How Was It For You?

by Carmen Reid

  ‘Ah well, it has potential,’ was Pamela’s reply. Unfortunately, she and Dave were in an unresolved dispute about redecorating.

  She was itching to start: rip up carpets, peel all that crap from the walls, free the painted-in shutters, strip, clear, clean. But he’d gone all funny about the idea.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit wasteful?’ he kept asking.‘I mean, there isn’t anything wrong with the carpets, or the walls. The kitchen is perfectly functional . . . I like the bathroom the way it is . . . I don’t want to borrow the money to do this right now.’

  What was the matter with him? He’d always been the environmentalist, the recycler, the one who would walk to the bottle and paper banks on Sunday morning, but now he was becoming so sanctimonious, she couldn’t bear it. Wanted only to rebel, to buy a big gas-guzzler, let off aerosol cans for the sake of it, redecorate with the most toxic paints available.

  Dave made supper most nights, vegetably, super-nutritious meals which she once would have been proud to eat. But now it annoyed her. Irritated the hell out of her. And he wasn’t drinking much, didn’t even have tea any more, but hot water with lemon!

  ‘Have you become a Mormon without me noticing?’ she would tease.

  His reaction was bristly: ‘What’s happened to you, more like? You used to be into all this. Now look at you – you’re drinking too much, eating all kinds of crap in town.’

  ‘Well, if I’m not doing IVF, I don’t care. I don’t care about my diet and my bloody toxin levels and the sodding planet,’ she whinged, not even meaning this, well, not really, ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ was his angry reply.‘If there’s nothing in it for you, you’re not interested . . . bugger the ethics.’

  And she didn’t care about his stupid vegetables either.

  He would come in with bunches of leeks, carrots trailing dirt, holding them out for her to inspect with pride in his eyes.

  ‘These are the ones I planted, aren’t they beautiful?’

  ‘Yes, lovely,’ she’d agree, but this wasn’t enough. She had to appraise their firmness, their smell, their taste.

  ‘They’re only leeks,’ she’d snap finally.‘How many ways can you cook a leek?’

  ‘How is Dave taking to farming life?’ Ted had wanted to know. Ted sprawled over his red sofa in his funky red and black sitting room, both children finally in bed, time to open another bottle, switch on the state-of-the-art stereo, light a well-earned spliff and ‘get relaxed’.

  ‘Dave loves it,’ she told him. She couldn’t even begin to explain the transformation of Dave. From office bod to farmer. From man who complained endlessly about his job, to man who did nothing but his new work but loved it. He was non-stop busy from early in the morning till late at night.

  When his picking stint was over, he delivered his vegetables, then came back to weed, to plant, to fix broken bits and pieces, ferry machinery to garages, oil things. After supper he went back out to his sheds again. But he didn’t seem overworked or stressed out: instead he was a man with a great weight off his shoulders.

  Much later in the evening, he would come in, light the fire filled with logs he had chopped, and read farming books. He was well into his organic farming course, so was busier with the reading, writing and internet research than ever before.

  All week, Pamela preferred to stay in town if she could, because he didn’t seem to have any time for her anyway.

  ‘How’s Liz?’ she asked, to change the subject. She’d already heard all the children’s news.

  ‘Liz is good. Making my life hell as usual.’ There was a jokey sincerity to this. She knew all about their legendary rows, the dents on their walls, missing crockery, even occasional grazes – testament to their clashing personalities.

  Whenever she asked what they fought so savagely about, Ted could only tell her: ‘Oh the usual – whose turn it is to make supper, take the rubbish out . . . sweep the kitchen floor . . . buy milk . . . go to the post office. The absolute usual. I have no idea why it sometimes gets so intense. We never back down. There will be no compromise!’ he’d laughed.‘Compromise and die! It’s quite exciting really . . . but tiring. Babies should come with a warning: “May cause severe drowsiness, do not drive or operate machinery if in possession of a baby.”

  ‘And you know what else?’ He was warming to his theme now: “Warning: Baby – will kill your cool.”’

  ‘No, Ted,’ Pamela assured him, laughing.‘You’ll always be cool.’

