Tara (10 page)

He was going out. He wore the pin-striped Italian suit he had worn the night he took her to hospital, and was drowning in Old Spice aftershave.

'I was talking to the kids,' she said, watching him as he flicked a comb through already perfect hair. 'Going courting?'

'No, boozing.' He grinned. 'My mate Needles got off in court today, we gotta celebrate.'

A shaft of light caught the side of his face, showing up his angular cheekbones and giving him a slightly furtive look. Suddenly Amy's mind was made up.

She halted in the doorway, looking at Queenie and George as they sat on the settee together looking at some old photographs. They looked like a couple – two outrageous characters, similar in age, size and mentality.

Queenie's hair was like yellow candy floss, backcombed into a halo round her plump pink face. Dressed to go down the pub in a black Lurex frock, she oozed sensuality, warmth and good humour.

'Hello, luv.' She looked up and smiled, blue eyes almost disappearing in a coating of vivid green eyeshadow. 'Blimey, you look the cat's whiskers!'

George struggled to get up to pour her a drink, but Amy pushed him back into the seat.

'Stay where you are,' she ordered. 'I'll get us all a drink, we've got something to celebrate.'

'You've decided to stay?' George's red face broke into a grin.

Amy poured three glasses of whisky.

'No, I'm going.' She smiled as she handed them the drinks. 'It's the best thing for everyone, George. I think you know that really.'

She saw conflicting emotions flicker across his face. Relief that she and the children would be safe, but sadness too.

'I'll miss you all,' he whispered.

'We'll miss you, too.' She sat down on a chair opposite him. She wanted to hold his hand, stroke that big, kind face and tell him he was a man in a million, but not with Queenie there. 'We'll keep in touch, and there'll be holidays.'

'You're doing the right thing, love,' Queenie said, her loud voice soft because she too had known Amy and the children their whole lives. 'It ain't as if it's forever, neither, get the kids through school in all that good clean air and maybe you can all come back one day.'

Amy could see George was struggling to find the right words.

'Don't be sad.' She smiled, hiding her own feelings. 'Just think of us all on a farm, George, and the satisfaction Mum will have at being proved right about Bill!'

'If it don't work out,' he said slowly, filling his chest up with air, 'if she treats you mean or anything, I'll come and get yer.'

'Well, 'ere's to a new beginning.' Queenie held up her glass. 'I reckon's you'll be all right down there meself.'

'You must look after George for me.' Amy raised her glass to theirs. 'Here's to a new future for all of us!'

Chapter 5

'Well, this is the right village.' Harry stopped his car at the crossroads. 'Now we've only got to find the farm!'

It was a straight choice: on up the main street, or turn left. Tara and Paul moved forward on the back seat, chins almost on Harry's and Amy's shoulders to see better.

Their journey down had taken them through dozens of sleepy villages, but their reaction to their first glimpse of Chew Magna was slight relief.

Not just because the interminable journey was over, but because there were shops. Not the big brash type they were used to, of course, but old-fashioned, genteel ones like those they'd seen in picture books. A saddler, an ironmonger, a chemist with four large bottles of coloured water in the window, bakers, butchers and greengrocers, even a Co-op.

'It's pretty,' Tara volunteered weakly. Her heart had been sinking further and further since they left London. She wanted to be with Uncle George and Harry, not going off to live in the wilds with a crazy grandmother. But even though she didn't want to be here, she had to admit this village was better than she expected.

To the right of the street the shops were raised up from the road, reached by a few steps. The walkway was railed off, as if people had once tied their horses up there. Although the shops were built in a terrace, there was no uniformity of either age or size which gave a delightfully quaint feel to the place. Late afternoon spring sunshine played on soft grey stone and twinkled on shop windows.

They had stopped by a little corner sweet shop. Jars of gobstoppers, aniseed balls, pear drops and Pon-tefract cakes were arranged in rows behind the bow windows, and from there they could see down the turning. Here again was a high pavement, with pretty cottages and a small fire station beyond; after that it seemed to be open countryside.

'Shall I ask in the bank?' Harry waved his hand towards an imposing Westminster Bank, set back on a wide pavement which led to an old church almost concealed by big trees. 'Or should I try the Pelican?'

