Pam Pheasant

 

Chapters 1-3

Chapter 1

 

The hazy sun was just beginning to drop towards the horizon.  Slanting rays reflected on the blond hair of the two older girls turning one to gold and the other to silver.  The eldest was leaning against their mother’s shoulder as the garden swing on which they sat creaked gently backwards and forwards under the gnarled branches of the old apple tree.  The second child sat on the grass, listening to their mother’s voice, but stubbornly turning the pages of her own storybook.  She was a sturdy child, with hair so blond it was the colour of straw bleached by the sun and white lashed vivid blue eyes. She was beginning to be able to make out some of the words and now and again she nodded in satisfaction.   A third child appeared in the gateway.  She was just two years old.  Her hair was dark, even darker than their mother’s.  Whereas the mother was a typical English rose, pale with a subtle pastel brush of colour, this child’s skin was smooth, even-coloured and dusky, not English at all.   

None of the group seemed aware of the heavy motorway traffic on the high embankment fifty yards away. The children were focused on the sound of Lydia’s voice.  She was a marvellous storyteller.  Her low tone had a mesmerizing quality so that the words seeped effortlessly into the memory of her listeners.  This time it was a story about the house they lived in and how it had been passed from mother to daughter.  For over two hundred years, an unbroken female line led back to the owners of a great house and estate that included this more modest dwelling.   Francesca could already repeat some of the story and would prompt her mother when she paused.   After a while, Lydia stopped speaking and shifted her position.  She had been getting a lot of indigestion in the last month.  “Don’t lean against me Fran.  It’s uncomfortable.” 

“Is it the baby?  Is she kicking?”  Francesca loved to feel the unborn child moving inside her mother.  It was magical.  She could hardly wait for the birth to take place.  It would be soon.  Lydia had told her that it was going to be another girl and this one would be named Lydia too. The name cropped up often in the family history from the time of the very first Lydia who had fled to this house in the Eighteenth Century to escape being forced by her brother into a convenient marriage.   Francesca could just remember the birth of her dusky, youngest sister, but she hadn’t been old enough to help look after the baby.  This time it would be different. 

Lydia shifted position again, as her small dark changling approached, holding up her arms to be picked up.  As she reached forward to lift the child a sharp pain ripped through her making her gasp.   Her hands dropped to her bulge.  She could feel a change, a shift, a determination.  She drew several shallow breaths and then got to her feet.  Francesca watched her anxiously.  “Is it the baby, Mummy?  Shall I ring the doctor?”

“No, not yet.  I just need to lie down for a while.”  Lydia’s right hand closed round the gold charm that swung from her neck on a fine gold chain.  It always fascinated the children when she took it from her neck and held it up to the light, allowing the expression of the small image to change, one moment smiling and benign, another sad or even malignant.  “Do you think you can look after the little ones, give them their tea, so I can have a rest?” 

“Of course, I’m nearly six.  I can manage.”

Standing on the red plastic step by the kitchen table, Francesca buttered bread.  She was not allowed to boil water so she scrambled the eggs over a low heat, stirring them vigorously so they would be light and fluffy.  She couldn’t lift her little sister into the highchair, so she dragged the plastic play table and chairs in from the garden.  Once the two younger ones were eating, she crept upstairs to make sure her mother was all right.  Standing on one leg in the doorway of her mother’s bedroom, she felt an unusual anxiety, a worrying sense of responsibility.

“I’m fine darling. You are doing well.  Why don’t you put the television on after you’ve had your tea?  I just need to rest.”  Her mother spoke brightly.  Reluctantly, Francesca withdrew, but she left the bedroom door ajar. Creeping downstairs, one step at a time, she heard her mother groan. 

After a while, the others fell asleep in front of the television.  The baby, as they still called her youngest sister, needed changing, but she would not be amenable to the ministrations of her sister.  Francesca tiptoed upstairs.  She went into the other bedroom where the basketwork cot stood ready with its clean white flannelette sheets and silky white lace trimmed eiderdown.   There was also a big cot in the room, but the side had been taken off because her little sister climbed like a monkey.  She and Lucinda had been promoted to beds in the attic, where no doubt their sister would join them when the new baby arrived.  It was exciting climbing the ladder to go to bed right at the top of the house.  There was no sound from her mother’s room, but slightly laboured breathing.