  ‘No-oh. I can hear it—’ he cupped a hand against his ear.‘The irresistible call of the suburbs. First it’s the bigger house with the garden . . . then before you know it, I’ll be driving a people carrier, then going on those package holidays with kid care . . . saving up for school fees. This is what they do. Small and cute to start with, they grow – they take over and infiltrate.’

  ‘Shut up, will you? You know I’ll have them in a shot if you don’t want them. If you want your year trekking in Nepal, hanging out in San Fran . . . whatever does it for you, sad, shallow, cool person.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry, I will shut up now. How are you and Dave doing, anyway?’ he asked.‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Much calmer,’ was her reply.‘He loves it. It’s been so good for him.’

  She thought, but didn’t tell her brother, about the fact that now, after the companionable log fire evening, she and her husband went to bed in separate rooms. He had the big one at the front, where she knew he carried on reading late into the night. She had moved to a single bed in the small gabled room they’d slept in when they’d stayed overnight with Ingrid and Harry.

  Tired with all the early starts to catch the 6.30 train into London, she’d suggested it, thinking it would be for a few nights. But now they had been sleeping apart for weeks.

  ‘Are you sure you want this?’ Dave had stopped her on the stairs one night.‘I’m worried. What does this really mean? Separate rooms?’

  ‘Don’t say that, I just need a rest,’ she’d insisted.‘Honestly, a rest from . . . dealing with all this. I don’t want to rehash all the rows. Can’t we leave everything alone for a bit? Have a break?’

  They both knew what she meant: the lack of a sex life hanging horribly between them every night when they shared a bed.

  Now, she bathed in the rough cast iron tub, got into her narrow bed, pulled white sheets and a duvet in a white cover up over her, switched out the light, looked into the pitch darkness, velvet black around her, and fell asleep. Quite quickly.

  ‘Calm! Everything’s calm,’ was Ted’s response.‘What are you doing up there? Taking organic tranquillizers? Free-range Prozac? It sounds absolutely crap.’

  ‘Ted! It’s good . . . It’s fine.’

  ‘There’s a difference,’ he warned.‘Good? Or fine?’

  ‘Fine. This is fine for now.’

  He’d let it stand at that.

  But Alex was not so easily put off.

  ‘The truth,’ she insisted over caffè lattes and too many cigarettes in the little café Pamela had chosen.‘No glossing. How is it working out?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why does everyone keep asking me? I’m so bloody exhausted. I’m not going to be able to do it for much longer. The travel is going to kill me. I’m so tired I ordered a batch of paint in chimera blue instead of Chinese blue. Big mistake, I can tell you.’

  ‘Blue is pretty much blue. I never know why people get their knickers in such a twist about permutations of shades. Just whack it on and don’t care so much.’

  ‘Blue is not just blue. Trust me on this!’ Pamela was outraged.‘Anyway, what do you mean, just whack it on? You’re putting me out of a job!’

  ‘Joke!’ Alex smiled at her, ‘You have to get work up there. That would be your solution. Find out if you really like it . . . stop having a foot in each camp.’

  This struck Pamela as probably true – but a slightly hideous prospect. Give up London altogether?!

  ‘I know,’ she agreed reluctantly.‘D
o you think I should advertise? Or hang about wallpaper shops and accost people: “You can’t buy that. It will shrink your sitting room and make you feel like you’re living in a bowl of porridge. Trust me, I’m a designer.”’

  She’d be condemned to wearing fleece and hiking boots – no, never! – eating rubberized potatoes and Cajun chicken topping with Mrs Spicy Buns . . . She’d have to somehow get over this loneliness . . . homesickness. But maybe she’d get to know some people up there better . . . Harry and Inrid . . . or the man in the snug cords. Hello? Where did that thought come from?

  The man in snug cords. She’d seen him again, walking past the window of the Hacienda Café with a blond baby girl up on his shoulders and two waist-high boys skipping, straining at the leash to run, beside him. The little girl’s hands were gripped round her daddy’s neck, her chin resting on his head, their identical hair obvious to Pamela as he laughed, shared a joke with his boys.

  Pamela had looked on and felt a sharp tug at her heart, a sigh of longing, which for a moment had made the scene swim in front of her. And then they were gone.

