Farm Fatale

by Wendy Holden

  "You do know what I mean, don't you?" pressed the president of the Eight Mile Bottom Amateur Dramatic Society. Whose crown Samantha had once aspired to. How long ago that seemed, she thought bitterly. "The ghosts. Surely you've seen them?"

  Samantha shook her head in vigorous denial.

  "Oh." Dame Nancy looked disappointed. "Pity. I do hope they've not gone. The Bottoms always had such splendid ghosts. By far the best in the area, we always thought."

  Samantha's head was whirling with panic, but these words managed nonetheless to penetrate it. "The best in the area?" she repeated. Surely Dame Nancy meant the worst?

  "Absolutely. Splendid spooks. We like our ghosts round here, you know. Love them, in fact. Most of us only have one or two and we're all wildly jealous of The Bottoms because it's got about ten. Funny you've never seen any of them though."

  "Well, there might have been something in the passage…" Samantha hedged.

  "The white lady probably," said Dame Nancy excitedly. "Was she on a chaise longue?"

  "Not sure," Samantha said cagily.

  "Oh, bound to be. Poor thing, jumped off the roof with her lover at the age of fourteen."

  "An appalling death," intoned Samantha, trying to sound simultaneously sympathetic and proprietorial.

  "Oh, she didn't die, dear. Broke both her legs though, which is why she's on the chaise. But a fine ghost, a very fine ghost, indeed. Larry de Lisle's always saying he'd trade his black dog and his gray cat and throw in his poltergeist as well just for one night with the white lady of The Bottoms."

  "So there's a pecking order?" Samantha tried to sound casual. Dame Nancy's cockerel looked at her with interest.

  "Of course there is, dear. Taking it from the bottom, a gray, white, or black cat is just about passable, but a black dog is better, particularly if it howls at a full moon. A headless horse is good, but twice as good with a headless horseman on it."

  Samantha goggled. "So people—dead ones, obviously—are the best?"

  Dame Nancy nodded emphatically. "But there's a top ten there as well. Take the white lady, since we're talking about her. One white lady equals two green ladies. Or one and a half gray ladies."

  "What about sword fights?" ventured Samantha, on whose brain the offending paragraph from Ghosts of the Area had been branded in letters of fire.

  "Interaction is good, so The Bottoms' sword fights score very highly."

  Samantha swallowed. Now for the big one. "Black ball of hate?"

  Dame Nancy pursed her lips. "Average-ish. Johnny's got a red ball of hate, although he says it could be gout. Or an ingrown hair."

  Samantha felt offended on the ball's behalf. It sounded well above average to her. According to Guy, it had been terrifying. Disappointed with the way her stock had suddenly fallen, she almost decided to leave it at that and just rest on her laurels. On the other hand, there would never be a better opportunity to find out more. Samantha decided to risk it. "What about," she asked, "the screaming woman with the knife sticking out of her back?"

  Dame Nancy drew impassioned breath. An expression of pure reverence radiated from what could be seen of her face under the yashmak. "Now that really is something. Only a few houses in the country have a ghost even remotely resembling that one. Ghosts with knives in their backs are exceedingly rare, because only in very, very haunted houses—such as The Bottoms—do you see them at all."

  "Remind me of why that is?" Samantha wrinkled her brow as best she could in an apparent effort to recollect. Her heart started to thump.

  "Because," said Dame Nancy in tremendous tones, "ghosts are fantastically cutthroat and competitive. Even more than we actors are, dear. As well as being extremely territorial. If there are too many, or simply not enough corridors, bedrooms, cellars, and so on to go around, from a haunting point of view, one always gets stabbed in the back by the others." She paused admiringly. "You really are terribly fortunate to have one, dear. The whole county is green with envy."

  "Yes, I am very lucky." Samantha simpered, looking at her home through new, wondering eyes.

  "So you see," Dame Nancy concluded, "the fire was bound to happen. With all that psychic energy around and everything, the risk of spontaneous combustion must have been enormous."

