‘You brought anything to drink? I’m dry as a bone,’ Maggie says without waiting for an answer. ‘What do you think of it? Of what I’m doing. It’s called sponging. I read about it in an old book on traditional decorating techniques.’ She beams at Amy.
Yellow and cream blobs of paint have dabbed here and there on the walls like puffy coloured clouds.
‘Like the breath of daffodils! I love it,’ giggles Amy.
‘What will the Master think?’
‘Seymour? Oh, I think he’ll be fine. It’s different and quirky and…’
‘I’m going to paint the window frames like my most favourite dessert. Bet you can’t guess what that is…’
Before Amy can respond, Maggie shrieks: ‘Neopolitan icecream! So I’ll paint stripes of yellow and pale pink and brown around the window. Just gotta find the perfect colour for chocolate. It will look… delicious.’
Amy sits back on her heels and watches her friend who is fizzing with energy. The day is improving. She can feel her spirits lifting. When has life ever felt so free?
17
Seymour is parking the car when Amy and Maggie burst out of the cottage. In paint-splattered overalls, they make a refreshing contrast to his moody passenger he’s driven down from London. Eleanor, who he’d met on a shoot in Martinique where she was the local fixer, is the woman he is occasionally sleeping with in town. A girl with grit but a tricky one, too, with a list of things she doesn’t enjoy, the countryside being one of them. So why she pressed to come for a weekend at Wyld Farm he cannot fathom.
‘Hallo, you two. Let me guess….You’ve been painting! Maggie and Amy, meet Eleanor.’
‘Hi.’ Maggie nods at the woman in dark glasses who has not moved from the car. Another female that the London Lothario expects them to welcome.
‘Hi, I’m Amy. Pepper got your postcard, Seymour. He says, you haven’t been down in ages and where’s his present?’
Through the barely-opened passenger window the woman’s voice sounds agitated. ‘Seymour, I must lie down immediately. Take me to the house. Is there mud out there?’
‘A few puddles, I suspect, Eleanor. I told you that this is a farm. I’ll show you where to step. Look, could you two be angels and bring in our stuff from the car? I’ll administer appropriate attention to our delicate visitor.’
A foot encased in a high-heeled fur boot emerges slowly from the passenger side followed by a woman with spiky crimson hair. She allows Seymour to guide her towards the path and the house. ‘He looks pleased with himself,’ Maggs grumbles as she lugs a bag of shopping and a suitcase from the boot.
‘I thought he looked a bit miffed,’ says Amy. She take a bunch of lilies and two bottles of wine from the back seat and follows Maggie into the kitchen. She puts Tupelo Honey on the turntable. A few minutes later, Seymour appears.
‘You are both total treasures. Thankfully our hothouse flower is tucked up in bed.’ He collapses into a chair. ‘Eleanor has a headache. I can only find laxatives and one old Elastoplast in the cabinet. Apparently neither will help. In my opinion, a glass of wine is what the doctor orders. But Eleanor insists on pharmaceuticals. I don’t feel like driving to chemist.’
‘I’ll take you Seymour,’ Amy says, ‘I passed my driving test, you know. Give me a minute and I’ll change.’
Seymour has not seen Amy wearing anything but dungarees for months. The fitted cardigan shows off her figure and the flowery skirt swirls around her narrow ankles. The girl is wearing espadrilles laced up her shapely shins, a tightly-belted mackintosh and beret set on her head at a rakish angle.
‘We’re not going anywhere special, you know. You look sharp,’ he says admiringly.
‘I can’t drive your car in welly boots, can I? Dad bought me these shoes for…for Mum’s funeral. They’re fine for driving. I got this coat in a jumble sale ages ago. Anyway, I haven’t been off the farm for a while.’
It’s strange driving the low-slung car. Amy is used to the Land Rover where the driver’s seat is high up and the vehicle moves at a comfortable lumber. Now she’s in charge of slinky creature that will, with the wrong command, streak off at speed. She prays they don’t meet another car on the narrow lane and she has to reverse. The amphetamine is helping her confidence.
He tries not to wince when she crunches the Jaguar’s gears and misjudges the ferocity of the brakes on the first few corners. By the time they reach the main road, Amy is driving more smoothly. Seymour gives directions to the chemist’s shop. He returns with several purchases.
‘Pills Eleanor can swallow to her heart’s content. Now I’d like to order the Sunday papers from the shop by the canal. You lot ignore what’s going on in the world but I don’t.’
Amy protests as she switches on the headlights. ‘It’s not easy when there’s no telly and we don’t get a daily paper. I listen to the radio sometimes but ugh, the news is so horrible. That terrible bomb at the Post Office. Anyway we’re more interested in living in the present, in the moment.’
He directs her to a shop she hasn’t noticed before and she parks. The lighted interior reveals tinned and dried goods, soft drinks, kitchenware and toys. Nothing of interest. But she follows Seymour feeling buoyed up by her success at driving.
‘Hallo, Naresh, how are you?’ Seymour shakes hands with the man behind the counter. ‘I hope the family is well? This is my friend, Amy Taylor, who is staying at the moment. Amy, this is Naresh Rao.’ He turns to Amy: ‘His son Sunil is training to be a solicitor. He’s completed one year so far. Where is Sunil?’
‘Been to the football and on the way back now. A break from
