The Sweetest Thing (6 page)

The implications start to sink in. G. Barnes. The son of the previous owner of Uphill House, and current owner of Uphill Farm. My new neighbour. My only neighbour for miles around and it has to be the driver of the tractor, the old country bumpkin. I don’t wish for subsidence, but right now I wouldn’t mind if the ground did open and swallow me up.

‘Will you get your cows off my land?’ I say. ‘They are cows, aren’t they?’ I add quickly.

‘You’re having me on, aren’t you?’ he says. ‘Look at the udders on them.’

‘I haven’t really had a chance.’

‘You can’t miss them.’

‘Well, I can and I have, and they’re wrecking my lawn,’ I add, my voice rising as one leaves her calling card in the form of a giant cowpat.

‘You left the gate open,’ he says.

‘They’re your cows.’

‘And it’s your land. It’s down to you to secure your boundaries. That’s the law.’ When I don’t respond, he goes on confidently, ‘You can check if you like.’

‘Well, whatever,’ I say, sensing defeat. ‘Will you get them out of here?’

‘Of course, although you could borrow them to clear some of your ground, if you like? They’d soon graze this down.’

‘Thank you for the offer, but no,’ I say firmly. I’d only worry that they’d trample someone, and they’re making such a mess.

Guy raises his stick and shouts, ‘Ho, ladies! Ho!’ A couple of the cows look up from where they’re grazing now, but they don’t move. He whacks one across its bony rump. ‘Move it, Kylie.’

Kylie? This is surreal, I think. And cruel, as he gives her another whack.

‘Oh, don’t hit them,’ I shout out, aware of Sophie’s expression of horror and Georgia wincing with each blow.

‘Do you want them off your property or not?’ Guy says, looking slightly irritated.

‘Yes, I do, but that seems too harsh.’

‘I knew it. I might be a country bumpkin, but you’re a right ignorant townie, aren’t you?’ he says, his face relaxing into a mocking smile.

‘I don’t like to see animals mistreated.’ I fold my arms tight across my chest. I hate confrontation, but I refuse to stand by silently and watch.

‘The female of the species can be very stubborn,’ Guy says, lowering his stick. ‘Sometimes a good smack on the rump works wonders.’ And he looks at me as if he’d like to give my rump a good smack too for interfering, then he turns his attention back to the cows who decide that making a move is their best option after all. I watch them go, wandering off ahead of Guy, who pointedly latches the gate behind them as they start ambling up the drive towards the farm, presumably for milking.

‘He isn’t a very nice man at all, is he, Mummy?’ Sophie says, skipping through the grass towards me, Georgia walking behind, deep in thought.

I have to agree with Sophie. Guy’s intrusion has rather spoiled my countryside idyll. What happened to all the friendly locals I remember from my childhood? The jolly farmer, for example, who ran the caravan park on the cliff-top at Talysands? He used to take me and my sister to see the calves in his cowshed. He’d tickle the calves behind their ears and scratch their flanks, not hit them, then he’d ask my sister how many there were and she’d tell him there was one missing because she didn’t want him to know she couldn’t count yet, and he’d play along, pretending to look for the lost one.

If you could choose your neighbours, I wouldn’t have plumped for someone like Guy. However, even though meeting him properly has confirmed my initial
opinion, I wish I hadn’t described him as a country bumpkin in front of the children. I have no urge to socialise with him particularly but it would have been nice to have been on good terms, because I’m not going to be able to avoid him.

The day after my close encounter of the bovine kind, Mum and I do some more sorting out and putting away before I decide to put the Aga to the test, on the basis that if I can’t get on with it – if we can’t make friends – I have time to replace it with something else.

From the kitchen, I can see Dad strimming the long grass and brambles, and Adam hacking at the shrubs in the back garden – elder, buddleia and mallows with masses of purplish-pink flowers. Dad stops frequently to examine the end of the strimmer which really isn’t up to the job. I used it to edge the lawns at the old house, that’s all. The gardener used to bring his own heavy-duty gear for anything else. The strimmer was one item David and I didn’t fight over – he and Alice moved into a luxury flat with views of the Thames, and no garden.

