Alison was fond of Jeff, but she was not going to be delayed by anything, and shouting over her shoulder, she rushed on. ‘Sorry, Uncle Jeff. I’m meeting some friends and I’m late. Mum’s in the kitchen. Tell her I’ll make up for not doing the washing-up later. Bye.’
Her thoughts raced: ‘Damn, damn, bloody Gran! What a bombshell; and why choose today of all days? I’m never going to make it on time. Will he wait? He’d bloody better! I’ll never forgive her if I miss him… And what was all that about, all that stupid stuff? How’s poor old Stephen going to find a wife? It’s archaic! Where’s she at? She’s showing her age… Maybe she’s going senile… She didn’t sound ga-ga, but how do y’know?…Oh Al, please, please be there…please wait.’
At the farm gate, she checked her watch. It was a good ten minutes walk to the village shop from the house and even though she had run all the way up the track, it was now two o’clock. She could have cried with vexation. She was hot and dusty, and the last thing she wanted to do was turn up looking eager and overheated. She had spent ages in front of the mirror, peering at her face for signs of any blemish that might need covering up; then trying to decide what to wear with her jeans. Finally, she had settled on a sleeveless blue T-shirt with a matching jacket. Hannah had given it to her, ages ago, on the grounds that it didn’t fit, and anyway, the colour didn’t suit her. The blue certainly suited Alison, but she wasn’t sure about the jacket because it had a beaded hem – it was fussier than she normally liked, but as she needed something for the bike and she didn’t have a jacket she would be seen dead in, it would have to do…
The whole evening before, and that morning, she had run and re-run the trip into Summerbridge; the coffee bar; what he’d said and hadn’t said; how he looked; how he felt on the bike with her arms around his waist; how she felt; how she would look when they met up again; how she would play it cool and disinterested; how he would find her fascinating and mysterious; how the right moment would be found for their first kiss, and then, maybe, after that…
Never had the distance from the farm to the village seemed so long. Alison groaned out loud and slowed to a walking pace, trying to cool down. She was nearly at the bridge and once over that, she would have a clear view of the high street and he would be able to see her coming. She could go and collect Paula’s helmet after they’d met.
Her heart thudding, her mouth dry, she walked over the bridge, her eyes scouring the road in front of her. She stopped, overwhelmed by disappointment. The street was empty. Of all the possible scenarios, it had never occurred to her that he might not turn up. She looked at her watch again; it showed nearly five past. She wasn’t that late, surely he would’ve waited five minutes; and if he didn’t, then he wasn’t the sort of person she wanted to go out with anyway! He was probably late, too…probably had difficulties extracting himself, like she did… If she didn’t walk too fast, then they would probably arrive at the shop at the same time. Probably…
Slowly, she walked up the street, straining to catch the growl of a motorbike. A warm wind sent a plastic bag whispering across the road; a few golden brown leaves discarded by a gigantic chestnut drifted past; the open gate to the Spinks’ garden creaked gently on its hinges, and in the back garden she could hear the children shrieking with laughter; a dog barked; through an open window, the sound of a cricket commentary; a group of starlings shrieked and chattered, invisible in the heart of a holly tree; and overhead, in the blue, blue sky, the faint disembodied rumble of a jet plane. But no motorbike. No sodding motorbike.
She reached the shop.
‘Now what?’ she said aloud, bitterly. ‘How long am I supposed to wait? It’s not fair! What have I done to deserve this?’ She had really liked Al, and because her sense of anticipation had been so great, her disappointment was the greater. As she stood in the shade of the shop’s porch, all recent injustices were summoned to compound her mood, Elsie’s ultimatum included, and she started to rage.
‘Bloody hell, why should I go to sodding university just because she wants me to? Charlie’s right. It’s blackmail. Well, it won’t work with me. She can give my share to them. What would I want with the bloody farm? It’s a stinking albatross, that’s what it is, and she can stick it up her backside!’
So deep was she in her dark ruminations that she didn’t hear the sound she so longed for until the motorbike was at a standstill. Startled, in a spiky, angry mood, she whirled round and confronted Al as he switched off the bike, and took off his helmet.
