A Country Escape

by Katie Fforde

  ‘I never knew what she felt about me,’ said Fran. ‘I wanted to please her so much and yet I could never do anything right. Apart from today – oh God, was it only late this afternoon? She did seem pleased I’d found the quarry, although it would have been better if I’d found it sooner.’

  ‘So where is this quarry you’re going on about?’ asked Roy.

  Fran hesitated a moment, but there was no way Roy could use the information to his advantage now. ‘Oh, it’s up the top field, on the left.’

  ‘Did you know where it was, Tig?’ Roy went on.

  Tig shook his head. ‘If I did, I’d have told Fran straight away. Amy was always very secretive about it. I think she used to hide food up there during the war or something.’

  ‘Well, that makes me feel better about not discovering it until now,’ said Fran. ‘But it’s only important if you make cheese,’ she said to Roy.

  ‘There won’t be any of that making-cheese malarkey if I get the farm,’ he said. ‘No money in it.’

  ‘There is! I sell my soft cheese direct to retailers!’ Fran had had too much gin to be tactful.

  ‘Still not enough!’ Roy went on. ‘You can’t always sell roof tiles to pay off the bank. You’ll have to start taking them off the farmhouse, soon.’

  Fran swallowed. She’d hoped Roy hadn’t noticed what she’d done with that pile of tiles and hadn’t realised he knew about the bank loan. And he was right; she couldn’t go on selling off the farm’s assets. She’d have to find another way.

  ‘So what’s your grand plan, Roy?’ said Antony.

  Roy’s gaze flicked around the room as if he was debating whether to reveal his plan or not. ‘There’s always money in land,’ he said slowly. ‘They’re not making any more of it. Makes it very valuable.’

  ‘So you’ll sell it off, in dribs and drabs?’ asked Issi. Gin was inclined to make her argumentative.

  Roy nodded slowly. ‘There’s a bit down the bottom near the road that could be sold off without it affecting the main plot.’

  Fran was surprised he knew so much about the farm when he’d appeared to show so little interest in it. And she didn’t like the way he said ‘plot’.

  ‘So would you keep a bit for yourself, to live on?’ asked Antony.

  ‘Ah no. I’d sell the whole lot off. It’s how I’d sell it would be the thing. To one big developer, or in bits and pieces.’

  Now Fran wanted to cry, but she wasn’t going to, not in front of that heartless monster. She yawned instead.

  Antony got up. ‘You’re tired. You need to get to bed. There’ll be a lot of things to sort out in the morning.’

  Fran got up too, and staggered a little. ‘I’ll see you out.’

  She longed to go home with him, to spend the night in his arms, to let passion sweep away grief and shock and worry. But she knew she couldn’t. She couldn’t let Roy have any excuse or opportunity to lay claim to the farm.

  Antony knew it too. She didn’t have to explain. He’d been a calm, strong presence this evening and having him in her life made everything seem a lot better.

  They hugged in the dark of the passage before comfort turned to passion. But after kissing for some time Fran pulled away. ‘It will be all right, won’t it? If Amy leaves the farm to Roy, he can sell it to you?’

  Antony didn’t say anything for a few moments and then he spoke into her hair. ‘Darling, I’d buy it in a heartbeat and it could be yours to do what you like with. But – I hate to tell you this, especially now – going on what Roy’s just been saying tonight, and other sources of information I have, Roy’s been in meetings with Noblesse Homes.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Fran asked.

  He sighed. ‘It means he may have got planning permission for the land already. If it goes up for sale as housing land I’d never be able to afford it, even if I sold everything. I’ve worked it out.’

  ‘Oh God!’ Now she wanted to cry, but from fear not from sadness. ‘But surely you can’t apply for planning permission on land you don’t own?’

  ‘Yes you can, I’m afraid. But the land is very steep and there’s no infrastructure so a big housing estate would be very expensive to build. But a few executive homes could be possible.’

  ‘I can’t believe they’d even consider putting houses on land that managed to get through the war without being ploughed up.’ She paused. ‘And it’s not just me, is it? It’s Tig and Issi. They’re more bound up in the farm than I am, really. I could make cheese somewhere else, or even open a restaurant. They’ve only got the farm and the herd is so important to Tig. The cows – they’re …’ She struggled to find the word. ‘They’re almost like his relations!’

