The Secret Intensity of Everyday Life (43 page)

But even as she mocks herself she smiles so merrily that Billy is comforted.

‘You seem to me to enjoy your life, Pat. You never seem to get down.’

‘Why be down? Up is better.’

‘Much better.’

He eats a biscuit, and then unaware that he is doing so, he eats another.

‘I should tell you,’ he says, ‘I’m thinking of selling the house.’

‘Are you, now?’

‘You don’t seem surprised.’

‘It’s a fine house for show, but it’s no place to live.’

‘I used to think I should stay. Keep the house going. After all, my grandfather built it. My father was so proud of it. I made him a sort of promise to keep it in the family. But times change, don’t they?’

‘Times change, sure enough.’

‘You don’t mind? I mean, it is your livelihood.’

‘Oh, I’ll find something. It’s not as if I need much.’

‘Well, you know, the thing is, nor do I. Once you start to look at it, you realize how little you need. A cottage somewhere. I’ve always liked the Norfolk coast.’

‘A lord in a cottage. It doesn’t seem right.’

‘Then I won’t be a lord. I don’t really like being a lord. It gets in the way of things. All I want really is – is—’

He looks at her, furrowing his brow, unable to find the words to tell what he wants. She looks back, and smiles, and understands.

‘You want to be easy,’ she says.

‘Yes. That’s right. Easy.’

‘And an end to the worrying. And maybe a little company.’

‘Yes, Pat.’

‘Well, then.’ She reaches out one finger and touches his hand lightly with the tip as if to add emphasis to her words. ‘That’s not too much to ask.’

50

‘There,’ says Jack, pointing up the overgrown path to the front door. ‘I put the letter in there.’

Henry sees at once that this door is not in use. Weeds have grown over the sill.

‘We’ll go in by the yard.’

Jack stays close by his side but does not hold his hand. Henry feels his fear and wants to tell him he doesn’t need to be afraid but they’re close now and he doesn’t speak. Ever since he understood Jack’s terror he’s been driven by a simple imperative: he will set his son free. This is a thing he can do.

He knocks on the back door of the house.

‘They may be out,’ says Jack.

‘There are cars in the yard.’

The sound of dogs barking. The door opens. A little girl gazes up at them.

‘We got a new baby,’ she says.

Behind her a pink-faced man in a multicoloured jersey and jeans is holding a bundle in a white cellular blanket. He greets them with a smile, not because he knows them, but because the happiness in him is overflowing.

‘Mr Linton?’ says Henry.

‘Come in,’ he says. ‘Come in. I’m Martin Linton. Down, Bess. Down, Sal.’

Another even smaller girl is clinging to his legs.

‘Lily, clear the mess off the sofa.’

The girl who opened the door does as she’s told. The dogs retreat.

‘I’m so sorry to bother you on a Sunday,’ Henry says.

‘Oh, I don’t mind. Is it Sunday? I’ve lost track of time. This little one only joined us yesterday.’ He gazes down at the tiny head just visible at one end of the bundle. ‘No, it wasn’t yesterday, it was the day before, wasn’t it? You’re two days old, aren’t you, my Rosie?’

Henry and Jack enter the house and are led into the living room. The room is littered with girly things, dolls and doll’s house furniture, a rocking horse. Henry introduces himself as a village neighbour, and then comes quickly to the point.

‘My son has been playing a game that’s got rather out of hand. He sent you a letter.’

‘A letter?’

Jack is having difficulty believing that this pink man with the baby is the Dogman. But here are the dogs, now rolling on the rug between the sofas.

‘He posted it through the front letter box.’

‘Oh, we never use the front door. Lily, my love, go and see if there’s a letter in the hall. It’ll be behind the draft curtain.’

The girl called Lily, who has been gazing intently at Jack, jumps up at once and goes out to the hall.

‘Jack goes to school at Underhill. I think the children there must make nuisances of themselves on your land from time to time.’

‘They’re little devils, some of them.’ He speaks without rancour. ‘But it’s not my land. I wish it was. I rent it off lordy. Lord Edenfield, I mean. The house, too.’

Lily returns with Jack’s letter. Henry puts out his hand and she gives it to him. He glances at Jack, gives him a small smile.

‘So what’s this letter all about, then?’

‘Like I said,’ says Henry, ‘it was all a silly game. Jack was in your field when that poodle was worrying your sheep. He saw what happened.’

‘What poodle?’

Suddenly a change comes over Martin Linton’s face. He looks up from his two-day-old baby and all the pink has gone. He fixes his eyes on Jack.

‘You saw?’

Jack nods.

Martin Linton looks back down at the baby in his arms.

‘Let’s see if Mummy’s finished her rest.’ He says this to the baby, who seems to be asleep.

He leaves the room. The two girls remain, gazing at Henry and Jack in silence.

‘So you’ve got a new baby sister,’ says Henry.

They both nod.

‘That must be exciting.’

‘It was supposed to be a boy,’ says Lily. Then after a moment’s reflection she adds, ‘Daddy says he likes girls better.’

Martin Linton reappears, now without the baby.

‘Would you mind if we had a word outside?’

They follow him out into the farmyard, and on into the old flint barn. Inside it’s dark and noble, like a church, except instead of worshippers there are cows. Streaks of light fall through cracks in the tiled roof onto the straw-filled pens. The cows stand before the feed-troughs slowly barging each other. Beyond, the dark shapes of old farm machinery.

Martin Linton pushes his hands through his thinning hair.

‘The ewes were in lamb,’ he says. ‘The dog was chasing them, worrying them. It wouldn’t stop. You can lose lambs that way, the ewes panic, it’s a real problem. I was trying to get the dog to leave them alone, that’s all.’ He stops and abruptly changes tack, gazing imploringly at Henry. ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘The poodle died, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, God. Oh, God.’

