Amy’s throat constricts. It feels like she’s choking.
He throws off a bitter laugh: ‘Thank fuck you’re not pregnant. You mad silly girl, what were you thinking?’ He swerves round the van and they speed off again. ‘Just listen, can you? When we get to the farm, tell the others to start packing. It’s over, Amy, it’s all over. Do you hear me?’
A physical sensation of implosion makes her gasp. Her hands fly to her chest as though to hold intact the bruise inside that threatens to spurt blood all over the car. The wound created when her mother left her, mutilated again when her father said he would marry. It’s never had the chance to heal. Seymour’s harsh words rip off its thin scab.
Her head droops, rebounding only when the car hits a bump on the road. The physical jerking confirms she is alive. She feels dead. When the car turns near off the road by Sminhay’s Cottages for the steep descent towards the place that she will cherish forever, she drives away thoughts of her garden and plants, her life among the animals, everything that she cherishes and everything that she wants. She must be honest with this man though it will seal her fate.
‘You accuse us of being selfish. But it is you – you – who is selfish, Seymour. Julian is your son! Why don’t you take some responsibility for him and care for him? You’ve never looked after him, never been there for him. And he needs you, he really does. Love him Seymour! Love your son. Or Julian will be lost.’
The car screeches to a halt in the farmyard. ‘Why don’t you shut up and go away?’ Seymour roars.
Flinging open the door, he springs from the car. The geese (which she recalls with scorn he insisted on calling Alarm and Fusspot; at one time she found it charming) start to weave towards him. But even they sense his dangerous mood for they veer off, protesting and flapping their wings.
David is on front step of the farmhouse step, strumming his guitar. He glances up casually. ‘Hiya. You must have just missed them.’ He studies the fretboard to form a chord.
‘Who? What you talking about?’ Seymour snaps.
‘The police, they’ve just been here.’
‘The police? Here? For God’s sake, why?’
‘Search me. Well, they didn’t actually.’ He laughs. Amy can tell from his languid eyes that he’s stoned. ‘But they did search the farm. Didn’t find zilch, nada, nothing. Chill out, Amy, what’s up with you, babe? You’re pale as ghost.’
‘David, tell us what happened,’ she pleads.
There’s a hash pipe and burnt matches on the ground near where David was sitting. Surreptitiously she nudges the stuff into the flower bed with her boot.
‘You two seem a little uptight. Chill out, eh? All that happened is that three pigs showed up. I don’t know, perhaps two hours ago, it’s a bit of a blur. They waved their piggy search warrant and they went through the place. Poked their noses here and there. But they weren’t very clever, were they? Cos they didn’t find the dope plants.’
‘The what?’ Seymour is horrified.
‘Oh, man, forgot. You didn’t know…’
‘Only a few plants. Not many, honestly,’ Amy interjects hastily. ‘It’s only that we didn’t have much money…’
Seymour is shouting now. ‘What? Growing dope here, on my farm? That’s it. You’re leaving, everyone, this charade is over! Pack your bags – David, Amy – and get off my property. You’re leaving today!’
A taxi swings into the yard with a flourish. Simon gingerly crawls from the back seat. Strips of plaster run from cheek to cheek across his nose. One of his eyes is closed due to swelling. His torn trousers flap as he limps towards them.
‘I’m so r-r-relieved to b-b-e home. It’s been t-t-terrible. I g-g-got attacked on the c-c-canal. I’ve been p-p-patched up at the hospital, thank God. J-J-Julian was on the c-c-canal, too. He ran off and the police c-c-chased him. He’s been taken to the st-st-station, I’m not sure w-w-why.’ He starts to breathe more calmly. ‘Amy, D-D-David, hi Seymour. You’re b-b-back? But… where’s M-M-Maggie?’
He digs in his pockets, then looks up sheepishly. ‘Anyone g-g-got m-m-money for the taxi fare? W-W-Why do you all look so w-w-weird?’
Part II
25
Sunshine bounces off the lawyer’s designer glasses: ‘…and I leave Bramble Cottage in equal parts to Simon Webster, David Bond, Maggie Bond and Amy Taylor. The remainder of my real and personal property whatsoever and whosesoever is left to my son Julian. …’
The five people mentioned are stunned; Julian because he assumed he would inherit the whole of his father’s estate and the others because they cannot imagine why Seymour Stratton who kicked them off Wyld Farm 25 years ago would leave them a cottage.
‘I was right to assume the information contained in Mr Stratton’s will is unexpected,’ says the lawyer who according to the nameplate they could see is ‘Sunil Rao’. The name is familiar to some of the benefactors though no one can quite remember why. Mr Rao pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘Mr Stratton senior updated his will some time ago when he was first diagnosed with the condition from which he eventually died. He cannot have been aware how much the property would increase in value in the intervening years. Bramble Cottage must be worth…’
‘But we won’t sell it, will we?’ blurts Amy.
There hadn’t been time to check out how the years had exacted their toll before the five of them were escorted into the lawyer’s office. But now there is. Time had not been unkind. Maggie, whose tresses once cascaded down her
