‘Do I need to decide now? Because I’m not really—’
‘No. No, sorry. Apart from the five days’ minimum, there is absolutely no commitment, although if you can give us twenty-four hours’ notice before you leave, that would be good.’
‘Cool. I was thinking three or four weeks at least? Maybe longer. I’m hoping to get some work done while I’m here.’
‘Well, that’s kind of the point.’
‘I know, sorry – I meant painting.’
‘Oh, there are quite a few things that need . . .’ She realised immediately, but it was too late to pretend she hadn’t misunderstood. Just admit it. She looked straight at him and smiled. ‘You don’t mean as in “painting and decorating”, do you?’
He grinned good-naturedly. ‘No, but I’m a dab hand with a three-inch paintbrush as well.’
‘I’m an idiot; ignore me.’ She stood up. ‘Come on, I’ll give you a guided tour and show you the ropes. Grab your bag and I’ll take you over to your cabin first. We call them “cabins” because they weren’t much more than wooden sheds when we first set up, but they’re actually much more robust than they sound.’
He stood to follow her, and she thought how slender and delicate his body was, without being remotely weedy. ‘So you’re an artist?’ she said as they walked together across the yard.
‘I hope so. Sort of. I’m studying Fine Art at Goldsmiths in London – mature student, obviously.’
‘Goldsmiths? I grew up not far from there. Lewisham.’
He turned towards her, grinning. ‘Lewisham? No kidding! That’s just down the road. Do you go back there much?’
Eleanor paused. ‘Not much, no. So, are you enjoying it? Your course?’
‘Yeah, it feels right. I worked my arse off for a few years after I left school so I could save some money. I knew it was what I wanted to do, but I didn’t have parental support, so I’ve kinda learnt to be a jack of all trades to support myself. I’ve still got some savings put away, but I don’t want to rely on that, so I thought I’d do the “work for the summer” thing, you know, keep some cash flow going.’
‘Good idea. We get quite a few students, though most of them are young.’ She glanced at him. ‘I mean, younger – really young. Not that you’re not young, because you are, clearly. You’re really young as well.’ She heard a silly laugh escape her lips. ‘I didn’t mean . . . I just meant . . .’ God, what was the matter with her today? ‘Sorry, I mean—’
‘I know what you mean,’ he said from behind his curtain of hair, his voice full of amusement. ‘I’m twenty-four.’
She felt a beat of disappointment. Not that he was likely to be interested in her anyway. What would an attractive twenty-four-year-old artist see in a bald permanent volunteer of thirty-eight, even if he wasn’t fourteen years her junior?
He tipped his head towards her and she was sure she could feel his breath on her ear. ‘And I’m mature for my age.’
*
Not since she first met Jill had she found herself in such easy company as Dylan. They chatted amiably and laughed often as they worked side by side all day in the sunshine. In the evenings, she found herself next to him at mealtimes, and again when they all gathered in the main living room after supper. When it was clear that they would be lovers, she told him about her hair. But instead of being taken aback, he asked if he could see. He was sitting on her bed as she removed the wig slowly with her back to him, then turned to face him. He stood up and came towards her, his eyes roving over her naked scalp. He reached up, then paused and looked into her eyes. ‘May I? Do you mind?’
‘Be my guest.’ His palm was cool and smooth. He stroked the top and sides of her head, above her ears and below; he ran his fingers along the base of her skull briefly before cupping it in his hand. Then he held her gently by her shoulders and turned her round to face him. She closed her eyes as she felt him touch her head again. His fingertips were silky smooth as he moved them lightly over her scalp, allowing them to rise and fall with the curves, the little dips and bumps, as though he was tracing out a pattern that only he could see beneath the surface.
‘Beautiful,’ he whispered. ‘You have a beautiful, complex, fascinating head.’
It flashed through her mind that he was taking the piss, but only briefly, because his tone made it clear that he wasn’t.
