Appleby Farm (15 page)

I pressed my hand to my tummy and scurried past. Mum would have baked something sophisticated – she always did. It was one of the main benefits of having a mum who was a born hostess. Besides which, I’d only managed to scrabble together a handful of euros from my bedside drawer last night and I would need my change for the métro ticket back to the airport later. Or – if things went really badly and I found myself back out on the street within the hour – I might have to buy myself some lunch and hitchhike back to the airport.

I swallowed.

Think positive, Freya. Dad might have mellowed with age.

I was starting to perspire and I forced myself to stop walking so fast.

The last few days had been stupidly manic. Once I’d made the decision to scrounge off my dad – sorry, I knew it was for a good cause, but I’d spent all my adult life trying to stand on my own two feet and it really, really galled me to cave in now, but needs must and all that – I’d had to catch a train back to Kingsfield to fetch my passport. Charlie had been there to meet me at the station and we had stood on the platform kissing like something out of a film, me tearful with happiness and him, well, getting a bit horny, actually, and we’d had to scarper back to his flat sharpish.

I smiled at the memory. And went pink. A man in a tight leather jacket and dark glasses, walking a white poodle, inclined his head as he minced past.

‘
Bonjour.
’

I bonjoured back in my best French accent and hoped he couldn’t read my mind.

I was nearly there now, thank goodness – my legs were beginning to ache from the walk from the station.

Anna had helped me book a flight. That was something I needed to do at the farm as soon as possible – sort out an internet connection. It was literally like having your arms chopped off not being able to get online, and I couldn’t believe it was still possible to run a business without a computer. Applying for a passport for the calf had taken me an age, what with filling in three million forms and then finding the right sort of postage stamp – I can’t remember the last time I’d used a stamp!
Do it online and hit send
: that was my motto.

The absolute best news, though, was that Uncle Arthur had had his surgery to have a stent fitted and was doing really well. The cardiac consultant reckoned that he’d be home soon, all being well.

I stopped to catch my breath next to an ornate street lamp and stared at an unassuming glass door set back from the pavement underneath stone arches:
Honoré Appartements.

Technically, this was my family home.

So why did my legs turn to jelly as I began the ascent up the staircase to the fifth floor?

The door flew open before I had a chance to knock, frightening the life out of me.

‘Darling! Welcome home! You should have let me collect you, you must be exhausted!’

I staggered backwards with shock as Margo Moorcroft, my mum, with hands fluttering at her neck and a jittery sort of smile, hopped from one foot to the other in the doorway.

Mum
had
offered to pick me up from the airport, but I’d declined. Having lived in so many countries over the years, Mum is a bit blasé about road etiquette and seems to drive by the mantra ‘he [or in her case she] who dares wins’, and while I admired her attitude, I hadn’t fancied a white-knuckle ride so early in the morning. Besides, I’d planned on using the train journey to work out what to say to my parents. Unfortunately, after a night in Charlie’s bed, I’d dropped off to sleep instead.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I laughed shakily. ‘Were you listening at the door?’

She shook her head and held out her arms. I stepped into them. It was a crisp sort of hug and neither of us relaxed into it. She pulled away to scan my face with darting green eyes.

‘Watching the street, actually. Have been for twenty minutes.’

My mother was eternally immaculate. She had picked her style icons in her twenties and stuck rigidly with them through the decades. Now in her sixties she still looked amazing. I swallowed a familiar groan. Today her hair hung in bouncy, chocolatey waves and even though it was a Sunday, she looked elegant in a tailored shift dress. Beside her I morphed into a gangly teenager: a scruffy one whose limbs are too long for her body.

She gave her shoulders a little shimmy. ‘This is such a treat, Freya. I’ve been looking forward to your visit ever since your call. Although your father and I were surprised to hear from you.’

I smiled, wanting to say something equally warm, but the words seemed to get stuck. I cleared my throat instead and managed to mumble a thank-you.

Her smile faltered for a second and then she sighed happily.

‘Anyway. Come in, come in.’ She ushered me into the narrow mirrored hallway. ‘Your dad is in his study.’

Quelle surprise.

It had been Mum’s idea to come on a Sunday. ‘Not even your father works then, as a rule,’ she’d said, sounding a bit weary down the phone when I’d called her from the farmhouse.

