Homecoming

by Susie Steiner

  ‘Thought he needed time, that’s all – to get over things and give him and Primrose a bit of space.’

  ‘Was it?’ Ruby had said. ‘Or maybe you’ve been enjoying your spell as golden boy and him being the lost cause. Maybe you don’t want Max back in the fold.’

  He looks now at the shabby yard. The outbuildings seem derelict. Blown sheets of tarpaulin and old hessian sacks have gathered rainwater. There are banks of mud and straw. The vegetable patch is barren earth with some brown top-growth. The chickens peck about in their shabby coop. Bartholomew approaches the back door and knocks. Steps back and waits. Then he bangs on the door again. The April sun is gaining confidence and he can feel it burn the back of his neck.

  He knocks again.

  ‘Alright, alright,’ shouts Max from inside and Bartholomew hears a clattering and a key turning on the other side of the door.

  Max opens the door. He is wearing tracksuit bottoms – crumpled, as if he’s slept in them. His hair is matted. His face, also slept in, is puffy and he has thick grey stubble across his chin. Max says nothing but shuffles away down the hall, leaving the door open. Bartholomew follows him in.

  When he reaches the living room, Max has already resumed his place on the sofa, lying beneath a navy sleeping bag. The room is dark and thick with the smell of night halitosis and sweat – a sweet and acrid smell which makes Bartholomew want to retch. On the coffee table are two cans of Newcastle Brown Ale.

  ‘Come on, get up,’ says Bartholomew, his heart thudding loudly in his chest.

  ‘Fuck off,’ says Max, rolling under the sleeping bag.

  Bartholomew walks across the room and scrapes the curtains open. He opens a window and is relieved by the spring air which buffets in.

  ‘Get up. Go and have a shower. I’ll put some coffee on.’ He is shaking but he covers it with big movements, striding across the room and down the hall to the kitchen.

  The room is a mess. The sink is full of washing-up, the wide farmhouse table littered with plates, crumbs, mugs, silver takeaway trays still gloopy with food, apple cores and bread ends. Bartholomew hears Max pad up the stairs and is shocked that he has obeyed him. He hears thudding in the ceiling above him and then the shower going on.

  He washes up the dishes in the sink wearing yellow Marigolds, and searches through drawers and cupboards for a black bin liner. He clears the table and sets the percolator onto the stove.

  ‘You’ve been busy,’ says Max in the doorway, rubbing his head with a hand towel.

  Bartholomew pulls at the rubber gloves, turning them inside out as they peel off; the fingers amputated. ‘I’ll get you a coffee,’ he says. ‘Sit down.’

  Max again obeys him. Bartholomew avoids his eye, busying about the room. He doesn’t know where to begin.

  ‘So,’ says Max.

  ‘So,’ says Bartholomew, setting two clean mugs down on the table.

  Max is bent over, his arms crossed over his belly.

  ‘Mum and dad are selling,’ says Bartholomew, his back against the kitchen counter. ‘Auction’s going to be end of September most likely.’

  ‘You got what you wanted then.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Your share. You wanted your share.’

  ‘What share would that be? You think there’s some inheritance to be had?’ He hits his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘No, of course, while you were off getting pissed, the whole flock went down. They could’ve done with your help.’

  ‘He was going to sign the farm over to me and this is your way of stopping it.’ Max has got up from his chair. He has started to clench his fists, open and shut, by his sides.

  ‘What is it you want, Max? A handful of lambs that are worth less each month? A burnt-out barn?’

  ‘It’s alright for you,’ says Max.

  ‘Why is it alright for me?’ Bartholomew asks, and he feels strangely calm. He can see the fury bubbling inside Max and it makes him calmer.

  ‘You’re so fucking smug.’

  ‘No, come on, why is it alright for me?’

  ‘Because, because.’ Max has begun to pace, clenching and unclenching his fists. ‘You’re all set up, aren’t you Bartholomew?’ he says, walking around the table. A bubble of saliva has gathered at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Am I now?’ Bartholomew says, watching his brother.

  ‘You’ve got your income, your business.’

  ‘That’s right. It’s all been so easy for me.’

  ‘This was my livelihood,’ Max shouts and the back of his hand sweeps low over the table and the two cups go flying against the wall, the noise a violence in itself. The cups bounce to the ground unbroken.

