For the last couple of years that I’d been working at the Japanese school, and Nicole had been doing two or three jobs at once, we had seen so little of each other that we hardly had time together at all. The transition from job-free idleness to workaholism had happened so imperceptibly that somehow we had both come to regard working non-stop as quite normal. We’d never been exactly house-proud, but the busier we got, the more our flat slid into chaos. It wasn’t just that we were lazy, but we genuinely didn’t have the time to tidy up, or wash the dishes, certainly not with the sort of regularity that most people consider hygienic. Every now and then, a visit from someone who might feel ‘uncomfortable’ with (or revolted by) the level of mess would force us into action, and we’d blitz the place, even if it meant staying up even later than usual to do so. Within a day or so, however, recently cleared surfaces would become lightly mulched with dirty dishes, unanswered letters, bills, documents requiring immediate attention (which they never received), unfinished marking, slowly rotting vegetables harvested from the allotment, cats and bits of fur, and discarded items of clothing. Luckily we were both more or less blind to this unsavoury view, unless there was absolutely nowhere to sit when we came home. A burglar coming in to ransack the place might have left disappointed, thinking that someone else had got there before him. A Feng Shui adviser would probably have dropped down dead on the spot.
All through this, however, we at least got to spend the nights together, to fall asleep or wake up in each other’s arms. Now I was away for days at a time. My absence was hard for us, although I suspected that Nicole secretly enjoyed the space. The fact that she acclimatised so quickly to occupying the entire bed by herself, stretching out diagonally with the cats, confirmed my concerns.
That Sunday, as we set off to check out this prospective yard, we felt a sense of release, almost like we were going on holiday. Having seen to the horses in the morning, we arranged for Jane to do the evening chores. We had what amounted to an afternoon off! It was a bright spring day and as we passed Witney and set off into new territory, the countryside seemed to become even more beautiful, with low, weed-infested hedges giving way to thick belts of mature trees, lined with long stone walls and sheltering an under storey of yew and holly. Meandering rivers emerged from the rolling hills, their cosy valleys dotted with picture-postcard settlements. Even the sign saying ‘Welcome to Gloucestershire’ seemed reassuring. Catching up on all our news, we made an unusual mistake. Engrossed in discussion, we found ourselves at a pub at the bottom of a hill, as described in the directions, and turned right, several miles before the turning we were supposed to take.
Being lost, however, was a pleasure. As we left the Fosse Way, the Roman road built to allow the legions to move around their conquered land in the days when Cirencester, now a small market town, was the capital of England, the scenery became even more spectacular.
‘Ooh look, a cross-country course,’ cooed Nicole.
‘Ooh look, lovely big trees,’ I answered.
We finally worked out where we were and rejoined our intended route to Woodmancote. The directions were very specific, but as we turned through unmarked stone gates and drove slowly down the long driveway to Moor Wood Stables, we were sure there must be some mistake. It seemed too beautiful to be real. Descending through a cluster of huge trees, we seemed to leave the world behind, and come out into a land like a dream.
Back in Milton Keynes we had become very fond of an oak tree next to one of Sensi’s many fields, whose gnarled, twisting branches seemed almost to claw at the orange night sky, reflecting the millions of street lights in the city. I once climbed up it, as the branches were perfectly placed.
What we found ourselves facing now was quite impossible to contemplate climbing. In front of a grand house was an enormous Cedar of Lebanon, in almost perfect condition, looking out over a beautiful valley, in which nestled a number of old cottages.
‘I don’t think it’s going to be difficult to choose our favourite tree,’ I blurted out before our view opened out across the estate to reveal a large wood down the side of the valley. At the time I could only identify about five types of tree, but it was obvious at a glance that this was a collection that would rival many arboreta. The great spread of mature oaks and chestnuts, their branches edged with a tinge of light green, leaves just peeking out of their buds, was broken by the sharp spires of black pines. Towering at the foot of the wood were two huge Wellingtonias, the taller of which had a broken tip, having been struck by lightning, but it was still about twice the height of the large native hardwoods around it. Later, as I learned to recognise more of them, I would realise that standing in the yard you can see about thirty-five different species, almost every one a near perfect example of a type of exotic or native tree.
