by Dan Moore
As he joined her on the landing, he heard the back door slam.
‘But what does Ursula want with this place?’ asked Freddie, propped up on one elbow. Jess slouched against the headboard, legs crossed. A bag of Doritos lay between them, surrounded by a choice of dips.
‘She was brought up here,’ said Jess, tilting her head back and swigging from a can of lemonade. As she leant back, Freddie caught himself admiring her. Confident, pretty, and full of energy, he just couldn’t help himself.
What was he thinking? Jess would be nothing but a rebound. Yes, anything that might take his mind away from Tiffany would be a welcome diversion but could he really face getting hurt again? He looked away. ‘When Ursula’s parents broke up and her mum got with John Davidson she went to live at the manor.’
‘I – err, I bet that was different.’
Freddie reached for the Doritos, but so did Jess. Another shiver ran through him, this time along his fingers and up his wrist as their hands brushed. He pulled his own hand back, allowing her the first choice. He wanted to seem polite, not greedy.
‘Get stuck in,’ she said, ‘it’s dog-eat-dog when it comes to food in this house.’
‘So, why does Ursula want this place? I mean – I’ve been inside the manor, it’s massive. I bet a Premier League footballer would struggle to get his hands on a house like that.’
‘It’s a fantasy, I think. You see, this place has barely changed since she lived here.’
‘But even so?’
‘Perhaps she was happiest here, with her mum and dad.’
‘I can sympathise there,’ he said.
4
He looked down at the bacon sandwich Elizabeth had placed in front of him. Seated at the kitchen table, his stomach spinning like the tumble dryer Rhona so often forbade him to use – Freddie, for once, didn’t feel hungry.
‘Get it down you, lad,’ said Greg. ‘You’ll need the energy. There’s plenty for us to be getting on with today.’
Freddie watched him upend a wellington boot, tipping a tickertape parade of straw onto the tiles. It was huge; Greg’s boots resembled small canoes.
‘And plenty for me too, apparently,’ said Elizabeth, glaring at Greg and pointing a dripping spatula at the straw.
‘Sorry, dear.’
Elizabeth’s glare faded, replaced with a smile. At least they weren’t arguing, thought Freddie, or chatting about ghosts. He lifted the bacon butty to his mouth, the fatty smell inducing audible taunts from his belly. He took a bite.
‘What size are your feet?’ Greg asked him.
‘Umm, eleven.’
‘I’ll go dig some wellies out for you,’ he said, pulling his own boots on. ‘Find you a set of overalls.’
Freddie nodded, chewing for far longer than needed. A gang of nerves, definitely uninvited, were hammering on his door. He’d never done a day’s work. What if he was no good? What if Greg told Jess he was useless? Would she still chat to him in such a carefree manner? She’d cheered him up and he wanted to get to know her better.
Greg yawned as he got up from the table, ambling out of the kitchen.
‘You’ll be all right,’ Elizabeth said.
But he knew he’d be ok. He had to be. Rhona’s gloating face awaited any such failure. And that prospect would propel him further than any bacon butty could, no matter how good it tasted.
He followed Greg into a small, gently sloping yard, surrounded by a muddle of ageing farm buildings. Some had been built with brick, others with stone or wood. Some were tiled, others thatched. He’d seen a similar setup on a documentary a few months back, the only difference being that the documentary had been on farming practices in Victorian times.
‘I’ve got a grand job lined up for you first thing, lad.’
What job could Greg have waiting for me? he worried. Perhaps he’d be aiding in the birth of a new life; shearing a sheep; milking a cow? Greg seized a metallic object leant up against a nearby wall and handed it to Freddie. He wouldn’t be shearing sheep.
‘Thanks,’ said Freddie, twirling the muck fork.
‘You’ll be mucking out the pigs.’
The roughness of the rusty handle irritated his soft hands. At least he was up to date with his tetanus jabs! The muck fork looked older than him. As they moved out of the yard, through a gap between two apparently unused sheds, Freddie got his first view of Ridge Farm in the daylight.
‘I bet you get vertigo up here,’ he said.
It was, indeed, a ridge. Wide at the entrance to the farm, the ridge stretched along the hillside for what he guessed to be around two miles, narrowing into a steep arrowhead.
