets, a straw donkey, castanets, miniature bottles of liqueur, two guitars and several paintings of sad-eyed, gypsy maidens.
Pamela pulled out a chair with a raffia seat. Little ground-in bits of food clearly visible between the straws – eek! Nevertheless, the place was busy and the talk level lively and animated. She picked up the laminated menu liberally scattered with superfluous apostrophes, and surprisingly adventurous.
Toastie’s:
Haloumi and tomato
Egg and ketchup
Tuna and black olive
Baked potato’s:
Hawaiian baked potato’s – with ham, cream cheese and pineapple
Tropical baked potato’s – with cream cheese and pineapple
Cajun baked potato’s – with chicken in a hot sauce
Vine leaf-wrapped parcels of one thing and another were on offer, along with taramasalata on toast and Spanish tortilla. The cake and scone collection included: Mrs Mills spicy bun’s. (Always a favourite!)
‘Hello there, what can I do you for?’ A plump, middle-aged woman in a pinny was at her side with a little notebook.
‘Ermm . . .’ Pamela was not feeling nearly as adventurous as the menu required.‘A baked potato with cheese? Would that be OK?’ This was ordering off the menu.
‘Cheddar or cream cheese?’ was the smiling reply.
‘Cheddar, please. And I’ll have a pot of tea,’ Pamela added. To order the side salad was probably to risk a concoction of iceberg lettuce, shredded carrot and salad cream. Better stick to basics.
‘You’re a new face,’ the woman said now.‘Are you visiting?’
‘No, my husband and I have just moved here, we’ve bought a farm not far away.’
‘Oh, which one?’ Full of friendly interest now. Postman Pat, Postman Pat . . .
‘Linden Lee.’
‘Oh, Harry and Ingrid’s place? Lovely farm, lovely couple . . . lovely children. D’you have family?’
The eye-wincing question. Instinctively Pamela knew that her usual ‘we’re still trying’ answer might be a mistake here. It might lead to a half-hour conversation in which all details would be required and then passed on to most of the good citizens of the town.
‘Erm, no,’ she said and left it bald.
‘Oh well, plenty of time for that,’ the woman added, causing Pamels to wince again.‘I’m Anne, by the way. Anne Mills.’
Mrs Spicy Buns.
‘I run the place with my sister-in-law, Ada. Ada!’ she suddenly turned and shouted across the room.‘Come and meet the new woman at Linden Lee.’ This had the effect of turning the entire café clientele in Pamela’s direction. She smiled, embarrassed.
‘What’s your name,’ Mrs Mills asked.
‘Pamela Carr.’
‘Pamela Carr!’ Mrs Mills shouted at the clearly completely deaf Ada. Everyone looked over again.
Bloody hell.
Finally, her baked potato and tea were in front of her and she was left alone.
The potato was a tiny, shrivelled thing which had obviously met its end in the microwave. An unyielding blanket of cold, waxy orange cheese had been laid over it. Maybe she should sound the Last Post and give it a decent burial. The metal teapot burned her hand and poured out a gush of tea ominously the colour of coffee.
She sipped the tea, hacked off a rubbery corner of potato and looked out of the window.
It was quite a sweet little high street really. She watched old ladies in buttoned-up raincoats and hats totter down the pavement, marching mothers in fleeces pushing buggies. People getting in and out of the row of cars parked on the other side of the road.
A big black 4 x 4 pulled up and began to back into a space surely far too small. She watched as the car was manoeuvred in deftly with much energetic wheel-turning by the driver. Then the door opened and out swung sturdy cord-clad legs and a pair of battered suede boots, a man with jaw-length golden hair who beeped the car doors shut with his key before he tossed it from one hand to another then pushed it into a snug back pocket. With several jaunty long strides he was out of view.
She kept on looking, hoping that maybe he would double back, have just a quick errand to do, so she could take a better look at him. Those few moments hadn’t been nearly enough. She would have liked to take a proper look at the face, which from side on, had looked so ruggedly attractive. She would have liked a little longer to study the strong square shoulders beneath the farmy waxed anorak and she would most definitely have liked an action replay of the moment when he hoicked the jacket up and pushed his keys into his back pocket.
