Green Grass

by Raffaella Barker

  ‘You can leave your car here and I’ll bring you back to fetch it later,’ says Guy, throwing her the keys of his. Laura catches them and climbs stiffly into the driver’s seat. She is secretly impressed by Guy’s handling of the situation. He seems able to keep his head in a crisis, which Laura, who invariably weeps or laughs, while Inigo shouts, finds enviable and attractive.

  Guy appears by her door. ‘I’ll soak your seat.’ She searches on the floor for something to sit on, but there is nothing. Guy reaches in and stretches his hand over hers on the steering wheel. Laura looks at their touching hands and says nothing.

  ‘Christ, you’re frozen.’ Guy takes off his coat and tucks it over her legs. ‘Get going and when you get there, drive into the big barn and open the back of the truck. There’s loads of hay in there and the sheep will be fine until I get back. Then go into the house and have a bath.’ Laura raises her eyebrows as she starts the engine.

  Guy grins. ‘Please,’ he says. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be shouting orders at you,’ and he leans across the steering wheel and kisses her. On the mouth. Without thinking, Laura kisses him back and warmth floods through her veins again. The music pounds in her head. Her skin is so numb she wouldn’t have thought she could feel anything, but Guy’s arm is around her waist and she shudders, leaning towards him, her hands holding his face. Guy is half in the car now. Laura is breathless and electric. His hand is under her shirt, Laura gasps and lets her head roll back. As she does so, the music stops with a click as the tape ends. Laura wrenches herself to reality. Cold, wet reality.

  ‘I must go.’ She pushes Guy away and slams the door, her cheeks flaming as she grates the gears and manoeuvres the truck away from the flooded field. Her instinct is to put her foot down, get the sheep back and get out, but she hasn’t got her car, or indeed her keys as they are in her car, back at the field, and anyway, the sheep would probably break if she went more than twenty miles an hour. Determinedly not thinking about anything except sheep, Laura crawls back to Guy’s house and drives in the barn. Now what? She could sit in the truck in the dark until Guy and the pony arrive, or she could go into the house and have a bath.

  In the bath, Laura lies back in scented water, relieved that it is orange blossom, and not sugar beet extract. She shuts her eyes and slides down until all of her except her face is underwater. It is calming, but her thoughts are still tumbling out:

  ‘Unbelievable. What do I think I’m doing? How can this have happened now, when I thought it couldn’t. It wouldn’t. I thought this would never happen. I mean, I never thought this would happen. Actually, I’m overreacting. Nothing has happened, just a kiss, that’s all. No one will ever know about that’ She sits up and reaches for a sponge, trickling water down the centre of her face with it. ‘I shouldn’t be in the bath in this house. Mind you, it smells amazing, Guy ought to be producing this stuff.’

  She picks up the bottle and reads the label. ‘Celia’s making it. Clever her, it’s blissful. I wonder if she’s been back here? Oh God, I heard something. He’s back now and I’m still in the bath. I look as if I’m leading him on. I feel as if I am too. I should go back outside and be in the barn, but it’s too late, I can hear him on the stairs now. The door isn’t locked. That’s provocative. Mind you, I couldn’t lock the door because there isn’t a lock. Anyway, he hasn’t come in. Why hasn’t he come in? He started it. Now what’s going to happen?’

  Laura gets out of the bath and looks with disfavour at the pile of sodden clothes she was wearing. She’ll have to borrow something. Once she has the dry clothes she can go home and life will return to its normal equilibrium. Except it hasn’t got one. Normal has gone. Not that life with Inigo is normal by many people’s standards, but to Laura and the children it is. Perched on the edge of the bath, her ability to move diminishes. She has pulled the plug out, and the last drops gurgle away as she sits, now dry, and still warm in her towel, staring at the dirty clothes in the corner, not wanting to put them on.

  Guy knocks at the door. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I thought you might need some dry clothes.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I thought.’

  ‘Well, they’re here, outside the door. Shall I pass them to you?’