‘It’s not the best land,’ said Greg, his smile illuminated by the recently risen sun. ‘But it’s my three-hundred acres.’
A flock of starlings rose from nearby trees, flooding across the ridge in a rolling wave. Freddie was planning on studying business at university. He could see that Ridge Farm was a mess. Further proof, Freddie now suspected, that the farm was on the brink of crashing down the hillside.
He’d listened carefully to Greg’s instructions. Remove muck and wet straw from the lying area. Replace straw with wads from a bale which Greg had placed beside the shed – four wads per pen. All straightforward enough.
‘And don’t worry about the pigs,’ Greg had said. ‘They can be a bit playful.’
‘What time did you start?’ Freddie asked.
‘Five-thirty.’
‘Bloody hell, five-thirty!? When you say they should leave me alone…?’
‘Oh yeah, they can be a bit feisty.’
He sighed as the fork struck and then slid along the surface of the matted straw bed. He knew what Rhona would say: ‘You’re not putting enough effort into it.’
With these words in mind he grasped the handle of the muck fork harder, squeezing until his fingers turned white. Then, using the image of Rhona he’d received yesterday as motivation, he drove the rusty implement hard into the straw. He pulled back on the handle and watched the surface of the bed rise and break. Glancing around, he realised he’d made only the slightest of indentations.
He coughed. His throat stung. He wiped a tear from his eye. What’s happening? He sniffed, his nostrils wet. He peered into the hole – the straw beneath looked brown and rotten. What a job! thought Freddie. Was Greg falling behind on his workload?
Lifting the fork-load of wet straw, he misjudged how heavy it would be and, fearing he’d dislocate his shoulder, he slung the dripping straw through the doorway and out over the fence. Something tugged at his leg. He turned to find a pig biting at his overalls. Feisty? There were twenty pigs to a pen and he’d got four pens to muck out – he’d be lucky to escape with his life.
‘Get off,’ he said, pushing the pig away. Snouts advanced from every direction.
He kept digging until the last of the muck and wet straw had been removed, a waist-high pile displaying his efforts. Already his back ached. But he wouldn’t let it get the better of him. He had to go on. Not only did he want to prove Rhona wrong, he also wanted to feel accepted here. He wanted to feel like a proper worker, and to be a part of something.
Hopping over the fence which held the pigs in, he strode over to the bale to fetch fresh straw. Beyond the bale, he noticed a groove had been worn into the land. He spotted a signpost. It read: Public Footpath.
What an unusual place to have a public footpath. He could see the path snaking its way around the farm before disappearing behind the barn.
Bending his knees, he wrapped his arms around a wad of straw.
‘Arrgh!’
Had something bitten him? He withdrew his right hand, a needle-sized splinter protruding from his thumb. Why does Rhona have to have a friend that lives on a bloody farm?
Greg had told him four wads of straw per pen would do, but, after lobbing four wads through the doorway into the lying area, Freddie wasn’t convinced. He chucked another two slices in, just to be sure. He looked on as the pigs set about the straw, t
earing the wads apart, fluffing the bed up. By the time they’d settled back down, he could see he’d given them way too much. Yes, he’d gone against Greg’s advice, but at least he’d used a bit of initiative, made a decision. He turned towards the doorway, ducking as he exited the lying area.
‘Oh!’ he said, lifting a hand to his chest, doing a double-take.
He’d spotted a lad who looked to be of a similar age to him, maybe a bit older, leaning against the public footpath-side of the bale, watching him work. He looked a little young to be a rambler.
‘All right,’ said Freddie, lifting his sore hand in a half-hearted wave, forcing his grimace into something like a smile. But the lad didn’t wave. The lad didn’t smile. How ignorant. Freddie eyed the lad a little more closely. His clothes looked a little rugged, torn in places. His blonde hair hadn’t seen shampoo in a while either, and was almost as matted as the pigs’ bed had been.
‘Ouch.’
He turned to shoo the inquisitive pig trying to tear his own clothes, and noticed that his muck fork had been knocked over. A ring of pigs surrounded the tool.
‘Hey!’
