Their journey down had taken them through dozens of sleepy villages, but their reaction to their first glimpse of Chew Magna was slight relief.
Not just because the interminable journey was over, but because there were shops. Not the big brash type they were used to, of course, but old-fashioned, genteel ones like those they'd seen in picture books. A saddler, an ironmonger, a chemist with four large bottles of coloured water in the window, bakers, butchers and greengrocers, even a Co-op.
'It's pretty,' Tara volunteered weakly. Her heart had been sinking further and further since they left London. She wanted to be with Uncle George and Harry, not going off to live in the wilds with a crazy grandmother. But even though she didn't want to be here, she had to admit this village was better than she expected.
To the right of the street the shops were raised up from the road, reached by a few steps. The walkway was railed off, as if people had once tied their horses up there. Although the shops were built in a terrace, there was no uniformity of either age or size which gave a delightfully quaint feel to the place. Late afternoon spring sunshine played on soft grey stone and twinkled on shop windows.
They had stopped by a little corner sweet shop. Jars of gobstoppers, aniseed balls, pear drops and Pon-tefract cakes were arranged in rows behind the bow windows, and from there they could see down the turning. Here again was a high pavement, with pretty cottages and a small fire station beyond; after that it seemed to be open countryside.
'Shall I ask in the bank?' Harry waved his hand towards an imposing Westminster Bank, set back on a wide pavement which led to an old church almost concealed by big trees. 'Or should I try the Pelican?'
'The pub and the bank are closed, silly,' Paul giggled.
'Just testing your powers of observation,' Harry said.
'The sweet shop's still open, Harry. Shall I ask in there?'
'I'll go.' Harry leaped out, then stuck his head back through the window. 'Don't go talking to any strangers!'
Amy laughed softly. Harry had been cracking jokes about country life all the way down. It was his way of preparing the children for what he regarded as being 'buried alive'. Amy had been suffering some pangs of anxiety herself, but now she saw the village she had a different view of things. There had to be a good few people coming in and out of here if there was a bank and so many shops. Besides, everything looked so pretty and clean.
Harry was worried. They had left London at ten. Paul had been sick four times on the way, and he guessed it was from nerves rather than travel sickness. He had to admit Somerset was beautiful, but it was such a long way from London and so very different.
'Would you know the way to Bridge Farm,' he asked the old lady tucked away behind the sweet jars. Although it was sunny outside, in here it was gloomy with a faint whiff of fish coming from somewhere.
'Bridge Farm?' The old girl put her hand behind her ear and leaned forward across the counter. 'Who you be looking for?'
'Mrs Mabel Randall.'
A light came into her eyes, like a cat who's spotted a bird close at hand.
'Bridge Farm, eh?' She peered at him over her glasses and chomped her false teeth up and down. 'I went to school with Mabel! Are you family?'
'Not me,' Harry said. 'I'd better take a box of chocolates, hadn't I? Which ones does she like?'
'It'll take more than chocolates to sweeten her up.' The woman reached up behind her and pulled down a big box with a couple of puppies on the front. 'But she does like these.'
Harry recognised salesmanship rather than real concern. He paid for the chocolates and waited for directions, sensing unasked questions hanging in the air.
'Turn down here.' She pointed to the turning between her shop and the pub. 'You go over the bridge then it's just a few yards further on the left. Stands back a bit from the road, there's a sign outside saying "Milk for Sale".'
'Thanks.' Harry smiled and moved towards the door quickly.
'Did they tell you how fierce she is?' The old woman's voice held a note of alarm and she leaned her plump arms on the counter. 'Are you expected?'
'Her daughter and grandchildren are.' Harry paused with his hand on the latch. 'Why, is there something wrong?'
Her shocked expression chilled Harry to the bone. He could feel the old girl watching him through her sweet jars as he got back into the car. Why hadn't Mabel Randall announced her family were coming to stay? Any normal grandmother would have been in that shop, buying sweets and boasting about their intended visit.
'Only round the corner.' He grinned as he tossed the chocolates on to Amy's lap. 'Now don't get greedy, Amy, those are for your mum. I hope they ain't gone off, the stock in that shop looked like it 'ad bin there since rationing ended.'
