Truestory Page 9

‘What do you think then, son?’ asked Larry, still smiling.

  I grinned round at Sam and felt the smile drain from my face. Sam had a look of terror on his face. The size of the Wildwood had obviously come as a terrible shock – as though he’d discovered Backwoods Farm was not a safe place to be after all. He rolled up the map and walked upstairs looking white and stricken.

  ‘Is he all right?’ asked Larry.

  ‘Who knows?’ said Duncan.

  I scowled at Duncan. ‘Yes,’ I said to Larry. ‘New things take a bit of getting used to.’

  Larry went to put his boots on to go out and start work in the polytunnel. ‘Thanks, Larry,’ I said, ‘that was really good of you.’

  Larry shrugged. ‘No bother, I remember being daft about stuff when I was a kid. With me it was stamps.’ And he smiled.

  I couldn’t help it – I smiled back. I’d never done anything but scowl at him since he arrived. He must have thought I was a right miserable cow.

  ‘Do you want a brew before you start?’

  ‘No thanks, I’ll crack on.’

  I felt my throat constricting. I was going to cry because someone had been kind to my son – done something nice for him – and not acted as though he was a weirdo or a nuisance or looked put out when he didn’t speak. The gratitude was nearly choking me.

  I turned away so he didn’t see the effect his kindness was having and think I was some kind of idiot. I bashed around with the dinner pots until he went outside then I sat at the table with my head in my hands and felt a huge wave of loneliness crash right over me.

  Later I stood in the washroom watching Larry messing about with the rotovator. It looked like a huge lawnmower and he was tinkering about with a spanner, squinting through the smoke that was coiling up from the cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

  He fired it up and revved it a few times, then he turned it off and tinkered some more.

  Larry pushed the rotovator towards the polytunnel. That tunnel was such an eyesore but, let’s face it, the whole farm was no oil painting. There’d been another row about the polytunnel yesterday after I’d done the books.

  Duncan had told me he’d paid a hundred quid for it, but I’d found £250 withdrawn from the bank. I’d stared at it for a few minutes before I realised what it must be.

  ‘Did you pay two hundred and fifty quid for that bloody monstrosity?’ I said.

  He rattled his Farmers’ Guardian and said nothing.

  ‘I said, DID YOU PAY – ’

  ‘Aye!’ he cut in. ‘I did, and it’s gonna be worth every penny – you’ll see.’

  ‘Bloody Hell! This gets worse! How stupid do you think I am? And how daft are you for thinking I wouldn’t even notice?’

  ‘I’m doing it for everyone, Alice,’ he said. ‘For you and for Sam and my mum and my dad – ’

  ‘You don’t need to do it for me!’ I said.

  He took no notice. ‘ – and for all the other generations before that. I can’t throw everything away – all those years of struggling and working themselves half to death. I can’t lose it now, Alice, not when it’s my turn to look after it.’

  I gawped at him. It wasn’t like Duncan to bring his ancestors and his mum and dad into it.

  ‘I have to do something, don’t you see?’ he said.

  ‘Okay, I can see that,’ I said. ‘But this cannabis idea’s rubbish. We’ve got to come up with something better than that.’

  He stood up and flung his paper down and yelled: ‘Shut up about the fuckin’ cannabis, Alice – we’re doing it,’ and he crashed out of the house.

  I’d barely spoken to him since. I’d gone to bed before him last night and left him talking to Larry in the kitchen.

  I watched Larry push the rotovator into the polytunnel. I didn’t blame Larry, I blamed Duncan. This was his responsibility, his decision. This was all Duncan’s fault.

  Chapter 14

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  How do I know what to believe?

  Truestory

  Date: 5 June 2014

  Time: 13:37

  Do I believe what I can see with my eyes or do I believe what is written down?

  Re: How do I know what to believe?

  ChocolateMoustache

  Date: 5 June 2014

  Time: 13.49

  Don’t take anything on trust, Truestory, always test it out.

  Re: How do I know what to believe?

