Elsie, having experienced a different version of the event, raised her eyebrows. She turned to Simon. ‘Let me get this straight – this woman who wanted to write an article about the Lesters’ stud has been put off by some yarn you’ve spun with Marcus, here?’ Simon nodded. Elsie continued, ‘But that’s not going to stop them, is it? Stephen’s right. So, young man, what are you suggesting? And how do you see my role in all of this?’
Alison spoke up. ‘Gran, you’ve got the best business head of anyone. Stephen needs a business plan. He’s got to be able to show the bank how he can make Marsh Farm viable. You did it once, with Grandpa. You told us often enough how you transformed the farm from a depressed tenancy to a humming, prize-winning dairy farm…’
‘What Alison says is true,’ Simon turned and spoke earnestly to Stephen. ‘You’re going to have to beat the bank at their own game. In reality, they don’t want their customers to go bankrupt. This guy, whoever he is, is going to push you to the limit, but not over; then the Lesters will step in and make you an offer you’d be only too grateful to accept. So we need a two-pronged response. One is to present them with a business plan that is watertight and attractive…’ He paused, his brow furrowed.
‘And the other?’ Elsie asked for all of them.
‘Oh, I don’t know, but it would help us if we could find out who it is at the bank the Lesters have nobbled. What he, or she, is doing is bad practice. If we can find out who it is, then maybe we can nobble them ourselves.’
‘And how to we do that?’ demanded Stephen, squeezing Angela’s hand.
‘Who did Charlie go to see at the bank, Stephen? Do you know his name? Maybe it was him…’ Alison asked, looking across at her brother. He looked different, somehow. It was odd, she thought to herself. Here they were discussing the fate of the farm and she could swear he looked…well…happy.
‘I dunno,’ he replied. ‘But we can find out…’
‘And I suppose I’m going to have to play a bit more tennis,’ Simon sighed. ‘But in the meantime, Elsie, as Alison said, what you can do, better than anyone, is help Stephen put together a plan for the development of the farm…’
‘I’ll help,’ Angela volunteered, shyly.
‘And I’ll check it over so that it’s financially viable and watertight. I’ve got some bumf I brought back to show you, Stephen. A sort of prototype the banks’ll recognise, and like. I was going to give them to Elsie at chocolate-cake time. I could drop them round this evening.’
‘Thank you, Simon,’ Elsie nodded in approval. ‘Bring your friend with you and then he can taste my cordials.’
‘Haven’t we forgotten something, in all this cosy scheming?’ Alison suddenly felt bleak and weary. ‘Where does Charlie fit into all of this? Surely he’d have to be part of any business plan and I’m not at all sure he’d be in favour of some of the ideas we discussed. We can’t ignore him. After all, he’s the one that’s saved the farm from immediate closure.’
There was a moment’s silence, then Elsie said thoughtfully, ‘You’re right, Ali, of course. I have an idea about Charlie, but I need to have a good think about it.’
Reluctant as they were to leave the warmth of the kitchen, the time had come to go.
‘Well, Stephen,’ said Mrs Merfield, shaking him by the hand and thanking him for the umpteenth time, ‘You’re very fortunate to have such support behind you. I certainly hope, and I know my sisters agree with me, that you are successful in overcoming the threat imposed by the Lesters.’
‘Slimy bastards!’ said the youngest Miss Merfield, cheerfully.
Mrs Merfield ignored the interjection and continued, ‘I’ll give the whole matter careful thought. We want to be able to help you in any way we can. Please come and see us, as arranged, on Tuesday, for tea. And please, bring your girlfriend.’
Nanny, who had taken a particular shine to Angela, gave her a squeeze. ‘It’ll be nice to see you again, flower,’ she said quietly. Then, casting a glance at Stephen, whispered, ‘You’ll be fine, don’t worry. See you on Tuesday.’
* * *
Veronica slammed the phone down and angrily tossed her head. Hugh, sunk in the depths of one too many glasses of brandy, looked up from the sofa where he was stretched out, with a cold compress on his eye. ‘Who was that?’
