‘These guys are special, you should stay and listen,’ David whispers as an ear-splitting roar of electric guitars crashes over their heads.
He pulls her to one side as more young people flood in from the bar, bringing smells of beer and sweat. Fast and furious, the band thunders through its set, the drunken lead singer continuing to carouse even when he topples into the drum kit. He is dragged to his feet by another musician. Raw energy out of control.
‘This is fabulous!’ Amy shouts as the packed crowd of fans leap on each other’s shoulders, trying to spring higher than the next, shouting out the lyrics they know and making up those they don’t. Worries about Chloe, confusion about Seymour, concerns about the cottage. Everything is forgotten. More fun than she’s had in ages.
A bouncing fan pushes her into David together. Like a light switch, her body tingles to the feel and the smell of her first love. Reluctantly, she disentangles herself. He straightens his jacket and catches her eye. She finds she is gliding towards him.
‘Hi,’ a woman hisses down her ear. ‘We haven’t met. I’m Amber, David’s girlfriend.’
Amy just makes the last train. The taxi drops her home and lets herself into the house. Only then does the relief flood through her. It was stupid to flirt with David. Thank goodness it went no further.
Just about to go to upstairs with a glass of water and two headache pills, Amy notices the answer machine light flashing. Miriam’s calm voice explains that Simon has tripped and smashed his knee, has been to A&E and will be discharged from the local hospital in the morning. Is Amy able to drive down to collect him? Or should Miriam do it?
35
Seymour settled down with a cup of coffee in the garden. Mid-April and with a blanket on his knees, Miriam was right: it was warm enough to enjoy the sun. Seymour had always been a sun-worshipper. And loved good, strong coffee. Every two weeks a packet from Fortnum’s arrived at the farm with that special blend of coffee beans and his favourite madeleines.
Seymour licked the sugar off a second biscuit. Where was Garfield? Had the postman retired? This generation of postal workers only deigned to leave their vans to shove the mail through letterboxes. Not the proper ‘delivery’ that Garfield had once provided, walking across the valley carrying the post in his bag.
Seymour flicked through a weekly political magazine. Before Miriam left this morning with Julian to buy sandals for Peter, she had settled him with a pot of coffee, a rug and his post. The garden could not be called beautiful for the flower beds hosted weeds and the hedges were unruly. But it was certainly pleasant.
‘Ah, Mrs Morle. This is a surprise.’
It amazed him that at 81 years of age, Mrs Morle still worked for him. But not on a Saturday. So why was she heading towards him? Clasped to her chest was a letter. A dramatic gesture he did not associate with her stolid temperament. Letters were the only way the woman kept in touch with the outside world. She refused to have a phone despite Seymour offering to pay for the installation.
‘Lynn’s letter has come!’
‘Really? My goodness! This is unexpected. Sit down, Mrs Morle, you look exhausted.’
‘Water. I need water.’
‘Yes, of course.’
He slid over the glass of water that Miriam had left to wash down his pills. His tablets winked accusingly at him. ‘What does Lynn say?’
Mrs Morle’s eyes were glued to the letter as though the words might fly away.
‘She’s fine, she’s married – married! And she had a baby last year. A little girl, Daisy Lily. Oh, that’s such a pretty name. I can’t believe it, Mr Stratton, not after all these years, her getting in touch. I hoped she would one day but…’
‘So you’re a grandmother? Congratulations Mrs Morle, that’s wonderful.’
Taking Peter in his arms at only a few days old had made him swell with pride. It was a feeling Seymour had not anticipated.
‘Daisy’s got pretty eyes and lovely hair – see this photo! I can’t wait to show Harry.’
Mrs Morle sometimes talked as though her husband was still alive. ‘She’s beautiful, Mrs Morle, takes after her grandmother, naturally. Does Lynn talk….about visiting?’
‘She does. She wants to bring Daisy to meet me.’
‘A reconciliation after all these years. You can plan a little party, a celebration. Mrs Morle, is everything alright? ’
‘There’s something I must tell you, Mr Stratton. Something that happened to my Lynn all those years ago.’
