‘Don’t bother!’ Tommy shouted. ‘If you can’t be here during the week, you’re no use to us. If you go you can stay away all together.’
‘Tommy!’ Rachel’s softer voice pleaded. ‘Don’t say things you’ll regret.’
‘Regret? I regret that the boys came back when the war ended and made us believe everything would go back to normal. That’s what I regret!’
‘Oh, why don’t you sell up?’ Ryan shouted. ‘Building land is in demand at the moment, so take the money and enjoy a few years of ease.’
‘I might just do that.’
‘Good.’
‘Tomorrow I’ll see about getting the place surveyed and valued. Right? Why should we work all the hours of daylight just for you to inherit it all when you don’t care. Tomorrow I’ll start things moving. Your home, your inheritance, will go on the market. How d’you feel about that, eh?’
‘It’s fine, Dad. Sell up, buy a small place and use the money for you and Mam to have a good time. It really will be for the best.’
‘You wouldn’t get anything out of it, mind, so don’t think you will. Any money will go to charity. No one in this family deserves anything – your heart isn’t here so why should you benefit?’
‘Just enjoy it, spend it all. Gareth and I can make our own way.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ Rachel interrupted softly, her face creased with distress.
Tommy stood up and glared at her. ‘I’m not the one talking rubbish. Look to your sons if you want to listen to rubbish, giving up on everything we’ve worked for, keeping it going through the war, and for what? Two useless, ungrateful—’
‘It’s a waste of time talking to you,’ Owen heard Ryan say. Then he heard the scuffle of feet on the wooden floor and moved swiftly towards the back door. He rattled the latch loudly, and, calling the dogs waiting outside, walked through the kitchen and into the hall again.
‘Anyone home?’ he called. He had to move to one side as Ryan left the parlour, pushing past him, hardly aware he was there, his eyes staring straight ahead, glazed with anger. ‘What’s happened?’ Owen asked, going in to see his aunt and uncle staring at the door through which Ryan had just stormed out.
‘Nothing,’ Tommy snapped. ‘Nothing to do with you.’
Owen looked away, trying to ignore his uncle’s angry words. He forced a smile and looked at Rachel for an explanation.
‘Just another spat between your uncle and our Ryan,’ was all she said.
‘Come on, it’s more than that, surely?’
‘Oh go away, Owen, it isn’t any of your business,’ Tommy snapped. ‘Have you checked the hedges at the top of the field near the power pylon?’
‘Not yet, I thought I’d have a cup of tea first.’
‘Go and do it then, will you?’
Rachel led him out. ‘Best you go, this isn’t the time to talk to him. Come for your dinner at one, all right?’
‘If it’s to do with the farm, shouldn’t I be told what’s going on?’
‘Nothing’s going on, just an argument, that’s all.’ She hushed away his protests, insisting it wasn’t anything that concerned him, and he went out, carrying the gun without which he rarely went on to the hill, and stormed up to where the pylon stood like a giant meccano toy. He half-heartedly checked the hedge, marking with string the areas that might need attention, then sat on the bank and looked around him.
This land was as much his as Gareth and Ryan’s, yet they talked about selling without even discussing it with him. As he sat listening to skylarks singing their summery songs and the contented sound of sheep chewing the sweet green grass close by he calmed down. Perhaps thinking of selling this beautiful place was nothing more than momentary madness, a way of adding force to an argument, fuelling a bitterness that was intended to hurt. Well it certainly hurt me, he thought.
One of the routines of running the farm was to have a weekly discussion, where grievances could be sorted, and problems solved. To Owen’s chagrin, many other meetings took place to which he was not invited. Perhaps he might bring up the idea of selling at the next meeting he attended, pretend he’d heard a rumour in the town. That would be easily believed. Rumours grew like mushrooms but lasted longer. He might even start one himself; that wouldn’t be difficult, either.