‘Gordon White,’ she snapped, stalking back across the sitting room to stare out at the prematurely darkening sky and unrelenting rain.
‘What on earth does he want?’
‘He wanted to say how much he enjoyed dinner last night…’
‘Well, that’s more than I can say about him. He’s a creep, Vee.’
‘Well that creep is going to get us Marsh Farm, Hugh, so for the moment, we’ll just have to put up with him. He is dreadful, and I could see Gavin and Marion staring at him, wondering why on earth he’d been invited. But we’ll ditch him, the moment he gets us Marsh Farm…’
‘Well there’s no way I’m going to let him ride one of my horses. They’d never recover from the experience…’
‘But you promised him.’
‘Listen, Vee, I’m not stupid! It’s not the riding he’s interested in. He made that perfectly obvious, last night. It’s you.’
‘So?’
‘So, darling, it’s up to you. Play tennis with him. Flatter his almighty ego. Get him to deliver us Marsh Farm, and then we’ll drop him.’
Veronica regarded him coldly. ‘It comes to something when you are prepared to sacrifice your wife, rather than your horses. I’ve spent as much time with him as I want to. It’s time you did your bit. I don’t see why you can’t find some old nag for him to ride.’
‘I don’t possess any old nags!’ Hugh was outraged.
‘And you don’t possess me. “Play tennis with him…flatter his ego…”’ Veronica was furious. ‘You sound like a pimp! And I am certainly not going to act as your tart! Maybe Anthony was right about us.’
‘Anthony’s a stupid little boy. He’ll soon realise which side his bread is buttered on; he’ll come crawling back.’
Veronica turned her back on Hugh, and staring out at the unrelenting sheet of rain, thought of Simon, of Gordon, of Hugh, and then of Anthony, and felt a tinge of...concern? Regret? Shame? Of course not! Her principal feeling was one of frustration: that bloody Simon still hadn’t returned her call.
* * *
Charlie leaned across the avocado green washbasin to wipe the condensation from the mirror. He stared at his face, long and hard, trying to imagine what he would look like. He felt like a man going to his execution. Lovingly, he fingered the condemned whiskers. Could he really go through with this? He didn’t have to – after all, Sarah and Beth were history…but Linda’s words: ‘do you need to look older, now that you are older?’ had struck an uncomfortable note and he couldn’t forget the mocking tones of the girls at the disco last night: ‘Bog off Grandad…’ Grandad! Nope – it was no good, they had to go…
When he finished, he was aghast. He just didn’t recognise the long, lean face that stared back, looking horrified. What made the face look so odd, was the two dead white scimitar shapes framing that face. He’d never seen anyone with leprosy before, but that’s what he thought it looked like. It was all very well telling himself that in a few days, it would have disappeared and the skin would become as weathered as the rest of his face, for the moment he looked really strange. ‘I’m going to be a laughing stock at the pub tonight’, he thought grimly. For a moment he toyed with the idea of phoning Linda and make some sort of excuse. After all, what with being up all night, helping Linda at lunchtime, and clearing that ruddy tree, he was exhausted. But Linda needed him and he’d said he’d go. Perhaps his mum, or Ali, might have some instant tan or make-up that he could rub on and make it less obvious…
He went down to the kitchen in search of Jenny, but the kitchen was empty. He peered into the little mirror hanging o
n the wall next to the sink, to check how bad he looked in a different light. As he did so, his mother came into the kitchen. Charlie turned and was just about to speak when she gave a hysterical shriek, ‘Jim!’ and collapsed into the nearest chair.
Charlie had gone by the time the rest of the family, with Simon, Marcus and Angela, descended on Marsh Farm. Jenny, completely recovered from the shock of mistaking her eldest son for her long-dead husband, was overwhelmed. With Angela’s help, she undertook to make cheese on toast for them all. Marcus appeared to be entranced by everything, and with Gran’s permission, rushed here, there and everywhere with his digital camera.
As the smell of burned toast and animated chatter filled the kitchen, Alison could bear it no longer and slipped away. Simon noticed her going and his brow furrowed. Something, he realised, was wrong with Alison, but now was not the time to find out what.