‘Really? Alright, if you feel you must.’
Mrs Morle patted her hair, slightly turned away. ‘It’s the reason we fell out, Mr Stratton.
‘We fell out?’
‘Me and Lynn, I mean. You see, Lynn got herself pregnant when she was just a girl, no more than 18 years old. It was a shock. The day she told me, I didn’t know what to do, I was beside meself. Wouldn’t tell me who the boy was that done it, neither.’
She was breathing in short, sharp breaths. ‘Have a drink, Mrs Morle, please. You’ll faint.’
‘I was terrified about people finding out. What would they think of her – or me? So before the baby showed, I sent Lynn away to one of them special homes for unmarried girls. That’s where she had it.’
She turned to him. Her lips were dry.
‘I made her give it away for adoption, Mr Stratton. A baby boy, she told me when she came back home. But she said she couldn’t bear to be with me no more, not after that. So she took herself off. She left me. I never heard from her again. I told you it was because she got work. But it weren’t. Oh, I’ve missed her so much.’
Her head sagged. Her pink scalp shone through thinning hair. ‘I’m sure you did what you thought was best, Mrs Morle.’
‘Seemed the only thing I could do at the time, Mr Stratton. Best for her and the baby, I thought. But now, looking back, I think that I was wrong.’
A car drove into the yard. There were voices. Seymour’s daughter-in-law talking to Peter and Julian, too. Seymour filched the glass from beside Mrs Morle and hurriedly swallowed his pills. ‘We can’t change the past. Though you and I both, we sometimes wish we could,’ he said deliberately. For a moment, his hand rested on hers. ‘And you have Daisy to look forward to. Lynn wants to come and visit. It’s good news, surely?’
‘I’ve got regrets and there’s nothing that I can do with ‘em,’ said Mrs Morle. She struggled to her feet. ‘Best be on me way, eh?’
36
‘I just don’t want to spend money that we don’t have on some pokey cottage that you own with some old gits from the past, one of whom wanted to put her tongue down your throat last night!’
Amber’s shouts ricochet round the car. It’s our allocated weekend, according to her bloody rota, Amber sneers, and we need some space and will you shut up David and drive.
`***
Maggie wakes. The town is quiet this early in the morning. She stares at the ceiling. Last night the lonely hearts contact – she couldn’t grace the despicable person with any other label – did not show up where they had agreed to meet. How rude and unkind can people be?
In some moods, her bedroom is a place of tranquillity. Today the emptiness defines her.
She ties her dressing gown cord around her hips and waist. She lets Merry out in the garden. It’s when she’s going back into the flat that she sees the letter lying on the door mat. She’s been expecting it for days. But seeing it for real, the organisation’s stamp on an envelope addressed to her, is an unexpected shock.
She handles it like a suspicious package. Props it against the pepper pot while she makes tea. Ignores it while she makes a piece of toast. Opening it meaning facing rejection. Breathing slowly in and out, Maggie conjures up the voice of her meditation teacher telling her to abandon negative thoughts.
Chucking the toast in the bin, she rolls a cigarette and leans out of the window to smoke.
For the last few days, it’s rained incessantly. ‘That’s summer over,’ people have been sayi
ng from under umbrellas. Today the roof tiles on the house opposite glint in the sun. A plane’s white tail drifts in the sky.
It’s an omen. She prises open the envelope.
There’s a knock at her door. ‘Hi Maggie, sorry to bother you.’
It’s one of the men who live upstairs with his partner, the one who thrusts political pamphlets at her. Geraint or Gareth, she can never remember who is who. ‘It’s about the party,’ he says.
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t want to join the party. I’m going to live in India.’ She hasn’t put concealer on her scars this morning. She doesn’t care.
‘Oh cool. I’m not calling about that party, actually. It’s about the one we’re having tonight. A celebration. It might be a bit noisy. Come along if you’d like to.’
