Keep Me Alive

by Natasha Cooper

  ‘Wasn’t me that sold. I was a tenant. Gave up nearly a year ago.’ The man looked at Will, considering him. Whatever he saw seemed to reassure him. ‘There didn’t seem much point going on when everything that went to market cost more than it made. We were pouring money down the drain as fast as over-quota milk. Luckily we’d had a chance to buy the house in the good years. Some of it still belongs to the building society, but enough is ours to make life possible.’

  ‘So what d’you do now?’

  ‘Bed and breakfast. My wife always did it, and we’re just about making do. Thank God the mortgage rate’s as low as it is. When I think what we’ve paid in interest over the years, I could …’ He drowned what he’d been going to say in beer. When he raised his face from the tankard again, there was a faint foam moustache above his lips. ‘What about you?’

  Will sketched his reasons for selling the farm he’d inherited. As he spoke, he edited his loathing of the years of servitude to his father, and what it had made him do. He thought of the day when Trish had poured out her fury about people who lied to her. What would she do if she ever found out that he hadn’t always told her the truth? How could he make her understand?

  After everything that had happened, he could see that the awfulness of the life hadn’t all been his father’s fault; it had been imposed on him, too, and his father, and his father’s father, which made everything worse.

  Familiar guilt made his body squeeze in on itself. He tried to ease it by remembering all the reasons he’d had to hate his father. One particular episode still burned in his memory. He’d been working for his mock ‘O’ level exams, so it must have been after his fifteenth birthday, more than twenty years ago.

  The noise of his father coming into his room woke him, but he wasn’t going to show it. He always slept on his back so he hardly had to move his head to see the illuminated figures on the alarm clock by his bed. Half-past five. His stillness didn’t save him. Nor his schoolwork. A callused hand dragged back the duvet.

  ‘Come on, son. Stop faking. There are cows out there that need milking.’

  Will could feel his own hands even without moving them, chapped and swollen from yesterday and the day before that. It wasn’t the actual milking he hated; even at this time of the morning in the raw darkness and with his head hollow with the endless need for sleep and his eyes smarting, he didn’t mind dealing with the cows. Sometimes he felt sorry for them, rounded up and hustled into the milking parlour, their huge, heavy udders clamped into the machines. Occasionally he’d give the poor beasts an extra stroke and think he could see gratitude in their big brown eyes. It was the cleaning up afterwards that he hated. The smell of cow dung clung to his hair and every crevice of his body, in spite of all the scrubbing that only added to the soreness of his skin. He could still smell it now, just as he could see the greeny-brown slime in his mind’s eye, swirling away from the jet of the power hose. It was no wonder Suze’s friends turned their backs on him.

  ‘Let me sleep, Dad. I’ve got exams today.’

  ‘Don’t give me that.’ He felt his father’s calluses against his forehead as he grabbed a clump of Will’s hair and tugged. ‘Wake up! The cows need milking. On your feet, boy.’

  ‘Susannah doesn’t have to help around the place.’ He shut his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to see his father’s expression. He knew he’d have to get up, but he didn’t see why he should make it easy for the old bastard. ‘So why should I?’

  The hand wound tighter in his hair and pulled. Will let his head follow to lessen the tug. In a minute he was on his feet just like the old bastard wanted. His toes curled up from the hard coldness of the floor and his lanky body shivered. He reached for his work trousers and the rough heavy jersey he’d put on over his pyjamas.

  ‘She’s younger than you and she helps her mother. Who d’you think would have a hot breakfast for you when you get in from milking if it wasn’t for them? Hurry up. I haven’t time to waste on this performance every day. Come on, Will. If you left your cock alone when you went to bed, you wouldn’t be this wiped out. Come on.’

  ‘Then I lost my food business, too,’ he said at the end of his story, having cut out all the really painful bits, like the beating he’d had from his father when they heard he’d failed his exams. He still felt the injustice of that, even after all these years. ‘But it looks as though I’m going to get enough damages to start up again. I thought I might try this part of the country. I couldn’t bear to go back to the Hampshire border. Anyway, it’s too expensive now. What’s it like round here?’

