‘It would kill him. He likes his independence. He has his moments, I grant you, but he doesn’t mean any harm.’
Alison turned to her grandmother. ‘Gran, promise me you won’t see him alone, again. Please. I’m not fussing, I’m really not, but I don’t think it’s safe for you to be collecting money from people who are…who are…nutcases!’ At that, she could have sworn she detected a look of amusement flit across Elsie’s face.
‘Ah well, Ali, you might be right. I’m not as young as I used to be. Anyways, thank you for coming with me. I said I’d pay you for your time. Will twenty do?’
Twenty pounds!
Not only did Elsie give her twenty quid, but with her phone now in credit, Alison was able to text Al back and put an end to that particular torture; for Al had followed up his initial invitation with further text messages and was clearly puzzled, if not put out, by her failure to reply.
With money in her purse and a date with Al on Saturday night, no wonder Jenny had detected a change in her daughter’s mood.
‘I’m going to pick some blackberries for Gran, Mum,’ Alison looked across at her mother, wrestling with the mixing bowl. ‘Do you want me to get any extra for you?’
‘That’d be nice dear. I’ll make a crumble. We could have it at teatime, tomorrow.’
‘Teatime? Crumble? What on earth for?’
‘Stephen’s got a friend coming to tea. A girl. I’m making a cake, but she might prefer blackberry crumble.’
Alison chewed over this unexpected revelation as she walked up the track to the road. ‘Stephen…a girl! Wonders will never cease… It’s been such a weird week… I meet Al; Stephen invites a girl round; Gran parts with hard cash… Whatever next…?’
Crossing the road, she waved at Jeff Babbington as he turned his car into the farm’s entrance. She was heading for fields alongside the river on the other side, where the marshy, tussocky grassland and swathes of thick bramble bushes rendered the land unfit for much except cover for rabbits and pheasants and, at this time of year, an abundance of blackberries. A permanently muddy footpath ran alongside the river and was a popular walk for villagers exercising their dogs, and for Sunday afternoon ramblers.
Inevitably the lower fronds and the bushes in easy reach had already been picked clean, but Alison had come dressed for the battle of the brambles, in jeans and a denim jacket. Thus protected, she was able to press bodily into the depths of the bushes. Her fingers were soon stained purple and her pile of berries grew.
As she picked, she thought about her twenty-pound windfall and the dilemma it posed. It was enough for a ticket, the one thing she had really wanted. She would be able to go to the event. But, and it was a big ‘But’, she had this date with Al on Saturday… Last Sunday, he had insisted on treating her. She couldn’t let him do that again, and she had no idea what he was planning for Saturday night. If they went to the cinema; if they just went to the pub; if they went out for a meal somewhere – it would all cost, and she, Ali Tucker, would pay her way and bang would go the twenty quid and she’d be back where she started…
She edged around a bush growing close to the river’s edge, knowing from experience that the most luscious blackberries always hung over the water, just out of reach. The raucous clatter of a pheasant startled her. It flew out of the undergrowth straight for her head, and as she ducked to miss it, a dog hurled after it, straight between her legs. Blackberries flew into the air and Alison and the dog toppled into the water.
Fortunately for Alison, it had been a long dry summer, so the water level was quite low. Even so, the force of the dog’s impact took her right down to the reedy, muddy bottom. The water was cold, and clouds of disturbed silt billowed around her. Shock gave way to instinct and she struggled to break the surface but the denim was now cumbersome and heavy. There was a loud disturbance in the water beside her, and she was aware of someone grabbing her arm, shouting and thrashing; then of being held securely round her chest and being pulled up out of the murk into the sunshine and onto the riverbank, where she lay, gasping and choking.
‘Oh God, I’m really sorry. Are you OK?’ It was a male voice, a nice voice, quite posh, like someone from a TV drama rather than a soap. Alison looked up at the man bent anxiously over her. She felt pretty bloody: shaking and shocked; soaked through; mud and weeds trailing from her hair, her clothes, her mouth.
