Tara

by Lesley Pearse

  But most of her unhappiness was about this place. Would she ever grow to like it?

  There was a certain satisfaction in cleaning really filthy things. She'd loved hosing down the yard and making it nice, but next morning when the cows came in for milking they made another mess just as bad! It was the same with the milking shed and the stables. Was she really going to have to clean them all, week in, week out, endlessly?

  It was OK helping Mum clean out all the rooms, poking into boxes and cupboards and asking Gran about things. She was happy because Mum was going to do the smaller room upstairs for Paul, then tackle hers. She was thrilled that Gran had a sewing machine she could use and a whole drawer full of remnants of material, but sometimes she just wanted to lie in front of a television and be entertained, not to work all the time like her mother did. But Gran didn't have television, said she didn't approve of it, all she had was a funny old radio.

  Above all else she missed George, Harry and London ways. George was big about everything, from the quantities of food he dished out to his extravagant praise. Gran cut bread so thin it was like net curtains. She kept going on about only using one electric light at a time, and her praise was so sparse it was almost non-existent. She missed George's roaring great laugh, the warmth of his hugs and the feeling that nothing bad could ever happen when he was around.

  On Monday she had to go to Chew Valley secondary school. Gran had got her a uniform second-hand and the dark green blazer suited her, but that couldn't make up for not knowing anyone.

  'Are you cross with me?' Paul's small voice close by surprised Tara.

  'No. Why do you say that?' She spun round to find him standing almost at her elbow, a hang-dog look on his face.

  'You don't seem pleased I learned to ride it,' he whispered, dark eyes worried.

  Tara was immediately chastened. She glanced across at Colin waiting by the barn and sensed the boy was weighing them up, ready to report to others what the kids at Bridge Farm were like.

  'You were brilliant.' She reached out and tweaked his cheek. 'Yeah, teach me too!' she yelled across to Colin, patting her brother's hand surreptitiously. 'I'm not as quick as Paul, though!'

  Amy observed the interchange between her two children and, though she couldn't hear what was said, she gathered the gist of it. She was aware that her daughter was unhappy and understood the causes of it, but there was nothing she could do about it.

  Mabel had taken Paul under her wing. When she was feeding chickens, collecting eggs or milking, Paul tagged along. She showed him how to groom Betsy, where the greenfinches were nesting in a hedge, and put her father's saddle over a box in the stable so Paul could pretend it was a horse. She didn't ignore Tara, but she kept her distance and Amy guessed why. Mabel was seeing herself mirrored in her granddaughter and it threw her.

  Amy picked up the empty laundry basket and went back inside as the two boys and Tara went off with the bike.

  'I hope she picks it up as quickly as Paul did,' Mabel said. She was standing at the window and had presumably been watching as the children went by.

  'She's finding it difficult to adjust.' Amy put the washing basket down and returned to the sink to wring out the clothes left rinsing. 'I suppose I'm trying to give her back the childhood she missed out on, and she's just too old now.'

  'At thirteen she's still a child,' Mabel said quietly.

  'And what would you know about that?' Amy spat out suddenly. 'I seem to remember when I was thirteen you made me wear black clothes, cut off my hair and broke all the mirrors so I wouldn't feel smug and think I was pretty. You forced me on to my knees on a stone floor to pray every bloody night and made me embroider altar cloths instead of making dolls' clothes.'

  Mabel slumped down on to a chair at the table. 'Oh, Amy! Will we ever be able to overcome all this bitterness?'

  As suddenly as Amy's anger had flared up it was gone, leaving just an ache in its place.

  'I don't want Tara to be like us.' She took a step towards Mabel, yet couldn't quite bring herself to reach out for her. "There's so much poison in both of us. For the children's sake we've got to try to break with the past.'

  During the long evenings, Mabel had revealed their family history and it was clear that all the women in Bridge Farm had suffered tragedy. Emily, Mabel's sister had died in childbirth only two years after her wedding. Her mother Polly had lost two sons in infancy and her grandmother Hannah had drowned herself in the river at the back of the farm after losing two of hers in a diptheria epidemic. Amy had visited the graves in the churchyard, seen the old sepia photographs and from what her mother told her she had built up a family history of beautiful, sad women and callous and brutal men.

