by Daisy Tate
Chapter 5
The farmhouse was virtually vibrating with excitement. Everyone had worked so hard the day before, they’d all slept like logs then risen early as the countdown to make the milk bar a reality continued. Charlotte had volunteered to do all the cooking so that Freya could focus on the shop. When she wasn’t preparing a meal, she was experimenting with new cake recipes. It was such fun she even occasionally forgot about Xanthe’s photos of Oli changing tiny nappies. Oli giving foot rubs. Oli doing any number of things he’d never once done for Charlotte, apart from crowing about the fact she’d done a ‘proper Diana’ by giving him an heir.
If he’d been bothered enough to ring and ask how his children’s ‘ruined’ holiday was going, he’d find out his heir had just learned how to give CPR to a calf. Charlotte had never been more proud of her son. He knew how to a do a thing, and had asked to do it again if possible to make sure he’d got it right. Such a change from a boy who, if she was honest, was not the finest of pupils.
Poppy had come out of her shell as well. She’d volunteered to help Regan make signs to post out on the road and had even started a small #HogmanayMilkBar buzz on Twitter, with a terrifically clever video she and the other girls had made last night. They’d unearthed some toy carts and horses from the attic, piled the carts with miniature whisky bottles, then rigged them up to look as though they were gliding up the farm track to the theme song from Chariots of Fire.
Charlotte scanned the kitchen. Experimental rings of sponge cake were cooling everywhere. She’d not yet made the boozy buttercream, as Emily still hadn’t gone on her ‘Rocco-chauffeured booze cruise’. Rocco was so busy with calving, gritting the drive for the milk lorries, and doing heaven knew how many other chores on top, at Freya’s bidding, that she daren’t press him. She’d never known a man to be so generous with his time. And so patient!
Charlotte tutted to herself. She was being silly about Rocco. The winks. The moments when their hands brushed. It felt nice to know the shine she’d taken to Rocco back in the day may have been reciprocated, but he lived up here and she lived down there, and soon enough this whole fluttery-tummy business would be but a distant memory.
It needed to be. Given what lay in store for her when she got back to her real life, romance should be the last thing on her mind. The children’s cancelled ski trip was very likely the first of many disappointments she’d have to smooth over. Even before he’d left, Oli had been unreliable. Regularly missing Jack’s electric guitar recitals, Poppy’s choral concerts. Client dos. Dos she’d never been invited to because ‘she’d find it all dreadfully boring.’ Perhaps Xanthe had been his ‘plus one’ at those events all along. His #CheekyLawGirl.
Anyway.
She glanced out the window to where most of the group was busily whitewashing the new shop (Jack had actually volunteered!) and then picked up the freshly cleaned manual butter churn she’d found in the pantry. When Lachlan had seen her washing it, he’d choked up. Said he’d got it years ago at a farm sale for Mariella, who had used it nonstop for about a month before it had faded out of use. Put aside for another project, no doubt. Lachlan had noisily blown his nose then gone out and joined Rocco in the barn.
‘How many of these labels did Freya want?’ Emily, who had point-blank refused to go outside, was cutting labels for the old-fashioned bottles they had yet to sterilize and fill with the newly pasteurised milk. Freya had decided everyone who came to the party would want to buy some milk for the inevitable gallons of tea and fry-ups they’d need in the morning.
‘I think she wanted about twenty. She said if they got enough donations it would cover the costs for the missed collection from the dairy distributor.’
‘She thinks that many people will come?’
‘If the children carry on with Twitter and Instagram as they have been … Perhaps you should make a few more, just in case.’ Charlotte ran a finger along her lower lip.
She wondered what it would feel like if Rocco ran one of his rough fingers over her lip.
She dropped her hands to her sides.
Naughty Charlotte.
Emily held a cutting board out in front of her. ‘Right. I’ve got the labels cut and found some potatoes to carve for the stamps. Do you think we should wait for Freya?’
‘Probably best, seeing as this is really her project.’
The back door blew open and in came Rocco and Jack, his new little shadow. If a five foot eleven gangly, teenaged boy could be considered a shadow.
‘Something smells delicious!’
