The Lie of the Land

by Amanda Craig

  ‘Let’s open the curtains in case we see Santa,’ says Rosie. Stella does so, then cries, ‘Mummy, look! It’s snowed!’

  The whole landscape is lit up, silver and black, with the tors of Dartmoor thrusting up against a dazzling spray of stars.

  ‘This is, like, real winter isn’t it?’ Xan says. ‘I mean, you could freeze to death.’

  ‘Exciting, isn’t it?’

  ‘My darling, how can you possibly find it so?’ Marta enquires.

  ‘It’s just … It makes the house feel cosy.’

  Rosie says, ‘We’ve got a proper fireplace for Father Christmas, now.’

  ‘He still has to squeeze through the wood-burner, though,’ the practical Stella responds.

  She’s happier at school, especially since the girls played angels in the Nativity play; at their old primary school, they had only ever been sheep. The village production contained several surprising features, including a real lamb to offer Jesus, donated for the day by Sally.

  ‘I wish you could have seen it,’ Lottie told her mother. ‘It was adorable.’

  ‘And what,’ asked Marta with a shudder, ‘did they do about the droppings?’

  The Nativity play had been performed in the village church. There are dozens like it all over the county, smelling of damp and bats and (very faintly) incense. Shipcott’s square Norman tower and Victorian stained glass are almost apologetic in their modesty. The thick hassocks have been tapestried by the hands of generations, including the new one, for the children learn subjects like needlework and bee-keeping, as well as the National Curriculum. Quentin was appalled at this (‘It’s merry peasants, I thought this kind of crap had been left to progressive schools like mine’) but the church, like the school and the shop, is what is keeping the village alive.

  The play was charming. Every child had been given a speaking part, and the script had some incomprehensible local jokes which made parents rock with laughter. The biggest surprise was that the piano was played, and the choir directed, by Dexter and Tiger’s father.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m seeing this,’ Quentin murmured. ‘Isn’t he usually ripping the heads off gerbils or something?’

  ‘Oh no! Our Gore isn’t like that at all,’ said a villager.

  ‘He offered to stand in as a replacement for poor Mr Randall,’ said another.

  ‘Gave £1 million to Trelorn School for a music centre last year. They wanted a gym, but he said—’ the first woman giggled and whispered, ‘He couldn’t see the point of gym unless it enabled boys to give themselves …’

  Snorts of ribald laughter rose from the pews, and Lottie scowled at Quentin, hoping that he wouldn’t describe it all in his column. He didn’t have a good view of the rock star; nobody did, for Gore sat behind a pillar so that only the kids could see him. Lottie wondered whether this was a precaution against amateur paparazzi: she knew from Di how much the rock star hated being photographed unawares.

  ‘He loves performing, but he’s a private person.’

  So their landlord remained a figure of mystery, though everyone knew when he was at home because of the 4x4s with tinted windows which swept along the lanes, conveying session musicians, personal trainers, a manager, a PA and more to Shipcott Manor. Once, Lottie would have thought that absurd: but Tore is not just an individual performer, he is a business upon whom many others depend for their livelihood. He has a recording studio in one of the old stables, and though it’s kept locked, she’s looked in one of the windows and seen not only an array of guitars and keyboards but a long bank of knobs and buttons which are part of a high-tech sound and recording system.

  ‘I didn’t realise my landlord was from these parts,’ she said to Sally, who had turned up to support her nieces and nephews in the play.

  ‘Gore was born here. Changed his surname, because who’d buy a record by Gordon Smith? His mum was housekeeper to old Sir Jerry, lived in the gatehouse with her son.’

  ‘Our mother used to visit him, being a nurse before me,’ said Anne. Lottie had by now worked out that the GP’s wife was Sally’s other sister, alongside the head teacher, Tess Anstey. ‘She was a handsome woman, Ruby Smith, people said she was more than a housekeeper if you get my meaning – and it was filthy dirty in most rooms. But it was such a huge old place it would have been far too much for one woman, especially given the condition it was in. Sir Jerry was a terrible old tearaway, spent all his money on wine, women and song, never married and died bankrupt. Gore, though, he could play any instrument and sing like an angel. You know he was at Shipcott Primary, too?’