'The pub and the bank are closed, silly,' Paul giggled.

'Just testing your powers of observation,' Harry said.

'The sweet shop's still open, Harry. Shall I ask in there?'

'I'll go.' Harry leaped out, then stuck his head back through the window. 'Don't go talking to any strangers!'

Amy laughed softly. Harry had been cracking jokes about country life all the way down. It was his way of preparing the children for what he regarded as being 'buried alive'. Amy had been suffering some pangs of anxiety herself, but now she saw the village she had a different view of things. There had to be a good few people coming in and out of here if there was a bank and so many shops. Besides, everything looked so pretty and clean.

Harry was worried. They had left London at ten. Paul had been sick four times on the way, and he guessed it was from nerves rather than travel sickness. He had to admit Somerset was beautiful, but it was such a long way from London and so very different.

'Would you know the way to Bridge Farm,' he asked the old lady tucked away behind the sweet jars. Although it was sunny outside, in here it was gloomy with a faint whiff of fish coming from somewhere.

'Bridge Farm?' The old girl put her hand behind her ear and leaned forward across the counter. 'Who you be looking for?'

'Mrs Mabel Randall.'

A light came into her eyes, like a cat who's spotted a bird close at hand.

'Bridge Farm, eh?' She peered at him over her glasses and chomped her false teeth up and down. 'I went to school with Mabel! Are you family?'

'Not me,' Harry said. 'I'd better take a box of chocolates, hadn't I? Which ones does she like?'

'It'll take more than chocolates to sweeten her up.' The woman reached up behind her and pulled down a big box with a couple of puppies on the front. 'But she does like these.'

Harry recognised salesmanship rather than real concern. He paid for the chocolates and waited for directions, sensing unasked questions hanging in the air.

'Turn down here.' She pointed to the turning between her shop and the pub. 'You go over the bridge then it's just a few yards further on the left. Stands back a bit from the road, there's a sign outside saying "Milk for Sale".'

'Thanks.' Harry smiled and moved towards the door quickly.

'Did they tell you how fierce she is?' The old woman's voice held a note of alarm and she leaned her plump arms on the counter. 'Are you expected?'

'Her daughter and grandchildren are.' Harry paused with his hand on the latch. 'Why, is there something wrong?'

Her shocked expression chilled Harry to the bone. He could feel the old girl watching him through her sweet jars as he got back into the car. Why hadn't Mabel Randall announced her family were coming to stay? Any normal grandmother would have been in that shop, buying sweets and boasting about their intended visit.

'Only round the corner.' He grinned as he tossed the chocolates on to Amy's lap. 'Now don't get greedy, Amy, those are for your mum. I hope they ain't gone off, the stock in that shop looked like it 'ad bin there since rationing ended.'

As they turned off by the sweet shop Harry could see the bridge ahead, and felt heartened to discover at least the farm wasn't isolated.

'That must be it!' he said. Between the river and a dry-stone wall with a milk sign attached to it was a meadow, yellow with a million buttercups. Beyond the wall they could see a barn and the side view of a farmhouse.

No-one spoke as Harry drove closer and pulled up in front. Four pairs of eyes stared, as if unable to believe the messages their eyes were sending to their brains.

Even in bright sunshine it looked spooky, a long, low stone house with the upper windows tucked into the eaves. The walled front garden was so choked with weeds they almost obscured the downstairs windows, many of which were broken and filled with cardboard. Green paint was peeling off the front door and a wooden porch hung drunkenly to one side, so rotten it could be pulled down with one hand.

'It looks like a wicked witch's house,' Paul whispered. 'I'm scared!'

'Don't be daft,' Tara said brightly. 'She probably lives at the back. Let's drive up the lane.' She was appalled, yet pleased. This could be the reprieve she'd hoped for. Mum might insist that Harry took them back to London.

Harry said nothing, turning the car into the narrow muddy lane tucked between a wall and the house. All four of them stared wordlessly as he drove into the yard.