Waiting for the coach, Maggie lists in her head all the things she must do before she leaves. What about Merry? Tonight she’ll go to the cottage. Even if it’s not ‘her weekend’, whoever is down there will have to stuff it. She’s about to leave the country for the next three years. Who knows? She might never come back.
The sounds of a saxophone and a bass guitar competing for volume blast from an upstairs window. Amy peeks through the half-closed curtains. Her husband is sprawled on the sofa, his plastered leg on a chair, a can of beer in hand. Next to him Julian balances Peter on his knee. All holler ‘yeeesss!’ at the television. Crisps scatter from the bag as the boy waves it about in celebration.
Amy pushes open the door of Bramble Cottage. For a moment she is suspended between entry and exclusion.
‘Oh, Amy, you’ve come.’ Miriam’s tone is clipped. ‘I’m waiting for the match to finish. Then I’ll take Peter back to the farmhouse.’
The volume of music coming from upstairs is such that she must raise her voice to be heard.
‘Miriam, hallo.’ Amy walks closer to the woman so she can be heard. ‘Is that David and Amber? But he wrote to us saying he wasn’t using the cottage this weekend.’
‘I really don’t know.’ Miriam says dismissively. ‘He and Amber were here this morning when I got back from the hospital with Simon. I gather from the rather heated conversation that Amber doesn’t like football. I think there was a disagreement, shall we say.’
‘Oh dear. Well, thanks for collecting Simon. I came as soon as I could.’ This is not strictly true. Amy had dropped back to sleep after the alarm rang, something to do with the effects of mixing beer and gin. ‘Do you know how the accident happened?’
Miriam regarded her coolly. ‘Simon and Julian had a party last night. I wasn’t there, I had an early night. But at some point, I gather, Simon fell over and smashed his knee. He was in agony. They woke me up. I had to drive Simon to casualty.’
‘I’m so sorry you had to get involved.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said, I’m sorry you had to sort everything out.’ Amy has to shout to be heard.
‘What alternative did I have? Julian was in no fit state to drive,’ Miriam bellows back.
A roar billows out from the sitting room. The kitchen door flies opens. Amy expects to see Peter running in to tell his mother about a goal. But it’s Maggie.
‘What the hell is going on here? It’s like bedlam!’ she screeches. ‘I came for some peace and quiet, for God’s sake!’
She glares at Amy and Miriam, then runs upstairs. Her barking dog follows her. They hear her screaming at her brother, a door slamming, thundering steps coming down the stairs and then shouting from the sitting room.
‘Since you’re all here,’ says Miriam, rising from her chair, ‘I better tell you what’s happened.’
37
It was like the day they moved into the cottage. When Miriam said she had an important piece of information to share and could they all gather, Amy, Simon and his plastered leg, David, Amber, Maggie, Merry, Peter and Julian all cram into the sitting room to sit, perch and lean among the crisp crumbs. They carefully avoid the Buddha.
Miriam stands centre-stage by the unlit fireplace. She says it is necessary because sitting gives her back pain. Amy suspects the real reason is Miriam feels more in control.
Everyone is exasperated. How long is this going to take?
Maggie is seething. She has come to the cottage to walk with her dog and think about India. Not to huddle in with everyone else. Owning this cottage is turning out to be a complete pain.
David is petulant. He has been hopeful of getting Amber into bed. Although his sister’s undignified screaming threatened to spoil the mood, playing the sax usually makes Amber amorous. A foot massage will help. As soon as this is over, he will find the massage oil.
The itch under Simon’s plaster is driving him crazy and his creeping hangover will be mollified by another beer. If only he could sneak out to fetch the last can from the fridge. He thinks again about that splendid cottage in Normandy and the details the agent sent.
Julian wants to smoke the roll-up in his pocket but it is not allowed in the cottage and anyway, Miriam will give him the eye if he does.
Amy knows something was coming that she isn’t going to like.
Peter is hungry.
