Inigo’s hay fever is little more than a memory and a sodden handkerchief the next morning, which is maddening as Laura has planned to go and finish Guy’s sorting for him. The vigour with which Inigo yells, ‘What the hell is that pile of suburban shite?’ at the hissing and chiming of the Goblin Teasmade, leaves Laura in no doubt as to his mood. Admittedly it is seven in the morning, but Laura is always delighted to be served tea whatever the hour, and especially since finding this domestic classic in the attic at Guy’s house and making it her own. Inigo wraps a pillow tightly around his head and turns his back on Laura and the open window behind her, through which silver birdsong wafts in snatches and a whip of rose stem scrambles. Laura sips her tea, soaking up tranquillity and chatting to the silent Inigo. He’s not asleep, no one could be asleep with their hands almost knotted around a pillow wedged over their head, but he probably can’t hear her. Still, chatting in bed in the morning is the sort of thing couples should do, so Laura does it.
‘I’ve been helping this old friend Guy – you know, the one who looks after the goat for us – to clear his junk out.’ Inigo makes no response, Laura nudges him. ‘Well, I was helping him a couple of weeks ago anyway, although I never finished it, so I ought to do that.’ It is good to make it sound like a chore, Laura thinks. ‘And I’ve got to go to the village later this morning to sort out the table-top sale we’ve organised for next weekend, so will you be OK here with Doll and Fred?’ She looks hopefully at Inigo’s back. It quivers. ‘The sale is to raise money for the church, and I can’t believe how friendly and helpful people are being here about it. It would be a good opportunity to promote Guy’s organic business too, so I thought I’d make some leaflets—’
Laura stops, interrupted by a spine-chilling groaning sound from beneath the pillow and a tiny, muffled voice saying, ‘This is like a nightmare. When I went to New York you were my dream woman, sexy, clever, sharp, maternal – everything I ever wanted. All right, so you’re a bit clumsy and you don’t always remember useful things, but you were everything I loved.’
Well, you never bloody said so, did you? Laura thinks, biting her lip to stop herself yelling, ‘You are a sexist pig!’ as Inigo bursts from under the pillow, red in the face, and leaps out of bed, striding about stark naked, intent on his message.
‘And now look what’s happened. You’ve got this hovel here like a chutney Mary, and you’ve become a lesbian dog-lover type with Women’s Institute written all over your face and Do Gooder stamped on your bottom. I can’t stand it. You’ve probably got hairy legs. Now you listen to me.’ Inigo pauses and points his forefinger at her accusingly. ‘The only table-top stall you’re doing is an Allen Jones Private View for me in this bedroom and that’s that.’
Laura rolls her eyes and looks at the ceiling. Allen Jones, with his pneumatic rubber doll goddesses, has always been Inigo’s favourite artist when he’s annoyed with her. It’s not great listening to this sexist diatribe, although it’s quite funny watching Inigo marching up and down. If men want to be taken seriously then they must wear something, but this is not the moment to remind Inigo he has nothing on. There is a screech of brakes outside as the postman stops by the box at the gate. Inigo grabs a towel and wraps it around himself.
‘And who is this guy Guy? Fred showed me that My Guy annual.’ He stops, and says with feeling, ‘My Guy, for Christ’s sake. You could have done Penthouse or something decent.’ He glares at Laura again and restarts his pacing. ‘I know perfectly well that Guy is that bloody farmer from your past you used to go misty-eyed over. What are you doing minding his business for him when my studio is covered in dust and you haven’t asked one single question about the show in New York? That hideous dog of yours is more interested in my work than you are. At least he walked around my portfolio. You just bloody tripped over it. You’d better watch out or you’ll be so dug into Norfolk mud that you can’t get out.’
It isn’t helpful, but Laura begins to laugh. Inigo in his bath towel, ranting his way around the room, throwing the odd look of loathing at the Teasmade, is so very comical. Laura has never found his tantrums particularly threatening. She is used to men with mood swings, and in fact, she is increasingly sure that the energy of Inigo’s temper is the energy he harnesses for work.
She runs through the list of things she wants to achieve this weekend, trying to find something for Inigo to do which will take his mind off the affront of Guy’s table-top sale. Tying up the roses? No, Fred is doing that; he promised because he kicked a football into the most overblown one and it collapsed on top of him, and Laura feels it is important that he should be the one to put it right again. Looking after Grass? Well, that’s supposed to be Dolly’s job, time-shared now with Guy who leaves notes with cartoon drawings of himself pushing Grass up the hill to his farm, or messages purported to be written by Grass complaining about the facilities in his yard. This chore was forced on Guy a few weeks ago by Hedley’s behaviour. Bored with banging in fence posts for her field when he wanted to be off with Gina, up for the weekend to stay with him, Hedley announced one Sunday afternoon, ‘Actually, I don’t want to be responsible for this goat any more when you’re not here. I’m going to have Grass butchered.’