Rocco pounced on the cakes then pulled his hand back as if he’d been burnt. ‘Sorry. Any spare cake for two hard-working men?’
‘Of course, please! Help yourself. You too, Jack.’
Jack professed to hate her cake but, much to her astonishment, he took a wedge, and both of them made appreciative nom nom sounds.
It was nice to see the glow of hard work on her son’s cheeks. And, of course, on Rocco’s.
‘Looks as if everything’s moving along quite nicely here.’ Rocco licked a few crumbs off his fingers then spied the butter churn on the draining board. ‘Ha! Where on earth did you find that?’ His voice softened as the nostalgia hit him. ‘Mum had insisted on making her own butter for tablet. Do you know tablet?’
Charlotte did. ‘It’s a bit like fudge, isn’t it? Sugar and butter, basically.’
Rocco laughed. ‘That’s about right. Mum made it solid for about a month until Dad accused her of trying to give him a heart attack and get rid of him. She never made it again. Daft woman.’
Charlotte had never heard the words ‘daft woman’ sound so tender.
She loved Rocco’s … Scottishness. There was something so genuine about it. Raw. A bit untethered, maybe? Honest. Yes. That was it. Everything about Rocco Burns was honest. What you saw was what you got. No games. No lies. No second-guessing if a compliment was actually a cleverly disguised insult. A ribbon of something rather delicious swirled round her belly. She saw Emily pointedly staring at her.
‘Goodness! Is that the time? I’d best get lunch on.’
Freya zipped her fleece up to her chin. ‘I thought the attic would be warmer than outside, but look!’ She blew out a breath. Izzy and Charlotte leaned in as it crystallized on the small window.
Late afternoon on the second day of their pre-Hogmanay mission and they’d already achieved much more than Freya would have believed possible.
The shop was whitewashed. Her father had done his magic with his digger and fashioned a stone-lined path up to the bonfire area. Rocco had saved Charlotte so much milk from the afternoon to make her butter that they’d all had to have a go at the manual churn.
Freya’s dad had put it out on the ‘geriatric grapevine’ that they were showing some Southern Softies how the Scots celebrated Hogmanay and already had two offers of stalls. One doing slow-cooked beef-cheek rolls and another doing sausages. They were also going to bring pre-packed sausages and bacon to go with the milk for breakfast bundles people could buy to take away.
The children were still volunteering for jobs instead of having to be cajoled into helping. It was particularly gratifying to watch Charlotte’s lot get stuck in and, as a result, become utterly filthy.
‘What do you want me to do, Frey?’
Freya couldn’t resist poking her finger into Izzy’s multiple layers of clothing. She made a gurgling sound.
‘Water bottle,’ Izzy explained.
‘Are you sure you’re all right, Izz?’ Charlotte twirled Izzy’s scarf round her neck so that it went right up to her chin. ‘You’ve been looking a bit off colour today.’
‘Why don’t you head back down to the kitchen if you’re that cold?’ Freya suggested. ‘Here’s a quilt if you want an extra layer.’
‘I’m fine. Just – get off me, all right?’
Charlotte and Freya exchanged a look. Izzy didn’t bite people’s heads off over a bit of fussing. Quite the opposite, in fact. She usually adored it. That whole �
��why haven’t you made an appointment at the GP?’ thing between her and Emily suddenly began to change hue.
‘As long as you’re sure.’ Freya patted the quilt so that Izz knew where it was if she wanted it, then looked round the bare-bulb-lit room. ‘Where’s Luna? I thought she wanted to excavate for more toys.’
Izzy shook her head. ‘Regan and Poppy are making snowflake bunting. She couldn’t resist the lure of the cool kids.’
‘Looks like it’s just the three of us, then. Right!’ Freya scanned the attic then pointed at a huge old wooden dresser. ‘Izzy, why don’t you start over there? I’m pretty sure that’s where Mum put the old kitchen stuff.’
‘I thought you’d already found loads of teacups.’
‘We did, but I was hoping for more jam jars. If people are pished out of their heads, I doubt they’re going to be delicate with Mum’s china.’
‘Good point.’
