Footsteps padded down the corridor and the next face to pop round the door, wreathed in smiles, was Mum's.
‘Oh, here you all are. I wondered where you'd got to. There's a terrific band playing in the marquee and Alice says we must all come and dance. You're missing all the fun.’ As her eyes swept round the room, over our faces, her expression changed. It occurred to me she'd missed Caro slapping Felicity, because she'd been dealing with the pigs. She knew none of this.
‘What's going on?’
I saw real panic pass through Felicity's eyes. She glanced fearfully at Caro. Felicity valued Mum's high opinion very much. Her best friend. A woman of integrity. A woman whose moral rectitude could not be questioned.
Caro got off the bed.
‘Nothing,’ she said shortly, smoothing her skirt down. ‘I just felt a bit peculiar and came up for a lie-down. Then Tim came in bellyaching about his hip, and the next thing I knew, the whole bloody family was in here.’
Three people flashed her grateful looks. It seemed to encourage her, spur her on. She dug deep and found more. ‘Now come on,’ she said briskly, finding her shoes under the bed and shoving her feet in them. She threw on her jacket, looking much more like her old self, ‘we've got tea and cake to serve yet. And what a relief we have got cake, thanks to you, Barbara, and no thanks at all to Leonard.’
‘Yes, although thanks to Leonard,’ said Mum following her out, ‘all your sows have now been serviced.’
Caro stopped in her tracks in the doorway. ‘All of them?’ She turned aghast.
‘Yes, why?’
‘I was going to separate them. Let him have two at a time.’
‘Ah, I wondered. That's what I used to do. But Henry said no, Mum wants them all done at once.’
‘Did he, by jingo? Which means in six months' time six sows will produce up to fifteen piglets apiece, which means…’ she paused to do the maths, ‘ninety piglets. Oh, splendid.’ She looked a bit faint. Then something in her face lightened. She threw up her arms. ‘So what? What the hell do I care? It certainly won't be me sloshing the swill in the trough, will it?’
And flashing us all a final defiant glance, she marched off down the corridor.
33
Bella Edgeworth died in March. The funeral was held in the tiny village church next door to her house in Yorkshire, and the Hamilton family were amongst the mourners. Initially I'd hesitated, wondering if perhaps just Ant and Anna would be more appropriate, but Stacey rang and said please all come, so we did.
There were so many cars outside the church that day we had to park right at the far end of the village and walk. As we made our way, the three of us, on that breezy spring morning, a mixture of flashing bright sunshine and hurrying clouds, the bells tolling slowly and relentlessly, getting ever louder as we approached, it turned into one of the longest walks I'd ever taken. We arrived in silence, along with other equally hushed little groups of dark-suited people. My throat was so constricted I could barely breathe. Stacey, however, at the church door with Ted beside her, greeting everyone, was having none of that. She was wearing a floaty white skirt and a pink camisole and cardigan, and her blonde hair fell in a shining sheet around her shoulders. It occurred to me she looked like an angel. On receiving our hugs and whispered condolences, our voices catching, she thanked us, but we were told firmly as she handed us the order of service: ‘This is a celebration of her life. Mum and I had a lot of time to plan this, and it's what we both wanted. I'm fine.’
I suspected she wasn't, but she was doing a good job of hiding it. And if we could help by belting out ‘All things bright and beautiful’ and not, I noticed, ‘The Lord's my shepherd’, then we jolly well would. The tiny church was heaving; people were standing outside in the churchyard too, and we fairly raised the rafters. Then we listened as two of Bella's best friends read: first from Genesis Chapter One – Bella's choice; nothing tear-jerking about being in the next room waiting, just a factual account of how God made the world in seven days – and then her favourite Shakespeare sonnet, the one about the darling buds of May. She'd been thinking of Stacey, I thought as I listened. Didn't want anything that would set her daughter off. Just a few gentle reminders of what a beautiful world it still was out there.
