Happiness for Beginners

by Carole Matthews

  Still, with or without his father’s help, Lucas quickly falls into the routine of the farm. He and I work well together and he also enjoys spending time with Alan, tinkering with the tractor, rebuilding fences – thanks, big horses – and generally helping around the place. I think he likes the fact that Alan doesn’t tax him with too much in the way of conversation, as do many of our kids. There’s a healthy glow coming to Lucas’s skin too, which I don’t dare mention. That won’t suit his Goth look at all.

  Now that he’s gradually coming out of his shell a bit, he’s surprisingly good with the other students too – especially the younger ones, who he seems to have a real affinity with. He’s proving to be a big hit with Jody and Tamara too who appear to think he’s the best thing since sliced bread. Tamara tries to take as many photos as she can of him without him noticing. Lucas can be very funny and charming when he wants to be. He just doesn’t want to be that often. They all tend to hang on his every word as he’s probably the coolest kid we’ve had here and it’s clear that he’s lapping up a bit of hero-worship. If he’s always been labelled as the outsider at school, it must be a welcome change for him. I’d like him to be more involved with the group rather than separate, but I’ll let him bask in this glory for a bit longer. A little more reluctantly, he’s started to join in with the lessons that are taken by a supply teacher too. When I’ve sat at the back of the class to observe, it’s obvious that when he forgets to be sullen and cross, he’s precociously bright.

  This morning, he and I have cleaned out the stable for the alpacas. They’re a nosey trio and kept trying to barge in to have a better look. I should probably have tied them up or put them in another field, but I kind of like having them around being bolshy. It’s another animal for Lucas to get used to as well. They might look cute, but they’re a skittish bunch, a bit diva-ish and will bite you given half the chance. We’ve picked up their poo to sell for fertilizer and now it’s waiting in the wheelbarrow ready for bagging.

  Lucas wipes sweat from his brow with the bottom of his T-shirt and then leans on his shovel. ‘I’ve realised that a lot of the work here involves animal crap.’

  ‘Where there’s muck, there’s money,’ I tell him, quoting my dear aunt.

  ‘There must be easier ways to raise funds.’

  ‘I expect there are,’ I say. ‘But they generally involve dealing with the public and I’m anti-social.’

  ‘I’d noticed that about you,’ he says. ‘I’m anti-social too.’

  ‘Then let’s wash our hands and be anti-social together.’ I pull a chocolate bar from my pocket. ‘Half a Twix?’

  ‘Now you’re talking.’

  So we wash our hands under the hosepipe and disinfect them with gel. We climb out of the alpacas’ paddock and sit on the nearest bench. We sometimes have students with disabilities, so we have the luxury of many conveniently placed sitting areas. This rather glamorous bench is hand-carved from a tree trunk and was donated by grateful parents, but sometimes we make do with hay bales. The bench is in the shade of a mature ash tree that I used to climb as a girl and we enjoy the respite from the sun.

  I open the wrapper, pass half of the chocolate to Lucas. ‘It’s a bit melty,’ I warn him. ‘I should have put it in the shade rather than keeping it in my pocket.’

  ‘It will taste the same.’

  He’s not wrong. Melted or not, it’s wonderful. So we sit in companionable silence for a few minutes enjoying our treat, licking chocolate from our fingers. Little Dog sits at my feet, ever hopeful, even though he knows he’s not allowed chocolate.

  When we’ve finished, Lucas and I sit back and take a few moments to relax before I find him something else to do involving animal poo. ‘You’re enjoying it here?’

  He shrugs. ‘It’s OK. Better than real school. Though there’s more shit.’

  ‘What was it you didn’t like about school?’

  He snorts. ‘It’s a long list.’

  ‘Top three.’

  ‘Boring lessons. Bullying. Teachers who were total twats.’

  I let that hang for a moment before saying, casually, ‘You were bullied?’

  ‘Who isn’t these days? Most kids are total arses.’ I wait while Lucas licks all of his fingers again in the hope of finding residual chocolate. ‘They should have sent me to some high-end, private school with kids of rock stars. I wouldn’t have stuck out like a sore thumb then.’

  ‘Why didn’t they?’

  ‘Daddy wanted me to have a “normal” education. Thanks for that, Father. It worked out really well.’

