Coming Home To Holly Close Farm

by Julie Houston

  ‘Oh, great idea,’ Josh agreed. ‘Not been over to Leeds for ages. We’ll all come, make an evening of it.’

  ‘Sorry, Josh.’ Corey paused and then said seriously, ‘Charlie and I have things to discuss re the new society.’

  New society? Josh and I stared at him.

  ‘Slobs.’ Corey returned the stare, looking us both up and down.

  ‘Sorry?’ Josh and I spoke as one. Slobs? What was Corey insinuating? I knew Josh and I were both looking pretty dirty and dishevelled after a day helping the builders with some bricklaying and also Daisy to cut down a couple of trees that were obscuring the view, but calling us both slobs wasn’t overly polite.

  ‘Society for the Liberation of Badgers,’ Corey deadpanned. ‘Charlie and I need to discuss tactics for the next one.’

  Josh continued to stare as Corey and I both started to laugh and then couldn’t stop. ‘You obviously had to be there,’ he sniffed disparagingly. He turned to where the builders were packing up their things. ‘Pub anyone?’

  *

  We’d driven our respective cars back to the bungalow where I’d had a bit of a meltdown. What the hell was I going to wear? I rifled feverishly through my wardrobe as well as Daisy’s, but nothing jumped out at me. I really wanted to look good, and then, at the bottom of my wardrobe, I found it: the perfect thing for a cold January night: a long scarlet cashmere sweater dress, still in its Karen Millen bag, that I’d bought the day before being thrown out of Dominic’s apartment. Dominic had promised to take me to The Ivy and I’d wanted to wear something special, convinced he was going to pop the question.

  I smiled at myself in the mirror as I pulled the dress over my head, luxuriating in its softness. Long black suede boots of Daisy’s, bright red lipstick and lots of mascara and I was ready. Forty minutes later and Corey and I were sitting in The Maven on Call Lane in the centre of Leeds, drinking Mojitos.

  ‘So,’ Corey said, once we were comfortable on the high stools and the alcohol was going down nicely, ‘important question: how is Madge? Really? I’d love to meet her properly if she’s up to it?’

  ‘Well, no one can quite believe it. I mean, she could possibly have another stroke any time, but, typical of Madge – feisty old woman that she is – she seems to be pulling through.’ She’s managing to talk a bit – slightly slurred, as you’d imagine – but she’s communicating by writing things down with her good hand.’

  Corey smiled. ‘Amazing.’

  ‘They’ve done some tests and it doesn’t appear to have been the worst type of stroke.’

  ‘But even so? She’s ninety-four?’

  ‘Tell me about it. She really is a tough old bird.’ I frowned. ‘Do you think it’s because we’ve all been talking about James, telling her he’s alive and well?’

  ‘Quite possibly. Do you think she’d be up to seeing him?’

  ‘She said not.’

  ‘No?’ Corey frowned. ‘Why not?’

  ‘She said, “Not like this. I don’t want him to see this ugly old woman. I want him to remember me as I was: as a lovely young girl in my WAAF uniform.”’

  ‘Oh.’ Corey’s face fell. ‘James wants me to bring him up. You know, to see her.’

  ‘Ooh, doesn’t that send shivers down your spine? Gosh, I’d really like to be there at any reunion.’

  We smiled at each other, both lost in our own thoughts and then Corey asked, ‘And Josh the builder?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He was the guy monopolising you on the speed dating evening. I recognised him.’

  ‘I’ve known him years.’

  ‘Old boyfriend or current?’ Corey smiled.

  ‘He broke my heart when I was seventeen,’ I laughed. ‘Now, shall we just say, if we’re not careful he’ll have us dressed – and undressed – as characters from Poldark or… or Dr Zhivago.’

  ‘What?’ Corey began to laugh and, by the time I’d related the story of the Christmas Eve James Bond party in all its gruesome detail, Corey was wiping away the tears. ‘That is hilarious.’

  ‘It wasn’t at the time,’ I said ruefully.

  ‘And then to cap it all you became a founder member of Slobs.’ Corey was laughing even more.