‘He’s only reading the newspaper,’ she said defensively, catching sight of my arched eyebrow.

‘Rusty?’ she called. ‘Freya’s here.’

‘I’m on the phone,’ came the curt response.

‘Right.’ I exhaled, rolled my shoulders back and took a step towards the study.

‘No.’ Mum grabbed at my arm, making me jump for the second time. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen. We can chat while I make the coffee.’ And she led me away.

The kitchen was probably the smallest room in the apartment, which was a shame because my mother liked to entertain. I leaned over the sink to peer out of the window while she spooned coffee into the percolator.

Wow. I whistled, impressed as ever by the view. My parents’ apartment was in the most perfect spot in Paris. Fact.

Directly opposite was the Jardin des Tuileries with its wide paths, octagonal pond and smart outdoor cafés. In the distance, on the other side of the river Seine, the Eiffel Tower dominated the landscape. To the left I could just make out the glass pyramid in front of the Louvre and to the far right the obelisk that marked the centre of the Place de la Concorde.

I had to admit it was an incredible place to live.

‘How’s poor Arthur?’

Having switched on the coffee machine, Mum turned her attention to a wire cooling rack and a batch of finger-shaped biscuits with their ends dipped in chocolate.

My stomach rumbled appreciatively. I was sure we used to make those together years ago … I shook myself. Whatever.

‘Coming home soon, hopefully,’ I said. ‘Auntie Sue has been so worried about him and …’ I hesitated and twirled a frond of my hair around my fingers. Should I launch straight into their money worries or wait until I’d got Dad in the audience too?

Mum selected a serving plate from the cupboard and sighed. ‘I feel terrible that we haven’t been over to see them.’

I felt the familiar rise of tension and fought to keep my voice level.

‘So why haven’t you?’ I knew my teenage stroppy self was on the verge of making an appearance, but I couldn’t help it.

Mum broke off from my gaze and concentrated on the biscuits. Viennese biscuits, I remembered suddenly. With delicate movements she arranged them into a neat star shape on the plate. If that had been me, they’d look like a collapsed game of Jenga by now.

‘It’s a difficult time for your father. The bank is restructuring and it’s a faces game, you know …’ she said vaguely.

Dad is a banker. Foreign investments, that sort of thing. He spots booming markets, sinks money into them, waits for them to explode and takes the money out to reinvest into something else. Weird stuff that no normal person would ever think of. The Chinese wine industry, for example. It sky-rocketed last year. They can’t get enough cabernet sauvignon in China, apparently. Who knew? Apart from my dad, obviously.

‘Not really, no.’ I stared at her, unblinking.

She circled a biscuit in the air. ‘You know, you need to be seen at all the right parties.’

‘Oh
well
, if it’s about
parties
,’ I said sourly.

Mum is a banker’s wife. It’s a tough job. It involves agreeing with everything the banker says, handing him a Scotch and ginger when the bottom falls out of the Taiwan tin market and serving toast soldiers dunked in caviar to his boring banker friends at drinks parties.

Meanwhile Uncle Arthur is gasping for breath in a Lake District hospital and I’m looking after a whole massive farm.

And breathe, Freya
…

Mum looked at me and two pink spots appeared high up on her cheeks. The biscuit in her hands snapped in half.

‘Go on through to the living room,’ she said, her voice little louder than a whisper. ‘I’ll call your father in.’

I did as I was told, sat down on one of the stiff Louis-the-something-or-other armchairs and squeezed my eyes. What was I doing here? Why could I never manage to have a civil conversation with Mum? And why was it that I would much rather be in Auntie Sue’s kitchen, sitting on one of her baggy old armchairs with the stuffing hanging out of them and claw marks on the legs where Benny and Björn have used them for a scratching post, than spend five more minutes in this elegant high-ceilinged room with its artfully draped gold brocade curtains, ornate cornices and to-die-for fireplace? It was all just so … opulent.

‘Ah, the wanderer returns!’

Tall, upright, stiff upper lip … actually, I couldn’t see his lip under his bristly moustache but I knew it was there all the same.
Dad should have been in the army
, I thought as I stood to give him a hug.

‘Hi, Dad, good to see you.’
Even though you make me sound like a gypsy
, I added mentally.

