Sunday 22 July 1962
It’s eleven o’clock in the morning the next day and I’m standing in a field surrounded by a herd of cows.
Last night, when Christine found out that I couldn’t work at Maureen’s salon because of medical reasons (‘Prosciutto cruditis! What the bleeding hell’s that?’), she showed all the sympathy and understanding of Caligula. Arthur, ever the diplomat, asked me to go up to my room, so I went and put on my favourite Adam Faith LP, but, even without all the acoustic interference of Christine’s yelling, it somehow didn’t feel the same now that I’d heard Caroline’s tape of the four boys from Liverpool. Later on, Arthur came up and told me to keep today free as he wanted to show me something – and he said not to tell Christine. It was all very mysterious, which isn’t like Arthur at all.
So here I am. In a field of cows. With Arthur. And with Mr Baxter, the horrible builder who wants to knock down our farm and build a shiny new housing estate.
Mr Baxter looks like a Toby jug. He’s wearing a pie-brown suit that must be at least two sizes too small for him and a great bulge of white shirt is poking out over his trousers, making a bid for freedom. Summer is obviously an unfortunate time of the year for Mr Baxter, as a growing damp patch lurks under each of his armpits, and his round face, which reminds me of a well-inflated football with a comb-over, is covered in a sheen of sweat.
*
‘And the new garden would end there,’ says Arthur, smiling and pointing to a spot near the stream. ‘So, you can see, you’d still have plenty of space outside. Enough even for a dog, maybe.’
Arthur has been on a charm offensive for the past half-hour. I’ve heard all about how lovely the new estate will be. How pretty it will be. What good neighbours we’ll all be and how happy everyone’ll be. And I’ve heard about our wonderful new house and its wonderful porch and wonderful drive and wonderful double garage. Now Arthur seems to be playing his joker: I can have a dog.
I’ve never seen him be this effusive about anything before. Not even the cricket. Something strange is happening.
‘So will the stream be in our garden, then?’ I ask.
‘Er, yes,’ says Arthur, glancing over at Mr Baxter.
‘Well, yes and no,’ says Mr Baxter (rooting hog, saucy lackey, cream-faced loon). ‘You see, we’d need to fill in the stream and concrete it over. So the stream would technically still be there, it’s just that you wouldn’t actually be able to see it any more. And there’d be no water, of course. But you would have a lovely fishpond, remember, with a fountain in it too if you like. Better than a dirty old stream, love,’ he continues, speaking to me as if I were ten. He walks up to Arthur, puts his sweaty arm around him (poor Arthur) and exudes a clammy smile.
‘But what about the newts?’ I ask. ‘Loads live in the stream. Where will they all go?’
Mr Baxter’s smile flickers.
‘Well, they’ll go and find a new stream, won’t they, love? Yorkshire’s hardly short of streams, is it? It’s a good fast bowler we’re lacking, eh, Arthur?’ he adds, slapping Arthur on the back.
‘And what about the copse?’ I say, pointing to a small wood which has a carpet of bluebells every spring. ‘Is that going too?’
‘Well, I’m sure Mr Baxter will be keeping as many trees as possible, love,’ says Arthur. ‘Won’t you, Bill?’ he adds, looking at Mr Baxter.
‘Aye, we’ll keep a few. Of course. People like a bit of greenery around. We can’t go crazy, mind. Land is money, eh, Arthur?’ And Mr Baxter, half winking, half gurning, bursts out laughing even though he hasn’t said anything remotely funny.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say, unconvinced by Mr Baxter’s bonhomie and roast-ham smile. ‘It all sounds such a shame. Knocking the farmhouse down and building over the land, I mean.’
Mr Baxter looks at me as if I’m a problem (I recognise the look – it’s the same one I get from Christine).
‘Arthur,’ says Mr Baxter, turning around and gesturing to Arthur. ‘Can I have a quiet word?’
They walk a few yards and stand with their backs to me, with Mr Baxter’s arm looped over Arthur’s shoulder. They’re talking but I can’t hear a thing. At times like this, I’m jealous of Christine and her radar hearing.
After a bit Arthur turns round and glances back at me. I pretend to be busy with a stick and clod of grass and he turns back round and carries on talking to Mr Baxter. There’s a flurry of head shaking (Arthur) and back slapping (Mr Baxter) and then they both finally turn and face me.
‘Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight,’ says Mr Baxter, unnecessarily spreading the word out. ‘Look, I don’t want to keep you both, so do you have any more questions, young lady, before I get going?’
‘Yes, what about the cows?’ I ask. ‘What’ll happen to them when you build all the houses everywhere? Will they still have a home?’
‘The cows?’ repeats Mr Baxter, shooting his voice high into the air (just like Christine). He turns and raises his eyebrows at Arthur. ‘The cows? Eh, she wants to know about the bleedin’ cows?’ He turns back to me, staring at me with his beady, gammony eyes. ‘Look, love, let’s just say it’ll be steak and ale pie all round!’
I stare at him, fighting the urge to push him into the stream and then concrete it over.
Arthur looks across at me. The sun’s beaming down onto his lovely blond hair and his butterfly-blue eyes flash. He suddenly seems taller. And broader. A tweedified Yorkshire Viking.
‘I think it’s best if you go now, Bill,’ he says, cocking his head back slightly. ‘We’ll talk business later. I want to spend some time with Evie first.’
