Wyld Dreamers

by Pamela Holmes

  She follows a different route home. It goes past the canal entrance and just there she sees a shop she’s not noticed before with a candy-striped awning. Unexpected for this little town, she’s intrigued. The shop is a cornucopia of jewellery, glassware, carved wooden boxes, ceramic bowls, candles and baskets all tastefully displayed. Packets of spices and dried fruits spill from a chest.

  Maggie digs around in her bag. ‘I must have this dried mango, please,’ she says to the Asian woman who emerges like a vision from a Bollywood film. She wearing a lustrous blue silk top over trousers edged in silver embroidery. ‘Your salwar kameez is wonderful,’ she says, feeling lumpen in her jeans and army jacket.

  ‘You know the name of my clothing! I’m glad you like it,’ the woman smiles. ‘It is so comfortable for working in. Your reaction is not the usual one I am expecting from my customers. How do you know salwar kameez?’

  ‘I travelled around India once. Goa, oh it was years ago.’ Maggie sounds wistful.

  They talk about India, a country the shop owner said she had first visited herself only four years ago. Her parents, who have retired there, left the shop to her. Her brother, Sunil, is a local lawyer and has no interest in commerce. So now she regularly travels to India to buy things for her import business. The shop is only part of her plans, the woman explains. She is going to sell to shops in London. Buyers at Liberty were interested, she says proudly.

  ‘This cushion would look wonderful in my bedroom.’ Maggie strokes the tiny embroidered flowers that are scattered across the white silk over. Lines of pale-green stitches made stems for applique leaves.

  ‘Would you like to buy it?’ the shopkeeper says.

  Maggie nods. ‘I would. But I haven’t got enough cash and my cheque book is back at the cottage. It’s too far to go and get it. Anyway, I couldn’t carry it on my bike.’

  ‘You cycled here? You are brave. Where are you staying?’

  ‘Not far, the village near the Mineral line. I’ll buy the cushion next time I’m down.’

  ‘I know that village. My brother and I often walk there. If you like, I could bring you the cushion in the car after the shop closes.’

  Maggie’s plans for the evening do not extend beyond cooking the vegetables and taking Merry for a wander.

  ‘I couldn’t put you to any trouble,’ she says half-heartedly.

  ‘It’s no trouble for me, it is not far. I’ll come about six. Is that suitable? Write down the address. My name is Indu Rao, by the way.’

  Buying things often makes Maggie cheerful.

  ‘Alright then. I’m Maggie Bond. I’ll see you later. The sign to Wyld Farm is a bit hidden behind leaves but it is nailed to the tree. You should spot it. Bramble Cottage is in the yard.’

  As she is leaving, Indu calls out. ‘I remember your village, Maggie. When I was a schoolgirl, my parents used to scare me with stories of wild hippies who used to live near there.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Maggie replies. She will not admit she had been one of them. It would be too humiliating now she has turned out so ordinary.

  ‘She’s not the sort of person I expected to meet around here,’ Maggie tells Merry as they lay on the bed that afternoon. She scratches the dog’s tummy hoping she is forgiven for not taking him on the shopping trip.

  Being in the cottage is bringing back so many memories. How ecstatic she was when they moved into the cottage, how defiant when she let the sheep escape from the field and how lust-filled when she woke up in Simon’s bed. And even after that horrific accident when the horse’s kick smashed her jaw, she was unbowed. She went to India as soon as she could escape the doctor’s scalpels. She used to lead life firmly by the nose. Now it has her cropped and contained, scuttling between the staff room and her students who struggle with their verbs. The lethargy of lesson preparation, the tedium of teaching.

  Maggie let Merry out into the garden, making a mental note to clear up the mess later. Then she begins to tidy up. The muted mismatched furniture and the faded carpet are hideous and Indu has such exquisite taste. What will she think?

  Digging around Amy’s drawer, she finds some tea lights. The sitting room will look better in candle light. She’ll stoke up a fire, too. She will not take Indu into the kitchen. The cracked lino floor and melamine cupboards are so outdated. But sharing a house it is difficult to decide what to replace.

