Girls, Muddy, Moody Yet Magnificent

by Sue Limb

‘Yes, why not?’ said Mum brightly. ‘It’ll be lovely.’

  I got up off the sofa and glared down at her.

  ‘Forget it!’ I said crisply, and walked out of the room. If she was going to tell me I could forget my holiday, she could freakin’ well forget hers. I went up to my room and slammed the door.

  My teddy bear, Bruce, was lying on his back on the bed with his legs in the air. I threw myself on my bed and cried into him for about five minutes. Eventually, though, I began to feel more angry than sad, and stopped crying. It took me five minutes with make-up remover wipes to deal with the mascara crisis. Then I started to plan. Bruce was giving me an encouraging smile. Don’t give up, he seemed to be saying. You’ll think of something.

  I grabbed my mobile and rang Chloe on hers. Voicemail. I rang her landline. Voicemail. I rang Toby. He replied right away.

  ‘Tobe!’ I cried. ‘Disaster! My mum’s said I can’t go to Newquay!’

  ‘Mine did at first,’ said Toby. ‘Don’t worry, you can make her change her mind.’

  ‘How did you manage it?’

  ‘Well, I started with blackmail,’ said Toby.

  ‘What!?’

  ‘I told her that if she didn’t let me go, I’d tell Dad that she’s only been to the gym three times. He shelled out big time for her membership.’

  ‘But, Tobe! I don’t know any of my mum’s naughty secrets. And she’s not nice and flexible like your mum.’

  ‘You could stop eating,’ suggested Toby. ‘Parents get terrified when you do that.’

  ‘Toby! When have you ever refused to eat?’

  ‘I did once, when they said I couldn’t go to Glastonbury.’

  ‘How long did you refuse food for?’

  ‘About half an hour.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Tobe! Get serious! This is a major life crisis!’

  ‘Just stop speaking to her,’ he suggested. ‘Go into a massive sulk.’

  ‘I’m doing that already,’ I said. ‘But I can’t keep it up for four weeks.’

  ‘I think bribery works best,’ said Toby. ‘I promised my mum I’d wash the car every week, vacuum one room in the house every day, and clean out the fridge every Tuesday. Plus I’m mowing the lawn about twice a week and putting the bins out.’

  ‘Tobe, you’re an angel!’ I cried. ‘You deserve to go to New York for all that, never mind Newquay.’

  I cheered up a bit, and went into planning mode again. We still had nowhere to stay. I asked Toby if he and Ferg had found anything yet.

  ‘Not yet,’ admitted Toby. ‘But Ferg is on the case in every spare moment. We’re planning to camp somewhere.’

  The thought of camping by the sea was so wonderful that for a split second my eyes filled with tears of impossible longing. Then reality kicked in and I realised that camping would mean no bathroom, and even more crucial, no bathroom mirror. How could I deal with my mascara obligations and slosh enough cover-up on Nigel to keep him low profile without a bathroom mirror at my disposal 24/7?

  What’s more, my family went camping in Wales once, and it was so wet, my mum moved into a B&B and wouldn’t speak to my dad for a whole afternoon. Hmmm … camping wasn’t really my style, I had to admit. If Toby and Fergus decided to camp somewhere, Chloe and I would just have to stay somewhere different. The four of us had discussed all the possible permutations a hundred times and it would be totally cool if they ended up camping and we were in a surf lodge.

  But first, in order to get to Newquay at all, I had to soften Mum up somehow. I began to plan my campaign. It was no use losing it and yelling. I’d have to convince her that our hol in Newquay would be safe, fragrant, chaste and sober. Then I’d have to promise a huge amount of chores. If this didn’t work I might have to resort to dark threats about the future. Unless she let me go to Newquay now, I would force her to wear beige and bright blue when she was old. I knew that would strike the most terrible fear into her soul.

  .

  .

  7

  On Monday it was raining as Chloe and I trudged along the lane towards Old Hall Farm. I was wearing a cagoule I hadn’t used for a year, and it was not only unattractively tight under the armpits, but smelt mysteriously of dragon’s piss. I was going to have to rip it off and throw it over the nearest hedge, the minute I saw Oliver. Even if it was pouring with rain at the time.