‘This is such fun!’ Jenny beamed at them all. ‘What a pity Charlie’s not here. He was here, earlier. Came in covered in mud and soaked through – that old ash tree, Stephen, in Home Field; it’d come down in the storm and was damming the river. He and Lenny spent most of the afternoon clearing it. He was tired out, but he wouldn’t stop – said he was late for opening time. He looked dreadful; I’ve never seen him look so pale, but maybe that’s because he’d shaved off his whiskers. Gave me such a shock. He’s the spitting image of Jim!’
‘It’s a pity he’s not more like him in other ways, then. That boy lives in the public house!’ snapped Elsie. ‘Why on earth doesn’t he move in there!’
‘The answer-phone is full of messages,’ Jenny turned to Stephen. ‘Hannah moanin’ because Ali hasn’t phoned her back, but mainly Mrs Pagett wonderin’ where you was, and where Angela was. Said without you they was gettin’ nowhere and not like you to be so unreliable…said to give her a ring as soon as you got her message…’
Stephen and Angela looked at each other, overcome for a moment with guilt: they had both totally forgotten about The Merlin Players. Then Angela started to giggle and after a few seconds, to the amazement of the rest of the company, Stephen joined in, and laughed and laughed till his eyes watered.
* * *
The night had descended prematurely. The rain continued to lash down and visibility was poor. Al, having downed a scalding cup of black coffee and checked his mobile phone for the message that wasn’t there, was in no mood to linger. He had planned to meet his mates at Ashford the following day, and to head on into the tunnel with them. Having left home earlier than he’d planned, he thought he’d land up in Maidstone and find a B&B for the night.
He turned out of the motorway services car park and headed down the slip road. A car, mistaking an entrance for an exit in the foul weather, pulled across his path. He swerved, skidded on the wet surface and went under the front wheels. Mangled metal mingled with blood as Al’s body went skidding one way, his bike the other, and his mobile phone, flying out of his pocket, went in another and was crushed under the wheels of an articulated lorry, transporting cattle to a slaughterhouse.
20
After the activity of the weekend, Elsie was tired, and slept in far later than she usually did. She felt stiff and old, and when she finally got up, she selected her underwear with less enthusiasm than usual. What did it matter what she wore? No one could see it and if Ron were taken from her, then there would be no one to admire her in it, ever again.
Ron.
In all the excitement of yesterday, she hadn’t given a thought to his predicament. She stood in front of her mirror, looking at her thin, withered body in its lace trappings. Ron loved her body, he said. He loved touching her. He made her feel that age didn’t matter. If he went, there would be no one to take his place. It wasn’t just Ron’s predicament, she realised. It was hers, too. Without Ron, life would become extremely dull; there would be nothing to look forward to on a daily basis. She would shrink into old age, become a cantankerous old hag, then die, to everyone’s relief.
And what of Ron? Plump, cheerful, kind, dear, dear Ron. His daughter had inherited none of his softness. ‘She’ll eat him alive,’ whispered Elsie sadly, ‘and spit him out when there’s nothing left. He’ll end up in one of those awful old folk’s homes. It’ll kill him and that’ll be just what she wants.’
Elsie knew that for years she had taken Ron for granted. Now it was likely she would no longer be able to see him, she didn’t want to lose him. Was it just habit? Was it love? It was so long since Elsie had thought about such a thing, she felt confused. Maybe it was. Not the sort of love that had driven her into Thomas’s arms all those years ago, or the sort that found its way on to the television, or expressed itself in the books she read. Was it possible for someone so near eighty to experience love in this way for someone else?
Elsie snorted. Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to give Ron up without a fight, and having made that decision, she felt better. She smoothed her hands over the lacy cups of her bra and started to dress for the day ahead.
Resolving to make a start on her wine-making, she headed down the stairs and tapped on her grand-daughter’s door.
‘Ali?’
Alison padded over to the door and opened it. She looked, Elsie thought, as if she hadn’t slept. Her face was pale, with huge, dark shadows under her eyes.