  ‘And now you’ve ended up here.’

  ‘Yeah. What kind of normal is this?’

  ‘But why the setting fire to stuff? Where does that come from?’

  Lucas sighs. ‘Can we change the subject?’

  ‘If you want to.’

  ‘My father’s not even called Shelby Dacre, you know. That’s made up. His real name is Paul Smith but that’s far too ordinary for him. He’s such a bloody fake.’

  ‘In fairness, I can see his reasoning. It would probably be hard to stand out as an actor if you were called Paul Smith.’

  ‘Yeah. If you haven’t got talent give yourself a funny name.’

  I think that’s a bit harsh, but before I can answer, our conversation is curtailed as Bev calls out from the yard, ‘Someone to see you!’

  I look down to the yard, where a man with sharply cut white-blond hair is getting out of what might be a bright red Porsche. Or it could be a Ferrari. Ask me about tractors and I’m your woman. Cars – complete mystery. ‘Wonder who it is?’

  Lucas gives a belly-laugh. ‘You really don’t know who that is?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘Oh, you are in for a treat. Come on!’ Lucas runs towards our visitor with me trailing in his wake.

  When we reach the yard, Lucas throws himself at the man and, in turn, the man hugs him tightly. They stay locked in a bear hug until, slightly out of puff, I join them.

  Lucas is beaming widely and there’s a spark in his eyes that I haven’t seen before. This man obviously means a lot to him. ‘Molly, this is Christian Lee.’

  I hold out a hand and we shake. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  Mr Lee is wearing enormous black bug-eye shades, a baggy white jacket, jeans that don’t quite reach his ankles, a white T-shirt, red neckerchief – like the geese – and red deck shoes. He looks terribly trendy, if a little overdone for a visit to a farmyard.

  Lucas tuts at me, dismayed. ‘You still haven’t a bloody clue, have you?’

  I have to confess that I have not. ‘Er … sorry. No.’ But Bev is all of a flap again, so he must be someone famous.

  ‘Molly lives in a cave,’ Lucas declares and I see some of the theatricality of his father seep out.

  ‘A caravan,’ I correct. ‘But it amounts to the same thing.’

  ‘This is the world’s best hair stylist,’ Lucas declares proudly. ‘He does all the celebs – Madonna, the Kardashians, Rihanna. The stars flock to him.’

  In my defence, I have heard of Madonna.

  ‘He’s the coolest dude on the planet and my godfather,’ Lucas tells me. ‘It’s the one thing my parents did get right. But, dude, what the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Don’t kick off,’ Christian Lee says, ‘But your old man asked me to drop by.’

  At that I see Lucas’s shoulders sag a little. ‘I might have known he’d be behind it.’

  ‘Cut him some slack,’ Mr Lee says. ‘He told me that you were here and I wanted to see for myself what you were up to. Sounds like a cool place.’

  Lucas kicks at the ground. ‘It’s OK.’

  Mr Lee is having none of Lucas’s sulking and pulls him into his shoulder again. ‘Don’t give me that mardy lip stuff. I’m here on a mission too. I understand that you have a My Little Pony in need of a good haircut.’

  I laugh out loud at that. ‘You’ve come to cut Ringo’s hair?’

  ‘Looks like it.’ Christian Lee ho
lds up a little floral pouch which I’m assuming contains his gold-plated, diamond-encrusted, star-trimming scissors.

  Lucas frowns. ‘How do you even know about it?’

  My turn to fess up. ‘I told your dad when he dropped by the other night.’

  ‘He was here?’

  ‘Briefly.’ Lucas doesn’t need to know the details of our conversation. ‘He came to sign some paperwork.’

  Lucas looks appeased and Mr Lee says flamboyantly, ‘The upshot is that I have my first horsey hairstyle to create.’

  ‘Well, we’re very honoured,’ I tell him.

  He claps his hands and looks more eager than one might imagine. ‘So. Let’s get started. Do I go to Ringo or does he come to me?’

  ‘I’ll bring him down from the paddock.’ I cast a glance at his fancy footwear. ‘I’m worried that you’ll get your shoes dirty.’ They look like they’re designer shoes, ones with a price carrying many noughts on the end and not something he picked up in Shoe Zone. I don’t want him stepping in horse poo or he might sue me. ‘Lucas, why don’t you make our guest a cup of tea?’