  ‘Take it easy, Max,’ says Bartholomew. He walks to the end of the room to pick up the cups off the floor. ‘Let’s just calm it down, shall we?’ he says, but as he turns, Max is upon him. ‘Come on now, take it easy.’

  Max is not shifting. He’s big, his face above Bartholomew’s and Bartholomew is backing against the wall and Max is inching forwards.

  ‘Archangel Bartholomew, back to save us all,’ says Max and droplets of his saliva land on Bartholomew’s mouth. Max is breathing hard, close to his face and his breath is so rank – sweet with stale alcohol – that Bartholomew feels violently sick. ‘I should kill you,’ Max whispers.

  Bartholomew turns his head away, holds his breath. ‘You’re a fucking lunatic,’ he says, his eyes closed, his head to one side, pinned against the wall by the putrid smell. Then he feels Max’s hot breath retreat away and he opens his eyes.

  Max has returned to the table, lowering himself down on a chair. He looks exhausted.

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘you’ve been right in there, ’ave you? Golden boy, picking up the pieces.’

  ‘That’s right,’ says Bartholomew, exhaling but still leaning against the wall. ‘I’m the Prince fucking Regent. It’s all about me, Max. Don’t you care about them at all?’

  ‘Yes I care.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘I’ve got troubles of my own.’

  ‘So has everyone you selfish, self-pitying fuck. It’s always me that has more, isn’t it? It’s all one big measuring exercise with you. There was never a conversation that wasn’t about lining up our ducks on the side of the bath and seeing who has more. And you never saw me. All I ever wanted, all I ever wanted . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry I disappoint you so much,’ says Max.

  ‘You do. You do disappoint me. Everything I do, Max, you’re always there, daggers drawn. Did you ever think about coming down to see my place, not to measure it up, but to be interested? In me? Or askin’ after Ruby?’

  ‘She’s back on the scene is she?’

  ‘Yes she is, not that you’d notice.’

  ‘When did you ask me about Primrose – about being left by my wife?’

  ‘I never thought Primrose was right for ye.’

  ‘You don’t say owt about her,’ Max says sharply. He pauses, rubbing the stubble on his chin. ‘I went to see her at the Crown. She’s got a new look. That’s what leaving me does – gives you a whole new look.’

  Bartholomew hurries to the back door, opening it to let the air in because the room has become so airless he cannot breathe.

  ‘She didn’t leave you over nothing. She had reason. She would never have gone if it weren’t for Sheryl.’

  ‘Sheryl’s a bitch. Sheryl trapped me.’

  ‘Aye maybe. But it was you that shat on your own doorstep. Sheryl’d take anyone.’

  The spring air gusts in, lifting some papers on the side by the sink.

  ‘I’ve got nothing now,’ says Max.

  ‘Oh come off it. You never had anything before. It were all dad’s. You were just hitching a ride. Go get yourself something of your own.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘With tuppence-hapenny, like the rest of us. What, d’ye think I won the lottery? I’m up to my eyes in debt. You’re a daft fuck, Max. You think everyone’s riding their
millions. If you could just see . . .’

  He stops. ‘I’ve got to take you back with me for a family meeting.’

  ‘Gimme a moment, will ye?’

  ‘I’ll get you a coffee.’

  ‘Fuck coffee. Wait there.’ Max goes out of the room. He comes back in with two cans of Newcastle Brown Ale. Hands one to Bartholomew, who takes it. Max sits at the table and they open their cans simultaneously, the click, then fizz a release.

  ‘Cheers,’ says Bartholomew, holding his can up.

  ‘Here’s to the farm,’ says Max.

  ‘Good riddance,’ says Bartholomew.

  ‘You don’t look too good,’ says Bartholomew, glancing at Max as they drive towards Lipton. Max doesn’t answer. He is gazing out of the passenger window at the fields going by. ‘You need something to eat,’ says Bartholomew. And then, after a time, he says, ‘Have you thought what you might do?’

  ‘Take off somewhere,’ Max says, without any enthusiasm. He is still looking out of the window.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘France maybe. Sell the Land Rover, get a summer job picking fruit or summat. Jake might come along.’

  ‘Isn’t that taking the old crap with you?’