  Maggie runs a bath. At least she doesn’t have to queue this time. She nicks some bubble bath from the bottle on Amy’s shelf and sinks into the soapy bubbles. Her eyes trace a crack in the ceiling. It will be nice to have a visitor and a new cushion.

  Indu steps out of her car in jeans, a leather jacket and high-heeled boots.

  ‘Hi Maggie,’ she calls as she takes a parcel from the back seat of her car. ‘I found the cottage, your directions were fine. Here’s the cushion!’

  She tip-toes across the yard, avoiding the puddles.

  ‘Hi,’ Maggie says. ‘Come inside. This is very kind of you. I’ve only just moved in so I’m not really set up for visitors. Did I say? I share this place with friends.’ She has put on the only other item of clothing she had at the cottage; a baggy dress. She wanted to reveal the butterfly tattoo that’s on her shoulder but it’s too chilly not to wear a cardigan.

  The women sit either side of the fire. Though Maggie feels awkward, her guest appears at ease for she chats away about her plans for expanding her business. Producing clothes in Indian workshops – ‘ethnic chic’ Indu calls it – and importing it to the UK. What did Maggie think of that idea?

  Indu does not pause to find out. Local sales might never be high but the shop will be a showroom for buyers to view the collection. Maggie is lucky to live in a city; it’s where Indu wants to be.

  Maggie watches her talk. She is probably a little older then Indu, who must be in her late 30s. Did Indu’s parents expect her to marry and have children? At least Maggie’s mother had finally stopped asking those annoying questions. Indu had mentioned a brother, Sunil, a lawyer in a local practice. Was he the lawyer who sorted out Seymour’s will? Indu said Sunil was soon to become a father for the second time.

  Indu turned to Maggie. ‘I have talked enough. I chatter like a bird, my mother says. I want to hear about you now.’

  It would to dull if Maggie were to talk about being a teacher. Though once she had been thrilled by the idea of teaching English as a way of travelling the world, this had not happened. Maggie lived in a small town outside Bath. Though once a wild child who lived in a commune, her life had turned out differently. What happened?

  So Maggie finds herself talking about her application to an international development agency. Of her determination to teach English abroad and her desire to ‘make a difference’. (The fact that the form lies uncompleted on her bedside table at her flat is a minor detail.) Maggie speaks so convincingly that she begins to believe that soon she will be living abroad.

  Indu nods encouragingly. ‘You and I are so alike!’ she says.

  As far as Maggie can tell the only similarity between them is what her brother teases her is ‘being well covered’. But Indu celebrates her body as though she welcomes its curves while she, Maggie, hides them under baggy clothes.

  ‘We’re alike because we’re both determined – nothing will stop us,’ says Indu standing up. ‘I should be getting back. This will be a lovely cottage once it’s done up. In a nice quiet spot. Which is great if you like the quiet. I like the town.’

  30

  It never failed to excite him, images emerging from the chemical soup. Seymour carefully lifted the paper from the developing tray, rinsed it and hung up it to dry on the line from which other photographs dangled: so many pictures of his son in his twenties, before he’d been knocked down by the various drug treatments various doctors said would help. The boy found it hard to cope with life; that was all. That was enough.

  Seymour was leery of nostalgia. But his body tingled when he saw photos of Julian driving a tractor loaded with hay bales, Julian l
eaning against the Morgan with his hat at a jaunty angle, Julian playing with Millie the dog they’d together agreed had got just too damn old. It was sad, the day the vet came over to put Millie down. They’d made that decision together, he and Julian, decided it was time to end it. Comes to us all, Seymour said to himself. Don’t talk in clichés, old man, he scolded himself.

  So many photographs from the 70s. That boy with the stutter, Simon, his arm around Maggie, the girl with the delicious big bottom. Squashed on the steps of that gypsy wagon, their smiles like sunbursts. Behind them that girl Amy pointing at the camera as if to say, I’ve got your measure. And one of her boyfriend standing in the doorway of a barn, his eyes glazed. What was the oaf’s name? Been smoking with Julian probably.

