A Tangled Summer

by Caroline Kington

  But what was pulling him down more than all this was the farm and Stephen. It had really shaken Charlie to see Stephen so angry, and he was finding it hard to lose the feelings of guilt he had over the way he had so casually treated Stephen. ‘He really cares about this farm,’ he thought, ‘More than me.’ It was an admission he rarely made, even to himself. ‘And he’s so grateful I’ve bailed us out with this cash. But what’s gonna happen next, eh, Charlie boy? What’s gonna happen next month – there won’t be no events in September to provide the necessary…Then what are we going to do?’

  And for once, the customary, ‘Something will turn up, you’ll see,’ remained unsaid, unthought, and it was a sombre, sober Charlie who took himself off to bed.

  16

  He’s not asked her!’

  Charlie had just entered the kitchen, puffy-eyed after a poor night’s sleep, to find his sister, arms akimbo, glaring down at Stephen, who was sitting, giving his full attention to a large bowl of cornflakes.

  ‘Why not?’ Charlie snapped. ‘Bloody hell, you’re cutting it a bit fine aren’t you, Steve?’

  Alison tried a more cajoling tone. ‘Stephen, only you can do this… We agreed…’

  ‘It’s easier said than done,’ Stephen protested, his mouth full of cereal. ‘How do I ask without her suspectin’ somethin’? “Oh Mother”,’ – his voice went high and squeaky – ‘“I was wonderin’, would you like to go to Weston-Super-Mare for the day?’’’ He shovelled another spoon of cereal into his mouth, spitting the milk out as he spoke. ‘She’d know straight away we was up to somethin’…’

  ‘Couldn’t you say you wanted to visit a rare breeds farm, or something, and you know she’s interested in them? Then go to Weston?’

  ‘Nice one, Ali. Well, Steve – you’ve been rabbiting on about them – why don’t you do that?’

  Before Stephen had time to reply, Jenny came in from the yard, carrying a small bundle of post and a large parcel. She was looking at the label with concern, then sighed and sat down at the table, the parcel in front of her. ‘That’s odd…’

  ‘Want a cup of tea, Mum?’

  ‘Thanks Ali, that’d be nice. Charlie, have you had any breakfast yet? You were in so late last night, and then up again this morning… I’ve never known you work so hard over the harvest. Is it finished yet?’

  ‘Last push this weekend, Mum, then I’m done.’

  As Jenny turned the parcel over and started to open it, Alison and Charlie frantically made faces at Stephen. He turned red and little beads of perspiration broke out on his top lip. His mouth opened silently, like a goldfish, and closed again.

  ‘Go on – now!’ Alison mouthed at him, from behind Jenny’s back.

  ‘Er…’ he got as far as saying, before a horrified exclamation broke from Jenny.

  ‘Oh no!’ With a plaintive cry, she held up the rainbow sweater she’d sent off two weeks previously. ‘She’s sent it back! Why? I was wondering why she’d not paid me. Oh dear, oh dear. I don’t understand… Why’s she sent it back?’

  Alison reached over her mother’s shoulder and from the remains of the parcel, extracted a folded letter. ‘Mum, please, don’t be upset – there’s probably a good reason – it’s so beautiful, no one in their right minds would send it back.’

  Jenny opened the letter with trembling fingers, read the brief note, and groaned.

  ‘What is it Mum…what is it?’ Stephen hated seeing his mother in such a state of distress.

  ‘She says,’ Jenny looked up from the letter, quite miserable, ‘she says she’s very sorry, but she’s returning the sweater because it smells of something. She says it’s affecting the rest of her stock. She thinks it smells of vinegar…’

  ‘It does, too,’ Charlie sniffed the sweater. ‘It reeks of it!’

  ‘Green tomato chutney.’ A tear rolled down Jenny’s cheek, ‘I’m so stupid – I should’ve realised… All that work, and when we so need the money…’

  Her three children glanced at each other, guiltily. They knew that their immediate cash crisis had been solved, but there was no way they could tell their mother that, not yet, and it made each of them feel uncomfortable.

  ‘That’s the trouble, Mum – you’ve bin’ workin’ too hard and we just take you for granted!’ Stephen suddenly sprang to life, ‘It’s time you had a break, and I’m gonna give you one. How long do you need to get ready?’

