Wyld Dreamers

by Pamela Holmes

  ‘Good, darling. Last day before we leave for home so you can get lots done.’

  ‘That’s my plan. Because basically, yeah, I’m going out later.’

  ‘Going out? But where can you go around here?’

  A faint blush colours Chloe’s face. ‘I’m going for a walk along the Mineral Line.’

  ‘But you don’t like walking.’

  ‘I do, Mum, just not boring walks like you and Dad go on. Aubrey is taking me. He’s going to pick me up on his scooter. Could you collect me from the pub when he starts work about six? Will you, Mum?’

  The road is long and straight. So it makes sense when Aubrey explains it had once been a track for a tiny train transporting minerals from high in the Brendon hills down to the coast at Watchet. Information that if her father had told her Chloe would have found tedious in the extreme.

  But Aubrey has a way of describing things that makes them interesting. He is nothing like the boys she meets at school or at parties, ‘lads’ she calls them. They only talk of sport and spots.

  Huge straight-trunked trees grow by the side of road. Plants with giant palmate leaves arch over their heads.

  ‘Makes me feel like Alice, like I’ve shrunk in size. I’m in Wonderland,’ Chloe whispers.

  ‘Do you like that book, too? It’s one of my favourites,’ Aubrey whispers back.

  They talk about the other books they like and music and the beach in the town where Aubrey was raised and the university she hopes to go to and where they’d like to travel. Then they walk in silence.

  After a time, Aubrey says: ‘I’ve decided to give in my notice at the pub. I’ll leave after the weekend.’

  ‘Really? What about finding your ‘real’ mother?’

  ‘I’ve got a real mother and she’s back at home with my Dad in Portsmouth. I’ve been living around here for a while and I haven’t found her and I’ve decided I should just get on with my life. Talking to you and your Mum last night, I don’t know, it helped me to see things clearly.’

  He is holding Chloe’s hand. Not much taller than she, Aubrey could see all the colours in Chloe’s eyes. ‘It feels right somehow,’ he says, gently letting her hand drop.

  ‘You sound like you know what you want.’

  ‘I think I do.’

  They start to walk again. After a few minutes, reached the village cricket pitch.

  ‘Let’s sit here,’ said Aubrey. He clears away the sweet papers left by a previous visitor.

  On the other side of the pitch, a steep bank of trees sweeps up to the sky line. Gangs of birds trace the tree tops in flight.

  Suddenly Chloe is giddy with happiness. ‘Thanks for taking me on the walk. I liked it. Mum will be shocked by that! She says I’m lazy.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’ He sounds serious. ‘Can we stay in touch, Chloe? Would that be okay?’

  She was hoping he’d ask. She tugs at his jacket sleeve. She doesn’t mind that it’s made of corduroy. ‘It would lovely. I liked being in Wonderland with you.’

  ‘Did you? I liked it too. I like being with you.’

  They are sitting quite close now, their hands almost touching.

  Time seems to have stopped.

  He says reluctantly: ‘I suppose I’d better get going. I’ve got to set up the bar for tonight, and to tell the owner what I’ve decided to do and…it’s been…Chloe – good luck in your exams. I’m sure they’ll go well. You’re clever.’

  ‘Good luck to us both,’ said Chloe.

  She leans against him. He turns towards her and his long hair falls over her face. Too bad if anyone sees their kiss.

  32

  For more than twenty years, Mrs Morle has hoped each day to see an envelope with her daughter’s handwriting lying on the mat. Precious longed-for words from her daughter.

  But it’s still a shock when the letter arrives. Mrs Morle’s knees crack like a gun when she bends down to pick up the letter. Gentle fingers slide cherished sheets of Basildon Bond from their envelope, the surfaces upon which her daughter’s breath has fallen and where traces of her fingerprints might linger. Mrs Morle raises the pages to her nose, sniffs long and slow as though her child’s scent lingers in the ink. The words slice.

  ‘April 1997

  Dear Mother,

  I hope you will be happy to hear from me. Bob my husband says you will be even though it’s more than 20 years since we last saw each other.

  I had to leave you, what else could I do? Giving up my baby broke my heart. I have always hoped that my son found a nice family to love him and look after him. I will never know.