As I watch, I wonder how Adam is feeling now. In his brightly coloured clothes – orange T-shirt and check shorts – he looks like an exotic bird that’s landed here by mistake on its way to warmer climes. He needs
to get back to school to make some friends, but that’s over four weeks away yet.

‘Don’t fret about the children, love,’ Mum says. ‘They’re happy enough.’

‘I hope so,’ I sigh.

‘What are you going to bake today?’

‘I thought an everyday cake – sultana, maybe. Dad’s bought all the ingredients, apart from a lemon, but I can leave that out.’

‘I’ll find the flour and sugar.’ Mum opens the door to the larder and shuffles about inside. I notice how she keeps hitching up the waist of her grey slacks.

‘Mum, have you been on a diet?’ I ask.

‘I can’t be doing with diets,’ she says, emerging from the larder with various packets. ‘It’s all this running around after you and my grandchildren.’ She gazes at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m fighting fit.’

But I do worry, I muse, as I open various cupboard doors, looking for a cake tin and mixing bowls. And I shall worry more now that I’m living here and she’s over a hundred miles away. It isn’t as if we’ll be able to pop in and see each other every day or two, like we used to. More sometimes.

‘Can you remember where we put the tins, Mum?’

‘I think it was in the cupboard to the right of the washing machine,’ she says. ‘And there was only one tin.’

‘Oh, yes.’ I take it out and put it on the worktop. ‘I threw the others out – they were so battered, I thought I’d have a fresh start. I’ll have to buy some more.’

‘Don’t you go out buying too much,’ Mum says. ‘I should wait and see what you really need.’

‘If I’m setting up a business, I have to start with the right equipment.’

‘You don’t know what will sell yet. You haven’t done any market research. There isn’t much point in buying trays for themed fairy cakes if you end up concentrating on weddings.’ She pauses. ‘I’ll let you get on – I’m going to check on the girls.’

‘They’re still in the stables.’ Every now and then, I look out of the kitchen door and catch sight of them at work, moving the wood stack that’s been stored in the stable nearest this end of the yard into the one at the other end, having decided that the pony must have the one that is in the best state of repair.

‘I’ll take them some more squash. They’re ever so busy.’ Mum pauses again, the vertical lines above her upper lip deepening, and wrinkles appearing in her forehead. ‘Jennie, are you sure about this pony business? You have to admit, you aren’t really an animal lover. You’re scared of spiders, and you haven’t been terribly lucky with hamsters in the past. It’s a huge commitment, especially on top of keeping this house habitable, looking after three kids and setting up a business. I’m not interfering, love,’ she adds firmly. ‘But I’m worried that you’re taking on too much.’

‘Granny! Granny!’ Sophie’s voice interrupts us. ‘Come and see what we’ve found.’

Mum looks at me, head tipped slightly to one side.

‘You’d better go,’ I say, smiling. She isn’t so much worried that I’ll overdo it as concerned I won’t have time to socialise and meet someone else.

Mum’s convinced I’ll find myself another man one day, but I can’t imagine being with anyone but David, and I can’t contemplate the trauma of falling in and out of love all over again. It might sound old-fashioned, but when I married I really believed it was for life. My parents had made it work, so why shouldn’t I?

There were a couple of occasions when I was tempted to stray, but I didn’t go through with it. Why? Because of David. Because I loved my husband. Some people might say, Why not when he did it to you? Why not do it to get back at him? But I’m not like that. I can hold my head up high because I did the right thing. I kept my self-respect and hurt no one, and I don’t regret that.

Although I’m still angry and upset after months of bitter wrangling and analysis, I’m beginning to be able to talk about the situation without dissolving into tears. At Christmas, I cried because Sophie no longer believes in Father Christmas just as I no longer believe in love, and by that I mean romantic love between a man and a woman.

