‘We don’t all get to do something of consequence, Mr Doubler, so you should be proud of everything you’ve achieved already. And who is to say this is your life’s work done yet? That will be determined when the time comes. Now, a short wait for the postman to deliver your answer is a small price to pay. Others suffer substantially more for less of a legacy, Mr Doubler.’
Mrs Millwood bit into a Granny Smith with great relish and Doubler, grateful once again for her deep wisdom, and quite used by now to his housekeeper having a much greater instinct than his own for matters pertaining to life, chose not to comment on her choice of apple.
Chapter 4
On the first Sunday of each month, Doubler’s only daughter, Camilla, liked to visit Mirth Farm with her family. This had been happening for many years. It was a habit that had been initiated by Camilla once she had her own children, as if she might be able to teach her father the correct procedure to hold a family together. One or two such lunches established a precedent, a couple more sealed it as a tradition, and this was then upheld by Camilla with great diligence and worn proudly as some sort of badge of filial duty.
‘It’s lovely to know that my kids are part of Dad’s life,’ she said to her brother, Julian, with a barely concealed stratum of aggression-tinged superiority that she rarely found cause to exhibit in her brother’s company.
Conversely, Julian, Doubler’s only son, was ambivalent about his role in the family. His associations with both family and Mirth Farm were linked to his childhood and now, an adult with adult responsibilities, his main preoccupation at the weekends was the management, from afar, of his costly ex-wife and the ongoing provision for two expensive children who found little to interest them on a potato farm, having been exposed to the sort of infancy that valued lawn much more highly than soil. Even if they had clamoured to visit their grandfather, Julian would have found an excuse to resist. At Mirth Farm, there was little escape from the immediacy of fatherhood and Julian felt exposed by this. In stark contrast, his own home provided any number of distractions and barriers that allowed the children and their father to coexist without confronting the enormity of each other’s failings.
To date, Julian’s involvement in his children’s upbringing had given him very little fulfilment other than the satisfaction of completing numbers in a column of the ledger of his mind. Nevertheless, he wore his paternal responsibilities quite heavily on his stooped shoulders and never was this more apparent than under the gaze of his father and sister. He didn’t quite understand Camilla’s need to imitate a conventional family so regularly, but nor did he quite trust his own emotional response to try to change or influence the pattern.
Camilla, however, had a very certain sense of what these occasions should feel like to her offspring, and even though her own childhood had failed to live up to many of the obligations she liked to associate with the institution, she insisted on imposing her own needs upon all of them. She made sure that Julian and his children joined them at least four times a year, and this Sunday was one of those prescribed occasions when Doubler’s son and daughter and his four grandchildren were due to visit Mirth Farm all together.
In his many years of voluntary isolation, Doubler had learnt to navigate the extremely narrow path that separates solitude from loneliness. One he sought; the other sought him. But never was he more certain that he would prefer to be alone than when his family descended upon him in this manner. Had Marie not gone in the way that she had, things would certainly have been different. Raising children was something that he and his wife had undertaken together, and he had no doubt that he would have approached grandparenthood with a similarly shared sense of commitment. But he had not sought the role of single parent with its double dose of duty and he eschewed all grandparental influence for fear that he would fall short twice. He deeply resented the additional pressure the seismic shift his wife’s departure had imposed upon him.
And anyway, Doubler valued his time on his own. He relished the silence, and his intellect needed very little stimulation other than that provided by his potatoes, by his carefully stocked cellar and by his daily lunch with Mrs Millwood. In truth, he had come to dread these family occasions, but he knew that the more normality he was able to depict, the sooner he would be left to his own devices for the ensuing month. This meant interacting as well as he could, feigning interest in those around him, keeping off the subjects that tended to provoke conflict and never, ever letting any of his family realize that he had chosen to live life as a recluse.
Julian wasn’t overly interested in the comings and goings of his father, Doubler knew that. But if Camilla had any idea of just how far, how conclusively, Doubler had removed himself from society, then she would be even more disappointed in him. As it was, Doubler felt his deceit had been reasonably successful, as his daughter believed quite vocally that her father was coping ‘as well as could be expected under the circumstances’.
One of the greatest pretences that Doubler could enact to give the impression of lucid stability was to provide a flawless Sunday lunch. Increasingly he found great comfort in cooking well and these visits gave him an opportunity to put his skills into practice. He could produce a roast for eight people without any one of them even realizing there was expertise involved. To his visitors, lunch meant trays of piping-hot food sliding from the Aga at 1 p.m. with very little sense of the many significant decisions that separated a good Sunday lunch from a great one. His trick was to have completed the preparation long before anyone arrived – even the gravy was made. All he had to do as his family gathered in the kitchen bothering him with details of their small lives was to take the beef out, put the Yorkshires in and finish off the gravy by adding the meat juices while the beef rested before carving.
As for the next generation (‘f3’, Doubler liked to joke to himself), he barely took a passing interest in his grandchildren. He was fascinated to see which, if any, of his own genetic characteristics had been passed on, but these could be observed with side glances as he went about his kitchen business. The trouble with humans, he had learnt, was that their life cycles were just too long to intervene in the genetics meaningfully. By the time the weak or undesirable traits fully emerged, the sample had probably already reproduced itself.
