Green Grass (29 page)

On the way upstairs, she grips the banister. Her legs are heavy, weighted solid as if they are filled with flour, and weariness trickles and seeps through her skin and into her bones. Getting into bed she groans aloud with the pleasure of lying down, and settles back against the pillows with the latest weepalong novel, recommended by the morning chat show she and Fred watched when they first arrived.

Opening the book, Laura gazes instead at the wall beyond her bed. Despite Inigo, or better still completely ignoring Inigo, there have been real improvements in her life recently, and it's important to take
stock of them, so as not to be too downcast by his unpleasantness. There is the small joy of each physical achievement she has experienced in learning how to put up shelves, cultivate a vegetable plot and nurture a nanny goat. Laura had never imagined that practical skills could be so rewarding, but now the idea of returning to London and the cerebral challenges of the studio, and Inigo's brilliant career, is unappealing when set against the reclamation of the garden and the weirdly satisfying pickling and jam-making programme she has planned under Guy's supervision. As someone who has never been interested in food beyond fuel, Laura is bemused by her own newfound enthusiasm for making things. She finds herself jotting a note on the dust jacket of
Thief of My Heart
to remind herself to try the rosehip and crab apple jelly recipe she was given by the lady in the village shop today.

The latch clicks, and automatically Laura hides the book under her pillow.

‘Are you all right?' Inigo keeps his head bowed even now he is through the low doorway.

Laura nods, turning her face away, furious to find that a tear has slipped out and down her nose. Inigo sits on the bed. Nothing about him belongs there – his green jacket instantly attracts a small puff of feathers from a hole in Laura's flowery quilt, and his oiled hair
is slick and almost menacing in the rosy light which dances through a raspberry lace shade Laura created from an old petticoat. He sneezes; she passes him her handkerchief.

‘I didn't mean to upset you.' He sneezes again. Laura sighs. She doesn't want to have a painful, raking conversation now, she is tired. And he's got hay fever.

‘I'm not upset, I'm tired.' She picks up her book.

‘Chirst, you haven't started reading that rubbish again, have you?' Inigo looks at the book with so much disgust that Laura wonders if he has mistaken the cover illustration for something specifically offensive to him – a naff cartoon character or a fast food outlet, for example.

‘Mind your own sodding business, I'll read what I like.' She turns over and lies down, hoping to signal that the conversation is over.

Inigo moves nearer, emanating anxiety and smelling faintly of woodsmoke. ‘Laura, there are things we need to talk about,' he says, sniffing as dust motes rise in the room, disturbed when he moved the lampshade a trifle to see her better. ‘I think we've reached the end of the road in London.'

Laura's heart thumps in her neck. She's looking at him now; her mouth is dry and her hands are clenched fists on the pulled-up sheet. It's like a
warped scene from Red Riding Hood. She flings the covers back and sits up so she is next to Inigo. Both of them stare at the floor.

‘What are you saying?' she asks, and it's like falling in a dream because she can't go back now they're talking like this, and she doesn't know how she would choose her life to change if she could.

Inigo's arms are folded across his chest, his elbows crunched on his knees as if he has been winded. ‘I think we should move out. Rent the house for a bit,' he says. ‘I want to give New York a go. The opportunities are there for me and my work and we can have a great life there together – like we did when we met, remember?' Even the way he's worded it is selfish. Laura's eyes smart.

He looks at her, hoping, willing her to say, ‘Yes, of course, let's do it,' but she can't. Laura thumps the mattress, her jaw set, and speaks through gritted teeth. ‘You know we can't do that. It's the wrong time. And anyway, as you've pointed out, we've done it already. I want to move on, not go backwards. That's what we should all be doing now, Inigo.'

‘It isn't backwards for me.' His voice is so low it's a whisper. ‘And I don't know what else we can do together.'

There is nothing to lose in suggesting her own idea. Laura shuts her eyes.

‘We could all come and live here and the children could go to school with Tamsin and—'

‘HERE?' Inigo is gob-smacked. ‘But I can't stand this place,' he says, so shocked that he cannot keep his guard or any pretences up at all. ‘This isn't a place to live. This is the middle of nowhere. It's quaint. It's an experience, not a way of life you know, Laura.'