  ‘I’m really glad you’ve a sense of humour, Corey.’ Dominic, I suddenly realised, hadn’t. I couldn’t think of one occasion when we’d laughed at some daft thing one of us had said, never mind been verging on the pant-wetting state of hilarity.

  We grinned at each other for a long time and then he said ruefully, ‘I do appear to have lost it over the past year or so.’

  ‘Has it been pretty awful?’

  ‘It has. You begin to think, is it me? Did I do something wrong? Will I ever be able to trust anyone again?’ Corey frowned. ‘All I’m bothered about now is Milo. I need to keep on good terms with Rowena so I can see him as often as possible.’

  ‘That’s not going to be easy with you in London and him in Manchester.’

  ‘No, that’s why I’ve been here in Leeds all afternoon, discussing a temporary move up to the northern office.’ Corey smiled at me and took my hand. ‘As from next week I’m seconded up here for six months.’

  ‘Really?’ I squeaked, a great daft smile on my face. And then, not wanting to appear over eager, lowered my voice to a more appropriate level. ‘Really?’ I repeated, nodding my head sagely like some trying-to-be-interested politician.

  ‘Really,’ he grinned, then hesitated. ‘You’re not thinking of heading back to London once you’re finished with Holly Close Farm, are you?’

  ‘If you’d asked me that, even a few weeks ago,’ I smiled, ‘I’d have said that was my intention.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘And now,’ I said, looking deep into Corey’s beautiful brown eyes, ‘it’s the last thing on my mind.

  *

  David Henderson obviously knew people in high places and, by the time we were into the middle of February, work had started on the actual farmhouse. The cottage was already divided into two and the skeleton of the extension – which would become large, modern kitchens overlooking the herb garden – already in place. Libby Westmoreland couldn’t keep away from the site, and most days she’d wrap Lysander up against the cold and drive down to see what progress was being made. ‘It’s like watching a kettle boil,’ I teased her. ‘You need to stay away for at least a week and then you’ll begin to see a difference.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ she laughed, ‘but it’s so exciting, isn’t it?’ She gave Lysander, who was entombed in his carrier on her back, a little jiggle and then gave me a knowing grin. ‘And you seem a lot happier now than when we first started all this back in November? Is it a certain rather gorgeous man who keeps appearing on site at the end of the day?’

  ‘Might be,’ I grinned back.

  Libby scrabbled in her bag and brought out some chocolate, offering me a piece. ‘Well, thank goodness for that, is all I can say,’ she said pointedly. ‘I brought chocolate to keep you sweet, just in case it wasn’t.’

  ‘Oh? Keep me sweet?’

  ‘Well, we were all terrified of you to begin with. Even David, and he’s not frightened of anyone.’ She paused and frowned. ‘Except perhaps Mandy, his wife.’

  ‘Oh, gosh, was I so bad?’

  ‘Worse.’ Libby laughed. ‘Honest, you were stuck up, arrogant, unapproachable and, quite frankly, terrifying.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, feeling a bit tearful.

  ‘Oh, but now, we really, really like you now,’ she said hastily. She coloured slightly and added, ‘I only just said what I said because we know you now. We know you were going through an awful time, that you didn’t really want to be here.’ She beamed. ‘Would you and Corey like to come over to our place for supper one night? Seb really gets on with Corey.’

  ‘How lovely, thank you.’ I gave Libby a big daft smile. Corey and I were being seen as a couple. Could life get any better?

  Apparently, it could.

  *

  Mum d
rove over to the bungalow with a letter that had arrived at home for me. ‘It looks important – you know, official,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d better let you have it.’

  I frowned, looking at the postcode. ‘It’s from London.’ I opened the letter and studied its contents. ‘I don’t quite understand this.’

  Mum peered over my shoulder at the words I was trying to decipher. ‘You’ve been nominated for some award, Charlie. Is that what it means? A newcomer to the industry award? Oh, my goodness, you clever thing.’ We both continued to read in silence apart from the occasional little ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ and ‘goodness’ that the pair of us couldn’t keep in. ‘Someone, impressed with your work for them, has put you forward for the Yorkshire Newcomer category.’