  ‘No!’ said Lottie.

  ‘He was the weirdest, skinniest boy according to our mum, though even then, girls fell for him like ninepins. Ruby died before he had any success, and when Sir Jerry died the whole place fell to rack and ruin. It was just rotting away, until Gore popped up and bought it. Spent millions restoring it, as you’ve probably seen.’

  Of course, Lottie thought, the village tom-toms must have informed her. She and Di have become friends in the speeded-up way of parents with young children. They are chalk and cheese, but Di is good fun, and the only person whom Lottie has found so far who gets excited about design; while their kids are friends, it works.

  ‘I’m glad it was saved. It’s a beautiful example of English Gothic. Though Home Farm has turned out to be a bit odder than we expected too.’

  Lottie saw relief in Sally’s eyes.

  ‘I didn’t know whether you knew.’

  ‘Di Tore told me. It was a bit of a shock.’

  Sally said at once,

  ‘We’ve never had a murder. Most people don’t even bother locking their doors at night.’

  ‘It sounds completely horrible.’

  ‘It was. My sister Tess had to identify the body. He’d worked here, you see, and she – well, she’s got a strong stomach, but it still gave her a turn.’

  They had to stop whispering, because of the service and more carols, but when there was another chance Lottie murmured, ‘Where was he actually killed?’

  This is the question she had been longing to ask.

  ‘Somewhere near the woodshed, I heard.’

  ‘Something nasty in the woodshed …’ Lottie quoted, wryly. But Sally hadn’t read Cold Comfort Farm, clearly. She was relieved it wasn’t in the house, as Di had said.

  ‘The killer used the maul, I’ve heard.’

  ‘What’s a maul?’

  ‘A kind of axe. It chops through anything.’

  Lottie shivered. She’d seen Quentin and Xan split logs for the wood-burner with a single blow, and had been impressed. It had come with the house: presumably, not the same one.

  ‘Does anyone have any idea why he was killed?’

  ‘It wasn’t robbery – that’s what the inquest said. His wallet was left on him, and nothing in the house had been disturbed as far as anyone could tell.’

  ‘So either it was a lunatic, or he disturbed an intruder. Neither of those makes me feel safer.’

  ‘There’s hardly a home in twenty miles around that hasn’t been upset by it. From what I hear, the Tores couldn’t let that house for love nor money.’

  ‘Do they need the money?’

  ‘I doubt it. He’s one of the richest men in Britain. But he’s a shrewd businessman. He’s got planning permission for a new scheme on the edge of town, affordable housing, and it’s on the edge of his estate. He could have just sold the land but he’s developing it himself, with the council. Six hundred new homes for £200,000 apiece, and he’ll take half the profit. But my guess is where your farmhouse is concerned, he just wanted it lived in.’

  ‘I’d love to see your farm,’ Lottie said impulsively. ‘I’ve never seen a real, working farm.’

  ‘You’re welcome any time I’m home. If you want to bring the girls, lambing time is best.’

  ‘Is the lamb in the play yours?’

  Sally laughed. ‘That’s just the product of our ram getting out too soon and covering a couple of ewes bef
ore we could stop him, randy old thing. Any lambs you see this side of March are usually mistakes, as it’s too cold.’

  All this goes through her head on Christmas Eve. The previous tenant must have bathed in this bath, and slept in my bed, she thinks. Poor Oliver Randall, what brought a killer to his door?

  The snow outside still falls, it’s freezing. My hair smells of onion, she thinks, and washes it quickly before she has time to consider how uncomfortable drying it in an icy bedroom will be. The mauve bathroom walls make it seem even icier, somehow. As soon as I’m over Christmas, she thinks, I’ll repaint it. It’s too vile to be endured.

  When she emerges from the bathroom, Quentin is there, wearing a grim expression and the striped pyjamas that make him look like a 1920s convict.

  ‘I hope your offer still stands.’

