Wyld Dreamers

by Pamela Holmes

  Seymour began to photograph the shapes and patterns, forms and contours that he saw while walking around his farm and the surrounding countryside. Aspects of Nature that had been closed to him became captivating; the weather, the seasons, water moving over stone, vegetation growing and dying. He was energised, obsessed, driven to explore a subject he would previously have dismissed as dull and pursued a perspective at which he would have sneered; abstract natural photography. The country was the only place to live, he told London people who sometimes called asking why he’d disappeared; it was rich and exciting. No commission could tempt him back to the metropolis. Time was short. Why would he waste it?

  Domestically life changed, too. Seymour cooked while Julian chopped, Seymour washed the clothes, Julian hung them out to dry, Seymour shopped, and Julian made lists. When his father explored the countryside taking photographs, Julian pottered around the farm gardening or fixing machinery. And when Julian was crushed by bleakness or splintered with anxiety, Seymour was there through the bitter days and bleak weeks.

  Music was their constant companion. To provide comfort, energy, consolation, distraction or entertainment, Seymour orchestrated playlists. He drew on the vast collection of vinyl already at the farm but added to it, too. Modern and classical music that he heard on the radio or read about in the reviews and had sent by post. Occasionally he took his son to see live music in a pub and several times to local church where the choir was particularly good. If Mrs Morle found it maddening to work in the music-filled household, she accepted it was the way the Stratton men now lived.

  He barely acknowledged the diagnosis. It confirmed what he had suspected for some time: an uninvited presence resided in his body. He took the drugs, tolerated the treatments and acknowledged with equanimity that they offered care rather than cure. There was much he needed to do and fighting the inevitable was not part of his plan. ‘Thank you, doctor,’ he said and, despite the pain, Seymour left the specialist’s office with a spring in his step. He made an appointment with his lawyer, the son of his old friend Naresh, the shop keeper. Sunil Rao would impose legal certainty in a world of chaos.

  ‘How did you manage it, Mrs Morle?’ he asked her one afternoon. Julian was in hospital again. He had become so unwell that despite Seymour’s best attempts at musical and culinary therapy, his son had been admitted under section. The doctors raised the possibility of electro-convulsive therapy, a subject that made Seymour furious and devastated in equal measure.

  Mrs Morle stopped buttoning her coat.

  ‘Do what?’ she said. Had Mr Stratton had been drinking? He looked terrible. Crumpled in a chair by an unlit fire, his head was sunk into his shoulders like an old turtle.

  ‘Raise such a balanced child,’ he replied. Exhaustion dragged on the skin beneath his eyes. She saw that he was suffering. ‘I tear myself apart sometimes, asking myself if it is me who is to blame for Julian’s troubles.’

  ‘There’s all sorts that goes to making someone troubled,’ Mrs Morle replied, starting her slow roll towards the door. Then she turned around to face him. Taking a deep breath, she said: ‘I ask meself the same question, you know.’

  ‘You? But why, Mrs Morle? Lynn has done so well. You told me that she has a job, a boyfriend…’

  ‘Ah. That’s all nonsense and lies. I haven’t told you the truth, Mr Stratton. Didn’t want to bother you, not when you had your own troubles. Don’t go torturing yourself, Mr Stratton. At least your boy is around. I’m on my own. All alone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Lynn – well – the only thing I knows about my girl is this; she’s gone, and I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘But I thought she was…

  ‘I wait each day for a letter from her and I pray each day it will come, don’t I? But it don’t come. And I don’t know where my lovely daughter is living or how she is doing at all.’

  The nausea that plagued him over the past few months made Seymour belch. ‘I do beg your pardon. Is all this true? Why did Lynn go? Where is she?’

  Mrs Morle did not answer. Shuffling herself around, she headed for the door.

  31

  ‘Up you go, Chloe.’

  ‘What time’s he coming, Mum? Do I have to be there, too? It’s so embarrassing, some weird guy from the pub.’

  Chloe trails upstairs from the kitchen to Maggie’s room where her revision books wait.