  It wasn’t just the grass that caused Julian’s problems, Seymour thought, shoving the photographs into a drawer. He dipped another sheet of exposure paper into the tray. Smoking marijuana was an innocent enough pastime, fine if you could handle it. Made one a bit dull, perhaps, and prone to raid the biscuit tin. No, it was the chemicals and something in Julian’s make-up that made him vulnerable. An image of Gerald emerging from beneath the developing fluid made Seymour recoil. Full-face to the camera, Gerald’s fingers were resting lightly on his dog’s head, the smoke from his cigarette drifting off as nonchalant as the man who released it, the person Seymour blamed for Julian’s problems.

  Was that fair? He asked himself. If Gerald hadn’t circled around his son would things would have been so different?

  Seymour dropped the photo as though it smelt putrid.

  ‘I only give him what he asks for,’ Gerald had said to him once. His voice was not raised: it was Seymour who was yelling. ‘I’ll go now, old man, keep it together now, Seymour. Just bear this in mind. Your son is the problem – not me.’

  Seymour could not bear Gerald’s presence any longer.

  ‘How can you call yourself a friend when you don’t help him?’ he walked menacingly towards Gerald.

  ‘Everyone has to help themselves, don’t you think?’ Gerald had retorted, mincing backwards down the hall, feigning fear. ‘And you’re never around, old man. Not much help. So keep your cool, eh? Come on Jackson, we’re not wanted here.’ Gerald spun on his heel and left.

  When Mrs Morle called him, Seymour was in his London studio photographing a politician. His client, a well-known woman, was highly displeased when Seymour said he must to take the call. In the past few years, having a central London studio where celebrities and stars could be driven in their limos meant much of his work was now taking portraits of the rich and famous. Let no one assume that these people were any less vain or impatient than fashion models.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ Seymour promised, and hurried to his office. ‘Look after her, will you?’ he growled at his assistant and shut the door.

  An hour later, having flattered the politician and jokingly promised his vote in the forthcoming election, he handed her back to her chauffeur. Grim-faced, he set off for Wyld Farm.

  Earlier that day, Mrs Morle had heard an odd sound at her cottage door. It was Julian collapsed in a heap, blood streaming from his head, garbling something about a car. She stepped round him and hurried to Andrew Bishop’s cottage. The man raced off down the lane in his van looking for he didn’t know what while Mrs Morle led an incoherent Julian into the farmhouse study. Pointing at a chair, she telephoned Seymour.

  Julian had had an accident, she told Seymour. He was distressed and needed his father. Mention of his father’s name sent Julian spiralling from the room. Mrs Morle asked Seymour if she should take Julian to the hospital or phone the police?

  ‘No and no!’ he barked. ‘I’m on my way. Just stay with him until I arrive and don’t let him sleep. Find his inhaler!’ Almost shouting, he added: ‘Only if he starts feeling sick or vomits should you take him to A&E. No police.’

  In the kitchen she found Julian cowering in the corner and mewling like a tortured cat. The hairs on her arms stiffened. Mrs Morle crouched beside him and though he flinched when she touched his shoulder, he clawed for her hand when she made to stand, trapping her in a most awkward position.

  It was ages since Mrs Morle had been so near to the floor. Her muscles protested. Wincing as her knee banged into the flagstone, she twisted onto her side, landing with a bump on her bottom. Places in the kitchen she had never been able to see before came into view: under the settle were scattered crumbs and the torn edge of a cigarette box with what she realised with horror might be mice droppings. She’d put down a trap tomorrow if she ever got off this wretched floor.

  Dragging a cushion off a chair, she wedged it under her bottom. At least the Aga was on. Leaning against the wall, she wondered what to do for the best. Right now this seemed to be what Julian wanted; for her to stay near.

  The boy had been a bit odd over the past few months since his friends disappeared off the farm. But Julian was often moody, she knew that from his childhood. Snappy too, though that was unlike him. However, she did not overly concern herself. Julian had come through strange phases before. Anyway, she had enough of her own worries.

  His yelps began to grate on her nerves. After a time, she could bear it no longer. ‘Julian,’ she said firmly, and though he did not look at her, his head vaguely swung in her direction. ‘I’ve got to get up, dear. I can’t stay here any longer.’

  He seemed to accept this for as she struggled to her knees, he released her hand, the one he had been gripping. She hauled herself to her feet, then collapsed into a chair.