Partially reassured, Francesca returned downstairs and watched television until like her sisters she fell asleep on the big cushiony settee.  She didn’t know what woke her, but the television screen had gone blank, its face grey and speckled.  She got up, careful not to disturb her sisters.  Something was wrong, very wrong.   She crept up the stairs, her heart beating so hard it made it difficult to breath.  She could hear strange noises coming from her mother’s room, panting noises like the dogs when they had been running across the field.  She paused at the door.  “Mummy.”  Her voice was high and scared.

“Go away.  Go away now.”  Her mother had never spoken to her like that.  She stepped backwards but remained on the landing, frightened but fascinated by what was going on in the big bed.  Minutes later, there was a weak cry, a thin sad wail that quivered and tailed away almost immediately.  It was a cry that seemed to ask a question and be denied.  To Francesca it seemed that she crouched terrified on the landing for an eternity.

“Fran!  Are you there?”  Her mother sounded reassuringly calm.  “I think you’d better ring the doctor.  You know what to do.”  They had practised the routine many times.

“Can I see the baby first?”  Francesca sidled into the room.  It was horrible, all sticky and smeared with blood, but the biggest surprise was that it wasn’t a girl at all.  It wasn’t Lydia.  It was a boy, a boy with the extra bits that she had seen in the picture book that her mother had bought for her called “A New Baby in the family”.  It was lying on the bed very still and quiet.  She wanted to reach out, give it a little shake to make sure it was real, but her mother waved her towards the door and obediently she turned and went downstairs.  On the floor by the bed she noticed the gold charm, its chain broken. 

The doctor arrived in record time.  He spent a long time upstairs.  Eventually, he called Francesca.  She came into the room nervously, looking around for the baby, but it was nowhere to be seen.  Perhaps it was already sleeping in the basketwork cot.  They would have to think of a new name, a boy’s name.   Already she was adjusting to the idea of a brother rather than a sister. 

“Where’s the baby?” she asked.  The doctor said nothing.

“The baby was what they call stillborn,” her mother said after a moment.  “It was born dead.  I’m sorry Fran.  You’ll have to wait a little longer for a baby sister.”  Her eyes, dark in her chalky face, met Francesca’s.  The child nodded and said nothing. 

A nurse came to help with the children as Lydia refused to go to the hospital, although for days she hovered on the edge of delirium.  The younger children accepted the loss of the baby without difficulty.  Only Francesca looked sadly at the empty cot.  As soon as Lydia was on her feet again, it was packed away – to be ready for the next time.   Francesca was not sure about the next time.  The little book about new babies also explained about Mummies and Daddies.  There was no Daddy living with them, so how could there be new babies.   There had been a man living with them once, although she had never called him Daddy.  He had been dark with a dusky skin just like her little sister.  He had made the beautiful dolls house that stood in the hallway.  It had been a special present for herself and Lucinda when the new baby was born. 

The girls were glad when the nurse stopped coming, relieved to have their mother combing their long hair once again with gentle even strokes, teasing at and never snagging on tangles.  Once again, they were free and having tasted, albeit briefly, a more ordered regime, they appreciated it.  In later years, when health visitors, school teachers and social services complained that they were running wild, it was always in connection with the good things in life like being allowed to stay up as late as you wanted, roam freely round the fields and woods, even climbing up the steep bank to peer over the barrier onto the motorway or crawling down the culvert that carried the little stream beneath the busy road.

The lost baby was never mentioned.  Only Francesca sometimes thought about him and wondered.  The little gold charm on the fine gold chain hung on a little stand on her mother’s dressing table, the chain still broken.  Francesca never saw her hold it over her belly, waiting patiently for it to take a direction and answer a question.   For her seventh birthday, her mother gave her a green teardrop jewel on a little silver chain and showed her how to ask it questions.  The others soon demanded their own pendants.  The youngest was the best at finding lost items.  It was important to ask the right questions, their mother told them.   There were some things too it was best not to know.

Lydia continued to tell her marvellous stories.  Many of them came from her grandmother who had lived in this house all her life.  When Lydia had been small the house had been bigger, with courtyard stables, lots of horses and no motorway.  She told them about her devastation when her grandmother died when she was only twelve years old.  The house was sold and she had to go and live in an orphanage.  “There are two sides to our family,” she explained.  “There’s a respectable side, but they didn’t want anything to do with me, so we don’t have anything to do with them.”   She had come back to the house as the bride of Leon Delamotte, in nineteen seventy-one, the year the motorway was opened, the year before Francesca was born. 