  ‘Well, that can only be the Hendersons. I’ve not done any work up here for anyone else – although, Mum, I’m beginning to get quite a few enquiries for more work. How kind is that? From what I can gather it’s a brand-new category,’ I added, reading overleaf. ‘The judges need to see not only the plans but the actual project I’m working on.’

  ‘Look, there’s a phone number here. You need to ring this woman, this Petra Wilkinson, to arrange a time when they can come and talk to you, see what you’re working on.’ Mum broke off. ‘Well done, darling. It was all fate, wasn’t it?’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘You know, Dominic’s wife catching him with his pants down.’

  ‘Mum!’ I winced at the expression and then grinned at her.

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t be up for a Yorkshire award and…’

  ‘And?’ I raised an eyebrow in her direction as if she were a child pushing the boundaries and I were its mother. I knew exactly where she was going.

  ‘And,’ she sighed dreamily, ‘you wouldn’t now have met the very gorgeous, and very, very eligible Corey Mackenzie.’

  *

  By the middle of March, Madge was able to return to Almast Haven. We knew she wasn’t happy at the prospect, but there didn’t really seem much option: she still needed some specialist nursing care, and Mum, Nancy, Daisy and I all helped to make her room as homely as possible, arranging it with her favourite books, plants and cushions, assuring her that it was only temporary and she’d eventually be able to return home to her bungalow.

  On the Monday morning of the same week, Corey, who by now was living a somewhat Bedouin-type existence moving nomadically between his new office and temporary accommodation in Leeds; his in-laws in Manchester to see his son at the weekend as well as with me at the bungalow whenever he could, said, somewhat shyly, ‘I’d really like you to meet Milo.’

  ‘Oh.’ I felt a rush of pleasure as he grabbed his things and simultaneously shoved a slice of toast into his mouth before heading for the door. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I think so… What about you? Do you think it’s a good idea?’

  ‘Oh, Corey, I don’t know.’ What I did know was that as much as I fancied Corey like mad, that we were now in a relationship, some part of me was holding back. What if he went back to Rowena? What if he was leading a totally double life and every weekend he wasn’t staying at his in-laws at all, but with his wife and son? I’d fallen for it before, hadn’t I?

  I could see he was feeling a bit upset at my uncertainty, but he shrugged it off. ‘Up to you. Have a think about it. Actually, I was thinking I’d go to over to pick Milo up after school on Friday afternoon, call in to see you on the building site – Milo adores diggers and things – and then drive us down to London for the weekend to see Mum and Uncle Jim.’

  ‘Us?’ Did he want me to meet his mother as well as his son?

  ‘Milo and me.’

  ‘OK.’ I felt ridiculously disappointed he wasn’t including me in the trip south.

  ‘Only two seats, Charlie,’ he said lightly, ‘or you could have come with us.’

  ‘Another time,’ I said, trying to smile. ‘I’m not sure I’m up to meeting parents as well as offspring.’

  34

  As it turned out, it was a good job I’d not been included in Corey’s trip back down to London. A phone call from a woman with a no-nonsense tone asked if it would be possible for herself and one other to meet me on site at Holly Close farm on Friday afternoon so they could take a look around my present project as well as scrutinise the plans for it.

  I must have spent hours that Friday morning deciding what to wear and practising conversations in my head, not only with the judges but also Corey’s son. Did I like children? Mum always said she’d only ever liked her own children and her own dogs – couldn’t stand anyone else’s – and I reckoned I was a bit the same. I knew nothing about seven-year-old boys apart from their tendency to be noisy and hard work. I wanted him to report back to his mother that I was gorgeous and friendly, but I also needed these judges to view me as professional, intelligent and smart. Jeans, suits, skirts, work boots and high heels were tried on, abandoned and beginning to pile up by the time I decided on clean black jeans, my best white shirt and black pin-striped suit jacket. I went a bit overboard with the make-up but tied my hair back neatly with a black ribbon. There, gorgeous and professional. I set off, crashing the gears on Madge’s car. It was holding out but, rather like its real owner, I wasn’t sure how much longer it would survive.

  ‘You off somewhere?’ Josh was already on site, sharing coffee and work for the day with Matis. They had the plans for the farm spread out on the table in the Portakabin office and both looked up as I walked through the door.