  ‘I’m not brave enough to go on my own,’ Max says, looking at Bartholomew at last. ‘I’m not like you. Striking out was never my strong suit.’

  ‘There you go again,’ says Bartholomew. ‘You’re always thinking I’ve had it easy. You think I didn’t shit meself, setting up on my own?’

  ‘There’s some folk like a risk, that’s all – thrive on it. I’m not one o’ them.’

  ‘Bullshit, Max. You see the outside of people and think that’s all there is.’

  They are under the canopy of trees now, in bright spring leaf and its reflection playing on the windscreen. Past Eric’s Nissan Micra, back in its driveway, and around the curve of the village green. They can both see the Fox and Feathers, not yet opened for the lunchtime trade.

  ‘Can’t stay round here,’ says Max.

  ‘Probably not,’ says Bartholomew, pulling up the handbrake. ‘Come on, let’s go in.’

  *

  ‘Hiya love,’ says Ann, rustling into the kitchen and lifting her shopping bags onto the table.

  ‘Let me help you with those,’ says Ruby.

  ‘Where’s Joe? How’s he been?’

  ‘Fine. He’s resting in the living room. Doesn’t half have that fire on high. I was sweating in there.’

  ‘Oh I know. I find meself sitting there in a T-shirt, perspiring, and Joe’s sat next to me in two fleeces and a blanket over his knees like he’s ninety. Where’s Bartholomew?’

  ‘Gone to find Max.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Ann, stopping for a moment, holding a red pepper in one hand and a bag of tomatoes in the other. ‘I thought we’d have a cold collation for lunch – ham and cheese and bread, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Where do these go?’ Ruby asks, holding up a packet of biscuits.

  ‘Empty them into the tin on the side, would you?’

  They both hear the front door open but they continue attending to the shopping.

  ‘Hi mum,’ says Bartholomew, walking into the room. ‘Look who’s here.’

  Ann sees Max trailing behind, grey-haired. Ill-looking. He has washed, at least, she thinks. ‘Oh Max love,’ she says, walking over to him and reaching up to his face with her hands. He bends so that she can cup his face and kiss him. She wants to do more – cradle him, cover him with kisses like when he was a bairn and he fell and she was able to make it all better. But now even their bodies prevent this.

  ‘You sit down, lovey,’ she says. ‘I’ll get you a tea. Would you like a tea? Or coffee p’raps? Or a biscuit. You’ve probably not eaten. Ruby and me, we’re just getting lunch. Nice bread – I got a bloomer from Greggs – and cheese and ham. I could slice you up a tomato and there’s the Branston pickle you like. Are you hungry? You could have a lie-down if you’re tired. I could make up a bed for you to rest in, love.’

  Max has sat down at the table. ‘Don’t fuss mum,’ he says. ‘Where’s dad?’

  ‘He’s resting. I’ll get him when lunch is ready.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ says Joe. He is standing in the doorway with Baby Lamb by his side. ‘Hello son,’ he says to Max.

  Bartholomew and Ruby stand with their backs leaning against the kitchen counter. Joe and Ann look down at Max.

  ‘We’re a right pair, aren’t we, son?’ says Joe, smiling at Max and rubbing his shoulder with one hand. ‘All lost we two, aren’t we?’

  Ann puts her arm around Joe and kisses his cheek. She has her other hand on Max’s back and she kisses the top of his head.

  ‘Right,’ she says. ‘Come on. Lunch.’

  ‘I can do it,’ says Ruby. ‘Leave it to me.’

  ‘Thank you, lovey,’ says Ann. ‘Bartholomew, you can lay the table.’

  Joe has taken a seat at the head of the table. Ann is placing jars of chutney and mayonnaise at its centre. Ruby is busy at the counter, with her back to the room. Bartholomew walks around the table, putting a plate in front of each seat.

  ‘I do think we need to set a timetable,’ Bartholomew says, and the room erupts into groans. ‘For the auction.’

  ‘Here we go,’ says Ruby. ‘Could you clench those buttocks a bit tighter?’

  ‘What?’ says Bartholomew.

  ‘Excuse me,’ says Ann. ‘That’s enough from you, Bartholomew. Let’s get the lunch out shall we?’

  ‘I just think we have to sort it out,’ he says.