  Chapter Eighteen

  SURPRISING, REALLY, HOW much she was looking forward to seeing Ingrid and Harry. The invitation to visit their new place had come at last. Ingrid had apologized for how long it had taken.

  ‘We’ve been so busy settling in . . . I’m sure you’re the same,’ she’d said on the phone.‘But now we’re ready to start seeing other people again!’

  It was nice to be asked, to feel there were people who knew her vaguely, who were potential friends. And in the back of her mind was the joyful recognition that she could wear her fantastic new ‘I may live on a farm, but I’m still glamorous’ outfit: slim long grey velvet skirt, palest blue cashmere rollneck, matching socks and turquoise suede clogs, with brass studs and the type of fine-grained nap she’d had to spend several minutes stroking. A countrified triumph, the kind of outfit that really belonged on a willowy blonde, skipping over ice floes in Finland . . .

  OK, OK, it was probably all a teensy little bit impractical for day to day farm stuff, but just perfect and lovely for sociable farmhouse visits.

  Dave raised an eyebrow at the ensemble.

  ‘Would you like me to carry you to the car?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Don’t be silly. I’ve Scotchguarded them, they’re perfectly safe.’

  ‘It’s quite muddy out there,’ he warned.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘They might want to show us around the new place.’

  ‘The clogs are fine.’ She was feeling tetchy about them now.

  The Taylors’ new farm was much bigger, stretched away for acres and acres beyond hills, beyond horizons. But somehow it was already taking on their own particular look. Driving up the road towards the farmhouse, Pamela and Dave saw the fields decked out in Harry’s very own crisscross, cross-pollinating, crop-protecting rows of alternating plants. Everything not ploughed or planted was grass for the beef herd, which he’d already told them was in its very early stages, just twenty-five cows.

  There was the nappy-chomping wormery, Pamela noted as they pulled up the drive, and Ingrid, wind-tossed in the garden with another woman, even more children and the dogs.

  ‘Hello, hello there!’ Ingrid came over to the car, giving them both an affectionate hug as they got out.‘Come and meet my friend Rosie Murray and her many offspring. Our men are on the farm . . . make man talk,’ she joked.‘Make fertilizer talk.’

  Pamela and Rosie walked towards each other, friendly smiles on their faces, extending hands to shake. They exchanged the ‘how are you?s’, sizing each other up. Rosie was a prettier than usual farmer’s wife, but still on the frumpy, mumsy side, Pamela decided instantly. But she looked very nice. Had that soft, make-up-free, freckled face and mid-length brown bob which could have put her anywhere between late twenties and early forties.

  Rosie’s first impressions of Pamela centred on the fact that she was so city slick and fashionable. Her outfit was just beautiful, looked so soft and expensive, she was obviously still working in London and loaded. And didn’t her hand feel all silky soft as well? Nothing like Rosie’s nappy-changing, dog-washing, cuticle-nibbled paws.

  Rosie shoved her hands self-consciously back into the pockets of her red anorak. Practical, waterproof, comfortable, just like her jeans, M&S jumper and lace-up boots . . . and a world away from this soft wool, velvet and suede vision.

  ‘Is that your little girl?’ Pamela saw Manda standing at the bottom of a tree, pointing and shouting at the three children already up in the branches.

  ‘Yes. That’s Manda. My boys, Willy and Pete, are in the tree with Kitty.’

  ‘Oh, they’re all gorgeous,’ Pamela gushed, wondering why they looked so familiar, three children . . . three children? She could almost hate this woman for that alone.‘Can I go and say hello?’

  Rosie was instantly won over by Pamela’s so obvious soft spot for children. She hadn’t worked out the husband yet, he’d shaken hands too, then gone off in search of Harry. He seemed quiet, maybe even shy.

  ‘I love the cows,’ Ingrid was telling them.‘Cows are fab, how did we manage without cows? You have to get some,’ she was enthusing.

  ‘I don’t know anything about cows at all,’ was Pamela’s response.‘I don’t even know which end the milk comes from,’ she joked.‘Well, I mean, I hardly know anything about vegetables. But I could let the odd row of carrots die without feeling too bad about it. A whole cow would be a terrifying responsibility! A herd?!! Unimaginable.’