‘I’m OK,’ she replied feebly. ‘Thanks for dragging me out. I’m not quite sure…a dog…’
‘Yes,’ he said wretchedly. ‘She’s mine. I’m really sorry. Normally she’s very good, but at the sight of a pheasant, she goes mad. I’m really sorry…’
‘Is she all right? I think she landed in the water with me…’
‘Oh, she’ll be fine. She’s probably swum across to the other side. She’ll be back when the stupid thing finally realises she won’t be able to catch the bird. Look, I don’t live far from here. Not only are you soaking, but you’re in a state of shock, which is hardly surprising! Please, come back with me. You can have a hot bath or whatever; a hot toddy or a cup of tea, whichever takes your fancy, and I’ll get your clothes dried. Then I’ll run you home. It’s the least I can do. Please.’
Alison looked at him rather dubiously. Truth to tell, she was feeling very cold and shivery and close to tears. If he lived locally, she’d never seen him before and she wasn’t sure… Her instinct was to go straight home. Then the dog, a joyous brown and white spaniel dragged herself up over the bank, came straight up to them, and to add insult to injury, shook herself, spraying both of them with dank river water.
Alison started to giggle, helplessly. He looked at her anxiously, and then catching her mood, he joined in. He was, Alison reckoned, about the same age as Stephen, possibly younger. Even with mud and water weed streaking his face and body, staining his white cotton shirt and probably ruining forever expensive-looking linen chinos, she could see that he had a pleasant face, with laughter lines etching his tanned skin.
‘I feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland,’ she expostulated, hiccupping. ‘But instead of following the White Rabbit down a hole, I’ve followed a dog into the river and come up again into a world I don’t recognise. Who are you? I’ve lived here all my life and I don’t think I’ve seen you before.’
‘You wouldn’t have, I’ve just rented a cottage on the outskirts of the village. I moved in a couple of weeks ago. Look, you’re shivering badly. I’m entirely responsible. Come back with me. I promise I won’t eat you.’
* * *
Jenny beamed when Jeff poked his head round the door. She hadn’t seen him since last Sunday, but then, she hadn’t expected to.
‘Not disturbing you, am I?’
‘Don’t be daft. Cup of tea?’
‘Love one. Shall I put the kettle on? You look busy.’
‘No, I could do with a break. My arm’s aching something rotten trying to beat this marge.’
‘What are you making?’ He unearthed the kettle from under a damp woollen jumper. (When Jenny couldn’t afford to buy wool, she would salvage old jumpers from the jumble sale, wash, and then unpick them.)
‘A cake,’ said Jenny proudly. ‘I haven’t made one for ages, but Stephen is bringing a girl home for tea tomorrow, so I thought I’d do some baking.’
Jeff, raising his eyebrows with surprise, digested this news. ‘Stephen gave me a ring asking about rare breeds, so I’ve brought over a bit of stuff. I’ll leave it here, on the dresser. So,’ he continued thoughtfully, ‘Elsie’s threat has had an effect after all. Stephen’s got a girl eh? That’s a first, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, and I so want us to make a good impression. Fortunately, being Saturday, Elsie is off with her friends in Bath…’
‘So she won’t be around to put the fear of god into the poor girl! What about Charlie? Can you find something for him to do to keep him out of the way as well and stop him taking over?’
‘Jeff! Charlie’s not that bad…’
‘Hmm, if you say so. What sort of cake is it?’
‘I haven’t decided yet. I’m a bit low on ingredients. I haven’t got quite enough cocoa for a very chocolaty cake, so I thought I’d add some coconut I’ve found in the back of the cupboard.’ She rested her arm, ‘Whew – that will have to do.’
Jeff looked at the unprepossessing mixture of margarine and sugar in the bowl.
Jenny was cracking eggs into a cup. ‘I think I can get away with just two eggs if I add some milk, only I’m a bit low at the moment.’
‘Why are you doing it by hand? Haven’t you got one of those electric mixers?’