  ‘Darling, I told you, Aubrey is coming for supper at 7.00 pm. It’ll be nice to get to know a local person. I’m popping into the town now and when I get back, I’ll bring you a cup of tea and you can have a break. See you later.’

  Amy had brought Chloe to the cottage so she could revise for her ‘A’ levels during reading week and escape the distractions of friends popping in unannounced. Conversations about exam panic, exam stress, lack of sleep. Girls could describe in forensic detail the colour and complexity of their revision schedules. But as for actually sitting down to study.…

  Amy parks the car in the market square. The butcher who said he knew the life and times of every animal jointed in his shop window sells her lamb chops, and she buys two bottles of Beaujolais in the wine shop: she’ll take one home for Simon. She posts an article she’d finished the previous day at the post office and while there, asks for directions to the care home.

  ‘She’s in her room, prefers it to the day room,’ says the nurse. ‘Watches the birds out the window. Sometimes she knows where she is, other days she talks a bit of nonsense. She doesn’t get many visitors.’

  Her name is on the door: Mrs Lily Morle. Amy had never known her neighbour’s first name, the woman who had taught her so much. She had asked Julian about Mrs Morle when she noticed the cottage where she’d lived now had new people in it. He was vague; told her she’d been admitted to a care home a few years ago when she could no longer cope.

  Amy knocks and slowly pushes open the door. She would have picked the woman out in a crowd. The same neat side parting, though the hair was white now, and pale pursed lips. Mrs Morle wears a floral dress and a cardigan over orange-coloured nylons that ride the bumps of varicose veins.

  She is staring out of the window. There is a bird table, the feeder empty of seed.

  ‘Hallo Mrs Morle. Do you remember me? I’m Amy Taylor. I used to live at Mr Stratton’s farmhouse a long time ago. Do you remember me?’

  The woman raises her eyes to Amy’s face; it is like being clamped by pincers. ‘Who are you?’ she says in a not-unfriendly voice. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘Oh, that would be nice, thanks.’

  Amy pulls up a chair next to Mrs Morle who fidgets with her cardigan buttons while gazing at the bird table. She glances around. A spoon-rest with the words, Best wishes from Minehead sits on a small table next to a glass bird. A tin of talc rests on a doily. A pink shawl is folded neatly on the pillow of a single bed.

  ‘I’ve brought you this.’ Amy presses a lavender bag into Mrs Morle’s hand. ‘I made it. A little thank you, Mrs Morle, for everything you did for me when I was at Wyld Farm. You were so kind.’

  The woman’s fingers rub at the cotton bag. She nods at Amy. ‘Lavender,’ she says.

  On the bedside table there is a framed photograph of a woman that Amy thinks must be Lynn. The hair has a few grey streaks in it but the green eyes are unmistakable. Lynn is smiling at the camera and holds a little girl on her lap.

  ‘That’s Lynn, isn’t it?’ she says.

  ‘My daughter,’ Mrs Morle nodded. ‘I’ll be fetching her from school soon. What’s the time?’ Her hand seethes around the handbag at her feet. ‘Must get myself tidy.’ She stands up and pulls a comb through her hair. ‘I best be off now.’

  A click of the bag clasp suggests she is ready.

  Amy says gently: ‘I don’t think Lynn is at school today.’

  ‘She always goes to school, never misses a day,’ Mrs Morle retorts.

  The door opens and a woman in an overall bustles in with a cup of tea.

&nbs
p; ‘Tea time, Lily, here you are, and a biscuit. Sit down, Lily. Would you like a cup, dear?’

  ‘Mrs Morle is talking about Lynn being at school,’ Amy replies.

  ‘She always does that, dear, about this time of day. She gets confused. Lynn isn’t at school, Lily, she’s grown up now. She doesn’t live round here anymore, Lily, you know that, she’s been gone a long while.’

  The woman’s voice is raised more loudly than Amy feels is necessary.

  Mrs Morle shakes her head and repeats fiercely. ‘Time to go to school, must fetch Lynn, must …’

  ‘You can take her outside for a walk if you like. It helps to calm her down. I’ll bring the tea out.’

