A Tangled Summer

by Caroline Kington

  Last night had been awful – what was that all about? He felt he’d been singled out as the butt of some joke that everyone was in on, except himself. And Angela. If it hadn’t been for Angela, he didn’t know how he would have got through it. She had come up with all that rare breeds stuff, asked him lots of questions, made suggestions and carried him along with her evident interest. More importantly, when Nicola had swept out of the hall, leaving him more wretched than he had ever felt in his life, she hadn’t questioned him about Nicola, or about the tea party for that matter, for which he was very grateful.

  Never had he looked forward to rehearsals with less enthusiasm, and as he munched his cornflakes, for the first time since he had joined, he chewed over the possibility of leaving the Merlin Players.

  Alison sat slumped on the other side of the table, slowly peeling an apple. She, too, felt really fed up. Al had managed to make one more date before he went off to see her-in-Wrexham, and it hadn’t been the most satisfactory evening.

  They had teamed up with Hannah and Nick and gone bowling, which meant that Alison’s precious twenty pounds had become depleted. It was difficult to speak to Al in any meaningful way, although, if she had, she wasn’t sure what she would say. She didn’t like the fact that she cared he was going off; that she was anxious about the outcome of his trip; and that he was buggering off for three weeks after the disco. The only compensation was that when he’d said goodbye, he’d taken her in his arms and kissed her with such passion, she still felt faint thinking about it. She had walked home when he had dropped her outside the village shop, her knees wobbling, wondering how she was going to get through the next four days.

  She had looked Durham up in her school atlas. It was an awfully long way from Summerstoke; further even than Wrexham, which she had also checked out. If they were going to get it together, it was going to be a difficult relationship to maintain. As an additional dampener, she’d had one brief text saying he’d be in touch when he got back, which, she felt, was as good as telling her not to text him.

  He told her he was leaving early on Tuesday, and how the day dragged. In need of distraction, she had wandered over to Simon’s cottage, but there had been no sign of him; the cottage was locked, and squinting through the letterbox, she could see a pile of mail on the floor.

  She had gone to bed early but could not sleep, so this morning she felt even more out of sorts. Gloomily she assessed her financial position. She still had some cash left, but she was going to have to find a way to make up the ticket money by tomorrow when, Hannah had told her, the tickets for the event were going to be issued. It was almost, she thought morosely to herself, like being back where she had started.

  Hearing the postman’s van in the yard, Jenny abandoned her toast. She returned moments later, sifting anxiously through a small clutch of letters. Her shoulders sagged. There was nothing from Mrs Moorhead. She mentally ticked off the days. It was twelve days since Alison had posted the parcel: there should have been a cheque by now. Her appetite, hardly titivated by the dry toast and black tea that was part of her new dietary regime, disappeared altogether. She passed a small bundle of circulars and letters over to Stephen and a postcard to Alison, and started to clear the table.

  The door opened and Elsie walked in. She glanced at the assembled members of her family. ‘Where’s Charlie?’

  Stephen, with a total lack of interest, shrugged his shoulders, ‘I dunno, Gran. In bed?’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ Jenny intervened. ‘He went out a good hour ago, when you were still in the parlour, Stephen. He’s really busy, finishing off the harvest. Making the most of this fine weather.’

  ‘With this fine weather,’ Stephen snorted, ‘he should’ve finished days ago. Why hasn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t know, dear, but I’m sure there’s a good reason. I know you don’t think Charlie always pulls his weight, but he’s as concerned about the farm as you are. All the hours he’s been working the last few weeks just shows you.’

  ‘It shows me nothing but that we’re gonna have to pay Lenny Spinks an awful lot come the end of the month. Why’s the harvest taking them so long, that’s what I’d like to know; what’s he up to?’

  ‘Well whatever he’s doing, it had better not be anything to embarrass us,’ retorted Elsie, tartly. ‘I’ll have a cup of tea, thank you Jenny.’

