by Kirsty Eyre
In an attempt to clear my head, I jog to the top of Baslow Edge with Speedo. The hill up from the dirt track is a killer at an incline of 30 per cent, but it’s worth it for the view alone. A patchwork of greens and golds unfolds beneath us; a network of valleys cradled in the bosom of surrounding hills, stone villages nesting in their crevices. Fields lighten and darken in moving patches as cotton-wool clouds roll across the sky. It’s blustery, my cheeks pummelled like plasticine with each gust of wind. I hop from rock to rock, Speedo lolloping alongside me, his tongue streaming out like a windsock. We scramble over an isolated gritstone outcrop resembling a stack of giant pancakes, one rock piled on top of another, and over to the sheltered gully created by two boulders standing only a foot apart. Mum’s ashes were sprinkled here. I should feel something spiritual, but I don’t. I was in an incubator at the time and, the way Dad tells it, the whole thing didn’t really go to plan, what with the blowback of the ashes in the wind and Grandma spraining her ankle on the way back down.
I settle down on the stones in the gully, gazing first out at the view and then at Speedo, who is lapping water from a sinkhole eroded by rain in the granite rock. As his tail wags from side to side, my eye is drawn to a ladybird, which crawls beneath a neighbouring bilberry bush. I try to manoeuvre it onto my hand, but it takes flight, buffeted by the wind. I toy with talking out loud to Mum, asking her for advice. How did she manage to live on the farm for so long? Did she actually enjoy it up here? Would she have had more children after me? Does she think Grandma would forgive me if I threw away the stuffed partridge in the hallway? But I know that there’s no point in getting emotional. The scientist in me knows that philosophizing, hypothesizing and romanticizing is a waste of time. Time that could be spent on practical, tangible things, like getting Speedo down from the ledge he’s about to blow off, getting my ass home and formulating a game plan to get myself off the farm, reintegrated into society, and back in the lab, where I belong.
I make all sorts of resolutions on the way back down. Firstly, to increase Nathan’s hours so I stand a chance of extricating myself from daily farm life. Secondly, to make more of an effort to keep in synch with Joely – I’ve been sucked into a routine of self-preservation and it’s important I understand what’s happening in her world too. Thirdly, to enjoy the countryside more and treat it as a creature of beauty rather than a beast of constraint. To live in the present and not in the future or past. And fourthly, to pick up bread on my way home.
*
Down in the village, Baslow Scarecrow Festival is under way – straw men hanging from trees, straw women perched on stone walls, their eyes made of everything from dried satsumas to painted golf balls. Football heads, straw heads, heads made out of stuffed pillowcases. Stitched mouths, felt-tipped mouths, mouths made out of paper plates. Friendly scarecrows. Spooky scarecrows. Arty scarecrows. Scarecrow hybrids – Superman meets Worzel Gummidge. SpongeBob meets the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. Grinning turnips in old tuxedos. Haunted faces with giant mouths. They’re everywhere – in people’s front gardens, on shop walls, the village green. Dangling from road signs accompanied by cardboard crows painted black.
The scarecrow festival has certainly got bigger and better since I was a child. I remember going when I was six. I’d made my own scarecrow, who used to tell me stories about the farm through her handstitched mouth. Her head was a football shoved into an old stocking. Her cheeks were scribbled pink. She had button eyes, straw hair and an old felt hat Dad used to recycle each year. I dressed her in Mum’s old clothes from the bag in the bottom of Dad’s wardrobe – a floral shirt and some faded dungarees. Grandma helped jam her legs into a pair of old wellingtons and prop her upright on a piece of broken fencing. I used to have tea parties with her, sharing doll’s cups and saucers and filling them with water from the muddy stream. She used to plait my hair with her straw fingers and help pick out my clothes. She’d call me in when my tea was ready and hold my hand on the way to make-believe school.
When I showed her to Dad, he cried. I wasn’t sure whether it was because she wasn’t pretty enough.
‘What’s her name?’ he said.
‘She hasn’t really got one,’ I said. ‘She’s sometimes a teacher but most times she’s a mummy.’
