Green Grass (24 page)

‘I am casting runes upon the compost heap and then I'm going to make some witchy spells,' she replies promptly.

‘Why are you doing that? Why don't you just plant them in the ground?' Fred grabs the packet of seeds from her hand. ‘Hey, these aren't runes, they're giant courgettes. Silly Mum.' He grins at her fondly and Laura laughs.

‘What are you doing anyway?' she asks him. Fred is on his way to milk Grass.

‘Dad's gone to lie down,' he explains. ‘Dolly's making him a disgusting drink with leaves and nettles and stuff in it. It looks rank. I wouldn't drink it, but she says she looked it up in a book and it's good for his hay fever.'

In the sheds, the darkness is a cool contrast to the sunny afternoon outside, and the smell of goat and musty hay tickles Laura's nose. She sneezes and Grass leaps in alarm across her pen.

‘Let's tether her in the garden and milk her later,' suggests Laura, finding herself less keen on goat work
than she had anticipated. Fred leads Grass outside, her chain clanging like a convict's, and bangs the metal spike into the ground.

‘Mum, you know what? I think Tamsin has got a telescope trained on our house. Whenever we come she arrives like milliseconds later.' And on cue, the gate opens and Tamsin and a small girl with a giant inflatable hammer march up the path and into the house.

‘I don't think it's a telescope,' Laura tells Fred. ‘It's teen semaphore – Dolly must have texted her to say we're here. I wonder who that baby person is?'

Opening the kitchen door moments later, Laura shrinks back, not wishing to interrupt the conversation between this child and Inigo. The latter, a large red spotted handkerchief mopping his nose, is sitting at the table transfixed by the small figure who has settled, legs crossed, sunglasses akimbo on her head, on the bread bin. She has had to climb onto the table to sit on the bread bin, and she is thus looking down on Inigo in the manner of a teacher. An imperious teacher.

‘Do you want to know how to wash a worm? Yes or no?' Head on one side like a small bird, the child regards Inigo intently.

Inigo apparently does, since he nods. Gesticulating with small confident hands, the child elaborates.

‘Well, what you do is you get a thin bowl – one you've stretched – and you square up the worm and you put it in the bowl.' This on a note of triumph. Beaming, she looks around the room, eager to embrace a larger audience. Laura and Fred remain hidden behind the half-open door.

‘Anyway, then you soap the worm and dry it, and then it's ready to go back on the grass.' She gives him a measured look. ‘Or you can eat it if you like. How do you like that?' The little girl jumps up and capers on the table. Inigo tries to talk her down,

‘I think you should climb off there before you hurt yourself. I don't think Tamsin would like to see you on the table,' he urges.

The child throws him a mischievous look. ‘No, she wouldn't,' she agrees. ‘But I don't really care what Tamsin likes today.'

Recognising signs of bumptiousness, Laura decides to interrupt. She steps in and scoops the child off the table.

‘You be careful, young lady,' she says lightly, not wishing to alarm her.

‘I'VE ALREADY BEEN CAREFUL!' roars the child, red-faced with the ignominy of being carried by a stranger. Inigo edges away towards the stairs but is blocked by Dolly and Tamsin coming in, both self-consciously batting neon-bright eyelids.

‘Oh, thanks for keeping an eye on her for me. I'd better take her home now for tea.' Tamsin squats to embrace the child. ‘Hello Beauty, what have you been doing?'

The Beauty's tears vanish as if a plug has been pulled on them. She presses her hands to the sides of Tamsin's face and turns it to the light. ‘Can I wear some make-up like yours?' she demands.

Dolly laughs. ‘Oh Mum, isn't she cute? She belongs to some friend of Uncle Hedley's and Tamsin is looking after her for half-term. I'm going to help her.'

Laura realises that this is the child in the christening paddling pool. ‘Good luck to you both,' she says with feeling, as Tamsin carries the infant out of the house, accompanied by new fury because The Beauty is not ready to depart yet.