  I sometimes wonder if you regret what you did, making me give him away. How much we missed, you and I.

  When I ran away from you, I found a job in a hospital, first in the kitchen and then as a cleaner on a ward. One of the nurses persuaded me that I should train. It was a good choice for me because it took me away from everything I knew and everything I had ruined. I did my nursing exams and I passed. I worked my way up and now all these years later, I’m a Senior Staff Nurse. I am in charge of the ward on some shifts.

  It was hard for me to live in a town. But I’m glad that I did for that is where I met my husband. Bob is a psychiatric nurse. He did not judge me as though I had fallen as a girl, and I began to see the world through his eyes and to realise that I was not bad because I fell pregnant. We got married and we are happy. We had to wait eight years for our darling daughter. When I was 42, the doctors said they could not help us anymore, I was too old. That’s when I fell pregnant. Daisy was born last April.

  She has brought so much joy into our lives, and every day I thank my stars that we have her.

  Being a Mum has made me think of you and everything good that you and Dad did for me. On her first birthday, I decided I would get in touch. We cannot change the past but we can try to make the present better and the future hopeful.

  Bob and me would like to visit, Mother, now Daisy is settled, to show you your beautiful granddaughter.

  I have forgiven you – but have you forgiven me?

  I enclose a photograph of Daisy. Her middle name is Lily after the grandmother that I hope will one day know her.

  With love from your daughter, Lynn

  33

  Simon surveys the pile of letters on his desk. He recognises David’s writing on one envelope. He hopes it contains a cheque for the ‘cottage maintenance and repairs’ fund. Last month, David admitted to Simon that he was ‘a bit short’ and asked if Simon could sub him the money? Simon was happy to agree. He opens the letter. He hopes owning this cottage jointly with David and Maggie will not be a recurrent administrative and financial headache.

  He is not reassured. The letter not only asks for an extension to the loan but requests another to cover this month’s contribution. As a postscript, David adds that he can’t use the cottage this weekend; he’d forgotten his band has been booked for a gig. Can Amy shift the rota so he can go later in the month?

  The front door house opens. Downstairs he hears Amy and Chloe coming into the house, dragging their cases. ‘You c-c-could have stayed at the c-c-cottage!’ He shouts.

  The traffic sounds leaking through the open door drown his voice. He’s irritated. Why didn’t David call by phone to rearrange his visit rather than write?

  Chloe stomps up the stairs past his office. She mutters ‘Hi Dad,’ followed by the click of her bedroom door. The countryside has marginally improved her mood it seems. At least she has acknowledged her father’s existence.

  ‘Did you call?’ Amy says, kissing the top of Simon’s head. ‘How are you, darling? I’ve left the cottage nice and tidy for David’s arrival tomorrow.’

  ‘You needn’t have bothered. He’s not going down after all. He’s got to rehearse for a gig.’ Simon practically spits the word.

  Over the years, Amy has noticed that Simon’s stutter disappears, not when he is angry but when he is very angry. Her husband gestures dismissively at a letter.

  ‘A
nd David says, can you sort out a different weekend for him to use the cottage. And oh, can he have another loan? I’d forgotten he was an irresponsible nuisance.’

  ‘Sometimes we are all faced with responsibilities we were not expecting,’ she replies.

  ‘That’s a bit c-c-cryptic, darling,’ Simon said. ‘I always m-m-meet my responsibilities.’ He gives her a quizzical look.

  ‘Oh, do you? Then let me remind you of one you may have forgotten. The young man I met in the village pub – Aubrey? He came for supper last night with me and Chloe.’

  ‘Very n-n-nice for you. How is this r-r-relevant, may I ask?’ She is annoyed now. How can he possibly have forgotten? ‘Aubrey told us about his past. How he was given away at birth and adopted. Now he’s now searching for his mother who apparently used to live in or near the village. The village near Wyld Farm.’

  ‘Yes?’ Simon is still flummoxed. She is hinting at something but he cannot imagine what.

  ‘Aubrey was born in 1974. Have you forgotten creeping off to a barn for a bit nookie in the hay? Lynn Morle, darling. Think about it. The dates match. What I’m saying is – could Aubrey be your and Lynn’s son?’

