Face The Wind And Fly

by Jenny Harper

  He was led off to admire the walled vegetable garden. Kate didn’t protest and Andrew didn’t apologise. She wandered into the café that had been set up in a small marquee and found Nicola Arnott was filling coffee pots from a large urn. Kate wove her way through the crowded marquee towards her.

  ‘Hi, Kate!’

  ‘You’re busy.’

  ‘All in a good cause. Coffee? Two pounds to charity.’

  ‘Sold to the woman in the blue scarf.’

  ‘Try some carrot cake. Drink and a cake for three pounds. Betty made it.’ She waved an arm in the direction of a small, wiry woman who was setting out two more delicious-looking cakes on raised cake stands. They were improbably deep and bulging with cream and fruit. ‘She cooks for the Nesbitts and she lives in Holly Cottage, on the estate.’

  ‘How can I say no?’

  ‘Quite right, she’s a brilliant cook. Her husband, Tam, is the gardener here.’ She poured Kate a coffee and put a generous slab of cake on a plate. ‘And guess what? Their son is Ibsen Brown, the man you recommended for the community garden project.’

  ‘Really? Have you met him?’

  Nicola was enthusiastic. ‘Oh yes, and thanks for the tip. He’s going to come in next week and we’ll start talking over the plans. Listen, I’d better get on with serving. Pay at the till there.’ She waved towards the far end of the trestle table. Everything seemed to be well planned.

  ‘Sure. Catch you later.’

  Kate finished her coffee and wandered outside. May Nesbitt, the current tenant of Forgie House, was hurrying up the grass, her arms laden with soft toys. A giraffe of unlikely proportions fell out of her embrace as she saw Kate and she stopped, abruptly. Kate bent and picked it up.

  ‘Thanks, they’re for one of the stalls,’ May said, her normally friendly expression slithering into guardedness as she realised who it was.

  Kate knew what was coming. It was a pattern of conversation she was finding increasingly familiar and which no doubt would grow worse as the Summerfield project progressed.

  ‘I have to tell you, Kate, Jerry and I are dead against this wind farm.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’ll be right behind us—’ she swept one arm in the direction of the hill, dropping an elephant, a tiger and three rabbits in the movement, ‘—and we won’t be able to sleep at night. It’ll have to be stopped, you know.’

  Please, not now. Kate tucked the toys back into May’s arms and smiled sweetly. ‘We’ll talk about it some other time, shall we? You must be incredibly busy today.’

  May looked grateful. ‘Yes. Yes that’s fine. I am busy. I just didn’t want you to think that we – anyway—’

  ‘I promise we’ll chat soon.’

  ‘Yes. I’m coming!’ she called as someone waved at her urgently from the top of the lawn. ‘Yes, we’ll do that. Thanks.’

  She stared after the retreating figure, her earlier mood of optimism waning. She hated the wedge of suspicion and antagonism the project was driving between her and her neighbours. She should have been more forceful with Mark at the beginning, because this had been entirely predictable. Now she couldn’t stand down without losing face at AeGen. Irritated, she stood for a moment to take stock. It was a glorious day. The sun was high in the sky, and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. May had reminded her of the relative location of the wind farm to Forgie House – from further down the rolling lawn she’d get a good view of where the turbines would sit. She walked away from all the crowds enjoying the face painting and lucky dips, the craft and produce stalls, and headed towards two small cottages that nestled against the estate wall, a couple of hundred yards away.

  Just as she was nearing them, a dog emerged from the gate of a walled garden to the right of the right-hand cottage and bounded up the grass towards her.

  ‘Hello, Wellington!’ she bent and patted the Labrador’s head as he thrust a delighted nose into her crotch. Damn! This was awkward. This must be where Ibsen lived. Arriving like this made it look as though she’d been coming to seek him out.

  There was a whistle from the cottage and Wellington shot off. Too late to turn back. She straightened and smiled.

  ‘Hi, Kate.’ He waved, not appearing in the least embarrassed.

  His grin could be mocking, or joyous, or gently amused. It drew you in – and after May’s thin welcome and days of Andrew’s mechanical politeness, it had the virtue of appearing absolutely genuine.

  Kate waved back.