He suspected that Marie, had she not gone, would have been a very good, active grandmother, interested in their grandchildren’s school progress, their extra-curricular choices, their loss of teeth, their new haircuts or the little triumphs that everyone felt necessary to discuss but that Doubler found dull. Marie would have excelled at grandparenting, so Doubler didn’t dismiss his obligation altogether but nodded and listened and even made a small comment every now and then, feigning interest as best he could. What he was watching for in his grandchildren was something that might arrest his attention. A flash of genetic improvement that meant they weren’t going to just be dull incarnations of their parents.
Julian’s children, born to a generous portion of the same DNA as their cousins, had already been ruined by an expensive education. Though still small, they were haughty, just like their father, and their lack of stable family life meant they had quickly learnt to exploit their father’s guilt to their own advantage. That is what their private education had taught them: to see a weakness in an adult and to monetize it. This manifested in a steady access to costly things: overseas cricket and skiing trips, expensive electronic gadgetry and a sense of entitlement that would guarantee them good careers later in life.
Meanwhile, Camilla’s children were a little younger and it was hard to see who they might become in the years ahead. Doubler had some hope for them but expected their qualities to be presented to him like a gun dog’s prize. He didn’t yet like them enough to try to coax some good out of them or to shape the people they might become.
They arrived today in the usual flurry of coats and welly boots flung across the kitchen and Doubler, who prided himself on preserving some semblance of order within his home during the weeke
nds, tidied up after them while putting the finishing touches to the lunch.
As they sat down to eat, Camilla smiled benevolently at all of them. ‘Isn’t this special!’ she said, just as she always did. ‘Being together as a family is what it’s all about, don’t you think?’
Her husband, a translucent man with thin lips that rested his face into a grimace, muttered some agreement, while Julian admonished his spoilt children, who were leaning over to help themselves to potatoes with their fingers. Scolded, they sat back in their chairs, growling their dissatisfaction and sharing that special camaraderie that unites siblings when they hate their parents.
Doubler carved, his heavy steel knife slipping through the beef and making light work of the task. Camilla served vegetables while Julian surveyed the room, assessing and valuing as he went.
‘So, Dad, heard anything from Peele recently?’
Doubler stopped, his knife suspended in the air. After a pause of several seconds, he resumed the carving, watching with renewed pleasure as blood seeped from the joint beneath him.
In order to create a larger stage on which to star, Julian was rocking his chair back on its rear legs, a habit Doubler found alarming. He watched his son intently as Julian asked, feigning a polite interest, ‘I heard he was considering buying this place off you?’
‘Wherever did you hear that?’ said Doubler, carving the beef with a deft movement.
‘Oh, around and about. I can’t recall. The golf course, I suspect. We’re both members. Idle talk is golfers’ talk,’ said Julian with a smirk.
Doubler addressed the beef, not his son. ‘I have not entered into any communication with Peele.’
‘Oh? But I hear on the grapevine he’s buying up everything left, right and centre. He’s got most of the county apparently.’
Doubler shrugged. ‘I have very little interest in Peele.’
‘Well, that’s not a bad tactic, I suppose. The longer you hold out, the more valuable this place will be to him. But don’t leave it too long. There comes a point where it’s just not practical you owning a farm in the middle of his land. At the moment, this place is valuable to him. But there will come a tipping point beyond which it is no longer valuable to anyone else.’
‘My farm is not in the middle of his land. His farmland surrounds mine. And what he owns near me has little impact on me, providing he leaves me well alone.’
‘But will he leave you alone? I doubt it. Not once he’s got his eyes on the prize. This could be the jewel in his crown.’ Julian’s own eyes were sparkling in anticipation.
‘Potatoes?’ Doubler asked the children scattered round the table. He gave the gravy a good stir before sitting down to contemplate the perfectly rare beef in front of him.
‘As I say. I’ve got no interest in Peele.’
Julian peered at his father over the top of his specs. ‘Well, Dad, if you ever need a hand entering into negotiation, I’d be more than happy to help. It can’t be easy looking after this place on your own, and it’s not the same, is it, since Mum . . .’ he hesitated to finish the sentence, ‘went.’
Camilla allowed a small sound of exasperation to escape before addressing her brother with a sad whine. ‘Julian, I don’t know why you always have to raise the contentious issues just when we’re having such precious time together. Let’s talk about positive things, shall we?’
Julian answered in a quiet voice, in much the same way that a seasoned alfresco diner knows to keep still when a wasp is bothering them, ‘I don’t think a speculative offer from an extremely wealthy neighbouring farmer is exactly negative, do you? This place is bleak – look at it. There’s ice on the inside of the windows, for God’s sake.’
While it was true there were still traces of ice on the windows from last night’s heavy frost, the house was snug. The fire was roaring and throwing out a huge amount of heat, adding the distinctive quality of light that can only be achieved from the flicker of flame.
‘It’s cosy,’ said Camilla, looking for her father’s approval. ‘And anyway, it was our home – it was where we grew up. I don’t see how you can be so unsentimental about it, Julian. I don’t know about you, but I want my children to know this, to feel that they are part of it. We’ve got so many memories here.’
