Pragmatism forces her to her laptop. By one o’clock, the article is written and saved to a floppy disc. She puts on a coat and a pair of wellies and leaves the cottage.
Outside it seems a grey veil had been slung from the sky. The geese give a half-hearted hiss, then waddle pigeon-toed back into their hut. The grass on the hill is greasy from rain. At the top she stops to catch her breath. Looking back down at the farm, she hopes she might in some illogical way see Daisy waiting by the barn and her garden abundant with vegetables. Why does it feel so dispiriting that there is no evidence that she or her friends had ever lived here? Now wheel-less cars crouch by the barn. A plastic bag caught on wire flaps erratically in the wind. A pile of logs blackens in the sibilant rain. The only sign of life is a shed light suggesting Julian is working or has perhaps forgotten to flick the switch.
She takes an ancient path between dry stone walls and wind-twisted hawthorn where tiny wild strawberries nestled in the crevices. Through a broken stile is the field where enormous shaggy parasol mushrooms grew. She’d cook them with butter and the star-shaped flowers of wild garlic. A hare bolting from the undergrowth makes her jump. Only when her heart settles does she walk on towards the head of the combe. A sheep path cuts down through ferns and stunted rowan trees to a tumbledown cottage at the bottom but it takes her awhile to find the boggy track. Down she slithers and slides, splashing through a stream where watercress used to grow in the rippling shallows. But Mrs Morle would see it in her basket and tut. She mustn’t eat it, there might be flukes in it. So many memories…
The village looks different; why is she surprised? Recession has blighted some parts of the country over the past few years but the homes she passes suggest their owners are more than solvent. Neatly-painted exteriors adorned with burglar alarms, well-stocked tidy gardens and new gates with locks on the driveways suggest economic health. Where signs of life are indicated by parked cars, the vehicles are new. Peering in the window of the boarded up grocery shop, she sees bare shelves and a curling poster advertising frozen fish fingers.
Amy drops her article into the post box. It sounds empty.
The bell on the pub door tinkles. Three men in overalls drinking pints seem surprised by her arrival. A dog stretched out on the floor raises a lazy head, then grunts back to sleep.
‘That’s a nice welcome, isn’t it?’ jokes the bartender. ‘Please come in out of the wet. What can I get you?’
‘I think I caught the post. Cider and cheese sandwich to celebrate, please.’
It is warm in the pub and nice to chat to the friendly young man. She is cheered by it all and finds herself chatting on, telling him about her long-cherished dream to live in the country. That now she has the chance to do that, even if it will mostly be at weekends and occasional holidays.
‘Is your place nearby? I’ve been living here since last autumn so don’t know the area well. Moved here from Portsmouth. From what I gather a lot of new people have moved in over the past few years.’
‘I didn’t think you were local. I live in a cottage that used to be part of Wyld Farm. I suppose it’s second home owners like us moving in that changes things. How’s the job going?’
‘The pub’s a bit quiet during the week, but the weekends are busy with locals. Visitors are starting now summer is coming. The owner wants to start offering fancy food, what they call a gastro-pub. Some of locals aren’t sure…’
‘It’s the first time I’ve been in here since we moved in. Years ago there was a village shop selling everything you needed. Closed at lunch time – can you imagine that? The owner used to let me sell my jam for 20 pence a jar.’
‘You used to live around here?’
‘Me and my boyfriend came in the summer of 1972. Stayed for about 18 months. Before you were born, I expect.’
‘I was born in the summer of ‘74. My name’s Aubrey, by the way.
Can I ask you something?’
‘Of course. What would you like to know?’
‘I’m looking for someone who was living ‘round here about that time. You might have known them.’
‘Gave you trouble, did he?’ Amy jokes. ‘What’s his name?’
David invited Peter over to play with Marco. Miriam is doubtful that a sophisticated town boy will find her lad a good playmate but she agrees. The farmhouse is isolated and it’s good for Peter to play with other children. She’d have preferred it to involve running about and tree-climbing but Marco has his ‘Ninja Turtles’ with him, David says. Miriam had no idea what he was talking about but Peter’s eyes lit up when he heard; described creatures with odd Italian names who fought baddies. It sounded most peculiar.
First stop, the bathroom. Every second day Miriam shaves her legs, a habit she developed at the age of fourteen following a visit to her cousins in the US. All the girls had long, brown, hair-free legs and hers, as little cousin Tommy pointed out loudly so everyone could hear, were hairy. Once hair-free, Miriam creams her legs and puts on her jeans.
