David had phoned her at home two nights ago and invited her to come down to Wyld Farm. Their mother’s pleas were easy enough to ignore, and anyway the chance to spend a free week in the country was not to be missed, even if Simon Webster would be there. David’s friend had not replied to her letter despite leaving love bites on her neck after they had met at one of David’s gigs last term.
Maggie had raided the savings box under her bed to buy a train ticket. She would get a holiday job and start saving up after her little holiday in the country.
‘Hi little sis.’ David tugs on her hat. ‘Cool look.’
Though she bats away his hand as though annoyed, she is thrilled. ‘So you managed to get away. How’s it been at home?’ He slings her bag in the open back of the vehicle behind a bale of straw. ‘Get in, there’s room for three in the front.’
‘S’ alright, the same really. Mother’s going insane, so many questions. Wants to know how long you’re planning to be here.’
‘Yeah, I’ll call her soon.’
Maggie slides in beside Amy and settles her feet among the rubbish on the vehicle’s floor. Amy looks different somehow, Maggie thinks. Her straight blond hair is casually tied back with a piece of string, her jeans and wellington boots and what looks like David’s jumper make her look glamorously boyish. ‘Hiya Amy.’
The reply is cool as though Amy has given it careful thought. ‘Yeah, hi.’
David starts the engine. ‘So Maggie, just to warn you. Simon is staying at the farm, too. I told you that, didn’t I? ’
Maggie flinches. How can he say this in front of Amy? Maggie looks for the door handle, wishing she could jump out of the Land Rover. But it’s already moving along the road. She shrinks back against the seat. Surely David hasn’t told Amy about her and Simon kissing? Or her humiliation when he didn’t reply to her letter – to either of her letters?
Maggie glances at Amy but the girl is gazing out of the window as though in a trance.
‘You’re not going to believe the place we’re staying, Maggs!’ David shouts over the engine’s roar.
Perhaps her brother isn’t teasing her? Her resentment melts as he rattles on: ‘It’s called Wyld Farm, it’s practically a mansion. There’s land around it, a few barns and this tumbledown cottage and two dogs and ducks. And this Land Rover to drive. Seymour, that’s Julian’s dad, a famous photographer, he says we can use it while we’re staying down here. Amy, can you check the map? I’m not sure of the way back home yet…’
‘Oh David, you’re hopeless at directions. It’s this left here at the junction and then follow this road out to…’
The town is left behind. The vehicle lumbers over a humped bridge and there’s that delightful hollow feeling fluttering in Maggie’s tummy that makes her cheerful again. A few miles later they turn off the main road and drive through a small village past a pub and a shop. A few miles after that, they follow an unmade track across a field. Weeds batter the wheel rims as they drive towards buildings. David parks the vehicle in a yard and a dog barks as she steps down, avoiding puddles. Music she adores, ‘Bridge over Troubled Water’, drifts from the open front door. A man closes the boot of a car. His expression is enigmatic.
‘Come and meet Seymour,’ says David.
It would have been awkward not to eat the chicken. Having only just met Julian’s father, it is polite to muck in with everyone else, and the smell of roasting meat is irresistible. Crispy potatoes, carrots, peas and hot gravy persuade Maggie she’ll be a vegetarian again tomorrow.
‘Sit down, it’s ready,’ Seymour says. She’s never been cooked for by a man.
Amy and David beckon for her to sit down. As Julian carries a plate of carved chicken to the table, a woman appears at the door, flowers twisted through her curls like a Pre-Raphaelite muse.
‘Stella, my dear, Scott McKenzie could write a song about you. Stella, this is Maggie.’ The woman manages a brief nod.
Raising a glass, Seymour announces: ‘You’re welcome to stay for as long as you like, you know. Help out around the farm, start doing up the cottage, you’ll be busy. We’d be grateful, wouldn’t we Julian?’ He taps his glass. ‘Cheers!’
They start to eat. Someone has changed the record. The dreamy voice of Leonard Cohen’s drifts into the kitchen.
‘Julian said you’re about to go abroad?’ David says to Seymour.
She sees her brother is trying to impress their host.
‘Yes, later tonight I’ll drive back to London for a flight in the morning. A shoot in the Essouira, Morocco. Have you been there?’
‘Morocco? No, I haven’t. I’d love to go.’