  It was hard not to notice how powerfully Ibsen was built. Andrew had kept his slimness, but by contrast with Ibsen’s compact, muscular power, her husband’s leanness seemed more like middle-aged scrawniness. Biceps bulged from below the sleeves of Ibsen’s tee shirt, which today featured a computer power switch symbol and the words ‘Turn Me On’. She smiled because she couldn’t help it. Ibsen’s sexual attractiveness was quite powerful enough, he had no need to make suggestive comments – one of these days, he might just get what he asked for.

  ‘Melanie bought me it,’ he said, noticing the direction of her gaze.

  ‘Did she buy a “his and hers” set?’

  ‘Christ no, she needs no encouragement.’ His grin was shameless. ‘Now you’re down this end of the estate, would you like to see my garden?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He touched her elbow and guided her down the hill towards his cottage. ‘I warn you, it’s a one-flower patch. I grow dahlias.’

  ‘Okay.’ Kate was no gardening expert, but her taste was probably more for the soft blowsiness of roses, with their heady scent and fragile prettiness.

  She saw him glance sideways at her, a small smile on his face that she couldn’t quite read. She prepared herself for politeness, but when he pushed open the wooden gate into the cottage garden, she stopped dead in her tracks and gasped involuntarily. ‘Oh!’

  The smile became a full-blown grin. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Wow. Just ... wow.’

  Ibsen watched Kate’s reaction with a pleasure he hadn’t known could be so intense. His garden was a riot of colour. Against the far wall, growing to almost four feet, creamy white flowers caressed the gray stone; in front of them was a band of showy, intense red heads, perhaps two feet tall; closest was a ribbon of delicate lilac, petals that turned to white at the base, each flower head a perfect ball; and in between, every shade from crimson to ginger.

  ‘Do you like them?’ he said, almost shyly.

  ‘Like them? Ibsen, I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s amazing! And you say they’re all dahlias?’

  ‘I like growing dahlias. They’re a real challenge because they don’t have long roots, so a sudden gust of wind can blow them over – specially in Scotland.’

  ‘It’s quite sheltered here though.’ Kate gazed round the small garden with its shoulder-high wall.

  ‘Yeah, relatively, but they still need lots of tender loving care.’

  She squatted down and gingerly tucked her fingers under a heavy, dense ball of petals. She stroked the flower head. He loved her wonderment, it was almost childlike. ‘It’s so intricate. Incredibly symmetrical.’

  ‘That one’s Barberry Carousel.’

  ‘They have names? Sorry – I guess they must have. What’s the red one called?’

  ‘That’s Taratahi Ruby.’

  ‘And the huge one at the back? It looks like a waterlily.’

  ‘Spot on. It’s a waterlily dahlia called Anna Lindh, after the Swedish politician who was murdered, I think.’

  ‘They’re stunning, Ibsen.’

  ‘Thank you. They’re my passion.’ A telephone somewhere began to ring. Ibsen started fumbling in pockets, while Kate took her bag off her shoulder and delved into it. Ibsen found his mobile first. ‘Hi Ma. Sure I’ll bring them up. No, don’t worry, I’ll find someone to help.’ He dropped his phone back into his pocket.

  Kate was laughing. ‘We’ve got the same ringtone.’

  ‘No, really? Mel hates mine.’

  ‘A
ndrew hates mine, too.’ It wasn’t significant, but it amused Ibsen that they shared this taste.

  ‘My mother asked me to bring up some more cakes. Would you mind helping me carry them?’

  ‘Love to.’

  ‘Come on in then. She baked some in my kitchen last night, her kitchen was bursting.’ He banged his forehead comically with the heel of his hand. ‘Sod it, I should have pretended I’d made them and impressed you.’

  ‘Well, let me tell you, I would have been impressed.’

  They entered by a side door from the garden, which took them into a small entrance hall. She had the impression of comfortable clutter, of hanging coats and a neat rack of boots. A smell of fresh baking filled the air and Kate sniffed appreciatively. ‘Suddenly I’m hungry.’

  He bent down and picked up some cake tins and thrust them into her hands. ‘Here, grab this. Cup cakes, Ma tells me. We used to call them fairy cakes when I was little. Apparently these are the same thing but bigger and more fattening.’

  ‘That’s progress.’