  Fizzy Mascara

  Date: 5 June 2014

  Time: 13.55

  This about god again? *Sigh* Organised religion was created to stop humans from being shit-scared of death. Be brave, Truestory you don’t need it.

  Re: How do I know what to believe?

  JC

  Date: 5 June 2014

  Time: 14.02

  Christianity is based on faith, FizzyMascara. I pray that through GOD’S GRACE you will find it one day.

  Re: How do I know what to believe?

  AuntieMaud

  Date: 5 June 2014

  Time: 14.04

  Nice to hear from you again Truestory! Maybe another of my mother’s pearls of wisdom could help here? She said: ‘seeing is believing,’ and I don’t think there is any use in denying that! Mother did not believe Legoland existed until we stumbled upon it near Windsor when we were searching for Windsor Safari Park. We never did find Windsor Safari Park though, so by the same token I suppose it mustn’t exist! It’s not your treasure map you don’t believe is it? I do hope not.

  Re: How do I know what to believe?

  Truestory

  Date: 5 June 2014

  Time: 14.05

  It is a map that has come into my possession that does not look like real life. Is this because 1. My eyes are seeing the world wrong or 2. The map is seeing the world wrong or 3. My eyes are seeing the map wrong?

  Chapter 15

  I hadn’t gone into town at the weekend for years; I couldn’t even remember the last time, but Larry insisted.

  ‘Go and have a look round. Relax a bit. The lad’ll be fine with me.’

  Sam was perched by the fire with his old photocopied map of Backwoods open in front of him, examining every detail. He didn’t look up when Larry suggested I go out and leave him.

  Larry nodded his head towards Duncan who was asleep in his armchair. ‘His dad’s here anyway.’

  We both looked at Duncan. He was flat out which was how he spent every Sunday afternoon and you couldn’t really blame him after he’d got up at the crack of dawn all week.

  ‘Sam might get upset.’ I felt a bit daft because he looked so peaceful sitting there with his map. ‘He’s a bit . . .’ I hesitated, ‘well, complicated. He’s a bit complicated. He doesn’t like me going out except on a Tuesday at two o’clock and even then he doesn’t really like it, he sort of puts up with it.’ I was gabbling and knew I sounded a bit mad. ‘In fact he hates it.’ I picked up a cloth and wiped a couple of surfaces. ‘He really hates it and often it’s a bit of a disaster. Sometimes I think I shouldn’t go out at all.’

  ‘Well you know him better than me, obviously, but if I were you I’d go and make the most of it.’

  ‘It’s just, no offence or anything, but he hardly knows you.’

  We both thought about that for a minute. It was true that Larry had been at the farm less than a week and during that time Sam had said very little to him – but lured by Larry’s stories and maps, he’d certainly spent a long time in his company and never shown any fear of him.

  Larry shrugged and we both watched Sam.

  ‘Well, I think he’d be okay,’ he said.

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘There’s a bit of gardening to do. He can help with that.’

  I was a bit thrown by the offer. As a rule Sundays were like every other day – cooking, cleaning, supervising Sam. To
be given a Sunday off was totally unexpected and, to be truthful, I didn’t really know what to do with a free day. I didn’t get this kind of offer every day – in fact any day.

  ‘Go and have a wander round the shops.’

  ‘You really sure about this?’

  Larry nodded.

  ‘Right, okay, well, I’ll only be an hour then.’ I gazed about the kitchen as though I’d find a good excuse not to go lying about on the units or shelves somewhere.

  Larry laughed. ‘You’ll have a job to get to town and back in an hour. Go on.’

  I got my carrier bags, bulging with the out-of-date dresses and Duncan’s sports jacket. I considered saying something to Sam but decided against it. He’d been there throughout the conversation with Larry; it wasn’t like I was sneaking off or anything. Nevertheless I crept out of the kitchen like a thief and held the latch to stop it rattling. I threw the bags in the car, praying Bess wouldn’t burst out of her kennel barking like a mad thing.