  "The children are scarred already,' Amy said. 'But it's Tara I'm frightened for. She's on the threshold of womanhood, and she has never seen a normal, loving relationship between a man and a woman first-hand. How can she possibly distinguish between a good man, a strong one who'll protect, look after and love her, and a sweet-talking faker who'll end up hurting her? I tell you, Mother, she won't be able to. And once the pattern starts she'll accept it, the way I did, because history has a habit of repeating itself.'

  Mabel got up and went over to the Aga, sliding the full kettle over on to the hotplate. Tiny pearls of spilled water ran across the hot surface, hissing before they disappeared.

  'We'll find a way,' she said softly. 'We'll make those two children laugh, we'll show them love and kindness. We'll teach them to be two whole, perfect people. It won't happen to them.'

  'How can you be certain, Mother?'

  'I can't.' Mabel looked her daughter in the eye. 'But I'll do my damnedest to prevent it.'

  Tara walked up the side lane, her shoulders weighed down with the heavy load of books in her satchel, her green blazer over her arm. Although she was hot and tired she wanted to dance with joy.

  They had been at the farm for two months now, her thirteenth birthday had come and gone, but today was the first day that she'd actually felt she belonged.

  'I timed that well.' Her grandmother looked round from the Aga as she stepped into the kitchen, a tray of scones in her hand. 'They're best eaten hot.'

  Tara hung her blazer over the chair and sat down at the table. It was laid for tea, with slices of home-cooked ham, salad and a big plate of bread and butter.

  Sometimes Tara thought she'd dreamed how awful the farm was when they arrived, because it was all so different now. Her mother was so good at making things look nice, like finding pretty china to put on the dresser and painting the kitchen all by herself. It never smelled nasty now, except when Gran cooked fish for the cats that lived in the barn. Mum had even persuaded Stan to dig up the weeds in the front garden, and planted petunias and marigolds.

  'Where are Mum and Paul?'

  'Amy's just seeing to something in the barn, Paul's gone up to the grocer's to get me some sugar. I can't believe how much we get through since you all came.'

  There was no suggestion of complaint in this remark, in fact Gran looked very pleased about something.

  'How was school today?' she enquired.

  'Pretty good.' Tara beamed, unable to hold back her news a moment longer. 'You know the smocked baby's dress I was making in needlework?'

  'Yes.' Gran sat down to listen. She was still wearing men's clothes, an old grey shirt and baggy twill trousers, but Amy had washed and set her white hair for her and it looked pretty.

  'Well, Miss Ames put it out for display for the parents' meeting tomorrow night. She said it was the finest piece of needlework she's ever seen at the school.' There was no way she could explain adequately how it felt to be singled out for such praise.

  'Quite right, too,' Gran said stoutly, taking in the suppressed glee in Tara's amber eyes. She was growing very pretty, her skin had a peachy glow, her plaited hair was like two thick hanks of shiny gold embroidery thread and the green and white checked school dress suited her admirably. 'You've inherited your mother's nimble fingers.'

&nb
sp; Tara's face was split in two with a wide smile, her eyes dancing with happiness.

  'I told her I wanted to be a dress designer and she said she couldn't think of a more suitable job for me, or anyone more likely to succeed.'

  She couldn't possibly tell Gran how all the other girls had crowded round her in admiration, asking her if she'd give them a hand with their projects. How all at once the ice had been broken and she had become one of them. Beryl Jones had asked her over to tea and she was the most popular girl in her class, and a boy called Clive Spear said she had the loveliest hair he'd ever seen.

  Coming home from school she'd walked with Beryl and Carol, and they said if the hot weather held they could all go swimming in the flash-hole in Dumpers Lane on Saturday. Beryl even offered to lend her a costume when she said she didn't have one.

  'We've got lots to celebrate tonight.' Gran smiled with real warmth.

  'Why! What else has happened?'

  'Wait till your mother and Paul get back.' Mabel looked mysterious.

  Paul came bounding in seconds later.