  The bed-and-breakfast man shrugged. Levering himself to his feet, he asked if he could get Will another drink to make up for the stain on his trousers.

  ‘Thanks. It was a pint of Special.’

  ‘Ron!’ the other man called as he shoved himself off the bench, which rocked again. ‘Two pints of Special.’ He ambled over to the bar, exchanging laconic courtesies with some of the other drinkers on the way, and handed the barman some money.

  They drank in companionable silence for a while. The taste of the beer was still right, bigger and meatier than anything Will had had in months. It was good, too, to be back in the company of men like these. He wiped his mouth as he put down his tankard, and asked again about conditions here in Kent.

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ said the other man with a bitter edge to his voice, ‘if you’re a City commuter with a bonus and a fast car. Tough though if you belong here and have no chance of earning a decent living, with a wife who thinks you’re a useless lump, and a houseful of strangers who treat you like a moron. Thank God for this place. I’d go mad without it.’

  ‘But some people are still farming,’ Will protested. ‘The land’s well kept round here. There’s money being spent on it, too. They can’t all be merchant bankers building up Petits Trianons for the weekend.’

  ‘Petty Whats?’ asked a third man, putting a pint down on the table in front of Will’s new friend. ‘How are you, Gus?’

  ‘Got balled out by Jeanie this morning for leaving skin on the breakfast hot milk. It’s no life for a man, running round after a bunch of townees.’

  ‘At least you’ve got money coming in. Think of poor Tim: no wife, so no bed and breakfast. Not even egg money.’ The newcomer leaned across the table, hand outstretched, saying: ‘Jack Morgan. How are you?’

  ‘Will Applewood. Good to see you. Who’s Tim?’

  ‘Ex sheep farmer on the edge of the Marsh. He switched to cherries a few years ago,’ said Gus. ‘Tim’s OK. He may not do B and B, but he brings in a bit extra taking aerial photographs for surveyors during his off-season. Sometimes the bankers pay him to take pictures for their Christmas cards. He said the other day that he just about earns enough from it to make the plane pay for itself. So his one hobby is free. Good thinking.’

  ‘So long as petrol prices don’t go up. That would screw his sums,’ Jack said. ‘Like the price of cherries must be doing these days. No one wants proper Kentish white-heart cherries like Tim’s. They’re after those great glossy black ones that look good, but taste of sod all. Dunno how much longer he can go on, even with the photography. He probably should’ve kept to sheep. Now that lambs are being held back from slaughter to restock the foot-and-mouth-hit farms, you can get a decent price again. So he’s missed out all ways round.’

  ‘Maybe he’d be open to offers for some of the buildings then,’ Will said, fighting to forget his sympathy for these men and complete what he’d come here to do.

  He’d decided to be a property buyer because that let you ask anything you wanted, even the most unbelievably offensive questions.

  ‘Where can I find him?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t even try. His place isn’t much more than eight miles from here. But I don’t want him thinking I said he’d be likely to sell up. He’s on a short fuse these days. Anything sets him off. I’d likely get an earful, if nothing worse.’

  ‘Does he drink in here? Maybe I’ll run into him. It could
be easier that way.’

  ‘Doesn’t drink anywhere except at home, as far as I know. No spare cash.’

  ‘Oh. OK.’ Will caught the barman looking at him and quickly raised his voice. ‘Then is there anyone you know of who is trying to sell?’ He tried to look like someone with the millions necessary to buy any substantial piece of land in the area. All he could see were his fraying cuffs. He could feel the slope of his heels, too, where he’d worn away the rubber with his long walks on London’s pavements. At least his hands were like a rich man’s now, soft from lack of work.

  As he listened to the discussion of which struggling local farmers might want to sell, Will mentally rehearsed the other questions he’d come to ask, the ones about Smarden Meats and the men who worked there.