  The biggest risk of spontaneous combustion, Samantha recalled with a twist of the lips, had probably been when she discovered Guy in the bathroom with the waitress. But that was behind her now. She beamed at Dame Nancy, thrilled to the very core of her being. As owner of what was officially Eight Mile Bottom's most intriguing house, her social future now looked assured. As did, inciden tally, the likely outcome of her insurance claim. Very satisfactory, thought Samantha.

  Nor was this all. The fire had worked as a crucible for her talent as well. Was it not in its afterglow (quite literally) that she had dreamt up the idea of the Charlotte in Love film project with that wonderfully helpful young journalist? Martin, was it? The stinking remains of the marquee no longer represented the crematorium of all her ambitions but the glorious scene of her phoenixlike rise from the social and thespian ashes.

  ***

  Rosie decided to leave it a few days before seeing Mark. A few years even. She didn't care if she never saw him again. It was over now; what was there to see him for? That he was not coming back to the cottage was a huge relief; she had gathered from Duffy that he was staying at The Bottoms, although doing what was unclear. "Having a treatment," the postman had reported. Rosie had visions of Samantha wrapping Mark in seaweed, until Duffy, exercising his usual right to the free interpretation of events, said it was something to do with a film.

  Still, who cared what it was. It kept Mark out of her way. Eventually, of course, they would have to get together to divide up the folding chairs, the knife and fork drawer, the videos, and the books that formed the depressing limit of their worldly possessions. The beanbag he could have. Neither would she sue for custody of the Rick Astley album, which Mark always claimed he'd been sent by a publicist trying to get the singer in the paper's "Chillin" slot.

  Besides, she had other fish to fry.

  "You might change your mind," Jack had said. "I'll be here if you do." So far, she had not dared take him up on his offer. In the week immediately following the party, blanking her mind of everything but the task in hand, Rosie had thrown herself into finishing A Ewe in New York. It was art therapy, she thought. Heart therapy, even more so.

  It was ironic how closely these post-apocalypse days resembled the kind of country life of which she had originally dreamed, full of peace—the Muzzles seemed to be away-—and a soothing rhythm of work. Getting up with the dawn and going to bed with the dusk was reassuring, as well as necessary, given the now near-terminal state of the electricity wiring. Yet this monastic existence appealed to Rosie, who wished to see no one—the postman least of all—still less talk on the telephone until she had had time to think about things. The constantly ringing phone went unanswered, Duffy's knocks on the door unheeded, Mrs. Womersley unchatted to in the garden—Rosie hid behind the wall—and her suit unreturned. There was only one person she wanted to see, and she did not yet feel ready. One day, however, Rosie woke up and felt, finally, that she did.

  The walk to Spitewinter would do her good. As would talking to Jack. She wasn't, after all, intending to fling herself on him or anything. Just to tell him what had happened. She needed to let him know; after all, what he didn't hear from her now, he would hear from Duffy later. If he hadn't—dreaded thought—heard already.

  Rosie walked tremulously up the lane. She had noticed before that greenness could soothe, and the bright emerald of the fields spreading around her exuded a sense of peace. Her heart lifted. There was, she thought, something aislelike about the hedgerows, their full, frilled borders of cow parsley like exceptionally lavish pew decorations. Spring had truly sprung, not, as in London, like the inside of an old sofa, but with the exuberant color and force of a jack-in-the-box. A Jack even!

  Whatever had happened, she w
as now free. She could make her own choices.

  Joy swelled in Rosie as she saw the forget-me-nots nodding out of the crumbling walls, noticed the purple flames of clover in the fields, heard the hum and twitter of birds and insects.

  "Never thought I'd trust a city lass again."

