Homecoming (27 page)

‘Never what? We rubbed along.’

‘We were never love’s young dream, were we? Come on, be honest.’

‘I can make it up to you,’ he says, but even he is aware how lacklustre it sounds. A damp squib, this. ‘I can make it right. Cook more dinners, take you out once in a while. It’d never happen again, that thing, that stupid thing.’

‘You’ll be alright,’ she says. ‘Give it a bit of time.’

Primrose joins Claire and Jacob at the bar, saying ‘I’m OK,’ in answer to their worried expressions. She takes a deep breath but cannot draw it deep enough. She tries again and begins to gasp. She clutches at the bar as the room spins and she’s gulping for air, bigger and deeper but still not getting any oxygen. Jacob rubs her back, saying, ‘Come on, let’s get you outside for some fresh air.’

She sits on top of one of the wooden picnic tables which overlook the Crown car park, her feet on the attached bench. He stands beside her, his hands in his pockets.

‘You haven’t got a cigarette have you?’ says Primrose.

‘I don’t smoke.’ He is frowning hard – those beautiful eyebrows forming a dense canopy.

‘No, course,’ she says. ‘Sorry. Don’t know what that was.’

‘Panic attack by the looks of it,’ he says and he climbs to sit down beside her on the table top and she feels it creak under his weight. He smells nice, of Freshly Washed Man. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees and she looks at the brown suede coat covering his big back. ‘What did Max have to say?’ he asks.

‘Oh, you know, “Come back, there’s chickens need feeding.”’

‘He’s not looking too good,’ Jacob says.

‘That’s what drinking in the Plough does for you.’

There’s a pause. ‘What did you say?’

‘You’ve nothing to worry about,’ she says. She feels irritated by his questions, putting himself in the middle of this.

‘I didn’t mean . . .’ he says. ‘I don’t mean to put you under any pressure.’

‘He’s still . . . I don’t want to go back to ’im,’ she says. ‘But it were five years.’

‘It’s a big thing,’ he says, looking out across the car park. ‘I know. I’ve been there. Not married, but I were with someone for a long time. Takes a while to get over.’

He’s quite something, she thinks. Quite a catch. ‘You’re a nice man,’ she says, and she reaches forward to take hold of his hand.

Ann strides across the yard to where Adrian, from the veterinary college, and Eric have fashioned a makeshift lambing shed under the charred arch of the hay barn. She steps in and breathes the familiar smell of straw and sheep – a clean, mammalian smell – and she takes in the sight which never fails to cheer her. This is what she’ll miss most.

They have carpeted the open barn with straw, with bales set about the edge and in between as hurdles – little walls for the sheep to bed against. There are metal partitions and within their various pens, groups of ewes blink patiently while their lambs suckle with flicking tails. The noise is of bleating and rustling – mothers and lambs talking to one another and all their conversations new. She is always struck by how similar it is to her own first days with her babies: the nuzzling with hard, pushing noses and the low chat.

Yes, this is what she’ll miss, and Joe will too. If he’d just come out and take a look, see how well they’re managing, and Bartholomew down south getting regular updates on the phone from Eric. But Joe, he can’t bring himself to come outside and see, not with Eric taking the reins, though she thinks it’s not rivalry keeping him away but shame over what he did that night, to Eric’s car. You had to forgive the man, because what Joe had witnessed on that field – that was more than any man should have to take, and now he was keeping quiet, nursing Baby Lamb. Letting it seep into his bones. There was no longer any question about selling up – Joe knew it and she knew it. They would just have to come to terms, as Barry Jordan put it, and hope the auction would clear enough for some place half decent to live.

She sees Eric stride over the straw towards her with high lifting legs.

‘This is more like it,’ she says, smiling to him, but careful not to be too friendly.

‘It is,’ he says, beaming. ‘Haven’t had this much fun in years. They’re doing well, this lot. Lambing like beauties. Reckon we’ll have more ’an two hundred in by end o’ t’ week.’

‘How’s Adrian doing?’ she asks. She has her hands in the pockets of her padded jacket and nods over to Adrian, who is on his knees next to a labouring ewe on the far side of the barn.

‘Very good. Aye, he knows what he’s doing. We’re quite a happy band when all’s said. Hadn’t realised how much I miss it, lambing.’

‘And Tal?’ Ann says.

‘He’s over on the in-bye feeding the fattening lambs and the shearlings. You’ve nothing to worry about of the ones as are left. It’s a good flock.’

