The Sweetest Thing (8 page)

I try a smaller sip, sieving the bits through my teeth. It’s sharp and desert dry with an apple tang. Do I like it? I believe it might be an acquired taste.

‘Can I try some, Mum?’ Adam asks.

‘No, definitely not.’

Everyone falls silent for a moment, savouring the cake. I don’t know what to say to Guy, this man who seems completely at home in my kitchen. It is as I expected. We have absolutely nothing in common.

‘I hope you’ll let me have your apples in the autumn,’ he begins. ‘I need them for next year’s cider.
That’s where this came from.’ He points to the container.

‘I didn’t realise they were cider apples,’ I say, looking in the direction of the orchard.

‘You’ve got one Bramley – that’s a cooker.’

‘I know what a Bramley is.’

‘You’ve also got some of the good old cider varieties – Hangy Down, Slack Ma Girdle and Tremlett’s Bitter.’

‘Hangy Down?’ says Sophie. ‘That sounds rude, doesn’t it, Mummy?’

Georgia giggles.

‘Slack Ma what?’ says Adam.

‘Girdle,’ says Guy, straight-faced. ‘Of course, I’ll understand if you want to make your own cider …’

‘No, I can’t imagine I’ll have the time,’ I say. ‘You’re welcome to them.’

‘I’ll pay you in kind. I’ll give you a proportion of what I make. You can sell it on, or drink it yourself.’

It sounds like a good deal to me, I muse, cider from our own apples.

Sophie breaks the silence which descends over the kitchen.

‘Do you have any children, Guy?’ she pipes up. ‘Only I’d like someone to play with who isn’t my sister because all she wants to do is play ponies, which is really boring.’

‘I don’t, I’m afraid,’ he says.

‘Do you live on your own then?’

‘Sophie, why don’t you …’ I begin, but Sophie’s in full flood when Guy affirms that does indeed live alone.

‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ she says. ‘A boyfriend then?’ she runs on, not giving Guy a chance to respond. ‘You might have a boyfriend if you’re gay.’

‘I don’t have a boyfriend, and I’m not that way inclined,’ Guy says stiffly.

I cringe. I wish Sophie and Georgia weren’t so fascinated by other people’s domestic arrangements.

‘Our daddy lives with Alice who’s his girlfriend. Daddy isn’t gay,’ Sophie twitters on, and I observe how Guy concentrates on his tea and sincerely hope he doesn’t think that I put them up to it.

When we’ve finished eating and drinking, and I’m feeling a little lightheaded, Guy offers to help move the table out of the barn so I can take a look at it. He’s a man of tremendous energy, seemingly unwilling or unable to sit down and relax, which is how we all end up in the yard as dusk is falling and the bats are beginning to flit in and out of the stables.

‘It would have taken us half the time if you’d been here yesterday,’ Adam says, and I see him regarding Guy’s muscles with envy. Guy has strong hands too, I notice, with lightly tanned and roughened skin, and nails blunt-cut and clean.

My dad drags open the door at the front of the barn, revealing my lovely sofas covered with tarpaulin.

‘We’ll have to get these out of the way again,’ he says, but it’s no problem with Guy there. I lug one of the last packing cases out of the way.

‘Here, let me have that,’ Guy says, moving towards me.

‘I can do it,’ I say in no uncertain terms.

‘I’ve been eating your cake.’ He stands right in front of me, his hands on the case. ‘It’s the least I can do in return.’

‘Oh, all right then,’ I say, mollified. ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s a pleasure.’ His mouth curves into a wry smile as he takes the load from me. ‘I think.’

‘We’ll have to move the old tractor,’ says Adam hopefully.

‘Does it still go?’ says my dad.

‘Why do men go weak at the knees at pieces of old machinery?’ I ask Mum, as the two of them are looking at it with Guy. I can see nothing attractive about this unprepossessing grey vehicle that stands in the way of the solid oak table lying on its side at the back of the barn. It’s a third of the size of the one Guy was driving when we met him in the lane, it looks a bit rusty and, for some reason – to keep the water out maybe – it has a tin can over the end of its vertical exhaust pipe.