  ‘Will do.’ He steers Christian towards the tea room – which is obviously the most attractive of our outbuildings but none of them are exactly Fortnum and Mason.

  ‘Let me get a mug from my caravan,’ I shout. ‘I have some nicer ones there.’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ Christian Lee says.

  So I rush up to the paddock, trying not to think about our choice of mugs that range from chipped to very chipped and usually have the logo of an animal feed company on them. I bet he doesn’t get that when he goes to do Madonna’s hair.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  So Christian has his cup of tea in what I believe must have been the most chipped mug that Lucas could possibly find. I’m sure he must have done it on purpose. Even I’m ashamed and you’ll have gathered by now that my standards are fairly low. I’m going to throw it in the bin when he’s finished. Or perhaps I should auction it on eBay now that it’s been held to celebrity lips. I’m going to take a few precious pounds out of petty cash and ask Bev to go to IKEA to get some new ones.

  Speaking of my friend, she’s rounded up the other kids and, tasks abandoned, has brought them down to the yard to see what’s going on. The two girls have selfies with Christian and so does my regularly starstruck assistant. Christian bears it all with the air of a man who is used to being celebrity-spotted. Then, necessary social media opportunities completed, we go out to where Ringo is waiting patiently, tethered in the horse wash by the barn.

  Christian looks so incongruous here in his posh clothes that it makes me anxious. ‘Can I get you some wellies? I’m really worried about you damaging your nice shoes.’

  He seems very doubtful.

  ‘I’ll show you.’ So I trot into the barn and come back with the least battered ones I can find that look like his size. Believe me, I’m an expert in pairing wellies with feet.

  He takes one look at them and recoils. ‘I’m not putting my feet in those.’

  ‘Sorry, they’re all I’ve got to offer.’

  Looking down at his nice pristine shoes, he says, ‘I’ll risk it.’

  I ditch the wellies. Next hurdle. ‘Are you OK with ponies?’ I ask.

  Christian shrugs. ‘I guess we’ll find out. Come on, little fella. Let’s see what Uncle Christian can do for you.’

  Lucas and I lean on the fence along with the other students and Bev to watch the maestro at work. Alan stays in the big field, clearly finding that watching a horse get a haircut is beyond his understanding. If Christian needs any assistance to handle the pony I’ll step in, but Ringo is looking quite chilled today, so I can relax and enjoy the show.

  Before Christian starts, he gives Ringo a long, hard look and lifts his hair, moving it this way and that. I have to say he doesn’t get this much attention when I wield the kitchen scissors.

  Soon Christian is snipping away, his scissors flying over Ringo’s jagged fringe. He lifts it and feathers it and thins it out, then he kind of chips into it at the ends. I’ve no idea what the technical hairdressing terms are as I haven’t been near a hairdresser since time began. I think they were still doing curly perms when I last ventured through their doors.

  ‘Looking good,’ I say to Lucas with a nod towards Ringo.

  ‘He’ll be the trendiest Shetland pony in Shetland pony land.’

  ‘I hope he appreciates that he has a celebrity stylist.’ I just pray that Christian Lee hasn’t cast his eye over my own self-mutilated hairdo.

  It seems to take for ever until Christian is satisfied, but the little pony stands quite happily for him and when he is finally finished Ringo has the most amazing bobbed fringe. It sits neatly in tidy little layers and when he tosses his head back – as he does proudly – it all settles into exactly the right place again. Much better than my desperate effort. Christian has cut Ringo’s mane short too, in the same kind of layers, and he’s thinned out his tail and trimmed it neatly. I feel like getting a mirror to show Ringo the back as I’m sure he’d be well impressed.

  Everyone gives a round of applause and Christian takes a bow. Tamara takes some photos for Snapchat.

  ‘That looks great,’ I say. ‘I can’t thank you enough. We’ve all enjoyed watching you at work, haven’t we?’

  Everyone agrees that we have.

  Christian Lee admires his handiwork. ‘My pleasure. I never thought I’d say this, but I’ve found it strangely therapeutic. Anyone else in need of a new look?’