  Feeling that the conversation is labouring, and anxious to dispel this self-consciousness, Laura flings open the door, holding her towel up.

  ‘Thanks,’ she smiles, reaching for the clothes. Guy takes a step towards her, and in reflex she raises the towel higher. Startled, Guy backs away again; he swallows nervously.

  ‘I’m not coming in,’ he says.

  ‘Certainly not,’ agrees Laura with dignity. She turns on her heel and goes back into the bathroom. Shutting the door, she glimpses her back view in the mirror. The towel in no way covers her bottom. This is a pity. Laura looks again: actually, it is a big pity.

  She dresses quickly, much enjoying the sense of exciting thinness brought about by being lent jeans and a shirt that are far too big. Even the socks flop off her feet, reminding her of the high-heeled moment when she had thought her feet had put on weight. Just thinking about high heels and urban clothes makes her stomach flip. Everything is so complicated. It would be so nice to sit by the fire here and to have someone to talk to. Gloomily she remembers that the Rayburn hadn’t got going properly before she left – it will have gone out again now. And she didn’t get any roadkill for Vice. Damn.

  Laura bundles her wet clothes into a bag and goes downstairs. Guy is crouched in the fireplace, blowing a smoking wigwam of kindling. He stands up to pour Laura a drink, touching her fingers as he passes her the glass.

  ‘It’s a Whisky Mac. It’s the most warming drink I could think of.’

  Laura takes a gulp and coughs, as the strong sweetness catches in her throat. ‘It’s delicious,’ she says hoarsely.

  ‘I’m glad I bumped into you,’ says Guy conversationally, as if they have just met at the shop in the village. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Greece. I’m thinking of buying a farm there.’

  Laura perches on the arm of the chair by the fire and looks at Guy, a suspicion beating in her head. He stands, one foot on the fender, leaning his shoulders against the mantlepiece, looking down into the fire. He is still wearing jeans with mud caked around the hem, and his hair is standing on end. He looks up, half-smiling, feeling Laura’s gaze,

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replies, and suddenly it has gone. All the confusion and yearning, wanting and wishing is past. Inside, Laura is just empty, rattling sadness. ‘I’m sorry, Guy. I’ll always be sorry.’

  Bewildered, he moves towards her. ‘Sorry about what? You have nothing to be sorry for. Do you?’ There is panic in his voice. ‘Please can you stop looking like that, Laura.’ He is crouching by her chair now. She puts her glass down and holds his hands.

  ‘I wasn’t the right person for you a long time ago, and I’m still not. I can’t lead the life you want. I never could. But I thought I might be able to. Recently.’ She stands up and moves to the door, feeling on the hooks for her coat, her vision blurred with tears. ‘I need to go now please, Guy.’

  He is beside her, holding her coat for her, raking his hands through his hair in anxiety. ‘But I wasn’t even talking about that – wasn’t thinking of now. Why are you rushing on, Laura?’

  She picks up her bag of clothes. ‘I know you weren’t, you probably haven’t been thinking about it at all, but I have been, and it’s wrong,’ she says baldly.

  The music in the truck is still Fred’s tape. A haunting ballad, not typical of his taste, but one of Inigo’s favourites, begins to play. Laura turns up the volume and gazes out at the starlit sky, so miserable, self-absorbed and lonely she can almost relate to teenagers again. Neither she nor Guy speaks until they reach her car in the mud-churned gateway of the flooded field.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says and slams the truck door on the lamenting voice of lost love. In her own car she switches on her phone, but the
battery is flat, so she can’t call the children. She’ll go to the pub and do it when she’s been home and lit the fire.

  Alone in the car, she tries to pull herself together and be rational. It’s so easy to wish someone is here when they aren’t. Look how she built up a whole fairy-tale around Guy. And all of it evaporated with a kiss. Now she can admit to herself how keen she had been. How she built her snatched weekend life at the Gate House on Guy’s foundations. How the grass seemed greener in the country. But it isn’t. None of it was ever real, never could be, but it’s sad and empty to wake up to that just now. And Laura is alone.