As they turned off by the sweet shop Harry could see the bridge ahead, and felt heartened to discover at least the farm wasn't isolated.
'That must be it!' he said. Between the river and a dry-stone wall with a milk sign attached to it was a meadow, yellow with a million buttercups. Beyond the wall they could see a barn and the side view of a farmhouse.
No-one spoke as Harry drove closer and pulled up in front. Four pairs of eyes stared, as if unable to believe the messages their eyes were sending to their brains.
Even in bright sunshine it looked spooky, a long, low stone house with the upper windows tucked into the eaves. The walled front garden was so choked with weeds they almost obscured the downstairs windows, many of which were broken and filled with cardboard. Green paint was peeling off the front door and a wooden porch hung drunkenly to one side, so rotten it could be pulled down with one hand.
'It looks like a wicked witch's house,' Paul whispered. 'I'm scared!'
'Don't be daft,' Tara said brightly. 'She probably lives at the back. Let's drive up the lane.' She was appalled, yet pleased. This could be the reprieve she'd hoped for. Mum might insist that Harry took them back to London.
Harry said nothing, turning the car into the narrow muddy lane tucked between a wall and the house. All four of them stared wordlessly as he drove into the yard.
It was enclosed on three sides – by the house on the right, sheds and chicken coops straight ahead, a barn and stable on the left – and the filth and smell were unbelievable. They saw a sea of cows' mess. Here and there was a little dirty straw, a puddle of indeterminate depth, a mound of dryer cow pats, but there was no clear path to the back porch. An old tin bath was filled with dark green water. Rusting equipment lay around, an old tractor half inside the barn, a fearsome gadget with great spikes just behind the car. An old bicycle, bits of ploughs, rakes and shovels were strewn around, and a dozen or so plump hens picked their dainty way across the stinking morass.
'She's an old lady, maybe she can't manage to sweep it up,' Tara said in a small voice.
Paul had his hands over his nose and mouth to keep out the stench and Harry had a job even to breathe.
'The hens look healthy enough.' Amy managed to force a strained smile at her children. 'Like you say, maybe it's too much for her.' She wanted to turn tail and run. Filth in a house could be cured with soap and water, but it would take an army to sort this out.
'There's someone coming.' Paul's voice trembled and they all turned to look through the rear window.
At first glance it was a shabby old man, flat cap shadowing his face, coming up the lane from the fields, but as he came closer Amy recognised the face.
'It's Mother,' she whispered, flushing with shame that her children should meet their grandmother for the first time dressed in working men's boots, an ancient tweed jacket and trousers more suitable for a navvy.
'I remember'd her different.' Harry's voice reflected his shock.
'So did I,' Amy whispered.
The last time Amy had seen her mother was Christmas Eve at least seven years ago and she had been standing outside the Black Bull, dressed all in black, urging men to turn from the wickedness of drink and go home to their families. Her face had been alight with the fire of righteousnes
s. Their eyes had locked, just as Amy reached the corner of Valance Road opposite where her mother stood. Mabel had turned her back and walked away.
Now her mother appeared to have shrunk. What little Amy could see of her hair was white and she'd become wrinkled, those plump cheeks she remembered now sunken in. Yet for all that, she looked as right in her surroundings as the chickens pecking in the straw.
Harry jumped out of the car, leaving Amy and the children staring in horrified fascination.
'Mrs Randall?' He smiled beguilingly. I'm Harry Collins, I was just wondering if I'd brought your Amy to the wrong farm, or if we should knock at the front door.'
'You'd be knocking there all night and I wouldn't hear it,' she replied sharply. 'Well, what are they waiting for? Get them out of the car and inside.'
Amy hadn't expected hugs or kisses, though she'd hoped for a welcome. But there was nothing. Not a hand held out, an inclined cheek or even a smile. For all the enthusiasm Mabel showed they could have been a band of marauding gypsies. She pointed out they would need Wellington boots, ordered them to scrape their shoes on a metal scraper by the back door, told Harry to bring in their cases immediately and swept in ahead of them.