Stacey didn't read, but back at the house, where we all gratefully went for tea and sandwiches later, much needed after the burial, she got up on a kitchen chair and said a few words. Blushing to the roots of her blonde hair, even her scalp turning pink, she stammered to begin with, but she got those words out: about how her mum would have liked to see everyone in her kitchen like this, eating her home-made jam and the scones she'd made herself and put in the freezer. How pleased she'd be to see us admiring her garden, how thrilled she'd be that the magnolia was out. How Stacey wished she was here, but knew she was very much amongst us, smiling and happy, no longer in pain, and that, however sad it was to lose her, she, Stacey, was glad she was no longer suffering. Those of us who'd held it together in church for Stacey's sake completely lost it now, myself included. I'm not sure there was a dry eye in the house.
Ted, beside me, mopped furiously with his huge white hanky, pulling faces to stem the flow, but Stacey ignored our blubbing. She looked her grandfather firmly in his damp eye and thanked him for all he'd done, for the rock he'd been. Then, to my surprise, she introduced Ant as her father, Anna as her half-sister and referred kindly to Anna's mum, who'd offered her a home in Oxford. It wasn't, she went on, that she was deserting her Yorkshire friends and family: her roots – her heart – she insisted, would always be in the High Peaks, she'd always be a Yorkshire lass, it was just that her mum, Bella, had wanted her life to move on: for there to be a natural progression, and for her to get to know her father properly. It was a straightforward, upfront little speech, one she'd clearly practised in her bedroom a few times, maybe even in front of her mother, but it told everyone precisely what the score was. It didn't exactly spare Ant's blushes, who, as everyone turned to peer at this Johnny-come-lately, went puce. It ended with a glass of champagne raised – ‘To Mum. The best a girl could ever have. My world. My everything.’ This last bit, I suspected Bella hadn't heard, and it was the only bit where Stacey's voice cracked.
‘To Bella!’ we all roared, to cover it, as she was helped down from her chair by Ant. Then the tea cups were put away and out came the wine and the drinking started in earnest.
Stacey was hugged by school friends with whispered assurances she'd done ‘really really well’, then, likewise by teachers, and neighbours and friends of Bella's. I felt very proud of her. I waited for my turn to come and told her so.
‘Was it OK?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Not too schmaltzy? Mum and I felt something should be said before I just sort of – disappeared; thought it would be a good moment with everyone gathered. We also thought it might stem the flow of – oh, didn't you know?’ She folded her arms and leaned on an imaginary garden fence, broadening her accent: ‘There's a father. Oh, aye, 'e's finally cum out the woodwork. Didn't want to know 'er when she was a bairn, but now she's going to college, now she's proving herself to be an asset…’ She rolled her eyes meaningfully. I laughed.
And actually, we had a few laughs that day, which made it a very different wake to the only other one I'd been to, my father's. But then Dad had died so suddenly, no one had been in any way prepared. Whereas Bella's death, although at a much younger age, so therefore more tragic, had been foreseen, so that now people were moving about her house remembering her fondly, picking up photographs, reminiscing about the good times, whereas at Dad's we'd all been white-faced and stricken. I remembered the shock, the pain. Knowing surely took the shock away? Although, I realized, looking at Ted, who was chatting away gamely but there was no disguising the grief in his eyes, it didn't do much for the pain.
Despite Stacey's brave words, it was surely the longest day of her short life too, and towards the end of the afternoon she looked very tired. There were more brave words though, as we said goodbye.
‘I think it's a good idea. It's a lovely name. What did your mum think?’ I could have kicked myself. Already looking for back-up, the first time she'd turned to me.
‘It was her idea. But I don't know. I don't want people to think I'm… you know, reinventing myself, or anything.’ She chewed her thumbnail.
This time I didn't miss a beat. ‘That's just another word for taking life by the scruff of its neck. And there's absolutely nothing wrong with that.’
She looked pleased, and relieved. ‘Although,’ she hesitated, ‘I might still be Stacey at home.’