‘Your mum says Arthur is out of danger. Excellent, excellent.’

He stroked his head absentmindedly, as if expecting to find a full head of hair there. My dad was follicly challenged these days. Ironic really, that his nickname is Rusty after the ginger hair he no longer has. His real name is Michael but no one ever calls him that.

Mum had set out a tray of coffee and biscuits on the glass table in front of us. And by the time we were all seated, each of us on our respective rock-hard armchairs, she had magically poured us all coffees in exquisite gold-edged china cups.

‘I bet everywhere is looking lovely in Cumbria,’ Mum sighed. ‘Green and bursting with life. People say you should visit Paris in spring but you can’t beat England for natural beauty.’

‘What’s the farmhouse like these days, Freya? Still got the Aga?’ asked Dad.

I nodded. ‘The kitchen hasn’t changed a bit. And the beds still have blankets.’

I caught the tail end of an exchange of glances between my parents and frowned. It was not like them to be nostalgic for the farm. Anyway. I straightened my shoulders. That wasn’t why I was here.

‘So …’ I took a sip of coffee, crunched my way through a buttery, melt-in-the-mouth biscuit and went for it. ‘Uncle Arthur is out of danger, but the farm isn’t.’

‘Meaning?’ said Dad sharply. He sat up in his chair and frowned.

Oh God.
My empty stomach was churning like Auntie Sue’s butter machine.

‘Meaning that they’ve got into a bit of debt and I’ve offered to help them out. Well, I say,
I
. I was rather hoping you might help them out. I’m looking at ways to reinvigorate turnover, but—’

Dad swallowed his mouthful of coffee with a splutter.

‘Farming!’ His face had turned an uncomfortable shade of red. ‘l will not invest in farming. Plough, sow, harvest; plough, sow, harvest; breed cattle, sell cattle … You start the year with nothing and finish the year with nothing. Except, perhaps, more debt. British farming is a money pit. Oh, no, thank you very much.’

‘And your industry is so different, is it?’ I retorted, ears burning with frustration.

‘For goodness’ sake, Freya, it is
completely
different,’ he groaned, rolling his eyes like I was a complete imbecile, which, funnily enough, was how I was beginning to feel. ‘The financial markets are never the same two days running. The farming landscape never changes.’

I sprang up from my seat, eyes stinging with tears. ‘Well, it will soon. If I can’t find a way to raise some money, Appleby Farm will be out of the Moorcroft family and gone for ever. Is that change enough?’

‘Good God,’ muttered Dad.

Mum reached out a hand and touched my fingers but I shook her off.

‘How much do you need, love?’ she asked.

‘Fifty thousand pounds.’

I actually heard Mum gulp. I sat down. I had to before my legs gave way totally.

‘Good grief! FIFTY—’ grunted Dad.

‘Actually,’ I broke in, holding up my palm. My pulse began to race. I cannot
believe
I hadn’t thought of this before. Why, oh why, hadn’t I put some more thought into this? I could probably even have saved myself the trip and the humiliation, not to mention the fact that I’d given my dad ammunition to criticize not only my life choices but Uncle Arthur’s too.

‘Actually, I’ve just remembered. I only need half of that. I can use twenty-five thousand pounds of my own.’ I said this to myself as much as to anyone else. Dad clearly wasn’t going to help me.

‘How does a waitress amass that sort of money?’ Dad frowned.

‘It’s my inheritance from Grandpa,’ I said airily. Only I could be as clueless as to forget I’d got twenty-five grand in savings somewhere.

My dad’s jaw fell open and Mum muttered something about the apple not falling far from the tree.

One–nil to me. Not that it would do me any good but I’d shocked him into silence. That was a first.

Julian and I had both inherited twenty thousand pounds on our eighteenth birthdays from Mum’s side of the family. My brother had blown his on a BMW. I hadn’t needed mine so I’d stashed it in some sort of bond in the bank. I’d been gobsmacked last time I’d seen the statement.

‘Gracious! Sounds like you made quite a good investment with your money, Freya.’ Dad pulled at his moustache.

‘Suppose.’ I lifted one shoulder in a rather Gallic fashion, I thought.

‘Even so, borrowing that sort of money is a serious step to take.’