  There isn’t much to see in the garden but it is pleasant to be out of the over-heated home. Through the window, Amy sees into the day room where residents, mostly women, sit around a blue rug like it is a pool of still water. Some are held in their chairs by tables pressed up against their stomachs. Others have been tipped so far back that the ceiling is the easiest thing for them to gaze at. A television chatters.

  Amy gives Mrs Morle a biscuit. ‘The birds might like this,’ she says.

  The woman begins to crumble the biscuit between stiff fingers. Both became mesmerised by the sweet dust as it drifts in the air.

  ‘Feed the birds,’ Amy croons and Mrs Morle sings too in a moment as light as a butterfly.

  Back in her room, Mrs Morle washes her fingers at the sink. Above it hangs a framed photograph of a man in working clothes.

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘My Harry,’ Mrs Morle waves her damp fingers. ‘He’s out on the farm, be back soon enough for his tea.’

  She carefully folds the towel and sits back in her chair to wait.

  When Aubrey arrives, Amy is standing on a chair and chopping the hedge.

  ‘Let me do that, Mrs Webster,’ he says taking the shears from her.

  Within minutes the hawthorn is trimmed into a shape. Aubrey rakes up the cuttings and heaps them up.

  ‘Where do these go?’ he says, holding out the tools.

  ‘Thank you, Aubrey, that’s helpful. Prop them by the door. Shall we have a drink outside before dinner? It’s still nice out. I’ll just call my daughter. Ah, here she is. Chloe – this is Aubrey.’

  Her daughter is standing at the back door. For a reluctant supper guest, Chloe has made an effort. Fitted white jeans and sparkly earrings, her hair is caught up in a casual twist. She looks fabulous even if the set of her mouth suggests petulance.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Aubrey says, wiping his hands on his trousers. He wishes he’d changed his shirt after his shift at the pub.

  Amy says: ‘I’m glad you could come. It’s nice for us to get to know local people, isn’t it, Chloe? I’ll get some wine.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says the girl. She is horrified to see the man’s sandals and knitted tank top. Her annoying mother insists on being friendly with everyone and she has picked a loser here.

  ‘Your mother tells me that you’re revising for exams?’ the man says.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How’s it going, the studying and everything?’

  ‘I’m a bit stressed, actually.’

  ‘Of course. I was relieved when mine were over.’

  ‘You went to university?’ Amy appears with glasses and a bottle of wine. She turns to her daughter. ‘Aubrey works in the local pub.’

  ‘I know, mother, you told me,’ Chloe sighs, picking her fingernails.

  ‘I finished my Masters last year and I’ve applied for funding for further study, possibly a PhD. This is delicious wine, by the way, Mrs Webster, thank you.’

  The answer was unexpected. ‘Really? Look, please call me Amy. It seems a bit formal to use my married name.’

  Chloe splutters: ‘If you’re clever, why are you working in a pub? In this out of the way place? No shops or cinema or other people or bars. Nothing to do. Unless you like walking.’

  ‘I do like walking and the countryside is beautiful. But there’s another reason why I’ve come here. I think I mentioned it,’ Aubrey looks at Amy. ‘I’m searching for someone. My mother.’ He is pleased to have finally captured the girl’s attention.

  Chloe is transfixed. ‘You don’t have a mother?’

  ‘I have two mothers actually.’

  ‘God… two mothers! Appalling thought. Just teasing, Mum. How can you have two mothers?’

  ‘I was adopted at birth. So I have a birth mother – whom I’ve never met – and the mother that brought me up. After I finished my study, I decided that before doing anything else, I would see if I could find her. Maybe my father, too.’

  ‘I know people who are adopted often want to do that at some stage of their lives,’ says Amy sympathetically. ‘Were you able to talk to your mum and dad about it?’

  ‘Yes of course. They’ve been open with me about being adopted from when I was about eight or nine. They weren’t keen on secrets.’

  Something niggles at Amy, a memory she cannot recall. ‘I’ll just check the food.’ She pokes at the chops. Standing by the cooker she tries to work out what’s bothering her.

  Outside, Chloe is telling Aubrey her mother is ‘an old hippy’ and did up the cottage with all her weird friends in ‘the old days’ before either of them were born. She is making him laugh.