This last word wasn't lost on me either, and as we drove away from that mellow stone house, up the snaking lane that wound through the green valley to the top of the hill, I felt moved and humbled beyond belief. What a privilege it was going to be to have her, I realized. To know her. To make her part of us. As I looked out of the car window to the huge shifting sky, the rushing clouds above, I made a silent promise to her mother. I know she's rare and valuable. I know what we have here. I shall cherish her accordingly.
Six months later and Stacey was beside me again. Yet again we were surrounded by bottles, yet again we were preparing for a party, only this time, it was of a very different nature, and she was the one helping me. Together we heaved clanking boxes into the boot of the car outside the farmhouse, preparing to take them to an occasion I don't think any of us had seen coming.
‘Beer, d'you think?’ I paused, resting a box of glasses on my knee. ‘For the men? Or will they be happy with Pimm's?’
Stacey looked doubtfully at our groaning boot. ‘Isn't there an ad where they load the truck with beer and then some Aussie says what about a bottle of sherry for the Sheilas and the whole thing collapses?’
‘And I don't want a collapsing car, so let's forget it. The boys can drink Pimm's and lump it. Where's Anna?’ I turned to look back at the house as I slammed the boot shut. Stacey grinned and got in the front seat.
‘Still dithering about what to wear.’
‘Come on, Anna!’ I yelled back at the open front door. ‘We're going!’ No response. ‘Anna!’ Eventually she appeared at the doorway with a big box of Hula Hoops, her only responsibility.
‘And don't forget to lock the door,’ I called to her.
It was odd, I thought, how, since Stacey had arrived, Anna had slipped effortlessly into the role of little sister. I watched as she tried to lock the front door whilst balancing the box of crisps on her knee, too lazy to put it down and do the job properly. She seemed happy to let Stacey play the part of elder statesman, whilst she, rather refreshingly, became the hopeless kid; the one Stacey and I exchanged indulgent glances about. We traded just such a look now as, predictably, Anna dropped the whole lot. Loads of little shiny red packets burst out of the box onto the yard.
‘Sorry!’ She looked up helplessly as Stacey and I went to help.
Happily the packets weren't too disgusting as the yard had recently been resurfaced, and we brushed them down and slung them back in the box. Yes, amazing what half a hundredweight of crunchy gravel did, I thought as I followed the girls back to the car. Amazing what had happened to the farm full stop, I reflected as I got in and pulled my seat belt across. I glanced up at the crumbling façade, already covered with scaffolding, repointing work scheduled to start next week.
Ah yes, the farm: which had to be sold, that much was certain; everyone, even Caro, agreed. And she hadn't messed about. A frightfully upmarket estate agent called Peregrine had appeared at the double, with matching Volvo and wellies, and after lots of tutting about rising damp and dry rot, admitted it was worth a fortune, Mrs Milligan. Pound signs rotated in Caro's eyes as she personally, elbowing Peregrine out of the way, oversaw the bidding war that got underway. The victor, Mick Arnold, a local property developer, eventually paid way over the asking price.
‘Twenty-five per cent more!’ squeaked Caro excitedly when I popped round one morning for a coffee. ‘Which means we can afford the house I've seen with the walled garden. Six bedrooms! And a Chalon kitchen.’
‘Good.’ I was thrilled for her. Knew it was genuinely what she wanted now. Knew that, when she'd crossed the line that meant leaving the farm, she'd done it in a leap. Landed on the other side without looking back. It was what Tim and the children wanted too, had wanted, probably for some time, and there'd been a collective, almost audible, sigh of relief.
‘Have you seen the new house?’ I asked the children now as they lounged across the kitchen table, methodically stripping a bunch of grapes Caro had just put in a bowl in the middle.
‘Not yet. But I know where it is,’ Jack told me with his mouth full. ‘Miles Jackson lives in the same road.’
‘Oh, it's terribly convenient,’ gushed Caro, pouring out coffee at the Aga as Tim came in. ‘The children can even walk to school.’
‘And the shops,’ Jack reminded her, spitting pips into his hand. ‘And the cinema.’