  What a fool she had been to turn Jack down for Mark. An act of insanity no less. From the minute she had met him, it had been obvious who the better man was. In Jack's care, she would flourish the way she never had with Mark; everything about Spitewinter, after all, reflected its owner's noble qualities. Jack's countryside was not as other countryside. The trees were prouder. The grass seemed glossier. The cows in the field looked straight out of the Elgin Marbles, wrinkled of neck, sleek of back, and proud of feature. Rosie paused, admiring their pale, shining, pearly flanks and the elegant curve of their horns.

  After the recent past, the here and now was the best place to be. Mark may have pushed her from the high wire, but she had an emotional safety net to catch her. She smiled as she unhooked the cord holding the farm gate. She had Jack.

  ***

  As Rosie entered the farmyard, Jack was sitting on an upturned bucket in his overalls, scraping mud from the sides of his boots with a knife. He seemed utterly absorbed in the task. At least, he did not look up.

  Rosie felt light-headed with relief at the sight of him. Yet Kate, stretched out in the sun by the farmyard door, had hardly seemed to notice her, let alone bounce to her paws with the usual rattle of chain and chorus of barking.

  "Jack?"

  He gave her a swift glance, followed by an unfathomable grunt. Rosie hesitated, feeling some of the euphoria seep from her mood like air leaking from a balloon. He did not seem to be very happy.

  "Is everything all right?" she asked. "No one's ill, are they?"

  Jack's knife dug viciously into the mud. "Not as far as I know."

  Rosie hesitated, then decided to seize the day. After all, if Jack had had bad news, her own news should cheer him up.

  "I expect you heard the party was rather, um, eventful," she began gaily. "I wish you'd been there to see it."

  Jack looked up sharply. His blue gaze hit her face like a Frisbee. "Would have been a bit in the way, wouldn't I?"

  Rosie's smile widened to a grin. Here was her cue. "I hardly saw Mark, as it happens. He arrived before me, ignored me most of the time I was there, and then didn't come home afterward."

  Jack said nothing. A slight increase in fervor could nonetheless be detected in his cleat scraping. Rosie took this as an encouraging sign. "As a matter of fact, we're going through a rocky patch at the moment," she admitted. Oh, what the hell. May as well tell him. "Actually, we've split up."

  She wasn't sure what she had expected at this point. The surrounding animals to perform a can-can, perhaps, like the sheep on the Let Me Entertain Ewe card. At the very least, Jack leaping up, whirling her round the farmyard, and pressing her against the haystacks with a passionate kiss.

  What was not in the script at all was for him to say, in a low, gruff voice, "I'm not surprised."

  Rosie was puzzled. Had he not understood her? "You've heard then? About the row at the party? The things Mark said to me?" Oh, well. At least it saved her going through the whole thing.

  As she smiled increasingly desperately at him, Rosie realized that he wasn't smiling back. On the contrary, his mouth was a flat, tight line in a face that looked as closed as a fist.

  "You told me," Jack said, biting off each word he spoke, "that you weren't interested in me because you had a boyfriend already. I accepted that. I'd hate to make someone else suffer like I did when Catherine…" He paused, his throat working furiously. "I hoped you might change your mind—"

  "Yes," said Rosie, half eager, half panicking. "That's what you said. If you have a change of heart, let me know. Well, as it happens…" She took a deep breath. Why wasn't he understanding what she was about to say?

  "And the next thing I hear," Jack cut in, "is you left the party with some bloke who's just landed one on your boyfriend."

  Rosie's knees wobbled. "What?" She could recall only a voice, the comforting press of a hand, a reassuring presence. But surely not…?

  "Yes," said Jack, bitterly attacking his boots again. "With Matt Locke."

  Oh, God. Hadn't he left after the…attack? Had he really seen fit to hang around and get her in even deeper shit than she was already? Went home with her, to all intents and purposes. Rosie gave Jack an incredulous smile. "But I hardly even know him. I'd never met him before. I mean, he didn't even give me his real name."

  "Ha!" Jack's laugh was rasping and humorless. "That's not what your boyfriend thought, I hear. And, bloody hell, do you think that makes it better? Running off with some bloke you've only just met?"