I remember him looking away at this point and that’s when I knew my scarecrow wasn’t good enough. That I’d have to make a better one next year. Still, we took her to the festival in the back of the truck that Dad drove back then and propped her up in the village square alongside half a dozen other scarecrows. Mrs Headley, Baslow village chairwoman at the time, strolled around with a clipboard, awarding points for design, strength and scariness.
‘What’s her name?’ she said, admiring the string of plastic beads around my scarecrow’s neck.
I looked at Dad and knew he’d be upset with me if I called it Mum. ‘Mrs Headley,’ I said.
‘Flattery will get you nowhere,’ Mrs Headley said, raising an eyebrow.
I think I came fifth.
Now, though, the village is rammed with visitors in their hundreds. Fifties feel-good music blares from speakers outside the village hall. Small children dance under fluttering bunting, and thirty or so primary school pupils line up next to a cart of tomatoes, all of them dressed as crows.
Tazzy accosts me. She looks a lot smaller without her lollipop overcoat on. ‘Gone back to France, has she?’
‘Sorry?’ I say.
‘Your lady-friend.’
‘She lives in London,’ I say, Speedo pulling me in the direction of bacon rolls.
‘Caused a bit of a stir, apparently.’ She lowers her voice conspiratorially. ‘Marjorie mentioned she might be moving into the village?’
‘I don’t know what gave Marjorie that impression.’ I look around in the hope of a coffee van.
‘You know Paul Pickering has a new partner?’ She glances over to Paul, who is stooped over a barrel of cider, which has leaked all over his chequered waistcoat and is now flooding the boot of his car, a sulphurous smell invading the car park. ‘From Wales, apparently,’ she continues. ‘Brought her to the Sportsfield Trust car-boot the other day and she snaffled the lot. Stone bird baths, folding chairs, a toaster. Nesting. Looks like she’s here to stay.’
‘Right,’ I say, patting Speedo.
‘You couldn’t do us a favour, could you?’ she says, pointing to a stall further up the green. ‘Doreen’s manning the tombola but needs raffle tickets from the store.’
‘Sure.’
I wander down the road. Speedo goes nuts at Ginger, who sits on the mat outside the store licking his balls. I guess one of the advantages of having three legs is that it’s easier to access your scrotum. It’s easier to take Speedo in with me than chain him outside next to the cat. The door slides open, emitting the smell of fresh pizza. I make my way over to the till. Marjorie looks at Speedo and then at me.
‘Not with Joelle today?’ she chirrups from behind the counter, licking margherita sauce off her bony fingers.
‘Joely? No.’
‘She was very glamorous.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’ve been sent to get raffle tickets for the tombola.’
‘Italian?’ She slides a book of raffle tickets over the counter rather than putting it into my outstretched hand.
‘French.’
‘French, hey. Well, our Graham certainly thought she’d got that “Je ne sais quoi.” See you soon then, Billie,’ she says, and for a split second I think she’s going to call me ‘Billie love’ in the way she did when I was a girl, when life was simple and preconceptions didn’t flutter in the breeze along with your washing. I’m almost nostalgic for it. ‘Seat belt on, Billie love.’ ‘How was your day, Billie love?’ ‘Your mum would be proud, Billie love.’ How ridiculous that I should crave it from someone like her.
I’m about to nod goodbye when, out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a milkmaid fridge magnet behind the counter and get a burst of inspiration. ‘Marjorie, ho
w would you feel about me bringing one of the cows down here on the weekend and milking her outside the shop as a bit of a “Save Our Dairy” publicity stunt?’
‘One of your cows?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’d be milking by hand?’ she says squeamishly.
‘Yes.’
She wipes down the bit of counter I’ve just leant on. ‘I’m not sure there’s enough space.’
She eyeballs me until I take the raffle tickets and leave. The bread can wait.
At only thirty pence a cup, the cider is going down well on the village green, and the donation bucket is getting fuller, what with ‘Guess the name of the scarecrow’, ‘Pin the crow on the scarecrow’, ‘Adopt a scarecrow’. I make my way over to the tombola.
‘Billie!’ Doreen smiles.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Good, thanks.’
‘Bakery going well?’
‘Not bad,’ she says. ‘It was definitely the right thing, moving here.’