We drove down beyond the cedar, past old stone walls encrusted with moss and bizarrely colourful patches of lichen, from which dangled an array of climbing roses (which turned out to be the National Collection of rambler roses), until we came between two L-shaped yards and a house. We drew up in front of a huge old granary barn and got out. As our ears accustomed themselves to the calm, which closed around us as I switched off the car engine, we realised there was another sound, not merely the wind in the trees or the birds.
‘A stream?’ We looked at each other. Sure enough, there at the back of the car park was a perfect little babbling brook, its clear water looking clean enough to drink.
A couple greeted us with a friendly smile, introducing themselves as Sarah and Peter. Recently married, they were not in fact the owners, as everything in sight belonged to one Henry Robinson. He lived with his family in the big house, which in spite of the conspicuous lack of piles of old tyres, rusting machinery and dilapidated buildings, was called Moor Wood Farm. They showed us around the fields, which they explained were four hundred years old pasture, designated ESA (an Environmentally Sensitive Area) under an EEC directive to preserve them. However, many years of continuous grazing by horses had left the land in a pretty sorry state, poached by hooves and dotted with patches of weeds. It was quite steep, too, and exposed to the west wind, which roared across a huge open field on the other side of the valley and seemed to blow right through our clothing. But as soon as we stepped through the gate into the squelching mud, I noticed a flat area, just big enough for the round pen. Nicole’s eyes met mine, and I knew she was thinking the same.
The fields they were offering amounted to about 8 acres, together with one of the yards, containing six stables made from Cotswold stone. One of the stables was huge, at least twice the size of the others. Sensi wouldn’t mind this, I thought, especially with the view out onto the woods.
It was perfect, and although even one month’s rent would seem like a fortune, we knew the chances of finding somewhere cheaper were minimal. But the accommodation was not ideal. Used as we were to living in a one-bedroom flat, the annexe was much smaller, and had no internal doors except into the tiny bathroom, which would have been impossible to step inside if it had actually contained a bath instead of a shower. If we were going to live here, we would have to make sure we never had an argument, as there would be nowhere to storm off to. We would also have to throw away a large number of our books and other possessions, as there would be nowhere to keep them.
Fortunately, Sarah and Peter had a suggestion. For an extra ‘peppercorn’, they could rent us a room in the granary across the car park. The moment I stepped inside, I knew it was the perfect place for my musical equipment – a barn with walls two feet thick. There was, however, a major drawback. Half of the roof was full of holes big enough to let in shards of light, and there were already several swallows making their nests among the beams. I hoped we would not disturb each other too much, because my mind was already made up. A bit of tarpaulin nailed to the ceiling, and this would be the music studio I had always craved.
We looked at each other without needing to say a word.
‘We’d like to take it. Can we leave you a deposit
?’
Sarah and Peter looked slightly taken aback, and said, ‘There’s just one problem.’ Seeing our faces fall, they added, ‘Nothing terrible. It’s just that there are some holiday bookings for the annexe. It won’t be available until the end of May at the soonest, even if we cancel some of the later ones.’
This was less than a fortnight away, and as we had yet to pack, arrange transport for the horses, and sort out our stuff, the wait wasn’t too much of a problem.
In fact, during the next fortnight, there were two weekend courses at Witney, which Nicole was teaching on, as well as the course from Tuesdays to Fridays, so we only had two days, two Mondays, to arrange everything. Nicole had ambitions of sorting through the flat, recycling or throwing out things that we didn’t need, and only packing and bringing useful items. In the event, we didn’t even have time to gather together sufficient boxes, and ended up just throwing the chaos of our flat, rubbish and all, into, appropriately enough, bin bags. Even then, we ran out of bags.
