“Very well, thanks, very well. I hope you don’t mind me ringing – I got your number from Ed behind the bar. Do you have a spare five minutes please?”
“Of course, I don’t mind – I’ve got a client at eleven, but until then, I’m all yours.”
There was silence. Sima was used to this – for many people, it had taken so much courage to phone her that, when they were actually speaking to her, they realised that they didn’t know what they were going to say.
“Well, it’s, well, I’m just – well…” Menna ground to a halt.
“Are you phoning for a bit of advice perhaps? A talk over about where you’d like to be heading? That kind of thing?”
“Yes.” Menna’s voice sounded relieved. “I’m sort of in a rut and haven’t thought about how I look or changed anything for years and, although I love my work and the farm is my life and, well, I know what I like at home, but then as I go to step out the door, well it all feels a bit uncomfortable, a bit pointless…” Menna tailed off.
“You just want to portray a slightly different image, is that it? To show that there is a little bit more to Menna Edwards than, well, lumberjack shirts and wellie boots?” Sima suggested gently. “That’s quite common; sometimes we have the main bits of life right, but other parts need a bit of tinkering.” Sima stood and walked to her window. She loved her view of the centre of London: the Houses of Parliament in the distance, the dome of St Paul’s, the slow grace of the London Eye.
She imagined Menna in some back bedroom, with sleet spitting against the window. She’d be dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, rugby shirt and fleece. Her feet would be in broken-down trainers with, yes, socks with Disney animals on. Sima guessed that Menna would probably be speaking as quietly as she could in order for her mother to not be able to overhear.
“That’s exactly it,” Menna laughed, embarrassed that she needed to do this. “Well, I mean, you saw the state of me the other night. It’s just that I’ve become Good Old Menna, good at humping sacks and mending tractors – and although I am happy with that, it’s just that people see no further. You know what I mean?”
She means Iestyn doesn’t see any further, thought Sima. “I know exactly what you mean; it’s very common…”
“And you have done so much for Ed with just a two-minute conversation, I just wondered whether you might have, well, a little bit of advice for me…” Menna tailed off, awkward again at what she was asking.
“I’d be delighted – but first, tell me about Ed. I’m intrigued!”
“Well, people are thinking that they’ve come into the wrong pub!” Menna was back on easy ground and could laugh again. “‘A task a day, a task a day,’ is all he says to people now – one day he dusted the ceiling, another day he washed the curtains – we couldn’t believe it! They all shrunk of course, but they’re a completely different colour. And, no more snacks or alcoholic drinks behind the bar for him or any staff – he says he must have lost a stone already. Oh, and he stands up straight too – well, when he remembers.”
“Fantastic,” laughed Sima, “I am glad. I knew he just needed a prod. As for you, Menna, I’d be delighted to prod you as well, and you do so much for Joe’s family – and his tractors – that it would be my pleasure. Let me have a think and I’ll phone you back. You can make a start – and we’ll talk properly in a week or two – we’re back down in a fortnight I think? It’s not this coming weekend, but the next one, OK?”
Menna gushed her thanks, left her bungalow’s phone number, a request for discretion and slammed the phone down. Sima could imagine her standing shaking with relief that she’d done something that she’d been thinking about every day for three weeks.
Sima’s phone rang again. It was the receptionist who manned the lobby of the suite of offices. “Send her up, thank you,” said Sima, keen to get old roly-poly Sophia in and then out of the office so that she could concentrate on dabbling in Menna Edwards’ life. How to reconcile rough, dirty work, long hours, little ready cash and a scouring-pad-red face with a modern woman with feminine charms enough to win the heart of her childhood friend and fellow tractor enthusiast Iestyn Bevan. It was a dream case for a professional dabbler, a dream case that she couldn’t wait to get started on.
*
Menna stood in the back bedroom of her parents’ house looking out into the sleet to watch for her mother scuttling back across the yard, wrapped up in her waterproofs. The plastic windows squeezed into the lopsided openings of the old farmhouse stopped the noise of the wind, but she knew how cold it would be out there.
