Wyld Dreamers: a gripping drama about secrets from the past

by Pamela Holmes

  ‘It’s my sister,’ he says. ‘She was kicked by a horse and is in hospital with a broken jaw.’

  The policeman grimaces. ‘I’ve got a sister. Wouldn’t like that to happen to mine. Bit of a tricky day for you, all in all, eh?’

  It is fortunate that one of the policeman searching the property has a fondness for dogs. Seeing Molly in a pen with her pups distracts him. When his superior calls his team together, this sergeant does not admit he has not completed part of his search. The marijuana plants growing among the tomato and cucumbers in the greenhouse remain undiscovered.

  ‘Hallo?’ says Seymour.

  He hopes he does not sound as irritated as he feels. He didn’t want to do this low-rent catalogue job in the first place. Photographing leisure wear on second-grade models was not how he wanted to spend his time. But increasingly few design departments had the big budgets required for major fashion shoots these days. He wanted the job finished by mid-afternoon. Which was not going to happen if he was disturbed.

  ‘Seymour, hallo. It’s Naresh.’

  ‘Naresh? Oh, hi man. I haven’t had time today to call my lawyer friend, I’m busy doing…’

  Naresh interrupted: ‘I’m not calling about Sunil. It’s about Julian.’ Naresh speaks in a measured way. ‘He’s been arrested. His friend Simon and I saw him being taken away by the police. And Simon was beaten up. He’s here with me at the shop.’

  ‘What? What?’ Seymour stares at the receiver in his hand. ‘Hold on a minute, please.’

  Eleanor, hearing the tone of his response, is moving towards Seymour. He stalls her with a raised hand.

  ‘Eleanor, I have to leave for Somerset immediately. I’ll tell you everything later.’

  He heads off her question when she opens her mouth. ‘No questions. Stay here. Help Andrew complete the shoot.’

  He nods at one of the young men dressed in black, who stands up a little straighter.

  ‘The shot list is planned, the models are booked. This project must be finished today. Andrew and Eleanor will see that it is. Now excuse me.’

  That’s when he sees Amy on the far side of his studio. He shakes his head in frank disbelief, dips into a side room and shuts the door firmly behind him.

  ‘Hi Naresh, I’m back. Listen, can you or Simon get down to the police station? We need to get a message to Julian. Tell him my lawyer will be there as soon as possible. Until then, Julian should say nothing to anyone. Assure Julian that I’m on my way. And thank you. I won’t forget this, Naresh. ’

  Seymour leaves a message for his lawyer. Then he gathers his jacket and car keys and leaves the studio.

  Amy is pressed against the sofa as though she might melt into it.

  Eleanor glowers over her. ‘You never answered me, Amy. Why are you here?’

  ‘Getting a ride back to the farm,’ she says jumping up and piling down the stairs after Seymour.

  24

  Her favourite female singer is on the radio. Melanie’s husky voice is celebrating roller skates and her quirky song fills the car as Seymour edges his vehicle though the traffic. People on the pavements could be wearing skates, they whisk along so quickly. Amy sighs with relief.

  ‘Turn off the radio,’ Seymour snaps.

  She glances at the crowd. At least she’s not part of that frantic melee. She’s riding with her lover who, even if he’s grumpy, makes her feel like a starlet. She dismisses the memory of Eleanor’s last daggered look.

  Seymour eyes dart from driving mirror to side mirror, trying to spot a gap in the stream of cars. He grumbles when another driver pulls up too close behind him.

  She wants to stroke his neck. Instead she says: ‘I’ve just been to see my father.’

  Seymour changes down to a lower gear, accelerates and then slams on the brakes.

  ‘There’s so much I’ve got to tell you, Seymour. You never guess what. Dad’s getting married!’ Amy tries to sound jokey but tears are swelling. ‘Married? Seems a bit bloody sudden to me.’

  ‘You should be glad your father’s found someone. You’ll get used to the idea soon enough. He’ll be happier with a wife.’

  Was it a mistake to switch off the radio? Seymour wonders. At least the girl wouldn’t babble inanely. Can she only think about herself?

  ‘I can’t see what he sees in Vi. I mean she has this thing for teddies,’ Amy sneers. ‘Dad told me he’d buy me a dress for the wedding, as if that would make me feel better.’