‘I reckon she’ll go all right, although she hasn’t been started for months.’ He scrambles on to the seat – this tractor doesn’t have an enclosed cab – and turns the key that’s been left in the ignition. He glances at me. ‘We don’t have much crime out here. Besides, I can’t think anyone would want to steal this thing.’ He turns the key again. The engine coughs, sending the tin can shooting up and hitting the roof of the barn, before it falls down and rolls clattering across the floor.

Adam can’t stop laughing. Neither can I, partly because of the tin can, partly because Adam is creased up with tears in his eyes.

‘I should have taken that off first.’ Guy grins. ‘I always forget.’ He turns the key again, and the engine chunters into life. He rolls the tractor out into the yard, crushing the can on the way. ‘You’ll need to hang on to this, Jennie.’

‘Um, why? What on earth am I going to do with a tractor?’

‘Use it to take care of your land, of course.’

‘I thought it took care of itself?’

‘You can’t leave it to its own devices – you’ll get all
kinds of weeds.’ He smiles again. ‘Your neighbour won’t like that.’

‘I see.’ Actually, I don’t, because all this about having to drive a tractor and control weeds is a bit of a surprise to me.

‘If you aren’t going to graze it, you’ll need to harrow and cut the grass in the paddock and under the apple trees. As for the weeds, you’ll have to dig out any ragwort because I won’t have any of that growing next door to me. I cut hay to sell and my horsey people won’t buy it if it has any ragwort in it.’

‘Ragwort’s poisonous,’ says Georgia, interrupting.

‘And how do you know that, young lady?’ Guy says.

‘I’m going to have a pony and I’ve been reading books to make sure I know how to look after it.’

I feel a rare surge of maternal pride.

‘Do you think your mum knows how to drive a tractor?’ he asks Georgia.

‘I expect she could learn how to, if she got a book about it from the library,’ Georgia says optimistically.

Guy turns to me as he jumps down from the tractor. ‘I don’t suppose it’ll go fast enough for you, Jennie.’

In spite of determining not to, I blush. How does this man manage to disarm me? I put it down to the cider, I think, walking past him to look at the table. Adam and Guy drag it out on to the cobbles. It’s dusty and scratched, and I’m not entirely sure I want it, but Guy’s convinced that it’s just what I need.

‘A bit of sanding down and it’ll be as good as new,’ he says, then shows Adam how to reverse the tractor back inside before saying he’s got to get back to the farm.

‘So soon?’ says Mum. ‘It’s only half-past nine.’

‘I’ve got an early start – as always. The milking,’ he
adds in explanation. ‘Cows don’t milk themselves, more’s the pity.’

‘The cow you were mean to … the one you were hitting with the stick,’ Georgia begins.

‘Kylie?’ Guy says. ‘I didn’t hit her hard. She knows I wouldn’t hurt her.’

Georgia doesn’t appear to be convinced.

‘She wouldn’t let down her milk if she was unhappy.’

‘No, I suppose she wouldn’t,’ Georgia says, apparently softening towards him. ‘Do all your cows have names?’

‘They do. It’s been shown scientifically that cows give more milk when they have names. They aren’t sure though if it happens because they have names, or because the farmers give the named animals more attention.’

‘How do you get the milk out of the cow and into the carton?’ Georgia asks.

And I think, He’s going to make another cutting remark about ignorant townies. But instead he goes on, ‘Why don’t you all come and watch a milking sometime and find out?’ He smiles. ‘I’d recommend the afternoon session rather than the five a.m. start – then you can get your beauty sleep.’ I wonder why he’s looking at me when he says that?

‘Why don’t we leave it a few days, until we’ve settled in?’ I say. ‘Granny and Granddad go home later in the week. We’ll come then.’

‘I look forward to that,’ Guy says formally. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to know about the place?’

I ask about buses for Adam.

‘Oh, yes, there are buses that go into the city. Two a week.’

‘Where we were in London, often two buses came at once,’ says Georgia.

