Homecoming

by Susie Steiner

  He looks at the time on his shiny new wristwatch and tries to push away thoughts of Ruby. Nothing sits right inside him – neither his generous impulses, nor his withholding ones. And the more magnanimous she is about it – she’d given him an affectionate goodbye, wearing her scarf, with its yellow fur frothing about her mouth – the more discomfort he feels. Perhaps it’s just not right, he thinks now: her and me. He shifts his body to try to find a position in his train seat which doesn’t ache or crush his knees. Maybe when it is right, I won’t feel like this. And he begins to settle into this position, feeling its comfort, the way it holds him: this possibility that the problem lies with her, well, with their ‘fit’ and not at his door at all. He just needs to wait for the right one, the perfect fit, and then his inabilities, so visible to them both, will evaporate like an early summer mist burnt off by the sun.

  The train slows under the magnificent steel and glass arches of the station. He stands, half bent, in the tiny gap between his seat and the table, and reaches up to the luggage rack for his bag and the unwieldy bulk of his coat, which tumbles onto him as he tugs it.

  *

  Joe watches the snow falling on the village green. Big floating flakes, which meander down like feathers from an eiderdown. He looks at his watch. Bartholomew will be driving now through the snow. He’d insisted on hiring a car on the station platform, said they had a cut-price offer on, even though Joe had offered to pick him up in the Land Rover. ‘Don’t be daft, dad. Mad to come all that way when snow’s so thick.’ And Joe had felt grateful, that his son seemed to have some inkling of his exhaustion. He’ll be able to tell Bartholomew, or let him know, that he’s getting old – that all hands should be on deck under his tutelage. And Bartholomew will step up. He’ll come to the rescue. Joe realises that his fantasy, if he’s honest, is to have Bartholomew return to the farm. Devote his life, with Max, to its survival. Hartle men together, like it used to be.

  He shakes his head. No, he must be careful, he tells himself. Make sure it doesn’t go like last Christmas. He has to keep it buttoned. Ann has told him. No, he won’t let that happen again.

  ‘Your little project.’ How he regretted saying it that way. He saw how wounded Bartholomew had looked but for some reason, he’d pressed on. ‘You could do so much more, son. There’s nothing wrong wi’ it – nothing wrong in ladies tending pansies in hanging baskets. But it’s not a living for a man.’

  Bartholomew had glowered. He’d kept his eyes lowered but Joe could sense his whole body shaking as he picked up his keys and left the house. He hadn’t come back – had driven straight home in that car of Leonard’s. And then they hadn’t spoken for weeks, though Joe had called saying, ‘Come on son, don’t be offended’ into Bartholomew’s answer machine. Ann had been livid with him. ‘You and your big flaming mouth,’ she’d shouted. ‘You don’t even know what he does down there. It’s beautiful and you won’t even go and see it.’

  And then Bartholomew had called. Joe had felt so relieved, just to hear his voice, it was like a month of heartburn had disappeared with that call. ‘Ruby said I should call,’ Bartholomew said, reluctant. Cold. And still, even after all that, Joe felt he had to get his message through – that Bartholomew and Max, they were everything, every bit of potential that existed. Unspoiled. That’s what Joe had felt when his boys were little. With their smooth skin and red lips and perfect bodies and no possibility closed to them. Then they grew up to be ordinary. Hairy and fat about the middle and limited, like everyone was. But Joe, he can’t accept it. It was only human, wasn’t it, to expect some progress? To expect them to do more than you did? He can’t resist the urge to drive them on, like his dogs harrying the sheep to push them up onto higher ground.

  He sees a shiny black VW Golf park in front of his garden gate and hurries to the doorway, watching Bartholomew get out. Is that really my little boy? A man, wearing a bright-red padded jacket which makes him look as if he’s been inflated with a bicycle pump. A five o’clock shadow. A face beaten by the weather. But still a fine head of curls.

  ‘Ann!’ Joe shouts down the hallway as Bartholomew opens the front gate. ‘He’s here!’