I take the scales from the windowsill and stand them on the worktop beside the tin. I don’t need the recipe for sultana cake. I know it by heart. I weigh out butter – naughtier but nicer than margarine – and caster sugar into a mixing bowl, then stand it in the warming oven of the Aga for a few minutes while I weigh out some self-raising flour. I don’t sieve – life’s too short for that – but I do consider the question of adding salt. I check the butter wrapper and realise Dad’s bought salted, so I don’t add any, although, in my view, it’s probably not worth angsting over a pinch of salt when you’re serving up a rich combination of artery-clogging fats and refined sugar.

Having lined the cake tin, I grab an oven glove to take the mixing bowl out of the Aga, finding the butter perfectly softened so I can easily cream it into the sugar. Then I crack an egg into the mix, add a spoonful of self-raising flour, and mix again. I repeat the last step two more times, then add the rest of the flour,
some plump sultanas and aromatic mixed spice before stirring it all together until it makes a soft, shiny mixture. I lift the spoon and let the mixture slide off again, checking the consistency, part of the ritual I learned from helping my grandmother when I was about ten years old. Perfect.

I grab a spatula from the drawer and scrape the mixture into the cake tin, open one of the doors to the Aga, hoping I’ve got the right one, then slide the tin on to the rack before setting the timer for fifty minutes. It’s a novelty timer, Humpty Dumpty. One of the children gave it to me for Christmas one year. I put it on the windowsill and get on with some washing up. There’s no plumbing for a dishwasher. Not yet. Another job.

I start thinking about Mum’s comment about taking on too much. I’m talking about taking on a pony, a dog and a few chickens. That’s nothing compared with the number of cows Guy has to look after. Adam’s tried counting them in the field, and he says there are at least ninety in the herd. I’ve been mulling over what I saw when they came into the garden yesterday, and I think I might have overreacted. Guy was a bit mean to those cows, but he didn’t exactly beat the one he called Kylie. It was more of a tap and the cow didn’t appear afraid of him. She didn’t flinch or run away.

It’s made me think about my own attitude to animals. I like to think that I respect them as sentient beings. I believe they have a right to a decent life and humane treatment, but I love the smell of bacon too much ever to be a vegetarian, and when it comes down to it, I’ve never seen the appeal of keeping pets. It all seems a bit pointless because you can talk to them, but they can’t talk to you. However, the children have set
their hearts on having them. I only hope they last longer than the hamsters.

The last hamster, the third one, known only as The Hamster, came to an unfortunate end the day after I found out my marriage was over. I remember it as if it was yesterday. Adam found The Hamster on the drive, of all places, and called me out to take a look. He was lying on his back with his little feet sticking up, cold and stiff, and a bead of blood drying around his mouth. I held him, cupped in my palms, and I felt my heart breaking all over again.

‘Are you going to tell Georgia and Sophie?’ Adam asked, his eyes red and watery. He was either upset or else hadn’t had much sleep.

‘They’ll have to know,’ I said.

‘They’ll be gutted.’

‘I know …’ I started to sob again. I couldn’t help it. Without David. All this. The home I’d created for us. Our family. Well, it was meaningless. I was utterly, completely devastated.

‘Mum,’ Adam said, stroking my back, a gesture which made me cry more, ‘it’s only a hamster.’

‘I know, but …’ I wasn’t all that fond of it, but this death hit me harder than I’d expected.

‘How do you think he got here?’

I knew exactly.

‘I shooed that black cat out of the house this morning, the one that stole what was left of the turkey at Christmas. And The Hamster’s cage was never terribly secure, something else I always meant to sort out, but never did. And now it’s too late.’ I tried to collect myself. ‘I hope he died of fright, quickly.’

‘We don’t have to tell the girls exactly what happened,’ Adam went on. ‘We’ll just say he snuffed it
in his bed. That he died in his sleep, not that he was brutally murdered.’

‘Oh, Adam,’ I sighed. ‘Thank you.’

He was trying to comfort me but it was making the pain worse, because at that time I was still hiding the truth from him. His dad and I were divorcing. This life we’d led together was over. I was already on a journey that I hadn’t anticipated – just like The Hamster when the neighbour’s cat came to grab him out of his cage.