It had been a brilliant afternoon. They had scrambled on the rocks, paddled in pools and walked along the edge of the sea, darting from the reaches of the bigger waves and splashing through the shallower ones. They had stood, holding hands, the shingle sucking away under their feet till they eventually lost their balance, then stared out to the horizon where the blue of the sea lost its colour and became indistinguishable from the sky. He’d taken her to a place called West Bay where he bought her the best fish and chips she’d ever tasted. She didn’t remember having enjoyed herself so much before, ever.
And yet, and yet…
She stirred. Her initial euphoria had been replaced by an unidentifiable sense of dissatisfaction. True, he’d held her hand; true, he’d kissed her and not horrible, slobbery, tongue-in-the mouth kisses, either; but he’d been quite restrained and she didn’t know whether – to put it crudely – whether he fancied her or not. And he hadn’t kissed her until they had decided it was time to return.
‘Why did he leave it so late… Why the bloody hell didn’t he kiss me earlier?… We had the whole afternoon,’ she thought, frustrated, ‘and when am I gonna see him again? I don’t know – I don’t know anything. OK, so when we kissed goodbye, he said he’d be in touch. Big deal – how? By text? Great!’
And she groaned, having touched a nerve. She hadn’t told Al that she had no means of replying to his messages. She had hoped that somehow enough money could be scraped together to top up her mobile by the time he contacted her, but this row with Gran made that seem unlikely. She still hadn’t told him where she lived; nor her telephone number – she didn’t want to run the risk of one of her family answering the phone and making some fool-ass comment. But then, he hadn’t given her that information about himself, either. She’d no idea where he lived. All she had was his mobile number.
‘I guess that’s cool,’ she muttered. ‘What else do I need? I’ve just got to play it low-key and wait for him to make the next move. What a sod that he’s had to go off for the next few days...’
Her mind switched back to Gran. One of the reasons for her visit that afternoon had been to try and borrow against her next month’s allowance. If Elsie had agreed, then she would have had enough money for her phone and their next date. If she didn’t cough up with her share, she couldn’t see Al hanging around for long. As it turned out, she had been so incensed by what she saw as Elsie’s intransigence, she had lost her cool, banged on about not going to university and all that, and any question of begging for money had been forgotten until it was too late, and she had slammed Elsie’s door shut behind her.
‘Perhaps it’s not too late. Perhaps if I can find some way round the hole Gran’s dug for herself, and us…’ And she continued to lie on her bed, the shadows growing in her room, her thoughts turned inwards.
* * *
Jenny, in the kitchen, was equally preoccupied, though not with Elsie. Jeff hadn’t held her hand; he hadn’t kissed her; he hadn’t said they should go out together another time; but since she hadn’t been expecting any of these things, she wasn’t disappointed, and for her, Sunday afternoon ended all too soon.
Shy to begin with, and slightly over-anxious to please, all that had evaporated when swivelling her bottom to get out of his car, she had firmly planted her sandalled feet in a fresh cowpat. Dismayed, they both stared at the brown-green ooze between her toes, then Jenny, struck forcibly by such a ridiculous beginning to her dream day-out, started to laugh (if she hadn’t laughed, she told Rita later, she would have wept). Taking his cue from her, Jeff laughed, too, then fussed around, cleaning her shoes while she wiped her feet on the grass.
She felt an unfamiliar physical pang when she rested a hand on his shoulder as he bent down to put her sandals on, and again when, in an easy way, he took her elbow to guide her through the crowds round the pig sty, to see the piglets.
‘My favourite farm animals,’ he said. ‘Much underrated by us humans. Cleanest, most intelligent beasts in the farmyard.’
Jenny, slightly overcome by the smell and the intensity of the high-pitched squealing as food was placed in the troughs, said nothing, but tried to look interested as he talked to her about the different breeds, and resolved not to serve him roast pork when next he could be persuaded to join them for Sunday lunch.