We hired a 7.5-tonne curtain-sided van to transport all of our stuff, but we weren’t too confident about driving it. Nicole called her Australian friend and karate instructor, Rohan, and dropped hints until he offered to drive the van for us. A typical Aussie, prone to bad-taste humour, extravagant tales and with more than a hint of arrogance, he is nevertheless a real gentleman, the sort that would always help a friend in need, give generously of his time, and gladly give up his bed and sleep on the sofa if you needed to stay the night. Tall and strong, he was also bound to be helpful with the heavy items.
The first of the heavy items we had to deal with was the round pen, which we went to collect from Long Street. Twenty panels of eight by six galvanised steel mesh, and a gate, which Nicole and I were already very familiar with loading and unloading on tours. Usually, however, there are hordes of helpers. With only three of us, it was a back-breaking task.
It’s possible that when Rohan asked whether the stuff from the flat was all packed up and ready to go, and Nicole said ‘more or less’, he may have had rather different expectations of the situation than the scene that greeted his eyes when we got back to the flat.
‘Ah,’ he said testily, surveying the wreckage, ‘a definition of packing that I hadn’t previously come across.’ He added, ‘It helps if you put the stuff in boxes.’
‘We have!’ Nicole exclaimed indignantly. ‘Look!’ And she pointed to the half dozen or so boxes crammed full with the sort of stuff that even we didn’t consider suitable for plastic bags – crockery, glasses, knives. ‘It won’t take long,’ she said, with the sort of misguided optimism that would be endearing if it didn’t so often mean me getting roped into impossibly big tasks with ridiculously little time to do them. To prove her point, she picked up two large bin bags and an armful of books, and set off down the stairs to the lorry. Sighing, Rohan effortlessly hoisted up a couple of the largest boxes and set off after her.
Innumerable trips later, and we were beginning to make an impression. Surfaces were becoming visible, the piles of bags were diminishing, the boxes and most of the big items were already in the van, and although we were getting hot and fed up with the job, we could see an end in sight. I was just about to follow Rohan and Nicole out of the flat yet another time, when the phone rang. Glad of the excuse to sit down for a moment, I picked it up.
TWELVE
New beginnings
(Nicole)
And that’s how we found him, sitting on an amp, looking like all of the air had been punched out of him. I had been about to chide him for slacking, but one look at his face, and I knew something was wrong.
‘That was my mum on the phone. Dad’s been taken into hospital. I’ve got to go to London. I don’t know how long I’ll be there. Mum’s told me to bring a suit.’
The significance of this last remark didn’t bear thinking about. For years, Adam’s father had been struggling against the inevitable decline of Alzheimer’s disease, but recently it had become painfully obvious that he was going to lose the battle. I felt useless, not knowing what to do to make the situation better. As I hugged him, he said, ‘I’m so sorry to be burdening you both with the packing and moving, but I really can’t stay. I must get down to London as soon as possible . . .’
Rohan said, ‘Of course, don’t worry, we’ll be fine.’ He really can be very lovely sometimes. ‘We’ll probably do it faster without you anyway.’ If a little insensitive occasionally.
It had already become clear that we were going to have to make two trips in the van, so it was decided that we should set off sooner rather than later, grab a quick lunch, and then go our separate ways. Sitting in the Little Chef at Old Stratford we ate a miserable meal (in more ways than one). I couldn’t believe that I wouldn’t be going with Adam to London. The thought of not being with him in such a time of need was terrible. But to abandon the move and have to do it another time would have been horrible too, not to mention more expensive than we could afford if we had to hire the van again. I consoled myself with the thought that by going ahead and moving our stuff to our new home, I was doing something positive for our future, and saving him an onerous task as well.
But it felt strange, sitting in the van next to Rohan, instead of Adam. We were moving to our dream spot in the countryside, and we weren’t together. I tried to chat cheerily to Rohan to take my mind off it, and the 70 or so miles passed quickly enough.
We stayed at Moor Wood just long enough to unload the round pen. (‘Don’t worry, Adam and I will put it up later,’ I said to Rohan, who answered with a look that said, ‘Of course you bloody will.’) We threw the horse equipment into the tack room and, after a cup of tea, headed straight back for round two.