  It’s so easy to wish someone is here when they aren’t. Particularly when they are departing for another continent; of course, there is the intransigence, the overbearing bossiness, the control freakery. It’s nice not having that around. But Laura’s not thinking about that. She’s got the apron he wears for cooking on her mind. It’s hanging on the back of the kitchen door. And the flowers he buys all the time, lilies usually, which fill the house with luxurious scent. It’s silly to be remembering these small things and to forget the big picture. The big picture where she can’t see herself because she’s invisible in it. There, but invisible. It’s silly, but in Laura’s mind, Inigo is looking at her, intent and utterly focused and they’re kissing. She’s not just visible, she’s reflected in his eyes. It’s only in her own that she’s invisible.

  Cold creeps through Laura from her feet; running into her heart. ‘I’ve blown it. I’ve blown it,’ she whispers. She stops the car on the road outside the Gate House. The lights are on in every room. Before she can think that she’s sure she didn’t leave them on earlier, the door opens and Zeus zooms down the path, puffing delight at seeing her. Laura’s heart leaps in her throat as she reaches the door. The children are here – Gina said she might bring them. Everything suddenly becomes less bleak.

  ‘Hello!’ she shouts, grinning as she walks in. There is no one in the kitchen; a bucket stands on the table, crammed with lilies, their scent riding on the warm air, making the Lodge sybaritic and delicious instead of spartan.

  ‘Oh, how lovely,’ she says, leaning into them, calling through to the sitting room. ‘They always remind me of Dad. How clever of you to bring them now he’s gone. Let’s leave him a message, shall we?’

  ‘What will you say?’

  Laura twists round and Inigo, who should be on a plane, is behind her balancing a ring on the tip of his finger.

  ‘Inigo,’ Laura gasps. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He takes her hand and puts the ring in her palm, then presses his hand on top.

  ‘I couldn’t leave you behind. I’m staying, I want to be with you, wherever you want to be, and I’m going down on one knee right now, with no cameras or agents or art galleries anywhere near, to ask you to marry me. I thought we could keep it a secret, just our secret. But only if you say yes.’

  He strokes Laura’s hair. She nods, and he pulls her towards him to kiss her.

  ‘But I don’t want it to be a secret,’ she says.

  Inigo is on his knee now, pushing the ring onto her finger. He looks up, relieved, as she says this, then grins wickedly.

  ‘That’s lucky, because I’ve already given an interview to the radio and I’ve begun work on a piece called My Wife, My Life.’

  He stands up and wraps his arms around her. She clasps her hands behind his neck and whispers, ‘So what’s it like?’

  He bends to kiss her. ‘It’s incredibly high maintenance, and it starts like this …’

  A Note on the Author

  Raffaella Barker, daughter of the poet George Barker, was born and brought up in the Norfolk countryside. She is the author of seven acclaimed novels, Come and Tell Me Some Lies, The Hook, Hens Dancing, Summertime, Green Grass, Poppyland, A Perfect Life and most recently, From a Distance. She has also written a novel for young adults, Phosphorescence. She is a regular contributor to Country Life and the Sunday Telegraph and teaches on the Literature and Creative Writing BA at the University of East Anglia and the Guardian UEA Novel Writing Masterclass. Raffaella Barker lives in Cley next the Sea, Norfolk.

  Also by Raffaella Barker

  Come and Tell Me Some Lies

  The Hook

  Phosphorescence

  Hens Dancing

  Summertime

  A Perfect Life

  Poppyland

  From a Distance

  Also Available by Raffaella Barker

  COME AND TELL ME SOME LIES

  Gabriella lives in a damp, ramshackle, book-strewn manor in Norfolk with her tempestuous poet father and unconventional mother. Alongside her ever-expanding set of siblings and half-siblings, numerous pets and her father’s rag-tag admirers, Gabriella navigates a chaotic childhood of wild bohemian parties and fluctuating levels of poverty. Longing to be normal, Gabriella enrols in a strict day school, only to find herself balancing two very different lives. Struggling to keep the eccentricities of her family contained, her failure to achieve conformity amongst her peers is endearing, and absolute.