‘You’re late!’
This was a different Alison from the girl Al had taken to Summerbridge the day before, and one with whom he thought he might have an idle fling before he had to go away. Her green eyes sparked at him; challenged him.
‘Yes, I’m really sorry. I couldn’t get away. Have you been waiting long?’
‘Long enough. I thought you weren’t coming and I’d wasted my time. I was about to go.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t.’
At that, Alison relented a little. He really was quite cool: long legs in black leather astride his machine; thin black baggy T-shirt; his skin tanned; hair spiky and dishevelled; his eyes dark and glinting. But she wasn’t going to be taken for granted and raised her eyebrows, unsmiling. ‘Really?’
‘Really,’ he smiled back.
* * *
Jenny was sitting alone amid the debris of Sunday lunch when Jeff walked in. Sensitive as he was to the suffering and distress of animals, he was more immune to the emotional needs of human beings, but as soon as he walked into the kitchen of Marsh Farm, he sensed that all was not well. The kitchen table reminded him of the three bears returning to their bowls of porridge; only in this case, it was apple crumble – five bowls of it, only one of which had been eaten. The Tuckers never having had the wherewithal to buy a dishwasher, greasy crockery and cutlery were piled on the draining board, and in the sink and on the food-spattered stove, unwashed saucepans and baking dishes sat, encrusted with residual traces of potato, boiled cabbage, carrots, gravy and flakes of meat.
Gip immediately sat up in her basket, her tail thumping enthusiastically, but Jenny didn’t even raise her head, and he had never, in his recollection, arrived at Marsh Farm without Jenny jumping up to offer him something to eat or drink, apart that is, from that time when she was in labour with young Alison. Truth to tell, he found Jenny’s cakes rather heavy-going and he avoided eating Tucker family meals, as far as he could, without giving Jenny offence, for the same reason. But he relished Jenny’s attentions all the same, and the lack of them now alarmed him.
‘Jenny, are you alright? Where is everybody? I met Alison in the yard just now, dashing off to meet some friends…nearly knocked me over… Is something wrong? Shall I make us a cup of tea?’
The kindness in his voice touched Jenny and she dissolved into tears. In between sobs and hiccups and Jeff patting her hand and making her tea, she told him about Charlie’s misadventures, the terrible mood Elsie had been in, Ali’s unexplained absence the day before, which had made everything worse, all leading up to Elsie’s ultimatum over lunch.
At first, Jeff was too amazed to say anything, then ruffling his hair, he threw back his head and laughed and laughed.
Jenny stopped crying and stared at him, peevishly. ‘I don’t see what there is to laugh at in all this, Jeff Babbington. Elsie has told the boys if they don’t get married they don’t get their share of the farm from her. Where are they going to find wives from, just like that? And if they do, what if they don’t like me? What’s going to happen to me? To all of us? Supposing Ali doesn’t get into university and the boys don’t find anyone? Elsie would get rid of the farm…’
Jeff wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes, ‘Eh, but Elsie’s got a sense of humour. Charlie to get a wife – that’s a good one. Sounds like she’s been reading too much romantic fiction. Don’t worry, love, when she calms down, she’ll appreciate she can’t ord
er people’s lives like that. You shouldn’t let her get to you the way she does. Where are Stephen and Charlie, by the way? What did they think of Elsie’s idea? I can’t imagine Alison taking too well to it, either!’
‘No,’ Jenny replied mournfully. ‘But I don’t think she was really listening. I could see she had one eye on the clock all the while, and as soon as Elsie left, she jumped up and shot off. She didn’t even stay to do the washing up…’
‘Perhaps she’s got a date. She was in a tearing hurry. She said to say she was sorry about the washing up. Said she’d make it up to you later. But I’m surprised Stephen isn’t here to give you a hand…’
‘He had a rehearsal. He was furious though, I could tell, Jeff. It takes a lot to get him mad, but I could tell he was as angry with Charlie as with Elsie. It’s not fair! You know how hard he works. Elsie just won’t see that, because the farm isn’t doing as well as she thinks it should. It doesn’t make him a bad farmer, and Charlie does his bit. We all know it’s a bad time for farmers and they’ve been unlucky...’