‘Don't be patronising, and don't be so narrow-minded,' she hisses, pulling the covers back around her as protection. ‘I think it would save us from all becoming strangers.' He might relate to a bit of therapy speak. ‘The countryside is grounding. I've found being here so healing.'

‘You've been reading too many self-help books,' Inigo snarls, uncurling from his pleading position to stand scornfully, hands dug into his pockets, looking down at Laura in her bed.

She bounces up onto her knees, hair awry, eyes blazing fury. ‘And you've been resting on your laurels so comfortably you've forgotten how to behave within a family. Now go away and leave me alone. You can sleep on the bathroom floor.'

‘Oh good. Nice and reasonable,' mutters Inigo. ‘There is no way I'm sleeping in the bathroom, I'd catch typhoid from that pit. I shall sleep in the sitting room tonight. Tomorrow we shall tell the children.'

‘What are we telling them?' Laura yells to no avail. He has closed the door behind him and gone. It is only mildly satisfying for Laura to hurl the weepalong novel at the door and to burst into angry sobs.

Waking early, Laura wavers between continuing her attempts at tweaking home and hearth by making pancakes for breakfast, and following her own inclination, which is to go for a walk. The rain of the previous night has departed, leaving a sky so blue it almost sings above the sparkling waterlogged landscape. Opting for virtue and pancakes, Laura finds that the reward is built in – batter as illustrated in her very easy children's recipe book only takes a moment to construct, and soon she is walking down the lane, an emancipated woman with a pug at her heels. However, being alone with her thoughts is more than Laura can bear, and she finds herself approaching Hedley's house, hoping her brother will be up and able to divert her mind.

She hears Hedley before she sees him. ‘Get over.
GET OFF
. I said GET OFF, you little bastard.' Following his voice, Laura discovers him in a small field, glaring at a very small black pony. The pony, which is
wider than it is tall, has one miniature hoof placed on Hedley's foot, and ignoring his fury, is devouring the contents of the bucket Hedley holds in his hand.

‘God, how I loathe horses. You WILL get off my sodding foot now.' With supreme strength, Hedley pushes the pony off his boot and limps over to Laura. ‘It belongs to Venetia – it's for the children, but it's a surprise so I've got it for a few weeks until the unveiling.'

‘That was kind of you.' Laura strokes the pony's nose. Hedley grunts.

‘Mmm. Well, it was Tamsin. She's been doing a lot of baby-sitting for them and she encouraged them to get a pony and she's going to help teach them to ride it. I thought that as she was doing something positive rather than just lying around with the curtains drawn watching television, I should support her. Not that she's pleased with me,' he sighs. ‘She seems more removed than ever now Gina's around, and I thought they'd get on so well.' He looks suspiciously at his sister. ‘Why are you here? I hope you're not trying to palm that goat off on me again.'

Laura's face crumples.

‘No, no. It's not that. But I don't know what to do,' she wails. Hedley's jaw drops, but he pulls himself together and pats her on the back.

‘Come on now,' he says heartily. ‘Nothing is ever that bad, is it?'

Laura does not return to the Gate House until much later in the morning. Both she and Zeus are liberally covered in mud from the long walk with Hedley across the marshes. She is restored though, and able to face Inigo without crumpling into indecision. She finds him in the shed, where he has set up a projector and is running through slides of his work with Grass as his silent audience. Laura opens the door as the lecture ends:

‘So, as illustrated by the loop which runs through all my work, there is a universal truth, and that truth is that there is no end, just continual progress towards the future.' He glances round at Laura, and adds quickly, ‘Let's get there together,' but she doesn't hear.

‘Where are Dolly and Fred? I think we need to talk to them,' says Laura.

‘Aah yes,' says Inigo. ‘Well, if it's all right with you I suggest that—'

‘No.' Laura raises her hand, speaking fast to get her point in first. ‘It's not all right with me. I will say what I am doing now. I've made my decisions and I don't want to be steam-rollered by you any more.'