‘You came with me once, didn’t you Julian. How old were you?’ Julian passes a plate of chicken to Maggie.
‘About thirteen. Don’t you remember that weird French girl who you got to look after me? She got ill and you had to call the doctor. I remember being in a horse-drawn carriage and seeing a man on a donkey with a basket of cow legs.’
‘Ah, yes, The La Mamounia Hotel with its fabulous garden and fresh oranges. The times I’ve had there.’ Seymour sips his wine wistfully. ‘This shoot will be routine. Winter clothes on the beach, fur meets sand, you can imagine the hassle we’ll get. Fine if they send the right models and plenty of baksheesh for the local fixer.’
Seymour is easy to talk to. Amy mentions the short story competition that David won earlier that year. ‘He wants to be a writer or a musician,’ she says. She sounds proud.
‘If you write another one, David, I’ve a friend who runs a literary magazine. I could send it to him, perhaps,’ Seymour replies. ‘And Maggie, you’re going to be a nurse? Very commendable. I don’t know how you can cope with ill people. Isn’t it all a bit … depressing?’
‘Our mother was a nurse before she got married so it’s in the family,’ Maggie says looking at David for support but he’s too busy eating. ‘I know it is hard work but I’d like to help people. I’ve got a place to train in a big hospital. It’s a good social life and you can travel.’
‘Absolutely. The whole world, you’ll see it all. And commendable, too. I’m sure you’ll be very good at it.’
Seymour turns to Amy. Maggie is relieved she is no longer the centre of Seymour’s attention. It’s like being caught naked in a beam of a strong light. ‘And Amy, what are your plans? You’ve done ‘A’ levels and you’re waiting for the results, I think?’
‘I’m dreading bad news. I’m not sure they went that well,’ the girl replies shyly. ‘I start secretarial college in September. I need to pass both subjects to keep my place.’ Her plans must sound mundane to a famous photographer.
‘A secretary? I should have thought a smart girl like you might find that …a little dull? Anyway, there’s plenty of time to think about what you want to do with your life.’
‘Not really. I’d like to leave home, you see. So I need to earn money.’
‘Yes, a dreadful business isn’t it, money. Julian, time for pudding. Some chocolate tart in that tin, and where’s that piece of brie that’s oozing nicely? Now what will you have, Maggie?’
5
He is easy with it, moves around the farmhouse and the land as if there is nothing unusual about owning a big property in the country. No space within Julian for impression; wealth has created a learned nonchalance. Stella too emanates assurance, even in the way she gazes from a window. Tiny sighs slip between her lips at the merest hint of predictability.
It is not the same for the others. For them it is as though they have stepped into a magic land which shares only superficial aspects with the lives they’ve left behind. Few restrictions or routines, and those which exist are governed by whim rather than will. Each day unfolds depending on fortuity, more often than not, on Stella’s dreams. They rise late, make food and wait for the evening to begin when they drink and smoke, talk and trip until the dawn chorus signals it is time for the party to stop.
It is a land of plenty. Thanks to the three-legged pot on the kitchen s
helf there is always cash for food. Like the nursery story Shirley read to Amy of the pot that never stopped producing porridge, as much as they spend it miraculously fills with money. No one seems to find this unusual so she dare not ask how this happens. The privileged assume the world is beneficent, that someone else provides the wherewithal. Who would chose to appear gauche by mentioning reality? The four of them slip into an attitude of entitlement that Julian displays as normal. They are high on freedom.
The builder who is booked to begin renovations on the cottage does not show up. Amy overhears Julian talking on the phone to Seymour’s secretary. He is flirtatious and charming. She imagines a girl with long fingernails writing down his message and giggling. ‘Alright, I’ll give the message to your father. “The builder for Bramble Cottage is a flaky toad.”’
They mustn’t worry, Julian tells his friends. Seymour will find another builder when he gets back from Morocco, if that’s indeed where he is…
Julian shows them around Wyld Farm. Beyond the walled garden, he leads them across a boggy brook into an orchard. Between ripening apples and pears and peaches, David points to a tree covered with misshapen yellow fruits. ‘What are those?’
