Wyld Dreamers: a gripping drama about secrets from the past

by Pamela Holmes

  Wyld Dreamers

  Pamela Holmes

  Copyright © 2021 Pamela Holmes

  The right of Pamela Holmes to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2019.

  Republished 2021 by Bloodhound Books.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Print ISBN 978-1-914614-02-6

  Contents

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  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part II

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Afterword

  A Note from the Author

  Acknowledgements

  A note from the publisher

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  About the Author

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  Also by Pamela Holmes

  The Huntingfield Paintress

  To my father, Richard, who spent happy boyhood summers on a Rhode Island farm

  Part I

  1

  1972

  All her life, Amy Taylor has been a dutiful daughter. She still wakes early, anxious there is an essay to finish or a deadline looming or an exam she has missed. Then the smell of furniture spray and the drone of the hoover remind her that her school days are over. Jubilant, she springs from her bed. She will take the next step, even if she does not know where it will lead.

  ‘Julian lives there with his father,’ she told them.

  The lie slipped out easily. As she watched her father digest the information, it occurred to her that if she had been economical with the truth more often, things would have been easier. He closes the doors of the cabinet behind which sits the television. He flicks on the electric fire and settles in the comfy chair that he always chooses. The BBC news has just finished (he does not approve of ITV). They will now discuss Amy’s proposed holiday.

  Her boyfriend, David Bond, sits on the sofa next to her mother, the foam cushions dipping so that he must concentrate on stopping his body from rolling into the woman he is trying to impress. Amy’s father pours the tea and they are, for a moment, mesmerised by the brown liquid that streams from the spout, grateful for the delay in starting what will be a difficult conversation.

  ‘Sugar, David?’ says Shirley. Her pearl necklace matches the pearly shine of her nails, both worn for the occasion.

  Her boyfriend’s insouciance is only partially tamed by the ironed shirt and tie. It makes David look at the same time both younger and older. This, the first man Amy has ever lain alongside in a bed, skin to skin, gripping him with shy fingers and hot thighs, feeling the choking desire she had read about in books. It shocks her that now he seems almost a stranger. But they had agreed when he came for tea he must look as respectable as possible, not wear his loon pants and tie-dyed t-shirt. When her parents ask about the arrangements for sleeping – which they will – they must be able to believe what David says. Being dressed smartly will help. Her parents must feel assured that what they cared about more than anything, their daughter’s virginity, will be protected.

  The proposal is that Amy accompany David to spend a month on a friend’s farm in Somerset.

  ‘My friend Julian Stratton has asked me and another friend from university, Simon Webster, to stay with him this summer. We’re going to help rebuild a cottage in the grounds of his father’s farm. A working holiday really, while we all decide what we’re going to do now we’ve graduated.’

  ‘It’s meant to be lovely countryside around there,’ says Amy, passing the plate of biscuits to their guest. ‘I’m sure we’ll get a chance to visit Exmoor.’

  Amy does not know if it is beautiful in Somerset. But her father, who spends his evenings in the small square garden behind the house tending the vegetables that the family eat at every meal, will be pleased to think she has an interest in nature.

  ‘But what help will you be?’ John finds it hard to accept his shy daughter had become this confident young woman. He remembers the trembling toddler, the cautious schoolgirl.

  ‘I’m strong, Dad, I can work,’ Amy protests.

  ‘I haven’t noticed you doing much in my garden,’ her father replies curtly. He is more annoyed than he should be. He senses he is being manipulated but cannot see how.

  ‘The boys will be doing the heavy work, Mr Taylor,’ interjects David. ‘Cigarette?’ He stretches forward with a lighter. Neither man speaks while they inhale. ‘I don’t know if Amy has mentioned it. Julian’s father is a well-known photographer, Seymour Stratton. I suspect you know his work?’

  Both parents nod vaguely; Amy knows they are lying.

  David continues: ‘Fashion, the arts, royalty I think, sometimes. But Mr Stratton is taking time away from London to rebuild this cottage. He’ll be there with us. It’s a smallholding really; some grazing land, a few acres, some outbuildings. Amy will do some of the lighter work, painting perhaps. There’ll be paid labourers, too.’

  Amy wonders how David knows this. Then she remembers a piece of information that will elicit sympathy. ‘Julian’s mother is not alive,’ she says.

  ‘Isn’t that terrible. Poor boy,’ Shirley says. After a pause, she adds: ‘So you can do the cooking, Amy. I’ve taught you a few dishes and I can lend you my Marguerite Patten recipe book.’