  For the second night running, she had barely slept. The thought that Aubrey could be her stepson was one thing, something she might even come to welcome in different circumstances. He was a charming young man. But when Chloe had announced last night that she thought she was falling in love with him, it was horrifying. Incest was not something Amy wanted to grapple with.

  Simon shakes his head. ‘Silly g-g-girl, I was only t-t-teasing you!’

  ‘Teasing? What do you mean?’

  ‘I told you a l-l-lie about sleeping with L-L-Lynn. Of course I didn’t s-s-sleep with her.’

  ‘A lie? Why in hell did you say you had, then?’

  ‘Because you weren’t being honest with me. Remember? You kept things back from me that night. We were meant to be open and honest. When we got engaged. But you kept something from me.’

  She stares at the man she’d been married to for the last twenty years.

  ‘It w-w-was a little g-g-game I played with you.’ His tone is serious. ‘I wanted to t-t-test you, Amy. I knew you had been, shall I put it bluntly, s-s-screwing Seymour. It was obvious to everyone, except D-D-David, perhaps. I wanted to see if you would b-b-be honest.’ He takes her hand. ‘And darling, you were not.’

  A dealer in Germany is interested in buying some of Seymour’s work. For several days, her letter lies on the kitchen table. Miriam reads it again. The condolences in stilted English, the carefully-phrased request to see ‘more of the great man’s’ work. There are other letters, too; one from Seymour’s agent. His book of photographs, models, politicians, actors, footballers and entertainers from the 1970s, is still selling well.

  ‘We’ve got to start sorting out your father’s affairs. A dealer wants to visit,’ Miriam says.

  Her husband is checking his beard for toast crumbs. No point in reassuring him there are none. It’s one of his tics. ‘She saw the obituary in the Times. What are we going to say to her? Do you even know what’s in the darkroom?’

  ‘I haven’t thought about it.’

  ‘We need to look. All the equipment, the stuff he was working on before he got too poorly. His archives, all those boxes. Shouldn’t we at least get rid of the chemicals?’

  ‘I’ve told you Miriam, I haven’t thought about it,’ Julian snaps. A spoonful of cereal on the way to Peter’s mouth stops in mid-air. The boy glances at his father and mother.

  ‘You’re right, Miriam. I just find the whole thing upsetting,’ Julian adds quickly. Though he appreciates his wife’s efficiency, he finds her persistence exhausting. ‘Could you see what’s in there? I suspect a total muddle. I can’t bear it yet.’

  Later that morning, she takes the key from a nail by the darkroom door. The lock turns easily.

  ‘Can I come with you, Mummy?’ Peter stands against her thigh.

  ‘I don’t think… Alright darling, stay by me.’

  Miriam feels for the switch. A bulb emitting dim light hums into life. Mother and son shuffle into the room. Blacked-out windows make it hard to distinguish what’s there. The smell of chemicals.

  Miriam feels along the wall for another switch. Two single bulbs hanging from wires now illuminate a ceiling-high stack of shelves and a row of filing cabinets. A desk, several chairs and tables are stacked with paper and cameras and other paraphernalia. A floor-length black curtain waves in the draught. Holding Peter’s hand, she draws it back. A line of three deep sinks and arched taps.

  Trays of photographs floating like squid. Above their heads, other images dangle from a line.

  ‘Is this where granddad lives?’ whispers Peter.

  ‘No, he’s in the graveyard, do you remember, darling? He used to work in here. He took photographs. Look, here’s one he took of you.’

  Propped up on the draining board is a picture of Julian kneeling by Peter.

  ‘Can I have it?’

  ‘Of course you can. Sit here for a moment.’ She lifts the boy on to a chair. ‘I’ve just got to find something in Grandad’s office.’

  Seymour had been more orderly than this bedlam suggests. In his desk drawer, there are piles of invoices, bills, commissioning letters, statements and invitations to events long past. Two letters from the German dealer are clipped together with a clip.

  It all needs sorting and she will do it at some point. She won’t mind. Creating order out of chaos has a satisfaction. She flattens the paperwork to close the drawer but something is jammed. She feels inside. Bent against the back wall of the drawer is a stamped letter. It’s addressed to Seymour’s lawyer, Sunil Rao. It’s unsealed.