  As I drove down the lane and past The Wildwood, a surge of euphoria, a wave of giddy happiness, swept right over me. I tapped the steering wheel and sang along to the radio – except this time I meant it. This time I wasn’t pretending to be happy, I was truly, properly happy. I’d forgotten what it was like to feel freedom and I found myself laughing out loud.

  Out of blind habit I headed to the council tip. When I got there it was closed, of course, the metal gate slammed shut and locked. But it didn’t matter. I drove into town and dumped the stuff at the door of the charity shop. Anyone who wanted it could have it; I didn’t care.

  I went in the supermarket and got a roast of beef and some veg for tea. It was ages since I’d done the full works but it seemed like a proper family thing to do. In a burst of optimism I bought a couple of bottles of wine too.

  Then I mooched about the precinct and gazed at the shop windows – but without money it seemed pointless. I headed to the usual café. It was quieter today with it being a Sunday and there were only one or two lonely-looking old folk staring into space and a mum with a couple of kids who were smearing chocolate cake all over the place. I got my cup of tea and biscuit and sat at my usual place to gaze out at the precinct but ended up watching the chocolatey kids instead.

  I caught the mum’s eye and she gave me a weary half-smile; she looked knackered. The kids ignored me, with eyes only for the cake. I stirred my tea. So this is what freedom felt like. I could stay out as long as I liked. I could have as many cups of tea and shortbread biscuits as I wanted. I looked at my biscuit. I wasn’t even sure I wanted that one.

  I had the urge to confide in the other mother, to say how great it was to be away from my own kid for a bit; but the other mum didn’t look like she wanted to talk. She was busy wiping her kids’ hands and faces and nagging them about the mess they were making.

  Motherhood looked no fun at all close up; I’d never noticed before I had my own kid.

  I glanced at my watch and was surprised that I’d only been away an hour. Usually the time shot by. I rooted about in my bag and found my mobile. No messages.

  What were they up to? Gardening, Larry said. I wondered if he was using the rotovator. A cold anxiety grabbed my stomach.

  The rotovator.

  It made a deafening racket. What would happen to Sam? Would he have a meltdown? Would Larry even notice if he did or would he be too busy? Oh God.

  I crushed my shortbread and ground it into crumbs. I felt sick. This had been a stupid idea. I must have been crazy to think I could leave Sam with a stranger – a bloke who’d wandered off the street not a week since. How bloody daft. And Duncan wouldn’t be any help. He wouldn’t spot the looming disaster. I couldn’t rely on him.

  I shoved my tea away and grabbed my bag. I had to get home. Not bothering to nod bye to the other mum, I strode out of the café.

  It would take me over half an hour to get back. Anything could have happened by then. I scrabbled about in my bag. I’d have to phone, and hope and pray that someone would hear the phone and tell Larry not to turn the rotovator on.

  I stood in the precinct as two shoppers with wheel-along trolleys edged round me, tutting. I could hear it ringing. Come on, come on, answer.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Larry? Is Sam okay?’

  ‘Aye, he’s right here.’

  My panic drained away as quickly as it had risen and I felt daft and deflated.

  ‘Oh. I was worried in case you turned on the rotovator and – ’

  ‘I wouldnae dae that.’

  Larry knew. I hadn’t had to tell him. I laughed with relief and surprise.

  ‘Right, well. I’ll see you in a bit then.’

  ‘Aye.’

  I rang off and dropped my phone in my bag.

  I’d told Duncan for years that Sam hated loud noises but he either didn’t believe me or he didn’t care – or maybe he thought if he ignored it, it would go away. And yet I hadn’t even had to spell it out to Larry.

  I wandered further up the precinct, but there was nothing up there, unless I wanted over-priced greetings cards, viscose T-shirts or non-brand cleaning stuff. I turned round and went the other way but there was nothing I wanted down there either. There was nothing I wanted in town at all. I’d come here to escape but I didn’t want to escape.

  I rooted in my bag, found my car keys and headed for the car park. I didn’t want to be in town wasting time drinking crap tea and eating biscuits and watching tired mums lose patience with their sticky kids and old folk eking out their pensions in shops full of rubbish. I wanted to be at Backwoods. I wanted to be at Backwoods with Sam and Larry.