‘Yes, well, won’t be ours much longer,’ she says as they look across the shed together. ‘I’ve given notice to the water board. Six months they need. We have to be out by mid-October.’

‘Mrs Hartle,’ says Tal, coming up behind them and touching his cap to her. Always had lovely manners that boy. ‘Eric,’ he says. ‘There’s a tup I want you to look at on the east field.’

‘Ah no,’ says Eric. ‘P’raps I spoke too soon.’

‘No, no,’ says Tal quickly. ‘Nothing to worry about. He’s a big boy, is all. Turning into a fine ram. Got a sweet head on ’im, good legs. I think we might have somethin’.’

‘Right well,’ Ann interrupts, ‘I think I’ll leave you boys to it, if that’s OK. Keep Bartholomew up to speed, won’t you.’

‘I will Ann, I will,’ Eric says.

And she walks back to the house, hearing Eric say to Tal behind her, ‘Come on then lad, show me this tup then.’

‘There’s a sheep I’d like you to take a look at,’ says Eric, on the phone to Bartholomew that evening.

‘Oh no,’ says Bartholomew, frowning at his feet, the phone in his hand. He is sat on the edge of his bed, back hunched, looking over his outstretched legs. He can hardly bear to hear it. Scrapie? Vibrio? ‘If you need antibiotics, I can pay,’ he says.

‘No, no. It’s not ill, this one. Far from it. It’s a good ’un. When are you next up?’

‘Weekend,’ says Bartholomew. ‘Just for the one night. I don’t like to leave mum on her own at the moment.’

‘You’re a good lad,’ says Eric.

‘No I’m not, Eric. I’ve not been good at all. Think I should help them set a date for the auction.’

‘Aye, well, your mother’s already informed the water board.’

They are silent for a moment, as if to absorb the finality of it.

‘She’s started looking in the paper – at houses. Your mother,’ Eric says, as if to brighten the mood. ‘Looking ahead she is.’

‘Tell her not to get her hopes up,’ says Bartholomew. ‘We’ll be lucky to clear thirty thousand pounds in the auction, and then there’s the loan to come off that. How’s the car, by the way?’

‘Back from the garage and good as new,’ says Eric.

‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ Bartholomew says and his chest expands, with that pushing cloud of feeling. It’s been happening a lot lately, a very unmanly tearfulness. ‘I don’t know how to say –’

‘You’ve no need to say anything,’ says Eric. ‘Not to me.’

‘Right, well, I’d best go, Eric. There’s someone at the door. Yup, right you are. Bye now, bye.’

Ruby stands on the front step, having rung the bell with her elbow. She can hear him walk down the hallway and the door opens and there he is, distracted. Surprised.

‘Ruby,’ he says. ‘What’s that? A pie?’

‘Yes, a pie,’ she says, looking down at it. ‘With chicken and mushrooms. And a bit of humble in there somewhere. I might have been a bit . . .’

He stands back, holding the door open for her, and she steps inside.

‘I’m so glad you’re here, Ruby,’ he says. He is in shadow in the hallway, but she can hear he is crying. ‘I’m so tired. Sorry.’

‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Through to the kitchen.’ And she leads the way down the hall, carrying the pie dish before her.

He sits down at the kitchen table and she sees him press into his eyes with his fingers to stop the tears. ‘Urgh,’ he says, almost growling. ‘I’m such a girl.’

‘I didn’t realise what you were going through,’ she says. ‘How difficult it must’ve been. Even when you told me yesterday, it didn’t sink in – I was too angry. But it must’ve been awful – having to juggle things down here with going home. It probably still is. Still going on is it?’

‘Well, yes. I’ll have to go up after work on Saturday. Eric’s helping me, and dad, he’s sort of submitting to the whole thing.’

‘I’m sorry about it all.’

He nods. They are awkward and it’s like they’re nervous strangers.

‘I don’t know how you put up with me,’ she says.

‘I don’t put up with you. I love you,’ he says.

‘I do know what I’m like.’

‘We have to put up with each other, don’t we? At least, I hope, I wish –’

She takes his face in her hands and kisses him on the lips.

‘What about your boyfriend?’

‘Yes, my boyfriend,’ she says with a worried look. ‘I’ll have to explain things to him.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Oh, he’ll be at work – at his merchant bank, or maybe driving back in his Porsche. Or at his club in London.’

He looks at her. ‘He’s a bit made-up, isn’t he?’

‘A little bit maybe.’