  I was thrilled at the thought of seeing Oliver today. But I didn’t want to work myself up into a foam-flecked frenzy by talking about it all the time. Anyway, we urgently needed to work out a way of changing my mum’s mind about Newquay. I had spent Sunday trying in vain to persuade her that our hol would involve mainly praying, going on long healthy walks and ingesting wholesome organic veg. It hadn’t worked. Then I’d offered to clean the whole house from top to bottom, iron the carpets, scrub the books, de-flea the rugs and vacuum the toilets till they screamed for mercy, but she wasn’t buying it.

  ‘Tell her we’re going with my mum,’ said Chloe.

  ‘I did actually mention that possibility,’ I confessed. ‘Even though I knew it was madness, cos she was bound to ring your mum and check up on us.’

  ‘Maybe we could actually get my mum to go with us,’ mused Chloe.

  ‘But then we’d have your mum with us all the time!’ I cried in dismay. ‘I mean, I love your mum, she’s great and stuff, but nobody goes to Newquay with their mum! I mean, we would be legendary retards from day one. People would point us out on the beach and snigger.’

  ‘We could get her to rent a caravan with us,’ said Chloe, going off on a foolish flight of fancy. ‘And then when we get there we could drug her, you know – give her a potion, like in Romeo and Juliet – only one that lasts for a whole week, and she could wake up just in time to drive us home.’

  ‘Yeah, imagine inviting two hunky surfers back to the caravan. Do sit down, sorry about the random parent, don’t worry, she’s in a coma.’ I found it hard to enter into the joke, though. When my mum says no to something, it usually stays no, and I felt sick at the thought of our wicked hol in Newquay going down the pan.

  Old Hall Farm loomed up ahead – a cluster of hideous barn-type buildings made from corrugated iron and concrete. Behind them we could see the roof of what looked like an old house with huge chimneys like gigantic chess pieces.

  Suddenly two dogs appeared and raced up: one with a lot of mad prancing and ferocious barking, the other in a sinister sideways shimmying manner, with a satanic grin. I almost pooed my pants in fear. I’m a bit nervous of dogs at the best of times.

  A huge man with a red beard appeared. ‘Nan! Bunty!’ he shouted. ‘Come here!’ The dogs turned round, though with longing backward looks at us, and joined him by the gate.

  ‘I love your dogs!’ said Chloe. ‘They’re so cute!’ She walked right up to them and started to stroke them. OK, she has her own dog, so she’s a bit more dog-savvy. I decided to stay back a bit, and pretended I was having trouble with the zip of my cagoule. ‘We’re Chloe and Zoe,’ she said. I felt awkward: after all, I’d been the one who’d rung Martin and fixed it all up. But as Chloe had been so iffy about working on the farm, it was kind of good news that she was already bonding with the guy in the Barbour.

  ‘Zoe’s a bit scared of dogs,’ explained Chloe, looking back at me and grinning.

  I felt like a total idiot, cowering by the gate. I made a mental note to sign up for a dog-handling class at night school.

  ‘It’s OK!’ boomed Martin. ‘They don’t bite! It’s me you want to worry about!’ We laughed nervously, and I stepped forward a tad.

  Two thin men appeared. ‘Martin!’ shouted one in a foreign accent. ‘Tractor is tyre flat! Is puncture, where is spanner?’

  ‘In the tractor cab!’ yelled Martin, looking harassed.

  ‘Spanner not in cab!’ said the smaller guy. He was looking at us with a friendly smile. I smiled back, even though I didn’t want to indicate that marriage was a possibility. His head was too round for my taste, his nose too short, his ear
s too large, and his eyebrows met in the middle in a way I associate with mass murder.

  ‘Zoe and Chloe,’ said Martin briskly, ‘this is Zxltyvsek and Proszchak. From Poland.’ I don’t know how you would spell their names in English, but that’s what it sounded like, anyway.

  ‘Hello, good evening!’ said the shorter one (Prozac, at a guess). His greeting was bizarre as it was barely nine o’clock in the morning. They shook hands with us.

  ‘Hi, how’s it going?’ asked Chloe. ‘You speak great English!’ Chloe seemed to be taking all the initiatives. I was grateful, to tell you the truth. I was not made for country life. I was born in high heels and Mum’s breast milk was ninety-per-cent decaf latte. I had only come here in order to see Oliver. So where the hell was he?

  Silkvest and Prozac seemed very friendly, and Chloe was soaking up the Polish admiration. I hoped she wouldn’t get a thing about one of them, because the other would be bound to think I was his.