  It’s on the tip of Lottie’s tongue to retort that it doesn’t. She says stiffly, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your bedroom is bloody freezing. You need an electric fan.’

  ‘The last time I looked the oil tank is only a quarter full.’

  Quentin looks startled, then embarrassed. ‘I’ve just paid for the oil tank to be refilled after Boxing Day.’

  ‘I can’t pay you back my half.’

  Quentin is silent for a moment. ‘Think of it as my Christmas present.’

  ‘To yourself,’ she says. ‘One moment.’

  He watches while she takes a fresh towel, wraps it in a long, tight sausage, and positions this in the exact middle of the mattress.

  ‘That’s—’ Quentin gives a snort.

  She says, fiercely, ‘You keep to that side, or you’re out.’

  ‘Fine. The marital Maginot Line will not be crossed.’

  They both open their books. Lottie is too angry with herself to concentrate. This man has given grief to her children, broken her heart, ruined their future and made her poor. He never apologises.

  I thought you were the best of men, and instead you are the worst, she told him. Trust is like a bowl, the easiest thing in the world to break, yet once broken its shards are sharp as knives and virtually indestructible. You could perhaps find bits of her marriage in a thousand years, just as archaeologists do pottery.

  She switches off her light with a snap, and he does the same. The room is plunged into total darkness.

  Lottie lies there, tensely, and then Quentin murmurs,

  ‘Westron wynde, when wilt thou blow,

  The small raine down can raine …’

  She remembers the poem, and continues it silently,

  ‘Christ, if my love were in my arms,

  And I in my bed again.’

  Tears stream down her face silently. That needy, warm-blooded mammalian heart is more treacherous than any snake’s. Pig, she thinks fiercely. Stupid, adulterous, selfish pig.

  Then it comes to her that he, too, is miserable, frightened, lonely and cold.

  ‘Good night, Quentin.’

  ‘Good night, Lottie.’ There is a long pause. ‘And thank you.’ In sleep, people can run frantically away from each other or lie as if thunderstruck. They can kick obstacles out of the way, roll together, roll away, embrace and fight. None of this will be recollected. In the longest hours of winter, sleep claims Home Farm. Even Marta, who usually rises several times a night to relieve her ancient bladder, enjoys an uninterrupted night. The flies clinging to the memory of summer; the mice dreaming of cats; the cats dreaming of mice; the little birds turning to ice inside hedgerows all slumber on.

  At dawn, there’s an insistent tapping on the window. They sit up, puzzled, and Quentin draws the curtain. There, on the slate ledge, is a robin. Its bright orange breast is fluffed up against the cold, its spindly legs look no bigger than threads. It taps again.

  ‘Oh!’ Lottie exclaims in delight, and Quentin opens the window. The robin swoops in on a knife of cold to perch on the frame of the wardrobe. It chirps again. They both laugh.

  ‘This is my gardening robin.’

  ‘It must be desperate to be so tame.’

  ‘Or hungry.’

  Lottie says, in a panic, ‘My goodness, the turkey! It’ll be raw.’

  ‘I put it into the oven an hour ago while you were sleeping.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  They exchange glances, slightly puzzled by how polite they are able to be. But why shouldn’t good manners come into marriage? Lottie thinks. We say please and thank you to everyone else in our lives, just somehow not to each other.

  A moment later, the girls bounce in to open their stockings. They’re at the age when, like the Mayans, they value chocolate more than gold. The traditional trinkets and treats are discovered with glee. Only then is the robin noticed.

  ‘Oh!’ Rosie whispers.

  ‘Is he real?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The girls become very still, thrilled. Eventually, the robin flies whirringly downstairs to the kitchen, where it eats a number of breadcrumbs with a bold yet inquisitive air. Then it fluffs its feathers up, and settles in on the Christmas tree to roost. Guiltily, Lottie puts on her thickest socks and jumper, and fills up the bird feeders outside. She has bought some fat balls and peanuts; the poor things that have survived the night attack these ravenously. The feeders will be emptied by nightfall.

  Quentin is chopping and frying. He loves cooking as she never will, and seeing him relaxed like this makes her less stiff towards him.

