‘Children don’t want petting farms and real animals nowadays,’ Dad says. ‘They want computers and suchlike – video games and virtual pets.’
‘So we fill a niche, going back to nature and learning about the countryside in a fun way.’ I pause. ‘Dad, do you even know what having fun is?’
‘You mean you’re going to turn Nettlebed Farm into one giant playground? Over my dead body.’
‘Well, don’t go and die before you’ve had a chance to see it,’ I say ironically, ‘because it’s going ahead whether you like it or not.’
‘If the planners agree to the change of use and the extra traffic.’
‘If they don’t agree first time round, I’ll keep trying until they do. I’ve spoken to a couple of people on the council, contacted the planning department to see how to submit an application and been to see the architect about the visitor centre.’
My father snorts with disapproval as I continue. ‘The design will be for a timber-clad building with lots of glass to sit in the dip in the field across the drive.’
‘I don’t know why you don’t just go with some breezeblock and corrugated iron for half the price.’
‘It’s got to look inviting and I want to make a statement.’
‘In fact, why do you need a building at all?’
‘I’ve been doing some research – I visited a similar farm in Dorset, I’ve done some informal market research in Talyton and I’ve spoken to Jennie. We need cover for when it rains, a tearoom, nappy-changing facilities and somewhere to warm a bottle of milk, eat sandwiches and allow children to let off steam. As well as the animals, we need a couple of fun activities – maybe tractor rides and an adventure play area. Oh, and a gift shop because everyone likes a souvenir.’
‘Aren’t you rushing into this too fast, Stevie?’
‘You won’t put me off by stalling me. This project has to be off the ground as soon as possible. I’m planning to open by Easter.’ I can see it now: chicks and lambs and an Easter egg hunt.
‘What about the finance? I can’t afford it.’
‘I’ve got some money behind me.’ If necessary, I’ll remortgage or sell my flat, but I don’t tell my father about that possibility.
‘A builder? Who’s going to turn this dream into reality?’
‘I thought I’d ask DJ Appleyard. I’ve seen his truck around town.’
‘You want to watch him,’ says Dad. ‘I wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole. He’s known as the builder who starts and doesn’t finish.’
‘I don’t have much choice. I’ve rung around and he’s the only builder in the area who has a gap in his schedule.’
‘Then you should be wondering why.’
‘He’s between jobs. He has a team on standby ready to start as soon as I get the go-ahead.’
‘Has he given you a quote?’
‘We haven’t got that far yet. I’ve got to wait for the architect.’
‘So you’ve commissioned him already?’
‘Her. Yes.’
‘A female architect? A woman?’ My father shakes his head in disapproval. ‘What is this country coming to?’
‘It’s nothing new,’ I point out.
‘It is to me.’
‘I’m not going to argue with you. I’m going upstairs to change.’
Dad calls for me as I return.
‘What is it?’ I say, fastening the press-studs on my overalls in preparation for doing the milking.
‘If you want to make yourself useful, you can get rid of that awful woman.’ He hovers in the hall, leaning on his crutches behind one of the curtains so he can look out of the window without being seen.
‘Which woman?’
‘Fifi Green. She’s just parked in the yard. Everyone says she means well, but I can’t stand her. I lost any respect I had for her when I found out she’d been carrying on with all and sundry in spite of her being a married woman. I don’t want to sit listening to her opinions.’
‘I can imagine.’ Two opinionated people together – it doesn’t bear thinking about. ‘I can’t stop, I’ve got to go and get the cows in.’
‘Cecil can do that.’
I follow my father’s gaze out onto the farmyard where a woman in her sixties, dressed up in a royal-blue suit and heels, is making her way gingerly towards the house, avoiding the puddles and mud. She holds a coordinating handbag in one hand and clutches a spotty blue-and-white chiffon scarf across her nose, as if to protect her from some particularly foul stench.