  Miriam reads it. She gasps.

  ‘What is it, Mummy?’

  ‘Nothing, darling. Just something important that I must deal with.’

  34

  ‘I’m going to the cottage tomorrow,’ Simon hands Amy a gin and tonic. It has a sliver of lime and plenty of ice, just the way she likes it.

  She wonders what he is about to say.

  ‘Since our D-D-Dave isn’t using the c-c-cottage, I called Julian and suggested a b-b-boy’s weekend.’

  ‘That sounds nice,’ Amy sips her drink.

  It is not clear why but since discovering her husband has known all along about her affair with Seymour, she has felt faintly ridiculous. She wishes she had been honest with Simon.

  ‘Julian’s up for it. He says M-M-Miriam’s obsessed with s-s-sorting out the house at w-w-weekends. I’ll leave t-t-tomorrow, be b-b-back Sunday evening.’

  ‘But we’ve been invited to the Palmers for drinks.’

  They exchange the glances. Neither wants to spend an evening drinking wine discussing neighbours who aren’t present.

  Amy goes to check the pasta. Simon follows her into the kitchen.

  ‘Mum, when’s supper? I’m starving,’ Chloe hollers from upstairs.

  ‘Chloe, can you c-c-come down if you want to speak to us. Amy, I’ll c-c-call the Palmers and make our excuses, s-s-say something’s c-c-come up at the cottage.’

  ‘So I’ll have to go on my own. That’s great, thanks. Chloe, supper’s ready! Can you come and lay the table, please? Forks and spoons for pasta.’

  ‘I know what we need.’ Chloe glares at her mother as she comes through into the kitchen. Grabbing a handful of cutlery, she piles it on the table. ‘Dad, Mum, I have to tell you something.’ She eyes them defiantly.

  ‘Set the table properly, please. And mats, too, Chloe. These bowls are hot.’

  ‘God, Mum, you’re so anal. Look, I’m spending the weekend at Tilly’s. I’m 18. I should be able to do what I want and they’re my exams. I’ll study all Saturday, then me and Tilly are going to a party and her Mum is going to pick us up at midnight and I won’t get smashed but I can’t miss this party.’ She has not drawn breath.

  ‘Fine,’ Amy snaps. ‘Simon, we were living at the farm when we were her age with no respo
nsible adults. It’s up to you, Chloe.’

  On Saturday morning, Amy wakes to an empty house. Odd to be alone and without any plans. The third time she finds herself straightening the tea towels, she knows she has to act. At the station, she buys a listings magazine and takes the train to London. The pub is packed with people who are drinking and shouting.

  She walks to the back of the bar. Through a door is the place where the music happens. On a raised portion of the floor that does not justify the description of ‘stage’, four musicians manoeuvre like matadors between mike stands and amps. David’s jeans and boots give him a certain glamour and the flame-haired saxophonist in a tight gold dress looks good, too. Another woman tunes her bass. A rotund accordion player in a trilby hat spits ‘one, two, three’ into a complaining microphone.

  Amy goes to the Ladies, pins up her hair and slashes colour on her lips. Then, buying a beer, she joins the fifteen or so other people standing around the edge of the music room as though they are avoiding a massive hole. Then the long-unfamiliar intoxicating sound of electrically-enhanced live music begins. Amy’s bones jangle. Quirky songs that mix jazz, blues and Klezmer are sung by David with harmonies from the bass player. Some people dance. Those who do not, sway with delight. Amy is not the only audience member to whoop in appreciation when the set ends.

  ‘Those familiar dulcet squawks. I knew it must be you!’ David plants a sweaty kiss on her cheek. ‘Thanks for coming. How did you find us?’

  ‘It was brilliant fun, I really loved it. What a band!’ She is genuinely enthusiastic. ‘Simon got your letter today. You said you had a gig tonight and as I was at a loose end, I came along.’

  The next band is already trooping on to the stage. Five lads in big boots and short hair, accompanied by catcalls and shouts as their fans swamp the floor by the stage. They lower the average age of the audience by many years.