Wild Oats

by Veronica Henry

  Her woes were temporarily forgotten as she indulged herself in some serious retail therapy – she couldn’t remember the last time she’d really splashed out on herself. First she bought rehydrating face packs and hair masks in the hope of replenishing the moisture the relentless South American sun had dried out. Then she bought deliciously scented bath oil and body lotion. This was the ultimate luxury: she hadn’t bought anything heavily perfumed for years. She didn’t use it in her job, in case the babies had an allergy, but also to keep rampant fathers at bay. It was amazing how many of them had strange ideas about what a maternity nurse’s duties might include. Though to be fair many of them had been deprived of sexual activity for months already, with no glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. Finally, she bought some lipstick and nail polish, blusher and a new mascara, promising herself a therapeutic spa evening and a total makeover.

  As she carried her booty back to her car, she realized she was parked only a stone’s throw from Drace’s estate agents. She decided she’d go and call in on Kif, surprise him. Jack had told her about Hamilton. And about Christopher and Zoe moving back to Lydbrook. She felt guilty that she hadn’t been in touch during her absence, but she had explained things to Christopher on the phone before she left, and he’d understood. He didn’t expect anything from her. Nor she him. They had the perfect friendship. And she’d remembered Sebastian’s birthday; she was his godmother, and a good one. She sent him zany postcards from the crazy places she’d been to, with funny messages.

  Kif was just the person she needed to see, to lift her spirits and also put her feet back on the ground. He’d give her an objective opinion about what had happened with her father. He was level-headed and pragmatic, but would also understand her misgivings. He’d soon tell her if she’d overreacted – but without making her feel like a fool.

  Drace’s was at the top of a small side street just off the market place. It had an old-fashioned frontage with two huge bay windows that were perfect for displaying house details. Inside it was very traditional. An inviting chesterfield sofa with a low coffee table in front, scattered with copies of Country Life and the Daily Telegraph, sat in one of the bay windows for potential purchasers to browse through details in comfort. The atmosphere very cleverly evoked the sort of lifestyle you were buying into by purchasing a house through them. There was no doubt Drace’s pitched themselves at the upper end of the property market. Jamie peered in through the window. There he was, at a large, leather-topped desk, with his reddish-blond fringe flopping down into his eyes, pushing it back every few seconds with his freckled hand. Jamie felt a sudden burst of fondness.

  She pushed open the door eagerly. Christopher got to his feet automatically. He afforded every customer this courtesy. It was free, and it made them feel valued. His polite Drace’s smile broke into a huge grin as soon as he realized who his customer was.

  ‘Jamie! My God! What the hell are you doing here? How fantastic!’

  He crossed the floor to her in three easy strides, and pulled her to him.

  ‘I’m so sorry about your dad. I’m so sorry.’ Jamie thought she was in danger of crying into his scratchy tweedy chest. His arms round her were so comforting yet unthreatening.

  ‘I know,’ he said, hugging her to him for comfort in his turn, because if there was anyone in the world who would understand what he was going through it was Jamie.

  Tiona was completely unamused to find Christopher with a stunning redhead in his arms when she came out of her office. Well, OK, maybe not stunning. Her hair was dreadful and her clothes were diabolical – old jeans, a polo shirt and hiking boots. But she was incredibly pretty in a totally unmade-up way – big, dark, Bambi eyes and a cute, freckle-spattered nose. And a to-die-for tan, being one of those unusual redheads who went brown rather than pink. And she was tall-and-thin-with-tits, which Tiona knew spelled trouble. She herself was small-and-round-with-tits, which was great once you actually got men into bed because that was what they really wanted, something to get hold of. But thin-with-tits was what they always thought they wanted.

  Christopher introduced Jamie as his oldest and dearest friend. Tiona was charmingly and prettily polite as she mentally cast a hex on Jamie. If she was going to break up Christopher’s marriage, she certainly didn’t want his oldest and dearest friend around giving him advice.

  ‘Are you staying in Ludlow long?’ she ventured.