After picking their way through the filth in the yard, the dirt in the kitchen came as no real surprise. A chicken was pecking around bold as brass on a cluttered table, the floor was covered in more droppings.
Amy's heart sank. Not only was the room dirty, but it was hot, smelly and gloomy. Little light came through the dirt-splattered window overlooking the side lane, and the dark beamed ceiling added to the feeling of oppression.
The sink, with its scummy water and mounds of unwashed dishes, took Amy back to the last days in Durwood Street. Spiders had festooned webs over each and every rusting, dusty pot hanging on the beams. A sticky fly paper turned slowly by the window, a graveyard for thousands, and a dresser was strewn with papers, jampots and what looked suspiciously like a pair of old knickers. Walls and ceiling were thick with grease, the stone floor sticky underfoot. There was a smell too, more than just manure. Rotting apples, mildew and a strong hint of cat's pee.
Did this mean her mother was mentally ill again? Had she brought her children all this way merely to be terrified half to death the way she had been before?
'Harry bought these for you.' Amy held out the box of chocolates. Her mother took them without thanks and put them on the table, shooing the hen away with her hand.
'Well, young man, you got them here.' Mabel looked scornfully at Harry and threw her cap on to the dresser. 'You might as well clear off before it gets dark.'
Amy sprang forward. 'Just a minute, Mother! Harry is a dear friend, not a taxi driver. He's hungry and tired, as we all are.'
'It's OK.' Harry shook his head. 'I'll get a room down at that pub on the corner. I won't drive back tonight.'
The message in his eyes was clear. He couldn't bear to leave them here. They had until tomorrow morning to make a decision and he hoped they'd come back with him.
Silence fell. Mabel stood with her back to the window, hands on hips, looking at the children. Tara stared defiantly back, but Paul's eyes dropped to the floor.
Harry shifted his weight from one foot to another, uncertain whether to go immediately. Amy's eyes swept round the filthy room. She could see no sign of prepared food and doubtless the beds were unmade but her mother had invited them here.
'Mother and I have a lot of catching up to do.' She moved nearer Harry and touched his arm. 'Come back tomorrow morning before you leave.'
'If you're sure!' Harry's grin was watery. He ran his fingers through his dark hair as if wanting to say something more. 'Be good to your gran, kids, see you tomorrow!'
Amy's heart sank as Harry reversed out of the yard and she saw panic in the children's eyes.
'I don't like the look of him,' Mabel said as Amy turned back into the kitchen. 'A smart Alec if ever there was one.'
It was clear Mabel hadn't changed much in temperament since the day when she had refused to speak civilly to her son-in-law Bill. Her hair was white now, pulled back into a rough bun. Wrinkled skin ingrained with dirt, and the absence of a top set of teeth belied the beauty of her amber eyes, so much like Tara's. Her rudeness, however, acted as a spur. Amy knew she had to take a firm stand now or she would be trapped in humble servitude again, just the way she had been before she ran away with Bill.
'You don't like the look of Harry?' Amy used her anger to give her strength. 'Well I'll point out now, Mother, I don't like the look of you or this place! It's like a pigsty. I'll overlook that for now, but don't you ever say anything about Harry and George because they've been the best friends anyone could have. So just watch it!'
'Well, Hoity Toity,' Mabel snapped back. 'You've got a bit lippy for someone who's been knocked about. It's all your own fault, too. I warned you about MacDon-ald!'
'So you did, Mother.' Amy took a step towards Mabel and looked right into her amber eyes. 'OK, you were right, and I hope it made you very happy. But while we're getting things out in the open, how about considering what a mess you made of bringing me up after Dad died! Maybe if you'd done a better job as a mother I wouldn't have been attracted to Bill in the first place.'
'How dare you?' Mabel's lip quivered.
Amy went back to the children and put an arm round each of them. 'I didn't ask to come here, you invited us. I'm prepared to put aside the past and try to make a life with you. But only if you meet us half way.'
'You should consider yourself lucky I've offered you a home.' Mabel pursed her lips.
'Lucky! To live here?' Amy laughed mirthlessly. 'This place is disgusting. It's a far worse slum than Durwood Street!'
