CHAPTER SIX
On the one hand, it was a relief to be in his own home. On the other, Walter was in it with Beth. He didn’t know whether to laugh or weep, and was hovering on the verge of hysteria despite having been home for only a couple of hours.
Walter had wanted to leave the farmhouse immediately after he’d finished his sausage and mash (he would say that for Beth, she was a decent cook), but Dulcie had refused. In the end, he’d stayed there another night, and Otto had brought him and Beth to the cottage this morning.
His son hadn’t been happy about it, but he’d not been able to put up much of an argument considering Beth was going to be staying here with him. How long, remained to be seen. If Walter had his way, she would be gone by the end of the week. All he had to do was to prove that he could make himself a sandwich and wasn’t in danger of falling over when he put his trousers on.
Beth would be sleeping in Otto’s old room, and he could hear her pottering around in there now. She had brought a case with her, but he hoped she wasn’t bothering to unpack it, as she would only have to repack it in a day or so.
Anxious to prove that he didn’t need her help, Walter eased himself into the kitchen, Peg close behind.
The collie seemed equally as happy to be home, although the traitorous little madam seemed just as happy to have Beth here. He was sure that Peg would soon change her mind the first time Beth yelled at her – which was bound to happen. Beth didn’t strike him as much of a dog lover, and she had yet to experience the joys of picking up poop or bathing a dog who had rolled in something nasty.
Walter leant a crutch against the fridge door and used his free hand to remove the milk. A careful swivel and he was able to put the bottle on the counter. Pleased with his progress so far, he carried on with his tea-making, remembering to retrieve the crutch. So far, so good.
Then he realised he wouldn’t be able to carry his mug into the living room, because he hadn’t yet mastered being able to walk with just one crutch. Which meant that until he did, he would either have to eat and drink standing in the kitchen, or rely on someone (Beth) to carry it in for him.
Beth came downstairs at the exact moment he decided to give simultaneous tea-carrying and walking on one crutch a go, and managed to slop it everywhere. To his chagrin, she didn’t notice the wet floor and stepped in the little puddle. Her foot skidded, her leg went from under her, and she almost fell.
Righting herself, she glared at him, taking everything in with one scornful glance. ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded. ‘I could have broken my neck, you silly man.’
She snatched the mug out of his hand, spilling the rest of the tea, and put it down on the countertop with more force than was necessary.
Walter winced. ‘I was making tea.’
‘Making a mess, more like.’ She tore off a couple of sheets of kitchen roll and bent to mop up the spill.
Walter glared at the top of her head, feeling useless. He couldn’t even make a cup of tea without incident, so what hope did he have of preparing a meal?
Then he told himself off for being so negative. He could have drunk it standing in the kitchen, and if he had, he wouldn’t have spilt it. However, standing for more than a few minutes made his good leg ache, but the way around that was to ask Beth to bring one of the dining chairs into the kitchen. Problem solved!
Mostly.
Eating his dinner whilst balancing a plate on his knee wouldn’t be easy, (the chair wasn’t high enough to be able to eat at the worktop), but he was sure there must be a tray around here somewhere. And if not, Beth could pop into the village and buy him one.
Beth straightened up and put the sodden kitchen roll in the bin. ‘Go sit down, you daft old sod. I’ll fetch you a cup of tea.’
‘Can you bring a chair into the kitchen first?’
She didn’t move. ‘What’s the magic word?’
‘Eh?’
‘Haven’t you got any manners?’
‘Oh, I see. Please.’ His sarcastic emphasis didn’t go unnoticed, but he ignored her arched brow. A momentary standoff ensued, but Beth gave in first and went to fetch the chair.
‘Where shall I put it?’
He pointed to a corner. ‘There will be good.’
Plonking it down, she said, ‘What do you want it for, anyway?’
When he explained and she nodded to show she understood, he knew they were on the same page: she wanted him to be self-sufficient as much as he.
It was lunchtime and Beth was hungry. Walter must be too, but she couldn’t work out how to use this blimmin’ oven. It had taken her long enough to realise that there wasn’t a kettle, and that the curved tap beside the sink dispensed boiling water as well as ice cold.
Otto’s doing, she surmised. He liked his gadgets, being a chef, but all she hoped was that she wasn’t expected to use any of them.
Giving up on the stove for the time being, she decided to make them both a sandwich, then she’d work out what they could have for their tea, and if she needed to go shopping she could pop into the village.
She also wanted to give the cottage a good clean. On the surface it was tidy and looked clean enough, but it wasn’t up to Beth’s standards and if she was to live here for a few days, she didn’t intend to live in muck.