  Though it would be nice to have a new dress, she thinks.

  As the traffic clears, the car picks up speed. Houses and flats and factories and shops whizz past. She considers it all with sympathy tinged with distaste and the warm glow of satisfaction that the life she’s chosen (or has it chosen her, she sometimes wonders) is the right one.

  These people will one day benefit from what she and her friends are doing, exploring a new way to live. One day they will understand that it is possible to live communally, to escape from the relentless clutches of consumerism and greed and to address the problems of the world in a spirit of love.

  She does not say any of this to Seymour. ‘What’s happened, darling? You seem a bit uptight.’

  ‘It’s Julian. Naresh Rao called, the man I introduced you to in the shop. Apparently there was a scrap with the local gang, and Julian got mixed up in it in some way.’

  ‘Julian? But he’s such a gentle spirit.’

  ‘I’m not sure why but they’ve taken him to the police station.’

  ‘Police? What are you saying?’

  ‘I understand he’s been arrested. Could he have had something on him?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you think he might have been carrying dope?’

  ‘Julian doesn’t smoke that often. I shouldn’t think so.’ She did not quite believe what she said but hoped it was true.

  ‘He should stick to drink, more dependable in my view and it’s legal. I’ve talked to him about drugs, you know, what with his history and everything.’

  ‘His history?’ Seymour doesn’t reply.

  The car crawls through lunchtime traffic in an area swallowed up by urban sprawl. A smell of fried food makes her stomach rumble. But then she sees the faces of the workers, men with short hair and women in sensible shoes, queuing for their lunches. She is not a person who could manage a dull conventional nine-to-five job. She disregards the fact she is an unpaid housekeeper, cleaner and gardener.

  ‘What do you mean by ‘his history’?’

  ‘Julian – he’s got mental problems – challenges, I think they call them these days. That’s why he had all that time off from university, of course. Ended up in a loony bin, probably fucked up his exams. Where did you think he was? I assumed you lot were keeping an eye on him. That’s partly why I got you all down to Wyld Farm.’

  Seymour is angrier than she’s seen him before.

  ‘Look after Julian? I didn’t know he was troubled! I was at school and living at home with Mum and Dad.’

  Seymour spots a gap and swerves the car into it. Someone parps a horn.

  ‘Would it have made any difference? Come on, Amy. You’re all too busy doing your thing, playing at some hare-brained back-to-nature fantasy to worry about anybody else.’

  ‘What do you mean? You asked us to stay at the farm. You seemed to like what we were doing. Seymour – why are you being like this?’

  ‘This isn’t working.’

  ‘What isn’t working? What are you talking about? You mean, you and me – us?’

  ‘Us? What about us, Amy? It was just a silly little fling. A fuck between friends.’

  His eyes briefly meets hers. They are cold.

  ‘No. What isn’t working is you lot living at Wyld Farm. It’s over, Amy, your little dream is finished.’

  She’s read in books that a character’s blood runs cold. She’d always discounted the description as exaggerated. Now she knows it’s true. Her arteries and veins run with ice.

  ‘What are you ta
lking about?’ Her voice quivers. ‘What do you mean?’

  Out of the window the sky is filled with strange colours; streaks of lemon and pink as the autumn sun begin to sink. Skirting the horizon is a dark blue band of sky seems to girdle the earth. If only she could open the door and fly away to land there, gently as a feather, then everything might be alright again. She begins to hum. It was always obvious to him that the girl had a penchant for dramatics; she should have been an actress. It’s partly what attracted him, her capacity for abandonment and drive for oblivion. Made love-making thrilling, fucking her on his bed just yards from where her boyfriend snored, too smashed to know what was going on.

  Amy whispers: ‘My period’s started, Seymour.’ When he doesn’t respond, she says it again.

  ‘Your point is? Most young women find they menstruate each month.’

  When she doesn’t respond, he says in a cross loud voice: ‘What are you saying? Was there some doubt about it starting?’

  Where is the Seymour she is in love with? Amy fights the urge to touch him.

