Seymour eyes dart from driving mirror to side mirror, trying to spot a gap in the stream of cars. He grumbles when another driver pulls up too close behind him.
She wants to stroke his neck. Instead she says: ‘I’ve just been to see my father.’
Seymour changes down to a lower gear, accelerates and then slams on the brakes.
‘There’s so much I’ve got to tell you, Seymour. You never guess what. Dad’s getting married!’ Amy tries to sound jokey but tears are swelling. ‘Married? Seems a bit bloody sudden to me.’
‘You should be glad your father’s found someone. You’ll get used to the idea soon enough. He’ll be happier with a wife.’
Was it a mistake to switch off the radio? Seymour wonders. At least the girl wouldn’t babble inanely. Can she only think about herself?
‘I can’t see what he sees in Vi. I mean she has this thing for teddies,’ Amy sneers. ‘Dad told me he’d buy me a dress for the wedding, as if that would make me feel better.’
Though it would be nice to have a new dress, she thinks.
As the traffic clears, the car picks up speed. Houses and flats and factories and shops whizz past. She considers it all with sympathy tinged with distaste and the warm glow of satisfaction that the life she’s chosen (or has it chosen her, she sometimes wonders) is the right one.
These people will one day benefit from what she and her friends are doing, exploring a new way to live. One day they will understand that it is possible to live communally, to escape from the relentless clutches of consumerism and greed and to address the problems of the world in a spirit of love.
She does not say any of this to Seymour. ‘What’s happened, darling? You seem a bit uptight.’
‘It’s Julian. Naresh Rao called, the man I introduced you to in the shop. Apparently there was a scrap with the local gang, and Julian got mixed up in it in some way.’
‘Julian? But he’s such a gentle spirit.’
‘I’m not sure why but they’ve taken him to the police station.’
‘Police? What are you saying?’
‘I understand he’s been arrested. Could he have had something on him?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you think he might have been carrying dope?’
‘Julian doesn’t smoke that often. I shouldn’t think so.’ She did not quite believe what she said but hoped it was true.
‘He should stick to drink, more dependable in my view and it’s legal. I’ve talked to him about drugs, you know, what with his history and everything.’
‘His history?’ Seymour doesn’t reply.
The car crawls through lunchtime traffic in an area swallowed up by urban sprawl. A smell of fried food makes her stomach rumble. But then she sees the faces of the workers, men with short hair and women in sensible shoes, queuing for their lunches. She is not a person who could manage a dull conventional nine-to-five job. She disregards the fact she is an unpaid housekeeper, cleaner and gardener.
‘What do you mean by ‘his history’?’
‘Julian – he’s got mental problems – challenges, I think they call them these days. That’s why he had all that time off from university, of course. Ended up in a loony bin, probably fucked up his exams. Where did you think he was? I assumed you lot were keeping an eye on him. That’s partly why I got you all down to Wyld Farm.’
Seymour is angrier than she’s seen him before.
‘Look after Julian? I didn’t know he was troubled! I was at school and living at home with Mum and Dad.’
Seymour spots a gap and swerves the car into it. Someone parps a horn.
‘Would it have made any difference? Come on, Amy. You’re all too busy doing your thing, playing at some hare-brained back-to-nature fantasy to worry about anybody else.’
‘What do you mean? You asked us to stay at the farm. You seemed to like what we were doing. Seymour – why are you being like this?’
‘This isn’t working.’
‘What isn’t working? What are you talking about? You mean, you and me – us?’
‘Us? What about us, Amy? It was just a silly little fling. A fuck between friends.’
His eyes briefly meets hers. They are cold.
‘No. What isn’t working is you lot living at Wyld Farm. It’s over, Amy, your little dream is finished.’
She’s read in books that a character’s blood runs cold. She’d always discounted the description as exaggerated. Now she knows it’s true. Her arteries and veins run with ice.
‘What are you talking about?’ Her voice quivers. ‘What do you mean?’
Out of the window the sky is filled with strange colours; streaks of lemon and pink as the autumn sun begin to sink. Skirting the horizon is a dark blue band of sky seems to girdle the earth. If only she could open the door and fly away to land there, gently as a feather, then everything might be alright again. She begins to hum. It was always obvious to him that the girl had a penchant for dramatics; she should have been an actress. It’s partly what attracted him, her capacity for abandonment and drive for oblivion. Made love-making thrilling, fucking her on his bed just yards from where her boyfriend snored, too smashed to know what was going on.
Amy whispers: ‘My period’s started, Seymour.’ When he doesn’t respond, she says it again.
‘Your point is? Most young women find they menstruate each month.’
When she doesn’t respond, he says in a cross loud voice: ‘What are you saying? Was there some doubt about it starting?’
Where is the Seymour she is in love with? Amy fights the urge to touch him.
‘Yes, I thought I might be pregnant,’ she bursts, and she can’t keep the happiness from her voice, ‘and I was thinking that it wouldn’t be so difficult. I could have a baby and stay at the farm with you and we could raise it together. Our country baby, our child…’
Seymour decelerates behind a delivery van. ‘Jesus – what is this