Well, what could you expect from an old chap who lived on his own, she mused as she bustled to and from the fridge, taking out the makings of a cheese and pickle sandwich. She was pleased to see that he used real butter, not the chemical-infused rubbish that the supermarkets tried to pass off as butter. And he had proper milk too, although the date was up today, so she would have to buy more soon. The bread wasn’t as fresh as she liked, either. She would go shopping tomorrow, she decided. Today she would clean.
Sandwiches made, she took them into the living room and placed them on the table. The two of them ate in silence, Walter sneaking Peg the odd morsel, and Beth made a note to remember to turn the telly on in future. Mindless daytime TV would be better than listening to Walter chewing.
He did manage to force out a ‘thank you’ after he’d finished eating, so that was something. Her sarcastic, ‘You’re welcome,’ earned her a sharp look.
Leaving Walter to his crossword puzzle, she took the empty plates into the kitchen and began to clean up. After about half an hour, during which Beth had run several bowlfuls of hot water and had cleaned out most of the cupboards, she became aware that she was being watched.
Walter looked thunderous. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded.
Beth was on her hands and knees, the contents of his saucepan cupboard spread out on the floor around her, scrubbing vigorously at a rusty mark marring the white melamine shelf.
‘Ballet dancing. What does it look like I’m doing?’
‘Interfering.’
‘Somebody has to. This place is a disgrace.’
‘I find that offensive.’
‘Yeah, so do I – that’s why I’m giving everything a good wipe over.’
‘Unbelievable. I thought you were here to help. Peg needs a walk and Flossie, Princess and Toffee need checking.’
‘I’m not your servant, you know,’ Beth retorted. The cheek of the man! She was doing her best to help and he was ordering her around. ‘Fine.’
She gathered the pans together and shoved them noisily back into the cupboard. The clatter brought Peg running into the kitchen, barking loudly.
‘Now see what you’ve done,’ Walter said. ‘You’ve frightened my dog.’
Peg didn’t look frightened, but Beth was instantly repentant. The poor creature had enough to put up with having Walter as her owner; she didn’t need Beth scaring the living daylights out of her.
Beth stomped into the hall to fetch her shoes and as she was putting them on, she said, ‘What am I supposed to be checking?’ Beth had seen Walter’s pet sheep and the two goats belonging to the stables, from the window. They looked fine.
‘I always checked my flock every morning.’
‘Yes, but what did you check for?’
‘That none were injured or ailing, that one of them hadn’t got caught in a fence, that they weren’t having difficulty lambing…’
Beth was horrified. ‘Lambing?’
‘It was an example. None of them are pregnant. It’s the wrong time of year.’
‘Why mention it?’
‘As I said, it was an example.’
‘I don’t need to check: they look fine. None of them are caught in a fence.’
‘How about limping?’
‘The only thing limping around here is you.’
He pursed his lips. ‘Very funny. Can you check anyway? They might need their feet looking at.’
Beth put her hands on her hips. ‘I am not looking at their feet.’
‘I don’t expect you to. Amos or Petra will see to it.’
‘So why don’t you ask them to check the animals?’
‘They’re busy.’
‘And I’m not?’
‘No, you’re interfering.’
‘We’re back to that, are we? Come on Peg, let’s go for a walk and leave your ungrateful master to stew in his own juice.’
Honestly, some people! She would have thought he’d be glad to be back in his own house, being waited on hand, foot and finger. But no… all he could do was sit there with a sour expression on his face and berate her for trying to help.
Sod him. If he wanted to live in muck, then so be it. She would do the minimum necessary until he could cope on his own, and then she was out of here.
‘Blinkin’ heck,’ Walter muttered as he opened first one cupboard, and then another. That damned woman had rearranged all of them. Where the hell were the tea bags?
He found them in the same cupboard that the coffee was in, which might seem logical to her, but it was the cupboard furthest away from the magic tap. He knew that wasn’t the correct name for the tap that spat out both boiling and freezing water, but he’d joked with Otto that it was magic when Otto had renovated the kitchen prior to Walter and Otto moving in, and the name had stuck.
The tea bags should live on the shelf underneath it. As should the mugs, which were now in the cupboard with the plates.
Hopping awkwardly and cursing as he went, he put his cupboards back the way they were. And if she moved any of his stuff again he wouldn’t be accountable for his actions.
As he popped a tea bag in a mug, movement beyond the kitchen window caught his attention.
A woman was sitting on the topmost rung of the gate leading to the paddock. She was swinging her legs, her face turned away as she gazed into the field. For a moment he couldn’t place her and he wondered whether she was one of the riding school mums. Then it hit him.
The woman was Beth.