  An hour passed. At times the boy keened and she was at a loss to know what to do. At other times, he was silent and she would peer down, careful not to get too close to whisper: ‘anything I can get you, dear?’ When would Seymour arrive to take over?

  Someone with a head injury should not be given anything by mouth, she’d been told that. But surely the boy needed a drink, his lips so cracked? Slowly getting to her feet, she moved towards the sink. ‘I’m getting you a drink, Julian.’ Just a tiny bit of water in a glass couldn’t harm, surely? He drank it quickly and held out for more. ‘Later,’ she said, and sat again.

  Another hour passed. In between sudden outbursts of wailing, he was definitely settling down, no longer gibbering to himself.

  ‘I’m going to fetch the ironing, love, might as well get on,’ she said, and she fetched the board and a basket of dry clothes. The smell of hot-pressed material began to pervade the room. It smelt cosy. She gave Julian a little more to drink and switched the radio on low.

  Finally she saw that he had fallen asleep, his head jammed against the wall, his face slack. Blood had seeped through the bandage on his head. She noticed a graze on his jaw and a deep gash on the hand curled in his lap. It was nice to see the boy resting at last; she was pleased for him and for herself. She sat in a chair and nodded off.

  She woke with a start when the front door was flung open.

  Hurried footsteps could be heard coming down the hall.

  ‘Where is he?’ Seymour flung the question at her as he bashed through the door.

  ‘There’s no need to shout,’ she whispered. ‘He’s over here. He’s sleeping.’

  ‘I told you he shouldn’t sleep!’

  ‘You don’t tell me to do anything…’ she spit back.

  Seymour knelt by his son and shook him. ‘Wake up, Julian. Are you alright? What happened in the car?’

  Muted grunts in reply. Seymour turned to Mrs Morle.

  ‘Andrew says he found the car upside down in the field just along the lane, the driver door open and the engine running. He fetched a tractor and ropes and he’s towed the car back here. It’s a write-off. It’s a wonder that Julian survived.’ He turned back to his son. ‘Come on, Julian, sit up on the chair. There’s a good chap. Phone the doctor, Mrs Morle, will you?’

  Later that afternoon, the GP made a house visit. She diagnosed mild concussion and said a few days’ rest should suffice. ‘Then tell him to come to the surgery for the appointmen
t he missed,’ she added.

  ‘He had an appointment? What for?’ Seymour asked.

  The GP raised her eyebrows and shook her head. ‘Perhaps you should ask your son.’

  Some people harden as time passes; they become fixed in their views and their ventures. For Seymour, it was the opposite. Like a piece of unhewn stone, the years moulded him into a softer man, one former friends might not recognise. Empathy and forbearance, qualities suffocated in the chase for fame and fortune, flickered into life. If they were not the steadiest of flames, they burned.

  Few do not struggle with the demands of parenthood, the wrestling between self and selflessness. Most accommodate its joys and delights. But for Seymour, it was not until he’d spent hours by the side of his almost-moribund form waiting for signs of sanity to return that he finally appreciated its lure. If there was one thing to commend mental illness, it was this: it awakened in Seymour a flagrant, untrammelled love for his son. Feelings he formerly judged in others as slavish adherence to social expectation, indulgent adoration or worse, biological determinism, now made sense.

  Seymour fell in love with his son. There was no humiliation in being a laggard to the cause, he told himself; it was preferable to lifelong resistance. And if most parents stepped back as their children became adults and Seymour found himself moving in the opposite direction, so be it.

  He was the same person, of course; sharp-tongued and easily bored. Not given to self-reflection, he sometimes thought back to that final fight with Amy. Her comments were, of course, inept and wide of the mark, the things a woman in the throes of rejection spits out. But as the years passed, he began to see her words contained more than an element of truth. If he was honest, they started to sting; they bit, they burrowed. At the same time, he was finding fashion models and celebrities more not less annoying. Demanding and petulant, requiring amounts of admiration and flattery it was exhausting to provide, he was feeling tainted. The day Julian was discharged from the psychiatric hospital for the second time, his mind was made up. Seymour closed his London studio. He instructed his lawyer to put the place up for sale. He moved to Wyld Farm.