‘Jenny, you know what I think of your two boys. Stephen’s a fine stockman. Given half a chance and a fair wind, he could make something of this farm. Charlie is certainly full of ideas, but he’s not as steady. So maybe Elsie’s right; maybe having a wife might calm him down; maybe he might become a bit more responsible. But I don’t see as this is the right way to go about it. Maybe, if instead of chasing after a wife, he threw his energies into turning the farm around and bringing it out of the doldrums, Elsie would relent.’
‘Yes, well, actually she did say something of the sort. But I think no-one was listening to her by then; they were so cross and upset.’
‘Well, there you are then. The solution lies in their hands. It’s a ruse to spur them on to do something instead of just drifting along. It’s not that bad, love. Come on, drink up your tea.’
Jenny did as she was told, but sat there, her hair spraying out of the plastic slide on the back of her head, a grubby, flowery pinafore over her short-sleeved white blouse and printed cotton skirt, looking so dispirited, so woebegone, that Jeff racked his brains for something that would restore her to a more cheerful state.
After dropping in on the Tuckers, he had been planning to take himself off on a friendly visit to a rare breeds farm that had recently opened, some miles away. He had occasionally gone out with the Tucker family on trips before, particularly after Jim had died and Alison was still little, but he had never thought of taking Jenny by herself.
He looked at her, drooping over her mug of tea. She was no longer the slender little thing his friend Jim had brought home, but, Jeff thought, she was comfortably chubby and still very feminine. Without ever thinking much about it, he liked the fact that she never wore trousers, and that her hair, unfashionably long, was scooped up in that bun thing on the back of her head. She was usually so cheerful, it distressed him to see her look so low.
He got to his feet. ‘Come on, Jenny, leave the clearing up. A bit of sunshine will cheer you up. I’m going to visit Northwood Farm, do you fancy coming with me?’
Jenny thought she might faint.
* * *
Stephen had indeed been in a state of shock when he left the house and drove off in the battered old Land Rover. If it weren’t for the fact that he had promised to pick Angela up with her props, he probably would have made his excuses, and for the first time since joining the Merlin Players, missed that afternoon’s rehearsal. Like Alison, until Gran dropped her bombshell, he had been more worried about being late for his rehearsal, assuming that whatever she produced in the way of ordinance, it wouldn’t be directed at him.
‘It’s all Charlie’s fault,’ he thought bitterly to himself. ‘If he hadn’t made such a pillock of himself, this would never have crossed Gran’s mind. And why bring me into it, why me?…What have I ever done, except work myself to the bone? If I was allowed to farm the way I want, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Bloody hell, where on earth does Gran expect me to get a wife? I’ve never even had a girlfriend; not really… Chance would be a fine thing! She’s off her head… Perhaps when she’s calmed down a bit, Mum can persuade her to change her mind, leastways, where I’m concerned. No one’s gonna marry me.’
But he didn’t feel very optimistic about Jenny’s chances with Elsie; she’d never been successful before.
Driving from Summerstoke to the outskirts of Summerbridge, his mind desperately cast over all the girls he knew. He lingered longest on the image of Nicola Scudamore, with her dark, soft curls and sparkling, blue eyes, her straight little nose and cupid’s bow for a mouth, her dainty hands and slender waist, her voice, so low, so soft, so sweet, so… so…
If only…oh, if only…but he’d never have the courage to ask her out, let alone marry her. But he had to – had to do something, if he wasn’t to lose his share of Gran’s inheritance.
In something of a state, he drew up outside the little stone terraced house where Angela had a bed-sit. He turned off the engine and sat, trying to regain his composure. He decided to say nothing about his problems, not to Angela, not to anyone, for he reasoned if the world knew he was looking for a wife, they would either laugh at him or turn tail and run in the opposite direction.
‘It’s like some bloody play!’ he said out loud, bitterly.
‘What is?’ asked a voice at his elbow. Angela had been watching out for him and now stood by the open window of his Land Rover, her arms around a large box. She was looking up at him, her large eyes blinking in concern behind her outsize spectacles, her lightly freckled face pale from days spent in artificial light, surrounded by books.