His breath lodged in his throat and he feared he was hallucinating because she looked years younger, and he caught a glimpse of how she must have once looked: vibrant, carefree, not yet weighed down by time and age.
Then his focus sharpened, and she was Beth Fairfax again: pensioner, cantankerous, disagreeable.
She must have been striking once though. And as she sat there, her face lifted to the sun, he could see a younger version, one that had echoes of her beautiful daughters etched on her face. Walter, despite his dislike, had to admit (as he had done previously) that she was still a handsome woman. If only she wasn’t so difficult and obstinate…
Walter paused, wondering where he was going with that thought, but the destination eluded him.
Whatever fanciful notion she had generated in him, swiftly disappeared when he watched her clamber gracelessly down from the five-bar gate. His heart was in his mouth. If she were to fall… And she had the cheek to accuse him of being silly when he’d gone up the ladder! She was just as bad. One slip of the foot and she could have broken her hip.
Irritated at her carelessness, he hobbled to the back door as fast as his cast would allow and yanked it open. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he bellowed, feeling rather satisfied when he saw her startled expression.
‘Checking this lot,’ she called. ‘You asked me to. Don’t you remember?’ She began walking towards him. ‘Or is your memory going?’
‘I didn’t ask you to climb a bloody gate,’ he yelled back. ‘And my memory is fine.’
‘I was enjoying the sun. Or is that not allowed?’
‘Don’t be so silly.’
‘Who are you calling silly?’ She was close enough to see the flash of anger in her eyes.
He said, ‘You, obviously. You could have fallen.’
‘So says Spider Man. You’re the one who fell, not me!’
She was daring him to contradict her. ‘Which is why I know what I’m talking about. Breaking a hip is no laughing matter.’
‘You didn’t break a hip. Are you sure you’re not losing your memory?’
‘You could have broken yours.’
‘But I didn’t.’
‘Gah! There’s no talking to you!’
‘Don’t, then. See if I care. I’m fed up with you bumping your gums.’
‘And I’m fed up of everything about you!’ Walter yelled.
He liked to think that he whirled on his heel and marched inside, but what actually happened was that he did an awkward shuffling about turn, involved hopping, then limped slowly indoors.
He could feel Peg booping him on the leg in concern, and he guessed that the dog mightn’t be getting her walk after all as Beth stomped in behind him and reached for the handbag that she’d looped over the back of one of the dining chairs.
‘I’m going out,’ she announced.
‘Where?’
‘Shopping. Your milk is off, and your bread is stale.’
‘The milk seemed alright to me.’
‘It would,’ she growled. ‘If I said it was white, you’d argue that it was blue.’
‘What are you rabbiting on about?’
‘Can I get you anything? A gag? A sedative? Some manners?’
Walter stared at her in shock. She had the cheek to ask him about his mental health when she was the one who was talking gibberish? He lowered himself in his usual chair. ‘Take your time.’
‘Don’t worry, I will.’
‘Good.’ Walter had to have a last word. He didn’t know why, he just had to.
Listening to her car door slam and Beth gunning the engine, he let out a sigh. So far, this day was an unmitigated disaster. Goodness knows how bad the rest of them would be whilst she was under his roof.
‘Nasty, horrible, vile, obnoxious,’ Beth muttered under her breath as she tore off down the lane. ‘Pig-headed, crabby, bloody-minded…’ she added, braking as she rounded the corner, to reach the junction at the bottom of Muddypuddle Lane at a more reasonable speed.
Feeling a sudden urge to see if they’d started work on her house (this was only day three of Hot Water Tank Horror, but she hoped they would have done something) she parked outside and got out.
The house was as quiet as the grave and when she peered through the window, her hands cupped around the glass, she was dismayed to see that the living room looked exactly as she had last seen it. Not a single piece of plasterboard had been removed.
Beth felt like crying. But instead of having a weep, she drew on her infuriation with Walter and strode off in the direction of the high street.
‘I’m here about my house,’ she announced as soon as she stepped inside, ignoring a youngish couple who were sitting at the desk and talking to Zander.
He had frozen in the middle of a sentence, his eyes darting from her face to the office door and back again as he muttered, ‘Oh, god.’
‘No, just Mrs Fairfax. What are you doing about my house?’
‘Um…’
‘I’ve just come from there, and nothing’s been done. Not. A. Thing.’
‘We’re, um, awaiting instructions from the landlord.’
‘What’s his phone number? I’ll give him a ring myself.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Fairfax, but we’re acting as the letting agent so everything needs to be done through us.’
‘But that’s the problem – nothing is being done. I want to know when I can move in. Do you realise the conditions I’m living in at the moment?’