‘Is it safe?' Inigo's red handkerchief appears around the door like a flag of surrender, and behind it Inigo, his eyes still small slits in blotched red skin despite the application of camomile tea bags and more baby wipes. ‘I'd forgotten what small children can be like,' he marvels, shaking his head. ‘That one is diabolical. It's called The Beauty, but I've never seen anyone turn ugly so fast. She found me lying down upstairs and decided to be my nurse. I've been give three spoonfuls of neat Ribena which she insisted was Calpol, and I've had my temperature taken with a nail file. The only
way I could stop her ministering was to come downstairs for a lesson in worm management. You know she keeps worms – she had about ten in a tangle of mud in her pocket.' Inigo shudders, sneezes and takes himself off to watch cricket on the television with Fred.

Laura is secretly glad he is ill; it stops him challenging her authority here, and has made him too feeble to protest at the changes wrought since his last visit. In his absence the emphasis in the Gate House has swung determinedly towards Inigo's big enemy – nostalgia.

It began with Guy's housewarming present, a copy of the
My Guy
annual in which seventeen-year-old Laura, along with Guy and Hedley, appeared as a model in one of the photo love stories. Guy brought the book round one Sunday recently, when he came to receive his orders concerning Grass – having agreed to become her babysitter during the week. Laura was crouching in front of her broad beans when Guy arrived, singing them a song of encouragement. Cally always insisted that sung-to plants performed better, and although she could hardly be classed an expert as she only possessed two urban window boxes, Laura was so desperate for bean success that she would follow any lead.

‘Here, Laura, I've been doing some clearing out and I thought you might like this.' Guy waved the book, and laughing, Laura took it from him.

‘Let's have a look, Mum.' Fred, Laura's reluctant garden assistant, thrust between his mother and the book, snorting mirth which turned to stunned silence when he reached the page starring Laura. There she was, riding piggy-back on Guy who, pale and etiolated as he then was, looked about to collapse with the strain. ‘Girls On Top,' read the caption. ‘How to get your boyfriend where you want him and keep him there.' Fred blinks and turns the page, still not speaking.

Imagining his silence to be respectful, awestruck even, Laura leaned over Fred's shoulder and said mistily, ‘It was such fun. Do you remember the one where I had to pretend that plank of wood was my boyfriend and you came and challenged it to a fight?'

‘WHAT? You mean you did more of these love stories? Was Guy actually your boyfriend then?' Fred dropped the annual onto the struggling broad beans and looked between his mother and Guy, his mouth slack with disbelief. Taking their silence as confirmation, he staggered back in mock alarm. ‘That is the saddest thing I've ever heard. I hope you didn't tell Dad – he might divorce you when he gets back from America, it's so lame.' Fred's tone was withering. Laura turned pink and glanced at Guy then away fast because he was looking at her.

‘Um, yes,' confessed Guy, looking hunted. ‘Once in the dim mists of time Laura was my girlfriend.'

‘He can't divorce me because we aren't married, are we?' Laura retorted, brushing earth and leaves off her annual and hugging it to her.

‘Aren't you?' asked Guy, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

‘Er, no,' said Laura, somehow wishing she hadn't disclosed this information. And then, to change the subject, ‘Have you got any more? I'd love to get hold of the others and stick all the pictures in the loo or somewhere.'

Fred groaned faintly. ‘I can't believe you're actually going to have these where people can see them,' he complained. ‘I've got to tell Dolly, she'll go mental.' He wandered away, shaking his head and muttering, clearly much moved.

‘I should still have the others somewhere,' said Guy. ‘I'll have a look.' He dug his hands into the pocket of his jeans and looked at the ground. ‘Celia has been going through everything and taking all her stuff away, so I'm left with heaps of chaos I can't really bear to sort.'

He looked so bewildered and so bravely bereft with the elbow of his jersey worn to a hole and his tall frame hollowed with shock, that Laura felt a lurch of compassion and smiled warmly. ‘I'll help, if you like. I'm good at other people's disorder – it's just my own I can't deal with.'

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.'