Charlotte opened a box and peered inside, as if something might jump out at her. She’d expressed reservations about going through other people’s things, but when the first thing she unearthed was one of Rocco’s old rugby jerseys, her features softened.
If Freya wasn’t mistaken, Charlotte was a wee bit taken with Rocco. Perhaps the pair of them could do with a good old-fashioned holiday shag. No remorse. No ties to worry about. A bit of an ego boost.
She was a bit jealous actually. Not of Charlotte shagging her brother, which was a whole set of images she never wanted to think about in any detail whatsoever. It was envy over that intoxicating flush of a new attraction. Similar, she supposed, to the charge of energy she’d felt since they’d begun doing up the shop. The thrill of coming up with a new design. It’d been some time since she’d felt that high.
Charlotte neatly folded the top and closed the box. ‘Would it be all right if I went through the paintings? You said you wanted some things for the walls and –’ she pointed at the box – ‘this feels a bit intrusive.’
‘I love nosing through other people’s stuff.’ Izzy, now draped in the quilt, happily pawed through box after box.
Freya nodded Charlotte towards another corner of the attic. ‘If the art history graduate in you can bear it, there’s a stack of old paintings and prints that Mum and Dad used to hang in the barn. They called it the Parlour Gallery.’ She laughed at the memory of her friends’ wide-eyed expressions whenever they came along to see milking (which wasn’t often) and saw the wall of art. ‘Most of the paintings were bought at boot sales. Things that cracked my mother up.’
‘Why aren’t they still hanging in the barn?’
‘Food hygiene regulations.’
‘Ah.’
‘Rules and regulations,’ she sighed. ‘The squisher of dreams.’
‘Since when did you let The Man get you down?’ Izzy sat back on her heels and blew on her hands. ‘Why not paint directly on the wall? A mural or something?’
Freya looked out of the window towards the milking parlour, then back at Izzy. She was right. Why not? The art might have been banished, but that didn’t mean it spelled the end of creativity. A fresh ream of ideas began pouring in. Sprawling murals. Paintings of paintings. An enormous set of black-and-white markings to match the cows. A single, beautiful buttercup.
‘Izzy? You’re a genius.’
Izzy turned back to her box with a quiet smile. ‘Finally! Taken you long enough.’
A few minutes later, Charlotte called Freya over to look at a painting.
By the time Freya absorbed what Charlotte was showing her, she could barely breathe.
‘Dad?’ Freya called his name loudly and urgently. No one expected him to hear it, but after she’d called for him a couple more times, he appeared in the attic doorway.
‘Yes, darlin’?’
Charlotte beckoned for him to come and see the painting.
‘Is this a Jack Vettriano painting?’
He was Scotland’s most famous contemporary artist. His iconic paintings sold for tens of thousands. Millions even. Well. One million. But that was a million more than any of Freya’s T-shirts had sold for.
Her father took off his glasses and squinted at the painting.
‘Aye.’
Freya’s whole body felt as though it had received an electric shock.
‘Ummmm …’ The picture was highly stylized. As if it were set in another era, but … ‘Is that you and Mum?’
Her father cleared his throat.
‘Aye. And your brother.’
Together they stared at the painting. Charlotte and Izzy backed right off, as if the power of the painting had pushed them.
It featured the reverse view of a young woman leaning on an iron railing, arms stretched to either side. She was looking out onto the beach at St Andrews where a little boy was playing in the sand. There was a man on her left with his arm casually draped along her shoulders. He was looking away from her. On the right side of the woman there was another man’s hand reaching across the railing, a few electric centimetres away from her mother’s outstretched fingers.
‘What’s it called?’
Her father looked up and to the left then cleared his throat. ‘Choices.’
‘Choices?’
He pointed to the hand that wasn’t his and started untying a bit of twine that was hanging from a rafter. ‘Aye. Choices.’
‘What does that mean? Choices.’
‘Well,’ her father’s voice changed as the memories flooded in. ‘When we said yes to posing for the young man who painted it, we hadn’t quite realized what we had got ourselves into. He wanted a house cow, see? He was struggling. Trying to make ends meet by living off his paintings.’
Freya could relate. She’d lasted a sum total of one month trying to sell her more stylised designs at a pop-up café. They’d eaten a lot of beans on toast that month.
