Country Loving

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘I’m not sure it’s going to be sunny,’ I say, gazing at the hands of a man who’s never worked outdoors and only ever works up a sweat at the gym. In fact, it’s pouring, spray flying up from the cars ahead and rain streaking across the windscreen, but I don’t think Nick hears me because he goes on, ‘I want to prove I’ll always be at your side when you need me.’

  ‘Oh, Nick, that’s so romantic.’

  ‘Perhaps we can talk again about moving in together, like a trial run before getting hitched.’

  ‘I suppose it would be a good idea to find out if we feel the same about each other when the dishes are piled up in the sink and the dirty socks are scattered across the bedroom floor.’ I’ve had boyfriends before, but I’ve never lived with any of them.

  ‘I always put my socks in the laundry bin,’ Nick says, looking upset. ‘I have one for whites and one for darks.’

  I smile because that could be an issue. I’m not the tidiest person in the world.

  ‘Forgive me if I sound like I’m complaining, Stevie. I’m not. I’m just observing when I say that I’m trying really hard here and I don’t feel like I’m getting anything back. I’ve done the right thing, going down on one knee on the beach in the most amazing setting, with blue seas, coconut palms and cocktails, yet when I talk about moving in together, you reduce it to the level of the laundry arrangements. I thought you wanted the hearts and flowers.’

  ‘I do …’

  ‘Well, what’s wrong then?’

  ‘I can’t really explain. I’m sorry if I come across as ungrateful when you’re being so thoughtful and caring.’ That seems to mollify him and it’s a relief because I don’t have to go on to tell him how I can’t deal with the effort he purports to be making. I can’t envisage marrying a man who has to try so hard. Surely love and romance should come more naturally. Is that too much to ask?

  ‘We’ll find a pub and stop for lunch as soon as we come off the motorway,’ Nick says eventually.

  ‘I’m not hungry, thank you. I’d prefer to keep going.’ I have butterflies dancing in my stomach. Part of me wants to get to the farm to find out what’s going on, while part of me wants to delay the moment for ever.

  ‘It can’t be easy going back,’ Nick says, driving on. ‘In fact, I’m amazed you even considered it, after what your father did.’

  ‘I’m not going back for my father. I’m going back because of Cecil. He’s always been very kind to me.’ I’m fond of him, and I often wished he could have been my dad instead.

  The motorway ends and we run into the back of a queue of traffic that spreads out again across the plain where the ancient circle of stones, Stonehenge, stands in a grassy landscape with sheep grazing close together. Another hour later and, as we pass the sign reading ‘Welcome to Devon’, the rain clears and the sun comes out from behind the clouds.

  ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ Nick says, slipping on his Ray-Bans.

  ‘There’s some way to go yet,’ I respond. It’s another forty minutes before we reach the turning for Talyton St George, where the road narrows into a country lane with dense hedges on either side. We pass Talyton Manor before entering Talyton itself, where red, white and blue bunting flutters between the lampposts in Market Square.

  Nothing much changes in this quiet country town, apart from the odd tweak in the window display in Aurora’s Cave, where a mannequin is posing in a bikini. It’s quite a shock to see it, because the sight of naked flesh – even plastic – was always considered an offence to the morals of the town’s residents. The shutters are down at Mr Rock’s fish-and-chip shop, and there’s a sign on the butcher’s shop door reading, ‘Sorry Closed Early’. An elderly man, Nobby the church organist, is shuffling very slowly across the pedestrian crossing.

  ‘Which way is it now?’ Nick stops to wait for him to cross.

  ‘Straight over at the next junction,’ I say. ‘What’s happened to the sat nav?’

  ‘She’s crashed – there’s no signal.’

  ‘It isn’t far now.’

  ‘I thought you said it wasn’t much further,’ Nick grumbles as we drive along the lane out of town, which narrows down to single-track. A quarter of a mile or so along, a tractor comes bowling down the hill straight at us. Nick slams on the brakes and his face drains of colour as the tractor stops within a metre of the car’s bumper.

  ‘That was a close shave,’ he breathes before opening the window and waving furiously at the tractor driver to reverse.

  ‘That’s Guy.’

  ‘I don’t give a monkey’s who he is. He’s in the way.’