The following day he went to the post office. The queue was often out into the pavement, especially on pensions day, but today it waggled its way down past the row of houses and around into a side lane.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked a young woman hurrying out of the shop carrying a few small packages.
‘Sweets are going on ration again on the fourteenth and Stella is selling all she has before the restrictions start.’
‘But they only came off ration in April.’
‘Too many greedy people with plenty of money, I suppose,’ the young woman said as she hurried off.
Owen went into the café and sat nursing a cup of tea, hoping the queue would soon disappear. To his embarrassment, he saw Sarah coming in. He didn’t recognize her at first, used to seeing her only rarely and then dressed shabbily in overalls, her hair untidy after being fastened in a scarf or safety hat from the factory. Today she was dressed in a pretty summer dress and talking animatedly to Nerys Bowen from the dress shop. His stomach jerked with what could only be jealousy as he wondered if she had found a man friend for whom it was worth making an effort.
Leaving his tea unfinished, he waited until Sarah and Nerys were busy studying the menu and sidled out. The queue at the post office had dispersed and he went in and asked for a postal order to send off for some ex-army boots that he hoped would be suitable for the autumn days to come. He looked at Stella and gave a half-hearted laugh. ‘I’m amazed at the gossip that this town comes up with.’
‘I’m not, nothing surprises me any more,’ Stella said, handing him his purchases. Her eyes brightened as she asked, ‘Come on, what’s the latest then?’
‘I’ve heard from two sources that my aunt and uncle have agreed to sell Treweather Farm for a company to build an estate of houses.’
‘Never!’
‘Two different people asked me if it’s true.’
‘And is it?’
‘If it was I daren’t tell you, Mrs Jones. Rumours can do so much harm, can’t they?’ He left the shop, and when he glanced back inside Stella was already on the telephone, her eyes brighter than ever.
When he reached the farmhouse, a meal was almost ready and Rachel, red faced from the heat of the fire, was placing the last of the serving dishes on the huge table, where a silent Ryan and Tommy sat. Owen went to wash his hands and when he returned the tableau hadn’t moved.
‘I heard a stupid rumour this morning,’ he said brightly. ‘Someone reckons Treweather Farm is up for sale to one of these firms who build dozens of houses all close together like in towns. As if anyone would want to live in a place like that. Daft, eh?’
In silence, Ryan and Tommy began to eat.
*
When it was time for Ryan to leave, he was still not speaking to his father. He had hoped to have a party, invite some of his friends for a cheerful send-off before attending the summer school where he would ‘sit in’ on lessons and prepare for college that autumn. But the atmosphere in the house made that impossible, so instead he invited Sophie out to a restaurant a little way out of town.
Just before the time he’d arranged to call for her, he went to get the van, but it wasn’t there.
‘Owen?’ he called, running up the stairs to where Owen slept.
Owen opened his door and when Ryan asked where the van had been parked he said, ‘It’s at the garage. Your father said there was an oil leak or something. Why, did you need it? I thought you’d be too busy packing to need it today.’
‘I was taking Sophie out. Now I’ll have to cancel.’
‘Buses?’ Owen said with slight sarcasm.
‘I’ll cut through the wood.’
‘Not in those shoes, I hope? Or th
at suit. Demob suit, isn’t it?’
Giving no reply, Ryan hurriedly changed into wellingtons and a donkey jacket and, carrying his shoes, walked up the hill and through the wood into the lane.
‘Why don’t we stay here?’ Sophie suggested when he had explained. ‘I have soup, my cheese ration, fruit, some homemade bread and even a bottle of last year’s elderflower champagne. It’s too soon for this year’s bottling.’
‘It sounds perfect,’ he said, kissing her lightly on the cheek. He was aware of her pulling away from even that most innocent of salutes and felt chastened. And disappointed. He had hoped to reach an understanding with her before leaving; the promise of having her to return to whenever he had a free few days.
‘Dad and I have seriously quarrelled,’ he told her later as they sat in the garden and sipped the delicious wine as the day cooled. ‘I won’t be going home in my free time.’ He felt her start. Surely she wasn’t expecting him to ask if he might stay there?
