But Amy cannot do these things. She has to go home.
The kitchen sleeps in the heat of the Aga. Throwing open the back door, Amy sits on the step, hitches up her skirts to brown her legs and rolls a joint. Beyond a scabby lawn spanned by the washing line is the remnants of a kitchen garden. Lazy butterflies meander between bushes of sage and rosemary and thyme which struggle for space among ground elder and chick weed. There are cushions of comfrey and mounds of mint. The plant names float into her head without being summoned.
She wanders over to the greenhouse. Its cracked panes are smeared with dirt and cobwebs. The door buckles as she pushes inside. The air is dry and still. Leaves rustle as she moves between benches and upturned pots. A trowel lies in a quizzical tilt on a seed tray, a spider scrambles over it. How her father would have loved somewhere like this where he could raise seedlings! But he was a man who never got what he wanted, and she understood that this was the way he preferred to live; in a state of wanting. How could he waste his life like that?
Nearby a head-high cage of saggy wire makes a canopy for fruit bushes. Pushing between the branches, she finds clusters of blackberries, tart-sweet red currants and fat gooseberries. Her skirt sags with fruit. Tonight they will eat berry pie.
The stone floor and marble shelves of the larder make it the perfect place for pastry-making. In the half light, rubbing lard into flour, lifting her fingers high above the bowl as she sings ‘All I Want’. Joni is a singer she loves but rarely dares to play when the boys are about. ‘Squeaky girly voice…yuck,’ they moan when Joni hits a wavering note.
Amy kneads the pastry. She’s made most of the food they’ve eaten since she’s been at Wyld Farm. How will those lazy boys manage once she’s gone? She rolls out the dough and sprinkles it with cinnamon and mace. As she slides the pie into the oven, the front door bangs opens. Seymour comes down the hallway, his heels clicking on the flagstones.
‘Amy, darling. How’s life for the country mouse?’ He kisses her cheek and she is pleased to be splendidly dressed. ‘London is simply too hot to survive.’ He flings himself into a chair and beams.
Seymour has been down three of the four weekends she and the others have been here. He usually arrives on Friday evening, long after her parents would have gone to bed, with food, wine, a new record and stories of his frantic life. A life that sounds tempting but he insists it must be escaped. On Sunday nights, he leaves late, seemingly unaffected by the drink he has consumed, or he bangs out of the house at dawn on Monday morning, whistling his goodbyes to Molly, waking them all, noisy and infuriating.
She grins back. ‘We’re fine. The boys are in the garage fixing the Land Rover. It was making strange noises.’
‘Very good. Has the builder been?’
‘He’s been delayed again, he’s coming next week.’
‘What a sod. And how is the lovely Amy?’
‘I’m fine, the weather’s been wonderful. But you know, I’ve got to go home tomorrow.’
‘That’s nonsense! It’s far too nice here and you’re far too important to leave.’
‘My parents expect me back. I’ve been here almost a month, Seymour. College starts in September.’
‘Well, we need you to stay a bit longer. September is ages away.’ He plonks his feet up on a chair. She has never seen a man look chic in sandals before. ‘Call them. Tell them I insist you stay. Hey, we can’t be inside on a glorious evening like this. I’ve brought food for a picnic. Why don’t we eat outside? In the orchard?’
He opens the oven door a crack and there’s a waft of spice and sweetness. ‘Delicious, what a woman. I’ll put some wine in to cool. We’ll need plates and so on…’
The door slams as he disappears from the house. Molly and her puppies follow him to the door and whimper.
No sign he has brought anyone else with him. She would not admit it openly but she’s relieved. No Sophia with her fringe and obsession with the Bloomsbury artist Dora Carrington or Emile the long-haired French man who turned his bedroom into a meditation temple where he seduced Maggie, or William the physicist who smoked Gauloise and rarely spoke.
And no Coral. Last weekend Seymour brought a tall woman who evaporated upstairs without a word. Next morning, Seymour appeared in the kitchen in a dressing gown and bare feet, his toenails painted silver.