It was enclosed on three sides – by the house on the right, sheds and chicken coops straight ahead, a barn and stable on the left – and the filth and smell were unbelievable. They saw a sea of cows' mess. Here and there was a little dirty straw, a puddle of indeterminate depth, a mound of dryer cow pats, but there was no clear path to the back porch. An old tin bath was filled with dark green water. Rusting equipment lay around, an old tractor half inside the barn, a fearsome gadget with great spikes just behind the car. An old bicycle, bits of ploughs, rakes and shovels were strewn around, and a dozen or so plump hens picked their dainty way across the stinking morass.

'She's an old lady, maybe she can't manage to sweep it up,' Tara said in a small voice.

Paul had his hands over his nose and mouth to keep out the stench and Harry had a job even to breathe.

'The hens look healthy enough.' Amy managed to force a strained smile at her children. 'Like you say, maybe it's too much for her.' She wanted to turn tail and run. Filth in a house could be cured with soap and water, but it would take an army to sort this out.

'There's someone coming.' Paul's voice trembled and they all turned to look through the rear window.

At first glance it was a shabby old man, flat cap shadowing his face, coming up the lane from the fields, but as he came closer Amy recognised the face.

'It's Mother,' she whispered, flushing with shame that her children should meet their grandmother for the first time dressed in working men's boots, an ancient tweed jacket and trousers more suitable for a navvy.

'I remember'd her different.' Harry's voice reflected his shock.

'So did I,' Amy whispered.

The last time Amy had seen her mother was Christmas Eve at least seven years ago and she had been standing outside the Black Bull, dressed all in black, urging men to turn from the wickedness of drink and go home to their families. Her face had been alight with the fire of righteousness. Their eyes had locked, just as Amy reached the corner of Valance Road opposite where her mother stood. Mabel had turned her back and walked away.

Now her mother appeared to have shrunk. What little Amy could see of her hair was white and she'd become wrinkled, those plump cheeks she remembered now sunken in. Yet for all that, she looked as right in her surroundings as the chickens pecking in the straw.

Harry jumped out of the car, leaving Amy and the children staring in horrified fascination.

'Mrs Randall?' He smiled beguilingly. I'm Harry Collins, I was just wondering if I'd brought your Amy to the wrong farm, or if we should knock at the front door.'

'You'd be knocking there all night and I wouldn't hear it,' she replied sharply. 'Well, what are they waiting for? Get them out of the car and inside.'

Amy hadn't expected hugs or kisses, though she'd hoped for a welcome. But there was nothing. Not a hand held out, an inclined cheek or even a smile. For all the enthusiasm Mabel showed they could have been a band of marauding gypsies. She pointed out they would need Wellington boots, ordered them to scrape their shoes on a metal scraper by the back door, told Harry to bring in their cases immediately and swept in ahead of them.

After picking their way through the filth in the yard, the dirt in the kitchen came as no real surprise. A chicken was pecking around bold as brass on a cluttered table, the floor was covered in more droppings.

Amy's heart sank. Not only was the room dirty, but it was hot, smelly and gloomy. Little light came through the dirt-splattered window overlooking the side lane, and the dark beamed ceiling added to the feeling of oppression.

The sink, with its scummy water and mounds of unwashed dishes, took Amy back to the last days in Durwood Street. Spiders had festooned webs over each and every rusting, dusty pot hanging on the beams. A sticky fly paper turned slowly by the window, a graveyard for thousands, and a dresser was strewn with papers, jampots and what looked suspiciously like a pair of old knickers. Walls and ceiling were thick with grease, the stone floor sticky underfoot. There was a smell too, more than just manure. Rotting apples, mildew and a strong hint of cat's pee.

Did this mean her mother was mentally ill again? Had she brought her children all this way merely to be terrified half to death the way she had been before?

'Harry bought these for you.' Amy held out the box of chocolates. Her mother took them without thanks and put them on the table, shooing the hen away with her hand.

'Well, young man, you got them here.' Mabel looked scornfully at Harry and threw her cap on to the dresser. 'You might as well clear off before it gets dark.'

Amy sprang forward. 'Just a minute, Mother! Harry is a dear friend, not a taxi driver. He's hungry and tired, as we all are.'

'It's OK.' Harry shook his head. 'I'll get a room down at that pub on the corner. I won't drive back tonight.'