Tears pour down her cheeks; she presses her fingers into her eyes to try and stop them flowing but they swell hot from her eyes and drip down her hands instead. She sniffs and wipes her sleeve across her nose. ‘I don't want to hear what you think any more. I have decided what I am doing. I shall stay in London in the week until the end of this term and then I am coming to live here with Dolly and Fred. I know Dolly won't like it, but at least she's got Tamsin, and I don't think it will ruin her life as she doesn't like anything much anyway. You must do what you must do, but I have to do this.'

Panting slightly, Laura buries her hot face in Grass's pungent neck. The goatiness is too much to stay like that for long. Laura rises, pats Grass and begins hanging buckets on hooks, anything to occupy her hands and the direction of her gaze.

‘Very well, Laura.' Inigo has retreated behind a wall of icy disappointment. ‘You do as you please, and I'll go to New York and earn some goddamn money to pay for everything.'

‘Please don't pretend you're being hard done by,' Laura flashes back at him. ‘It's what you want. You hate it here. You said so.'

Inigo's ice wall melts for a moment. He flushes and puts out a hand to Laura but she doesn't see because she's folding paper sacks in the corner.
Grass's shed has never been so tidy. Unremarked, Grass placidly chews at the jacket Inigo hung on her door.

‘I didn't mean it when I said that, Laura, you know I didn't. It's just – it's just –' He waves imploringly. ‘Well, you know. I'm a town type. This is a culture shock for me. All this business with animals and mud and picking fruit just gets in the way of life.'

Laura's voice is small and sad, and makes Inigo want to weep when she replies, ‘But to me it
is
the way of life, or it could be. You just haven't given it a chance.'

Inigo reaches for his jacket. ‘I can't now – JESUS H CHRIST! Where's my sodding sleeve? Look! Look, Laura! This hell fiend has eaten the whole sleeve. I tell you, goats are Satan's children and if I have to, I'll—'

‘Oh, for goodness sake shut up, it's only a stupid jacket,' snaps Laura. ‘You liked the goat fine when you were using her for art.'

‘That was the only thing she will ever do that is worthwhile in her whole life,' snarls Inigo, hurling the jacket at Grass's feet and marching out of the shed with his slides and his projector.

Laura and Grass look at one another. Grass takes another bite out of the jacket. ‘Since when are goats supposed to be worthwhile?' asks Laura crossly.

Inigo vents his temper by shutting himself in the kitchen for the rest of the morning with an earsplitting Eastern European opera at full volume and all the lids and doors of the Rayburn open to create a satisfactory fug in which to cook. The evisceration and jointing of the hare provides the outlet his battered pride needs, and by the time he clamps the lid on for the meat to braise, much of his usual aplomb is restored. Humming, he turns the music up, trilling along to Janá
ĉ
ek, and one of Janufa's mother's blood-chilling arias. Laying the table with a red checked cloth, plonking yellowed half-melted candles on it and a vase of golden leaves and rose hips picked by Dolly, Inigo sings a burst of opera and thinks how nice it would be to have a parallel existence as a bistro owner in a small town in France or Italy where food is appreciated and even talked about.

He puts the food on the table and calls his family to sit down, pouring himself a large glass of red wine and gulping it down in one, as they appear in the kitchen and arrange themselves around the table. Laura tries to smile at him across the table, but is met with an impenetrable stare, so turns to Dolly, who has scraped all the meat sauce off her pasta and is fastidiously picking out the tomatoes from the salad.

‘This is horrendous, I'm a vegetarian,' she wails.
‘And I had to have meat last night with that stew Mum cooked and now this. You're trying to starve me. Can't I just go and get a Pot Noodle?'

Laura winces, expecting Inigo to erupt at the mention of Pot Noodle, but he ignores Dolly's rudeness and simply says, ‘If that's what you want,' before leaning back to put the kettle on for her.

Fred drops his fork in melodramatic mock amazement, and whispers to Laura, ‘Can I have one too? I liked that hare, but it wasn't enough, and I don't want seconds of it, I want something else.'

Wondering whether any conversation about their family will penetrate the skin of self-absorption each child displays, Laura nods, then coughs, and closes her eyes as she speaks.

‘You two need to know our plans, I think.'