  *

  ‘Yesterday, Mr Chancer, you told my learned friend that you cannot be held responsible for some naive suppliers misunderstanding the type of contract you were offering them.’ Ferdy Aldham paused, as though to make sure everyone was awake.

  Several people moved their heads and one or two rubbed their eyes. Colin turned to smile at Trish, as though to assure her that he’d never succumb to heat and boredom again.

  ‘That’s right,’ Chancer said in his slightly nasal voice.

  ‘What exactly did you say to them to make it clear?’

  ‘I can’t tell you exactly because I didn’t keep any record. But in every case, I explained that we’d be taking their products at the price agreed for three months and then, when we were sure there was a market for them and our contracts people had looked at everything, we’d be offering them a long-term deal.’

  ‘And how did they react to that?’

  ‘Well, my lord,’ Chancer said, turning his head to address the judge, ‘they mostly just grabbed the offer with both hands. There was only one of them who didn’t.’

  ‘And who was that?’ Ferdy asked, looking so satisfied that Trish began to worry.

  ‘Mr Applewood. When I ran through the details with him, he said he wasn’t in the business of doing trial runs, and that I’d had samples of all his products already and that if I couldn’t tell which ones would sell, then I shouldn’t be doing the job I was.’

  Trish kept an expression of mild interest on her face and willed Colin not to show any of the dismay he must feel. Thank God Will wasn’t in court this morning. He’d have been jumping up and down by now.

  ‘And have you any evidence to support this statement?’ Ferdy asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Chancer said. ‘It’s in the letter I wrote him after our meeting, the one about the timing of his deliveries.’

  ‘That is document 5063, my lord,’ Ferdy said, riffling through his own bundle to place one plump finger on the page.

  Trish looked down at the relevant passage. Chancer had written:

  ‘As to your dislike of our need to assure ourselves of the quality and marketability of your product, I have to say that if there is anything in our terms you consider too onerous, now is the moment say so, before either of us is committed.’

  Surely there wasn’t enough in this ambiguous sentence to sway the judge in Furbishers’ favour. It was no wonder they hadn’t picked it up as they prepared the case; in itself it was far too vague to prove Chancer’s assertion. If only he hadn’t claimed to have spelled everything out to Will in a face to face meeting!

  She said as much after the judge had risen for the lunch adjournment. Colin had gone ahead to buy the sandwiches, so she and Antony were alone with Will’s solicitor, Neil Stanton.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Antony said, pulling off his wig and scratching his scalp. ‘On its own the letter wouldn’t cause us much of a problem, but old Husking might believe Chancer’s oral testimony and take this as confirmation of it. You know Applewood better than either of us, Neil,’ he added to the solicitor. ‘Could he have lied about what Chancer said to him at the meeting?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so, but I can’t be sure.’ He bit his lip. ‘That’s not helpful, Antony, I know. But it’s the best I can do. He’s probably not above the odd fib. Are any of us? But he’s so full of righteous outrage about what Furbishers did that I’d find it hard to believe.’

  ‘Good. Now, we’d better get on with lunch.’

  Colin had their sandwiches waiting, along with Trish’s raspberry and cranberry smoothie and some yoghurt. The four of them plunged straight into work, chewing as they discussed the implications of what had happened this morning, and how best to deal with it in the closing speech.

  When Antony and Neil strolled off to the gents together, Trish pulled her mobile out of her pocket and switched it on to collect her messages. There was one from Andrew Stane, asking her to phone.

  ‘Andrew,’ she said as soon as she’d got through. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Kim has a raging temperature, and the doctor insists she stays in bed, so you won’t be able to see her this afternoon.’

  ‘Shit! We’ve only got till Saturday. It’s not enough time anyway, but if we lose a whole day, I—’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me, Trish,’ he said, and she could tell from the tightness of his voice that he shared all her fears. ‘But if she’s that ill, we’re not going to get anything out of her by dragging her out of bed, or by invading her sickroom.’

  ‘I suppose not. D’you think you might be able to get an extension of the interim care order because of this?’