Well, she’d done it. Phoned Sima. The person she realised that she was pinning her hopes on. She looked into the mirror on the polished dressing table and frowned; she was just a bundle of clothes on a body. She had no real idea even of whether she could be considered attractive. Her body was fit and strong, but sported supportive bras and large dark-coloured pants. Her hair was a mop in an elastic band-held ponytail: it couldn’t really be said to have a style. She tended to cut the tangles out and she had so many split ends that the length usually took care of itself. The Powys Farmer’s shop jeans were not intended to be stylish or flattering. They were just jeans that people wore for practical reasons. They didn’t go in much at the waist or sit nicely on the hips, they had extra rivets and were double-stitched on the inner thigh seams.
She had her silk dressing gowns and her faux fur throws at home, but she hadn’t got round to buying any daywear yet and had drawn a blank at what style she should aim for. She couldn’t pop to the village shop in Marilyn Monroe white silk, and she couldn’t really work out anything suitable in between that and her National Farmers’ Union T-shirt.
She used to be a little more trendy, perhaps not as experimental as her friends had been, but she’d been happy in her own style and had made an effort most days. However, over the past few years she’d retreated into work and her outside-of-work persona had taken not just a back seat, but had gone for a snooze in the lobby and she had no way of trying to call it back.
She’d found that it seemed to be impossible to reconcile any kind of style and the kind of hard work that a farm required. And actually, muddy smartly-heeled boots looked awful: muddy wellies looked OK. It was impossible to stay clean when you had to walk across a yard that has had sheep on it and go anywhere in a truck that you sat in earlier in your muddy waterproofs. Also, farming didn’t have a cut-off time – you simply worked until you didn’t have to do some more – and as soon as you did, day or night, you just got out and carried on.
Yes, she could go back to wearing make-up, but an afternoon dragging hay about on a storming hillside would have her back being Alice Cooper – the same as when her new mascara ran in the queue of a Young Farmers’ Club dance when she was fourteen. Hairdressers made her feel uncomfortable, being unable to think or state what she actually wanted. She would always walk out ruffling her hair and looking forward to having a shower when she got home and slowly those experiences had been phased out too.
Many of Menna’s friends managed both farming and femininity, but perhaps they chose their own clothes, and didn’t put most of them on account at Powys Farmer’s. Menna didn’t have much ready cash at her disposal – her mother had given her a lump sum to be put towards setting up her house, but had expected more in the way of ranges of saucepans and less of a range of bathroom accessories for her money. Bills were paid directly by the farm and her wages were paltry, based on the premise that the farm would be hers in due course.
Therefore she had few resources to fritter on experimentation. She couldn’t go on a shopping spree and buy things designed for one wear or even one year’s wear only. Nor could she go and spend an afternoon having a head full of highlights if it wasn’t exactly what she wanted. She’d never get another eighty quid and an afternoon off to put any mistakes right. Manicures – pointless. Pedicures? Waste of money. And anyway, there was something quite practical about having feet as hard as hooves when they kicked about in wellies all d
ay.
Menna slipped out of the bedroom and went back down the stairs. Best to get away from the office before Mother came up, else she would start asking casual questions that one was obliged to answer as to who she might have been ringing. As she entered the warm kitchen, she felt energised and excited: what would Sima come up with for her? What would her game plan be? Whatever it was, she knew that she had to give it a real try.
Iestyn sat at the computer and typed in Tan-y-Bryn. As he scrolled down the list of business directories and descriptions of the town’s historic nature, he munched on a massive cheese sandwich: supper was still a little way off and he was starving.
He clicked onto a list of clubs in the area, but quickly dismissed them as not for him: squash, running groups, water volleyball and rambling sounded like too much hard work, even if Sima would beam if he told her he’d joined one of them. At the ends of his days, he was knackered: the last thing he needed was more exercise. No, even if it meant playing squash against the woman of his dreams, it really wasn’t going to happen.