Julian looked unimpressed by this argument as he mentally flicked through a catalogue of recollections. Adulthood can have a strange effect on a childhood retrospective. He and Camilla had shared exactly the same experiences and yet they had very different associations. To Julian, it was black and white. His mother had been here and then she wasn’t. Any glimpses of past joys had been obliterated with her.
‘The land is valuable, Camilla. You’re being naive. And who knows what will happen to it in the future? The train line could completely ruin the value of these properties. I think if there is a viable offer on the table, Dad would be very sensible to have a serious look at it.’
Doubler drew himself taller and said, in a clear and decisive tone, ‘I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t talk about me as if I weren’t here. I am not selling the house, I am not selling the farm, and I will be here until the day I die. Please do not talk about matters that are none of your business, particularly if your conversation threatens to spoil the beef.’ But this was said only in his head. In reality, he quietly began to eat.
‘Spectacular food, Dad. Well done. Your Sunday lunch is just super,’ said Camilla, with a sad smile.
‘I like the potatoes best,’ contributed a small voice to his right.
Doubler examined the child, Camilla’s youngest, with heightened interest.
‘You do, do you? And why is that?’
‘Because they’re crunchy,’ he said seriously. ‘And they’re fluffy.’ He scrutinized the potato on the end of his fork. ‘They’re crunchy and they’re fluffy.’
‘You, young man, show some promise. That is exactly why they’re good.’ Doubler smiled, looking and feeling very much like a grandfather.
The small child, emboldened by his grandfather’s warmth, continued, ‘Mum’s are oily. And a bit squishy. Sometimes they’re hard, too.’
‘Darling, that’s not very kind,’ said Camilla. ‘Darren, tell Benj that’s not very kind.’
‘That’s not very kind, Benj. Your mother’s potatoes aren’t as nice because we don’t have an Aga. Your grandfather has an Aga, which is why the potatoes are nicer,’ said Darren, without lifting his eyes from his plate.
Doubler was surprised by this information. Surprised that his son-in-law would have so much to say on the subject. It was a shame he was wrong.
‘The Aga didn’t cook the potatoes. I cooked the potatoes. A strong heat source is all it takes, and actually you can cook very good roast potatoes in most ovens, even those with an uneven temperature, providing you take a bit of extra care. It’s in the preparation. You need to parboil them for long enough to ensure they’re not hard in the middle. It’s important that the outer layer of the potato just begins to break down so that it will absorb some of the fat you’re cooking them in. Give them a really good shake in the pan when you’ve drained them, which will ensure you get a good mix of crispy bits. The fat’s important, too. I use goose.’
‘Gross,’ said a voice from Doubler’s left, the elder of Julian’s children.
The younger of Julian’s children stifled a giggle.
Doubler continued, ‘The roasting is easy providing you put your parboiled potatoes into very hot fat. You can’t go wrong. They need good seasoning, too. The seasoning is always important.’
‘I don’t know why you’ve never taught me to cook roast potatoes, Dad, if mine are apparently so substandard.’ The hurt evident in her voice, Camilla directed the comment towards her husband.
‘Because you only ever turn up here at lunchtime. If you want to see how I prepare the roast, you really need to be here around 9 a.m.’
‘Fair enough, but what about when I was a teenager? That might have been more useful. It might have prevented
me from a lifetime of cooking inferior potatoes for my family.’ Again Camilla addressed the comment in the direction of her husband.
‘Your mother cooked,’ said Doubler definitively.
Camilla looked down at her plate and carried on eating.
Julian, uninterested in potatoes or their preparation, continued heedlessly, ‘Arable land is worth a premium at the moment. Fifteen thou an acre on a good day, but with this strategic stronghold, it would be worth much more than that. And the house has a great footprint – you’d get a sizable premium from a developer. It might well be worth applying for outline planning now. If nothing else, that would get Peele to up his game.’
Doubler looked beyond his son to the view out of the window. He could see for miles at this time of the year, despite the frosted glass. In the summer, the view was curtailed by the wisteria that wrapped itself round the house, the vigorous new growth fighting with the honeysuckle and roses that entwined it. The foliage shaded the room, cutting down on the sunlight that crept in, and this, coupled with the thick flagstones, ensured the room remained beautifully cool. Doubler loved this view. He loved this room, hot and smoky in the winter, cold and shady in the summer. He was not a materialistic man; he was a man of the soil, but nevertheless he wondered whether he could love a house more.
Camilla was having a good look around her, too. ‘Your daily is obviously doing a good job still: the place is immaculate.’
A small flicker of warmth enveloped Doubler’s heart. Mrs Millwood! he thought to himself, but as quickly the thought of her dispelled. She had no place here; theirs was strictly a table for two.
‘Mmmm,’ he said non-committally.
‘Is she still up here full time?’ ventured Julian, doing a quick calculation in his head. ‘Seems like a bit of an indulgence, Dad. If you had a smaller place, you wouldn’t need all that help. Less to worry about at your time of life.’
Mr Doubler Begins Again Page 3