He chased the mob away before returning to the doorway. The lad had gone. Lucky git! Why can’t my summer be as simple? thought Freddie. Strolling around the countryside watching other people work! But he knew the second pen of pigs weren’t going to muck themselves out, nor the third or fourth for that matter. He sighed once again as he climbed into the neighbouring pen.
Mucking out the pigs had been hard work. Every muscle seemed to have revolted, rising up against his body, complaining about being exercised. He’d used muscles he hadn’t worked since fifth-year P.E. lessons. But had he also used up too much energy trying too hard? After all, he’d been desperate to impress.
Greg complimented him on his sweaty brow and laboured breathing while gulping down coffee on a mid-morning break.
‘I’ll show you round properly later on, lad. I’m popping over to Gerry McGeady’s place after this. He’s lending me a step-ladder.’
‘What am I mucking out next?’ asked Freddie, his hunched frame aching. ‘Not more pigs? They kept biting me.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Greg. ‘I’m not that cruel. I’ll give you something a bit easier to do. But only because it’s your first day, mind.’
‘Let me guess – another grand job?’
‘He is settling in fast,’ said Jess, poking her head into the kitchen, grinning. ‘He’ll be asking for a wage next.’
‘We’re going to have a spring clean while you’re here. Make use of the extra hands. You can make a start. And don’t worry, lad. I’ll see to it that you’re rewarded for all this work.’
The first recipients of Freddie’s spring clean were to be the dilapidated outbuildings near the entrance to the farm. After an hour of wading through weeds and piling up rubbish, he paused to take in his surroundings. Surely the outbuildings could be used for something. Not the one with the caved-in roof and collapsed wall, of course, but the others… The second and third sheds would take a lot of work but could easily be used for storage, after a good dusting.
Freddie smiled as he entered the fourth and final outbuilding. This is more like it! With a bit of love the neglected shed could be turned into a roadside stall. How had no one thought of this before? Surely it would be more profitable to sell directly to the customer. He could already see boxes filled with carrots, cauliflowers, turnips, and whatever else Elizabeth grew in the vegetable garden, stacked against the far wall where broken troughs stood, decaying. Bags of potatoes. Boxes of eggs. Pots of jam. Garden furniture. Hanging baskets. Firewood. Manure.
The produce would come from Ridge Farm, or from a neighbour, thought Freddie. He couldn’t wait to tell Greg all about his plans to reel the public in. A chicken clucked nearby, distracting his thoughts. He smiled. How very far from home he was!
He’d never seen anything like it. Junk everywhere. A dozen fly-tippers could’ve targeted the area around the outbuildings and no one would know. The wild undergrowth covered much of the junk, so much so that he half-expected to pierce his feet on a rusty nail each time he grounded his boots. One item of junk, however, would not be so easy to move by hand. It lay at the entrance to the promising fourth shed. An old plough.
He knew he’d never shift the museum piece on his own. Christ, lifting a wad of straw had been challenging enough! But, at least attempting to move the rusting monstrosity with his own bare hands might just impress Jess.
Something cracked in the middle of his back. It felt as if someone had not only stuck a knife in, but had also twisted it harshly into his spine. Why did the image, and the pain, turn his thoughts to Rhona? He hated being called a layabout! He would keep trying, would move the plough millimetre by millimetre just to prove to Greg, to his doubters, that he could work.
He heard his name and swivelled. His knees buckled as his grip on the plough slackened, the sun shifting in the sky. He was falling. What a failure! What a prat! His backside hit the ground as a pair of hands grasped him firmly under the arms. Jess helped him back to his feet, his face on fire.
‘What do you think we have a tractor for, moron?’
Had the country air stopped his brain functioning properly? Since when had he relied solely on the power of his muscles?
‘I – err, thanks!’
‘Me and a few mates are off down to the local tonight, if you fancy it?’
If he fancied it?! Was she for real?
‘I’ll have to check my diary.’
Had he overdone it? Was he good enough? Would Greg laugh at his efforts over dinner? He tried pushing these thoughts into the shadowy corners of his mind. By lunch his body really did ache. It felt like he’d cleared an area the size of a football pitch, rather than what he’d actually liberated, which amounted to little more than his front garden back home.
‘Ow!’ said Freddie.