  It was a bad dream. It was unbelievable. It got a million times worse with whatever she said. Rosie looked pleadingly at Jack. How could she get it through to him that of all of the ends of sticks to be got, this was the wrongest?

  "Who have you been talking to?" Rosie wailed, realizing, as she did so, that she already knew. Duffy. She had, after all, had a pretty colorful version of events herself from the postman. Her head started to throb violently.

  "Jack, please. None of this is true. I came to tell you that I changed my mind. That I was wrong to stick with Mark. That it's all over with him."

  "Very convenient that. Now that he's dumped you."

  "Dumped me?" Rosie fought to contain her temper, which was in danger of escaping through the splits now forcing her head apart. "That's not what happened. I'm leaving him, because I've had enough of his behavior. And because of you." She swallowed, aware of the danger of sounding desperate. "As I say, I've changed my mind. If you still want me."

  "I was an idiot," Jack said, as if to himself. "A gullible fool. Fell for one city lass and got my fingers burned, only to do exactly the same with another. So," he said, lifting a set face to Rosie, "I'll be turning down your kind offer, if it's all the same to you. Besides," he added, his voice dropping, his eyes small and mean, "what do I want with another man's castoffs?"

  "Castoffs?" Rosie finally saw red. A blaze of fury swept through her. "How fucking dare you!" she shouted. "You haven't the foggiest idea about what really happened at the party. Just whispers from that sodding postman. But you don't want to know the truth, do you? You're not interested in what's real. Only in comparing every woman you ever come across to your fucking wife who left you because all you ever do is moan about this sodding farm."

  Rosie paused for breath, reeling with the pain in her head, the blood thundering in her ears, and the irresistible force of her own anger. All the hurt, disappointment, and shame that had been festering for the past week came bursting out like a lanced boil.

  Bella was absolutely right about Jack.

  "Talk about farm here to eternity," Rosie echoed, casting a scornful glance around the chaotic yard. "The land of your fathers," she snapped. "Well, as far as I'm concerned, your fathers can fucking have it."

  Jack's face paled at this. Had Catherine, she wondered, said the same thing when she left? Well, she had one more, entirely original, thought of her own by way of finale.

  "And if you're so worried about getting your fucking fingers burned in the future," Rosie yelled, "why don't you go and get some sodding asbestos gloves?"

  She had made it across the first field before the sob struggled out. More followed. After the storm in her heart, the rains fell thick and fast down her cheeks.

  ***

  Later, calmer and having sluiced her eyes in cold water to address the swelling, if not the redness, Rosie decided she might as well face the music—or the football results, depending on what the radio was tuned to. Holding the white suit, she knocked on Mrs. Womersley's door.

  Tight-lipped, the old woman let her in and immediately scuttled back to the stove in the corner of the room where she was ostensibly making lunch. Warming himself, despite the sunshine outside, by the fire as usual, Mr.
Womersley shifted awkwardly in his seat and flicked an unhappy glance Rosie's way.

  "Are you both all right?" Rosie asked with a strong sense of déjà vu.

  "We're all right," said Mrs. Womersley. The clear implication was that someone else wasn't.

  "The suit," Rosie muttered, all fingers and thumbs as she scrabbled at the plastic supermarket bag Mrs. Womersley had originally given it to her in. "Everyone loved it."

  "Yes, I heard it was much admired," said the old lady darkly.

  Rosie flinched but plowed on. "I've had it cleaned. There was a stain on the back—someone bumped into me with a sausage…,"

  "Aye," said Mrs. Womersley in freezing tones. "I heard that as well."

  I have, thought Rosie, beating a hasty exit, been dumped by two men, one of whom I wasn't even having a relationship with. Furthermore, I made an exhibition of myself at a party with an international celebrity, my neighbors are barely speaking to me, and no doubt the entire surrounding area believes me to be a woman of low morals. Hardly how I imagined country life, really.