What was it again that Sima had lectured him on this time? He thought back to her conversation – it was always her conversation, never their conversation. When she suggested that he needed to get stuck in to some different interests locally, somewhere where he might have a chance of meeting someone new. What she really meant of course was someone female – volleyball against Johnny Brechdan was a bit pointless; they would be better just talking about it in the pub once a week…
The online community was a possibility, but he didn’t have time for endless chat rooms. Mother tended to hog the computer after supper for the farm paperwork and he knew that he would never be a sad git tapping away into the small hours – he’d be asleep by then and miss all the good stuff!
Iestyn stuffed the last of the sandwich into his mouth, cramming it so full that he had to push the bread around with his fingers. It had been a habit since he was young and used to earn him a clip at the table, but now it was his guilty secret that he could indulge when he was on his own.
His search brought up “…work in nearby Tan-y-Bryn…” Who was this then? Someone he knew? Iestyn clicked on what turned out to be a blog:
“Hi, my name is Lulu and…”
He washed down the last of his mouthful with a swig of tea and groaned slightly as it eased itself down his throat. He wished Mother would hurry up with supper, otherwise he’d have to make himself another sandwich in the meantime.
Sounds interesting, Iestyn thought. Lulu? Lives near Tan-y-Bryn? Who would that be then? He read down, his attention momentarily sparked.
“So if anyone has any thoughts about what to look for in a flat or a flatmate, I would be interested to know – I’ve never rented a place of my own before and don’t want to end up living in a damp dump with a nerd who keeps pet snakes in the bathroom!”
Without really thinking, Iestyn signed up and replied. A last mouthful of tea had him pressing “Post”. Good: he could now legitimately tell Sima that he’d done his homework. With perfect timing a shout was heard from downstairs. Iestyn gathered up his plates, blew the worst of the crumbs off the keyboard and headed down for supper.
Louisa sat in her chair in a state of shock. Someone – had – replied – to – her – blog! Rachel probably had tens of interactive replies, but it was the kind of thing that never happened to Louisa. In the same way she had never got picked for rounders, a dance, or to be sat next to on a school trip, so she never expected anyone to reply to her blog. And he sounded quite nice – not much to go on so far perhaps, but he sounded pleasant and fun – probably a really nice bloke! Good looking too, she suspected!
Now, how to answer? She took a sip of her tea. How would Rachel answer such a statement? No doubt with confidence and wit, ensuring another response without question. Perhaps she’d go and have a bath. Go and mull it over.
She could hear her mother climbing the stairs, that tortuous sound of a fellow human being struggling in order to bring her a cup of tea. She wished that instead of being irritated by her mother, she had a mother that she could chat with; it would be great to be able to have another opinion about this new bloke – even if it were just a giggle and a bit of understanding that it might be interesting to her. Rosie had said that she told her mother most things – even when she’d woken up and forgotten that she’d allowed four blokes to sleep on their living room floor as they were caught in the pub by the snow!
Rosie’s comments had made Louisa realise that she had never really understood her own mother, never moved on from having her as someone who told her what she should be doing or reminded her to eat her greens – even though she probably did neither.
Louisa realised that she didn’t know what made her mother tick; she knew what annoyed her, but had never really bothered to find out what made her happy. Maybe she should – in her new phase – take a fresh look at things, make more of an effort to understand. Perhaps in time she and Esther could cultivate a relationship like Rosie and her mother’s: Louisa wouldn’t be telling her that she had four strangers sleeping on her floor, but maybe they could go shopping together or swap clothes – or perhaps just jewellery, thought Louisa as she pictured herself struggling to get her thighs into a pair of her mother’s trousers…
Esther tapped the door and a mug of tea was pushed around the corner. “Thanks, Mum,” said Louisa, “thanks for bringing that up. Hey, you know my blog thing? I’ve had a response!”
