‘…and I’ll squish the grapes between my thighs,’ she says suggestively.
She’s hard to resist. ‘You’re so sweet,’ he replies, licking her ear, ‘and you make a very good housekeeper.’
She ignores the remark.
When she opens the oven door, the warm air lifts the hair off her face. He sees she’s troubled.
‘My father wants me home for his birthday next month. He’s even sent money for the train fare. I don’t want to go. I’m dreading it.’
He’s seen this sudden switch in mood before. Its baffling how can she be cheery one minute and grim the next. ‘Your father hasn’t seen you in a while. I’m sure he’s missing you,’ Seymour says.
‘He’s got the lovely Vi, hasn’t he?’ she replies grimly.
The front door bangs open. Maggie comes into the kitchen with a handful of wildflowers. Simon follows behind.
‘Hi Seymour,’ they beam, and begin to set the table and light the candles.
Then David arrives with a bottle of wine that Seymour knows is sold in the village shop and will no doubt see charged to his account.
‘Great to see you, man,’ David says clapping him on the arm. ‘Good time in London?’
‘Something smells good.’ Julian slips into a seat at the table.
Dishes of food are passed around and they eat and talk. They’re charming and clever kids, thinks Seymour. The stuttering Simon, the languid David and the lovely girls, the candlelight bouncing off their shiny faces. He’s going to feel mean kicking them off the farm. The wine mellows his determination. He’ll do it in stages, let them down gently. He’ll start by suggesting they need to find jobs.
But not tonight. Right now, he’s wondering if he’d be able to slip away with Amy. Her boyfriend looks particularly dopey tonight. If David starts playing guitar, which he does interminably, it might just be possible to go to the barn for what could be called a digestif.
21
Next morning, Seymour goes out and returns several hours later towing behind the Land Rover a 1920s ringmaster’s wagon, the kind once used by travelling circus performers. He’d seen an advertisement in the paper and couldn’t resist. Wood-panelled walls, fitted cupboards, cut-glass mirrors, a wood-burning stove and a snug double bed, the caravan would make a quirky place for guests to stay.
David, Amy, Simon and Maggie are woken by the sound of a vehicle in the cottage’s back garden. They emerge from the cottage bleary-eyed.
‘Afternoon!’ Seymour says. ‘Beautiful thing, isn’t it? I couldn’t resist buying it.’
At the same time, Julian appears. ‘Hi Dad. Where did you slip off to this morning? Hey, that’s cool.’ He nods at the wagon.
‘I’m glad you’re here, too. Let’s get a cup of tea. We need to talk.’ He looks shifty, Maggie thinks and not only because he’s wearing that Rod Stewart Every Picture Tells A Story t-shirt. Does the man not know he looks ridiculous? They crowd into the cottage kitchen.
‘Now that the work here is finished, there are a few changes needed at Wyld Farm.’
It was out of character for Seymour to sound so serious. David stops stirring his tea. ‘Really? What do you mean? Why?’
‘Things aren’t going so well for me at the moment. A bit tough. I haven’t mentioned this but… I’m not able to fund everything anymore. It’s time we talked about work. You lot need to find employment, get jobs. Make a contribution, I suppose.’
It’s bizarre. Seymour never talked about money. ‘Alright. Of course we can try. It might be tricky…’ Amy ventures.
But Julian blurts: ‘God, Dad! I can’t believe you’re being so heavy. My friends have been doing the right thing here. This is a bit out of the blue.’
‘Yes, of course, and I’m grateful for what you’ve all done. But the cottage is finished now. I’m thinking about the future.’
‘The future? What’s this about, Dad? Has Eleanor put you up to it?’
‘It’s nothing to do with her, Julian. It doesn’t seem unreasonable for you and your friends…’
‘Oh doesn’t it? Well I don’t agree. We’ve been doing what you wanted. And now you just announce it’s all got to change. I’m not staying here to listen to this nonsense, I’m going to Gerald’s. Anyone coming with me?’
Seymour says: ‘Don’t go over there, Julian.’
‘I can’t talk to you when you’re like this! You’re impossible.’ He bowls out of the cottage; they hear a car driving off.
Seymour looks at the four of them and shrugs. ‘That’s how it’s got to be.’
The rest of the day is peculiar. They sit by the unlit fire; no one can be bothered to chop wood. Amy offers to heat up some leftover soup but no one is hungry. When David starts to play the guitar, Maggie barks at him to stop. A bit later, someone suggests they go for a walk. As they cross the yard, Seymour is getting into his car.
‘I’m going back to London,’ he says, shutting the door.
Amy fights the impulse to stand in front of the car to stop him.
Seymour needs her. What’s he’s hiding?
It was a perfect job. Near enough to cycle on the old-bone shaker and only part time so home by mid-afternoon. Cruel start to the day, though. She has to be at the stables by 7.00am.
Maggie lies against the sun-warmed bricks and rolled a surreptitious cigarette. Malcolm, the ‘head groom’ as he called himself – though why she couldn’t imagine for she was the only other person working at the animal sanctuary – told her smoking was forbidden. A fire risk with the straw and hay.
Slipping the burnt match into her jeans, she draws the smoke down deep. The work is tough but the animals are brilliant: six horses, four ponies and Donny the donkey, grumpy as a hornet but appreciative when his scarred ears were scratched.
Malcolm has really come down in the horsey world. You have to feel sorry for him. Two years ago he’d been working as a groom in a big racing stables somewhere near Newmarket. A fall from a skittish young stallion out ‘on the gallops’,