‘And Ladbrokes,’ added Henry, who nursed private aspirations to become a gambler. His father aimed a mock swipe at his head as he passed.
‘It's literally just off the Banbury Road, in Westgate Avenue,’ Caro told me happily.
‘Oh, we looked there.’ I turned, surprised, as she delivered a mug of coffee to me over my shoulder. ‘But Ant thought it was too grand.’
‘Not for us it's not,’ snorted Caro, sitting down at the far end of the table with an enormous Designers Guild samples book. ‘But you're right, it is grand. It's much bigger than your house, Evie.’
I laughed and picked up my coffee. ‘Good old Mick Arnold.’
‘And look what he's doing to the place,’ said Tim in awed tones, unrolling plans and spreading them on the table in front of me. ‘Look at this!’
I moved my mug and dutifully inspected.
‘All the barns are being converted,’ he explained, running his finger across the drawings, ‘and they all look out onto a courtyard in the middle, here.’
I went cold. ‘What – you mean like a sort of complex?’
‘Well, there'll be six of them in all, oh, and a couple of flats. Tiny gardens, obviously.’
‘Right.’ I swallowed. ‘And the farmhouse?’
He unrolled another sheet. ‘Oh, the house. Blimey, Evie, you've no idea. It's going to be tarted up beyond belief. Every bedroom gets an ensuite, and then they're digging down to make an indoor cinema, can you believe it? And there's going to be a huge extension at the back, with a gymnasium and a sauna.’
‘Christ. And what's this?’
Tim peered. Turned his head round to get a better view. ‘Not sure. Think it's a fountain.’
‘It is,’ affirmed Caro, glasses perched on her nose, flicking efficiently through pages of stripy wallpaper. ‘They're doing a sort of mini Versailles in the yard. Very tasteful, apparently; water sprouting from cherubs and all set in a cobbled circle.’
‘Yuck.’
Tim grinned as he rolled up the plans. ‘Yuck, but he's paying through the nose for it, Evie.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘And it's only a pile of bricks and mortar, after all. Not hearts and minds.’ He gently jerked his head to his children at the other end of the table, all leaning eagerly over Caro's shoulder, picking wallpaper for their teenage bedrooms off the Banbury Road.
Yes, it was only bricks and mortar, I thought as I left that day. Before I got in the car, though, I stood in the yard where the fountain would be. Gazed at the barn where Grandpa had stacked hay for a herd of eighty Guernseys, Dad for twenty, and Tim for a couple of token gestures. Rusting machinery crouched there now, looking out impotently at the three hundred acres of very average land, which no doubt would be parcelled up too, eventually, and sold as individual plots for yet more desirable homes; more ribbon development in the Oxfordshire countryside. My hair whipped around my face as I narrowed my eyes to the familiar view: the rolling hills, the swaying chestnuts,
no longer with a marquee flapping in the foreground. I supposed they'd still leave the willows standing, and the river would still run through the valley as it always had done – you can't stop a river, can you? I wondered nervously. But around it would be Willow Close. Or Riverside Walk. Yes, and why not? I thought, swallowing. I walked quickly to the car. People had to live somewhere, didn't they? Why shouldn't it be in my backyard?
I said as much to Ant that evening, with forced jollity: telling him about mini Versailles; making a joke of it as Caro had. I told him about the barn conversions, and how, if they played their cards right, that little community could go up to the tarted-up farmhouse and watch a movie in the sunken cinema of a Saturday night; take a bag of popcorn. Told him progress was good, and it was time the farm moved on.
‘What, and become unaffordable executive housing?’
‘Well, affordable to some.’
‘Yes, but not the people who live in the village who need it. Not Madge and Tom Ure's children, who are desperate to stay. Londoners, second homers. City boys with fat bonuses, that's who'll be swelling the ranks of the village. And you call that progress.’
‘Well, anyway,’ I laid the table with something of a clatter, dropping the knives, ‘it's all going through, and Tim and Caro are thrilled.’
The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton Page 40