“That’s interesting! Is it from someone you know?” Esther’s head peered round the door and she leant against the door frame.
“Don’t think so, someone must have done a search for something I had mentioned and found it. Amazing really, hey? I’ve only done a few entries.”
“I suppose some people have their whole social life online don’t they? I don’t know whether that’s healthy, but I suppose if it stops some people feeling lonely – especially if they don’t manage to get out much, it can’t be a bad thing.”
The two women chatted back and forth for a while and then the conversation came to a natural end. “Right, I’ll leave you to your reply!” smiled Esther and pottered off back towards the stairs.
“Yeah, thanks again for the tea,” called Louisa and she turned back to her blog. That was quite nice, she thought. Chatting with her mum like that; perhaps – perhaps she wasn’t always a miserable old trout after all. Louisa took a slurp of her tea and smacked her lips. Maybe it was time she started pulling her weight around the house a little? But, saying all that, there was something bloody nice about someone else bringing you up a nice cup of tea after you’d had a hard day at work…
She read the comment on her blog again so that she could memorise it, then gathered up the plump bath sheet that sat on the shelf by her door and padded off to the bathroom to immerse herself in creamy suds, to drip puddles all over the floor and to leave a smattering of dead skin around the top of the tub. That would be another downside to sharing a flat, she thought, as she selected her products: having to get in after some other dirty slob had used the bath and left all their mess everywhere…
CHAPTER 13
Tarw potel – bottled bull (artificial insemination)
Sima stood in her hall with the phone to her ear and one of her heels resting on top of the elaborate umbrella stand. “Iestyn! How are you? Lovely to hear from you. Sorry if I’m a bit out of puff, I’ve just come back from a run.” She swapped legs and put the other foot up and stretched out her hamstring. “Oh, not far – just four miles tonight. Your brother’s still out there. Wanted to do the extra loop; he’s on a bit of an intensive fitness regime at the moment – the one I put my overweight ladies on!”
She looked into the mirror and pushed her hair back from her face; as usual a few dark tendrils had escaped from her headband. “Iestyn!” she giggled. “How cruel! He’s not overweight; he’s just a little, well, flabby!”
Iestyn’s laugh rang out from her receiver as she walked into the kitchen and took an iso
tonic drink from the fridge, pressing the button for the speaker phone and putting the handset down.
“So, how’s everything with you?” she asked, dropping into a squat. “How’s the…er…?”
“Love life?” Iestyn filled in the gap. “That’s what you usually ask, after all?”
“Well, why not! Iestyn – how is the love life?” Sima dropped onto the floor and started counting her stomach crunches.
“Well,” started Iestyn a little sheepishly, “not a great deal different to when you last interrogated me about it. But, I have found someone online and I believe that she is female!”
“Online? Oh. OK, so what makes you think that she’s female? Nineteen… twenty…”
“She talks about paint in her hair and the colour her lounge walls will be.”
“Yes, definitely female then. What are you talking about with her?”
“Mainly giving advice on leaving home.”
“You! Advice on leaving home? How exactly are you qualified for that?” Sima jumped up and prepared for forty lunges.
“Not sure really… Perhaps it’s more advice on why you shouldn’t stay at home. But she sounds sort of fun.”
“Sort of?”
“Well, it’s hard to tell isn’t it – you need to see someone don’t you, to see if you like them. You know, see the size of their…”
“Farm?”
“Yes, their farm! Johnny Brechdan thinks he recognises her turn of phrase. He says that she’s maybe the one who gave him head in the taxi on the way back from Denligh’s? On that Tuesday? You know, Davie’s Tuesday?”
Sima shook her head and swapped legs and started the recount. When you had a conversation with a Bevan, you really had to concentrate; there was no way that you could multitask and understand a Bevan conversation.
“Well, you know what you need to do now?” she said picking up the receiver and walking down the hall to the bathroom. “Flirt a bit, you know – add a smiley or even an X after a comment. See what happens.”
Cold Enough to Freeze Cows Page 12