‘I mean it.’ He stood back slightly and looked at her again. ‘Your eyes look bigger without the wig, more almondy; they have more definition. Your eyebrows look better, too. So many women mess about with their eyebrows. Yours are a perfect shape, but the wig covers them up.’ He stepped behind her. ‘I love that I can see tiny veins under your skin. I keep thinking if I look hard enough I might be able to see what’s going on inside your head.’
‘I bloody hope not.’ She laughed. No one had ever said anything so flattering about her head. Most of the men she’d slept with accepted it, but one or two had touched the bare skin and jumped back as if they’d been burnt. They’d apologise, but the whole thing was ruined anyway. One man actually asked her to put the wig back on before they had sex. ‘Or a scarf, if it’s easier. Just something to cover it up.’ She’d opened the door and told him to get out. ‘And if you see me around the place during your stay,’ she’d added, ‘do not come anywhere near me.’ Then she’d slammed the door quickly so he wouldn’t see her tears.
Dylan was looking at her again. ‘There’s a little bit in the middle that you probably can’t see. It’s right here,’ he said, touching it with his fingertip. ‘It’s so smooth that the light bouncing off it makes it look as though there’s a diamond or something sparkling there.’ He smiled. ‘Eleanor, you have a beautiful head. I’d love to paint it sometime. Will you let me?’
‘I suppose so. If you really want to.’
Then Dylan kissed her, and kissed her again. And she found herself kissing him back and, for the next hour or so, she felt more desirable than she had for a long time.
They slept briefly, then woke and made love again in the darkness, more languorously this time, before falling back into a deep sleep.
*
The following morning, she woke early as the sun forced its way through the thin curtains, warming the cabin and bringing out the comforting smell of the wood. She turned to face Dylan. He was a beautiful-looking man, and for a moment she lay there, admiring his peachy complexion, the elegant length of his spine, the dark brown hair which glinted copper in the sunlight. She wriggled closer and allowed herself a few more moments of comfort with her cheek resting against his bed-warmed skin.
Her whole body ached, but it was hardly surprising, given the size of the drainage ditch they’d dug yesterday. It was a good ache, born of honest hard work. Dylan stirred, then turned over, put his arm around her and kissed her nose without opening his eyes. ‘Morning,’ he mumbled. Then his face creased as he shifted position. ‘Ow, ow, ow. God, I feel like I’ve been trampled by a herd of cows.’
‘You’ll live. And anyway, it’s Sunday, so at least it’s an easy day.’
He opened one eye. ‘Can we lie in bed reading the Sunday papers? Or are we going to spend the morning shagging and then go for a quick pint before the roast beef and Yorkshire pud?’
‘Neither, you silly arse. For one thing, we rarely take whole days off here, only afternoons and evenings – I did warn you. For another, the Sunday papers are too bloody expensive, and for another, Jill and David are vegetarian, so you can forget about roast beef!’
‘You’re no fun any more,’ he grumbled playfully, throwing the covers back and sitting up. He winced as he did so. ‘Ooh, my back! You were more fun in the old days,’ he said, ‘back when we first met.’
She smiled. ‘Tuesday was a lifetime ago. Come on, you lazy sod. Just because it’s going to be an easy day doesn’t mean you can waste half of it lying in bed.’
‘You’re a cruel woman, Eleanor; a cruel woman.’ He stood up gingerly, then stretched his slender limbs. ‘I’m not built for this sort of wo
rk, you know. I’m more the delicate type – better at painting flowers than planting them.’
‘You’re more likely to be planting cauliflowers than pretty flowers. You do realise that, don’t you?’
‘Yeah. I suppose so.’ He yawned and rubbed his scalp vigorously. ‘So, what is this “easy day” of which you speak? Please tell me it doesn’t involve digging, or the words “drainage” or “septic”.’
‘No, we’ll be working in the polytunnels today, thinning out lettuces, and so on.’ She loved working in the polytunnels. The warm, moist air; the smell of green things growing. Sometimes, when she’d finished the day’s work, she would take her book and sit there feeling all that new life around her. She pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, then chose a sunflower-yellow scarf and wound it around her head. ‘I’m going across to the kitchen. Can you collect the eggs on your way over? You’ll find a little basket just outside the coop.’