  ‘You’ll have to reverse. There’s a passing place further back.’

  ‘I can’t pull in there,’ he says when we reach a gateway into a field. ‘She’ll catch her undercarriage. I’m not risking it.’

  ‘In that case, you’ll have to keep going back until we reach town again,’ I say, wishing I’d brought my car.

  ‘Who’s this Guy person?’ Nick asks once we’re back on the road.

  ‘He’s our neighbour, the one who reported my father to Animal Welfare. He farms the land next door to ours.’

  ‘Ours? Why do you keep calling it your farm? I thought it was the family farm.’

  ‘I haven’t really talked about it before, but part of it is mine.’

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you think to mention it? You’re as bad as your father, keeping secrets.’

  ‘I don’t know. The subject has never really come up.’ I shrug. ‘I don’t like talking about the farm.’

  ‘Do you have any say in how your father manages the land?’ Nick asks.

  ‘I have a part-share with my brother Ray, a financial interest – it’s all to do with financial management and reducing inheritance tax. I don’t think my father would accept it if I went in telling him what to do.’

  ‘You might have to.’

  ‘I hope not, because he’s never listened to me before.’

  We reach a fork in the road where the left-hand branch is signposted ‘Uphill Farm and Uphill House’, the sign itself leaning against a churn on a stone platform by the hedge. There is a board, too, with ‘Potatoe’s and Cider’ chalked on it. Above that is a brand-new sign for ‘Jennie’s Cakes’.

  ‘You said it was rural, but this really is the back of beyond,’ Nick says as we keep right, turning the corner where the lane shrinks further, the overgrown hedgerows reaching out and caressing the wings of the car. There’s grass growing up through the crazed surface of the tarmac in the middle of the road, and loose stones fly up now and again and ping against the paintwork, making Nick wince.

  ‘Now left.’ I can smell the scent of cow and fresh grass as we grow closer.

  ‘Left? Where?’

  ‘Just after the tree. There’s a sign.’ I look for the sign reading ‘Nettlebed Farm’, which is fixed to the trunk of the old oak, but it’s obscured by a tangle of ivy. ‘I’ll have to open the gate.’ When Nick pulls into the entrance to the farm, I slide out of the car to push and lift the rickety five-barred gate wide open. The March wind blusters through my hair, which I’ve left loose around my shoulders.

  ‘Do you mean I have to drive up there?’ Nick calls out of the window. ‘It looks pretty bumpy.’

  ‘That’s nothing. You should see it when it’s rained for a few days.’ I give him a smile to cheer myself up. ‘That’s why we drive tractors around here.’

  ‘I really can’t imagine you handling a tractor, given that you struggle to park an Audi,’ Nick adds with a cheeky grin, and I feel a surge of affection for him. If the truth be told, I’m so scared of what I’m going to find that I’m not sure I could have done this on my own. My father has always seemed immortal to me, and the survival of the family farm in perpetuity has never been in doubt before.

  I close the gate behind him and jump back into the car. It’s done now. I’m here and there’s no going back. We follow the drive to the farmyard where we are greeted with a loud bang.

  ‘What the hell was
that?’ Nick says with his hand on the gear stick, ready to reverse.

  ‘Gunshot,’ I say, my heart beating faster.

  Chapter Two

  Skinny Cows

  Nick pulls into the farmyard between an Animal Welfare van and a police car. Ignoring his entreaties that I wait to see if it’s safe, I get out and run across the yard in my Louboutin ankle boots, catching and scraping the heels in the cracks in the concrete and cobbles.

  ‘Dad, stop!’ I shout as I approach my father, who is standing in front of the tumbledown cob-and-thatch cowshed with a smoking shotgun aimed vaguely in the direction of a pale-faced policeman who gesticulates wildly as my dad loads it with another cartridge, fumbling with one arm in a grubby sling.

  ‘Dad?’ I am probably as shocked at the sight of him as he is of me. He’s changed, aged. His dark grey hair has grown long and lank and has lost its lustrous sheen, and he looks as if he’s wearing another man’s clothes. He appears to have tried to shave and given up halfway through. The left side of his face has dropped, his eyelid droops and his mouth is twisted into a sardonic smile, a sharp contrast to the expression of anger and defeat in his hazel eyes.