The stories all encouraged the girls to feel that the world out there was against them.  Authority and the respectable establishment threatened them with separation and the destruction of their wonderful life.  It was important to hold together, be strong, clever and careful, in order to outwit these enemies.  They dealt with other local children through guile and quickness.  If threatened, they called a vendetta and together formed a formidable opposition to both authority and their contemporaries.  More and more often they were left alone by both.  

Chapter 2

 

“Just check the numbers one more time; then I’ll believe it.”

“Kathy!  I’ve checked them three times.  It must be true.   I wonder how much you’ve won.  How many did you say there are in your syndicate?”

“Four, no five counting the new girl.  Oh Mum, suppose Sandy forgot to put it in this week.”

There was a pause.  “I thought you said you all had a photocopy of the receipt.”

“Yes.  Yes, of course we do.  I am just being paranoid.  I never win anything, not even the raffle at work where there are more prizes than people.”

“Someone has to win and Sandy always was lucky.  I seem to remember you saying she carried home three prizes from the Christmas raffle.  However much it is, it should make life easier.  There’ll be no reason not to start a family now.”

Kathy sighed.  Trust her mum to get on to that subject.  If she mentioned biological clocks, she’d scream.   It was not as if she’d ever given money as a reason for delaying having a family.  It was two years since she’d last taken the pill.

“I’d better ring off and try Sandy’s mobile again.  One of the others may be trying to call me and I ought to try Jeff again.”

“I can’t understand why you let Jeff go out on his own on a Saturday night.” 

“No Mum.  I’ll ring you tomorrow.”

Mum had to have the last word.  She knew Jeff always spent Saturday night at the local.  Kathy didn’t mind going occasionally, but it was always so crowded on a Saturday, with beer fumes, smoke and Jeff and his friends becoming louder and louder as the evening progressed.  For the first couple of years of marriage she had gone along and spent innumerable mind-numbingly boring evenings perched on a bar stool, stifling yawns that would cause friction once they got home if Jeff was not too far gone to notice.  It seemed that Jeff had accepted her gradual withdrawal from Saturday nights at the pub.  It was months since she had accompanied him and she no longer had to make excuses.   Perhaps he preferred getting a bit tight with his friends without a possibly disapproving wife along.  He was touchy about any form of criticism. 

“Jeff Sparrow.  I’ve been trying to get you all evening.”    With the familiar background of argument and laughter in her ears, Kathy could not think how to tell him her news.  “You know I’m in that lottery syndicate at work.”  She didn’t add, the one you always said was a waste of money.  “Well, we’ve won.” 

“Say that again.  Hang on a minute.  I’ll just move away from the bar.”  Jeff spoke slowly, barely slurring his words.  Kathy closed her eyes.  She had fallen in love with his deep cultured voice.  Fortunately, the tendency to drink a little too much had not affected his vocal chords or any other part of his fantastic physique, kept in trim by the almost daily visits to the gym.

“Wow.  Are you certain?   Sure your friend remembered to put the form in.”  Kathy recognised the mixture of hope and fear that she herself had felt.  It was probably a natural reaction to such unearned good fortune. 

“It’s all right.  Sandy rang a few minutes ago.   She’s over the moon.  I’m sorry for anyone with dental appointment at our practice over the next few days.  The last thing Sandy said on Friday evening was not to expect her in on Monday if we won the lottery.”

Jeff laughed.  “There’s likely to be a mass walk out, I suppose.  Serve them right, paying their staff a pittance and taking two luxury holidays a year each when most of the staff can’t afford to go away once.”

Kathy laughed too, excitement kicking in.  “Well, we can have two holidays this summer.  Do you fancy the Bahamas or shall we do something really adventurous, a safari maybe?  We could even do both.”

“Steady on.  Don’t do anything in a hurry.  And listen, don’t tell anyone about this yet; anyone in the family I mean.  Let’s wait until we know how much we’ve got and had time to decide what we want to do.”

“All right, but come home soon.  I have to keep pinching myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.” 

When Jeff rang off, Kathy remembered guiltily that she had already told her mother.  She would have to ring and get her to promise to keep quiet about it.  Jeff would be upset if he thought she’d told her mother before him.