  ‘And this is—’ he picked up a large cake covered by tea towel and peered at it, ‘—carrot cake.’ He put it on a tray and added a generously covered chocolate cake, then picked the tray up and levered open the garden door with his foot. ‘We can go back out this way.’

  The door swung behind them and a figure whirled round at the sound.

  ‘There you are – oh!’

  It was Melanie McGillivray, her endless legs encased in skin-tight jeans, one bronzed shoulder emerging from a creamy top, the auburn hair bouncing half way down her back. As soon as she saw Kate she began to hiss, venomously. ‘Not you!’ She spun back to Ibsen and bawled accusingly, ‘You bastard, Ibsen Brown! You fucking bastard! You won’t let me into your precious cottage but you let her in. You’ve been screwing her, haven’t you? You can’t fucking keep your hands off her! I knew it when she came to the pub, you had that look on your face. Well fuck you!’

  She aimed a furious kick at the nearest dahlias, which collapsed over the path.

  ‘Melanie!’ Ibsen dropped the tray he was carrying and two large cakes arced gracelessly onto the ground and lay in a muddy mix of chocolate and butter cream and crumbs. He ignored them. All his attention was on his dahlias. ‘Christ! Stop, will you!’

  But Melanie was possessed of a demon. ‘Sod you, you fucking, fucking bastard!’ She jumped into the flowerbed and kicked around some more. Dahlias smashed to the ground and lay destroyed, scarlet petals trailing from shattered heads like beads of blood.

  A small crowd gathering at the gate. Perhaps Mel’s frenzied yelling had drawn people down here.

  ‘You can’t—’

  Stamp.

  ‘—fucking—’

  Stamp, kick,

  ‘— keep your hands off her—’

  Kick.

  ‘—can you? Your sodding fuck-buddy!’

  Ibsen caught her at last. He grabbed her from behind and lifted her, still kicking wildly, bodily out of the flowerbed and out of reach of what was left of his precious flowers. He saw Kate with her mouth hanging open, looking at the crowd at the gate.

  Her old man – Andrew – was in the front row and he didn’t look happy at all.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Faced with the prospect of losing her husband to a younger rival, all Kate’s instincts were to fight. Experience told her, though, that it was a matter of picking the right battle and the right strategy. For now, Andrew was intent on making capital out of Melanie’s very public accusations.

  As soon as they were home he said, ‘Fuck-buddy? I have to say, that’s a new one on me.’

  ‘And it’s completely untrue.’

  ‘That girl didn’t seem to think so.’

  ‘She’s bonkers. Completely paranoid. I’ve barely met Ibsen Brown, let alone slept with him.’

  ‘So you say.’

  She stared at him, astonished. ‘Surely you don’t believe her? You know me better than that.’

  ‘I thought I did.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake. My trust in you might be at an all-time low, but you have absolutely no reason not to trust me.’

  He turned away, saying nothing.

  ‘Andrew?’

  ‘I’m going out.’ He reached for his jacket and picked up his car keys.

  She hated how Andrew always ran from rows, so she challenged him. ‘We’re just back in. Where are you going?’

  ‘Just out.’

  ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘I don’t know, Kate. Later.’

  ‘I don’t want you seeing her. You gave me a promise.’

  But he’d gone already. She flew to the front door and watched as he reversed the car and drove off down the drive, fast.

  ‘Come back here!’ she shouted after the disappearing car, but of course he couldn’t hear her.

  When she got back to the kitchen, Ninian had materialised and was raiding the fridge with Cuzzer.

  ‘Hi Mum, was that Dad spraying gravel on the lawn? He went off in a hurry, didn’t he?’

  ‘You could say. Hello Stephen.’

  ‘Hi.’ Weasel eyes stared at her.

  Kate had never understood why Ninian was friendly with this boy – he had no visible likeable attributes. She had an idea that his association with Stephen was a pitch for acceptance. There were other ways of being popular, though, and she wished that she were better at guiding him towards more mature choices.

  ‘My mum says you shouldn’t be building this wind farm,’ Stephen said, his mouth full of Kate’s smoked salmon.

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘She says wind farms are a manifestation of capitalism gone mad.’

  ‘Really.’ She was in no mood to get drawn in to a philosophical discussion of the merits or demerits of wind farms, certainly not with Stephen Cousins.