  ‘Stevie?’ he mumbles.

  ‘Give me the gun.’ I step in close enough to grab it around the stock and barrel, but my father seems reluctant to relinquish it.

  ‘If you don’t put that gun down, Mr Dunsford,’ the policeman says, ‘I will have no choice but to place you under arrest for threatening behaviour.’ He’s a familiar face, patrolling the crime-free streets of Talyton St George, reuniting lost dogs with their owners.

  ‘Dad, give me the gun,’ I repeat.

  ‘It’s mine. I have a licence for it,’ he says.

  ‘Not a licence to kill though,’ I say more gently, as a rush of adrenaline surges through my blood while I attempt to wrestle the gun from him. ‘Come on, hand it over, then we can talk. Please, Dad. You’re making things worse.’

  Somehow, he finds the strength to wrench the gun from my grip and I can only hold my breath, scared stiff at what he’ll do next, but he doesn’t fire it again. He breaks the gun to make it safe and presents it to me.

  ‘Thank you.’ I find I’m trembling as I hand it over to the policeman. ‘I’m Stevie, Stephanie, Mr Dunsford’s daughter. Now you can tell me what’s going on here.’

  ‘All in good time.’ The police constable – Kevin, he’s called – turns to my father. ‘Thomas Edwin Dunsford, I’ll have to arrest you for a breach of the peace and take you down to the station.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ my father blusters. ‘These people have come onto my farm without any by-your-leave. What is the world coming to when a landowner has no right to protect his property?’

  ‘You’ve had plenty of warning,’ the policeman says. He must be about my age but looks younger, his uniform ill-fitting around his shoulders and his trousers, which are spattered with mud, overlong. He pulls out his notebook and writes a couple of lines, the tip of his tongue sticking out.

  ‘He’s a very sick man,’ I cut in. ‘You can’t arrest him.’

  ‘I’ll ask one of the local GPs to see him while he’s in custody.’

  ‘He’s had a stroke recently.’ I’m not making excuses for him, but I fear he’ll have another one.

  ‘Everyone has made allowances for Mr Dunsford’s health, but it can’t go on like this. Enough is enough.’ The policeman turns to me. ‘This is our second visit. On the last occasion Mr Dunsford made verbal threats to the Animal Welfare officer and the attending veterinary surgeon. This time he fired shots from his gun.’

  ‘They’re trying to take my cows away from me,’ my father says, his cheeks flushed with resentment. ‘What do you expect?’

  ‘Dad, you could have killed someone.’

  ‘I should have,’ he goes on. ‘That man, Guy Barnes, that neighbour of ours, he deserves to have some lead shot up his backside for what he’s done.’

  ‘You can’t say that. Stop making it worse for yourself.’ However, it seems it can’t be any worse.

  ‘If Jack Miller is unhappy with progress in remedying the situation, I shall be arresting Mr Dunsford for offences under the Animal Welfare Act.’

  ‘Look,’ I say to PC Kevin, ‘you’re making a mistake. Please don’t make him go to the police station.’ There’s a fine line between love and hate and I find that I can’t stand by. ‘Obviously, he isn’t coping and what he needs is support.’

  ‘It’s no excuse in law. The courts will have to decide if it’s a mitigating factor.’

  ‘How’s this going to look? The police arresting a sick and defenceless old man?’

  ‘Hey, less of the old, Stevie,’ Dad interrupts.

  I glare at him to shut him up.

  ‘Can we go inside the house and talk about this over a cup of tea?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ PC Kevin says hesitantly.

  ‘I expect there’ll be some cake,’ I go on. ‘Please, give me ten minutes to run through exactly what’s been going on here, so I can give you the assurances you need to guarantee this kind of incident won’t happen again, and the cows will be looked after.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s that simple,’ PC Kevin says.

  He’s beginning to infuriate me because, as far as I can see, it’s pretty straightforward, but I hold my tongue and show him towards the farmhouse, picking up my father’s crutch, which is lying on the ground in the mud and weeds. I give them to him and he struggles along at my side.

  ‘No one mentioned you were coming,’ he complains.

  ‘No one told me you were ill.’ My sense of anger and hurt dissipates slightly at the sight of the man in front of me, a shadow of his former self, physically at least.