‘Yes, Gran?’
‘I’m going to drain the blackberry juice and start making a marrow rum. Do you want to help?’
Since childhood, Alison had helped her grandmother brew wines and cordials, and had always enjoyed the whole process as much as Elsie did. Today, however, she shook her head.
‘Sorry, Gran. I’ve only got a week left before I’m back at college and I’ve got this massive biology essay to write. I’ll give you a hand later, when I’ve broken the back of it.’
‘You look peaky, my girl. Are you all right? Nothing troubling you?’ Elsie didn’t really expect a truthful answer and she didn’t get one.
‘I’m fine, Gran. Just a bit tired. I’ll be down later.’
It had finally stopped raining, and a damp, misty morning greeted Elsie as she walked round the back of the house to the old dairy that had been converted, long ago, for her brewing activities. She stopped at the sight of Jenny on her knees at the strawberry patch, a large bucket by her side, into which she periodically dropped a snail.
‘Oh hello, Elsie,’ said Jenny, more cheerfully than Elsie could ever remember. ‘I’m just replacing this sodden straw and collecting the snails. D’yer know, I think we’ve got a good crop of strawberries here. It’s funny, I would never have thought of growing strawberries for the end of summer, but Jeff was right. He gave me these last year and they’re fruiting beautifully!’
Elsie, preoccupied with thoughts of Ron and Alison, for once couldn’t think of an acerbic put-down.
‘Good. If you have a large crop, we could think about making a strawberry liqueur.’
‘That’d be lovely,’ beamed Jenny. ‘What a treat!’
‘Why are you collecting the snails, Jenny?’
‘I’m doing my bit to earn some extra. Ali said strawberry-flavoured snails would be a delicacy.’
‘Ugh!’ Elsie searched Jenny’s face for some hint that she might be joking. But Jenny, completely guileless, looked up and nodded in agreement.
‘That’s what I think, but Ali suggested it. People these days… they’ll eat anything.’
For a moment, Elsie toyed with asking Jenny if she knew what was troubling Alison, but Jenny, she felt, was not blessed with great insight as far as her youngest child was concerned, and from her cheerful demeanour, it was clear that nothing was worrying her and therefore nothing would be gained from making the enquiry.
She left Jenny to her task and went into her little distillery. Strawberry-flavoured snails, whatever next! Now, country liqueurs, distilled on the farm, that would be a much more viable proposition…
&nbs
p; She erected a muslin cradle over a bucket and poured the blackberries, which had been soaking for four days, into the muslin. As she worked, her mind cleared. The answer to the question of Ron was obvious, and she mentally kicked herself for not having suggested it to him on Saturday night. Obviously the lateness of the evening, the wine and rich food had impaired her faculties.
Alison? She was not so sure. On Saturday she had been as skittish as a bulling heifer. Perhaps that was what was wrong – boy trouble – but until Ali took Elsie into her confidence, there was nothing to be gained from pushing her. Elsie wasn’t aware of any boy in particular. She had wondered about this Simon. She was aware that, in the short time Alison had got to know him, a strong bond had formed between them, and Elsie had been very curious to meet him. She liked what she saw when she met him yesterday. He was good company, affectionate to his elderly relative, and generally attentive to the needs of everyone, but he had the shuttered look of a person in pain. It was also clear that while he was fond of Alison, there was nothing ‘romantic’ going on between them. No easy solution there, then.
So she turned her mind to the problem of Marsh Farm.
She left the blackberries dripping, and went to rinse and dry the long, straight marrow she had rescued from the ravages of the slugs that lived in Jenny’s vegetable garden.
She had been shocked by Simon and Alison’s revelations. She was certainly not going to sit by and watch the Lesters destroy them, but how to do it without going back on her ultimatum and bailing her grandsons out? Stephen was a good boy, and with her help, and the help of his little girlfriend, and with Simon’s guidance, Elsie was sure he would come up with a good business plan.
The trouble was Charlie.
With a sharp knife, Elsie sliced the top off the marrow.
A Tangled Summer Page 33