  Jamie looked momentarily troubled.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m doing. Everything’s in a bit of a mess. In fact, I need to talk to you, Kif. I’m badly in need of some advice.’

  Kif? thought Tiona, disgusted. What sort of a name was that? And to make matters worse, Christopher was looking at his watch.

  ‘I was going to go over to the printers. But I could do with a cup of tea. Let’s go over to de Grays. I’ll buy you a cream cake.’ He prodded her playfully in the ribs. ‘You look as if you could do with feeding up.’

  Tiona watched, eyes narrowed, as Christopher escorted Jamie out of the door.

  Going into de Gray’s was like going back thirty, or even fifty years. As you went in, you were confronted by glass cabinets full of toothsome treats – old-fashioned cakes and buns and biscuits displayed in white paper cases, some oozing cream and jam, others encrusted with raisins and nuts, others topped with succulent sugary icing or chocolate. The smell was quite dizzying, topped off with the scent of roasting coffee. Through the back was a huge traditional tearoom. Jamie was ravenous. She hadn’t had any lunch. To Kif’s amusement she ordered a cream tea, rather like a tourist.

  Christopher poured them both Earl Grey when it arrived, listening sympathetically while Jamie spilled the beans about the deal her father had done with Rod Deacon. Her heart sank when he nodded sagely, and said he wasn’t in the least bit surprised.

  ‘I know because of Lydbrook. These old houses are absolute millstones, to be honest. They gobble up cash, especially if they haven’t been modernized.’

  ‘So do you think… Dad should go through with the deal?’

  Christopher surveyed her anxious brown eyes.

  ‘I’d feel the same way as you, Jamie. Lydbrook would go over my dead body. I’d hate to see it turned into a nursing home, or apartments. It needs a family in it.’ He smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘I know it’s terrible for an estate agent to be sentimental about houses. I’m always telling my clients not to get emotionally involved, as it only leads to heartache. But when a house has been in your family for generations; when it’s almost in your blood –’

  Jamie nodded in passionate agreement.

  ‘Exactly. That’s how I feel about Bucklebury. It would be like selling a relative. I don’t know how Dad can even give it a second thought.’

  ‘It wasn’t in his family, though, was it? It was your mother’s. He hasn’t got the same attachment.’

  ‘But I would have thought – there’s so much of my mother in it. I don’t know how he can bear to let it go.’

  ‘Maybe that’s the only way he can forget,’ Christopher suggested very gently. ‘And he isn’t letting go completely, is he? Maybe he sees this as a –’

  Jamie put her hand up to stop him.

  ‘Please. Don’t say the word compromise.’ She managed to laugh, though she felt like crying. ‘Kif – are you saying… do you think it’s a good idea?’

  Christopher considered his answer carefully.

  ‘I think it’s a very practical, economically viable proposition –’

  Jamie’s shoulders slumped in despair.

  ‘– but it’s not the only solution. Not now you’re in the equation, and happy to shoulder some of the responsibility.’

  ‘I am. Definitely. I’m happy to do whatever it takes.’

  The waitress arrived with two huge floury scones and two glass bowls, one filled with ruby-bright raspberry jam, the other a sinful mound of deep-yellow clotted cream.

  ‘Come on,’ said Christopher. ‘Eat up.’

  He watched as Jamie perf
ormed the ritual, splitting open the scone. She was a cream first, jam on top person, he noted. As she bit into her handiwork, he dragged his mind back to the problem in hand.

  ‘You’re not going to make any money out of Bucklebury by farming – at least, not for years, by which time you’d be up to your neck in debt. We all know there’s no real money to be made out of horses – just backbreaking hard work and blisters for little thanks. And as this area is only really kept afloat by tourism, I’d say your obvious answer was to jump on the bandwagon.’

  Jamie’s mind was racing to keep up. She thought she knew where Kif was leading.

  ‘You mean… open a hotel?’

  ‘Not a hotel. Not straight away, anyway. The standards are too high these days. You’d have to have a proper restaurant, all sorts of facilities. No, I was thinking more like… farmhouse B&B. Bucklebury would be ideal. It’s only three miles out of Ludlow. And it’s a gorgeous setting.’