‘Do we have any coffee? Not even milk? I must get you a cow!’ He had winked at Amy, going back upstairs with black tea. An hour later, Coral sashayed down the hall in a tight orange dress to fold herself into Seymour’s car. ‘We’re off to lunch, bye!’ shouted Seymour, slamming the door.
In the scullery Amy finds a basket for the cutlery, glasses and plates. Bizarre to feel so relaxed with Julian’s father. But Seymour is nothing like her parents or their friends who seemed to regard life as a repetitive process that must be adhered to without interest or joy. Seymour knows more about what’s going on in the world than anyone else she knows. And he’s witty.
Anyway, he can’t be that old. Seymour told them one night that he was only 24 years old when Julian was born. Unplanned, he said, reaching over to touch his son’s shoulder. Unplanned and irreplaceable. Julian brushed him away.
It was time to call her parents.
‘Hi Mum, it’s Amy. How are you? How’s Dad?’ Amy cleared a space on the office chair though she know she won’t speak for long.
‘Amy, dear, hallo. How lovely to hear from you. Now tell me what time the train gets in. We’ll meet you in the car.’
‘That would be great, Mum, but I’m, um, not sure that I’m coming home tomorrow, after all. Mr Stratton says it’s fine if I stay a bit longer.’
‘Longer? But you’ve been there for a month already. You don’t want to overstay your welcome, Amy.’
‘I don’t think I am, Mum. I am helping out, working and …’
‘And your college is starting soon, dear. You have to prepare. And your ‘A’ level results. Your letter will be sent here.’
‘Mum, college doesn’t start until September and it’s only July. There’s ages to go. And you can read my results out to me on the phone.’
‘On the phone? But Amy, how long do you plan to stay?’
‘I don’t know, Mum. A few weeks more, perhaps…’
‘Weeks? I’m not sure what your father will have to say.’
There was a silence. Then Shirley repeated: ‘I don’t know what your father will say, Amy.’
‘I don’t have to do what he says.’ Amy’s voice was almost inaudible. ‘I’m enjoying myself. I want to stay.’
‘Amy! What are you saying? That you will not abide by your father’s preferences or what I want? It’s not like you, Amy, to change your mind so suddenly.’
‘It’s not sudden, I’ve been thinking about it for a while.’
‘Have you? Since when? I thought you were determined to… I’m missing you, darling.’
‘I know, Mum. I’ll see you soon, okay. I’ll write in a few days and tell you what I’m up to. Goodbye.’
She sets down the phone like it stings. Years later, on sleepless nights, she would remember the conversation, go over and over the kinder and gentler ways she should have spoken to her mother. But that night all that is in her head is the thought that she can finish making the elderflower wine after all. She wanders into the sunny evening with the basket on her arm.
7
Amy’s father is at her door just after six am again. He whispers loudly, ‘are you awake?’
Lightly sleeping, her limbs began to twitch as his knuckles touch her door. Her eyelids open reluctantly. Like an automaton, she puts on her slippers, reaches for her dressing gown, ties the cord and follows him down the stairs. In step, father and daughter descend; tread by tread, heavy steps, heavy hearts. These early morning sessions began three days ago when she came back home. The thinning bald patch on her father’s head glistens like luncheon meat. Pink and round, it bobs as he goes down the steps.
The kitchen table fits in the alcove. She s
lides into her chair, the one she’s used since childhood, her back to the wall. She watches her father move about; reaching for the cups, finding the spoons, the feeling of loss filling her belly as he fills the kettle.
She dreads what is coming next but knows there is no way she can stop it. The chair creaks as her father takes his place opposite her.
‘Had she written to you?’
‘No, we only spoke on the phone. On Sundays. You were there in the background, I heard her speak to you, do you remember? She didn’t call during the week, no.’
‘How did she seem? What did she say?’
‘You must have heard our conversations. She seemed okay.
Fine. Said she was missing me, of course.’