  ‘Come inside you two, it’s time to eat. Bring your glasses.’

  When they have started eating, Chloe says: ‘Do you mind me asking, Aubrey? How do you start looking for a mother? What did you do?’

  Aubrey puts down his fork. ‘It was a bit haphazard actually. You see when I was adopted in the early 1970s, record-keeping was rudimentary. I contacted the agency that arranged my adoption and they gave me this flimsy cardboard file with a few scraps of paper in it. It included notes from the agency worker who arranged my adoption and other stuff. I don’t know what I was expecting but it wasn’t that.’

  ‘God, how weird,’ said Chloe. ‘Did anyone go along with you?

  ‘One my friends did offer to come but I wanted to go alone. The woman at the agency was really nice, actually. She explained that when I was adopted, unmarried mothers giving up their babies were told to think of it as a ‘clean break’. That’s what the woman arranging my adoption probably said to my mum – that she and I should never meet again.’

  ‘It’s hard to imagine that now. It sounds so…punitive,’ Amy says.

  Chloe adds: ‘Harsh, yeah. But weren’t you a bit angry with her for giving you away?’

  Amy winces. Her daughter is so direct.

  Aubrey shakes his head. ‘Why? I presume there was nothing else she could do. For all I know she was forced to give me up. No, I’d like to thank her for her brave decision – and tell her that I’m fine.’

  Amy is impressed by the young man’s maturity. ‘But how did you end up round here?’ Chloe says.

  ‘That’s strange. I found a note in my file, a claim for petty cash. The agency worker must have given my mother money for fares so she would get home. The woman recorded the place, mentioned this village by name.’

  ‘Wow.’ The meal is far more interesting than Chloe could have hoped and, despite his terrible fashion sense, Aubrey is rather sweet. She decides to act the hostess.

  ‘Thanks for telling us everything, yeah? Mum’s bought a lemon tart for pudding. I’ll fetch it. No, you stay there, Aubrey. You’re our guest.’

  ‘Morning, Chloe. You’re up bright and early.’

  The girl is already at her desk, books open and a pencil between her fingers.

  Amy stifles a yawn. Her sleep was disturbed. The memory she had been struggling to recollect finally woke her in the early hours. Something Simon told her a few days after they’d decided to get engaged.

  He had insisted she sit on their Habitat sofa, the one she hated as soon as they brought it home and found the foam filling was too bouncy to be comfortable. She had larked about, pretended to wobble off the sofa.

  ‘What is it, darling?
Why the oh-so-serious face?’

  ‘I think we should be honest with each other before our special day,’ Simon had said.

  The phrase made her giggle.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s that bad, darling! Have you robbed a bank? If so – hurrah – please can we use the money to buy a new sofa?’

  ‘I’m serious, Amy. I think we should tell each other who we’ve slept with. We shouldn’t have secrets.’

  ‘Oh but I like a little mystery. It’s naughty and …’

  ‘Isn’t honesty the basis of a good marriage?’

  ‘Don’t be pompous, darling, it’s not sexy. You know about most of my boyfriends anyway. David, that French guy, Marcus…’ She reeled off the ten men she had slept with.

  She did not mention Seymour. Clarity could be cruel. How could she explain to her husband-to-be that Seymour was the most important of her lovers? As the perfect storm of her life raged, mourning her mother, missing her father, Seymour and life on Wyld Farm had given her the sanctuary she needed. And though Seymour had hurt her terribly when he cast dumped her, the rejection revealed something she needed to understand; what she needed from love. For that she was grateful.

  Simon divulged the three women he’d slept with. She pushed him on to the sofa in mock horror, then teased him about his lack of sexual conquests.

  Almost as an afterthought, he added: ‘And there was Lynn Morle too. One jolly evening at Wyld Farm, I crept off with her to the barn.’

  His revelation barely registered with her then. But last night it sent her bolt-upright. She switched on the bedside lamp. If Simon had slept with Lynn, could Aubrey be Simon’s son?

  ‘Mum, Mum!’ Chloe is shaking her arm. ‘You’ve gone into one of your trances. Listen, Mum. I’m really going to work hard today.’