“Of course, I won’t say a word” said Kathy’s mother.  She would have to pop across the road and tell Mandy opposite to keep mum.  Mandy wouldn’t have had time to tell more than a couple of people surely.  Telling Mandy anything newsworthy was like employing a town crier.  The knock on the door, just as she was putting phone down, had been Mandy with a titbit about the people at number seventeen and Kathy’s news had simply burst out of her.

In the event, it didn’t really matter, because Sandy had e-mailed the local newspaper offices, as well as the local TV and Radio stations.  Kick FM featured the news first thing on Monday morning including a telephone interview with an exuberant Sandy who joyfully told the whole of Berkshire the names of the lucky syndicate members, all office staff and technicians in Ashton’s biggest dental practice.  They would be on the front page of the local newspaper when it came out later in the week.  Sandy had found a good picture taken at the Christmas party with everyone in it looking a bit squiffy, including the six partners.

The days that followed passed for Kathy in something of a haze.  Despite the threats, everyone was at work on Monday, even Sandy.   The general good cheer rubbed off on the clients. It was not such a bad place to work. The partners had a hasty meeting and offered everyone a substantial salary increase in an effort to prevent the mass walk-out prophesied by Jeff.   “That’s typical.  Why couldn’t they do that when we needed it?” asked Sandy, but no-one turned it down.

Jeff remained unusually cheerful and attentive.   He even started coming home early.  “Oh, there’s nothing much on at the moment,” he said in response to her surprised question on finding him with his feet up reading the newspaper mid-afternoon.   She worked ten till four, so was technically only a part-timer, although she often thought by the time she’d got in a bit early because Becky was so unreliable, worked late because there were still patients waiting with no-one to hold their hands and missed most of her lunch-hour to deal with emergency appointments, she might just as well work full-time.  As she worked part-time, Jeff expected her to have the housework done and the dinner on the table when he got home much later after visiting the gym straight from work.

Kathy could have used some help in the house, but Jeff wasn’t in the way of it.  If she dropped a hint, he would either turn sulky or distract her by dragging her off to bed.  If it was bed, he felt he had made his contribution to her happiness for the week. 

On Monday, soon after the radio broadcast, Kathy’s sister had rung up out of the blue and said they’d come over at the weekend.

“What’s she coming for, as if I couldn’t guess?” muttered Jeff. 

“You know I asked her ages ago.  It’s Mum’s birthday on Saturday.  I must get her something extra nice this time.”

Jeff said no more and she heard him later on the telephone arranging a day’s golf for Sunday with some friends.  At least he was not intending to absent himself on Saturday as he did sometimes when her family came round.  She hoped he wouldn’t disappear to the pub in the evening.

Helen was six years older than Kathy, so they had never been really close.   Helen had done everything right in her mother’s eyes – got her A levels, gone to university, landed an excellent job, met and married a suitable young man and almost immediately started producing the desired grandchildren.  It was unfortunate that the highly suitable young man proved so difficult about his mother-in-law calling in most days and spending every Sunday with them.   Then they had moved down to Kent.  With Dad’s health failing all the time, trips down to Kent soon became a rarity and by the time he died the previous year they had ceased altogether.   Helen occasionally met her mother in London, when she could find someone to look after the children.  Every two or three months, they would all travel to Ashton for a visit. 

After Helen had moved away, their mother had turned her attention to her younger, less satisfactory daughter.  They were both nice looking girls, but Kathy lacked Helen’s academic flare.  She was more domesticated, but even here she could not compete.  Helen might claim to hate all forms of domesticity, but her house was always immaculate, she and the children beautifully turned out.  She even managed a part-time job as a researcher that she could fit round the demands of family.   She wanted to keep her hand in for that wonderful day when she could go back to work full-time.  When Don got his next promotion, they would be able to afford live-in help.   

   One way and another, Helen always managed to make Kathy feel inadequate.  It wasn’t deliberate.  She was fond of her younger sister, but she could never resist a little gentle advice.  You could try this or it might work if you did that.  Kathy felt as she had when her school reports contained the phrase – could do better.  The advice was kindly meant.  She really shouldn’t read it as implied criticism.  Her mother was just the same.  “Oh, you’re too sensitive,” she would complain, shrugging her shoulders, when it became obvious that she had upset Kathy.