  ‘Yes, I thought I might be pregnant,’ she bursts, and she can’t keep the happiness from her voice, ‘and I was thinking that it wouldn’t be so difficult. I could have a baby and stay at the farm with you and we could raise it together. Our country baby, our child…’

  Seymour decelerates behind a delivery van. ‘Jesus – what is this fool playing at?’ He rams on the brakes and the gearstick into first gear. Flicking a glance at her, he explodes: ‘God, you must be crazy, Amy, totally out of your fucking mind. There is no way on earth we should have a child together! Amy, I have a son your age! I do not want another child. And if I did, it would not be with you!’

  Amy’s throat constricts. It feels like she’s choking.

  He throws off a bitter laugh: ‘Thank fuck you’re not pregnant. You mad silly girl, what were you thinking?’ He swerves round the van and they speed off again. ‘Just listen, can you? When we get to the farm, tell the others to start packing. It’s over, Amy, it’s all over. Do you hear me?’

  A physical sensation of implosion makes her gasp. Her hands fly to her chest as though to hold intact the bruise inside that threatens to spurt blood all over the car. The wound created when her mother left her, mutilated again when her father said he would marry. It’s never had the chance to heal. Seymour’s harsh words rip off its thin scab.

  Her head droops, rebounding only when the car hits a bump on the road. The physical jerking confirms she is alive. She feels dead. When the car turns near off the road by Sminhay’s Cottages for the steep descent towards the place that she will cherish forever, she drives away thoughts of her garden and plants, her life among the animals, everything that she cherishes and everything that she wants. She must be honest with this man though it will seal her fate.

  ‘You accuse us of being selfish. But it is you – you – who is selfish, Seymour. Julian is your son! Why don’t you take some responsibility for him and care for him? You’ve never looked after him, never been there for him. And he needs you, he really does. Love him Seymour! Love your son. Or Julian will be lost.’

  The car screeches to a halt in the farmyard. ‘Why don’t you shut up and go away?’ Seymour roars.

  Flinging open the door, he springs from the car. The geese (which she recalls with scorn he insisted on calling Alarm and Fusspot; at one time she found it charming) start to weave towards him. But even they sense his dangerous mood for they veer off, protesting and flapping their wings.

  David is on front step of the farmhouse step, strumming his guitar. He glances up casually. ‘Hiya. You must have just missed them.’ He studies the fretboard to form a chord.

  ‘Who? What you talking about?’ Seymour snaps.

  ‘The police, they’ve just been here.’

  ‘The police? Here? For God’s sake, why?’

  ‘Search me. Well, they didn’t actually.’ He laughs. Amy can tell from his languid eyes that he’s stoned. ‘But they did search the farm. Didn’t find zilch, nada, nothing. Chill out, Amy, what’s up with you, babe? You’re pale as ghost.’

  ‘David, tell us what happened,’ she pleads.

  There’s a hash pipe and burnt matches on the ground near where David was sitting. Surreptitiously she nudges the stuff into the flower bed with her boot.

  ‘You two seem a little uptight. Chill out, eh? All that happened is that three pigs showed up. I don’t know, perhaps two hours ago, it’s a bit of a blur. They waved their piggy search warrant and they went through the place. Poked their noses here and there. But they weren’t very clever, were they? Cos they didn’t find the dope plants.’

  ‘The what?’ Seymour is horrified.

  ‘Oh, man, forgot. You didn’t know…’

  ‘Only a few plants. Not many, honestly,’ Amy interjects hastily. ‘It’s only that we didn’t have much money…’

  Seymour is shouting now. ‘What? Growing dope here, on my farm? That’s it. You’re leaving, everyone, this charade is over! Pack your bags – David, Amy – and get off my property. You’re leaving today!’

  A taxi swings into the yard with a flourish. Simon gingerly crawls from the back seat. Strips of plaster run from cheek to cheek across his nose. One of his eyes is closed due to swelling. His torn trousers flap as he limps towards them.

  ‘I’m so r-r-relieved to b-b-e home. It’s been t-t-terrible. I g-g-got attacked on the c-c-canal. I’ve been p-p-patched up at the hospital, thank God. J-J-Julian was on the c-c-canal, too. He ran off and the police c-c-chased him. He’s been taken to the st-st-station, I’m not sure w-w-why.’ He starts to breathe more calmly. ‘Amy, D-D-David, hi Seymour. You’re b-b-back? But… where’s M-M-Maggie?’

