WRITE ME A LOVE STORY
By Janet Baldey
Prologue
As I opened the door of my
cottage, sunshine flooded in, its warmth washed over me. I looked up at the sky, listening to the
quarrelling birds in the trees and my spirits rose. At last, the dead hand of winter was
loosening its grip. For almost another
year the ache in my bones wouldn’t sing in tune with the bitter wind; spring
had arrived and the golden length of summer lay before me. Reluctant to break the spell, I stood
treasuring the moment.
Memories
of hard silver frosts fading, I set off towards the smallholding, following the
winding path down the hill. Every now
and then I caught a glimpse of the village nestling on the floor of the valley. From this height, I could cup it in the
centre of my palm, the houses were tiny and minuscule cars, like beetles with
flashing eyes, trundled through its streets.
At one point, I left the track and walked a few yards across
the verge towards a field. Leaning
against its gate, I could just see the remains of the camp: under a shimmer of sunlight, it stood silent,
a part of my life frozen in time. Green
veins of ivy crawled over the huts and tough purple mallow was pushing its way
through cracks in the concrete. Gradually, nature was taking over; in a few
years, nobody would know it had ever existed.
I turned back to the path, not really sure why I was there; I was only
stirring up memories best laid to rest.
Georg was no longer part of my life and after so many years, I should
have got used to the idea.
The
smallholding glowed under the sun as I walked up its drive. When David took over a few years ago, he’d
stripped away the ugly plaster, revealing its fine brickwork and had built on a
couple of wings, extending it to right and left so that it now lay, curved like
a bow. But, before lifting so much as a
finger, he’d taken me aside to explain why he needed to alter the family home
so drastically.
‘It’s
not a working farm any more, Mum. We’re
turning it into traditional farmhouse accommodation so it needs to be made as
attractive as possible. People must
want to stay here, you do see that,
don’t you?’
I
remember a feeling of tenderness as I saw the anxiety on his face, but he
needn’t have worried. I loved its new
look. I didn’t even strongly object to
its changed name. No longer just the
smallholding, it was now ‘The Olde Farmhouse.’
Inwardly I cringed but was grateful he’d preserved the original
building’s one redeeming feature, the misty blue wisteria flowers that, each
spring, dripped from its eaves like static waterfalls.
Pushing
open the back door, at first, I thought the kitchen was empty. White light streamed in through the brand
new picture windows, rebounding off the chrome and enamel surfaces in
glittering shards. Dazzled by its
brilliance, I narrowed my eyes and squinted about the room.
‘Anybody home?’
There
was a small movement in a corner and, as my sight adjusted, I saw David slumped
over a small oval table littered with paper.
‘Hello, love.’
He lifted his head and my smile faltered. His eyes were streaked with crimson,
reminding me of images I’d seen while researching a novel set in the Punjab . The novel
never came to anything. I’m more suited
to writing for children, but I’d never forgotten my research. For dramatic effect, Indian actors push
aubergine flower seeds under their lids to redden their eyeballs and David’s
must-have rivalled theirs. A layer of
stubble prickled his chin and as I watched his fingers ploughed in nervous
gestures through his hair, corrugating it into ridges.
‘David! You look terrible.
Is anything wrong?’
‘Morning Mum. Been up
all night. Trying to make sense of this
lot.’ He waved his hand at the
scattered paperwork.
‘Where’s Anna?’
‘Upstairs. Sleeping,
I hope. She was up most of the
night.’ His voice was terse. With a gesture of hopelessness, he tossed
down his pen.
‘Look, Mum, I’m sorry but I’ve some bad news.' Avoiding my eyes, he picked up his pen again
and tapped black dots into a sheet of paper.
‘The business has gone down the drain. We’re
selling up. There’s nothing else we can
do.’
For a moment I
stared, frozen into silence, then my hands flew to my ears as if to block out
his words. I shook my head. This couldn’t be right. Over the past few years, every
time I called round they’d made some improvement, either to the house or
garden. There was always something new
to see and with all the new gadgets following close, one upon the other, I’d
imagined the business was thriving.
‘Don’t be silly, you’ve just had a new kitchen fitted’. As soon as the words were out, I bit my
lips. The look on his face should have
told me this was serious. Desperately,
I tried to make amends. For both our
sakes, there had to be some hope.
‘Perhaps, it’s just a case of too fast too
soon? Maybe you just need more time to
get established. You’ve worked so
hard. It’s bound to come right in the
end.’
He laughed without humour, an ugly cawing noise that made a
mockery of my suggestion.
‘Try
to understand, Mum. We have no more
time. We’re bust. We’ve no
bookings. For months, it’s been just a
few one-nighters, and they don’t cover the bills. Nobody’s holidaying in England any
more. They’re all going abroad.’