'It is a mess,' Mabel agreed, glancing round the room as if seeing it clearly for the first time. 'But I can't help it, there's too much to do for one person.' There was a forlorn, almost bewildered look on her face which suggested things really had got on top of her. Amy felt a flicker of sympathy for her, despite her anger.
'All the more reason that you stop being so stupid then,' Amy snapped. 'I've got a deal to put to you.'
'What deal?' Suspicion wafted out of Mabel like body odour.
'If you treat us in a civilised manner, show your grandchildren some affection and share your home with us, then I'll work for you. I'll clean up this house, do the garden, sweep that yard.'
'Bill MacDonald has taught you a few things then?' Mabel almost smiled. 'Never used to be able to say boo to a goose!'
'I can when my children's happiness is at stake,' Amy said tartly.
The two women stared at one another, but it was Mabel who dropped her eyes first.
'A bargain,' she said, somewhat reluctantly. 'But don't you think I'll kowtow to you!'
'Nor me to you, Mother.' Amy smiled. 'Now, shall I introduce your grandchildren?'
'I'm Tara.' Tara moved forward just an inch or two. She had been concerned for the last hour or two about her crumpled kilt, the tomato sauce stain on her green jumper and her untidy hair, but compared with her grandmother she looked immaculate.
'I thought your name was Anne?' Mabel frowned.
'We changed it when we all changed our name to Manning,' Amy explained. 'She wants to be a fashion designer and we all thought Tara Manning sounded right.'
Mabel sniffed, but her mouth moved slightly in amusement.
"This is Paul.' Amy held on to his shoulder tightly, trying to give him confidence. 'Paul wants to be a doctor, but he's very shy, Mother, till he gets to know people.'
To Amy's surprise Mabel bent down towards Paul.
'Farms are good for shy people,' she said. 'Animals like gentle folk and you can practise talking to a horse until you're braver with people.'
'I like animals,' Paul volunteered hesitantly. 'Will I be able to help feed them?'
'Of course you will,' Mabel said. 'I'll take you over later to meet my old mare Betsy, she likes little boys.'
Those few words comforted Amy. She dimly remember
ed that tender voice from before her father died. It was odd that Paul had brought it back. Paul wasn't attractive like Tara, but if Mabel reacted like that to him, things were looking rosier.
'Right,' she said. 'Before we can even think of eating, I'll have to clean this kitchen. Is there hot water?'
'Of course,' Mabel snapped back. "The Aga heats it.'
Amy looked blank.
'The stove, ninny!' Mabel turned to something behind her, lifted a large, heavy-looking hinged lid and heat wafted out. 'We cook on it, it keeps us warm and heats water. Look, it's got four ovens, all of them different heats. There's a rabbit stew in one of them.'
It was after midnight when Amy climbed into the big double bed with its feather mattress. It felt damp, it smelled musty but she was so tired she didn't care.
Despite the exhausting hours of work she'd put in already this evening, she'd barely scratched the surface. The whole house was totally neglected and all she had managed to do was roughly clean the kitchen, make up the beds and sweep a clean path through the yard. The floor alone had taken five or six buckets of water before the red quarry tiles appeared beneath the dirt.
But looking objectively, Amy could see that her mother had her priorities right. The animals were well looked after, there were crops in the fields, rows of vegetables in the garden. Her work in the dairy was almost a full-time job. Aside from Stan, a local man who came in to help with the milking, she had been struggling to hold it together alone.
This was never going to be a soft option like living with George. Her mother was prickly, self-opinionated and mean-spirited. She would harp on forever about Bill, and Amy would probably work her fingers to the bone without any thanks.
It was no good considering all the big jobs that needed doing – the holes in the barn roof, the broken windows, the front door that wouldn't open. Creating a clean, comfortable home was the first priority; turning out all those fusty rooms, clearing the accumulated rubbish, washing windows and curtains.
The children's reactions were difficult to gauge. Mabel had taken them on a tour of the farm while Amy was washing the floor, and when they came back they were calling her Gran as naturally as if they had known her all their lives. They made no comment even when Amy tucked them into bed, and that seemed almost like approval.
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