  ‘You sort out your dahlias,’ says Joe. ‘Leave the farm to us.’

  ‘I don’t know why I bother,’ says Bartholomew.

  Ann has a hand on the bread loaf and is sawing it on a chopping board. She places a thick slice on each plate.

  ‘Everything alright with Primrose?’ Joe says to Max. ‘Is she coming?’

  Everyone stops for a moment.

  ‘Primrose,’ Max begins. Ruby puts a cup of tea down in front of him and he lifts it to take a sip. ‘We’re, she’s . . .’ He rubs his palms on his knees.

  ‘Not feeling well?’ says Joe.

  ‘That’s right,’ says Ann. ‘She’s not well. Stomach thing.’

  ‘Ah well,’ says Joe. ‘You can report back to her.’

  The activity in the room resumes, Ruby washing tomatoes in the sink and setting them on the table in a bowl. Bartholomew reaches for the packet of ham and puts a slice on his plate.

  ‘No,’ says Max loudly and all eyes are on him. ‘Primrose left me,’ he says to Joe. ‘Gone to live in Lipton with a friend.’

  The table absorbs this statement with a criss-crossing of arms fetching ham, cheese, butter, knives clattering, gulps of tea. Ann notices how slow Max is to fight his way in. He’s no appetite, she thinks sadly. ‘Is there anything I can pass you, Max love?’ she says. ‘Something for your bread?’

  ‘I’m alright with tea for now,’ says Max.

  ‘You all know we’re going to be selling up,’ says Joe, gruff and powerful.

  ‘We want a bit of a retirement,’ says Ann. ‘Take things a bit easier.’

  ‘We talked to Talbot,’ Joe says to Max. ‘He says there’s a position for you there if you want it. Nothing grand, but not labouring. Land management, he said.’

  ‘He’ll see you right,’ says Ann.

  Then Bartholomew says, ‘I don’t think that’s what Max . . .’

  ‘No, you’re alright,’ says Max. ‘It’s a good idea – to work for Talbot. He’s a decent enough chap.’

  Ann sees Bartholomew cast a look at his brother and Max avoiding his eye.

  ‘Autumn,’ she says into the room and everybody stops. ‘Auctioneer says late September would be about right. Once lambs are weaned.’

  September

  — Weaning and harvest: the end of the farming year —

  ‘Here we are,’ says Lauren, pulling up the handbrake.

  Ann sits in the passenger seat while the c
ar ticks and looks out at the wide cul-de-sac. Bilious clouds scud over a series of lurid red roofs. The newly tarmacked road is lined with bungalows, flat and low. There is too much space between them, as if they’re sharing some pretence of detached snobbery. Bland rectangles for windows, bricks that are a sickly shade of yellow. Noddy boxes, Joe would call them.

  ‘Right,’ says Ann, and they both get out of the car. They follow a black, glistening path to number six where the agent greets them at the door.

  It takes about ten minutes to clack around the empty rooms.

  ‘And how much did you say it was?’ Ann asks at the end of his tour.

  ‘£137,000,’ says the agent.

  Ann’s eyes bulge. ‘Lauren,’ she says, but Lauren stops her arm.

  ‘Thanks ever so,’ Lauren says to the estate agent, ‘do you mind if we take a minute?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he says. ‘I’ll wait for you outside.’

  They wait for him to leave the room – a bedroom, he called it, but barely wider than a double bed. The rooms are boxy, all of them. Mean, with low ceilings. Yes, there are down-lighters, but they don’t seem like Lauren’s. Some of them are wonky, so the hole’s exposed and you can see how cardboardy the plasterboard ceiling is. And the doors are thin, and the floors are orangey and in places they creak in a sticky way.

  ‘That’s a hell of a price for a rabbit hutch like this,’ says Ann to Lauren, who is by the window looking out to the garden where a postage stamp of newly laid turf is surrounded by bare fencing.

  ‘It’s a bit steep, I’ll grant you,’ says Lauren. ‘That garden’s charmless.’

  ‘We’ll not get near that price,’ says Ann. She pats her collar-bones. ‘Everything’s so expensive. God, Lauren, we have to be out in less than six weeks. Auction’s in two. What a mess.’

  ‘Calm down. We’ll find you something. Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ll buy you lunch on the high street – just to cheer you up, like.’