He winced as he followed Greg into the kitchen.
‘Silly boy!’ Greg said. ‘You could have done yourself some real damage.’
‘Just don’t want anyone to think I can’t hack it.’
‘Well pace yourself, lad. I’m off to the bank later this afternoon, so I want you to carry on with the tidying.’
More cleaning! Brilliant! thought Freddie. Had the best-kept village judges arrived in town or something? Still, at least he had his evening out at the pub with Jess to look forward to.
5
By Freddie’s standards tea was a modest affair – a ham salad served with a single jacket potato. He knew his stomach would be rumbling by the time he and Jess made it to the pub. They were going to have to tackle the whole journey on foot.
After lunch he’d continued tidying the area surrounding the dilapidated outbuildings, working away tirelessly as sweat dripped from his body. Greg returned from the bank around three and gave him a tour of the rest of the farm. He’d seen more pigs. He’d seen sheep and chickens. He’d seen fields of wheat, fields of potatoes. He’d heard pride in Greg’s voice, and seen despair in his eyes.
‘I’ll warn you now,’ Jess said, her slender arms swinging rhythmically as they strolled along the country lane. He glanced across at her. She looked stunning in a red summer dress. ‘It’s nothing fancy. It’s not like the bars you’ll have in town. The place reeks of muddy boots, and men who shower once a month. And they’re not used to strangers, so don’t be surprised if they all turn to stare at you when you walk in.’
‘We have pubs too,’ Freddie said. ‘I’m used to them.’
‘Not like this!’ Jess laughed.
A few pints in the local was turning into a parade at the circus. Had his imminent arrival been advertised? Would all the regulars be as welcoming as Jess and her family had been? What if they hated townies?
‘Don’t worry,’ said Jess, smiling as she linked his arm with hers. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else, and his right arm was developing a twitch where it touched hers. ‘It’s normal behaviour round here. You’
ll fit in just fine.’
‘I’ll probably knock a glass over,’ he said.
How many years have I been walking for? he wondered. Sixteen? And yet with his arm linked with Jess’ his steps resembled those of a toddler; heavy, erratic. He’d never take walking for granted again.
Freddie hung back a little as Jess pushed open the door which led to the bar of The King’s Head. He scanned the ground as he shuffled in behind her. The chatter within slowly died, like the power to a vacuum cleaner being killed. Unable to resist a glance at the crowded pub, he lifted his head. What was so interesting about him that warranted so many sets of eyes following his every step? One lad even pointed, whispering to a mate. The short walk from the entrance to the bar felt like a half-marathon. He almost fell over. As he neared the finish line, the barmaid lifted a skilfully plucked eyebrow. At least she didn’t pull out a pistol and cut him down, like the bartender of a saloon in those westerns that Dad often watched.
Jess veered off into a group of people gathered in front of a fruit machine. He watched the crowd part as conversations gradually struck back up, as coins clunked loudly into the fruit machine tray, as Jess rose up onto tiptoes and kissed the tallest lad in the pub. He felt his own mouth fall open as he watched the lad kiss Jess back. The lad’s hands slid down Jess’ sides, coming to rest just above her bum. He should’ve known a girl like Jess would have a boyfriend!
‘We’re here as well, you know,’ said a girl, laughing.
Jess surfaced, said hi to her friends, and then turned to Freddie.
‘Everyone, this is Freddie.’
‘Hey,’ he said, raising a hand, suddenly interested in everyone’s shoes. He felt several hands pat him on the back, heard both male and female voices welcome him.
‘What can I get you?’
He looked up, the barmaid’s eyebrow still raised.
‘Freddie?’ Jess said.
‘Oh, err, a pint please!’
‘Do you have any ID?’ asked the barmaid, looking down her nose, hands on hips.
ID? The barmaid barely looked eighteen herself, and he hadn’t been ID’d since he was sixteen, so why the hell now? ID’d in front of Jess and all her friends and the entire crowd of gawkers expecting a show, how embarrassing! Tiffany would not be impressed! He retrieved his wallet, fingers slippery with sweat, playing for time. There wasn’t a card inside that could save his embarrassment. Welcome to Ravenby-bloody-le-Wold!