  Jamie nodded, turning the idea over in her mind as Christopher elaborated.

  ‘You’d have to be totally professional and business like. It’s a competitive market. And you’d have to think of some way of making it a little bit different. A gimmick to make it stand out from the rest. The area’s hardly short of accommodation, after all.’

  ‘I think it’s a wonderful idea.’

  ‘Hold your horses. It’s not just a question of buying some new duvet covers and a set of matching mugs, Jamie. It’s bloody hard work. Ask anyone who does it. You need to do your research. And think about how you’re going to finance it.’

  Jamie groaned. ‘Oh God. Here we go. Money again.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Everything’s down to money at the end of the day.’

  He took his wallet out of his pocket, rifled through it and pulled out a card.

  ‘Go and see the business manager at my bank. He’s a good bloke. He helped me out of seven sorts of shit when I was trying to sort out the agency. He can see the big picture – he won’t just crunch numbers into his computer and give you a “no”. He’s got a bit of vision. I think you’ll find him helpful.’

  Jamie licked the last of the cream from her fingers and took the card. As she looked at it, she felt her heart beating fast. All of a sudden she found herself rather frightened by the prospect; this was all terribly grown-up and serious. But it was down to her – if she sat back and did nothing, the worst would happen.

  She could see Bella Deacon in the kitchen at Bucklebury, nibbling daintily on a slice of melon. She could imagine how she would rip the heart out of it, filling it with whimsical china teapots and cookie jars, with ruffled blinds at the windows and sprigged tablecloths with matching serviettes, tea towels and oven gloves… A sterile and rather twee environment that would miss the whole point entirely.

  She decided to use this image as her motivation. Every time she faltered in her task she would visualize Bella and Rod smiling for the camera in their next magazine article, and the caption underneath: ‘Rod and Bella Deacon in their idyllic farmhouse kitchen…’

  ‘Thanks, Kif.’ She put her hand over his, knowing he understood, knowing she didn’t have to reiterate her appreciation too often. ‘And I’m sorry. Here I am babbling on about my problems, when you must be having a nightmare as well. How are things?’

  Christopher thought about cheerily telling her everything was fine. It was what he kept telling himself, after all. But he was walking a continual tightrope. Sooner or later there was going to be a catastrophe. He needed a sounding board, and could think of no one better than Jamie.

  ‘Fucking bloody awful,’ he admitted.

  ‘Your poor father. I must go and see him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother. He won’t even know you’re there.’

  ‘And how’s your mum?’

  ‘Pretty dreadful. But she never complains. You know Mum…’ Christopher trailed off, stirring his tea absent-mindedly with his spoon, even though he didn’t have sugar. ‘Actually, it’s not either of them that’s the real problem. It’s Zoe. She’s absolutely miserable and I don’t know what to do about it.’

  He looked so totally stricken, Jamie was alarmed. She’d never seen Kif rattled. He was always so calm, so capable, and always had an answer.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  Christopher chucked the spoon on the table in a gesture of defeat, shrugging.

  ‘Why don’t you come for supper tomorrow night? See what you think. Maybe you can find a way of snapping her out of it.’

  Fired with enthusiasm, Jamie left Christopher with promises to see him the next night and went straight into the tourist office. There she spent a good hour picking up as many leaflets as she could, comparing prices and what existing establishments had on offer. They varied wildly, from what sounded fairly spartan shared bathroom facilities to unashamed luxury. Like anyone with a new idea, she veered from unburstable optimism to black gloom.

  It was feasible.

  It was impossible.

  It was the answer to her prayers.

  She couldn’t pull it off in a million years.

  One freeze-frame of Bella dipping her spoon into a low-fat yogurt spurred her on. She came out into the bright light of the market square. It was late afternoon and the stallholders were packing up. The last of the tourists were wending their way back to the car park. She imagined some of them making their way to Bucklebury for tea and shortbread on the lawn before going up the stairs for a nap, followed by a hot bath.