‘Will there be anything else?’ Ada broke Pamela’s crazed reverie over a stranger’s behind.
‘No . . . no, no. Just the bill.’
‘Not much of an eater, are you?’ was Ada’s pointed comment at the substantial remains of the baked potato.
‘No, not feeling too hungry today.’ Ada’s stern look made any sort of complaint about the food quite unthinkable: ‘Sorry.’
‘Moving house takes it out of you. But you need to eat well, if you’re planning a family.’
What? Hello?
‘Ermmm.’
‘Anyway, you be sure to drop in, whenever you’re in town. We’ll look after you – feed you up.’
As she got into her car, Pamela realized she’d been humming the Postman Pat theme tune under her breath ever since she’d left the café.
Chapter Seventeen
‘HOW’S IT GOING?’
‘Do you like it?’
‘Are you loving it there?’
Why did everyone want to know? All the time! All these questions. Pamela only had to set foot in London, just had to pass the scrabble for the turnstiles at Liverpool Street Station for the interrogation to begin.
She was working for Sadie again, and she had more work with contacts of Sadie’s lined up, so she spent much of the week in town, staying sometimes with Ted and Liz, sometimes with Alex. Her weekends were filling up with frequent visits from family and friends. Everyone quizzing her about the farm constantly.
‘So, what’s it really like out there?’
‘Aren’t you lonely?’
‘What do you do there?’
‘Are you missing London yet?’
No, not missing London, because she was there all week, suspected that she wouldn’t survive very long without coffee and wine bars, the buzz of the place where this season’s bag, this year’s hair, this month’s noodle fusion moment, the difference between taupe and soft mouse grey mattered.
‘How are you coping?’ Sadie Kingston-Jones had asked.
‘How am I coping?’ was Pamela’s rather incredulous response to Sadie, who seemed to seamlessly manage the two older children, the babies, two part-time nannies, her boutique, her husband’s
high-flying career, to look slim and gorgeous, and on top of all that had energy to plan further renovations to her home, which Pamela was supervising.
‘Well, you look a bit raddled today,’ was Sadie’s excuse.
‘It’s Monday. Commuter hell.’ Pamela didn’t really want to unburden herself about the bugger of a weekend she’d just had. But Sadie wangled a few choice complaints out of her.
‘Why can no-one drive out there? Roundabouts come to a standstill because no-one knows who’s supposed to go first. And we have mice! There was a dead one in the bath . . . and there are bats living in the walls.’
‘No! What do they do?’ Sadie asked.
‘I don’t know yet. It’s winter, they’re hibernating, but apparently in the spring they fly around, scrape about in the walls all night long. Croak. I’m never going to sleep again.’
‘Ugh! What if one gets into the house? Into your bed?’
‘Aaaaargh!’ Both gave a mock scream at this.
‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Pamela told her.‘They’re a protected species.’ She began a fresh complaint: ‘And everyone, everyone wears fleece out there all the time. Fleece, anoraks and hiking boots. It’s like everyone’s set to rush up a mountain at a moment’s notice.’
‘God.’ The concern in Sadie’s face: ‘There’s obviously no sex in the countryside.’
‘No. None,’ Pamela agreed.‘There’s mating, calving . . . that kind of thing. Definitely no sex.’
She didn’t say that by yesterday afternoon, the close of a rainy, dull and very quiet weekend, she was so fed up with it, she’d tramped to the top of the farm’s hill in a long woollen coat and unsuitable suede boots, letting both get destroyed by the mud and drizzle, and there on top, looking down at the view – so bewitching, bedazzling, enchanting in the summer, now just grey, muddy and bare – she’d yelled at the top of her voice: ‘FUCK THIS! FUCK OFF!’ But it hadn’t made her feel any better.
‘You should have listened to me,’ Sadie was telling her.‘It’s awful out there. You’ve been in town too long. You don’t want landscape, you want designer shoes. You can’t smell fresh air any more, you need clever, co-ordinating scents from Jo Malone. People live like animals out there. You have to be born and brought up to it.’ She’d run perfectly oval light red fingernails round the rim of the beautiful porcelain teacup she was drinking from.‘Please tell me the bat-infested house is at least gorgeous?’