The criticism was not restricted to Kathy.  There were always awkward questions for Jeff about his finals.  Kathy had long accepted that Jeff was never going to become a fully qualified accountant.  He had quite a good job.  Thanks to his father, they had a nice house with only a small mortgage left to pay.  When and if she did fall pregnant, she would be able to give up work without feeling the pinch too badly.  Kathy tried to divert attention from Jeff’s exams.  She wished she had courage to ask her sister to leave him alone about it.

Jeff’s father had not called.  “Why don’t you give him a ring?   If he’s seen the papers, he’ll wonder why we haven’t told him.”  Kathy felt uncomfortable about the rift between Jeff and his father.  His Dad was his complete opposite.  Whereas Jeff was fair, well built and exceptionally good-looking, his father was slightly built, wiry rather than muscular, with angular features.   Kathy had never seen the dark eyes light into a smile, not even at the wedding, although to be fair he had not long lost his wife.  The only thing that Jeff and his Dad seemed to have in common was their adoration of Jeff’s mother, who died shortly before she and Jeff met. 

“He’ll call us soon enough if he wants anything.”  That was not fair of Jeff.   When his father sold the smallholding that he had inherited from his own father and purchased a small cottage in a village a few miles away, he divided the surplus scrupulously between Jeff and Jeff’s sister, Lou, living down in Devon.  As far as Kathy knew, he had never asked them for anything in return, but Jeff acted as if his father had parted with his birthright.  Recently, he had started raising the issue again.  The farm should have been passed to him as the eldest and indeed the only son.  If it had, he would have been his own master, not stuck in an office with a lot of cretins ordering him about.  However, when Kathy asked tentatively:  “Why don’t you look around for something else?” he turned away sulkily.  “Accountants are all the same.  They’re all pedantic.  Everything has to be exact.   There’s no scope for creativity.”  There was never any point getting into an argument with Jeff.  The conversation could only spiral downwards into a full-blown row. 

Helen’s visit passed off quite well.  Kathy decided that they could afford to be a bit extravagant this time, so she booked lunch at a restaurant in Ashton town centre where they lingered on into the afternoon soothed by the warmth and sounds of a real open fire.  Helen’s children played quietly with the hand held computer games that Kathy had bought for them, in defiance of her sister’s wishes.  Jeff with a pint in his hand chatted civilly to Don.  Their mother was happy to coo over the new baby and let the conversation drift past her, only every now and then dropping in some inconsequential remark about baby care that had Helen and Kathy exchanging glances of rare accord.  At home there was smoked salmon instead of salmon out of a tin and Marks & Spencers’ home-made cakes instead of Kathy’s usual failed sponge.   It was the most successful visit ever.

It was Helen who finally asked the question.  “Well” she said, looking expectantly from Kathy to Jeff, “what are you going to do with all that money.”

Kathy opened her mouth to say that they hadn’t yet decided.  They were going to take time to think about it and not do anything in a hurry.  The truth was she had not managed to get Jeff to talk seriously at all.  She was interrupted by the purposeful way her husband rose to his feet.  As all eyes turned to him, he dropped his bombshell.  “We’ve been thinking of selling the house and putting everything into a small property we can farm.”  He didn’t look at Kathy.  “Farming’s in my blood and it will be a marvellous life for our children later on.”

There was instant outcry.  Kathy’s mother thought it was wonderful, seeing a picturesque farm cottage and her daughter surrounded at last by a young family.  Why had they said nothing before?  It was wonderful news.  Don and Helen were more cautious.  Were they sure that they had thought it through?   Farming was hard work and a risky business to put all your capital into.  Jeff might be brought up to it, but Kathy certainly hadn’t been.  How would she take to it?

“Kathy will have me to look after her.”   Jeff smiled, pleased with the reaction.  Amidst the clamour, no one seemed to notice that Kathy had turned quite pale.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”  Kathy kept asking, after their guests had departed and they were preparing for bed.  “Don’t I have any say?” 

“Of course you do, but it all happened so quickly.  You know how fed up I’ve been.  There was a row in the office and I suddenly thought – I don’t have to put up with this – so I resigned.  I was escorted from the building with my personal belongings in a carrier, no thank you for all the years, no leaving do, nothing.  They were afraid I’d sabotage their systems, steal their commercial secrets, or something.  It was time to get out.”

