13
A NICE NEIGHBOURLY CHAT
IT TOOK DENNIE THE BETTER PART OF SATURDAY TO recover from her not-quite-sleepwalking adventure, but by Sunday she was feeling enough of her old self to start asking the older folk on the allotment what they knew about this ‘Farrow Farm’ place. She was pretty sure she’d never heard of it before, at least by that name. Sian Watts, who had once been a postal delivery woman, said that it sounded like the old Harris place. It was too small to be called a farm, only a dozen acres, but Harris hadn’t even been able to manage that properly once his kids escaped the gravity of its black hole grip on their family. When his wife had died he jumped into a bottle with both feet, and had only ever been seen in town to pick up his pension and his daily ration of Special Brew until his liver finally had enough and quit on him as well. His kids had tried to sell the property, but found that the land had never been officially registered since Harris’ own grandfather bought it back in the ’40s, and now the Turner family, descendants of the original landowner, were claiming it had been rightfully theirs all along. This was a legal fight that nobody could afford, and so the impasse had resulted in the Harris place being left to rot in conveyancing limbo for years. Which meant that Ardwyn Hughes and Everett Clifton were squatters, and not the respectable, well-heeled young millennials that they presented themselves as.
When she’d put this to Sian, the ex-postie shrugged. ‘None of our business,’ she said. ‘Unless you want to get mixed up in a lot of legal wrangling that could take years to drag out. Besides, they’re a nice young couple. And you can’t blame them, really, can you, property prices being the way they are? If you ask me, they’re doing the village a favour by fixing that place up and not letting it get used by one of them “county lines” gangs to sell drugs to our kids.’
Armed with this knowledge, Dennie took a box of some early pickings from her plot – spring cabbages, broccoli and asparagus – and set off for a Monday afternoon stroll to pay her respects to the residents of ‘Farrow Farm’.
The farm gate was timber and wobbling with age, but the sign nailed to it was very fresh and proudly painted with the name FARROW FARM in curling letters. Presumptuous, she thought, as if they could lay claim to a place simply by declaring it so arrogantly. Mortifying, too, to think that they had seen her out here in her nightie, as if it had been anything other than her own stupid fault. Why had Sarah led her out here, anyway? She didn’t, because she’s not real. It’s just you. You’re going bonkers. Whether or not that was true it wouldn’t hurt for Miss Hughes and Mr Clifton to keep believing it, especially since she’d confronted them so belligerently after smacking her head, so Dennie put on her best doddery smile, let herself through the gate, hoisted the box of veg in her arms and walked along the muddy track to the house.
Despite the promise of the sign, she was not impressed. She saw overgrown hedges and tumbling stone walls, piles of rubbish and rusting farm equipment lying in weeds, and a crumbling outhouse where the ancient terracotta roof tiles had slid away to reveal warped trusses. A rust-streaked tractor was parked in a wide farmyard which was mostly mud and puddles, and she was surprised to see Matthew Hewitson just getting down from its cab, dressed in tattered blue overalls and wellingtons. The boy scowled when he saw her.
‘Why hello, Matt!’ she said cheerily. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘I’m working here,’ he replied. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest as if she’d accused him of something. ‘It’s a proper job. They pay me.’
‘I’m sure they do. Is Miss Hughes in?’ She hefted the box. ‘I have a present for her.’
‘Miss Hughes,’ he smirked. ‘Yeah, she’s in.’
‘Can you please tell her I’m here?’
He laughed. ‘They don’t pay me for that. She’s round the back.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets and squelched off across the yard in the opposite direction.
Charming boy. His mother must be so proud. Dennie made her own way around the farmhouse, assuming that was what he meant by ‘the back’. For all that the yard was a mess, someone had paid attention here, at least. The window frames and front door were freshly painted, there were tubs of daffodils and crocuses set beside the path, and it looked like several roof tiles had been replaced. There was a long stone structure that might have been a barn or a cowshed that looked like it had been given a new coat of paint, with some very large and shiny padlocks securing the doors, and past this she was into a field full of thistles and ragwort where she saw two figures standing by one of the tumble-down stone walls. One was Ardwyn, but she hadn’t expected to recognise the other. It was Shane Harding, who along with his partner Jason had built their allotment in the shape of a Viking longship. He had the beard and brawn to match, but he ducked away when he saw her approach as if ashamed of being seen here.
‘Sorry for just barging in like this,’ she said. ‘I would have called ahead but I don’t have your number. I can see you’re busy so I’ll just drop this off and leave. Morning, Shane!’
‘Morning, Dennie,’ he replied, turning red. He was wearing thick working gloves, and it looked like he was getting set to rebuild this part of the wall.
‘Mrs Keeling, so good to see you!’ Ardwyn turned, beaming with welcome, but Dennie had been on the receiving end of enough surprise visits by well-meaning friends and relatives