  ‘Right.’ Martin solved the spanner problem and then turned back to us. ‘Hop in the Land Rover. I’ll take you to the field. I’m afraid you’re going to get wet this morning, girls. God, this weather! If this goes on much longer, the spuds’ll be ruined.’

  All three of us were jammed into the front of the Land Rover. It had the filthiest windscreen I had ever seen, smeared with the dung of three different species, I swear. The torments I endured for Oliver!

  ‘OK,’ said Martin, ‘Brendan will tell you what to do.’ A figure appeared in the distance, through the mist and rain. ‘He’s on his gap year,’ said Martin. ‘Watch out, he’s a bit of a ladykiller. Brendan!’ he yelled. ‘Here’s Chloe and Zoe – pricking out lettuces, OK?’

  We climbed out, Martin drove off and Brendan walked up. Though I was annoyed with him for not being Oliver, I could clearly see that he was a rustic dreamboat. He was wearing moss-green togs and his eyes were moss-green, too. His face was tanned. His hair was brown and curly.

  ‘Hi there,’ he said, in a faintly Irish accent. I so love Irish voices. ‘Terrible day, isn’t it? Don’t worry, though, I’ve ordered some sunshine for later.’

  He led us through the rain to a vast expanse of lettuces in a swamp. ‘Pricking out,’ said Brendan. I didn’t like the sound of it. I knew I was going to hurt myself.

  ‘Here’s the little darlings,’ said Brendan playfully, indicating a row of baby lettuces about as high as a little finger. ‘There’s about four hundred in this row, but they’ve got to be dug up, separated …’

  Bending down, he illustrated the process. Basically we were transplanting the lettuces on to another bed, so each little baby had a nice big area of soil all to itself. This was what we had to do all morning, in the rain. And there was no sign of Oliver. I would rather have been doing even maths.

  ‘Great weather for it.’ Brendan grinned. Raindrops were caught on his eyelashes. ‘We won’t have to water them, though, with any luck. I’ll be back to collect you at one o’clock – spot of lunch in the farmhouse, OK?’

  ‘Will Oliver be there?’ I asked, trying to sound casual but ending up strangled and weird. ‘We know him from school. That’s how we got this job.’

  ‘Ah, Oliver’s usually with Martin,’ said Brendan. ‘He does a fair bit of tractor work, too. He should be there at lunchtime, though.’

  For the next hour we knelt in puddles, dabbling in the mud and fiddling with baby lettuces, while the rain ran down our necks. Several times I touched a worm or a slug, and shrieked aloud. But I endured it all because I knew that in only a couple of hours, I would be seeing Oliver.

  ‘This is a freakin’ nightmare,’ groaned Chloe, sitting back on her heels after the two hundred and fiftieth lettuce. ‘I’d rather eat rocks than work here a moment longer.’

  ‘Hang in there, babe!’ I had to head off this mutiny, though secretly I sympathised with Chloe. In fact, I was worse off than she was – she’d got waterproofs on, head-to-toe, and a waterproof hat. I was literally soaked to the skin. ‘Only two more hours till lunch! And Brendan said it was going to clear up this afternoon!’

  ‘Zoe,’ said Chloe with a kind of deadly rage, ‘if we were working for Major Events we’d be indoors – dressed in cute black skirts and handing out canapés to millionaires.’

  ‘Stick with it, please!’ I begged. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise!’

  ‘And they’re paying what exactly for this torment?’

  ‘I can’t remember exactly!’ I tried to look wacky and disorganised, but it didn’t work. My face twitched guiltily.

  ‘Yes you can!’ Chloe yelled. She had smelt a rat. ‘How much!?’

  ‘£3.50 an hour,’ I admitted. ‘I know it’s low but it’s the standard wage for people our age, apparently.’

  ‘Low?’ shrieked Chloe. ‘It’s slave labour! £3.50! I can’t believe this! You are so sneaky it’s just not true!’

  ‘Chloe, I only –’

  ‘Shut up!’ yelled Chloe. ‘You never told me it was £3.50! That’s peanuts! How could you do this?’

  ‘Oliver –’

  ‘I’m sick of freakin’ Oliver! We’re getting drowned here! This job is pants! We could be working indoors doing lovely parties with Major Events for £4.20! I don’t believe it! Well, you can wallow in mud and rain for a month if you like, but I’ve had enough. I’m handing in my notice at the end of the day – Oliver or no Oliver.’