  He laughed gently at her exaggeration. ‘Come on, I’m going to put you to bed. You’re tired beyond reason and any minute now you’re going to be really upset. Bed is the best place for that.’

  It was almost funny, Fran thought. She and Antony should have been together, ripping each other’s clothes off, falling on to the bed, or the floor, or whatever was nearest, but in fact he shook out her duvet while she got into her pyjamas and brushed her teeth. She felt strangely embarrassed appearing in her flowery brushed-cotton nightwear, which she realised Amy would have called ‘winceyette’, although he’d seen her in far less.

  He treated her with the same matter-of-fact practicality that he had treated the puppies they had helped hand-rear. Somehow his restraint made him even more sexy.

  ‘Come on, tuck up,’ he said. He had a book in his hand. ‘I found this. It must be one of Amy’s.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s called The Farm on the Hill by Alison Uttley. It’s about a girl who lives on a farm. Now get in and close your eyes.’

  It was lovely to be in her bed, her pillow smelling faintly of the lavender oil she often sprinkled on it.

  He lay on the bed next to her, his big shiny shoes nearly hanging over the end of it. It was supremely chaste and very sexy.

  He began to read. ‘“Like a traveller to an inn, the darkness came …”’

  He had a really beautiful voice. Of course she’d noticed it before but now he was reading aloud to her it sounded even more mellifluous and flowing. She hadn’t been read aloud to since she was a child and she loved it. Sadly, she couldn’t listen for long before her eyes closed and she slept.

  When Fran awoke in the morning her first memory was of Antony reading to her. And then reality hit her. Amy had died. Alone in her bed, tears began to fall. She stayed there until she’d stopped sobbing and then she got downstairs and into the kitchen, to do what she knew would calm her: cook.

  She decided to bake brownies for the care home, having to adapt the recipe to cope with gaps in the ingredients. Soon she had the kitchen smelling of vanilla and chocolate.

  Then she made an improvised pesto, managing without the main ingredients of pine nuts, basil and Parmesan. She was very satisfied with the result – chives, random seeds, cheddar and a lot of garlic – which she was eating on toast when Issi came into the kitchen.

  ‘You always did cook when you were stressed. But if you eat any more garlic you won’t be able to kiss anyone.’

  Fran laughed. She was surprised. She’d thought laughing would be something she’d be doing after a few months, not mere hours since she’d heard of Amy’s death.

  ‘Well, you know me. I like a world where I have control, at least some of the time.’ She walked across to put the kettle on. ‘I thought I’d give the brownies to the care home. They’ve been so good to Amy. I’ll brush my teeth really well before I go.’

  ‘Shall I come with you? There’ll be a lot to sort out. You won’t want to be on your own.’

  ‘That would be really kind. I might break down at any moment. It would be good to have someone there who could finish my sentences if I can’t.’

  Fran did cry when she arrived at the care home. It seemed like five minutes ago when she’d last been there to see Amy and in fact it was less than twenty-four ho
urs. She and Issi went into the office.

  ‘We are so sad about Amy dying,’ said Monica.

  ‘She was such a character,’ said another nurse. ‘And she seemed so well – completely recovered after her infection. Yet it was as if something told her she could go and she went.’

  Fran was very grateful they didn’t say ‘sorry for your loss’, which she felt was an expression best fitted to an American cop drama, and not an actual expression of sympathy.

  ‘We’re very glad you’ve come so soon,’ said the woman who was in charge, whose badge said ‘Moyra Jenkins’. Fran was grateful to be reminded of her name.

  ‘We’d have had to get in touch with you otherwise,’ Moyra went on. ‘As you can imagine, Amy left very strict instructions about what was to happen to her after she died. She gave them to us the day after she arrived in the home.’

  ‘Goodness me! She liked to plan ahead,’ said Fran.

  ‘She did. And thank you so much for these. Chocolate is always so comforting, I find. Have one?’

  While Fran had found the smell of the brownies baking comforting, she didn’t want to eat one now. ‘No, thank you.’