  ‘I’ll do the potatoes, and the sprouts,’ she says.

  There is comfort in following the pattern ordained by habit, the BBC and family tradition. Xan wakes at noon, and shortly after this, Quentin’s parents arrive in their ancient red Ford, parking as close as possible to the front door. Naomi supports her husband, who is so frail he can hardly walk. She’s still bright and strong; like Marta, she has an active life and many friends and interests. The two women like each other, sharing a keen interest in their grandchildren.

  ‘Ian sends his love,’ her mother-in-law says. ‘The champagne is from him.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Quentin says. His indifference to his grown-up son is yet another thing that irks Lottie. She’d like her daughters to get to know their half-brother; his exclusion is rude, and wrong. Naomi, she discovered not so long ago, has been communicating with Ian ever since childhood, and says he’s lovely, but she’s barely met her stepson because Quentin finds him boring.

  After everyone is gathered, the children are allowed to open their gifts in a frenzy of delight. Then the adults follow.

  ‘Oh darling, this is lovely!’ Lottie exclaims, stroking her new cashmere scarf. Its exquisite softness, and pure green dye must have cost Xan a good deal more than the stipulated maximum of £10. He’s gruff about how he can afford it now he’s working; I must talk with Marta about university, Lottie thinks. She goes to the kitchen with Naomi to make the final preparations for the lunch. The table, with its red cloth and centrepiece of holly and ivy berries surrounding tea-lights in tumblers, looks lovely.

  ‘So, are you happy here?’ Naomi asks, once the pots are bubbling.

  ‘Apart from the circumstances, fine,’ Quentin says, coming in.

  Lottie turns away, and rests her forehead on the cold glass of a window. There’s no point being nice to her husband, because the moment she tries he’s vile again.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Xan asks.

  ‘Not really.’

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, he puts his arms around her and gives her a quick hug.

  ‘We’ll be fine, Mum. We love you, even if Dud doesn’t.’

  ‘I know – I know. Thanks.’

  If only, Lottie thinks, that was enough for me.

  14

  Swim, or Drown

  Left alone with Quentin after Christmas, Xan is apprehensive. They’ve not spent any time together for years, and Xan’s rage at his stepfather is even higher because of Quentin’s behaviour to his own parents.

  Xan is fond of Hugh and Naomi. Naomi has always been kind and warm, as well as a fantastic cook and potter: he still
has some of the quirky little animals she made for him as a child – toads, pigs and fish, the glazed clay grooved or scaled – they might have been twee but are collected as art. He can remember what Hugh was like only a few years ago, how vigorous and keen to engage in discussions about books and ideas, encouraging him to read not only English literature but European, American, African, Russian and Indian. He never dismissed what Xan said, drawing out his ideas, praising them, reformulating them and asking him questions. Some years later, Xan realised that his stepfather’s father had been a brilliant teacher, as well as a poet.

  They loved many authors in common, and it did not matter that Xan was encountering them for the first time, and Hugh for the last. ‘Inside a great novel, or poem, or play,’ he told Xan, ‘there is no time, only a place of joy where readers may meet and embrace each other. To share a love of reading is to share the best love of all, because although there is no democracy of taste, there is one of feeling.’

  The Bredins’ cottage was effectively insulated by its floor-to-ceiling shelves of books; their cat-litter tray was lined with copies of the TLS (which justified the cost of subscriptions because it occasionally published Hugh’s poems). Toppling towers of the Spectator, the New Statesman, the London Review of Books and the Rambler were piled by the loo – whether as emergency literature or emergency toilet paper was never entirely clear – and all kinds of things from a wobbly table to a door which tended to swing open were kept functioning by wedges of paperbacks. It was eccentric, and almost heroically filthy, but also a place of enchantment. Xan loved staying up by the fire, talking to Hugh until long after midnight, when his family visited.

  ‘I wish Quentin liked books as much as you do,’ he said.

  ‘My son doesn’t read,’ Hugh told him. ‘That is, he reads about history, but history is just a higher form of journalism. People like him think facts are the truth.’