I recognise her. She’s lived in Talyton St George for as long as I can remember, running the Garden Centre on Stoney Lane with her husband, creating a goldmine selling a range of goods from plants and greenhouses to wall art and slippers. If anyone has made a success of diversification it’s Fifi Green, at times lady mayoress, local busybody and chairperson of the WI and Talyton Animal Rescue.
The dog barks from the lean-to before she reaches the front door and gives it an authoritative rap with her knuckles. The doorbell doesn’t work.
‘What shall we do?’ Dad asks in a whisper.
‘Pretend we aren’t here?’ I say dryly. ‘For goodness’ sake, she isn’t going to eat you.’
‘Rumour has it she’ll have you for breakfast and now me being a widower … Your mum would have seen her off.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘There was a time – at one of the Fox-Giffords’ New Year parties up at the manor – when Fifi grabbed me and took advantage under the mistletoe.’
‘When you say “took advantage”, what exactly do you mean?’ I ask, prepared to be suitably outraged by the woman’s exploits.
‘She kissed me.’
‘Oh, Dad, that’s what everyone does when they’ve had a bit to drink.’
‘It was in front of your mother.’ He shakes his head. ‘I tell you, I took her straight home.’
I smile because my mother was less of a prude than my dad imagined. My father is not good with women. He doesn’t understand them, so it’s no wonder he ran a mile if Fifi really did come on to him. A little impatient, I open the door. We don’t have many visitors to the farm and it’s better to have her on our side if possible.
‘Hello, Fifi,’ I say. ‘Come in.’
‘Hello, Stevie.’ She wipes her feet on the mat inside the door. ‘I’m not stopping for long.’
‘Stay as long as you like. Would you like tea?’
‘Yes, please. Is Tom, your father, at home?’
‘Of course.’ I turn to include him, but he’s disappeared into the living room, the clacking of his crutches against the woodblock floor evidence of his rapid escape.
‘Come on in.’ I show her through, where her gaze immediately falls on the holes in the ceiling. ‘There was a bit of an accident.’ I smile, but Fifi doesn’t smile back. She turns to my father.
‘Don’t get up on my account,’ Fifi says, goading him as he sits there, hardly acknowledging her presence. ‘Tom, how are you?’
‘Not so bad,’ he grunts. ‘Yourself?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘I’ll go and get tea,’ I say.
I make three cups of basic tea-bag tea and cut three slices of Jennie’s cider cake – she dropped it round to the farm as a free sample to remind me about her desire to supply the tearoom. I return to find Fifi chatting and my father gazing pointedly at the clock on the mantelpiece. I pass the tea and cake around before settling down on the sofa. It crosses my mind that it’s the same sofa – loud with blue swirls – that James and I used to cuddle up on when he came round to the farm to see me.
‘We don’t have many callers,’ I say, trying to break the ice. It’s true. There’s Jack, James, Leo, the tanker driver, the AI man, the mechanic and the guy who delivers the feed, but no one who comes into the house to socialise.
‘But I hear you are hoping to encourage many more visitors to Nettlebed Farm,’ Fifi says, as Bear comes trotting across the carpet and stops right beside her to give himself a
good shake. Fifi grimaces.
‘Bear, come here,’ I say.
‘I’ve spoken to the planning department and raised the issue at the recent council meeting—’
‘I’m sure you have,’ I cut in.
Fifi stares at me, her lips pursed. ‘I have a duty to ensure this area maintains its identity as a tranquil country retreat for us, the local people, to enjoy as we always have done.’ She warms to her theme. ‘It’s entirely wrong to encourage the plebs. I’m sure you realise this enterprise is completely inappropriate.’
‘Hardly,’ I say. ‘We’re in the middle of a popular tourist spot. It would be mad not to take advantage of it.’
‘You won’t make much money out of stroking animals. Why would people want to pay for that when they can go to the Sanctuary and see animals for free?’
‘Grockles don’t get up in the morning and say, “let’s have a day out at the rescue centre,”’ Dad says, joining in.
‘Whatever you say, I shall be voting against your planning application.’
‘Fifi, you have to understand there is no other way for the farm to survive. We’re facing financial ruin. This is the only way out for us.’