‘Right you are, Arthur,’ says Mr Baxter, shaking his head and putting his fat stubby hands into his pockets. ‘Let’s talk later. Just you and me, eh?’ He starts walking off. ‘I’ll bring the contract. And, ey, just think of all that money and the new house for you and your dolly bird.’
Arthur winces.
‘You’d be a fool to miss an opportunity like this,’ shouts Mr Baxter, heading back towards the farm.
Horrible sausage roll of a man.
Arthur and I go and sit on a big tree that blew down last winter and watch Mr Baxter walk off. Our telepathic antennae are twitching and I can tell he wants to speak to me about Something Important.
‘Well, I’ve known nicer,’ he says, in a textbook example of Yorkshire understatement. ‘But his money’s good. What he’s offering could really help us out, love. You know the farm’s barely keeping afloat, don’t you?’
I want to mention all the money Arthur spends on Christine but I don’t.
‘It’d set you up too, love,’ he adds. ‘I know the hairdressing didn’t work out but if we sold the farm, you’d have enough to get yourself a nice little florists or a dress shop. Or you could train up for something. Typing. Shorthand.’
He does his best encouraging smile. I try to respond but I just can’t.
‘And the farmhouse is old, love,’ he goes on, pushing his fingers through his hair. ‘Having one of Bill’s new houses makes sense. There’d be no leaks or drafts, no low ceilings or broken floorboards. You’d have a nice big bedroom, really light, with a desk and walk-in wardrobe. You’d have your own bathroom too. Everything’d be new.’
‘But I don’t want everything new,’ I say, calmly and clearly. I’m looking down at my feet, tracing shapes in the dirt with the tips of my shoes. What I really want is for everything to go back to How It Was Before. Pre-Christine and her man-made fabrics and Tupperware vases. Pre-bingo, burnt teas and wall-to-wall commercial television. Pre endless talk of weddings and Olympicscale nagging.
Just pre.
I sigh. A big, fat, shoulder-shaking, belly-emptying sigh.
‘But if you think we need to sell the farm,’ I go on, ‘that’s what we’ll have to do. We don’t really have any choice, do we? I just want you to be happy, Dad.’
Up until now, Arthur had been staring down at his feet too, but when I say this he closes his eyes tight shut and looks like he’s in pain.
After what seems like ages Arthur opens his eyes, looks at me and smiles. His eyes are pink and a bit puffy and I suspect he might be coming down with a summer cold.
‘There’s something I want to talk to you about, Evie, love,’ he says, reaching out and holding my hand. ‘Something important. It’s about your mother.’
This is really strange as:
1. Arthur never holds my hand.
2. Arthur never talks about my mother.
He fidgets around a bit, looking even more awkward than usual, and squeezes my hand.
‘Is this about the recipe book?’ I ask, trying to help out.
‘What recipe book?’ says Arthur, clearly caught off guard.
‘Mum’s recipe book, the one with all the amazing recipes in it. Mrs Scott-Pym gave it to me.’
Arthur stops staring at his feet and turns to look directly at me.
‘Diana’s recipe book?’
For a second, the air shimmers and glows.
‘Where did that come from?’ he goes on. ‘How did Mrs Scott-Pym get hold of it?’
‘Mum lent it to her apparently and it’s been sitting on one of Mrs Scott-Pym’s bookcases ever since. It’s incredible, full of recipes for things like Lemon Syllabub and Asparagus Ice.’
‘Diana’s recipe book,’ repeats Arthur, staring at the sky and clearly not really listening to me.
‘It’s lovely,’ I explain. ‘Full of beautiful writing, looping and curling. I wish I could write like that.’
Arthur doesn’t say anything. I think he’s back somewhere in the Olden Times.
‘And she stuck in some recipes from old newspapers too,’ I go on. ‘But they’ve all gone a bit yellow and brittle. There’s even one from a French paper.’
Arthur closes his eyes and laughs. When he opens them, I see that they’ve progressed from pink to red.
‘Yes, that’d be your mother,’ he says, his eyes fixed on a patch of inconsequential sky. ‘She could speak French better than a Frenchman, you know. Cook better than one too. She was a wonderful cook, your mother. In fact, she was wonderful at most things.’
‘That’s what Mrs Scott-Pym said when she gave me the recipe book. She said Mum was a real gem,’ I tell him, even though I still don’t think he’s really listening to me. ‘I was going to tell you about the recipe book before but I just wanted to keep it to myself for a bit because I was worried Christine might take it away.’
‘What’s that, love?’ he says, time-travelling back to 1962.
‘I said I was going to tell you about the recipe book, but I haven’t got round to it yet. I was worried Christine would take it away, like she did with all the other things.’
Arthur lets go of my hand, puts his head down, closes his eyes (again) and lifts both hands to cover his face. His shoulders bob up and down slightly and he makes heavy breathing noises through his palms.
I’m not really sure what to do.
‘Sorry for mentioning the recipe book, Dad,’ I say. ‘Was that what you wanted to talk to me about? Or was it something else?’
Arthur doesn’t reply. His face is still covered, his shoulders still bobbing, and his breathing still heavy.
‘No,’ he says eventually. ‘But it doesn’t matter, love. Not now. Let’s talk later. You stay here and keep the cows company.’
And he gets up and walks off, looking over at the house not at me.