Simon teased her that it was her bible, the book on self-sufficiency she carries around with her everywhere. It warned her that carrot seeds were the trickiest to germinate. So Amy must have green fingers! Over the bare brown earth, feathery fronds of green now wave. David won’t be interested but she’ll tell Simon at supper. He’ll be pleased, too.
A pulsing hangover makes her grateful for the excuse to kneel. Soil-stained pages advise the seedlings need space to grow. A whiff of carrot accompanies the careful removal of orange threads from the soil, vegetables fit for a Lilliputian’s table.
Last night it happened again. Amy had gone upstairs for a pee and heard a noise from the bathroom. She found Julian was slumped against the airing cupboard. When he noticed her in the doorway, he became agitated and started to mutter about fairies in the garden stealing her vegetables. She had resisted the temptation to slip away and leave him. It was all a bit tedious and if she was honest, a bit scary.
‘Sit up, Julian, are you alright?’ Amy tried to pull him into an upright position. He was pale and sweaty.
Then Simon appeared in the doorway and she felt such relief. ‘What’s the silly s-s-sod done n-n-now?’ he said.
Together they manhandled their friend into an upright position with his legs out in front. Simon draped a towel down Julian’s jumper and balanced a basin on his lap.
‘I think he’s a little smashed,’ Amy whispered. ‘I think you’re r-r-right,’ he whispered back.
They sat companionably with Julian pinned between them. She likes chatting to Simon; about the garden, what she’s thinking, anything that comes into her mind, really. He’s funny, too, but you have to listen for it because he isn’t bothered to claim his space in a conversation if others want to dominate. Like the friends of Seymour or Julian do and say loud things in loud ways. She’s the same, really; unwilling to voice opinions that might sound naïve when they’re about. And the women they bring are always glamorous or intimidating; usually both. She’d rather pad about making tea, hoping her silence suggests deep reflection. Perhaps Simon is quiet because of his stammer. She must insist the boys stop mocking him about it. Maggie’s right; his stutter is attractive. ‘When I first met David, I was just a schoolgirl starting my ‘A’ levels.
A bit proper actually. I used to blush terribly when I first heard him swear. I wasn’t used to it.’
‘I’ve only g-g-gone out with a few w-w-women.’
‘How’s it going with Maggs?’ A few nights ago Maggie had confided in Amy saying she still hankered for the French man Emile; exotic and strange. She wasn’t sure Simon was the man for her. He was too…kind.
‘She’s g-g-great, you know. She just l-l-likes to have her s-s-space.’ Julian was beginning to fidget.
‘If he’s s-s-sick he’ll feel b-b-better,’ Simon said, and as though he had heard the comment, Julian began to heave. An arch of yellow and green bile splattered energetically into the bowl. The stink of vomit and alcohol filled the bathroom.
‘At least he hit the target,’ said Simon, opening the window. Slithering to one slide, Julian snorted as though amused.
‘Let’s g-g-get you to b-b-bed.’ Simon tried hauling Julian to his feet.
Amy took the other arm. ‘David says that it’s good for the soul to get smashed,’ she said.
‘I’m not so sure it’s g-g-great for your b-b-brain, though,’ said Simon, and between them they helped Julian to weave towards his bed.
I will always have a fireplace in my bedroom, Maggie decides; a fire brings romance alive. She hugs her knees, kisses each one individually, as she remembers her boyfriend’s fingers strutting across her tummy and slipping down her thighs. The creak of the bed springs as their bodies flicker in the firelight.
On the walls that she’d scumbled yellow hangs a painting she found in the barn. Brooding clouds under which a man rowed a cloaked woman across a lake of mottled waters. She watches it as her boyfriend makes love to her, imagines it is she and him in that dramatic landscape, heading away towards the mountains.
Some nights she does not sleep with Simon. Life on the farm can be perplexing; the expectations, the rules she contravenes unknowingly, the currents of emotion she cannot fathom. The narrow bed and white walls of her room are her route to composure. The figurine of a Hindu god that her mother gave her this Christmas helps her meditate.
Maggie skips down the staircase. She should help prepare for tonight’s party. She wanders over to the farmhouse. The kitchen table has already been dragged into the field and straw bales are in a circle around an open fire over which is suspended a pole. It’s been rammed through the mouths and anuses of two little pigs. She looks away. The dogs whine as the smell of roasting meat drifts around the party field.
It tantalises the taste buds of those pitching tents or shaking out sleeping bags in anticipation of inebriation reducing their competency later in the evening. Others, less concerned about their sleeping arrangements, are hoping perhaps to occupy a sofa or the floor. They sit about drinking and chatting. If Julian has slipped them a little white pill as they arrived, they might already be responding to the chemicals reaching their brains. Seymour’s friends, fresh from bath or bed, drift from the house clasping glasses of good wine. Some carry a cushion or a rug so they can get comfy on the ground.
When the country ballad that booms through speakers is replaced by The Velvet Underground, the party begins.
Few notice that the sun is setting. But Amy does. Soft light caresses