‘Have you considered how much extra traffic there’ll be to clog up the lanes? It will be a nightmare travelling anywhere, and I can’t begin to imagine how much it will affect the environment. We’ll all have asthma from the fumes.’
‘I wasn’t aware you had any concern for the environment, Fifi. Look at the car you drive.’
‘That’s a great big huge gas-guzzler if ever I saw one,’ Dad says.
‘I need a four-by-four to get about,’ Fifi argues.
‘That’s never been off-road.’ Dad leans forward, spilling half his tea. ‘It’s far too clean and shiny.’
‘We can address the traffic issues,’ I say hastily. ‘Firstly, this is a small-scale venture. We aren’t expecting hundreds of visitors every day. Secondly, we’re planning to create extra lay-bys along the lane where drivers can pull in to let other vehicles pass, and thirdly, we’re improving access to the farm by altering the entrance to the drive.’
‘That’s all very well,’ Fifi says dismissively. ‘What about all the other nuisance?’
‘What nuisance? I don’t think you understand what we’re planning. This attraction is a petting farm where parents and carers can bring their children to meet the animals, play in the fresh air and learn about the countryside at the same time as having fun.’
‘What about the diseases?’ Fifi looks aghast as Bear sits in the middle of the carpet, licking his private parts. ‘As you know, I love animals, but only in their place.’
‘I’ve looked into the health and safety aspects of setting up this kind of business …’ Thanks to Leo, I think. ‘Fifi, I’m not stupid.’
‘You really haven’t thought this through.’
‘You’re wrong there,’ Dad says. ‘Stevie’s thought of little else since she came back.’
‘She hasn’t thought about the effect on other local businesses. People will go bankrupt because of you. Can you really have that on your conscience?’
‘There’s one other farm that’s diversified into a similar enterprise, but they’ve concentrated more on building an adventure play area than the animals. I really can’t see there’s a problem.’
‘There’s none so blind who cannot see.’ Fifi sips at her tea and wrinkles her nose. ‘This town cannot possibly support another tearoom.’
‘You mean you’re worried about your profits at the garden centre. It won’t affect you. The tearoom is for our visitors,’ I say adamantly.
‘There are only so many cream teas you can eat while on holiday,’ Fifi argues. She’s like an old battleship that won’t alter its course.
‘I will fight for this,’ I say.
‘You’re a fool, Stevie. You both are if you think it will work.’ Fifi gets up to leave.
I look at Dad and he smiles. ‘Stick to your guns, girl.’
‘And by the way, you’re wasting your time thinking you can run a tearoom when you can’t make a decent cup of tea. What is it? It tastes more like some supermarket brand than a good Lapsang Souchong.’
‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘It was Assam, fair trade, organic and handpicked.’
‘Oh? Oh, was it really?’
Dad raises one eyebrow, his good one. I give him a shake of my head in warning. Don’t say anything, but he has a nervous tic and I start to think he’s having another stroke.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t pick that up when your palate is so discerning,’ I say, turning back to Fifi.
‘I must have a touch of hay fever,’ she sniffs. ‘It dulls the senses.’
I notice my dad slumped over in his seat.
‘Are you all right?’ I say, standing up. ‘Shall I call the doctor?’
‘Not yet,’ he says with a gasp.
‘Fifi, I think you’d better go,’ I say quickly.
‘Oh dear,’ she says. ‘I hope I haven’t—’
‘Dr Mackie says I mustn’t have any stress whatsoever,’ my father goes on, catching his breath and rolling his eyes.
‘Goodbye, Tom. Goodbye, Stevie.’
When she has gone, my father grimaces and guffaws with glee.
‘Dad, were you putting it on?’ I ask, both amused and annoyed.
‘You really got her there with the tea, Stevie. Assam my ass! Interfering woman. I can’t stand her.’
‘I thought you might be on her side,’ I say, goading him.
‘If Fifi doesn’t want the petting farm to go ahead, I’m all for it.’