He looks round at the cows as if for support. Some of them have raised their heads and are peering towards him through the gloom.

‘My phone rang,’ he says. ‘It was Jenny, she’d gone into labour, I was needed. She needed me. I never thought – it went out of my mind – there was the hospital – then the baby—’

‘No one’s blaming you,’ said Henry.

‘Oh, but they will.’ He gives a bitter laugh. ‘You don’t know what it’s like. They’ll go to lordy. I could lose my tenancy over this.’

‘Over an accident with a dog?’

‘Do you have any idea what it’s like being a farmer these days? Sorry, what did you say your name was?’

‘Henry Broad.’

‘Broad? You bought River Farm.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m the only farmer left in the village. Once there were three farming families in Edenfield. Big families, all supported on the land. It’s fertile land, this river valley. Fine farming land. But I can barely make a living. My father employed sixteen men. I employ one. That’s how times have changed. And on top of that, on top of the daily struggle to feed my family, I get nothing but aggravation from my neighbours. I do my best, but this is a farm. It’s not a garden. My tractors hold up their cars in the lanes, and make a noise, and leave mud on the roads, so they hate me. I mean that. I get letters you wouldn’t believe! They think I’m poisoning them with the fertilizer I spread on the fields. They hate the smell of slurry even more. They’re angry because the footpaths have cowpats on them. They’re frightened of my bullocks. They think our cattle are mad and our sheep diseased. People who actually live in the country are convinced that farming is against nature! They shout at me to my face. Profit grubber, land rapist, disease spreader, you name it, I get it. They think farmers are ignorant, brutal and greedy. If they discover I killed some old lady’s pet poodle I’ll be lynched. I’ll be driven out. I’m telling you the truth. It’ll be the end of me.’

He falls silent at last, his chest heaving, his head jerking this way and that as if searching for a way out.

‘I’m really sorry,’ says Henry. ‘I had no idea it was so bad.’

‘You ask the kids these days. Ask them what farmers do. Farmers pollute the countryside, they’ll tell you. Farmers are cruel to animals, they’ll tell you. That’s all they get told these days.’

He’s on the point of tears.

‘It’s just so bloody hard.’

‘Look,’ says Henry, ‘we don’t want to make it any harder. We just wanted to clear up the business of the letter.’

‘The letter. Yes.’ But he’s forgotten all about the letter. ‘I never meant to hurt the dog. It was a mistake, that’s all.’

Jack speaks for the first time.

‘The poodle wouldn’t stop yapping,’ he says. ‘You just wanted it to stop yapping.’

‘That’s right.’ Martin Linton takes Jack in properly. ‘I never meant to kill the dog. You saw me. I was just trying to get it to stop worrying the ewes. Then my phone rang. There was Jenny on the phone saying, The baby’s coming, the baby’s coming. I had to go.’

‘That’s right,’ says Jack. ‘That’s what I saw.’

For a moment there is silence in the barn.

‘Who have you told?’ says Martin Linton.

‘Only Dad,’ says Jack. ‘And Toby Clore.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘My friend at school.’

‘So I suppose everyone’ll know soon.’

‘Oh, no. Only us three.’

The farmer looks from Jack to Henry.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t see that it’s any of my business,’ says Henry. ‘I don’t propose to tell anybody.’

‘Me neither,’ says Jack.

‘And this Toby?’

Jack looks uncertain. Henry touches him on the arm.

‘Let me and Jack have a private word.’

Martin Linton nods and walks away down the central aisle of the barn. Jack whispers to his father.

‘I can’t make Toby not talk. Toby won’t do what I say.’

‘I know,’ says Henry. ‘But he might.’

‘You can never tell with Toby.’

‘You could say you’ll try.’

‘I can’t promise.’

‘Why don’t I say it?’

‘Okay.’

Henry goes back to the farmer.

‘Jack says he’ll talk to Toby. You don’t need to worry.’

‘You mean that?’ His hands are shaking as he grips Henry’s arms. ‘They’d say things to my girls in school. The other children. Dog murderer. Poodle killer. They do that.’

‘Nobody’s going to know.’

Still gripping Henry’s arms, the farmer bows his head. He seems to be about to burst into tears.

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’

They part in the farmyard. Martin Linton watches them go, standing like a lost child in his stripy jersey on the broad apron of concrete.

Out in the street Henry says to Jack, ‘So that was your Dogman.’

‘I feel sorry for him.’

‘What will you say to Toby?’

‘I don’t know.’

Henry pulls the letter out of his pocket. ‘Here.’

Jack stuffs it into his own pocket without even looking at it. The letter has lost its power to hurt him.

‘He was different,’ he says. ‘All those little girls.’

‘You hungry?’

‘Starving.’

‘You can have the lunch leftovers when we get home. Or Weetabix.’

Jack says nothing as they get into the car and drive up the village street. Then as they turn into the home lane, he says, ‘Dad?’

‘Yes, Jack.’

‘Do you always know what everyone’s thinking?’

‘Me?’ Henry laughs at the suggestion. ‘I hardly even know what I’m thinking myself. I’m useless.’

‘No. Really.’

The car pulls into their short drive and they both get out.

‘Better?’ says Henry.

Jack nods.

‘I feel like I’m whizzing.’

The odd thing is that Henry feels like he’s whizzing too. They go into the house together and Laura’s on the phone to Diana having a post mortem on Glyndebourne. She looks up and meets Henry’s eyes. ‘Crisis over,’ he says. Jack gives her a grin and a little wave of his hand.

Henry settles down to read the Sunday paper but finds his eyes slide over the print without taking in the meaning of the words. Something about the events of the day so far has had a greater effect on him than he can explain. It’s not as if his own circumstances have changed. One grows weary of narrow horizons.