‘Okay.’ Dylan yawned again and began pulling on his clothes.
It was Eleanor’s turn to set out the breakfast things on the huge kitchen table, so she laid out the bread she’d baked earlier in the week – a mix of white and wholemeal loaves and a big basket of rolls – as well as honey from the hives, a cluster of the assorted preserves that Jill made every year and, of course, eggs from the hens that wandered all over the site.
‘Morning,’ Jill said. ‘Ooh, nice scarf! Not often we see you in bright colours.’
‘I know.’ She smiled. ‘But I feel bright yellow today.’
*
‘When you said you wanted to paint my head,’ Eleanor said, ‘I thought you meant you were going to paint a picture!’ She was sitting on a wooden chair in front of the cabin window while Dylan knelt on the floor next to her, his paintbox open beside him. He had one brush in his hand, another behind his ear. ‘I did, but only after we’ve got you all flowered up.’ He tilted his head to one side thoughtfully. ‘I’m going to go mainly for pinks and purples with a touch of yellow. And greens, of course, for the leaves, and perhaps a sort of vine. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ It felt slightly absurd, letting him decorate her head with painted flowers, but she couldn’t deny she was flattered. It wasn’t every day that someone found her head attractive.
‘Ready? Brace yourself.’
‘Ooh, it’s cold,’ she said, flinching.
He laughed. ‘Don’t be such a baby.’
She could feel the brush, cool and wet, sliding down towards the nape of her neck and then flicking around in little whorls. ‘It tickles.’
‘Ignore it; think about something else.’ He picked up the damp flannel and she felt him wiping just above her ear. Then there were more flicks and whorls, then firmer strokes and blobs. She pursed her lips and tried to concentrate on not wriggling or laughing. She could feel his warm breath on her scalp and soon she found herself relaxing as he continued to work away. ‘Right,’ he said after a while, ‘I’ll do the vines now.’
She sat upright as she felt the cold brush snake across her skin, over, down, round and up, then more tiny flicks. ‘Fronds,’ he explained.
He sat back on his haunches. ‘There,’ he was clearly pleased with his work. ‘Hang on, let me show you.’ He sprang to his feet and lifted the round mirror off the wall. ‘Well?’ he held it in front of her. ‘What do you think?’
She turned her head sideways. ‘It’s—’ She automatically put her hand up.
‘Don’t touch!’ He made to grab her wrist. ‘Sorry, but it’ll smear if you touch it too soon.’
She nodded again. ‘It’s . . . it’s really colourful.’
‘You don’t like it.’ He looked crestfallen.
‘No, I do. It just . . . takes a bit of getting used to, I suppose.’
He sighed, sitting down heavily on the bed. ‘You can wash it off – I won’t be offended.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t hate it; and I’ll certainly make an entrance when we go over to the house for dinner.’ She forced a smile. It was a pretty design, and if she’d seen it on some fabric, perhaps, or even wallpaper, she’d probably like it. Poor Dylan. He was so excited a couple of minutes ago, and now she’d burst his bubble. ‘Hey, let’s take a photo of it!’ she said.
He looked up at her, the brightness returning to his eyes. ‘Really?’
‘It’d be a shame if there was no record of it. I mean, it’s bound to wear off, isn’t it?’
Dylan nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s not that long-lasting; it’ll be gone by next weekend.’
Or sooner if I get caught in the rain, Eleanor thought, looking hopefully out of the window.
Eleanor: the present
Despite having been up in the middle of the night drinking port and talking to Jill, she wakes before her alarm goes off. She trudges over to the kitchen, collecting a basketful of eggs on the way. She makes toast and coffee, boils a couple of the eggs and takes it all back to the cabin on a tray. Before she can change her mind, she calls Peggy to tell her she’s thinking of coming down for a while.