‘We’re a friendly bunch,’ I say, and then have an out-of-body experience as I become aware that I’ve included myself as a member of the village and made her the outsider, which is not a fair representation of how things are at all.
‘I’m a bit worried about my son, though.’ She runs her fingers over her whiskery chin. ‘He’s ever such a nice lad but he doesn’t have much luck with girls.’
I can’t work out whether this is the beginning of a coming-out story for her son and that I, as the only gay in the village, am the natural audience, or whether she wants me to hook up her son with some of my single and straight girlfriends, of which I have zero up here.
‘I did wonder whether you might take him out sometime,’ she says, her arms wobbling as she folds up the raffle tickets. ‘Lovely girl like you.’
It takes me a few seconds to compute what she’s saying, the concept is so alien to me. ‘I’m not sure I’m entirely—’
‘Bell Ender!’ Graham Pearce, Marjorie’s husband, wanders over, devouring pizza. He’s less sunburned than the last time I saw him, though his head still looks like it’s been buffed with a polish cloth. ‘You couldn’t do us a favour? Only the Baslow Primary kids have made an effort to come dressed as crows, and they are eager to chase a scarecrow out of the village.’
‘Right,’ I say, wondering where I fit into all this.
‘And the only scarecrow costume they’ve got is an age-thirteen boy’s one.’
‘Right.’
‘And the only adult that will fit in it is probably you.’
‘Sure,’ I say, thinking it sounds quite fun. ‘Although shouldn’t it be the scarecrow scaring away the crows?’
He licks his moustache. ‘Only if you want social services involved.’
He hands me a nylon outfit that clings to my running tights with static electricity when I put it on behind the bacon-butty van. If this is an age-thirteen outfit, it’s definitely shrunk in the wash. The hat, on the other hand, is massive, and falls over my eyes. In the reflection of the van door, I can see I’ve got full-on camel toe and am everything horror movies are made of. Still, I guess that’s the point.
Graham adds a clump of straw to my hair. ‘Where’s the French girl?’
‘Joely?’ I say. ‘She’s back in London.’
‘Lovely legs,’ he says, knocking the arm off a straw Star Wars C-3PO as he manoeuvres a newly acquired slice of pepperoni stuffed crust into his mouth, gazing into the distance. At what point is it socially acceptable for people to openly perv over your girlfriend? I’m about to turn my back on him and re-engage with Doreen when he appends, ‘What a waste!’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Sorry?’
He shakes his head. ‘Beautiful girl like that.’
‘A waste?’ I say, frowning with feigned confusion.
‘I just meant what with—’
‘I know what you meant,’ I say, as around fifty ten-year-olds flock around me in crow outfits and a voice booms over the loudspeaker introducing ‘the moment we’ve all been waiting for: The Scarecrow Massacre.’ To my horror, the school kids descend on the cart, pushing and fighting to grab as many tomatoes as they can.
I look to Doreen, who offers up a shrug and takes Speedo. Before you know it, I’m being strong-armed into a field vacated by two piebald carthorses and told to ‘run!’
‘Kill the scarecrow!’ one boy shouts, lobbing a tomato at my head.
‘Kill him!’ another one echoes, throwing a whole handful.
I run through the field, trying not to twist my ankle on the muddy divots as tomatoes splatter against my back, my arms, my legs, pulpy seedy juice running down my neck. The children are fucking huge, their crow costumes making them seem even bigger. One of them knocks my hat off. A couple of the older boys are taller than me and come thundering down the hill, chasing me with open beaks, wings made out of old kites, faces masked by feathers. They hurl tomatoes like cricket balls.
‘Kill the scarecrow!’ they chorus.
I manage to dodge and weave to the other side of the field, plastic beaks pecking at my shoulders.
‘Kill the scarecrow!’
They chase me over the stile, which at least buys me a few seconds as crow wings get stuck on the wooden frame. Tomato juice drips down my sock.
‘Kill the scarecrow!’
Up the lane I run, looping back to the village green, where I collapse, hands on knees, panting.
‘You can’t stop there! You’re supposed to run out of the village!’ Tazzy shouts. ‘You’re the evil scarecrow, remember!’
A murder of crows mobs me. They pile into me, flapping and flailing. Pecking and punching. Their wings blocking out daylight.