  ‘Why are you here?’ he asks. ‘To rub my nose in it?’

  ‘Cecil contacted me.’

  ‘The old buzzard!’ My father hesitates when Nick joins us. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Nick, my boyfriend,’ I say. ‘You must remember him. He came to Mum’s funeral.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ My father nods as he stares at him, and I’m not convinced he has any recollection of him at all, but then it was a very stressful time and Nick tactfully stayed in the background.

  ‘Hello, Tom,’ Nick says. ‘I thought it was supposed to be quiet living in the country.’

  ‘We have our fair share of dramas,’ PC Kevin says as a dog starts barking.

  Nettlebed Farm is set in a dip in the hills. The farmhouse, which stands opposite the barn and collecting yard, isn’t the most beautiful house in the world. Its tiled roof looks like an oversized hat and it is rendered grey so it looks like stone from a distance. It’s a square building with three steps down to the porch and front door, where a shaggy tricolour creature, like a patchwork dog made up of pieces of many other dogs, is tied to a ring in the wall. Family history suggests that the ring was originally used by my great-grandmother to secure her hunter when she returned from a day out with the hounds. The dog redoubles his efforts at barking as we approach.

  ‘Shut up, Bear,’ I scold, and he stops instantly, gazing at me through one blue eye and one brown, and with one ear up and one ear down, before he starts snuffling and squeaking and wagging his tail, straining at the rope that restrains him. ‘Good boy.’

  ‘Be careful,’ says PC Kevin. ‘That dog’s dangerous.’

  ‘The dog isn’t a danger to anyone,’ I say, stepping down to unfasten the rope. His coat is matted and dirty. ‘He’s an old softie.’

  ‘Stevie, I’m afraid Bear bit the vet,’ Dad cuts in. ‘He turned on him. Really nasty, it was, but it was the vet’s fault for staring at him straight in the eyes. He can’t be a proper vet. He’s on death row.’

  Bear is, or the vet, I want to ask. Bear must be twelve or thirteen now and, although I haven’t seen him much over the years, I love that dog. I look to Nick for moral support, but he’s staying well out of it. I know what he’ll say later, that he saw how well I was handling the situation and didn’t
like to interfere. When I left the farm to work in London when I was eighteen, I wouldn’t have said boo to a goose, but eventually I found the confidence that had been buried under layers of my father’s overbearing attitude.

  ‘We’ll talk about that later. I’ll lock him in the lean-to.’ I run the dog around to the back of the house and make sure he’s secured before entering the kitchen and letting Nick, my father and the policeman through the front. Cecil has now appeared too, in his flat cap and a faded set of blue overalls tied up with baling twine; he limps stiffly along behind them.

  ‘Stevie, you came!’ he exclaims. He pushes past, reaches out and grasps my arm. ‘Thank goodness you’re here. You speak to this ruddy policeman and make him see sense.’

  ‘Cecil, that’s what I’m doing. Oh, it’s lovely to see you again.’

  He gives me a hug and smiles, revealing a gap where his two front teeth should be.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask him.

  ‘One of the heifers got me when she came out of the crush. She knocked me down and I lost my teeth on the railings. I tried a set of false ones, but they didn’t agree with me. They belonged to my late father – I kept them in case, thinking they’d fit, but even though I filed them down, they were no use.’

  ‘Cecil! Haven’t you got a dentist?’

  ‘I can’t afford new teeth. It doesn’t bother me – I mean, I’m hardly going to make it in Hollywood at my time of life – except I lost my whistle, so Mary bought me this.’ He lifts a metal referee’s whistle from a string around his neck. ‘Cecil, she said, this is a whole lot cheaper than a new set of gnashers.’

  ‘How is Mary?’

  ‘You can ask her yourself. She’s right behind me, come to put the kettle on.’

  ‘Hello, Stevie.’ Cecil’s wife joins us. She’s taller than Cecil, and the way she moves, slowly ambling along the hall, reminds me of an elderly cow. She wears a floral dress with a cardigan and apron, caramel stockings and flat brown moccasins. Her ankles are thick and her waist thicker, yet her wedding ring is so thin it’s almost worn out. ‘I’ve got a fruit cake in the Aga and a nice piece of mild cheese from the local dairy to go with it.’