  ‘They’re so nice,’ Ingrid continued.‘I never thought I’d feel so attached to them, but they are so warm and maternal, not friendly exactly, but very aware of us. I used to glaze over when people droned on about their animals, but now I understand. I’m going to become a cow bore . . . put that down, Jake! You’ll have someone’s eye out! Harry is mad for them. The children are practically jealous. Anyway, I hope you don’t mind,’ she added, ‘but since there are so many bodies here this afternoon, we’re going to shift them from the back barn to one a bit closer to the house. It’ll be easier to feed them there through the winter.’

  Pamela gave a sort of agreeing, helpful smile. Shifting cows. What would that mean? Nothing much that she’d need to get involved with, surely?

  After an exhaustive tour of the garden and long explanations of plans from Ingrid, much pointing out of fields and barns in the distance, they were interrupted by Harry’s head appearing up over the garden wall.

  ‘Hello everybody, hello Pamela!’ Great big smile and wave.‘You’re looking well. Country air. That’s what does it. Anyway, I need you all now, because it’s cow time.’

  Willy, Pete and Kitty all leapt down from the tree and started racing towards the garden gate, whooping. Ingrid and Rosie scooped up their youngest children and followed, so Pamela carried on behind them. Harry came round to the gate to meet them, carrying a bundle of long bamboo gardening canes.

  ‘OK, everyone take one, then we’ll put you at your spot. It’ll be very easy. Lachlan and I’ll shoo the cows down and you’re there to make sure they don’t wander into the wrong field, or onto a road or anything on the way.’

  Willy and Pete were squirmy with excitement. Harry gave them two canes each with the strict warning not to hit each other, or even pretend to hit each other.‘Otherwise – straight inside.’ He managed to sound very stern.

  The boys seemed to treat this with some solemnity, but as they all walked towards the farmyard, Pamela didn’t need to turn round to know that the swooshing and slapping sound behind her was cane swordplay.

  ‘Boys,’ Rosie warned.‘You heard what Harry said.’

  Pamela had ducked into the car to get a jacket and had briefly wondered about asking Ingrid for wellies. But after Dave’s teasing, she felt reluctant. Stuff him. She would cow-herd in the clogs and be damned. She’d pick a nice dry bit to stand on and she wasn’t planning to really get involved with it at all anyway.

  In t
he farmyard, Dave was talking to a tall man, back turned to them, who had dark blond hair pulled into a short ponytail . . . long legs . . . suede boots!

  Hurtle of realization as he turned towards the approaching group: he was snug cords man, these were his three children . . . Rosie was his wife.

  Pamela found herself pulling her shoulders back, running a hand through her hair as she walked over, prepared to meet him.

  ‘This is my wife, Pamela,’ Dave was saying and the man was holding out his hand. Hers slid into his.

  ‘Lachlan Murray,’ he said with an unmistakable Australian lilt. She felt his warm grip, saw how broad and strapping he was with shamelessly wide thighs.

  ‘Hello, Lachlan.’ Oh yeah. She liked the sound of her voice, slower, richer than usual. She smiled.

  ‘Hello.’ He smiled back and didn’t add anything else. Her eyes were allowed to scan his face properly now: tanned, but in that outdoorsy, grained right into the skin way, deep, green-brown eyes, all the more intensely interesting for heavy brows, hair the colour of dark honey, golden syrup, with girl-curls, caught into a band at the back. This was what surfer boys looked like when they grew up and turned into wholesome farmers. She found herself fixating on the deep scoop of flesh above his top lip. He didn’t have a fine nose, wasn’t even typically good-looking, but he was still quite something.

  ‘Aren’t you, Pam?’ Dave was asking.

  ‘Hmm?’ was the only response she could make to this, startled to realize that Lachlan was pulling his hand out of hers because she’d held it too long.

  ‘Looking for work up here, out of London,’ Dave added.

  And there goes another one, Rosie thought to herself, partly amused, partly annoyed. She was only too aware of her husband’s regularly devastating effect on other women. Moving up to him now, she put a proprietorial arm casually round his waist.