Stephen blushed in confusion. He would like to have confided in her, but, deep down, he felt ashamed. Elsie had touched a nerve, a private concern that he had shared with no one; so denying himself the comfort of sharing his troubles with Angela, he hastily reassured her he had not meant anything in particular, and busied himself loading the vehicle with the props she had been gathering, tirelessly, over the past week.
When they were in rehearsal, the Merlin Players met twice a week and every Sunday afternoon in an old school hall that belonged to Summerbridge College’s Adult Education Department, one normally used as an overflow room for public examinations. It was here they also put on their performances, although they had aspirations to perform in the College theatre and to rub shoulders with professionals. But that was an experience as yet denied them, and they had to make do with the humbler surroundings of the old hall.
The room was long and rectangular, the windows were too high to see out of and could only be opened by a long pole operated by the caretaker. Heavy old-fashioned, pale-green-gloss radiators lined the walls, belting out a stuffy heat in the winter and ice cold in the summer. The scuffed parquet floor was littered with bendy, black, plastic, stacking chairs, and at the end by the entrance were stacks of wooden tables with thin, steel legs. At the other end was the stage. Having originally been designed to impress rather than engage its audience, it was slightly too high for theatrical purposes. The heavy curtains that framed the proscenium, were patched and faded and likewise the black drapes that hung round the stage, forming the wing space, were scarred with countless repairs. It was a shabby, oppressive space, where the smell of paint, old fabric and dust mixed with establishment polish and cleaning fluids. It was womb-like, unreal, forgotten by time, and Stephen loved it. Like the milking shed, albeit in a different way, it was his kingdom.
‘Good, no-one’s here yet,’ Stephen grunted, carrying in Angela’s box. He and Angela always aimed to arrive ahead of Mrs Pagett and the cast.
‘Where do you want these, Ange?’
‘I’ll set up a props table on the floor for the moment, Stephen, then Mrs P can check them out. Do you want a hand to mark up the stage?’
According to how far into rehearsals they’d got, they would set the stage with furniture, or simply mark it with tape.
‘No thanks, I can manage. I’ll set up the command post first.’
Angela giggled.
June Pagett, the producer, ruthlessly drove her band of players from production to production. Of indeterminate age, but certainly somewhere in her late fifties, she would bark out her instructions in tones rich and husky from almost continuous smoking. Rather short and stout, with heavy features, she never smiled. Her freckled skin was concealed under a mask of make up and her hair, which was once ginger, but now faded and white on the crown of her head, and a bright, nicotine-stained orange on her temples. Little was known of her background, but she would let drop the occasional reference to a time when she had been on the stage; of famous names she had worked with, or with whom she had once been close friends. She was one of a doughty band of Speech and Drama Adjudicators, who terrorised local amateur festivals, and ran their own Am Dram groups with a tyrannical grip, as she did the Merlin Players.
Stephen placed two of the tables in the centre of the hall to form June’s operational base. From here, she would bark out her instructions, moving restlessly from table to stage, cardigan draped over her shoulders, whatever the weather. He set a chair for himself. At this stage of the rehearsal, she needed him there, to annotate the script.
In fact, apart from when they wanted something from him, it was the only time in the whole process anyone paid any real attention to Stephen. As they fretted and argued over choreographing the play, it was his job to note down all their movements, which he did with great patience, endlessly rubbing out and re-charting. The actors were meant to notate their scripts as they went along, but most didn’t to do that and appealed to him to ‘refresh their memories’ or to ‘arbitrate over a disputed movement’. Stephen was always relieved when this process was over and he could retire to the anonymity of the stage manager’s corner.
He didn’t really like actors very much; a view he shared, he had discovered when comparing notes at festivals, with other stage managers, simply because the attributes that drove people onto the stage and the SMs into their little corners were antipathetic. Most of the actors or actresses he encountered were loud, emotional and entirely self-centered. June Pagett, he sometimes thought, guiltily, was the worst of them all; but having to boss that lot around, he reasoned, she had to out-do them. There were exceptions of course, and happily, Nicola Scudamore was one of them.
A Tangled Summer Page 9