  ‘I don’t know. I could certainly try. But let’s see how she does over the next twenty-four hours. I’d rather not even apply unless we absolutely have to. We’ll be lucky to get one more chance, and I can’t use it up lightly. My other phone’s ringing. I’ve got to go.’

  The prospect of spending the rest of the day in the stuffy court, listening to Ferdy encouraging more damaging bits of evidence out of Furbishers’ buyer, when a child’s life and sanity were hanging in the balance was awful.

  ‘Trish?’ Colin was looking anxiously at her. ‘Are you OK?’

  She blinked, then smiled, reminding herself of her real job. If Kim couldn’t be interviewed today, she couldn’t. It would be mad to let frustration fog her brain.

  ‘Sure. Just a bit of tiresome news,’ she said. ‘By the way, Colin, if you have a spare moment, you might look something up for me.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, surprised that her request was so tentative. His job was to look up anything she wanted.

  They walked out of the coffee shop side by side and waited outside court for Antony and Neil to catch them up.

  ‘It’s about the death of a journalist,’ she said, taking advantage of the short freedom, ‘a man called Jamie Maxden. I gather there was an inquest a few weeks ago. You might see what you can find out. But it’s not a priority.’

  ‘Sure? I’m due to play squash this evening, but I could cancel it.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘Great. Thanks. I’ll get what I can. Why are you interested in him?’

  ‘He had a history of writing exposes of the food industry,’ she began, hoping he was still too nervous of her to ask many questions. She thought of her own days of running errands for her various pupil masters and knew she’d never have dared ask them to justify any of their requests. ‘And I think he was once quite successful.’

  Colin simply nodded, just as she’d have done in the old days.

  Unaware of his legal team’s problems, Will had spent the whole of the fifty quid he’d borrowed from his brother-in-law along with the expensive red trousers from Hacketts. Still, he had a fair amount of information to show for the money. He waved at his new-found mates and the barman and went to sit in Susannah’s car outside the pub. Wanting to be sure he was sober enough to avoid scraping her long Volvo against any of the hedges, he wrote up notes of what he’d heard.

  As he scribbled, he kept thinking of other questions he should have asked, but he knew he couldn’t go back. Not today, anyway. It was strange that both the men he’d talked to had only good things to say about Smarden Mea
ts. The manager was helpful and not extortionate when it came to slaughtering the odd animal for home consumption. And there was no local gossip of anything nefarious going on. As far as the men in the pub knew, Smarden Meats was squeaky clean and obeyed every single one of the EU’s absurdly stringent laws.

  Neither of the drinkers had much sympathy with Jamie. They knew all about the discovery of his body outside the abattoir and didn’t seem to think it particularly odd. In their view, anyone who chose to involve someone else in his suicide deserved anything that happened to him.

  ‘Not fair on the driver,’ had been Jack’s comment. ‘He couldn’t get back in the cab for hours. Shaking like a catkin in a hurricane, they say. Thought it was his fault, poor bugger.’

  The most interesting thing Will had learned was that neither of his fellow drinkers knew anything at all about Ivyleaf, which had produced or packaged the sausages Trish and her friend had eaten, even though their plant was only twenty miles to the east of Smarden.

  Since he was so close, he thought he’d better drive there, try to blag his way in and see what he could find out about the origin of the sausages. He’d have more chance of getting his questions answered face to face than any other way. But it wouldn’t be easy.

  Meat – entirely respectable meat – had often been sold on by several dealers before it reached any retailer or food processor. The people working at Ivyleaf probably had no idea where the contents of their sausages came from, even if they knew who the actual makers were. And, in any case, they’d be unlikely to let out that information to anyone.

  Failure folded itself around Will again like the shabbiest of overcoats. Once he’d been a player, in charge, making money and plans, with other men working for him and a wife who thought he was wonderful. Now there was nothing.

  ‘What’ll become of me?’ he muttered as he felt in his pockets for the keys he’d put back while he sobered up. He was only thirty-five. There might be fifty more years to get through.