‘I’m worried though.’ I bite my lip. ‘Fifi has a lot of influence where it matters. She won’t be the only one to object.’
‘Don’t give up too soon, Stevie. I’m on your side – blood is thicker than water, after all. It’s a good thing you’ve come back and shaken us up. Why should we give up on our project because people like Fifi are out to guard their own interests? I can’t see what they’re fussing about anyway. Where’s the harm in a little more traffic? If it upsets those smug gits on the council, then I’m ready for a fight.’
My father’s decision to fight with me, not against, is one less obstacle to overcome, and I smile to myself as he goes on with a wicked gleam in his eye. ‘Let the Battle of the Cream Teas commence.’
‘Just one thing though,’ I say. ‘This war between you and Guy?’
‘It isn’t all-out war, it’s merely a skirmish,’ Dad says.
‘It seems pretty serious. You haven’t done anything in particular to upset him?’
‘Nothing at all. Look at me, Stevie. I’m a sick old man.’
‘Let’s have less of the self-pity,’ I cut in.
‘If he was a true neighbour, he would have come round to see if I was all right. He’d have offered to cut down them there weeds himself instead of making a right royal row about it.’
‘So there’s nothing else you’ve forgotten to mention?’
‘I don’t think so.’ My father taps his temple. ‘I promise you, I haven’t lost my marbles.’
‘I can’t help wondering if you’ve conveniently mislaid them though.’
‘Is there another cup of Assam in the pot?’ he says, changing the subject.
‘I’ll go and see.’ After tea and milking, I spend some time bonding with Milly before I give her a bath. I change into a waterproof top and trousers, collect up whitening shampoo, conditioner and a couple of sponges from the office and tie her outside in the collecting yard so I can run a hosepipe from the hot tap in the dairy. It doesn’t seem fair to use cold water. I don’t want to make her hate me before the show.
I fill up a couple of buckets and get started, rinsing, lathering and scrubbing the muddy bits, including her knees, with a soft brush. Milly likes the sensation of the brush, but hates the water dripping from her flanks. She fidgets and stamps her feet.
‘I’ve seen it all now,’ Leo says, joining me. ‘You should put that on YouTube.’
‘What? A clip of the lady farmer bathing her cow?’
‘You’re wet,’ he grins, as Milly whisks her tail.
I take the hose, check the temperature of the water and rinse out the suds from the heifer’s coat.
‘What was the point of that?’ Leo teases. ‘Now she’s clean and you’re dirty.’
I flick the end of the hose at him, wetting his boots.
‘Hey, what’s that for?’ He chuckles.
‘For making fun of what is a serious endeavour,’ I say brightly. ‘Tomorrow is Milly’s big day.’ I use a sweat-scraper to remove the excess moisture from her coat and take an elastic band from my pocket. ‘I’ve just got to plait the switch at the end of her tail and I’m almost done.’
‘Why on earth do you want to do that?’
‘To make it look curly for the show.’
‘What’s to stop her getting mucky again overnight?’ Leo asks.
‘I have a blanket for her, an old pony rug – Jennie lent it to me. I’ve also made her up a pen with the deepest bed of clean straw you’ve ever seen, so here’s hoping.’
‘If I can’t get away to watch you tomorrow, I’ll be thinking of you.’ Leo pauses, reluctant to leave. ‘Would you like to come over for a nightcap when you’ve finished?’
‘I’d love to. I’ll be with you soon.’ I make sure Milly is tucked up for the night before quickly washing my hands and changing into a clean shirt and jeans. I head across to the mobile home where the door is open and the lights are on.
I knock as I spring up the steps. ‘Leo, I’m here.’ I move along the hallway to the living area. ‘Leo?’ I pause, catching the sound of snoring, and there he is, still fully dressed and wearing his boots, sprawled across the sofa. My heart melting with tenderness for him – and pride because he works so very hard – I grab his duvet from the bedroom and spread it gently over him, tucking it around his shoulders before I press my lips to his cheek. The snoring stops for a moment and he utters a sigh.
Country Loving Page 18