  *

  Bartholomew can see Joe open the front door and lean his body on the door frame, hands in the pockets of his trousers, waiting for him. The greyness of his father’s hair is a surprise to him, though it’s not new. Silvery straight and thin it is. His face is oval and ruddy. The roundness of it makes him appear fatter than he is, when in fact he is whippet-thin. Bartholomew has the same roundness in his face, though he’s taller, like Ann’s brother. He is taken with an urgent burst of love for his father, all fresh to him after six months’ absence. He sees Joe shout something down the hallway.

  Bartholomew looks up at the house as he walks up the snowy front path. The daylight has been all but sucked away and the snow glows blue in the dusk, making the atmosphere moon-like. He can see a camera pointing out from the farmhouse façade like some alien probe.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ he says.

  ‘That, my boy, is our new video entryphone,’ says Joe, ushering Bartholomew into the house, one hand on his shoulder. He is beaming. ‘Come on, I’ll show you. You can see the whole village on the little monitor on the upstairs landing.’

  ‘Surely you can see the whole village if you look out of the window,’ says Bartholomew.

  ‘You’ve got a point son, you’ve got a point.’

  They smile at each other.

  ‘Have you seen the video entryphone?’ says his mother, waddling down the hallway and receiving his kiss while wiping her hands on a tea towel. The smell of cooking – her homemade sausage rolls, always served with mashed potato and Branston pickle for Christmas Eve tea – drifts down to them from the kitchen’s open door.

  ‘I have. Very high-tech.’

  ‘Very pointless more like. Your father’s becoming obsessed.’

  ‘I am not. I’m just keeping up with modern technology.’

  ‘Is that your bag?’ says Ann. ‘Set it down there for now. Looks heavy – full of expensive gifts is it?’

  ‘Actually, I thought I’d make you something, mum,’ he says, putting his arm around her and giving her a squeeze. ‘Out of toilet rolls.’ She is like a Weeble toy and the jingle from his childhood pops into his head. ‘Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.’

  ‘That won’t wash now you’re in your thirties,’ she says. They clatter down to the kitchen together. ‘I want material evidence of love,’ she says as she walks ahead of him. ‘Or summat from Coopers.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  In the kitchen, Joe stands over the hotplate of the big green Rayburn, where a kettle is coming to the boil. Ann has her whole body in the larder, so that only her ample bottom is visible.

  ‘Fruit cake alright, Bartholomew?’ comes her muffled voice from inside the cupboard.

  ‘Lovely.’

  Joe has one hand on the kettle’s horizontal handle, which is wrapped in a coarse oatmeal cloth. The cloth, it seems, has always been wrapped around the handle and has taken on its shape. The cloth never moves. Like so many things in the Hartle household, it is so embedded in its role that it has long ceased to be separate from the kettle. It is something Bartholomew used to like about his childhood home – the permanence of things. In the same way, the dogs’ baskets have always had their position next to the Rayburn and are embedded with the dogs’ imprint. When Lily and Robbie stepped in, they always circled two or three times before lying down. They seemed to settle in the same position, their backs moulded into the brown cushions, lightened by a mesh of dog hairs. Of course it isn’t Lily and Robbie these days, but their successors – Tess and another working dog, whose name escapes him.

  He watches his father fill two brown mugs with boiling water. Still wearing his green cords, thinks Bartholomew – another thing that carried the imprint of its role in life – and the cardigan Joe puts on every day when he comes in from the field.

  ‘How’s
the garden centre doing?’ asks Joe, dunking the tea bags.

  ‘Fine. It’s fine. Tons to do, and Leonard’s not much use. There’s new stock to get in – that’s an outlay and a half. But I want it properly ready for the spring season, not like the last couple of years. Money’s tight.’

  ‘I know that feeling,’ says Joe, walking to the fridge for milk. ‘But it’s coming on alright – you think you’ll make a success of it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I hope so.’

  ‘You could always go back to that place – what was it? The Garden Store?’ says Ann. She is gathering plates and cutlery for the table. ‘I’m sure they’d have you back. Didn’t they say you were a good little worker?’

  ‘They probably would, mum.’ He and Joe roll their eyes at one another. ‘But that’s not really what I want.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, woman. He’s his own man,’ says Joe. ‘A man o’ business. Wants to be his own boss and good on him.’