  Chloe flounced off down the row of lettuces and ignored me for the next two hours. I let her go. I was hoping she’d cool down by lunchtime. I had to admit that the work was torture, but I had to put up with it if it meant I’d be seeing Oliver every day. But what if Chloe really did give in her notice: would I be able to hack it here on my own? The thought was too awful for words.

  .

  .

  8

  By lunchtime we must have pricked out millions of lettuces, and we were steaming gently as the sun took over from the rain. Then the Land Rover appeared. This time Brendan was driving it.

  ‘Hop in!’ he said. ‘God! What a morning! I thought I was a rain-lover, but I’m beginning to change my mind.’ We piled into the front beside him. There wasn’t much room; in fact Chloe had to sit kind of half on my knee, which is awkward if you aren’t really on speaking terms.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ I enquired, trying to sound chic and playful, like somebody at a cocktail party.

  ‘Treating maggoty sheep,’ said Brendan. ‘I’ve got a way with them.’ Chloe and I screamed in unison. Brendan laughed. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, glancing sideways at us with a roguish grin. ‘I know it doesn’t do much for a fella’s charm. Mind you, some of the things I’ve had to do on this farm you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy.’

  It was only a short drive back to the farmhouse. My heart started to lurch giddily at the thought of seeing Oliver. However, I have rarely looked more unattractive: my hair was soaking wet and plastered to my skull and my jeans were literally dripping.

  The house was amazing, though: huge and old and rambling, built out of mellow brick, with those towering chimneys. It looked like something out of a period drama – a perfect setting for Oliver, possibly in a long black riding coat and highwayman’s boots.

  ‘Come round the back,’ said Brendan. ‘Nobody ever uses the front door, anyway.’

  We arrived at a big porch, where we took off our wellies, and then Brendan led us into a vast kitchen, with high beams from which bunches of herbs and black old saucepans were hanging. There was no sign of Oliver. A middle-aged woman was sitting at the table reading Private Eye.

  ‘Oh my God!!’ she exclaimed. ‘I lost all track of time!’ She whipped off her glasses and lost control of them. They flew across the kitchen and landed in a dog bowl, in which the remains of a dog’s dinner was still horribly visible. ‘Cripes!’ said the woman, like somebody in an old-fashioned comic. She picked up her glasses and took them to the tap to be rinsed. ‘I’m so sorry!’ She turned and looked us up and down. ‘You poor things, you’re s
o wet!’

  ‘This is Zoe and Chloe,’ said Brendan. ‘They’ve done sterling work in the field all morning.’ She dried her glasses, put them back on, and came round the table to us, smiling. Unfortunately she had missed a bit of dog-meat jelly, which was clinging to the side of the glasses and wobbled distractingly when she moved.

  ‘I’m Sarah, Martin’s wife,’ she said. ‘Well, slave, actually. Are you really terribly wet?’ She looked at my jeans. ‘You haven’t got waterproofs? Oh dear! Did nobody warn you?’

  ‘We only fixed it up last night,’ I said. ‘I spoke to Martin.’

  ‘You must have some dry trousers!’ said Sarah. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold! Come on!’ And she marched me out of the kitchen and up the stairs just as, behind us, the back door was opening. I could hear Martin booming away and Chloe’s voice saying, ‘Oh, hi, Oliver!’ He’d arrived! But I’d missed him!

  ‘Come into our bedroom a minute,’ said Sarah. It was the size of Oxfordshire. ‘You see that door? That’s our en suite. Have a shower – use any towels. I’ll find something for you to wear, but I’m afraid it might be a size fourteen.’

  ‘That’s fine!’ I assured her. ‘I am a size fourteen!’ I wished it was a lie.

  The bathroom was antique but divine. Although desperate to see Oliver, I did realise that I would look less repulsive after a shower. It had a big old brass shower head that looked as if it had once been on a Victorian watering can. I showered for England, and I was drying myself when suddenly a door flew open in the panelling – an extra door I hadn’t previously noticed – and a girl stood there. She was petite and wearing a green dress. In the film of our lives she would be played by Scarlett Johansson.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. I thought you were Mum.’ She turned abruptly and went out again. I hastily put on my T-shirt and undies, then I wrapped a towel around my waist and crept out into Sarah’s bedroom again.

  She had left a pair of chinos in a kind of dung colour folded up on the bed, together with a handy hairdryer already plugged in. I put the chinos on (five out of ten for style – they made my bum look like a strange mushroom), then I blasted hot air at my head for three minutes, and went downstairs.