It had never occurred to Jenny that there could be so many different breeds of the same animal. As far as she knew there were cows, pigs, sheep, goats etc, and that was all there was to it. Under Jeff’s informed tutelage, she became aware of how little she did know, and felt somewhat ashamed that in all her married life with Jim, and subsequently, she had learned so little about farm animals.
Not liking to appear too stupid in Jeff’s eyes, she kept her ignorance to herself, nodding as if she knew what he was talking about and pretending she was familiar with all the different species. They finished the afternoon in the farm’s tea shop and Jenny tucked in happily to a plateful of warm crumbly scones, thick red strawberry jam (her absolute favourite), with spoonfuls of buttery yellow cream. Jeff spotted the farmer (a woman, much to Jenny’s amazement), and went over to speak to her while Jenny browsed among the books and small gifts on display. She found a child’s guide to rare breeds and seeing Jeff still deep in conversation, made a surreptitious purchase, resolving to teach herself about the animals in case, just in case, he should take her out again.
She had it open on the table now as she finished labelling the chutney, listened to The Archers, and assembled supper for the family. Elsie poked her head round the door. ‘Whatever it is, Jenny, I’ll have it on a tray in my room. I’ve no stomach for that smell, or my family, at the moment, thank you.’
Jenny sighed and pushed the fruits of her labours to join an array of kitchen paraphernalia that permanently occupied one end of the table. Stephen came in from the milking shed just as she had put a plate containing a portion of rather grey-looking cauliflower cheese on Elsie’s tray.
‘Can you take this up to your gran, Stephen, and I’ll dish up for the rest of us. And give Ali a shout, would you? I think she’s in her room, though she’s very quiet.’
‘Why can’t Gran eat down here with the rest of us, instead of making more work for you? Got a bad conscience, has she?’
‘I don’t know about that, love, and please don’t be rude to her. It’s bad enough that Charlie won’t go near her, but I heard Ali shouting earlier and she banged the door so hard, the whole house shook.’
‘Ali shouted at Gran?’ Stephen was impressed. ‘That’s a first. I wonder what she said…’
But when, over supper, later, he pressed her, Alison wasn’t interested in going over the details of her argument.
‘The thing is,’ she said, waving a fork at Stephen and Jenny, ‘It’s up to us to find a way out of this mess. You know what Gran’s like – stubborn as old boots; she won’t back down, no matter how much she might want to – I don’t think she’s thought her ultimatum through. Is she really going to move over for two more women on this farm? No, the thing is she’s really worried about the state it’s getting into, and you can’t blame her.’
Stephen, in the process of scraping out the last encrusted bits of the cauliflower cheese onto his plate, looked resentful. ‘I do more than my bit. I can’t help it if….’
Alison hastily reassured him, ‘I know you do, Stephen. But the thing is that straightforward farming, particularly on the scale that we’re at, is not paying. Not only is it not paying, it’s losing. Old Lester must be the only farmer we know who seems to make money without blinking, and though we might sneer at it, I think Gran was rattled when he came back with that second offer.’
‘She must know we’d never sell…’
‘The very idea!’ chimed in Jenny, clearing away the plates to the sink. ‘Ali, fetch the bowls from the dresser, love. There’s rhubarb and custard for pudding.’
‘But supposing we had to?’ Alison
persisted, fetching the bowls and placing them on the table. ‘No rhubarb for me, thanks, Mum.’ She sat down and looked across at Stephen. ‘Did you know that the bank has asked to see Charlie tomorrow, to discuss our overdraft?’
Stephen froze, and whistled with dismay.
Jenny dropped the spoon with which she was ladling out some bright yellow custard onto a brownish-pink slush. ‘Oh no, it’s not fair – what more can we do? I struggle with my budget as it is…’
‘How come he told you and not me? I’m meant to be his partner.’
‘I took the call. Anyway, the bank and Gran between them set me thinking. Gran’s idea that getting you two married will solve our problems is stupid; as is the idea that by threatening me she will get me to university. No, but what she also said was that “if we managed to turn the farm around” and that’s gonna be what the bank wants. The crazy thing is that if we got the farm on its feet, I think she’d put money into it. Same way a bank will lend if they think you’re onto a good thing.’