  She nipped into the bank just before it closed. A combination of charm and luck secured her an appointment with Edward Lincoln the next morning. She felt slightly sick – what on earth was she going to say to him? She needed to get a vague set of figures sorted out before their meeting or he’d think she was an idiot. She went into WHSmith and bought an efficient-looking notebook and a rollerball pen. She should probably go in armed with spreadsheets and projections, but there was no computer at Bucklebury and never likely to be. Well, if Edward Lincoln laughed her out of the bank tomorrow, she was ready for it. But she had to at least try.

  When Jamie got home, she realized she had one more thing to do before she sat down and worked out her figures. She had to go and talk to Jack. She thought perhaps she owed him an apology. She’d gone off at the deep end, without looking at things from his perspective. What else was he supposed to do, widowed, broke, his daughter sulking on the other side of the world, subject to the wiles of a cunning, silver-tongued gypsy? If his situation was anyone’s fault, it was hers. If she’d been there to support him from the start…

  At six o’clock, she made two proper hefty gin and tonics, in heavy tumblers, with plenty of ice and thick wedges of lemon and Indian tonic water. She found Jack in the barn, not actually doing anything, just sitting on the bale of hay she’d collapsed on earlier, staring at the car. She was suddenly struck by how old and tired and sad he looked, and she felt riddled with guilt.

  She handed him a glass and he took it, smiling his thanks. She cleared her throat awkwardly.

  ‘I’m sorry I was so beastly about your plan earlier. It was a shock, that’s all. I didn’t expect it.’

  ‘I didn’t expect you to like it. And I can’t say that I’m that taken with it either. But at least now you can see I was faced with little choice.’

  ‘Not at the time, no.’

  Jack looked at her sharply. He knew his daughter well enough to realize there was something else coming. He raised a quizzical eyebrow. Jamie couldn’t help smiling, a little abashed.

  ‘Um – I’ve had a sort of idea. About how we could make the farm work for us, without having to sell any of it off.’

  She looked at him hesitantly.

  ‘Well, go on then. Tell me.’

  After her trip to the tourist office, Jamie had a clearer idea of what she had in mind, and she began to outline it. She saw Bucklebury Farm as an upmarket farmhouse bed and breakfast for stressed-out urban couples with young children who wante
d a real break, not just a change of scene where life was even more difficult. As well as accommodation, her background meant she could provide qualified child-care during the day. And that didn’t just mean sticking kids in front of a video, but involving them in proper countryside activities: pony rides and picnics and pond-dipping and treasure hunts – all the things Jamie had enjoyed when she was little and that were so sadly lacking from today’s childhood. The parents could please themselves, either relaxing at the farm or going out for the day to explore Ludlow. And in the evenings, after giving the children a traditional high tea, the parents could potter back into Ludlow and enjoy one of the restaurants safe in the knowledge that their children were being looked after by a qualified nanny who would also be there to nurse their little darlings next morning while they nursed their hangovers. Marketing would be a challenge, but it was the sort of enterprise that would take off through word of mouth.

  ‘We’d only need to lure one celebrity couple here, or get a feature in one of the Sunday papers, and we’d be made,’ Jamie finished, her eyes shining with her enthusiasm for the project.

  ‘It sounds fantastic,’ Jack agreed. ‘There’s just one thing. The sort of set-up you’re talking about – surely it would cost a fortune? Stressed-out urban couples don’t take kindly to stressed-out rural plumbing, for a start.’

  ‘I’ve worked out we’d need at least a hundred thousand. For Phase One. Repairs, renovations and bringing it up to tourist-board standards.’ Jamie said it briskly. It didn’t sound so much that way. It was, in fact, a round figure she’d just plucked out of the air. Jack looked at her blankly.

  ‘But we haven’t got a hundred thousand.’

  ‘No. But we could raise it.’

  ‘How?’

  This was the moment when she had to tread very carefully.

  ‘If you handed the farm over to me – put it in my name – I could use it as collateral. For a loan. Or a mortgage.’

  ‘It sounds like a lot of hard work.’