‘Quince,’ Stella sighs as though David should really know this. ‘It’s cooked into a thick jelly that’s eaten with Manchego cheese. Like in Spain last year…’ She touches Julian’s arm. ‘Do you remember that lunch, Jules, by the pool? That delicious quince jelly, melting in the intense heat…’ She runs her fingers up his neck, blows on his ear. ‘Have you ever tasted quince, Amy?’
Stella, her hand still on Julian, stares at her. Amy jumps. The woman rarely addresses her directly. She shakes her head and wonders why she feels admonished.
Domesticity does not feature in Stella’s lexicon. When she dances, she loops around her boyfriend or sways alone as if in a trance. She is never impolite, will thank the person who brings her something but rarely reciprocates. If she does, the activity is orchestrated with a studied air as though accompanying spiritual practice.
But today something is different. A sheen of sweat coats the woman’s pearly skin. A package addressed to her arrived that morning. Every day the postman walks a mile along the stream and through the meadow to bring the post.
‘Thank you, Garfield, see you tomorrow!’ Amy is about to accept the parcel when Stella’s arm snakes from behind to snatch it from the postman’s hands.
It contains pills that a friend of hers, a biochemist, created in a laboratory. Just a gentle hallucinogen, Stella says, holding out a pill to Amy. ‘He wants them tested. You do take drugs, don’t you?’ she says, fixing her with a stone-hard stare.
Amy swallows the tiny pill quickly; there’s hardly any taste. It can’t have much effect, she hopes.
Julian announces he will take everyone on an adventure. They start in a wood that runs beyond the house. The canopy of trees is dense. Mosses and ivy curl form leafy jackets on the trees. Fluffy curls of grey-white plants dangle from branches like the beards of ancient men. It’s as spooky as a fairy tale.
‘Fancy yourself woodsmen? Seymour wants to open up this wood, fell a tree of two,’ says Julian to David and Simon. ‘He says it need more space. Who doesn’t need more space, man?’
‘Far out man,’ someone giggles.
‘Ever used a chainsaw? Throbs like a wild lover, makes a fantastic racket! I’ll show you how it works, no hassle. We’ll need the wood for the fire this winter.’
‘Cool,’ they chorus.
Amy nudges a fallen log with her boot. As it splits apart, woodlice swarm from the orange-cream splinters. Making her finger into a barrier, the hefty bodies clamber over it in synchronised waves. She cannot think about the winter when it will be cold, when they will sit together around the fire but she will not be with them. A horrible feeling of dejection overwhelms her. She’ll be studying at secretarial college so she can get a job. A girl like her does not have choices.
David touches her head. ‘Alright?’ he says.
She looks up. He towers over her; his face is fuzzy. She sees he is blowing her a kiss. It lands on her face as soft as butter. Her jaw trembles uncontrollably so that her teeth clatter against each other. David reaches for her hand and they follow Julian from the wood and into the light.
The six of them fan out across the field. Something catches her eye. As Amy turns to look, her brain knocks against her skull. Stella has draped a scarf over her head. It streams behind her like a glistening haze.
‘You haven’t met them yet, have you?’ Julian says. ‘In the field over there. Our sheep – Lunch, Dinner and Freezer.’
Her legs won’t move any faster. Maggie pulls her by the hand. ‘Come on!’
Julian says: ‘I’m meant to come each day to check on them. But you know, I forget. It’s a hassle and anyway, there are hedges. Where are they going to go? ’
‘Aren’t they beautiful,’ Maggie croons. ‘Why do you call them that?’
‘Their name gives it away, sister!’ David teases. ‘It’s all in the name. Lunch, Dinner…’
Maggie flicks out her hands as though to hit him but he dodges out of the way, laughing wildly.
‘We eat them, of course!’ Julian says dramatically. ‘A man comes in with a gun and he kills them. Bang, bang – and they’re dead. Bang!’
‘Bang!’
‘Bang!’ Simon and David mimic, then run about pretending to shoot guns.
‘Oh god, no, that’s awful!’ Maggie drops to the ground, clamping her hands to her ears.
‘It’s the cycle of life, Maggie,’ Stella murmurs sagely as she rustles past.
Amy hears a roaring sound and looks up expecting to see a plane flying low overhead. But the sky is empty. It’s only the buzz of insects hovering over a patch of yellow-headed flowers.