‘That’s all well and good,’ said Stephen heavily, ‘but how? We’re stretched as it is.’
‘I know. But something Gran said; maybe we should re-think what we’re doing. Instead of flogging a dead horse, maybe we should think of doing something different; put energy into things that might pay. Diversify.’
‘I’m not giving up my cows!’
‘We could have some rare breeds,’ said Jenny, unexpectedly. Alison and Stephen stared at her. ‘Well, um…’ she added lamely, ‘people like to see them, like in a zoo, but working.’
‘That’s a good idea, Mum.’ Alison was surprised and encouraging. ‘That’s the sort of thing I mean. Listen, Stephen, I think we should have a meeting, the four of us, not Gran, and bash ideas around. It can’t do any harm. You persuade Charlie; he won’t listen to me. And we should think of everything, anything that might make money, including’ – her eyes fell on the jars of chutney – ‘green tomato chutney.’
Charlie had not been enthusiastic about the idea of a meeting at all when tackled about it that night, but it was the first time the brothers had exchanged more than two words since Elsie’s bombshell, and Stephen, still holding Charlie responsible for the terrible position Elsie had put him in, was more abrasive, more assertive than usual in dealing with his brother.
Taken aback by Stephen’s stance, tired after harvesting all day, disappointed at having failed, in the pub that evening, to pin Beth down on when their next date would be, and dispirited at the thought of his visit to the bank, Charlie didn’t put up much resistance, apart from the odd sarcastic comment about his sister’s ‘sudden interest in the farm’, his inability to see that anything constructive would be achieved, and to sneer, ‘Diversifying – is that an alternative to marriage?’
9
Two hundred and fifty grams: that’s a little over half a pound of pear drops…’ Rita Godwin, turned from the sweets she was weighing and peered through her large, lightly tinted specs at the tall, thin man standing on the other side of the counter. He had a large head, with a high forehead and a shock of thick, greying hair; and from the weary way his body moved and the head followed, his pronounced stoop came from carrying a cranium too weighty for the shoulders that bore it. That head was turned in the direction of the scales and appeared to be counting every sugary, pink and yellow boiled sweet shaken out of the jar.
‘Is that all right, Vicar?’
‘Yes, yes, Mrs Godwin. It’s foolish of me, I know, but I will never get the measure of metric.’ His voice was soft and anxious and he tugged at the hem of the short grey vestment that proclaimed his profession, as if willing it to be long enough to conceal the hanging thread of a missing button on the waistband of his trousers.
‘You’re not the only one,’ chipped in Jenny. ‘I was bad enough at sums at the best of times. It beats me where Alison gets her brains from. She’s doin’ maths at A level. Can you believe it!’
‘You must be very proud of her, er…’ the vicar, old before his time, had the polite, slightly embattled look of someone who was trying to remember not only whom it was they were talking about, but whom he was talking to.
‘Don’t forget your Telegraph.’ Rita was dying to resume the conversation she had been having with Jenny when the vicar had come into the shop. ‘That’ll be one pound-fifty, please.’
With painstaking slowness, the vicar took out a battered leather purse and counted out the change.
‘Thank you, Mrs Godwin. Good day.’ And with a nod and a vague smile that embraced both ladies, he left the shop.
‘I swear he gets slower every time he comes in!’ Rita chuckled, ‘But I mustn’t grumble – at least he comes into the shop; an’ he’s eatin’ his way through that jar of pear drops single-handed.’
‘Never liked ’em, myself. Give me a humbug any day.’
But Rita wasn’t interested in comparing favourite sweets. Before the vicar had interrupted them, they had been engaged in a much tastier conversation. ‘Well now, Jenny Tucker, so what next? Did Jeff ask you out again? How did he leave it?’
And the two women settled down to resume their tête-à-tête amid the little stacks of West Country fudge, country craft biscuits, jars of locally produced honey, chutney and lemon curd that are found on the counter in most village shops, and designed more for promoting an image of wholesome home-cooking to passing trade than meeting the demands of the regular customer.