‘This was definitely not in the job description!’ I shout.
‘Come on, Bell Ender. Let them run you out of the village,’ Graham yells.
I manage to scramble to my feet and grab Speedo. We run off up the hill, back to the farm and don’t look back.
I’m not sure they are such a friendly bunch. And I’m still very much the outsider.
Nathan stands at the gate, holding a stopwatch as we arrive back. He does a double take when he sees me, and I forget for a second that I’m a tomato-drenched scarecrow. It’s not until Rachel comes sprinting around the corner in shorts and running vest that I appreciate they’re doing some sort of exercise drill.
‘Nice top!’ I say, pulling the scarecrow costume off my shoulder to show her that I’m also wearing a Nike breathable Dri-FIT Academy running vest, though mine is in navy. ‘What are you training for?’
Rachel stops, out of breath, hands on hips. ‘Half-marathon. How’s your dad?’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Still waiting for the op.’
‘Yeah.’ Rachel pants. ‘Dad said.’
Nathan tilts his head towards her sweatshirt, which hangs on the gate post.
‘What?’ Rachel says, still breathing hard.
He frowns. ‘Cover up.’
‘I thought I’d got another round?’ she says.
‘Tomorrow,’ he says hastily. ‘You’ll catch a cold dressed like that.’
Her face creases with confusion. ‘But—’
‘Now,’ he says with finality.
She raises an eyebrow at me before dragging her sweatshirt off the post.
Realizing that I’m playing piggy-in-the-middle, I head inside and pour myself a glass of water. From the kitchen window, I can see them bickering, Nathan all folded arms and furrowed forehead, Rachel all frenzy and fury. Watching them reminds me of squabbling with Dad as a teenager; of being a teenager and trapped on the farm while my school friends had started hanging out in town. I was a fifteen-year-old who knew everything there is to know about the fauna and flora of the Peak District, but nothing about live music, new cinema releases or getting fingered round the back of Itsu. I was deeply uncool and I knew it. There was a whole world out there and yet there I was, confined to acres and acres of hillside. I vowed back then that I’d escape.
Nathan taps on the kitchen window and gestures for me to open it, which I do, knocking Grandma’s begonia off its saucer, soil spilling onto the draining board.
He leans forward. ‘Rachel won’t be coming to the farm any more.’
I reposition the begonia. ‘Is she OK?’
‘She’s fine.’
My eyes travel to the passenger seat of his car where Rachel sits biting her nails. ‘If boredom’s the issue, she can—’
‘Boredom is not the issue.’ He tucks his T-shirt into his belt and looks behind him, like you might check your blind spot before overtaking on the motorway. ‘She needs to focus on her GCSEs.’
He looks down at the car key in his hand and walks back to the car. It’s a shame. Rachel was good and seemed to enjoy it here.
To: Joely (future wife) Chevalier
Hope your birthday has been well and truly smashing! I’ve just been dressed as a scarecrow and had the village throw tomatoes at me! Sorry I can’t be with you today. Miss you xxx
I rummage through the cupboards in pursuit of lunch, since I forwent bread from Doreen’s, but the only food in the house is cereal, tinned fruit and shrivelled, root-sprouting potatoes. Our postcode is beyond the delivery catchment of all take-away food establishments, and if I want fish and chips that badly, I’ve got to drive four miles to get them. How the hell have my folks done this for so many decades?
There’s no way I’m martyring myself to microwaving an old potato and smearing it with cake-making margarine, so I peel off the costume, grab a shower (I have tomato seeds inside my bra), grab the car keys and set off to the nearest McDonald’s Drive-Thru.
The radio blares with a Dolly Parton classic, a blur of grey, gold and purple swooshing by on either side. I tap out the tune of ‘My Tennessee Mountain Home’ on the steering wheel and, in another stratosphere, Dolly and I are taking a drive together. I sing from the bottom of my lungs, as the country road snakes around boulders and open moorland. Golds and purples become greens and yellows. A forest of evergreens carpets the valley, eventually opening into a limestone quarry. I head over the Sheepwash Bridge and up the hill to Marlow’s lookout, singing my way through clusters of villages, stone walls and red pillar boxes, until we’re on the road to Chesterfield.