  Issi took one and Moyra went on. ‘Firstly, Amy’s already gone to the funeral director. She knew which one and already had a word. She wanted a conventional funeral—’

  ‘Oh. I’d fancied a green burial, with a wicker coffin,’ said Fran, who had added a horse-drawn hearse leading the cortège through the town to her mental picture.

  Moyra shook her head. ‘Nothing like that. Maybe you’d better go and see the undertakers?’ She patted Fran’s hand. ‘It’s all right, the brownies will be just fine with us.’

  Fran laughed. ‘Thank you for being so good to her. I know she could be difficult but I loved her.’

  ‘She was just fine, and we loved her too.’

  Fran felt herself start to cry.

  ‘Come on,’ said Issi. ‘Undertakers next.’

  The undertakers were very kind too, and ushered Issi and Fran into a separate room where they were soon joined by a woman in her early thirties.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Kirstie and I’ll be looking after you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Fran, glad that this attractive young woman didn’t fit the funeral director stereotype.

  ‘I have your – what was she – great-aunt?’

  ‘Kind of. I was only a very distant cousin but I was living – am living – on her farm and looking after things.’

  ‘Well, Amy was a wonderful woman,’ Kirstie said.

  ‘She was, but how do you know that?’ said Issi.

  ‘She left such detailed instructions you won’t have to make a single decision – or hardly any. That’s why I think she’s wonderful,’ said Kirstie.

  Fran sighed. ‘I gathered from the home that we can’t have a wicker coffin, horses draped in black crêpe and all that.’

  ‘People lining the street, hats off in respectful silence,’ added Issi.

  ‘Us following behind, wearing black veils …’

  ‘I like your thinking,’ said Kirstie. ‘Sadly, your aunt had other ideas. She’s chosen the church, the hymns, the flowers – just one wreath, roses and lilies.’ She paused. ‘Your option would have been very expensive and your aunt has prepaid.’

  ‘Of course she had. It was very like her,’ said Fran, thinking of the care home fees paid for in advance.

  ‘As I said, very thoughtful. However …’

  ‘What?’ asked Issi. ‘A problem?’

  ‘We might not have time for all the hymns.’

  ‘How many has she chosen?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Eight. I think she just went for her favourites. You should just choose three you think people will know,’ said Kirstie. ‘Or hire a choir.’

  ‘I think we’ll just choose hymns from the list,’ said Fran.

  ‘Then there’s the music leaving the church—’

  ‘Please don’t say it’s “I’ve Got a Brand New Combine Harvester”,’ said Fran.

  Kirstie laughed. ‘No, no, it’s Widor’s ‘Toccata’. She had it at her wedding, apparently.’

  Suddenly Fran was in bits. She remembered the wedding photo of Amy and her husband in a silver frame at the farm. Amy was wearing a long dress and her husband, tall and handsome by her side, wore a suit. There were a lot of little bridesmaids with large wreaths of flowers on their heads and about three grown-up ones, also with elaborate headdresses.

  What were the young couple feeling then? she wondered. They’d have been excited, a bit nervous, tired maybe, after days of preparation. But somewhere in their thoughts would have been babies, children who would take over the farm in due course. Not her own widowhood so young, no children, and a bit of a mess when it came to passing on the farm.

  Issi looked at her friend, and realised she needed help. ‘Quick trip to the pub, I think,’ she said briskly. She glanced at her watch. ‘The solicitor’s not expecting us for an hour. We’ve got time.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Issi parked in the pub car park. ‘Will Roy be in here, do you think?’

  Fran shrugged. ‘I don’t know.

  ‘It would be more his thing than helping with the care home or the undertakers,’ said Issi. ‘Come on, let’s get you a gin.’

  Fran put her hand on Issi’s arm. ‘It’s so kind of you to come with me. But I’m not sure I really want a drink just now.’

  ‘You could just have a coffee or something?’ suggested Issi.

  ‘I’m OK, but I just want you to know how much I appreciate your support just now.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. I wouldn’t leave you to do something like this on your own. You need a chum. Did you tell your mother?’

  ‘I did and she’s all set to come down if we need her, but I think I’d rather do without her really. It would be nicer if she came when we knew what was what. She’d only quarrel with Roy.’