Lachlan looked round, found a chair and sat down heavily. ‘Anyway, your mother said, why don’t you do us in one of your paintings? She’d just found out she was pregnant with you, you see.’
Freya fought the sting at the back of her throat as she looked back at the painting. That was her mum pregnant with her?
‘She wanted a family portrait. There was no chance we’d ever be able to afford one on what the farm was bringing in, especially with you on the way, so Mariella thought she’d barter.’
‘Wait. You traded a cow for this painting?’ Technically, this made her parents patrons of art.
‘Aye.’ Her father stared blindly ahead of him. ‘Petunia, I think that one was called. A bit on the mature side, but we didn’t think he’d manage with one of the younger girls. By all accounts he took good care of her. Jack.’ He didn’t look as if he knew how he felt about it all.
Freya frowned at the photo. ‘I don’t get why he put in the other man’s hand. Why it’s called Choices. I mean, obviously as an artist I get it – but if this is a family portrait, why does Mum have another man’s hand reaching out to her?’
Her father’s eyes clashed with hers so abruptly she almost lost her balance.
‘I suppose it’s a commentary on marriage. Your mother was young and beautiful. I wasn’t the only man who had wanted to marry her. She chose me, but it didn’t mean her other suitors gave up hoping. When she fell pregnant with you we were dead broke. I wasn’t sure we could afford another child, and it hadn’t been too long before that she’d had an offer from another gent, so … she had choices.’
‘That makes sense,’ Izzy said, then fell quiet when she realized it wasn’t really up for discussion.
Freya dropped from her squatted position in front of the painting onto the floor.
Charlotte looked as shell-shocked as Freya felt. Whether it was the fact that there was an unknown Jack Vettriano lying about in their attic, or the fact that Freya’s mum had had choices, she didn’t know.
Was Freya even her father’s child? She stared hard into his face and saw elements of her own. The same nose. The same stubbornness. The same drive to make his business
work, no matter what.
Yes. She was her father’s daughter. And her mother’s.
If they sold it, she and Monty could be debt free. Rocco could update the milking parlour or, even better, afford an extra pair of hands to help on the farm and her dad could have nursing care if he needed it in future …
It was her mother.
Her brain fizzed and popped. Too much.
Freya ran her fingers through her hair.
The only thing that fell into place were more questions.
Her mother had had choices?
She tried the head-clearing thing the grief counsellor had suggested all those months ago – swooshing the conflicting thoughts away.
Freya had had choices, too.
When she’d been putting together her soft-furnishings collection and scraping a living from her upcycled charity-shop skirts, she’d crossed paths with Monty at an anti-war demonstration. She hadn’t seen him since the last house party they’d thrown at uni when he’d tried, unsuccessfully, to have a ‘snog for old times’ sake’ with Izzy. He’d exchanged numbers with her and said he’d ring for a drink. He hadn’t, so she’d rung him. Chased him up until he’d finally met up with her on an art gallery crawl around various galleries who offered free drinks and nibbles to art enthusiasts and, after an abundance of mojitos, they had finished with a drunken shag at her sparsely furnished studio. A few more Freya-inspired evenings out and they’d become a couple. Two years later, when she announced she was pregnant, he’d freaked. Disappeared for a few days. When he came back she’d tearfully promised him that having children didn’t mean pursuing the path towards commercial property law his mother had pinned on him. Before their wedding he’d looked so ashen she’d promised him she would never pressure him to anything he didn’t want to. That their lives together would be about the higher things in life, not the tedious logistics of survival.
What a numpty.
It was increasingly likely that everything was falling apart around her because she’d spent the past twenty years of her life trying to bash square pegs into round holes. Whether she was the peg or the hole in this scenario eluded her, but she could see now that if she hadn’t actively pursued Monty, both of their lives would have been very different. He would probably be saving the disappearing tribes of Ulan Bator about now. And the orang-utans. She might be debt free and selling the type of quirky couture she’d always dreamed of making. Donating dresses to the Victoria and Albert. Championing charities that celebrated peace and nature and an end to microbeads in the world’s waterways.