  ‘What for?’ asked Jenny, faintly.

  ‘I’m taking you out for the day. Angela’s been loadin’ me with stuff about alpacas and ostriches and the like. There’s a farm near Weston-Super-Mare – why don’t we check ’em out, then go onto Weston? It’s bank holiday weekend, so there should be lots goin’ on. Maybe I’ll give Angela a ring – she could do with a break, too; you wouldn’t mind her, you think she’s all right, don’t you Mum?’

  ‘Yes…’ Jenny agreed, even more faintly. For a moment, Stephen, in this unusually assertive mood, reminded her of Jim before they were married.

  ‘Go on then, Mum,’ encouraged Alison. ‘Don’t worry about Gran – I’ll make her breakfast when she comes down.’

  ‘Best bib and tucker – and don’t worry ’bout the milking – me and Ali will do it, so don’t hurry back.’ Charlie was magnanimous in his relief.

  In a daze, Jenny was virtually ejected from the kitchen, to go and get ready, and as the door shut behind her, Charlie and Alison almost cheered Stephen.

  He blushed with pleasure. ‘Twas nothin’. Poor Mum, I meant what I said – here’s all of us moanin’ our heads off when things go bad, and there’s Mum, worryin’ about the lot of us… I’ll go and give Angela a ring.’

  ‘Why on earth do you want to saddle yourself with her?’ Charlie was curious, rather than unkind.

  It was a good question, and ‘I told you, she’s looked all this stuff up for me on the computer…’ was the only, very unsatisfactory reply they could get.

  Jenny rejoined her offspring in the kitchen, looking flustered and excited. ‘We mustn’t be too late back, though, Stephen,’ she said, stuffing her handbag with lip balm, comb, face powder, rain hat, sun cream, hair pins, and other items indispensable for a day by the sea.

  ‘Why’s that, Mum?’ Charlie was alarmed. There would be a huge number of cars turning down the tiny lane just beyond the farm’s entrance and he wanted Jenny off the scene until the majority of the punters had arrived. ‘I told you, me and Ali’s gonna do the milkin’. Make a day of it. Don’t hurry back.’

  ‘Jeff is taking me to hear a folk group in Summerbridge tonight, so I’ve got to be back. He’s pickin’ me up about seven-thirty, after supper.’

  There was a moment of amazed silence. Jenny never went anywhere on a Saturday night, let alone to hear live music. If she returned from Weston-Super-Mare in the early evening, she would run slap bang into the party traffic.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Mum,’ Alison thought rapidly. ‘I’ll give Uncle Jeff a ring and tell him you’ll meet him at the pub. Stephen can take you directly there…’

  ‘Yeah, Mum,’ Stephen didn’t give his mother a chance to object. ‘That’ll suit me, ‘cos I’ll have to drop Angela off.’

  Stephen’s car had just left when Elsie, in search of her breakfast, came into the kitchen.

  ‘Where’s your mother?’ Elsie looked around the empty kitchen.

  ‘Oh,’ said Alison, airily, ‘Stephen’s taking her out for the day. I said I’d do your breakfast.’

  Elsie snorted. ‘ Going out for the day – that’s not going to pay the bills, is it? Where are they gallivantin’ off to?’

  ‘Weston-Super-Mare; then they’re going to Summerbridge this evening, so they won’t be back till late.’

  ‘Why didn’t they ask me? I would’ve enjoyed a bit of sea air…’

  ‘Gran! The way you go on about Weston-super-Mare…you’d hate it. And anywa
y, on Saturday you always meet up with your cronies in Bath. So why don’t you stay on there and do something with them this evening…’

  ‘ Now why should I do that? Are you trying to get me out of the way by any chance? Are you up to something?’