He
paused and my face must have reflected my feelings because suddenly he stood
up, reached out and drew me close. My
body slumped against his and I rested my face against the bony rim of his
collarbone feeling the tears gathering behind my closed lids. Although I no longer lived here, the
smallholding had been my life and I couldn’t believe that now, after all that
had happened, it was going to be sold. A
stranger would move in and take over my home and I didn’t think I could bear
it.
Misunderstanding, David tried to comfort me.
‘Don’t
worry Mum. We’ll have no problem finding a buyer. We ordinary folk can’t make ends meet but
there's plenty of people with money to burn, itching to buy a place in the
country.” His voice was bitter. ‘Anna
and I will be all right. I’ve already
got something lined up. But, it’s you I
worry about.’ He hesitated. ‘We’ll be moving away but you could always
come with us….’
I stepped back, disentangling myself from his arms. Part of
me wondered why I hadn’t been told before.
He must have known for some time, these things don’t happen overnight:
but then David had always been like that, a little secretive. I never really knew what was going on in his
head. In the past, whenever I’d caught
him out in a white lie, or something he’d chosen not to tell me, I’d felt as if
a lance had been thrust deep into my side.
Then, I’d remember my secret. A
secret so huge it made his petty lies insignificant. It was a secret I’d vowed never to reveal
and now that Sarah had moved away, it would die with me.
As so often in the past, I forced a smile. ‘I’ll be okay.
I’ve got plenty of friends.’
It
was a lie and we both knew it. The truth
was, for many years, I’d lived a solitary existence. It hadn’t always been that way but times
change. If nothing else, life had taught
me that. When Frank and I had first
married there had been a strong community of local farmers working small plots
all over the valley but over the years most had left the land. Large consortiums had taken over the vacant
fields, the distance between farmhouses had increased and gradually the sense
of pulling together had been lost. It
was the same with the village. I’d
lived here most of my life and had been on nodding terms with almost all the
villagers. But now, when I did my weekly
shop, I felt out of place amongst the familiar maze of streets. Everywhere ‘For
Sale’ signs were sprouting in the tiny cottage gardens; like alien vegetation, they were crowding out the hollyhocks and wallflowers. Most of the people I’d known were gone and
all the new faces made me feel as old as the hills that ringed the valley. But I knew I could never leave. This was where I belonged and the past had
too strong a hold on me. I reached out and patted his arm.
‘You
mustn’t worry about me, there’s always my writing.’
David laughed again and this time the sound rang true.
‘You
and your stories, Mum. When are you
going to write me one?’
I froze. That’s just
what he’d said; just before he went
away.
‘Write me a story, Flora.
One of love and loss and love regained.’
The words had sounded foreign on his tongue.
‘Mum?’
I
came to with a start, realising that David was speaking; he looked at me, a question in his eyes.
‘Sorry, just daydreaming.’
‘I
said that sometimes I wish you’d married again.’
I shook my head.
‘Over the hill.’
‘Nonsense. You’re
still a looker. But I suppose there was
never any other man for you after Dad. ’
My eyes flicked towards his face but it was in shadow and I
couldn’t read his expression.
As
I left, I passed a line of laburnum trees their branches bowed under their
burden of liquid sunshine. My shoulder
brushed against the heavy blossom, releasing its musky perfume. I remembered planting those trees just after
Frank and I moved in. The smallholding
had looked very different then; just a single storey building with a swaybacked
roof. Damp patches had spread across
walls that were peeling and discoloured as if suffering from some chronic skin
disease. At that time it had been just
one up from a hovel but inside Frank’s head, it had been quite different. He had plans. We’d work hard, buy more land and live
happily ever after. I wandered back to
the cottage, remembering things I’d not thought of in years. As time went on, I noticed this was happening
more and more. Increasingly, I inhabited
the past and dreaming the days away had become a habit.
Unlatching the door, I walked into my
living room towards my writing desk, Georg’s words chiming in my head. Maybe,
it was time to write that story. Another chapter in my life was drawing to a
close; who knew how many more there’d be?
Maybe, this was a sign. I sat
down and reached for some paper, inserted a sheet into my typewriter and stared
at its blank, white face. Slowly, my
fingers started to move. They felt
stiff and awkward at first, my movements were jerky and several times the keys
jammed but then my nerves settled. I
was doing this for myself and Georg, nothing else mattered.
Copyright Janet Baldey
This is the prologue to a longer story, would you like Janet to post more?
I loved this Janet. You could have been writing a scene from the Archers or Emerdale.
ReplyDeleteIt felt so real and could be any village ortown today.
Would love to read more.
Thanks so much, unknown. Comments like yours give me a real lift.
ReplyDeletebeautifully written Janet.
ReplyDeleteThank you Sujata.
ReplyDeleteI know I read it in the wrong order but it was no less enjoyable. What will become of Flora? Will there be a 3rd chapter?
ReplyDeleteShelley.