  It was her mother’s habit, when uncertain, to thrum her fingers on her bony clavicle. Sometimes Amy wonders if one day when her mother is agitated whether her fingers might leap up and wrap themselves tightly around her throat to strangle her.

  ‘That’s what I was thinking, Mum. Look, you could always phone up Mr Stratton and talk to him if you’re worried? Dad, why don’t you do that?’

  It is a gamble worth taking. Seymour Stratton is unlikely to be at the farmhouse to take the call. He is rarely there, according to Julian, preferring to remain in London where his friends and most of his work are. Often works abroad, Julian
explained, photographing models in exotic destinations. It would probably be Julian who answered the phone or perhaps the housekeeper.

  Amy predicts the call will not be made for it would imply her parents do not trust their daughter.

  Shirley says hurriedly: ‘I don’t think we need to bother Mr Stratton, do you, John? It sounds like a lovely holiday for you both. A month in the country, isn’t there a book by that name? And then, of course, you start the secretarial course in September.’

  ‘Yes Mother,’ Amy nods. ‘I can’t wait.’

  Only economical with the truth, she tells herself next day as she packs her contraceptive diaphragm into a bag of clothes and clambers on the back of David’s motorbike, waving goodbye to the small place where she had once been happy and is now desperate to leave. Any residual guilt is blown away by the wind that flattens her eyelashes and the rain that whips her blond hair into damp spaghetti. Her boyfriend’s greatcoat is as soft as a downy pillow. She presses up against him, comatose with joy.

  On the ride, it rains almost constantly. Once they stop to buy petrol and the owner, taking pity on their blue lips, offers them sweet tea. They sit by the electric fire in the smoky office, blowing warmth on each other’s fingers, tingling with expectation like children with sweets.

  ‘Julian’s girlfriend will be there; Stella, a girl he met in London. I called him last night. His father is bringing Simon down in the car in a day or two,’ David says.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re on the way,’ Amy is almost breathless. ‘We’re free! A whole month. I was convinced Father wouldn’t let me go. Can I drive the tractor? How much further is it?

  Does Julian have a dog? I love dogs, always wanted one. I’m so freezing, so happy…’

  The road from Taunton streams out behind them. Lamp posts and traffic signs and letter boxes flick by. The road heaves over the spine of a hill, arching them towards the sky. Now they are racing across the Brendon hills. Fields and trees and vast views of landscape flash past. Sometimes a gust of wind catches the bike and it skitters. For a moment, they seem to hang suspended. Then the wheels hit the tarmac and they are off again. She is not afraid. Lulled by the miles, David almost misses the turning. He pulls on the brakes just past a line of white cottages. The force of the deceleration presses her forward; the damp of her shirt is freezing. They turn down a steep lane. Twisting and turning the bike plunges into a dark, narrowing tunnel, the rumble of the engine dampened by the moisture-laden undergrowth and over-hanging branches. Finally the lane levels. A few minutes later, they ride on a track along the edge of a field and pull up in a farmyard.

  David cuts the engine. Thick silence presses in. Across the yard she can make out the shape of buildings. Her feet squelch in her boots as they hit the ground.

  ‘Come on,’ David says. Like bow-legged cowboys, they waddle towards the house. The front door opens. There is Julian with a glass of whisky in one hand and a big towel in the other. Behind him rolls out the pounding cry of Eric Clapton for love and Layla.

  ‘You’re both soaking,’ Julian beams, ‘come and get warm.’

  Wrapped in towels while their clothes steam on the Aga, David and Amy devour bread and cheese and slug wine from a bottle. Julian watches them with amusement. His girlfriend Stella, her mouth fixed in a permanent pout, appears indifferent. As she drifts in and out of the kitchen to change the record, her beaded kaftan tinkles as it trails behind her.

  Julian is more at ease than the few times she’s seen him before. Fetching another dry towel, asking if they’ve had enough to eat, he is the perfect host, regaling them with a story of a brilliant record shop in Notting Hill. Nothing like the mysterious person David talked of, the one who missed his essay deadlines and was hounded by hangovers.

  Amy glimpses around the kitchen. It is the exact opposite of her mother’s carefully cleaned melamine laboratory. The walls are painted like cloud-filled cerulean skies. A romantic trompe d’oeil landscape covers the wall behind the Aga. A wooden table that could seat twelve is scarred with initials. Around it cluster chairs painted in primary colours. A pine dresser is chock-a-block with jugs, cups and bowls in assorted sizes and patterns. A deep stone sink. The casual glamour of the place is irresistible.