  She turned to Stephen. ‘I know it had nothing to do with you, Stephen, but your brother’s drunken exploit has affected us all. The Merfields asked me to tea yesterday. Someone had taken it upon themselves to show them a picture in the newspaper of your brother making a fool of himself. That, by itself, was of no great concern to them, but they were led to believe that his behaviour is symptomatic of his, of your, general behaviour these days, and of the declining fortunes of the Tucker family. And that, apparently…’ she continued, remorselessly, as Stephen let out an indignant shout, ‘…we’re on the verge of bankruptcy. All of which makes them inclined not to give us the meadows when the lease come up for renewal next month.’

  Stephen was speechless for a moment; all he could do was gape at his grandmother. Then he stuttered back to life. ‘What are they on about? Gran, you know how hard I’m working – those meadows – we couldn’t survive without them, they’ve the best grazing we’ve got. If we lose those, then I’m stuffed! Bloody Charlie, it’s all his fault. Just wait till I get my hands on him, I’ll kill ’im!’ Despairing, his head dropped onto the great balls of his fists, elbows slammed on the kitchen table.

  Alison, equally taken aback by her gran’s news, looked at the despairing set of her brother’s shoulders, his face hidden by his hands. ‘He’s crying,’ she thought, with a shiver; her brothers didn’t cry. She turned to Elsie. ‘Gran, who told them all this crap? What did you say? You didn’t just sit there and take it, did you?’

  * * *

  Elsie certainly had not. ‘My grandson might make a fool of himself when he’s in his cups, but that does not make him a bad farmer. On the contrary, both he and Stephen work extremely hard…’

  ‘Please understand, Mrs Tucker,’ Mrs Merfield continued, ‘we have no wish to change the present arrangement. Our families have had a long association and I’m a firm believer in respecting traditional ties. However, I do have to put the interests of my family first…’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Elsie was cold and as dignified as the matriarch presiding over the tea table. ‘But I don’t see how…?’

  The five ladies were taking tea on the terrace. Although they were shaded from the sun by the house, the two Miss Merfields each sported little lacy parasols. The air was warm and sweet with the scent of roses and newly cut grass. Sitting upright, on wrought-iron chairs, with nearly four hundred years between them, the women made a curious tableau. Ranged on one side, the three Merfields were tall, thin, heavily made-up, immaculately coiffured and groomed – elegant creatures from another age, with plain, scrubbed, Nanny, inscrutable, at their side; and on the other, Elsie Tucker, the archetypal countrywoman.

  ‘I shouldn’t be sitting here drinking tea like this,’ she thought to herself. ‘I should be standing up, bobbing curtsies, being ever so humble.’ Her eyes glinted at the thought.

  Her relationship with the Merfield ladies was ambivalent, to say the least. She had first encountered them when she moved to Marsh Farm as a young bride. Mrs Merfield had also recently married and had moved into the manor house to take care of an invalid in-law. Their social circles were worlds apart, which Elsie, fresh from the city and much fêted as her father’s only child, resented.

  When the elderly Mr Merfield died, followed very shortly by his son and heir, the manor was in poor condition and the estate’s survival was threatened by the double death duties. Thomas Tucker’s offer for Marsh Farm was therefore timely, but the young Mrs Merfield did not like seeing the estate broken up at all and resented what she saw as Elsie Tucker’s opportunistic ‘pushiness’. How
ever, her sisters-in-law had a soft spot for Thomas Tucker, a gentle, unassuming man, and the farm was sold.

  In later years, Elsie got to know the two sisters through a bridge circle, but she and Mrs Merfield had little to do with each other. Over time, however, both women had earned the other’s respect. By determination and skilful management, Mrs Merfield had turned the estate’s fortunes around; and it was Elsie’s drive that had been instrumental in making Marsh Farm a successful dairy farm. It was logical, therefore, that before they decided what their next move should be over the meadows in question, the Merfield ladies would send for Elsie.

  Mrs Merfield sipped her tea and pressed her point. ‘The estate will pass, in time, to my grandchildren, and I would be irresponsible if I did not ensure that every arrangement in place has a solid financial basis. Your grandson, Charles, came to me last year to ask that the rent be paid per quarter rather than annually. Something to do with what he called cash flow problems. I must say, I agreed somewhat reluctantly, but if my informant is correct and the cash flow dries up, I could see valuable land tied up with no return.’