  ‘Well,’ she says, bringing the fruit cake to the table. ‘I just think a steady job and a reliable income and not having to worry about the overheads – it shouldn’t be sniffed at. But pardon me for breathing.’

  ‘No, you’re right, mum,’ says Bartholomew. ‘There’s a lot to be said for it. But it’s the right time to make my own way. It’s getting through the winter – god it’s hard.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ says Joe.

  ‘You don’t want to end up in our shoes,’ says Ann. ‘Barry Jordan says there’s no getting out. We’d make a loss, selling the flock at current prices.’

  ‘Arh, we don’t want out,’ says Joe. ‘I wanted to tell ye, Bartholomew, we both did.’ Joe looks to Ann but she has begun busying herself excessively with the cooking. Draining the boiled potatoes over the sink so that plumes of steam rise into the room. ‘Now that Max is having a baby, well, we think it’s time the farm should go over to him.’

  Bartholomew feels all the blood drain from his face. ‘What, straight away?’

  ‘Naaooh,’ says Joe, over-loud. ‘Gradual like. I want to build it up for ’im. So that he’s got a livelihood.’

  ‘I see. And what about me?’

  ‘What about you?’ says Ann. ‘You’ve got your garden centre.’

  ‘No one gave me that. I’m up to my ears in loans.’ Bartholomew wants to walk out, to get the train back to Winstanton.

  ‘Max needs our help more ’an you do,’ says Joe. ‘He’s not, he’s not so . . .’

  ‘How’s he going to run a farm then?’

  ‘Well, hang on a minute,’ says Ann, ‘he’s not incompetent. He works very hard with your dad.’

  ‘Come on,’ says Joe. ‘You knew this were coming. You never wanted the place. Never wanted to stay.’

  His mother and father begin covering up the moment, Joe telling Ann how good the sausage rolls look.

  ‘Any road,’ says Joe. ‘How is Ruby? Are things alright between you?’

  ‘I don’t know, dad,’ say Bartholomew. If he tells them things are fine, well wouldn’t it just confirm their view? Bartholomew all set up and doing well for himself. And anyway, things were not fine, they were far from fine. He wants to spill out his theory, about the ‘fit’ not being right and he wants Joe to confirm to him (while gazing into Ann’s eyes) that when you meet the love of your life, everything falls into place. ‘I’m not sure we’re right for each other,’ he says.

  He sees Ann and Joe throw a glance at each other.

  Bartholomew presses on. ‘She’s a bit keen.’

  He is startled to see his mother swing round, her face as sharp as a wasp’s sting. ‘Good god Bartholomew, you’re not that much of a catch.’

  ‘Ann, calm down,’ Joe says. He is cowering too, Bartholomew notices.

  ‘Thanks very much, mum.’

  ‘I’m just saying. It’s not all hearts and flowers, a relationship.’

  ‘I’m not saying it is. I just think you need to be sure that you’ve found the right person. For it to work.’ He can see he’s not winning himself any favours, pursuing this course, though he’s unclear why not. The air is too charged for him to think it through.

  ‘Well,’ says Ann, visibly rearranging her face. She is wiping her hands on a tea towel which she then folds with considerable force. ‘It’s none of my business.’ And she leaves the room.

  Joe and Bartholomew sit at the table together.

  ‘When are you seeing your brother?’

  ‘Tonight. We’re going for our traditional Christmas Eve pint at the Fox.’

  *

  Max and Bartholomew’s boots crunch in the fresh powder. Beyond the pool of light cast by the pub, the village is virtually black. Like falling off the edge of the earth, thinks Bartholomew.

  Max pushes open the Fox’s outer door. ‘After you,’ he says, and Bartholomew steps inside, where it is warm and dark. Its sounds – the fruit machine, the fire, the music from the jukebox – so familiar to him.

  ‘The Hartle boys!’ says Tony Crowther. ‘Welcome home, Bartholomew. What can I getchya?’

  ‘I’ll have a pint of Marston Moor. And one for Max. You still drinking Marston, Max?’

  ‘Aye, that’ll do.’ Max has taken his coat off, lain it on a banquette and has sat down, chatting to Tal and Jake, who are one table along. Bartholomew brings their drinks to the table.

  ‘The wanderer returns,’ says Jake.

  ‘How’s things, Bartholomew?’ asks Tal.

  ‘Fine thanks. Happy Christmas.’ He raises his pint to them and sits down on a stool opposite Max.

  ‘Brass monkeys out there,’ says Jake.

  ‘It is,’ says Bartholomew.

  ‘How’s life down south?’ asks Jake. ‘Garden centre going well?’

  He is smoking a roll-up. A snaking coil drifts up from its tip and he squints as it hits his eye.

  ‘OK,’ says Bartholomew. ‘Not bad. Make a living.’

  ‘Business-wise, though. Is it a good earner?’ Jake asks.

  Bartholomew can feel Max’s gaze on him.

  ‘Hard to say. It’s so seasonal. If you have a good spring, then you’re OK, but the winters are a bit hardgoing. Quiet.’

  ‘What would you say, though, per year?’ Jake asks.

  God, he’s relentless, thinks Bartholomew. ‘Why do you want to know, Jake? You thinking of branching out?’

  ‘Not me. Farming’s bad enough.’

  ‘How bad?’ Bartholomew says, looking at Max. He has been silent, watching Bartholomew’s answers; sipping his pint and glancing over to the bar where Sheryl is serving. She is wearing a skin-tight leopard-print top. She’s looking old, Bartholomew thinks. Her make-up sits thickly over a leathery face.

  ‘Bad,’ says Max. ‘Worst I’ve seen it. Stores going for less than twenty pound. Mule gimmers getting little over sixty pound. And feed is dear. Just ’ave to see if we can make it through till lambing.’

  ‘If?’

  Max glances again at Sheryl. Not at her face, Bartholomew notices.

  Tal has put another song on the jukebox.

  ‘The Streets,’ Bartholomew says as the song comes on. ‘Good choice.’

  ‘Aye, well, “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” was doing my head in,’ says Tal.

  ‘You heard about Talbot – he’s experimenting w’ all sorts of new fuel crops,’ says Max. He has half an eye on Jake. ‘Willow’s his latest thing. Burn it for heating. He’s got some government grant to grow it instead of set-aside. Supposed to be an alternative to fossil fuels. It’s carbon-neutral.’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea,’ says Bartholomew.

  ‘Yeah but no one’s got wood-fired heating, have they?’ says Jake. His voice is quick, his face red. ‘Plus, they need a bloody great lorry to shift it anywhere.’

  ‘Still,’ says Bartholomew, ‘surely it beats being paid tuppence for a lamb. Is that what you were thinking – growing fuel?’

  ‘S’ up to dad. He wants to carry on with sheep for now,’ says Max.

  ‘Yes, but if
you’re taking it over –’

  ‘Dad knows what to do.’

  ‘You could take it in a new direction.’

  ‘We’re alright as we are,’ says Max, his gaze still on the bar. ‘Don’t you worry. Here, how old d’ye think bairn’ll be before dad has him driving the John Deere?’

  ‘Six or seven months at least,’ says Bartholomew. ‘There’s health and safety to think on. Course, he’ll let him play with power tools in the barn.’

  ‘And a ewe roll to suck on, ’stead of a rusk,’ says Max.

  They chink their pints.

  ‘He’s buying a new tractor – getting a loan. Don’t tell mum. I’m sworn to secrecy,’ says Max.

  Bartholomew frowns. Max is leaning too hard. ‘Can they afford that?’ he says.

  ‘Says he wants to build the farm up, for when I take it over.’

  ‘Maybe it’s you who should be doing that,’ says Bartholomew. ‘Build it up yourself once it’s yours. Get your own loans.’

  ‘Dad’s happy to do it.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s the point, is it?’ says Bartholomew.

  ‘And what would you know about it?’ says Max.

  ‘I’ve got me own loans. I’m not living off my father age thirty-five.’

  ‘You’re not helping him either,’ says Max.

  ‘Go easy lads,’ says Tal.

  ‘I’ll get another round,’ Max says.

  Bartholomew watches him lean both elbows on the bar, his broad back sloping up towards Sheryl. He has one foot on the bar’s skirting rail. He can see Sheryl laughing, fingering the gold pendant around her neck. Max is smiling, murmuring, though Bartholomew cannot hear what he is saying.