Can she afford to take all that time away from the farm, Peggy wants to know? Will she still get paid? Will they hold her job? Peggy has never quite understood how the farm works. Eleanor assures her there’s nothing to worry about on that score, though privately she wonders how long her meagre savings will last if she ends up staying in London for more than a few weeks. Peggy tries to sound as though it doesn’t matter one way or the other, but the relief in her voice is unmistakable; so much so that Eleanor feels guilty she hasn’t suggested it sooner.
‘Have you telephoned your mum yet?’ Peggy asks.
‘I thought I’d ask you what you thought first. In fact, I was wondering if perhaps you’d mention it, see what she says. I don’t want to come barging in on her life if it’s going to make her feel uncomfortable having me there.’
Peggy doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then she speaks softly. ‘Eleanor, she’ll be pleased, I’m quite certain of that. She doesn’t always show it, but you mean a great deal to her, you know.’
Eleanor’s throat tightens. Sometimes she is still surprised by the sudden threat of tears, the way her throat constricts painfully as she swallows them back. Deep down, she knows her mother loves her, but it’s more of an intellectual knowledge than a tangible sense of being liked. She remembers asking Peggy one day whether she thought it was possible to love someone without liking them. Peggy had laughed and said it must be; she’d cut out her heart for Martin and Michael, but they were both little sods and they didn’t half get on her nerves. Eleanor would have been about eleven at the time, so the boys must have been thirteen or fourteen. She can’t remember now what had made her ask the question, but she remembers feeling none the wiser afterwards, because at that point, the twins came in and Peggy spontaneously flung her arms around them, laughing as they shook her off in disgust and then stomped moodily up the stairs to their room. She remembers thinking how she wouldn’t dare behave like that with her mum, and she envied the boys – it was clear that they felt safe, that they knew their mother would still love them even when they behaved badly.
Eleanor paces the cabin with the phone, the floorboards creaking beneath her as she moves. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she says. ‘I should speak to her myself.’
‘I think that would be best. You’ll feel better, apart from anything else.’
‘Okay, I’ll call her in a minute.’ She pauses; she feels like a child again, relying on Peggy to tell her the truth. ‘Peg, what if she doesn’t want me there?’
‘Trust me, sweetheart, she will.’
*
Throughout her life, Eleanor has felt guilty for being more comfortable with Peggy than with her own mother. But Peggy has always been so much easier to talk to, so much more approachable. It was Peggy who’d helped her through most of the difficult points in her childhood and teens; occasionally, she’d secretly pretended that Peggy was her mum and the twins were her brothers. And then she’d felt guilty for that, too, and for not turning to her m
other more when she needed help or advice. But on the other hand, if it weren’t for Peggy, she’d quite likely have started her periods with very little idea of what was going on.
She’d gone upstairs one Saturday morning to see if Peggy and the twins were going swimming. She loved going to Ladywell pool on Saturdays, but her mum hated swimming, so she wouldn’t go with her.
‘Sorry, Ellie,’ Peggy said. ‘I meant to tell you – the boys are at their grandma’s for the weekend. They won’t be back till tomorrow night.’
‘Will you come, then?’
‘I can’t, pet, I’ve got my Visitor this week.’
‘Oh, I didn’t know you had a visitor. Who is it?’
‘No, I don’t mean an actual person,’ Peggy chuckled. ‘I meant I’ve got the Curse.’
Eleanor was mortified.
‘You do know all about that, don’t you?’
She knew that the Curse involved bleeding from your privates, and was to do with having babies, but that was about it.
Peggy put her hand on Eleanor’s arm. ‘Ellie, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Has your mum explained to you about periods?’
Reluctantly, Eleanor shook her head. ‘I know a little bit, but I was home with a cold when they did it at school.’
Peggy sighed. ‘You should know all this before you start at secondary, if nothing else,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll have a word with your mum, get her to explain it all before it’s too late.’
‘Can’t you . . . I mean, would you be able to tell me?’
‘It’s not really my place, sweetheart.’
‘Please,’ Eleanor said.
Peggy hesitated. ‘No, I think you should ask your mum. She’ll explain.’
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