For a moment Kathy was speechless.  Then she flipped.  “You bastard!  You selfish, self-indulgent, self-orientated ….. You really mean that you’ve just walked out of a perfectly good job, without any discussion and now you expect me to uproot myself to follow a stupid whim.”

She raged on, words tumbling upon words, until she had worked herself into a heat of fury, but all the time in the centre of her mind hovered the thought, like a cold angry flame.  He had got in before her.  He had made the grand gesture, renouncing the humdrum nine-to-five existence and robbed her of the chance to do the same. 

At first Jeff stepped back from the onslaught, looking almost cowed.  Then his own anger rose, the stronger because he was less articulate.  Eventually, he flung out of the room, the house resounding as the bedroom door slammed behind him.  In furious silence, Kathy heard the violent echo of the door to the spare room.  Temper drove her jerkily through her usual routine, right up to the moment when she reached out to extinguish the bedside light.  She lay stiffly waiting for anger to die and tears to rise as they normally did on the rare occasions that she lost it in this way, but between one thought and the next exhaustion took its toll.  Sleep claimed her. 

Chapter 3

 

Kathy woke to an unusual sense of physical well-being.  She had slept soundly all night. The alarm had not been set, so she gained consciousness naturally with the growing daylight.   Often she woke too cold or too hot with that horrible feeling that she had only just dropped off.  On these occasions, she would find the duvet either dragged from her or piled up on top of her.  Jeff was a restless sleeper.

For a few minutes she refused to open her eyes, trying not to remember why she was in unusual control of the duvet.  It could not last.  As memory of the previous evening flooded back, her sense of comfort evaporated.  She lay still, eyes open but reluctant to get up, gathering her strength for battle.

Footsteps on the landing made her start and turn her eyes unwillingly to the door.  It opened quietly, almost tentatively, when one considered how it had crashed closed the night before.  Jeff came in, awkwardly balancing coffee cups on a tray.  He put the tray carefully on the bedside cabinet and stood looking down at her.

“I’m sorry.  I should have talked to you first.    It just happened.  Can we talk now?  Please don’t dismiss the idea without listening.”

Kathy had been expecting him to be in a strop, unwilling to listen, determined to have his way.  She had been laying there, marshalling her arguments, working out a strategy for getting past the wall he could erect between them.  She was totally disarmed, not proof against his sudden reasonableness.

“Of course, we can talk,” she said feebly, pushing herself into sitting position. 

He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for her hand.  I’m losing, thought Kathy; there’s been no battle, but I’m losing.    She swallowed hard, trying to control the feeling of panic that threatened to choke her. 

Somehow, it seemed to be agreed that they should at least look at what was available.  As a sop, Jeff offered to get a temporary job with a builder he’d met down the pub.  He could make nearly as much as an unskilled labourer, as he could as a part qualified accountant.  On good days he would probably make more.  This way they would keep their capital intact until they needed it and he could learn some skills, forge some contacts that would be useful when it came to repairing buildings. 

Throughout, Kathy sat almost silent, holding her mug of untouched coffee in both hands.  When Jeff finally left her to get ready for his day’s golf, she found herself shaking so much that she was in danger of spilling the cooling liquid.   She took a hasty mouthful and shuddered.  It was too strong and he had forgotten the sugar.  She felt as if the bitter taste would never leave her.

* * * * * * *

The first property to be viewed was Bridge End Farm.  “The house has not been lived in for over ten years.  A woman with three daughters lived here I believe until it was sold in the early nineteen-nineties for development.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible to get planning permission because the land has been divided by the road system.  Still, it’s a good acreage, more than you would expect to get at this sort of price.  It’s not fenced for stock apart from the paddocks close to the house, but you said you were more interested in arable land.”  The estate agent talked on, seeming very knowledgeable about the property.  Jeff made little comment, but paid attention, nodding from time to time.  Sitting in the back of the estate agent’s car, most of it passed over Kathy’s head.  She was going along with this, but she was certainly not going to commit herself yet.  If it had not been for the purpose, she would be enjoying the drive through the countryside on such bright, although cold, February day. 

“It’s about half a mile outside the Hillingbourne,” said the estate agent, as the houses ended abruptly.  The fields on either side were hidden by a belt of woodland on the right and a high overgrown hedge to the left.  “This is all the Sadlers’ land.   It almost encloses the village.”  He started signalling right and in a few moments turned the car smoothly through a broken five-bar gate and up a weedy gravel drive.  They stopped in front of a solid, red brick, Victorian farmhouse, sideways on to the road.  It was not unattractive with two square bays on either side of a central gothic porch.