‘I’ve arranged to stay at Elsie Clements’s guest-house,’ he went on. ‘Perhaps we can meet when I come back, and get to the restaurant I booked, eh?’
‘That would be lovely. I hope you enjoy the work and meeting new people. It will be very different from the semi-isolation of the farm.’
He stood, believing he could hear beneath the words a gentle dismissal. ‘I’ll write and let you now how I get on, shall I?’
‘Please, Ryan. I’d like that.’
She was edgy, and when he leaned forward to kiss her she backed away again. Embarrassed he picked up his wellingtons and old jacket and carried them, not wanting to stay and change in her presence.
She had seemed friendly, almost affectionate, but as soon as he had moved close she’d been afraid. Unsettled, he walked through the woodland for a long time before going back to the farm.
The next morning he left, Owen insisting he was unable to give him a lift, and, not willing to ask his father, he ordered a taxi. When he turned back to wave, only Owen was there to see him off, and he was smiling with what appeared to be delight at his departure.
Six
Sophie felt strangely bereft knowing Ryan had gone. There was embarrassment, too, remembering the way she had behaved, shrinking away from what must only have been a polite, friendly kiss, a farewell, a promise to keep in touch. What was the matter with her that she was so afraid of getting too close that she acted like a child?
She kept busy, trying to wipe out the fear of a lifetime of loneliness that was of her own making. How could she miss him? They hardly knew each other, and he hadn’t written, so he must have forgotten her once he made new friends among the students.
The weather was warm but with a threat of showers, and to cool off after a few hours working in the garden she took her basket and walked through the woods. The clouds darkened the air, and when she came out above the old farmhouse she hesitated, wondering whether to go down or head back home. Tempted by the possibility of some wild strawberries she went down.
The rain when it came was fast and furious, hitting the dusty ground like tiny arrows and making her run towards the farmhouse. To her surprise the door opened under her gentle push, and she went inside.
‘Who’s there?’ a voice called, and, looking up, Sophie saw Sarah coming down the stairs smiling a welcome. ‘Are you sheltering from the rain too?’
The rain brought its chill and they stood at the door clutching their cardigans around them, watching as the ground gradually became covered with water, creating a stream that headed for the lane.
‘You used to live here, didn’t you?’ Sophie said. ‘Are you reliving old memories?’
‘It’s hard for you to imagine Owen being anything but ill-tempered and solitary, but he wasn’t like that then. We were happy, until I messed everything up.’
‘We can usually overcome the consequences of our mistakes, but it was difficult in your case. If you’d talked about it you might have sorted things out.’
‘You’ve seen how he is with Bertie. And having suffered too, you’d think he’d at least be understanding towards the boy, even if he never forgave me.’
‘I thought he was a cousin and had lived with Rachel and Tommy all his life. How could he have suffered?’
‘They’ve always treated him the way he behaves towards Bertie, constantly reminding him of his place and the favour he owes them. They exclude him from meetings where decisions are made about the running of the farm and the only responsibility he has is for the accounts, which he takes to the accountant once a month. Even there he’s treated with suspicion. Tommy goes through every transaction as though Owen is likely to cheat them.
‘When I was with him we treated it as a joke, but after these years alone his resentment is growing. So why doesn’t he sympathize with a child in the same situation? If he’d really loved me he would at least have tried.’
Sophie was curious and longing to know more. But Sarah pushed open the door and saw that the summer shower was over. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘best we go before it starts again – or my dear ex-husband complains about us being here, walking on precious Treweather land.’
At the edge of the wood, a place where he often came to stare down at the place where he’d last been happy, Owen watched the two women leave the house and go their separate ways. Sarah had changed back from the dowdy woman working in the factory, careless about how she looked, into the attractive woman he had married. He stood for a long time after both women had disappeared, wrapped in dreams and memories, before turning and making his solitary way back to the farm.