  Alison felt uncomfortable. Sometimes Gran had an unnerving way of reading people’s minds. ‘Of course not, Gran,’ she replied as blandly as she could. ‘It’s just that I’m going to be out tonight, as well; I’m going to a party with Hannah and I’m staying overnight, so there won’t be anyone here…’

  ‘Well, that’s nice – why didn’t someone tell me?’ Elsie was disgruntled. She sat at the table looking very displeased. ‘I’ll have a cup of tea, thank you, and a slice of toast, if it’s not too much trouble.’ She watched Alison fill the kettle and put a slice of bread under the grill then continued her grumble. ‘I was going to do some bottling this evening, but if there’s going to be nobody here to help… When’s your Mum coming back? I do think she might have told me she was off out...’

  ‘I’m sorry Gran, but it was very much a last minute thing. She was upset and Stephen said he’d take her out, for a treat. She’s arranged to meet Jeff Babbington in Summerbridge this evening, so Stephen is going to take her directly there, so she’ll be back late.’ She placed a cup of tea in front of Elsie. ‘I tell you what, I’ll give you a hand with the bottling tomorrow afternoon, and then, later, I want to take you to meet a friend of mine.’

  ‘Oh, who’s that?’

  ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow. Here’s your toast and some of that honey you like.’ She placed the plate of toast on the table, helped herself to a cup of tea and joined her grandmother. She needed to establish that Elsie could be relied on not to come home dangerously early. ‘So, what are you going to do this evening, Gran?’ she began, conversationally. ‘It won’t be much fun being here by yourself…’

  ‘Oh don’t fuss; there’s plenty of things I can do. I would just like to have known earlier, that’s all. Not too much to ask, is it?’

  And try as she might, Alison could not pin Elsie down any further.

  She reported as much to Charlie, later, when he returned to grab a sandwich.

  ‘Damn and blast. So she could come back right in the thick of it? I thought you were going to sort her out.’ Charlie smeared margarine over the remains of the loaf in the bin, and looking round for something to put on the bread, finally unearthed a piece of cheese at the back of the fridge, slightly tinged with mould.

  ‘Nobody sorts Gran out – she’ll do her own thing, whatever we want. So what had you planned, eh, Charlie? Before Stephen and me tumbled your little scheme, how were you planning on keeping us all in the dark? Hoping we’d all go beddy-byes at six o’ clock with cotton wool in our ears?’

  Slicing the mould off the cheese, Charlie shrugged. ‘I’d have thought of something…’ He opened a jar of his mum’s chutney (if nothing else, there was always plenty of that) and smeared it liberally on the cheese.

  ‘Yeah, very likely! Well now, we’ve got to think about repairing the damage, because though we might be able to pull the wool over Mum’s eyes, Gran’s gonna find out; she’ll sniff it out, even if she stays the whole night in Bath.’ Alison’s eyes narrowed, scrutinising Charlie’s face. There was something else she wanted to check out. ‘ Charlie? Is this event legit?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He took a large bite of his sandwich.

  ‘You know what I mean – is this party, event, rave, whatever you want to call it – is it happening with the Fuzz’s blessing?’

  ‘How should I know?’ He took another large bite. ‘I’m just renting out a couple of fields to a couple of blokes. Nothing against the law in doing that, is there? What they do is their business…’

  * * *

  Hugh Lester, having just returned from a business trip to London, and hearing about the event for the first time, had just put a similar question to Veronica as they sat down to lunch in the dining room of Summerstoke House.

  ‘I very much doubt it,’ she replied, with a smile. ‘From Paula’s reactions, I would say that there is a distinct possibility the police know nothing about this little party. Would you like salmon pâté, or wild boar?’

  ‘Good!’ Hugh smacked his lips with satisfaction. ‘I’ll take Black Jake out for a constitutional this afternoon, we could both do with the exercise, and do a bit of recceing – shouldn’t be too difficult to find, and then… I’ll have the wild boar, please, and some of the asparagus – that looks nice – Spanish?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Then you’ll contact the police?’

  ‘I think we’ll wait till it’s well underway before we do that, my love. Much more satisfying to have a raid in the middle of the event, don’t you think? And much more damaging. Hmm, this tastes jolly good. I’ll take some of that tomato salad, too, please.’