It was past 9 p.m. when we had finally decanted the last of the loose objects from the lorry into the studio. I’m still not sure how we managed to drag the phenomenally heavy deep freezer up the steep stone steps, but I imagine it had more to do with Rohan’s muscles than mine. Before the day was out, Rohan would have driven the best part of 300 miles and have handled more bin bags than a rubbish collector on the 27th of December. I decided to take him to the pub and buy him a drink (non-alcoholic, of course, as he still had to drive me and the van back to Milton Keynes). As I sipped my pint of beer, I looked around at the typical country pub décor, and wondered if this would become my local. The people seemed friendly enough, and I found myself explaining to the bar owner who I was, where I’d come from, and what we did with horses.
The journey back to Milton Keynes went surprisingly quickly, considering how tired we were, and the fact that we had already done the route once that day. Perhaps we had hit that level of tired-beyond-tired, a sort of automated exhaustion, where you just keep going in a vacuous, unthinking sort of way, a feeling I was familiar with from touring, and that any parent will recognise instantly. In any case, I was grateful to get back to the flat and the two indignant, disgruntled felines who were demanding to know what had happened to their comfortable furniture.
Adam had phoned me on Rohan’s mobile earlier, and we were relieved to hear that his dad’s condition was not quite as serious as was originally feared, and he was ‘comfortable’. Adam was going to spend the next day, Monday, in London, then drive up to Moor Wood in the evening, and from there go to the course on Tuesday morning. I had confidently assured him that I would be fine loading the horses on my own, but as I lay in bed, I wondered. It had been hard work loading so many heavy inanimate objects all day, but would live horses be any easier?
In the event, my fears proved entirely justified.
Of the six horses that were in our care at the time, Major (our friend Jenny’s horse that we had been looking after for some time and were soon to own) and Cobweb were 100 per cent reliable loaders. Cobweb, however, was staying behind for a few weeks to teach the kids at the Japanese school. The other four all had question marks over them. Sensi was notoriously bad. Finn had been so bad loading that once when I hired a box to take Wilberforce to the vet, the d
river mentioned him in passing as the worst pony he had ever had to load. He hadn’t realised that I knew Finn at the time (we hadn’t yet taken him on), and just referred to him as that ‘****ing stubborn little Exmoor git from Newport Pagnell’, naming the yard where Finn used to live. The Chief, whose owner wanted us to continue his training, had only once been in a box, and Misty, after all, had become ours only after she had refused to go home in a trailer. When we moved them all to Long Street it had been easier, more fun, and cheaper to ride or walk than hire a box. In an ideal world, I would have worked on getting them all really good to load before the day I had to move them, but as well as being just a bit busy, I simply didn’t have a box or trailer to practise with, and Leslie, who had agreed to transport them, had been unwilling to let me use his.
Julia had come over to lend moral and practical support, for which I was profoundly grateful. I’d decided that, in view of the stallion’s hormones and Sensi’s displeasure, the best way for them to travel was for the Chief, Finn and Major to be in the horsebox, driven by Leslie, and for Misty and Sensi to travel in a trailer that belonged to a student from a previous course, Cathy, who had very kindly offered to drive the horses over to Moor Wood. Leslie backed the lorry up to a loading bay. This meant that the ramp was horizontal, which made it a lot easier. The box was open and inviting, and I felt sure the Chief would follow Leslie straight in, as I went off to make preparations for the other horses in the trailer. But I was interrupted by Julia just a few minutes later.
‘I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for Leslie to be loading the Chief. He seems to be getting a little frightened.’
For some reason, I had assumed Julia had meant that the stallion was getting worried. One look at the situation revealed her meaning immediately, however. The Chief was getting angry. It was Leslie who was getting frightened. His face had turned an ashen shade of grey, and although he was sternly saying things like, ‘Come on now and stop messing around,’ there was a tremor in his voice.
Whispering Back Page 16