  ‘And you and me are here to do that!’ said Issi. She looked at her watch. ‘We’re a bit early for the solicitor but we can wait if he’s not ready.’

  ‘Good idea. We can read the ancient magazines; it’ll calm me down.’

  In the event, they were shown straight in and Fran was annoyed to discover that Roy was already in the solicitor’s office.

  ‘I hope it’s all right me bringing Issi,’ said Fran as soon as the hellos had been said.

  ‘Of course I’ll go out if anything confidential is being discussed,’ Issi added.

  ‘No worries,’ said Roy, sounding displeased. ‘We can’t find out a damn thing until after the funeral, anyway.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Fran, who hadn’t taken in that a meeting with the solicitor might have been so momentous. ‘Well, that’s OK. I brought you these.’ She handed over a foil package to Mr Addison. ‘Brownies,’ she added.

  ‘That’s very kind!’ said Mr Addison. ‘And coffee is on its way.’

  He seemed pleased to see both the brownies and Fran and Issi. Fran wondered if Roy had been being difficult. Mr Addison opened up the foil package.

  ‘Can I have one of them?’ demanded Roy.

  ‘No,’ said Fran and Issi.

  Mr Addison put his head on one side. ‘That seems a little ungenerous.’

  ‘Oh, go on then,’ said Fran, sighing.

  ‘But wait for the coffee!’ said Issi.

  Luckily for Roy, a young woman came in with a tray of coffee just at that moment.

  A cup of tea and two brownies later, Mr Addison made sure everyone was paying attention. ‘I’m afraid I’m not in a position to tell you anything now. Mrs Flowers has been very clear and she wishes her will to be read after the funeral.’

  ‘Like in a film!’ said Issi.

  ‘Exactly,’ Mr Addison agreed. ‘She has – had – a sense of the dramatic. She wants everyone gathered together, in this office. She’s also said who is to be present.’

  ‘Can I bring Issi? I think I may need some support.’

  Mr Addison ref
erred to a list. ‘Is this Miss Isobel Sharpe?’

  Fran and Issi both nodded.

  ‘In which case, yes.’

  ‘That’s very nice of Amy to realise I’d need a friend!’ said Fran.

  ‘Actually, I think Miss Sharpe is invited because of her connection with Mr Christopher Brown, the herdsman?’

  ‘That’s Tig, yes,’ said Issi.

  ‘I don’t think I knew what his real name was,’ said Fran, surprised and a little embarrassed.

  ‘So who else is coming?’ asked Roy.

  ‘Well, you and Francesca here,’ said Mr Addison. ‘Antony Arlingham—’

  ‘But Amy hated him!’ said Roy indignantly.

  ‘Maybe she invited him so she could hate him officially?’ suggested Issi, obviously feeling a bit skittish because she was on the official list.

  Mr Addison ignored this. ‘You probably know that Mrs Flowers’ wishes for her funeral were very precise.’

  ‘I suppose I should visit the vicar,’ said Fran, a bit overwhelmed by her responsibilities.

  ‘I’ve telephoned him with the long list of hymns,’ said Mr Addison, ‘and he’s going to discuss with the church choir the ones they sing best. The choir is also going to rope in a few members of a local choir that Mrs Flowers was a member of for years, for added body.’

  ‘I didn’t know she’d ever been in a choir,’ wailed Fran. ‘So many things I didn’t know about her and now I’ll never find out.’

  ‘Do they have to be paid?’ demanded Roy, ignoring Fran’s distress.

  ‘Of course! Why should they do it for nothing? Even if it was Amy’s choir!’ said Fran. ‘And to be honest, funerals cost a huge amount anyway so a couple of hundred quid won’t make that much difference.’

  ‘I’m sure they’d be very grateful for a contribution, but in the scheme of things, this isn’t an extravagant funeral. A very simple coffin and the reception at the village hall, catered for by ladies of the village.’

  ‘If they’re offering to do it for nothing we’ll make a contribution to the village hall fund,’ said Fran quickly. ‘As well as pay for the food.’

  ‘You’re taking things for granted a bit, aren’t you?’ said Roy. ‘If I inherit, I’m not going to contribute to any choir or village hall.’