Her training as an accountant lends Miriam’s disclosure a methodical air. For her, the revelations she is about to disclose are broadly positive. The weekend’s chaos only confirms it is the right way forward. Better for her husband’s health and their marriage certainly. She will not, of course, share this view with the assembled group. She enjoys the thought that her husband will be dumbfounded by the information she is about to impart. He will admire her capacity to keep secrets. He will wonder what else she has not revealed. He will understand her a little better and fear her a little more. She finds that erotic.
Miriam waits for silence to settle, then begins: ‘After Seymour’s death, Julian and I agreed that we must clear out Seymour’s darkroom. As you may not be aware, my father-in-law continued to work until only a few weeks before his death. Some of his best work in my view. But he was finding administration an increasing burden over the past year or so. It was a task which he did not allow me or anyone else to help with.
‘Perhaps that explains why when I went to start clearing out the studio recently, I found an unsealed letter addressed to his lawyer in a drawer. It carried a stamp. I hope you agree I did the right thing when the next day I delivered the letter personally to the addressee, Mr Rao, Seymour’s lawyer. The lawyer you all met in his office.’
She pauses for a moment to formulate her phrases and heighten the effect. Half an hour ago, it had been impossible to talk in the cottage. Now Miriam can hear the wind in the trees. ‘Before I delivered it, I read the letter. Was I right to do that? It was not addressed to me. Be that as it may, I read the letter.’
She clears her throat.
‘The intention of the letter, written four months before his death, was to add a codicil to Seymour’s will, the will written and held in Mr Rao’s office. The letter and codicil were signed in the presence of Seymour’s hospital nurse, a Mrs Janet Taylor. She used to come to the farmhouse to help us care for Seymour. We know her well. This codicil stated that certain clauses in the will should be modified.’
Those listening are mystified. What is Miriam saying?
‘The codicil modifies the will in favour of Seymour’s second son,’ she says.
Julian starts. Miriam has not mentioned any of this to him. He has a brother? Julian had often longed for a sibling during childhood, and more recently when Seymour was ill, imagined sharing the burden with a relative. He suddenly imagines what is might be like to have a brother. Wonderful, surely? It crosses his mind briefly that it might complicate things financially. The farmhouse and the land might have to be divided up and sold.
Simon is not surprised to learn Seymour had fathered another child. He tries to catch Amy’s eye but she is staring at the floor. He looks at David. Both men shrug.
‘The son’s name is not given in the codicil because Seymour was not in possession of it. H
e did not have the person’s name. But he was able to identify the boy as being the issue of him and…. Lynn Morle.’
Maggie explodes. ‘What? Lynn and Seymour? What was he thinking? The man was a complete sleaze ball. Sorry Julian, but really, couldn’t he keep his dick…’
‘Do you mind? Peter is here,’ he says, glaring back.
‘So he gives with one hand and takes back with the other. Typical Seymour,’ she adds.
‘Do you mind? It’s my father you’re criticising,’ says Julian.
Amy feels a horrible jab of jealousy. Had Seymour been sleeping with Lynn as well as her? She remembered their relationship as being passionate. She’s more than slightly miffed.
‘Shall I continue?’ Miriam asks. ‘The codicil requests that every effort is made to find the man. He was born sometime in 1974 and, according to his grandmother whom Seymour met, was given away for adoption in the first week of life. That being the case, Seymour instructed that Bramble Cottage and half the royalties from his book, Portraits, should be inherited by the second son.’
‘What?’ Everyone is shocked.
‘To reiterate, I took the letter to the lawyer that same day. I expect you’ll hear from Sunil Rao formally to explain what has happened. However, off the record, my enquiries suggest this change will be upheld if the son can be found. He will inherit Bramble Cottage and some money. As it’s only been a few months since the distributions were made, it’s unlikely a challenge would hold. If any of you were thinking about that.’ Miriam glances around the room. ‘I’m sorry to be harbinger of bad news.’ She does not look sorry.
She takes a bundle of photographs out from a leather tote. ‘I thought you might like to see these. Pictures of you all when you lived at Wyld Farm. They were in a drawer in the studio. Seymour had labelled it – Wyld Dreamers.’
Wyld Dreamers Page 20