The ground rises to a grand plateau. She marvels at the fields, a montage of red and ochre, saffron and aubergine surrounded by hedges that resemble fat green serpents. A giantess might have dribbled nail varnish, for here and there iridescent swathes of magenta sing from the landscape. Amy is about to tell David it’s the flower Rosebay Willowherb but stops just in time as Stella rustles past. On the horizon is a lazy line of blue, the Bristol Channel.
‘It’s peaceful here, man,’ says David. ‘Let’s chill out.’
The turf is sponge-soft. Julian and Stella lie down to wrap themselves in the scarf like a caterpillar in a cocoon. David and Simon, feet and arms in the air, pretend to be upturned beetles. A patch of daisies seems to beckon to Amy and she sinks to her knees as Maggie whispers: ‘I can’t bear to think the sheep are for the chop. I’m liberating them…’ and disappears.
Every cell of Amy’s body begins to stretch. Involuntarily she rolls on to her side and her mouth opens as wide as a cave. Gossamer strings of bile spew out to loop and hang from flower and leaf. The air crackles but she is not sure if it is with sound or light. Her ear presses too hard on the ground but she lacks the strength to lift it up. She drifts into a half-sleep.
Sometime later she is aware that Maggie is stretched out beside her. ‘I have given them freedom,’ she purrs.
Amy rolls on to her back. The sky is like a childish painting with puffy clouds of champagne and gold.
‘Wouldn’t you like to live here forever, Maggie,’ she whispers. ‘It’s so peaceful, so far away from everything. Like a brand new world. What a dream, to escape…to share everything… we could grow our own food, have hens…’
‘As long as we don’t have to eat them,’ Maggie interjects and the thought strikes them as hilarious and they howl with laughter.
‘What’s the joke?’ says someone from far away. A shadow blocks the sun. It’s Stella.
‘I’m getting bored,’ she says. ‘We’re going back.’
‘Julian’s having an asthma attack!’ Amy and David are woken only hours after a long night partying. Stella is in their bedroom doorway, screaming, distraught. ‘David, drive him to hospital – now!’
Amy is on her f
eet before she’s fully awake. ‘Where’s his inhaler?’
‘I don’t know,’ Stella wails. ‘Can’t David take him?’
Sounds of wheezing from Julian’s room. Stella, in a brocade dressing gown and embroidered slippers vanishes inside. Amy hurtles down the stairs and begins to search frantically. The device is neither on the kitchen sill where it is often left nor on the office desk drawer. Then she remembers Julian using an inhaler when they were in the woods the previous day. In the boot room, she finds his waxed jacket and, in an inside pocket, the inhaler.
Heart pounding, she dashes back to Julian’s room. He is lying ashen-faced with his arms around Stella. He puts a finger to his lips. ‘I found it in my bedside table when I looked again. Poor Stella, I frightened her.’ His lips caress his girlfriend’s forehead.
Stella gazes back through half-closed eyes. ‘Oh, it’s you. I called Amy but you didn’t hear me. Where were you? It was too chilly to come and look for you. Hold me, Julian, I’m shattered.’
Amy is dismissed.
6
Humming, Amy pins her hair up on top of her head. She wants to look her best on her last night. Tomorrow she will be on the train back to the place where she grew up. She can’t call it home anymore. She is more at home here at the farm with her friends. Where she can be herself.
Amy winds a scarf around her waist, turning the lotus-strewn kimono she found stuffed in a chest into a garment that folds over her hips. She sneaks a look at herself in the bathroom mirror. For the first time since she’s arrived here a month ago, she’s appropriately dressed. It’s absurd how good it makes her feel, this collection of cast-off items. Or does her change of mood have something to do with Stella? The woman left Wyld Farm for London yesterday.
It has been a perfect day. Picking elderflowers from high in the hedgerows in the field where the sheep graze, Amy laid delicately-scented flowers into her basket. Now the creamy-white lace heads dangle in sweetened water, floating with the grated rinds of orange and lemon and slivers of ginger. If only it could be she that would, in four days’ time, complete the recipe’s instructions. She delights in the author’s name, Mrs Gennery-Taylor, imagines a tall woman with a fine bosom instructing her to strain the liquid, mix it slowly with sugar and yeast and then to watch the magic unfold as the cloudy mixture ferments into elderflower wine.
Wyld Dreamers Page 3