‘You can’t,’ protested Laura.
Dolly burst into tears and rushed from the room screaming, ‘You’re a heartless bastard, Uncle Hedley, and I’m going to become a vegetarian from now on.’
Fred, hearing her as he came in, shook his head in amazement, and held up his ferret until he was looking into her glistening black eyes.
‘Don’t worry, Vice, I won’t let that crazy veggie anywhere near you. She might spike your roadkill with tofu mix.’
Laura, forced out of her most enjoyable perusal of a plant catalogue by Dolly’s slamming and sobbing, sighed, steeled herself and rang Guy to ask if he knew a goat sanctuary Grass could be sent to. Guy’s suggestion that he could time-share the goat himself was one of rare nobility. ‘And if we get bored of each other I can put her in that paddock Hedley made you,’ he had pointed out.
It is hard, Laura admits to herself, dressing with out speaking and carrying the Teasmade past the glowering Inigo, to keep him on the pedestal he likes to occupy, when others are acting with so much more generosity of spirit.
By the time Laura has given everyone breakfast, and helped Dolly make an outdoor milking parlour for Grass, the morning is half over. Guy telephones,
‘Hi, Laura, I’ve finished sorting the junk; I thought you were probably a bit too busy to fit it in. I’ve been up all night making plans.’
He sounds brittle and not himself. Laura takes her phone upstairs and looks out of the window at her vegetable plot bright with marigolds, borage and vivid green pyramids of peas, trophies from a plant sale for a neighbouring church.
‘What’s the matter, Guy?’ She notices she hasn’t removed the labels, and wanders out into the garden, still on the phone.
He laughs wildly. ‘Oh, Celia has won. She wanted to keep the name of the business – my business – for her disgusting sugar-beet potions. She’s done what she hoped to – she’s taken something that matters hugely to me, just out of spite. I’ve got to find a new name and frankly, I’d like to jack it all in.’ He sighs, miserable and bitter.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Laura, and something inside her deflates, leaving a sense of loss that makes her want to sob.
‘Anyway, I’m going out to Greece for a bit to look at some farms there. I’ll see you in a few weeks. I’ll miss you, Laura.’
Laura switches off the phone, and walks back to the house, not liking the gloom that has settled on her with this call. What should she do now? She’s been pretending it’s fun to be useful, organising this table-top stall, when in fact it’s been fun to hang around with Guy. If only Inigo would take more of an interest in what she has done here. Guy understands; and Guy is leaving. Inigo just doesn’t care about the Gate House as a place. Nothing exists for Inigo unless it’s related to his work. With a pang of guilt she recalls his cry that she isn’t interested in his work any more. Keen to make up for this, Laura sets off down the road to find him. He has been gone for some time, armed with a digital camera and a notebook. She meets him on his way back; Inigo is bouncing with good humour.
‘This is good,’ he shouts to Laura. ‘The village is so primitive. The inhabitants are so friendly.’
Laura winces. ‘You could just call them people,’ she suggests.
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous and politically correct,’ he roars. ‘Now then, let me have a look at this milking business.’ He marches over to Dolly, who is browning her back in a purple halter neck while Grass stands in the shade of a large silver canopy. ‘That’s my light reflector,’ protests Inigo.
‘I know, it’s really good for getting a suntan,’ grins Dolly.
Instead of making a fuss, Inigo crouches to film Dolly’s hands as they flex around the long hot udder. ‘God, it looks like a pair of those bloody sweet potatoes, or maybe brown parsnips,’ he mutters. ‘It’s the weirdest shape I’ve ever seen.’
‘Poor Grass, don’t listen,’ says Dolly, who has entered a halcyon phase with Grass since she stopped being shut in her shed and became a free, laidback goat with a field.
Later, Inigo finds Laura harvesting a row of salad leaves and dreaming of opening a salad bar in the village with Guy.
‘It’s great,’ he says, stepping over her neatly edged beds to hug her, all the fury of the morning forgotten now. ‘I’ve got a new project. It’s called Nanny State and it’s opening with the milking shots really close up. I’m going to explore udders, breasts and milk.’
‘Oh are you? Great!’ says Laura, speaking enthusiastically to hide her guilt, and actually thinking it sounds a bit kinky at this early stage.
‘Yes. It will be my entry for the National Academy Award this year. Where’s Hedley? I need him to take me to look at some cows’ udders.’