‘Did she mention feeling unwell?’
‘Dad, no she didn’t.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘She never mentioned that, no Dad, she’s never mentioned it. Why are you asking me these questions again and again? What does it matter now? It’s not going to bring her back. And why, for God… for goodness sake, why are you whispering?’
She is shrieking now. She can’t help it. There’s a timbre in her voice, one she has never heard before, a dark tone. ‘Why are we whispering, for fuck’s sake, Dad?
‘Watch your language, young lady. It’s early morning Amy, it’s…
‘But there’s no one else in the house. Mum is dead, Dad! We can’t wake her!’
It is as though this is the first time her father has heard the news. His face, purpled with grief, collapses like the bones are being sucked inward.
Amy feels her sympathy shift, watches herself coolly assess this weeping man; his scaly skin, his chin patchy with stubble, his tears which patter on the plastic table cloth. He leaves no space for her grief, he’s consuming all the oxygen.
Her father stands up suddenly, swings around to reach into the cupboard for something he cannot need and a squeal slips from his lips.
‘I’ve read your diary, you know’ he said, his back to her. ‘And I know what you’ve been up to with that boy David.’
He spits the words at the rose-patterned side plates and tea cups. The crockery rattles with his rage.
She imagines using her fist to smash it into the back of his head, how the rows of china would jangle. Perhaps a cup would tip and break, pink and white fragments shattering like confetti. She is briefly horrified that she does not find this idea appalling. She leaves the room. She must to grieve for her mother. But she can only do this alone.
People huddle like crows in the church. She and her father walk up the aisle arm-in-arm as though they are on the way to the altar. From the corner of her eye there are faces she recognises; a neighbour, a school friend, the owner of the bookshop and others she does not. She avoids eye contact, takes her place in the front pew, dressed in her mother’s black coat, the lamb’s wool collar tight against her tightening throat. In the pocket her fingers curl around a tissue. Some parts of it are soft, others lumpy. Little of the service or the hymns or the short tribute her father gives penetrates her consciousness. He had asked her if she would read an excerpt from the Bible. When she shook her head, he did not ask again. Her head is thickened by sorrow. She thinks only about the tissue, how her palm cradles her mother’s dried tears.
The wake is held in a local hotel. Sandwiches and tea and condolences are offered in equal part. Amy and her father walk about the room, sometimes together, sometimes separately, accepting the murmured comments of support. She knows that she moves gracefully. People stop their conversations as she approaches, fashion their mouths into mournful shapes to say how sorry they are for her loss. The men hold glasses of whisky, the women suck mints; both smell terrible.
A woman she does not know pats her hand; it is all she can do not to snatch her hand away.
‘A brain haemorrhage?’ The woman’s lips contort into a grimace. ‘What a terrible shock it’s been for us all. Strange in a woman so young. Do they know why?’
The funeral service was horrible enough but at least she had not been expected to say or do anything beyond standing or sitting at the appropriate time. The wake is excruciating. Accepting condolences, smiling with gratitude when she felt none: she has to hold herself back from shouting at them all to go away.
Amy cannot sleep. Her body is rigid though her feelings swirl. She wants to cry but the tears are locked in a part of her she cannot access and with a key she cannot find.
8
With relief she spots the Land Rover in the station car park. David is usually late. But there he is in the driver’s seat, his face wreathed in smoke. Her heart skips. She’s longing to burrow her head right under his chin and wrap his hair around her face so she can pretend she’s stepping inside him. Skipping over to the vehicle, she spots Simon in the passenger seat, head nodding rhythmically. There must be music playing. She runs back into the station and collapses on a bench.
‘Amy, there you are. Why are you hiding?’ David finds her a few minutes later. He pulls her to her feet. Wrapping his arms around her, he speaks into her hair. ‘What are you doing here? It’s good to see you.’
He manoeuvres her onto his lap and offers her a lighted cigarette. ‘How was it at home? How’s your Dad?’