Rita was the same age as Jenny; she had moved into the village a couple of years before Jenny had arrived at Marsh Farm, as a newly wed, to run the village shop. She’d had no children and her husband, Rob, was a semi-permanent invalid with chronic back trouble. As a girl, she had been quite plain, but middle age was kinder. She experimented with hair colour, curls and make-up; and followed fashion slavishly, ordering what she could afford from her catalogue.
Life was not easy for Rita, but she was an ebullient woman, with plenty of time for other people’s troubles. She provided, together with the postman and the milkman, an unofficial, unacknowledged, very essential support service to the elderly and infirm of the village, and Jenny admired her deeply for it. The two women had quickly become close friends; Jenny admired Rita’s strength and patience; Rita admired her friend’s gentleness and humility, although at times, the latter drove her mad, particularly where Elsie was concerned.
She had known about Jenny’s secret interest in Jeff Babbington for a long time and had ceaselessly chivvied her friend to do something about it, without expecting anything ever to happen. Now that it had, she was almost more excited than her friend, who replied to Rita’s frenzied questioning with a matter of fact, ‘Well, he just dropped me back home. Didn’t stop for a cup. Said he’d enjoyed himself. He was just, well, normal, Rita.’
‘And he didn’t say anythin’ like: “we must do this again some time?’’’
‘No.’
‘So why did he ask you out in the first place? He’s been comin’ round to yours for years. Why did he suddenly take you out?’
Jenny hesitated. True, Rita was her very great friend, but she was a gossip – inevitable, perhaps, running the shop. But Jenny wasn’t sure whether she could be trusted not to say anything about Elsie’s little bombshell and she could see it would be very difficult for her two sons if anything got out. ‘He saw I was upset and thought it’d cheer me up. He’s really thoughtful like that.’
‘Why were you upset, Jenny? Not like you. I know Elsie’s a pain in the bum, but you don’t normally let her get to you. And the boys wouldn’t do anything to upset you. Was it Ali? She can be a little madam, I know. I think you’re a bit soft with her, I really do…’
Jenny interrupted her, ‘No, no, it wasn’t Ali, or the boys. If I tell you, Rita, you must swear not to tell anyone else. Promise me.’
Rita was intrigued, ‘Of course I won’t tell. I’m your mate. You can trust me.’
And so Jenny told Rita Godwin about Elsie’s ultimatum. And of course, swearing them to secrecy, Rita subsequently told each and every other customer that came to the shop, and before the end of Tuesday, most of the village knew and were in stitches at the thought of Charlie Tucker being tied down at last, and at the idea of Stephen Tucker finding someone at all who might marry him.
* * *
As Stephen had a rehearsal in the evening, the family meeting was fixed for late morning, when Charlie got back from the bank, and before Elsie appeared for lunch.
After Charlie had left to keep his appointment, Alison joined Stephen in the yard, where he was scraping down the slurry, and, to his amazement, offered to give him a hand. The noise of the tractor and the sheer physical effort of the work made conversation difficult, but when they finished, she said, ‘Stephen, I know I haven’t made what happens on the farm my business, but it doesn’t mean I don’t care. And before you say anything, it’s got nothing to do with the fact I own a share…’
‘A share that ain’t worth much, as it happens…’
‘So you and Charlie keep reminding me. Anyway, I want to know just how things are with the bank. Charlie looked awful when he went off this morning.’
‘And well he might. The bank’s got us locked on in two ways. For one, we’ve a loan, which we have to pay interest on, and pay off a bit of the capital every month; for two, we’ve an overdraft which has a fixed limit and which, more than likely, we’re way over.’
‘ More than likely – you don’t know?’
Stephen and Jenny reacted in the same way to the appearance of any official-looking envelopes: they froze and then put them on one side to be opened later, possibly. If the financial management of the farm had been left to them, it would have collapsed long ago. Stephen, who was a careful manager in every other way, was ashamed of this weakness and therefore not as critical about Charlie’s organisation of the finances as he probably should have been.
A Tangled Summer Page 13