“You said it was not far from the M4.”  Jeff looked beyond the house to the high embankment under which it crouched.   Through the trees, the tops of lorries could be seen passing by in endless variety.  The estate agent looked uncomfortable.  “You said that the land was the most important thing for you”, he said defensively.  “You won’t do better than this, not in this area.”

“Well, we might as well look at it while we’re here.”  Jeff put his arm round Kathy and bent to whisper.  “Don’t worry. It will give us some idea of what’s on offer and will be a marker to compare other properties.” 

Kathy nodded, stunned.  She followed the two men as they began make a tour of the buildings and paddocks close to the house.  As she stumbled after them, she kept looking over her shoulder, at the continuous, never-ending, progression.

The property was certainly run down.  Beyond the house, what had apparently been a kitchen garden, partly enclosed by an old wall, was thoroughly overgrown.  A path trodden through the undergrowth led through to a gate at the far side.  This opened onto a cobbled yard with a long range of buildings backing on to the motorway embankment, fronted by stone walled pens that had apparently been pig-breeding units.  Another shorter range at right angles had been converted into stables at sometime and the names of their occupants were still legible, crudely burnt onto wooden plaques hanging at angles on the closed half doors – Little Nell, Delilah, Gipsy Girl, Dolores.

As Jeff and the estate agent inspected the piggeries, Kathy wandered over to the range of looseboxes.  She looked over the doors at the concrete floors.  The wash on the walls was old and flaking, but other than that, they seemed surprising neat and tidy.  There was no build up of rubbish and rubble as there was in the other buildings.  The floors looked as if they had just been swept, the marks of a vigorously applied broom showing on the dry surface.  Indeed an elderly, but still serviceable broom, was propped beside the end stable.  Kathy moved to look over a small gate next to the stable building. 

The two men came to join her.  “This used to be a pony paddock years ago,” said the agent.  “The ground’s a bit rough, but there’s plenty of shelter from the belt of woodland that divides it from the bridleway.  The woodland belongs to Bridge End as well.  I reckon it’s about eight acres altogether, including the bit beyond the stream.”

“I didn’t realise there was a stream.  Where does it run?”  Kathy looked at the high embankment. 

“Oh, there’s a culvert taking it under the motorway.  It rises somewhere on the Pheasant Hill estate on the other side of the motorway.  From here it meanders down through the woodland and then along the back of the houses in Hillingbourne.  After that it’s culverted again and I’m not sure how it finds its way to the main river.  It floods sometimes in the village, but the banks are quite steep here and I don’t think you’d have a problem with flooding.

He’s talking as if there’s a chance we would buy this place, thought Kathy in alarm.  She looked at Jeff.  As the agent turned away, he gave her a wink that partly reassured.

As they retraced their steps to the house, Kathy hoped that this was it.  They weren’t really interested.  It wasn’t fair to take up the man’s time.  

“You say the majority of the arable land is the other side of the lane.”

“Yes, there’s about a hundred acres along by the motorway and then another ten or so through the motorway bridge.  The hundred acres are let to Jonathan Sadler at the moment, but we could go and have a look.  The estate agent seemed quite philosophical.  He was probably used to such wasted afternoons.  Kathy shivered, pulling up the collar of her coat.  There was a sharp wind getting up.  Jeff never felt the cold. The agent looked at her sympathetically.

“Tell you what?  I know you’ve probably made up your mind, but why don’t you have a quick look round the house while I take your husband to inspect the rest of the estate.  At least you’d be out of the wind.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea.  You don’t mind do you darling?  We won’t be long.”  Jeff looked relieved. 

Kathy took the key from the agent’s hand and turned down the stone flagged path to the front door.  She put the key in the lock and felt a curious reluctance to turn it, but the men were watching to see her safely in.  Taking a deep breath she turned the key.  She was just having a look round, not making a commitment. 