  ‘Yous looking very fabs,’ Matis said admiringly when I didn’t reply to Josh. I didn’t want him thinking I was getting dolled up to impress a seven-year-old and I certainly didn’t want anyone knowing I was up for some award. Too embarrassing for words.

  ‘It’s Friday,’ I said vaguely. ‘Any coffee left?’

  I spent the morning on a problem Josh had found with shifting an interior wall to make the kitchen in the farm much bigger and, by the afternoon, was able to work on a couple of tenders for a plot of land and an extension that had come my way through friends of the Hendersons. My business here was beginning to take off.

  ‘Be friendly and interested – brush up on Manchester United before he arrives – but don’t talk down to him and for God’s sake don’t snog his dad in front of him,’ Daisy advised when she arrived on site from the local garden centre where she’d spent the morning. ‘And you look great. Are you sure it’s just a little boy you’re trying to impress?’ She eyed me with suspicion.

  I’d told Mum not to tell anyone, even Dad and Daisy, about the award. If I went through to the next round then wonderful; if I didn’t, no one would be any the wiser and I wouldn’t have to bear their sympathy when it didn’t go my way. By three o’clock in the afternoon I was jittery both with nerves and a surfeit of caffeine. I knew Corey had arranged to leave work at lunchtime in order to drive over to Manchester, pick Milo up early from school and then drop by for half an hour or so to introduce me to his son and show him the farm that his great-great-uncle Jim had once wanted to buy many years before. The architectural awards people weren’t due until five which, I reckoned, gave me plenty of time to compose myself and swap my potential stepmother head (stop it, Charlie, I castigated myself: you’re running away with yourself) for my professional head. By four thirty, and no Corey, I was feeling a bit frantic. The Portakabin was neat and tidy, architectural plans laid out with regimental precision on the desk and I was now down to visiting the Portaloo every five minutes, either to go myself, add lipstick to my already red mouth or spray Jo Malone every time one of the builders vacated it.

  ‘What is the matter with you?’ Daisy tutted, as I eyed the mud she’d just trailed in and she, simultaneously, eyed the new bottles of squash and packets of M&S Jaffa cakes (lime as well as orange) I’d nipped out to buy at lunchtime to impress Milo. ‘He’s a little boy: throw him a packet of crisps and plug him into a PlayStation and he’ll be your mate for ever. Just don’t snog his dad.’

  ‘A PlayStation?’
I looked round in panic. ‘Where can I get one at this time?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, I was joking. And I really don’t think a seven-year-old boy cares what state the toilet is in.’

  ‘Someone’s here for yous, Charlie,’ Nojus, one of the young lads, opened the Portakabin door and called in.

  ‘Right, this is it,’ Daisy grinned. ‘Motherly face on, not a dad-pincher face. Go, girl.’ She pushed me to the door.

  It had been a mild, beautifully sunny, almost spring-like day and, as I walked down the steps of the Portakabin and made my way round to the makeshift car park, daylight was only just beginning to fade. The melodic notes of a blackbird, hoping to woo a mate with his song, were being delivered at full voice from his vantage point on the roof of the farm, while the fields and woodland around were already gearing up to take on the mantle of the coming season.

  I stopped, searching the plethora of cars and trucks for Corey’s Porsche. A large black Evoque was parked by the end of the lane, a tall figure, totally dressed in black to match the car, leaning against its closed door. My heart started pounding, making such a commotion in my chest I felt it might actually leave my body.

  ‘Hello, Charlie, how are you?’ The man smiled his heart-breaking grin and walked towards me.

  ‘Dominic? Oh my God,’ I whispered. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Hello, darling. God, I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Oh, Dominic.’ I ran towards him and he wrapped his arms round me, lifting me off the ground and kissing me with such force we nearly fell over. I breathed in his Dominic smell while he pulled the ribbon from my hair and buried his hands in its length.

  ‘Let me have a good look at you,’ he smiled. ‘You look wonderful. The north obviously agrees with you.’ He bent to kiss me again.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ I snapped, pulling away, ‘What the fuck are you doing here, Dominic?’