‘Come here,’ he says, putting his hands around her waist underneath her top. ‘Where have you gone? You’re disappearing. What am I supposed to grab hold of?’

‘Oh there’s still plenty of me,’ she says, and she leads him out of the kitchen by the hand.

The little Peugeot rattles as Bartholomew changes up a gear and his eyes flick to the left, then quickly back to the road.

‘You can always put that on the back seat,’ he says.

‘I don’t want it to spill,’ says Ruby.

She looks out of the window again, at the M1 slipping by in the darkness: the orange lamps overhead and the cat’s eyes in the road and her reflection in the passenger window – she finds motorways at night soothing, reminding her of all those sleepy journeys back from holidays as a child.

Her goulash soup is still warm in the big Tupperware box on her knees and she holds it with both hands. On the back seat is a crusty white loaf in a plastic bag, because goulash soup should always be eaten with fresh bread, white and springy, and a slather of salted butter. She has cooked this soup – a beef stew really – for hours, so the meat is loose and flaking in a thick sauce flecked with paprika and bobbing with carrot and potato chunks. She glances at Bartholomew, whose face, lit green by the dashboard, is fixed on the road.

They walk up the front path to the door. Ruby holds the Tupperware box with both hands. She can smell wood smoke on the air and the farm smell which is like creosote.

‘What’s that?’ she says.

‘That’s the video entryphone,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

Ann is opening the front door, her distracted face smoothing into a bright smile at the sight of them.

‘Ruby love!’ she says. ‘What a lovely surprise!’ She steps back from the front door and throws her tea towel over her shoulder. Ruby is overtaken by shyness and hangs back. ‘Come in, come in,’ says Ann. ‘And you, Bartholomew. Give us a kiss.’ She pushes up her cheek and he bends to kiss it.

‘Hi mum. You alright?’ he says.

‘Yes, yes, we’re holding up. Come through,’ she says, waddling down the hall to the kitchen.

‘Where’s dad?’ he says when he reaches the kitchen.

‘I think he’s nodded off in front of the television,’ says Ann. ‘I’ll let him rest if that’s OK.’

Ruby sets her Tupperware box down on the kitchen worktop. ‘I’ve brought you some goulash soup,’ she says to Ann. ‘Well, it’s beef stew really. I thought you might need a break.’

‘Bless you, you good, sweet, lovely child,’ says Ann. ‘Goodness, what a treat. D’you know, I don’t think anyone’s said that to me in thirty-five years. Oh how lovely to be cooked for.’

‘Do you have a big pot I could heat it in?’ asks Ruby. She catches sight of Bartholomew, looking at her.

‘Shall I do some potatoes?’ asks Ann.

‘No, you’re alright. I’ve brought some bread. You sit down. I can sort it all out.’

‘You’re a good girl,’ says Ann. ‘She’s a good girl.’

‘I know, mum,’ says Bartholomew.

Ruby and Ann stand in the doorway to the living room, looking in. In front of the fire is a dog basket and in it is a lamb. His dainty black legs are bent under him. He appears to be asleep but one eyeball stares upwards and he blinks. Beside the lamb is a dog bowl and rested in it is a baby’s bottle filled with whitish liquid, tinged brown on its surface.

Joe Hartle lies on the sofa on his back, with a blanket over him. The lights from the television play across his face.

‘Sometimes I wake up grumpy,’ says Ann, ‘and sometimes I let him sleep.’

Bartholomew knocks on her bedroom door, then opens it and peers round it. ‘Can I come in?’

Ruby is imprisoned in the tight single bed, the counterpane tucked in tight as a brace. The attic room has all the chill of a place where the radiator is permanently switched off. Ann has put Bartholomew in the back bedroom, one floor below, with his Bananaman bed set.

‘OK,’ she says. ‘But no funny business.’

He hops through the cold wearing only his pants. ‘Shove over then.’

‘There’s no room in here for you,’ she says. She is smiling at him, but the temperature of their relative ardour has changed. Ruby is all held back. Not cold, not unloving exactly, but keeping some part of herself in reserve. Mistrustful of him. He feels at once terrible guilt – that he’s caused her natural effervescence to cool – and yet, at the same time, it has only served to increase his enthusiasm, as if there is space now for his desire. They were like one of those cuckoo-clock couples, he thinks, where one figure is out only when the other has backed inside.

‘Come on, I’m freezing,’ he says.

‘Should’a worn more ’an your pants then.’

He pulls back the blanket and she shimmies over saying, ‘Oh god.’