‘I’d say there’s zero chance of that happening here,’ Guy says. ‘There are no trains either – Talyton doesn’t have a station.’

‘I’ll be able to drive soon,’ says Adam.

‘Not that soon – you’re fourteen.’ You’ll be forty before you start driving if I have my way, I think, although I can see that he’ll need a car out here eventually. I can also see that I’ve not been a good role model where driving is concerned, too impatient, and I resolve to change that.

‘Thank you for the cake.’ Guy shakes my father’s hand and kisses my mother’s cheek. I stay well back.

‘Thanks for the cider,’ I say.

‘I’ll see myself out,’ he says, but I accompany him to the gate anyway, making sure I fasten it securely behind him. He hesitates on the drive. ‘I admire your optimism, Jennie, but I wouldn’t mind betting that you’ll sell up and go back where you came from within the year.’

He doesn’t know me so how can he say that? I think.

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you but I have no intention of moving again. This is now my home.’

‘Goodnight then,’ he says, turning on his heel and strolling away.

‘Goodnight,’ I say curtly.

‘He’s very frank,’ I say, when I’m discussing Guy’s visit with Mum later on, after the children have gone to bed.

‘So are your children, darling.’

‘He speaks his mind.’

‘There’s nothing wrong in that,’ Mum says. ‘Better that than a man who doesn’t mean what he says or say
what he means.’ She’s referring to David, of course.

‘I think I’ll go on up.’ I can’t stop yawning. ‘I can’t tell if it’s the cider or the floor that’s giving me this strange, tilting feeling.’

‘Goodnight, love,’ Mum says.

I head upstairs. My parents might be smitten with Guy next door, but I am not, and never will be.

In my room, I look out of the window towards the house at Uphill Farm. There are no lights on. A cow bellows from the darkness, breaking the silence. I reach out and touch the cob wall beside me. It’s cool and bumpy, yet solid beneath my fingertips. The walls – as well as leaning in all directions so that none of my furniture will stand flush against them – are two to three feet thick, but nothing can be as thick as the defences I’ve built around my heart this past year.

Mum dreams of me finding happiness with another man, and I reckon she already thinks Guy fits the bill, but no man can touch me. I’ve made quite sure of that.

Today is the day I wave goodbye to my parents. I feel utterly bereft.

When they leave, Mum has tears in her eyes, and my heart clenches with a grief I didn’t expect. At least though she has come round to my crazy plans at last, and I feel fully supported. She had a good go at changing my mind before I committed to the move, giving me a thorough reality check. She told me to pull my socks up and stop thinking up mad schemes to distract myself from the divorce. She told me to stop wallowing and get on with my life. She also thought I was insane to think I could make a living out of baking cakes.

‘Jennie, it’ll never work.’ That’s what she said. And I said, ‘What about Mr Kipling then?’ and she burst into tears, and I realised that this wasn’t about me. It was about her, how she was scared of losing regular contact with her grandchildren and missing out on them growing up.

‘Malcolm,’ she says, ‘when you’re packing the car, fetch those other things in.’

Dad heads outside. I reckon he’s itching to get back to the golf club.

He returns with three carrier bags and places them on Guy’s oak table which has come up well with a bit of work. Adam did it – for a small fee.

‘They’re for you, Jennie,’ Mum says, ‘our moving-in gift.’

I look inside the bags. They’re full of baking tins and colourful silicone spatulas and spoons.

‘Oh, thank you.’ I’m overwhelmed. ‘You shouldn’t have …’

‘We see it as a modest investment in your future,’ says Dad. ‘Of course, we could do more if you were prepared to accept it.’

We’ve had this discussion before and I refused. My parents mean well, but I am not a charity.

‘If I ever need investment,’ I say, ‘I’ll enter the den with the Dragons.’

‘It’s all suitable for use in the Aga,’ Mum says, ‘and most of it’s dishwasher-safe.’

‘I haven’t got a dishwasher though,’ I say, smiling.

‘You have three,’ says Dad. ‘You make sure those children help you out.’ He checks his watch. ‘We’d better make a move.’