  Elsie digested this in silence. Then, as if on cue, the two other Merfields joined in the conversation.

  Louisa Merfield, the youngest, opened with, ‘Elsie, there’s an easy solution. If you were to underwrite the farm, there would be no problem…’

  ‘You must be able to afford it, after all, ‘drawled Charlotte, the other sister. ‘I know it’s terribly vulgar of me to ask, but how many houses do you own in Bath?’

  Elsie was furious. She could easily provide them with the reassurance they sought, but she didn’t see why she should. On the other hand, she knew how critical those meadows were.

  ‘It would be simply ghastly if we let that Lester person have them…’

  ‘He wouldn’t stop with the meadows…’

  ‘No, once he got hold of a bit of our land, he wouldn’t rest until he moved into the manor…’

  ‘It would be over my dead body…’

  ‘He’d probably arrange that, too, dear!’ The sisters shrieked with laughter.

  Neither Elsie, nor Mrs Merfield joined in.

  ‘So Hugh Lester’s behind this, is he?’ Elsie was grim. ‘ Quite frankly I’m surprised you believed anything he told you.’

  ‘He showed us the newspaper story,’ said Mrs Merfield coldly. ‘He was merely reinforcing concerns I’ve already felt about your grandson.’

  ‘He does appear to have grown up into a very rackety young man, Elsie.’ Nanny was blunt. ‘And we hear he spends most Sundays racing motorbikes and drinking with his friends. Hardly the behaviour one would expect of a farmer. He’s in his thirties, isn’t he? Surely he should have got over the wildness of his youth and settled down by now.’

  Since this was an exact echo of her own sentiments, Elsie could not defend Charlie. She sipped her tea, trying to think of a way to pull them back from the brink of this disaster. She came to a decision and turned to address Mrs Merfield. ‘Have you met Stephen, my other grandson?’

  ‘No, we haven’t. We understood Charles ran the farm?’

  ‘Well, you understood wrong. Mrs Merfield, as you yourself said, our two families go back a long way. May I take you into my confidence…?’

  * * *

  Elsie looked across at her grandson. Her expression softened slightly, but not the tone of her voice. ‘You give in to things far too easily, Stephen. Trouble is, you’re soft. No good being soft if you’re going to run a farm. You’ve got to start standing up for yourself. Everyone pushes you around. You’ve got to start fighting for what you want; if you don’t, you’ll lose it.’

  It wasn’t just the thought of the meadows that made Stephen groan from his inner depths: ‘What can I do? What? Tell me – what?’

  Elsie was brisk, ‘Well for a start, you can take proper control of the dairy. It’s you who should be dealing with the Merfields, not Charlie. You use the meadows – why is Charlie dealing with them?’

  Stephen started mumbling about Charlie being better with figures, better at dealing with people, better at business.

  ‘Rubbish. I see absolutely no evidence of that. The farm’s in a mess because you’ve let Charlie run it his way. Well, it’s time, my lad, you started taking more responsibility, and you can start by sorting out the next year’s lease with Mrs Merfield. She is expecting you to call on her next week. You, mind, not Charlie.’

  Stephen looked up at her with horror on his face. ‘But Gran, I’ve never spoken to her in my life before. She terrifies the daylights out of me. Charlie…’

  ‘She’s expecting you, Stephen. If those meadows matter to you, then you will go. Do I make myself clear?’

  Stephen muttered, ‘Yes Gran,’ and unable to bear her steely gaze, distractedly started opening a letter.

  ‘Good. Jenny, this tea is stewed. How long has it been sitting in the pot?’

  ‘I’ll make you another one, Elsie. Won’t take two ticks…’

  ‘No thank you. I’ll make my own, in my room.’ And she swept out of the kitchen leaving the three behind her, shaken and silent.

  Jenny tried her best to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Who’s your postcard from, Ali?’

  ‘Simon. He’s been away, working. Wants to know if I’m free tonight.’

  Alison was pleased to hear from Simon, but oh, if only it’d been a card from Al… Of course, that was stupid – he’d no idea where she lived.