‘I had to get away. I felt terrible leaving but I think he’s going mad, David. He can’t accept that Mum’s died. And he’s going on and on about what I’m up to and everything. Wants me to start that secretarial course. Says I should do it in ‘honour’ of Mum.’
‘Ames, he’s bound to be freaked out. Hey, where’s my smiling together lady? You’re with me now. Come on, beautiful, let’s get going. Simon’s here. Let’s go.’
He takes her suitcase and leads her to the Land Rover. Its dented misshapen body and mud-splattered wheels make her feel relieved. The passenger door opens. Simon slides down off the seat.
‘Sorry about your m-m-mother,’ he mutters sympathetically at the ground.
‘Thanks,’ she replies and climbs into the cab.
Over the noise of the engine, David has to shout. ‘Work’s begun on the cottage, Ames. Soon there’ll be no more leaking roof.’
On the phone, he’d mentioned a local builder and his girlfriend who came after meeting Seymour in a pub. ‘Bob’s a laugh, likes to party too. We’re having a blast, aren’t we, Simon?’
‘We are, y-y-yes,’ Simon calls back, nodding at Amy.
‘Who else is …?’ she replies but David has switched on the radio. The voice of Aretha Franklin fills the vehicle as they set off for Wyld Farm.
‘The moment I wake up, Before I put on my makeup, I say a little prayer for you…’
She’s missed her friends. She hadn’t realised just how much until they were splashing along the puddled track towards the farmhouse. Over the hedge, the trench by the front door of Bramble Cottage is now an area of fresh-raked soil. Like a grave, she shivers.
She can’t help feeling disappointed to see a car and a van, neither of which she recognises, parked in the yard. She’d hoped for a night with her friends rather than a party. Telling herself she’s being uncool, she follows David into the hall. It’s patterned with muddy footprints. David and Simon don’t notice her hanging back. They disappear into the sitting room, Rod Stewart’s voice fading as the door shuts behind them.
Squealing sounds in the office. Peering round the door, she sees chicken wire and wooden boxes have been fashioned into a makeshift pen. Three puppies nip at the jacket of a man who sits in their midst apparently indifferent to the puppy mess littering the floor. The man is bleary-eyed. It’s Gerald, an old friend of Julian’s who lives nearby. When he drops into the farm which is often, he is either stoned or drunk, it’s never clear which.
‘Hi. Far out,’ he says to her. ‘Lovely pups, eh? Come and say hallo. I can show…’
She shakes her head and carries on down the hallway; it’s crunchy underfoot. She heads for the part of the house she’s missed the most, the kitchen. Its soft-coloured walls, the pat
terned plates, the Aga purring like an over-sized cat.
It’s more dilapidated and chaotic than she remembered. Furniture is scattered as though a gale has been through the room. The windows are smeared, the sink is piled with plates and there are dirty pans stacked on the floor. But familiar and oddly grand. She touches each surface: the grain of wood on the table, the smooth tiles round the sink, the soft cushions on the settle.
‘Amy…’
She is expecting to see David. But it is Julian who is rubbing his mouth with his fingers, a habit he has when he’s taken speed. It will be a late night then.
‘How are you? Long time, no see,’ he says. ‘Yeah, ah… fine, I suppose.’
He does not mention her mother’s death and it feels awkward for her to do so. Instead she says: ‘The puppies are lovely. Where’s Millie, Julian?’
‘Tied up in the barn. Her puppies are being weaned. They’ve been sold and are going to their new owners any day.’
‘Oh really? No! I want to play with them. They’re so adorable.’ She’s trying to sound jolly.
‘We’ve got Pilot and Millie, that’s enough dogs. I should have drowned the puppies really. It’s been a hassle to get rid of them,’ he says dismissively.
Halfway out of the door, he turns back. ‘Ah yeah, there are some people working here now, Bob and Helen. Why don’t you come and meet them, they’re cool.’
‘I will, I’ll come in a minute,’ she says, knowing she won’t.
Wyld Dreamers Page 4