  'Gran! Can I go out with Colin on the bike after tea?' he asked. He looked like a little ragamuffin, with his grey shirt hanging out of his school shorts, his tie somewhere round his ear, hands, knees and face filthy.

  'How many times have you been told to change before you go out playing?' Mabel gave him an affectionate box on the ear, and pulled some straw out of his hair. 'Do it now, and wash while you're up there!'

  'But Gran,' Paul's face screwed up into a plea, 'can I go out later?'

  'We'll see.' Mabel pointed to the door. 'Change, and quick about it before your mother sees the state you're in.'

  Tara sensed an undercurrent. Gran was really happy, almost bursting with something. What on earth could it be?

  Paul came clattering back down the stairs just as Amy came in. Tara noted the sly smiles passing between the two women and knew the pair of them had been up to something.

  'What did you do?' Gran asked Paul. His face was smeary rather than clean. 'Just look at the flannel?'

  'Come here.' Amy took him over to the sink, wet the corner of a towel and wiped his face. 'Don't you think a big boy like you could learn to wash his face properly?'

  Paul wasn't listening, his eyes were on the tea table.

  'Tara's got some good news,' Mabel said. 'But shall we just go and see the other first?'

  Both Paul and Tara pricked up their ears.

  'What?' Paul caught hold of his grandmother's arm. 'What other, Gran?'

  'A surprise,' she said, ruffling his hair.

  'Come on then,' Amy said. 'I think they're ready.'

  As Gran led the way to the barn, Tara felt a surge of disappointment. It was just another new calf. She'd expected something more dramatic if it was more important than her good news.

  'Flossie's had her baby?' Paul raced ahead, reaching up for the big swing bar to open the barn. The bar clonked down and the door swung open.

  There on the clean straw were two gleaming new bicycles. Paul's eyes nearly disappeared into his hair line; Tara's mouth dropped open in shock.

  'Oh, Gran,' she whispered in awe.

  'Well, go on then!' Gran prodded the pair of them. 'Try them for size.'

  Paul's bike was sky blue, an in-between size, neither a child's, nor a grown man's. But Tara's was the 'Pink Witch' she'd seen in magazines – shocking pink with white saddle and tyres, a basket on the front and even a place to put a lipstick. It was the dream bike for every girl of her age. It wasn't just something to ride around on, but a status symbol.

  With a whoop of pure joy Paul ran in, moved his bike away from the bale of straw, swung his leg over the crossbar and rode out.

  Tara approached hers with due reverence, stroked the gleaming handlebars and saddle, and rang the shiny bell.

  'I can't believe it,' she said. 'All the girls at school want one. They'll be green with envy.'

  'Well make sure you look after it.' Gran slipped back to her usual caustic manner. 'Otherwise I'll skin you alive.'

  Tara looked back to her mother as she slipped hers off its stand and jumped on.

  Amy stood back, watching. Her blonde hair shone in the afternoon sun. In her jeans and checked shirt she looked only a few years older than Tara, and her expression was every bit as joyful as those of her children.

  'Go on then, a quick spin to test it, then we'll have tea,' Amy said, wiping a stray tear away with the back of her hand.

  Her mother had pleaded poverty, she said she didn't even have the money to send fares, but that was just a smoke screen. In fact Mother had admitted at the time she suggested buying the bikes that she had several hundred tucked away in the bank.

  There was no holding either child now as they rode round the yard, scattering the chickens, shrieking with laughter. Paul stood up on his pedals, holding the handlebars with only one hand to prove his expertise.

  'I can't wait to show Colin,' he shouted. 'Thank you, thank you, thank you!'

  *

  Teatime was a party. Both children were bubbling with excitement, Amy was a little giggly and Gran presided over the teapot with a wide smile on her face.

  'I don't ever remember so much noise here,' she said. 'James Brady will turn in his grave!'

  To Tara much of the pleasure came from discovering her mum and Gran had hatched this surprise together over a week ago. She heard how Amy had cut out advertisements from magazines, then taken the bus into Bristol to track the bikes down.