  ‘That’s nice, dear, do you good…’ Jenny was interrupted by a strangulated cry from Stephen who sat staring, a deep frown creasing his brows, his mouth dropped open, at an official-looking letter he’d just opened.

  ‘I don’t believe…I just don’t believe…someone tell me I’m dreamin’…this is just not on! What are they playin’ at?’

  ‘What is it, love? What’s wrong?’

  Stephen was too overcome to answer; his normally ruddy cheeks had turned ashen. Alison removed the letter from his nerveless fingers and quickly read it.

  ‘It’s from the Dairy Hygiene department at Defra, they want to come and inspect the dairy. They accept the last inspection was less than a year ago, but they’ve been alerted to the fact we’ve had a few problems and so they’re obliged to make another visit. They don’t say when they are coming, but it could be any day over the next couple of weeks.’ She looked at her brother, ‘Do we have problems in the dairy?’

  Stephen groaned. ‘I keep it going, but we need to buy a new thermostat for the water-heating unit. It’s developed an occasional fault. I think it sticks, but if I don’t spot it in time, the bacterial level in the milk goes up and it ends up by being rejected at the depot. I’ve had a couple of warnings from them already. You can be sure, the way my luck is, it’ll break down when the dairy’s being inspected.’

  ‘Would it cost a lot to replace?’

  ‘More than I’ve got.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Five hundred, a thousand – depends if I’ve to replace the whole unit.’

  Alison was aghast. ‘Couldn’t we borrow?’

  ‘Who from?’ Stephen looked back at her, bitterly. ‘The bank – you heard what they said to Charlie – not another penny…Gran? Don’t make me laugh. Nope, it’s hopeless. I’ve just got to keep the thing going and hope they don’t notice.’ He pushed his chair back and got heavily to his feet. ‘If you want me for anything, Mum, I’m in the dairy. At least I can make sure they don’t find anything else to get me for.’

  ‘What would they do?’ Alison was getting more and more anxious.

  ‘At the end of the day, they’d call Health and Safety in and close me down till I fix whatever it is they find wrong. That would be the end of us. Mum, I’m gonna give this evening’s rehearsal a miss.’

  He slammed the kitchen door, dislodging the cork board hanging on the back of the door and sending it, and the various n
otices, invoices and postcards stuck to it, slithering in different directions over the kitchen floor.

  ‘My goodness me,’ Jenny distractedly picked up the board – it was shaped like a strawberry, not a particularly efficient shape for its job, but Stephen had given it to her as a birthday present some years ago – and hung it back on the door. ‘It’s not like Stephen to bang the door like that. And what did he mean, ‘not go to the rehearsal this evening’? There isn’t one tonight, and anyway, he’s never missed a rehearsal before, not even when there was Foot and Mouth…’

  Alison was re-reading the letter.

  * * *

  ‘Someone alerted them, can you believe it?’ exclaimed Alison, her mouth full of prawn cocktail, which was quite the yummiest thing she’d ever eaten. ‘Who would do that? And the bank’s cutting back our overdraft and refusing to lend us any more. And, if that’s not bad enough, Gran says the Merfields are thinking of taking the meadows away from us because they’ve heard we’re going bankrupt! Seems we’re up shit creek without a paddle.’

  Simon had picked her up earlier that evening, and they had driven some way into the country, to a large old pub, which, he told her, had the best reputation for food for miles around.

  He poured her a glass of wine. ‘So what can you do about it?’

  ‘Dunno. Charlie’ll get mad at Stephen, but we’re going to have to find the money for the dairy, somehow. Without the milk cheque, we’d be sunk.’

  Simon sipped his wine, thoughtful. Alison glanced at him. ‘I didn’t mean to bend your ear with our woes. How was your trip – did you take Duchess?’

  ‘Yep. She always travels with me if she can. She didn’t like Birmingham, though, and nor did I. I never thought I’d say it, but I was quite pleased to see the cottage again.’

  ‘Blimey – you’d rather be in boring old Summerstoke than the big city! Must be the people you mix with.’ She grinned. ‘You haven’t given me a de-briefing on your evening with Hughie and Veronica-call-me-Vee…’