‘I used to have one, but it broke and I never got it fixed. I expect that’s why I don’t make cakes more often. It’s quite hard work, all this beating.’ She concentrated hard on the mixture, silent for a moment. ‘ Jeff…’ she said, shyly, ‘ Would you like to come to tea tomorrow, as well? We’ll all be so nervous; at least I know I will, and poor Stephen…with you here… If you’ve got the time, that is…’
Jeff remembered the last cake of Jenny’s he’d eaten. The memory sat heavily on his digestion. He sipped his tea, watching her ineffectively beating in the eggs and milk, and formulated his excuse. Then, for some reason, he remembered their trip on Sunday. He had offered to take her out of pity but then he’d really enjoyed her company. Released from the confines of her family it was as if she’d woken up; she’d come alive; she’d been good fun. She needed more trips like that, and, he admonished himself silently, he was being selfish by ignoring her request for help. After all, he didn’t have to eat the wretched cake! Also, he realised, with a flash of inspiration, he could do his bit to help secure the success of the tea party.
‘Thanks, Jenny. I’d like that. I tell you what – I’ll bring some chocolate biscuits or something. Contribute to the feast, eh?’
* * *
Far from being tempted to ‘take over’, Charlie was heartily relieved to hear his family would be occupied in this fashion. Knowing that he was going to be very tied up the following week, working for dark glasses, he was desperate to get the harvest finished.
They had just started cutting the last field, the second of the two that Dark Glasses wanted to hire, and at the furthest point from the farm, when the tractor had conked out and had to be towed back the whole length of Weasel Lane to the yard for running repairs.
‘A tea party, I ask you!’ he expostulated, waving a grease gun. ‘Stephen’s barking up the wrong tree if he thinks a tea party is gonna impress a bit of skirt.’
‘Who is she?’ Lenny emerged from the depths of the tractor engine and retrieved the gun. ‘’S nearly fixed – she’ll be singing like a bird in a minute.’
‘I dunno, some bit of stuff from his Am Dram. Might be that mousy little four-eyes that he brings back from time to time, to make stuff with.’
‘Does he make it with her?’
‘Stephen?’ Charlie laughed. ‘Lenny, you’re kidding!’
‘Still, he’s bringing back the crumpet. That’s the way your gran’ll see it. You better watch out, mate. Tortoise and the hare! Before you know where you are, the year’ll be up and Stephen will be nice and settled with his little wifey, crumpet or four-eyes, it won’t matter ’cos he’ll have your share.’
Charlie stared at him, unsettled. ‘What are you talking about? What a load of rubbish! What do you mean, the tortoise and the hare?’
‘Some story the kids had on a video. The hare and the tortoise are gonna have a race; the bets are on the hare of course. He’s a cool dude, really fast. Thing is, he’s so busy giving interviews and having his picture taken, he don’t notice the race has started, and by the time he gets the picture, the race is over and the slow guy – that’s Stephen – has won. So which piece of crumpet are you taking home to Grandma, Charlie? As I understand it, you’ve ditched Sarah and ain’t goin’ nowhere with Beth. Got anyone else lined up?’
Charlie didn’t like the turn this conversation had taken. ‘Don’t you worry about me, Lenny. Just get this fucking tractor fixed. We need to be finished by tonight, secure the field tomorrow morning and stand by to take delivery in the afternoon.’
‘Yes boss! Right y’are, boss. I can’t stay late tomorrow, though. Paula’s gotta be up at the Lesters for the evening and her mam can’t babysit, so I’ve gotta.’
‘Have you seen old man Lester yet?’
‘Nope. Seems he was steamin’ after I failed to deliver. Not my problem. If he wants me, he knows where to find me!’
* * *
Warmed by the most luxurious shower she’d ever had, Alison, her feet tucked under, was curled in the depths of a large armchair, wrapped in a thick towelling dressing gown; her hair a fluffy golden halo framing her face; her cheeks pink from the hot water; her green eyes sparkling with the excitement of this unexpected adventure. She nursed a large hot chocolate laced with brandy; in the distance, the sound of her clothes could be heard, grinding round in a tumble dryer.
Simon, for such was his name, had put on some music before going off to the shower himself, and Alison, enchanted by the unfamiliar, haunting notes of a trumpet, looked around the room for some hints about the personality of her rescuer.