The door swung closed behind her with a definite thud.  The hall was larger than she had anticipated with stairs directly ahead and a passage to one side leading towards a closed door.  The doors of the two rooms at the front of the house stood open letting extra light into the hall.   She stood for a minute trying to gauge the atmosphere.  It was not unwelcoming, more indifferent.   Here was another prospective owner who would poke around, but not stay.  She looked into each of the main rooms.  They were large and square, each with an open fireplace.  The wooden floorboards were bare and looked sound enough.  Someone had been round and applied filler to some gaps in the skirting boards which needed sanding down and repainting.  The walls were papered in a flowery paper, dirty with age and old water stains.  She remembered the agent telling them that the last owners had spent a lot of money on having the roof replaced and central heating installed, but had not got around to redecorating.  Something had happened and the couple had split up.  The husband decided to emigrate.  They’d never actually lived in the house. 

Once Kathy felt that the house had accepted her presence, she enjoyed exploring.  Above the two square rooms downstairs were two square bedrooms, the same size but without the bays.  From one of them, a small wooden staircase led upwards.  She ascended the first few steps nervously, then driven by curiosity went far enough to stick her head and shoulders through into a large attic running the width of the house.  The space was well lit with windows in each of the gable ends.  There were tarpaulins, presumably left behind after the re-roofing work, draped over mounds of what appeared to be rubbish.  Lifting the corner of one cautiously, she uncovered a box of old magazines, part of a broken chair and another box full of children’s toys.  It all seemed quite dry and smelt merely of dust, so presumably the new roof was effective.

Downstairs, Kathy moved to the back of the house.  Here there was one enormous room with a stone flagged floor.  At the far end stood a new shiny Aga covered by transparent plastic sheets.  The walls had been freshly plastered.  Propped up next to the Aga was a large wooden airer, rubbed down ready for repainting.  There were new fixings to suspend it from the ceiling above the Aga, where it could be raised and lowered by a rope pulley.   Under one of the two small windows was a big old-fashioned sink raised on brick pillars.   Kathy wondered why these anachronisms had been retained, but they suited the room.  A small lean-to ran part way along the back of the building.  It seemed to have been used for storage.  Peering through one of the small glass panels in the back door, Kathy could see a rusting fridge and a broken bentwood rocking chair circa nineteen seventy.  She stood in front of the sink and looked out of the window.  A mixture of shrubs and conifers provided a reasonable screen from the motorway.   In the shelter of the embankment, the first daffodils were just opening.  She tried to imagine herself and her belongings transported into the house and couldn’t.  It was a pleasant house and it must have been a lovely spot before they built the motorway.  What a shame.

When they got home from visiting Bridge End Farm, they found Jeff’s father waiting patiently in his car outside the house.  “Oh no.  What’s he want?”  This was Jeff’s typical reaction to a visit from his father, which was paid rarely enough. 

“Just called to see how you were getting on.”  The old man looked uncomfortable, standing beside the car and shuffling his feet.  Kathy felt sorry for him.  “Come on in,” she said, knowing she would be in trouble with Jeff. 

Conversation was stilted.   Kathy did feel that Jeff should have rung his father with the news of their windfall.  Someone would have told him by now, even if he had not seen it on the local news, but nothing was said.  He accepted a cup of tea, which she made strong and sweet, the way he liked it.  The conversation lapsed without ever starting.   

“I’ve arranged to meet someone at the pub.  Sorry I can’t stop.  See you around, Dad.”  Unhappily, Kathy took Jeff’s seat opposite the old man.  He nodded to her.  “Nice cup of tea.”   The atmosphere eased with Jeff’s departure.  Feeling angry with Jeff for leaving her in this awkward position, Kathy started to explain about the win and their plans.  The old man nodded, but made no comment.  He looked very frail, with his slight build and fine features.  Kathy thought, not for the first time, that Sparrow was a fitting name for him, although not for his son who was a giant in comparison. 

  What a shame.  These words were repeated often over the next few weeks as Jeff and Kathy viewed property after property.  There were houses too big, too small or in poor condition.  It was the same with the land.  It was either not suitable or there was not enough.  Those that came closest to the ideal were way too expensive.  Always, they found themselves making unfavourable comparisons with Bridge End. 

As time went by, they began to say:  “What a shame about the motorway – but I suppose we’d get used to it.”  “What a shame the house needs so much redecoration – but it’s structurally sound and I suppose we could do some of it ourselves.”  “What a shame the land is so segmented – but it’s a much bigger acreage than anywhere else we’ve seen.”  It was Kathy who finally said:  “I wonder if they’d accept an offer.”