  'Your mother thought you should wait till Christmas.' Gran's expression was slightly superior, yet gleeful at the same time. 'But I said you needed them now, during the summer. That old bike isn't much good, and we can't have you fighting over it.'

  'What was your good news?' Amy asked Tara, suddenly remembering there was something else.

  'Compared to the bikes it was nothing.' Tara helped herself to another scone, spreading jam on it thickly. 'This has been a magic day.'

  She would tell Mum everything at bedtime. She would hug her and tell her how happy she was they had moved here, and apologise for being a misery for so long. Tonight she didn't ever want to live anywhere else. London was smelly and dirty. Chew Magna was where she belonged.

  Amy found out Tara's news from her mother once the children had rushed out after tea, leaving them to clear away.

  'That's wonderful.' Amy beamed, guessing there was more to the story than just praise for a smocked dress. 'I've been so frightened she wouldn't ever accept life here.'

  'She's so much like me.' Mabel shrugged her shoulders. 'A bit self-centred, stubborn and too proud to make the first move. I often felt alone, even when I was surrounded by people.'

  'Well, it looks as if she's unbent a little,' Amy said as she caught a glimpse of Tara flying down the lane, her hair streaming behind her like a gold flag. 'I can't thank you enough for this, Mother!'

  Mabel leaned over the draining board to watch the children through the window as they raced against each other back up the lane. Tara's gymslip had ridden up, exposing long slender legs. Paul looked as stocky as a pit pony, his face red with exertion.

  'There's no need for thanks,' Mabel said gruffly. 'Just seeing their faces is enough.'

  Chapter 8

  May 1961

  Amy was sitting on a bench in the yard shelling peas, enjoying the unexpectedly hot May sunshine, when Paul looked furtively round the edge of the dairy.

  'What on earth have you been doing, Paul?'

  She knew even without seeing him properly. She could hear the squelch of his shoes, smell the river water, and she remembered only too well what a magnet water was to children on a hot day. It was hard not to laugh as he crept out from his hiding place, head down. He looked like a half-drowned dog, dark hair plastered to a mud-streaked face, water dripping from the legs of his grey shorts.

  'We were playing. I kind of slipped,' he said.

  'You haven't been in the flash-hole?' she asked, raising an eyebrow. 'It's too deep, you c
an't swim properly and there's lots of weed and stuff to pull you under.'

  'We weren't there, Mum.' His voice was plaintive. 'We were only down Dumpers making a dam.'

  Dumpers Lane was a child's paradise. In winter it was often flooded, and it boasted a spooky old farm, an old stone bridge and thick woods. Any parent with a child missing had only to go down there to find them.

  'So how did you get that wet?'

  'I lost my footing.' His dark eyes implored her not to keep him in for the rest of the day, his sticking-out ears were almost transparent with the sun behind them.

  'It seems to me you've got in too many scrapes since you made friends with Colin! Take your clothes off out here, then get washed and changed.'

  Paul pulled off his clothes in record time, glancing round to check no-one was watching before removing his soggy pants and adding them to the pile on the ground.

  Amy watched him with amusement. He had filled out so much in the last year he could be a different child. Satin-like olive-toned flesh so much like his father's now concealed his ribs and spine. His legs and arms were sturdy, even his bottom had what Gran laughingly called 'a bit of upholstery'. The malnourished mouse of a slum kid had been replaced by a country boy, and Amy had no doubt that Paul would eventually outstrip his father, not only in intelligence, but in height and strength.

  'Don't be cross with me, Mum.' Paul came over to her, sliding one grubby hand across her shoulder. 'I'll wash my things.'

  Tara still spoke with a faint Cockney accent, but Paul had adopted the Somerset burr as if born to it.

  'I'm not a bit bothered about your clothes, they'll wash and dry,' Amy said evenly, catching hold of his naked little body and pulling him on to her lap. 'But I am concerned when you make a nuisance of yourself to our neighbours. Since you palled up with Colin you've been in trouble up at the Co-op for knocking over a display. You've been caught walking through crops, attempting to ride Mr Branston's goat and climbing on the church hall roof. To say nothing of plaguing the men at the mill by climbing on the sacks of grain.'