  He digs in his pockets, then looks up sheepishly. ‘Anyone g-g-got m-m-money for the taxi fare? W-W-Why do you all look so w-w-weird?’

  Part II

  25

  Sunshine bounces off the lawyer’s designer glasses: ‘…and I leave Bramble Cottage in equal parts to Simon Webster, David Bond, Maggie Bond and Amy Taylor. The remainder of my real and personal property whatsoever and whosesoever is left to my son Julian. …’

  The five people mentioned are stunned; Julian because he assumed he would inherit the whole of his father’s estate and the others because they cannot imagine why Seymour Stratton who kicked them off Wyld Farm 25 years ago would leave them a cottage.

  ‘I was right to assume the information contained in Mr Stratton’s will is unexpected,’ says the lawyer who according to the nameplate they could see is ‘Sunil Rao’. The name is familiar to some of the benefactors though no one can quite remember why. Mr Rao pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘Mr Stratton senior updated his will some time ago when he was first diagnosed with the condition from which he eventually died. He cannot have been aware how much the property would increase in value in the intervening years. Bramble Cottage must be worth…’

  ‘But we won’t sell it, will we?’ blurts Amy.

  There hadn’t been time to check out how the years had exacted their toll before the five of them were escorted into the lawyer’s office. But now there is. Time had not been unkind. Maggie, whose tresses once cascaded down her back, runs her fingers through spiky salt-and-pepper hair. Long earrings dangle over a baggy dress; she wears biker boots. She exchanges glances with her brother. David no longer sports the beard and long hair so fashionable in the 1970s but is clean-shaven face. He has a rock-a-billy quiff and wears a battered leather jacket. He shrugs and looks at Simon.

  Amy’s husband has retained his boyish looks though he frets that his hair is thinning and his waist thickening. He is right on both accounts. ‘Surely we can t-t-talk about that l-l-later?’ he says and wonders how owning the cottage will affect their plans to buy property in France. ‘Don’t you think so, d-d-d-darling?’

  ‘Sure,’ Amy nods.

  They file from the lawyer’s office into the hall where a male receptionist sits behind a desk typing.

  ‘Is there somewhere we can smo
ke?’ Julian asks.

  The man struggles out from behind his desk, his rucked up cardigan exposing an overhang of flesh at the waistband. He unlocks a door. ‘Out there. In the yard. There’s a bin.’

  The evidence that other smokers have calmed their nerves here pepper the ground. Surrounded by slumped buildings, the shadowy yard does not benefit from weak March sunshine.

  ‘Oh my God, can you believe it! Me, us, we own the cottage! I can remember every nook and cranny,’ Maggie says.

  ‘That’s because we repaired them with our bare hands. Mine took years to recover,’ jokes David.

  She tugs a jacket round her shoulders. ‘Fancy Seymour remembering us in his will. I thought he was glad to see the back of us. It’s freezing out here. Merry, up!’ A little dog leaps on to her lap.

  Simon says: ‘I’m so s-s-sorry about your dad, J-J-Julian. When d-d-did Seymour p-p-pass away?’

  The air of ease and entitlement has disappeared. Dark shadows flicker across Julian’s face. ‘November. Horrible time of year, I’ve always loathed it.’ Julian replies. His grey hair is tied back in a ponytail and his beard is carefully clipped along his jaw. A ring dangles from one earlobe. He looks like his father, Amy remembers. Perhaps it’s the wizardly shape of his nose?

  ‘Cigarette anyone?’ Julian asks.

  There is an awkward pause while Julian and Maggie smoke. The others rock from foot to foot and rub their hands, wondering what happens next.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind the cottage being given to us, Julian?’ Maggie voices what everyone is thinking.

  ‘’Course not,’ he replies quickly.

  ‘I didn’t know what to expect when the lawyer’s letter asked me to come,’ David says. ‘I’m blown away, Julian. Your father was wonderful to remember us. I’m so sorry about his passing.’

  ‘Perhaps he felt he owed you lot something? I don’t know, he never told me what was in his will. All I know is that I’ll miss him terribly.’ Julian sighs and flicks his cigarette stub into the corner, missing the bin. ‘Seymour could be difficult, as you well know. But we became close over the years. We lived at the farm and he cared for me there. I’m not sure if you heard but…I had a breakdown. Several admissions into hospital, actually, and …’