  Come and Tell Me Some Lies is Raffaella Barker’s enchanting first novel – a humorous, bittersweet tale of a girl who longs to be normal, and a family that can’t help be anything but.

  ‘Funny … Clever and touching’ Guardian

  THE HOOK

  Christy Naylor was forced to grow up quickly. Still reeling with anger after the death of her mother, she abandons college in order to help her father uproot from suburbia and start a new life on a swampy fish farm out in the sticks, a prize that he won in a shady game of poker.

  Amid this turmoil, looms the mysterious Mick Fleet, tall, powerful and charismatic. Unsettled and unsure of herself, Christy is hooked on his intense charm. She knows nothing about him yet she feels like she is being swallowed up in his embrace and she plunges into a love affair blind to the catastrophe he will bring…

  ‘Stylish and insightful … With the pace and verve of a thriller’ Independent

  HENS DANCING

  When Venetia Summers’ husband runs off with his masseuse, the bohemian idyll she has strived to create for her young family suddenly loses some of its rosy hue. From her tumble-down cottage in Norfolk she struggles to keep up with the chaos caused by her two boys, her splendid baby daughter and the hordes of animals, relatives and would-be artists that live in her home. From juggling errant cockerels, jam making frenzies and War Hammers, to unexpected romance, Bloody Mary’s and forays into fashion design, Hens Dancing is like a rural Bridget Jones’ Diary as it charts a year of Venetia’s madcap household.

  ‘A positive hymn to provincial living, it is an entertaining celebration of family life with all its highs, lows and eccentricities’ The Times

  A PERFECT LIFE

  The Stone family live a seemingly fairy-tale existence, complete with fire pit barbeques and seaside picnics in their idyllic home in rural Norfolk. Nick, Angel and their four children appear to lead a charmed life.

  But if everything is so perfect why is Nick away all of the time? Why is every conversation between husband and wife filled with growing silence? And why does their eldest child seem so disillusioned?

  We all want a perfect life, but at what price?

  Come and Tell Me Some Lies is Raffaella Barker’s enchanting first novel – a humorous, bittersweet tale of a girl who longs to be normal, and a family that can’t help be anything but.

  ‘To write well and with such open-hearted affection is an achievement’ Observer

  POPPYLAND

  On a freezing cold night in an unfamiliar city, a man meets a woman. The encounter lasts just moments, they part barely knowing one another’s names, they make no plans to meet again. But both are left breathless.

  Five years on they live thousands of miles apart and live totally separate lives, except that they both still think about that night. So when they meet again it seems clear that they will do all they can to try and stay together, but can it be that easy? Will they be able to esc
ape their past? Will they be able to take the risk they know they should?

  ‘A modern day Brief Encounter’ Daily Express

  FROM A DISTANCE

  In April, 1946, Michael returns on a troopship from the war. In shock, he is caught in a moment at a station, and on impulse, takes the train heading west to Cornwall. In doing so he changes his destiny.

  May, 2012, and Kit, a charming stranger, arrives in a coastal Norfolk village to take up his inheritance – a de-commissioned lighthouse, half hidden in the shadows of the past, but now sweeping it’s beam forward through time. Married Luisa falters in the flow of her life – suspended, invisible – as her children begin to fly the nest. When Kit and Luisa meet, neither can escape the consequences of the split-second decision made by Michael all those years ago.

  ‘I love Raffaella Barker’s books – so funny and acerbic’ Maggie O’Farrell

  www.bloomsbury.com/RaffaellaBarker

  First published in 2002 by Headline

  This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  Copyright © 2002 Raffaella Barker

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  ‘Angels From Montgomery’, words and music by John Prine © 1973 Cotillion Music Inc. and Sour Grapes Music, USA, Warner/Chappell Music Ltd, London W6 8BS. Reproduced by permission of International Music Publications Ltd. All rights reserved

  The right of Raffaella Barker to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved