Wild Oats

by Veronica Henry

  And while Louisa wasn’t a conventional mother, at least she was never overtly embarrassing. There was something very controlled and English about her, even if she wasn’t cuddly and bustly like some of her friends’ mothers. Jack was always a little too loud, a little too eager to push the boat out. He’d never really grown up.

  Now she was more confident about herself, she could accept her father for what he was, and what he had done. He was over sixty now, so not only was he unlikely to change, but he was unlikely to get up to too much mischief. Her mother’s death made her realize that Jack probably had little time left. And in a way, nor did she. She was the same age now as her mother had been when she’d had Jamie.

  Looking at Jack this evening, all the resentment and bitterness she’d felt evaporated into pity. He looked so incredibly… vulnerable. His once luxuriantly bright golden hair was dull and thin, scraped over his skull. His eyes, always so alive and full of mischief, seemed permanently bloodshot, as if he had been weeping – and perhaps he had. Even his voice now had a slight tremor in it that he didn’t seem quite able to control. Jamie felt a sudden surge of fondness for him. She might not have approved of the way he lived his life, he may have done terrible things that she could never condone, but what was the point of holding it against him now?

  She resolved to spend the next few months with her father; rebuild their relationship. And the house certainly needed some attention. She’d phone the agency tomorrow, tell them she was ready to go back on their books, but that she only wanted work locally. That way she could earn some money and concentrate on restoring Jack and Bucklebury at the same time. She was running through her plans in her mind, when there was a scrabbling and snuffling sound, and before she knew it her bedroom door was shoved open and Parsnip and Gumdrop bounded into the room and up on to her bed. She drifted off with the two little dogs asleep on her feet. They were like two lead weights and she didn’t dare move for fear of disturbing them, but they made her feel wanted. They made her feel as if she belonged. As she fell into a delicious, much-needed sleep, she decided she’d definitely done the right thing by coming home.

  8

  There was a saying in Lower Faviell that the only good Deacon was a dead Deacon. And there was a line of tombstones in the churchyard that should have been reassuring. But every Sunday, without fail, the flowers on the graves were replaced with fresh blooms, indicating that there were bearers of that name still going strong.

  The family were the bane of Lower Faviell. Any suggestion of badger-baiting, cock-fighting, poaching, missing livestock, stolen ponies or petty breakins, and the finger of suspicion was always pointed Deaconwards. The men fought, they got drunk, they got girls pregnant. One or other of them was generally up before the magistrate; their names featured regularly in the local paper – driving without tax, driving whilst drunk, being drunk and disorderly, causing affray. And the distaff side weren’t much better – hard as nails. You didn’t mess with a Deacon girl, with their flashing dark eyes, their gypsy curls, their gold jewellery.

  People often complained that something should be done – but what? And they could be useful, if you wanted a job done quickly for cash. They were all good with their hands, bricklaying and plastering and painting and decorating. And demolition – they were particularly good at that.

  The biggest branch lived at Lower Faviell Farm, where they had been tenants for three generations, and were ruled over by John, the oldest of his brothers and a man of few words who had respect for no one but his wife, the redoubtable Nolly. Being the oldest son, he had inherited the tenancy when his father had died, and as his own family had grown, his brothers and sisters had gradually dispersed towards the town, each of them actually glad to be rid of the responsibility of trying to scratch a living from twenty acres.

  John and Nolly’s offspring were, on the whole, a good-looking bunch, built like the proverbial, fortuitously inheriting the best of their parents’ features. There were eight of them altogether – five boys, three girls, tightly knit. Three of them had moved out to the council estate on the edge of Ludlow to join their aunts and uncles – even the warren-like rooms at Lower Faviell Farm couldn’t hold all their partners and offspring. A couple of them were usually accommodated at Her Majesty’s pleasure at any one time.

  And already the next generation were well established. John and Nolly were the proud owners of nine grandchildren, the eldest of whom were shipped into the village school at Lower Faviell by dint of their parents giving Lower Faviell Farm as their address. This was partly for convenience (so they could go from school straight to Nolly for their tea) and partly because the Deacons always stuck together and looked out for each other. The headmistress despaired, as she was desperately trying to improve the SATs results and get a decent Ofsted report. But of her sixty-four pupils, nearly ten per cent were Deacons. Not that some of them weren’t sharp and cunning. If the little buggers could be made to apply themselves, they could do quite well. Rod Deacon was proof enough of that. It was generally agreed that, of all of them, Rod had done very well for himself and could, almost, be trusted.

  Rod drove down his parents’ pitted drive, not bothering to try and avoid the potholes, for it would have been impossible, but thanking God he was in the pick-up, and not his low-slung brand new sports car. He hadn’t mentioned that to his family yet. He’d been hoping to keep it quiet for a while, although it was inevitable that he or Bella would be spotted in it sooner or later by one of the Deacon tribe. He’d be in for a right ribbing then. They thought the Mitsubishi Warrior was flashy enough, with its twin cabs, its chrome accessories, its dark green metallic paint. On the side, in discreet gold lettering, was inscribed ‘Roderick Deacon, Handmade Bespoke Kitchens for the Discerning.’

  ‘Who are they then?’ his dad had asked. ‘Is that a posh word for disabled or something?’

  They’d wind him up about the Audi all right.

  Rod had long accepted that his family were all hypocrites, with double standards, resenting anything that smacked of achievement. After all, it wasn’t as if they didn’t all spend their lives in pursuit of money. Any means, as long as it wasn’t legitimate and preferably didn’t involve hard work. They’d scorned him for setting up properly in business. Practically fell off their chairs laughing when they found out he refused to do cash deals. But Rod had learned the hard way not to trust anyone. If you did cash deals, it was only a matter of time before someone grassed you up to the Inland Revenue or the VAT man, and life was already complicated enough.

  He swung the car into the yard in front of the house, avoiding the motley collection of bright plastic toys that had been reaped from car-boot sales over the years – two Cosy Coupés, a turtle sandbox, a Barbie bicycle, lethally abandoned rollerblades and a pair of quad bikes that had never worked since the day they’d been brought home. They had joined the queue of things waiting for repair: a battered old Land Rover, a washing machine with the drum removed. In the midst of this chaos stood a pristine set of iroko chairs and matching table shaded by a green parasol. Rod didn’t like to think of its provenance. No one in his family would have dreamed of forking out the best part of a grand for garden furniture. Two fat white Alsatians lifted their heads in interest as he climbed out of the cab, then, satisfied that he wasn’t an intruder, carried on their snoozing, their muddy tails thumping up and down to indicate they were pleased to see him but really couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it.

  From out of nowhere appeared three children: Stacey, in pink plastic mules and an Eminem T-shirt that came down to her knees, Casey in a nappy and Bob the Builder wellingtons, and Jordan in top-to-toe Diadora, trainers flashing wildly as he raced to be the first to embrace his uncle. Rod detested the way his various brothers and sisters used his mother ruthlessly as an unpaid childminder for those of their offspring who were too young for school. Nolly insisted she didn’t mind, that was what grandmothers were for, but Rod objected to the way his siblings never gave her a second thought, did
n’t consider that she might have a life of her own, and certainly never paid her for her time, or even gave her a box of chocolates or a bunch of flowers as a thank you. After all, Nolly was getting on now. He thought she deserved a rest, but she was far from likely to get one.

  Rod disentangled himself gently from a tangle of arms and kisses. The smell of Bazooka bubblegum and poo overwhelmed him.

  ‘Casey needs changing,’ Stacey informed him in her twenty-a-day rasp, brushing her too-long fringe out of her eyes.

  ‘Where’s Nana?’ asked Rod.

  ‘On the net,’ Jordan informed him solemnly. Rod rolled his eyes. His mother was no doubt trying to drum up publicity for his sister, Tanya, who had a Shania Twain tribute act called 36D. Nolly was her publicist, agent and manager rolled into one, which meant she spent most of her days emailing bigwigs and trying to get Tanya more prestigious slots than the third Monday of every month at the Drum and Monkey in Tidsworth. Tanya was the only sister who hadn’t yet started whelping, and still lived with her parents. She worked her socks off as an instructor at a nearby riding school. Rod had a lot of time for her. She wasn’t as lazy as the rest; she understood that life wasn’t about finding the easiest way out all the time. Her lack of partner had led to rumours that she was a dyke, but Rod didn’t believe them. Tanya didn’t suffer fools gladly and she just hadn’t yet found a man worthy of her respect.

  He scooped up Casey and took her into the kitchen to change her. He wasn’t squeamish, and he couldn’t bear the thought of her trotting round dirty. He knew perfectly well her father wouldn’t have ever changed her nappy. Dean was a sexist git through and through. All of his brothers were. It rankled Rod. If – no, when – he had kids, he’d be a hands-on father. He was quite happy to spend hours playing with his nieces and nephews; pushing them on the rope swing he’d put up, playing hide and seek, teaching them to ride bikes, holding their hands while they mastered roller skating.

  It was ironic that his brothers and sisters had so many offspring between them and paid them so little attention. Instead of time, they lavished them with toys and games which were usually a five-minute wonder. Every few months or so one of his sisters or sisters-in-law would ‘catch’ for another one, and spend the next nine months moaning and groaning. Then, the minute it popped out, the baby became Nolly’s responsibility most of the time, while its mother sat at home watching daytime telly, smoking and ordering things out of catalogues.

  In the meantime, months had gone by since Bella and Rod had started trying, and there was still no sign…

  He didn’t want to dwell on it. He’d got a lot of work to do. He shouted up to his mum that he was there, dished out Panda Pops for the three kids, plonked them in front of the forty-two-inch screen television to watch Rocky IV on the DVD, and went out to the old shed he still used as his workshop.

  As soon as he left school, where the only thing he had been good at was carpentry, Rod had started out fitting kitchens for one of the big DIY stores. The experience opened his eyes: he was appalled at how quickly he and the rest of the team slapped in a kitchen, how little care was taken both in the initial design and the installation, how corners were cut and things were botched. He was even more incensed by the differential between what the customer was charged and his pitiful hourly rate. But there was little he could do about it, so he kept his head down, and if he was more conscientious than his workmates, they were quite happy to let him get on with it. He ended up with the tricky jobs, because he could be bothered, and as a result there were fewer complaints. There was no sign of acknowledgement from the management, however, because the gaffer never gave him the credit. All Rod could gain was experience, hoping that he wouldn’t be ground down and eventually become as cynical and slipshod as the rest of them because, as they pointed out, no one gave you any thanks for doing a good job so you might as well do a bad one and save yourself the trouble.

  One day they’d gone to fit out a utility room in a beautiful Tudor manor, and Rod had been horrified by the appalling job they had done – not that anyone would know on the surface, but Rod knew that in six months’ time all the shortcuts would reveal themselves; the drawers would jam, the work surface would split, the plumbing would come unravelled. All night it had eaten away at him, and the next morning he woke up determined.

  The lady of the house had been just that – a Lady – and she had been utterly charmed by Rod’s arrival on her doorstep. He’d explained his concerns, and told her it wouldn’t take him more than a couple of hours to put it all right. She’d been flummoxed when it finally emerged he was doing it off his own bat, and wouldn’t get paid; that he was giving up his own Saturday because he quite simply couldn’t bear the thought of their shoddy workmanship in her beautiful house.

  Lady Pamela tried her very best not to sound patronizing when she asked if he would like to see the main kitchen. She ushered him in and he was speechless; it was quite the most breathtaking room he had ever seen. He wandered round it in awe, stroking the smooth golden wood, pulling out the drawers that glided like silk, examining all the clever little cubbyholes, admiring the craftsmanship, the design, the thought that had gone into it. Pamela was fascinated by his enthusiasm. But then, he’d never seen a kitchen like this before. He didn’t move in those circles; didn’t buy those kinds of magazines. And now he’d seen what could be done, he knew that was what he wanted to do.

  Two days later a huge parcel arrived at his house, containing a dozen brochures from top-notch kitchen companies and a note in Pamela’s distinctive italics. They were, she said, doing up the gardener’s cottage on the estate, and she wanted to give Rod first option on fitting the kitchen. He could have free rein with the design and she thought he might find inspiration in the enclosed.

  He’d taken up the challenge eagerly. It took him three months to complete it, because he had to squeeze it in during his limited spare time, but Pamela had assured him there was no rush. The kitchen was only tiny, but he’d fitted it out using oak from the estate, and it was exquisite. He wasn’t foolish enough to be over-ambitious on his first and clearly most important solo project, so he’d stuck with plain and simple and square.

  Pamela was delighted with the result. Not only did she pay Rod handsomely for his work, but she nominated herself as his patron. She had an enormous circle of wealthy friends, to whom she trumpeted Rod’s skills, until he found himself inundated with enquiries. As well as that, she made him an appointment with her own bank manager, who painstakingly talked Rod through the perils and pitfalls of being self-employed. And she insisted on bankrolling his first few freelance commissions, until he had enough of a profit to stand on his own two feet. He repaid her financially as soon as he could, but he knew that as long as he lived he couldn’t repay her generosity of spirit. Lady Pamela, however, was sufficiently gratified by the fact that he was a resounding success, and that she had discovered him.

  He had a lot to learn, of course. There was more to fitting a kitchen than making the cupboards match the wall-space. And at this end of the market you had to cater for every whim. Financing it was terrifying. Initially he couldn’t underwrite the enormously expensive appliances a lot of his customers wanted. He didn’t know you could spend three thousand pounds on a fridge. So at first, the customers paid for their appliances direct, which meant of course that he made nothing on them.

  But gradually the business grew, until he was able to meet the overheads properly. He learned how to pick and choose clients – spot the ones who were going to be more trouble than they were worth and change things for the sake of it, and go with ones who were as enthusiastic as he was about the end product, but who were happy to trust him and leave him to his own devices.

  Now, ten years later, he was well established. He still worked from his parents’ farm, in the shed his father had once used to bring on turkeys and fatten them up for Christmas, until the EEC rules and regulations had become so prohibitive as to make him lose interest. It wasn’t a glamorous setting, and it
was freezing in the winter, but he was able to lock the door and lose himself in his craft. He did about eight kitchens a year on average, working at his own pace. He could have taken on someone else, but he knew the trouble started when you bit off more than you could chew; when you were trying to run more than one job at a time. And he was a perfectionist. He would never be able to trust anyone to have his exacting standards. By doing it all himself, he could be sure both he and the customer were satisfied.

  He was certainly reaping the rewards. He and his wife Bella had bought a tumbledown barn a couple of miles away, which they’d renovated and was now a luxurious home, Owl’s Nest (Rod was conscious that the name was a little bit twee, but Bella collected owls – or at least things in the shape of owls, like biscuit barrels and hot-water-bottle covers). And in it, they enjoyed their creature comforts, which his family couldn’t resist winding him up about. But, as he pointed out, the two of them both worked bloody hard for it.

  This morning, he was putting the finishing touches to a free-standing larder unit, with tiny zinc-lined spice drawers, sea-grass vegetable baskets, a wine-rack and even a shiny brass hook on which to hang strings of onions and garlic. He reminded himself to take a photo of it before it was finished. Now he had done one, the next would be easier, and he was charging a small fortune.

  At eleven o’clock Nolly banged on the door with coffee and a bacon sandwich. To look at her now, you’d never realize that she had once been the belle of the county; her hair was iron grey and straggly, and despite the fact that she ran round after her family all day, she was very overweight. Rod worried about her laboured breathing and the cough she’d developed, but no matter how he nagged she wouldn’t give up her fags. The nicotine, she claimed, was holding her lungs together.