Sophie had stopped to gather a few of her favourite herbs and picked a saucerful of the tiny wild strawberries growing against the hedge. As she wandered home through the dripping trees she thought about Owen. He was treated by the Treweathers more like a casual labourer than a member of the family, but she hadn’t realized how resentment had stirred his temper and aggressive attitude. If he’d had a childhood lacking in warmth, Sarah was right, it should have made him sympathetic to Bertie, who was jeered at, teased and called names he didn’t understand. Knowing of his sorry start in life, mothers discouraged their children from playing with him, as though he were tainted by his mother’s behaviour. So, seeing the child suffer as he had done, why did Owen show nothing but contempt? Unaware of being watched by the subject of her speculation, she walked home.
*
Sophie enjoyed helping in the garden, with Bob and occasionally Colin explaining what they were doing, and why. She usually helped with the never-ending task of weeding, sliding the long-handled hoe under the weeds – which she called wild flowers – snapping them as the ground was worked. Bertie was often there, too, especially on Saturdays when Sarah helped at the dress shop. He enjoyed sorting out the dandelions and plantains, ragwort and sow-thistle, pulling at them and occasionally falling backwards as they gave under his determined tugs.
She continued to watch over him at school, although he more or less ignored her there – afraid of teasing, she guessed. She enjoyed working with the children more and more but was still unable to respond to friendly approaches from the teachers and mothers. She tried to analyse how she felt and knew it wasn’t lack of confidence, just a determination never to be close enough for the questions to be asked. She couldn’t imagine ever being able to talk about the deaths of her family. Except maybe one day with Ryan. The only certain way of ensuring that she did not have to was to avoid more than the most brief and casual conversations. Bertie was an exception – she relaxed in the company of children too young to be aware of the horrors of war.
She was pleased to see that he was dressed better, and his shoes, although no longer smart and new, were at least a good fit. He had ‘daps’ – the local name for plimsolls – for PT and games and he carried his lunch in a neat box on a shoulder strap that had once been used to carry a gas mask. Even the teasing seemed less unpleasant. His knowledge of wild flowers and birds and the larger creatures of the woodland gave him a little prestige,
which the teachers encouraged.
Bertie was walking to Badgers Brook after school one day when the dirty old farm van stopped and Owen offered him a lift. His first instinct was to run, then he said, ‘I’m not going home, I’m going to Sophie’s.’
‘Hop in and I’ll take you.’
‘No thanks, I expect she’ll be walking up the lane to meet me.’
‘Tell your mother I’ll call and see her, will you?’
‘We don’t like visitors,’ Bertie said firmly. ‘There’s nowhere for them to sit, see.’
With mixed feelings Owen drove on.
He was waiting outside Nerys’s shop at closing time and he opened the van door and called to Sarah. Her hair flowed around her shoulders, a scarf was tied about her head with the ends hanging down on one shoulder and her face was carefully made up. She was wearing a pretty pink summer dress with a second long scarf around her neck. White sandals and a matching handbag, which she had been given by Nerys, added to the perfect outfit for a summer’s day. Owen found he was breathless, and his voice dropped to a whisper.
‘I’m going your way if you’d like a lift. Badgers Brook?’ he added as she hesitated.
She brushed the seat before getting in and he smiled in a surprisingly warm manner as he leaned over and made sure the door was firmly shut. ‘I remember how careless you were about car doors,’ he said.
He said nothing until they were past the shops and turning into the lane. ‘How do you feel about this divorce? he asked, slowing the van and pulling onto the grass verge.
‘After all this time it doesn’t make much difference, does it? Unless you want to marry – I’ve heard you and Daphne Boyd are friendly.’
‘The trouble is, Sarah, I still consider us to be married.’
‘You living in utter comfort at the farm and Bertie and me managing in one dreadful little room? I can’t say I agree with you. You and I stopped being man and wife when I left and you did nothing to stop me.’
A New Beginning Page 12