His cottage was on the outskirts of the village, at the end of a back lane where it petered out into a footpath. On the brief journey back, they had introduced themselves and she learned that his dog was called Duchess, that he was renting the cottage from an elderly aunt, and that he had come to stay in the area for a while because of business.
The room was very comfortably furnished, but in Alison’s opinion, quite old-fashioned. The only things in the room that seemed to belong to the tenant were a number of boxes clearly full of books; piles of CDs, everywhere, and what must be, it appeared to her untutored eye, a state-of-the-art sound system; a wide-screen television, and again, piles of DVDs. Whatever else, she concluded, he wasn’t short of a bob or two. There was no sign, either in here or in the bathroom, of anything feminine.
She had put her drink down and paddled over to inspect the closest pile of CDs when Simon reappeared, freshly clothed and drying his hair. She could see he definitely was the same age as her brothers but better preserved and obviously fitter, good-looking too, with wavy blond hair and brilliant blue eyes, but definitely too old to be in her league, which was something she found reassuring.
‘I really like this music, what is it?’
‘You’ve got taste. It’s ‘Ascent to the Scaffold’; Miles Davis, have you heard of him?’
It took an hour for her jeans to get dry; an hour that passed all too quickly. Alison entertained Simon with spiky little portraits of the people who lived in the village; he told her that he was a management consultant who worked as a trouble-shooter for companies in difficulties; she told him about the troubles they were having with Marsh Farm and of her grandmother’s solution to the problem, which made him roar with laughter.
‘I’d like to meet your gran, she sounds great. And how are your brothers reacting to the suggestion they should find brides?’
‘That’s the funny thing, Stephen is bringing someone home to tea tomorrow. Stephen! I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been Charlie. He’s much the better-looking and he’s always got some girl or other on the go, but Stephen, I swear, is a virgin. He’s never had a girlfriend in his life.’
‘What about you, little Alison, have you got a boyfriend?’
Alison found she didn’t want to answer this question. She prevaricated. ‘Not really. What about you?’
He paused, then said ruefully, ‘Not really, either. I’m just emerging from a rather messy divorce, and, quite honestly, I’m not too keen to rush into another relationship.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Have you got children?’
‘No, I haven’t.’ He stopped abruptly. ‘It’
s a painful subject. I’ll tell you about it, some day. Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about the Lesters.’
‘The Lesters? Why on earth would you want to know about them?’
‘I play squash so I’ve joined the local club. I met Veronica-call-me-Vee Lester there. She phoned me a couple of days ago to make up numbers at a dinner party she’s giving Saturday. I thought you could brief me.’
‘My God, you don’t want to go there!’
‘Why not, Ali? Fishing you out of the river has been the first exciting thing to happen to me since I got here and I can’t expect adventures on the riverbank every day. I’ve not got much else to do with my spare time, so tell me, why should I avoid these Lesters?’
‘I’m sorry, it wasn’t fair of me. Of course you should go. You might find you like them. It’s just good old prejudice on my part. They represent the fat cat side of farming…’
‘And you, the poor-but-honest-toilers of the soil?’
Alison thought of her brother Charlie, and grinned, ‘Well, Stephen is. The thing is that they are not really interested in farming in the traditional sense; they just want to make as much money out of it as they can.’
‘And you dislike them because they are succeeding in doing what you would like to do – making money out of farming?’
Alison was stung. ‘No! I…we dislike them because they’re what they are: greedy, selfish, stuck-up snobs. What they do isn’t farming! Hundreds of horses, beautiful though they are, ultimately ruin good pasture; and Hugh Lester pumps so many chemicals into his fields they probably glow luminous at night.’
‘And your Charlie doesn’t do the same to his crops?’
‘No, as it happens. But we’re not in the same league, and if we were, quite truthfully, he might. He hasn’t the same feel for the farm as Stephen. But Simon, honestly, the Lesters aren’t very nice. I know someone who works for them. She’s normally very easy-going, but get her to talk about her employers and it’s another story…’
A Tangled Summer Page 17