  ‘She was down at the exhibition yesterday morning. She says you’re going to cut down the oak forest at Bonny Brae.’

  Kate had been about to leave the boys to it in the kitchen and seek peace in the privacy of her bedroom. Now, though, she did a swift about-turn and eyed him with dismay. ‘Where on earth did she hear that?’

  ‘It was on one of the plans.’

  Karen Cousins must have spotted the print before Jack had taken it down. Damn and double damn. Kate said firmly, ‘You can tell her she’s wrong, Stephen. The map had an error. There are no plans to destroy the woods. Okay?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do. Ninian, make sure you tidy up after yourselves please.’

  Bloody Jack Bailey! This matter of the access road had the makings of a serious problem.

  From her bedroom window, Kate could see the walls of the Forgie House estate. She could even – she imagined – just see the roof of Ibsen Brown’s cottage through the trees. Was he there now? What was he doing? Had he made it up with Melanie? For a few seconds she found herself wishing that the girl had real grounds for jealousy, then she dismissed the thought. She couldn’t deny that she found Ibsen sexy, but this was no time for fantasy. She had to pay all her attention to saving her marriage. Coming to this conclusion, she decided to call Andrew on his mobile and, a little to her surprise, he answered right away. ‘Hello Kate.’

  ‘Come home. Please? I promise that girl is completely wrong.’

  He laughed. ‘Actually, I’ll be there in two minutes. Sorry I was cross. I decided to get a take-away. Hope you fancy pizza?’

  She was so relieved that he hadn’t raced straight off to Sophie that she forgave him immediately. ‘Pizza, a glass of wine, and you. What more could a woman want? But there’s two hungry boys here, already cleaning the fridge out. How much pizza did you get?’

  ‘Enough.’

  She smiled at Ibsen’s roof. Poor Ibsen. Poor dahlias.

  On Wednesday The Stoneyford Echo did carry the story that Kate had been desperate to avoid.

  ‘Access Route to Summerfield Wind Farm May Destroy Ancient Oak Wood.’

  She tossed t
he newspaper onto Jack’s desk. ‘See what you’ve done?’

  He lifted it incuriously. ‘Oops.’

  ‘Is that all you can say?’

  ‘It’ll blow over.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She put two hands on his desk and leaned over it so that her face was just a couple of feet from his. ‘It better had, Jack. For your sake.’

  There was nothing she could do, but she was worried. She’d had experience of environmentalists before, and there was nothing like trees to get them exercised.

  Over the next few days, though, it looked as though Jack might be proved right, because there was no sign of disruption. Kate was still getting silent calls at the house, but she was so used to them now she thought nothing of them. She spotted the iridescent car one day, but after Andrew went out for the newspaper, it disappeared. She’d had no occasion to walk through the village, so she hadn’t run into any of the locals she knew were opposed to the wind farm. Everything seemed calm.

  There was also a piece of good news. Nicola Arnott had persuaded the Council to send a digger in to turn over the waste ground so that the garden could get under way. After work, she made her way to the school.

  Nicola, her face alight with excitement, called to her. ‘Hi Kate! Come to help us celebrate? Isn’t this fantastic? It’s starting to happen. And look at the crowd!’

  ‘There’s a great buzz.’

  Kate was every bit as excited as the head teacher. Together they watched and cheered as the digger dipped into the mess of grass and soil.

  Nicola said, ‘We had to spend all week clearing out the rubbish. It was such a tip, Kate, you’ve no idea. We couldn’t let the children help, it was too dangerous. It wasn’t just broken bottles, there were loads of discarded needles and old condoms.’

  ‘Oh, yuk.’

  ‘Quite. Anyway, Ibsen was terrific, he—’

  ‘Ibsen Brown? Is he here?’

  ‘Somewhere.’

  Kate peered round the crowd. The digger was working with astonishing speed. Already half the patch had been turned over. Kate watched, riveted, as scrub and wasteland became dark chunks of soil. There was something pleasingly primeval about that virgin clay. It held the secrets of life in its rich loam. It was moist and fecund, its nutrients probably enhanced by lack of cultivation over the years rather than spoiled by surface rubbish. By next spring, it would nourish flowers of multi-coloured splendour, vegetables that could feed the entire school, and perhaps some fruit trees and bushes as well.