  ‘I’d like my hair done,’ Tamara says, quite boldly.

  ‘Do we have a chair?’

  ‘I’ll get one,’ I say and I bring one out of the barn and set it in the sunshine.

  Tamara sits down and Christian Lee fusses with her hair until it’s all up in a messy bun with tendrils teased out in all the right places. She takes another selfie of them both and looks very pleased with the finished result.

  ‘I’d like to be a hairdresser,’ Tamara admits. It’s the first time she’s ever expressed any interest in what the future might hold for her. Sometimes tiny glimmers of progress come in the most unusual of places.

  ‘It’s a great job,’ Christian Lee agrees. ‘If you still want to do it when you’re old enough, let me know and I’ll see if I can help.’

  She grins at me, chuffed to bits, and it’s nice to see her glowing. Then Christian gives Jody the same treatment so that she’s not left out. They’ll both be preening all day.

  ‘How can I pay you?’ I ask, hoping that he wasn’t planning on giving me a bill at his usual rate. ‘Will you work for eggs?’

  ‘I’m vegan, darling,’ he says. ‘But thank you for the thought. How often do you cut Ringo’s hair?’

  ‘About every four weeks. Any longer and it starts to bother him.’

  ‘I’ll try to drop by regularly then.’

  ‘Seriously?’ I’ve obviously been spending too long with Lucas as I’m starting to talk like him.

  ‘It will be last minute and I’ll probably turn up on spec, but I’ll be here. My country home is only a short drive away.’

  ‘Well, that would be wonderful. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘I could look at your cut too,’ he says, glancing at me in a critical manner. ‘It’s kind of unique.’

  ‘I usually do it myself,’ I admit.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he chuckles. ‘If it was a salon they’d be committing crimes against hairdressing.’

  I can’t help but laugh too. ‘I do it with my kitchen scissors.’

  He throws his hands in the air, outraged. ‘Oh, lordy! You have great hair and good bone structure, what a waste. Go and wash it right away,’ he says. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘I don’t have a hairdryer,’ I confess.

  ‘You really are living off the grid,’ he teases. ‘We’ll manage. As you’re ultra low-maintenance, there’s no point me giving you something that will require GHDs.’

  ‘No,’ I agree. Though
, in truth, I don’t know what he’s talking about. I’ll try to remember to ask Bev.

  So, as instructed, I wash my hair and sit down in the chair. Everyone stands around giggling as they make a sideshow of me getting my hair cut.

  ‘Luckily, I always have a hairdryer in my car,’ Christian says. ‘And spare scissors.’

  Who doesn’t? So I pack Bev off to find an extension cable and then we run it across the yard to my chair.

  So I sit as still as I can manage while Christian prowls round me snipping this way and that, occasionally making little tutting noises. If Ringo can bear this stoically, so can I. Closing my eyes, I let the sun warm my face. In a strange way, this could be considered relaxing. I’ve not been to a salon in years as I’m intimidated just walking past the window. Everyone looks so groomed and polished. Plus the cash that I’d have to stump up would go a long way towards feed.

  As Christian is putting the final touches to my new hairdo, fluffing it this way and that, Shelby Dacre turns up in the bling-mobile. Bev, all of a froth at yet another celebrity rocking up, rushes to the gate to let him in while Little Dog and Big Dog bark a greeting. When he gets out of the car, Shelby gives Bev a hug which will, no doubt, turn her into a quivering wreck. Then he strides over to our makeshift salon.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘I am never washing again,’ Bev whispers to me with a longing sigh. ‘My boobs were against his chest.’ She strokes her breasts lovingly.

  ‘Bev,’ I hiss at her and, thankfully, she stops fondling herself.

  Shelby claps Christian on the back. ‘Chris,’ he booms and they do a man-hug. ‘Glad you could make it.’

  ‘Me too. It’s been great,’ Christian says. ‘Couldn’t miss out a new challenge or an opportunity to see my gorgeous godson.’ He throws an arm round Lucas’s slender shoulders so casually that I can see Shelby Dacre wince. I wonder if Shelby wishes he could be as close to his own son.

  Shelby takes in the towel round my shoulders, the chair in the middle of the yard. ‘I sent you to cut the horse’s hair though, not Molly’s.’