  Veronica passed him a dish of tomatoes, sliced and glistening with balsamic vinegar and olive oil. ‘What a shame we’ve got dinner guests, I’d love to be there when the police move in…’

  ‘And so you shall, my darling. These things go on all night. There’s no-one who particularly matters coming over tonight, is there?’ Veronica shook her head. ‘Good. We’ll give everyone the heave-ho quite early, on the grounds that we’ve got things to do, and take ourselves off to observe the fun…’

  * * *

  Simon stood up and smiled as Harriet Flood reached his table. ‘Harriet.’ He kissed her on both cheeks. It was not a pleasant experience – London was sweltering and the extreme heat had caused her to perspire profusely; her skin felt damp and clammy. ‘May I introduce you to Marcus Steel?’

  A tall man, in his late thirties, by Harriet’s reckoning, with shaven head and piercing blue eyes, stood and shook Harriet’s hand so firmly she almost winced.

  Once they had exchanged pleasantries, Marcus Steel got straight to the point. ‘I think Simon has explained a little about my interest in Marsh Farm. I work for a freelance television company, Laughing Jackass. You might have heard of us?’

  Harriet had. She was impressed.

  ‘I produce a mixture of programmes at the lighter end of the scale: Light ent shows, comedies, and now, more and more, makeovers and, of course, reality TV. The audience’s appetite for that sort of programme seems endless!’ He laughed wryly.

  ‘And of course, you have to play to the lowest common denominator?’ Harriet sipped her cool, white wine. What a treat – to be entertained to lunch by two such striking young men.

  ‘In the same way that you have to write the articles your readers want to read, which is why, as I understand it, we might have a slight clash of interest.’

  ‘Oh?’ Harriet glanced across at Simon. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I haven’t betrayed any confidences, Harriet. All Marcus knows is that you are contemplating a major series for your magazine, which would be dependent, in part, on the demise of Marsh Farm.’

  ‘The thing is, Harriet,’ Marcus leaned forward, his expression intense, his voice lowered. ‘In the same way that you keep your projects close to your chest until the contract is signed, so do we, which is why what I’m going to tell you has to be kept completely confidential…’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We’re working on a commission for a new series, working title ‘Up Against It.’ It’s part makeover, part reality TV: a series that looks at little Britain and the little guys who are struggling against the odds to make it. Marsh Farm is struggling to survive in the agricultural jungle and the big guys are waiting to gobble them up. For this series, they are an ideal subject and they form the central platform of our proposal; our flagship, so to speak…’

  ‘I see…’ Harriet was thoughtful.

  ‘So you can see why, when Marsh Farm was mentioned the other day,’ put in Simon, ‘I contacted Marcus. If it’s not going to exist when he finally gets round to filming…’

 
‘It would be a major setback. But I’m more inclined to get moving quickly. After all it makes it a more interesting story, from our point of view, if there is an identifiable baddy, to put it crudely. The little farmer battling against the big stud!’ He laughed.

  Harriet cut a slice of steak and watched the blood ooze over her large white plate – nice and rare, the way she liked it. Much as she disliked Veronica and Hugh, she had decided to go with the story of the stud, so the television interest was unwelcome news. Had she worked on a different sort of publication, the adverse TV coverage might have been seen as a bit of a coup. As it was, Country Homes and Gardens was a magazine for the nice people of middle England. It featured nice people in their nice houses, with their nice gardens and their nice lifestyles. Her editor would not thank her if the stars of their first long-running feature – designed to broaden the magazine’s appeal and boost circulation, after all – were exposed on television as the greedy, acquisitive, land-grabbers they were. If the television programme happened, she could guarantee that the series on Summerstoke House Stud would be axed.

  ‘Well, thank you for that. I will, of course, say nothing. I need to think about it – do you have a card?’

  Marcus produced his card. Barely glancing at it, Harriet coolly surveyed both Simon and Marcus. ‘One thing puzzles me, Marcus – what’s Simon’s role in all of this? I understood he works for a management consultancy? If programme proposals are as hush-hush as you say, how did Simon know of your interest in the farm? Call me a cynical old hack, but this whole thing does smell a little. What is Simon’s interest in all of this?’

  There was a moment’s silence, then Simon answered, smoothly. ‘I have no interest, Harriet, apart from the fact that Marcus and I are old friends. I knew the gist of the idea he was working on, and because my work takes me into many such trouble spots, he approached me to look out for suitable subjects. I found Marsh Farm.’