  Larry’s gardening didn’t apparently involve the garden.

  When I got back he’d put loads of kitchen roll on the utility room floor and the units and he was sprinkling it with water. Sam was helping while Duncan leant against the door frame supping from a bottle.

  I went in to see what they were up to and Sam said:

  ‘It is important to get the kitchen roll wet enough, but not too wet. Larry does not want a bloody flood’.

  ‘Oh right,’ I said, and I bit back a smile.

  Sam sprinkled the paper delicately over and over again. Larry nodded and kept saying:

  ‘That’s right, son. Take it easy.’

  When the kitchen roll was apparently wet enough but not too wet and certainly not a bloody flood, Larry brought out the seeds.

  ‘What kind of seeds are they?’ asked Sam

  Duncan gave a little snort. ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘They’re special plants for the polytunnel,’ Larry said.

  ‘What special plants?’ asked Sam.

  ‘I said – ’

  ‘Grass,’ interrupted Larry.

  There was a silence.

  ‘You were probably hoping for a beanstalk or a triffid or something, weren’t you?’ I said.

  ‘This is special grass. It’s worth a lot of money and lots of people will want to buy it,’ said Larry.

  He had the seeds in little plastic tubs and he let Sam look at them.

  ‘Best wash your hands before you touch. We mustn’t get germs on them.’

  After Sam had scrubbed up like a pre-op surgeon, Larry showed him how to drop the seeds five inches apart all over the kitchen roll.

  Duncan watched for a minute then did a big stretch. ‘I’d better go and get that cow and calf up,’ he said and he wandered off.

  ‘I’ll get the roast on.’ I went in the kitchen and put the beef in, then peeled some carrots and potatoes. I could hear Larry giving a running commentary on what they were up to with the occasional remark from Sam.

  ‘Now we’ve got to keep them warm and dark for 24 hours,’ Larry was saying, ‘so we need to cover each seed with one of these cups.’

  ‘Gardening is usually getting black up your fingernails. This is more like chemistry or biology,’ said Sam. ‘Or alchemy. But it is better than 16th century alchemy because it does not involve the colour yellow.’

  ‘A
ye.’ Larry whistled to himself as they messed with the cups.

  ‘Got to make sure they are all pressed down properly.’

  I cleared the table for tea and underneath one of Sam’s Maps of the World I found a drawing he’d done of what looked like a gypsy, or possibly a pirate or a wizard, but when I looked more closely it was obviously Larry. He had two gold earrings, not one, and they were bigger than in real life. The bandana, rather than being plain blue, had big white stars on it and his beard was long and silky, rather than short and stubbly, but there was a wonky roll-up fag dangling from the corner of his mouth and a little smile on his face. No doubt about it, it was definitely Larry.

  ‘Time for a fag break,’ Larry said, and I heard him and Sam go and sit on the back steps.

  I put two cups of coffee and a glass of pop on a tray and took it out.

  Sam had his antique map unrolled on the path. He was gazing at the map and then at the world in front of him.

  ‘The real world is much messier and rougher round the edges than the world on the map, isn’t it?’ I said. Sam did not reply but stared at the map then back at the World of the Jungle at the Bottom of the Orchard. I put the tray on the floor and sat down next to Larry who had rolled a fag.

  ‘Enjoy your trip to town?’ he asked.

  I hesitated, I’d already forgotten it, but that didn’t seem very grateful.

  ‘Yes, thanks, it was great.’

  ‘What did you get?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Just looking.’

  He offered me a drag on his fag and I took it even though I knew I shouldn’t smoke in front of Sam. It tasted good.

  ‘Well, I got a roast for tea, I suppose’. I took a second drag and passed it back.

  ‘You cannae beat a bit of roast beef,’ said Larry. ‘Don’t you agree, son?’

  Sam did not reply. I felt a bit embarrassed because I realised I’d bought the roast in an attempt to play happy families even though Sam didn’t like it. He always fretted about the veg touching each other on the plate and hated getting bits of beef stuck between his teeth.