Sam was difficult to get through to at teatime, which was nothing new. He was muttering to himself under his breath, between spoonfuls. I couldn’t catch it but it sounded like a prayer. He didn’t appear to be counting his spoonfuls of soup or the number of times he chewed each piece of bread either.
And for Sam that was weird.
Any changes in his behaviour put me on edge. You never knew what was going to loom up next, what crazy ideas were going to emerge fully-formed to disrupt our lives for the next few weeks or months or years.
Something that started small – a comment about a plughole or a drain for instance – could, within a couple of days, become a full-blown phobia of sinks and baths, or a nettle sting could become a terror of the colour green that kept him housebound for weeks and unable to eat salad for the rest of his life.
I was paranoid, I knew that. But who wouldn’t be? Life with Sam had the habit of pulling the rug from under your feet just when you thought you’d found your balance and then everything would suddenly change, and usually for the worse. Oh yes, however you looked at it, life could be rubbish when it came to being Sam’s mum. Complacency was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Constant vigilance was required – but constant vigilance was depressing and over years could grind you down into a million little pieces.
He ate his soup – reluctantly, he’d wanted pasta – and kind of muttered and sang to himself in this weird way the whole time. Yes, this was something new.
Earlier on, of course, he’d nearly got himself killed saying he wanted to go to Lancaster. That was definitely new. Something was up. Could these changes be good for him – for all of us – or did they spell disaster as usual?
I should be delighted he wanted to go to Lancaster. That’s what I’d always hoped would happen, after all; that he’d grow out of his self-imposed exile and want to break away from this prison. So why was I filled with dread that it meant nothing but trauma and misery for us all? I’d had too many bad experiences and dealt with too much disappointment to take it in my stride.
Anyway, my mind was buzzing with other things – I had no head room left to make sense of Sam. Sam’s wants and needs and demands had dominated my life for years, pushing everything else out of sight, but not today.
Today I wanted to dwell on Larry and what he’d said in the orchard. He’d as good as told me he loved me. If Duncan hadn’t appeared I think the conversation would have headed that way. I felt a warm rush through my body when I imagined him saying it.
It was a long time, a very long time, since I’d pushed Sam’s needs to one side, but that’s exactly what I was going to do now.
I poured myself a glass of wine. It wasn’t even six thirty but so what? I wasn’t living in the real world today. Larry was giving Duncan a hand with the milking – there were four newborn calves to be fed. I sat down, put my feet up on another chair, closed my eyes and let the wine slip down.
Duncan and Larry would both be inside in a minute and I’d have to eat soup and drink tea and make conversation as if everything was normal. I wasn’t sure how I’d manage that, but this glass of wine would help.
The latch rattled and I twisted round. Larry walked in and over to the table, then he bent over and kissed me. I heard Duncan’s boots tramping up the yard but I didn’t push Larry away. As Bess started barking Larry broke away and briefly stroked my face.
‘Stay there. I’ll set the table.’
He opened the cupboard and grabbed some bowls and a handful of cutlery from the drawer.
‘There’s bread warming in the oven,’ I said.
‘I’ll get it. You sit down.’
The door opened again and Duncan came in. He took his boots off and saw me with my feet up, drinking wine.
‘We celebrating again?’
‘Nah,’ said Larry, ‘No excuse needed for relaxing for a few minutes.’
Duncan looked at him and frowned. I took my feet off the chair and put the glass down. Larry topped it up an inch and grabbed another couple of glasses.
‘Drop of wine?’ he said to Duncan. Duncan shook his head.
‘A cup of tea’ll do me,’ he said, plonking himself down at the table.
I watched Duncan from the corner of my eye. Was he acting funny? Or was it Duncan being Duncan? He didn’t have the dog-with-two-tails air about him that he usually had when he was with Larry. Did he suspect something? I didn’t see how – we’d only been sitting in the orchard. We hadn’t been touching each other or anything. For goodness sake, intuition had never been Duncan’s strong point. Surely it wasn’t Larry setting the table that was pissing him off?
‘How’s the seedlings coming on?’ Duncan asked.
‘Aye, no bad.’ Larry had taken the bread out of the oven and was slicing it on the board. ‘Should be ready to plant out soon.’
I couldn’t stand watching Larry do the work and I got up.
‘I’ll rig up some supports to use for when they’re a bit bigger,’ said Larry.
Duncan nodded.
‘So is that you nearly done then, getting it all set up?’ Duncan said. Larry looked at him.
‘Aye, well, after they’re planted out it’s a case of keeping an eye out for pests and checking the temperature and ventilation and that.’
‘If they’re ready you might as well get them out tomorrow. The sooner they’re out the sooner we get a crop.’
‘Well they’re coming to no harm where they are,’ Larry said. ‘We might get a night frost or two yet.’ Larry carried on slicing the bread and I grabbed the butter knife and slapped thick smears of butter on it.
‘We’ll manage fine when the plantings done and the tunnel’s set up.’ Duncan looked at me. ‘Won’t we, Alice?’
I piled the bread into a wobbling heap.
‘I’m no expert,’ I said, ‘never claimed to be.’
‘We’ll manage fine,’ repeated Duncan. ‘You’ll be wanting to move on, I expect,’ he said to Larry. ‘I know you never stay in a place for too long.’
Larry shrugged. ‘No plans.’
‘You’ll need to be heading south for the early harvests,’ said Duncan. ‘You’ll not want to miss them.’
Larry sat down. I took the plate of bread to the table and went back for the soup. I ladled it out in silence.
Later that night when I was in bed and the light was out Duncan said, ‘I think it’s time Larry went.’
I pretended I was asleep.
‘He’s been here a while. I think he’s stringing it out because he’s onto a good thing.’
He nudged me. ‘Alice. Are you listening? It’s time he went.’
‘Why? You’ve changed your tune.’ I said.
‘The cannabis is ready really. He’s using the weather as an excuse. There won’t be any night frosts now.’
‘He’d be as well taking his time and getting it right, wouldn’t he?’
‘Well, I’m only suggesting doing what you wanted and getting him gone as soon as possible.’
My heart was thumping. ‘That was before he started helping with Sam.’
‘Yes, and I think that’s a bit weird as well. Why’s he so interested in Sam?’
I hutched myself up onto one shoulder and looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He seems to want to spend a lot of time with Sam. I think it’s weird.’
‘Why? Just because you don’t want to spend any time with him? He’s helping me out. First help I’ve ever had with him.’ I fell back onto my pillow. ‘You begrudge me a bit of help with him. That’s pathetic. And it’s horrible to call Larry weird because he wants to spend time with Sam. Frankly I think that says more about you than him.’
I turned over onto my side facing away from him, dragging acres of quilt with me. I stared out into the dark and pretended to be going to sleep, hoping he couldn’t hear the crash of my heart against my ribs.
Next morning at breakfast Duncan was at it again, trying to push things along.
‘Best get those seedlings planted out today,’ he said to Larry.
‘It’s maybe a bit soon,’ said Larry. ‘Weather’s unpredictable. It’s a rookie mistake. A frost’ll finish them off.’
‘Nah, we need to get on with it,’ said Duncan. ‘It’s daft to hang about.’
‘I can give you a hand,’ I said to Larry. ‘I’ve got Sam set up with some History so I’ve got time.’
‘No you won’t,’ said Duncan. ‘I’ll do it.’
I took a gulp of my coffee.
Duncan looked at me. ‘Well, you’re not interested in growing this stuff are you? You’ve made that plain enough right from the start.’