  It feels awkward to ask but she must pee. Julian says there is a loo in the boot room. She had never been in a room called that before. Over dusty linoleum she picks her way between shoes, wellingtons, coats, an odd sock, a coil of wire and a sleeping dog she later knows is called Pilot to a door behind which there is a toilet. The sink has not been cleaned.

  Sitting on the peeling wooden seat, the chain flush and porcelain handle dangle by her ear. Her mother has always sung the praises of her avocado bathroom suite. She would not understand what her daughter is doing in a house where nothing matches. Her daughter grins.

  Amy peeks into the room from where the music comes. In front of a large fireplace three saggy sofas cluster like knee-splayed old ladies on deckchairs. Stacks of books are piled on the floor. Along a shelf between chest-high stereo speakers is a long line of records. Stella is flicking through them. She sees Amy and returns to searching. The room is also chilly. Amy returns to the kitchen.

  ‘Dad won’t mind,’ Julian is saying as he passes David a half full bottle of gin. They pull their chairs close to the Aga.

  Julian will show them the cottage in the morning, he explains. He is pleased they have come to stay, there is so much fun to be had.

  As the men talk, Amy’s eyelids dip. Drowsiness presses like a heavy blanket. Next thing she knows, David is shaking her shoulder and telling her to come to bed. Too sleepy to speak, she trails after him and Julian up the stairs; Stella has disappeared.

  Julian gestures at one of the doors. ‘Take that room if you like. Any room really, except that one over there. It’s Seymour’s.’

  In their room there’s a high wrought iron bedstead. Though she can barely summon the energy, she peels off her underwear and hauls herself up on to it, unwashed and unbrushed. Pushing David’s hand away, she falls into a dreamless sleep.

  2

  Shirley Taylor dries the breakfast things and puts the tea towel in the twin tub. The nylon sheets crackle as she pulls them off Amy’s bed. Her daughter left this morning. It is hard to find sufficient energy to breathe.

  She sits on the carpet, scratching through its tight pile hoping to find a little piece of Amy, a strand of hair or a flake of skin which she could slip into her pocket. She runs her fingers lightly along the mattress and over the side table, lets them drift across the jewellery box with the ballerina on top as if to absorb traces of her daughter.

  She crawls to the wardrobe, straightens her daughter’s sandals and shoes again, breathes in the tiniest whiff of feet. Slowly, tentatively, she draws open a drawer to rest her hand between a jumper and a blouse imaging she can feel the heart that once beat there. Gasping, she sits back on her heels when she cannot.

  Shirley climbs on the mattress, clasps softly to her chest the cushion Amy embroidered in Year 7 and recalls the first time she saw her tiny and bawling daughter. How her heart swelled as though it would burst from her chest in a great arc of love. Proudly showing Amy to the midwives as though they had never seen a baby before. Memories of the toddler digging in the garden for worms. The schoolgirl frustrated when her socks pooled around her ankles because her shins were so skinny. The careful student who left her ‘O’ level revision notes on the bus. The truculent streak that blew in as she blew out the candles on her fifteenth birthday cake and her behaviour became volatile.

  But even when sharp words were exchanged and doors slammed, it was never more than a day or two before the girl sidled to her mother’s side. The slight of a friend or an outbreak of spots, something would shake the girl’s universe and she’d be there, quarrel utterly forgotten, seeking solace. With her daughter’s head in her lap, Shirley would caress the proffered cheek, marvelled at the freckles that sprinkled her cheekbones like demerara sugar. Teasing the tangles fr
om her daughter’s silken mane, massaging her scalp to chivvy off knotted thoughts, she and Amy breathed in tandem. Precious times, known and accepted, always and for certain, to be numbered. Now ended.

  ‘She got away alright?’ John asks his wife that evening.

  ‘Yes, fine,’ Shirley lies.

  She puts his supper plate on the table. She does not mention the change of plans, how David explained his parents could no longer lend their car so the only option was for him and Amy to travel by motorbike. John would never have agreed to his daughter travelling this way; he would have locked her in the house and ignored the howls of fury.

  She does not tell John that Amy hitched up her long skirt, clambered up on to the back of the motorbike and wrapped her arms around David’s waist. Or how with a single wave, their beautiful daughter roared away. And she does not admit, even to herself, that somewhere deep inside the thought of riding on a gleaming machine makes her breathless.

  John touches her hand. ‘Shirley. Are you alright?’