Zander bit his lip. The couple looked like rabbits caught in headlights. Their eyes were out on stalks and they were staring at her as though she’d lost her mind.
Perhaps she had. Walter had the ability to bring out the worst in her.
‘Disgraceful, that’s what it is,’ she cried. ‘I can’t take much more of it.’
Zander said, ‘I’ll, um, get onto them right now. In a minute. When I’ve finished dealing with my current clients.’
‘Your current client is standing right here and wants you to phone my landlord immediately. I’m not leaving until you do.’
‘Go ahead,’ the chap said to Zander. ‘I think this lady’s need is greater than ours.’
Zander nodded, his jaw tense. Beth felt a twinge of remorse, but it didn’t last. The chap was right, her need was greater.
But Beth wasn’t in luck. There was no answer when Zander phoned, and she had to concede defeat. With Zander’s promise to keep trying and that he would phone her as soon as he had any news, Beth left his office with a heavy heart.
She really thought she was going to cry, as tears pricked her eyes. Walter was right: she was stupid. She must be, to have thought she could pull this off. She had gone from being comfortable (if somewhat lonely) in her house in Birmingham, to being extremely uncomfortable living in the home of the most obnoxious man on the planet. And she had no one to blame but herself.
Beth felt a touch on her arm as a voice said, ‘Hello, Beth. I thought it was you.’ Lena was standing in front of her, gazing at her in concern. ‘Are you okay?’
Beth shook her head. ‘Not really.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Not unless you can magically repair a collapsed ceiling.’
‘Oh, dear. Do you want to talk about it? We could go for a coffee. Things often seem better after a chat.’
Beth didn’t think it would be better at all, but a coffee and a chat would be very welcome, nevertheless.
As soon as they were settled in the squishy chairs near the window, cappuccinos in hand, Lena wanted to know what had got Beth so upset.
‘It’s Walter,’ Beth said, and went on to explain.
Lena listened without interruption, until Beth ground to a halt, embarrassed. ‘It sounds so daft when I say it out loud,’ she muttered. ‘He’s not a bad person, but he’s not the easiest man to get on with, and when the pair of us are together we fight like two rats in a bag.’
Lena said, ‘I don’t know Walter particularly well, but Amos does. He reckons Walter is a typical farmer: stoic and taciturn, but he’s got a heart of gold.’
‘He hides it well.’
‘I might be wrong, but I think he’s had a lot of heartache in his life. His wife died when Otto was a teenager, and Walter raised him whilst trying to keep the farm going. That can’t have been easy.’
‘No, it can’t,’ Beth agreed softly. She hadn’t realised. She knew all too well how hard it was being a single parent.
‘And there was all that trouble before Dulcie took over the farm.’
‘What trouble?’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘Dulcie mentioned something about Otto having to raffle the farm off, but I couldn’t have been listening.’
Lena studied her. ‘What I’m about to tell you is common knowledge, so I’m not speaking out of turn or breaking any confidences, but it might help you understand Walter a bit better. Hang on.’ She beckoned the waitress over and ordered two more coffees.
Beth was intrigued. She hadn’t really gone into the details of how Dulcie had acquired the farm. All she knew was that her daughter had won it in a lottery and that it used to belong to Walter. Dulcie was forever complaining that the farm was a money pit – hence the drive to make soap, sell goats milk, have open days, and so on – so Beth had assumed that running a sheep farm had got too much for Walter, and he had decided to retire. At around the same time, Otto had come back to Picklewick to live, and the two of them, father and son, had moved into the cottage on Muddypuddle Lane when Dulcie had acquired the farm.
Lena drank some of her coffee and settled back. ‘Walter has kept that farm going singlehandedly since Otto left to go to catering college. It’s not easy being a farmer, but he was fifteen, maybe twenty years younger then, and he coped. But gradually he stopped coping. Amos feels guilty because he had no idea that Walter was struggling, until the Christmas before last when he collapsed and was rushed into hospital. When Otto came to see him, he realised that not only was Walter mentally and physically exhausted, but he had also run up huge debts trying to keep the farm afloat. Dealing with all that worry, whilst hiding it from everyone – Otto included – had taken its toll, and Amos told me that Otto had worried that Walter wouldn’t recover. I must admit that I was shocked when I saw him; he was all skin and bone, and looked so frail… I didn’t recognise him.’
Beth hadn’t touched her drink. She was far too caught up in the tale Lena was telling.
Lena continued, ‘Amos reckons Walter feels guilty because Otto had to give up his job in London to look after him, even though it has all worked out brilliantly in the end.’
Beth couldn’t disagree with that. Dulcie and Otto were perfect for each other, and the move from London hadn’t impacted Otto’s career. On the contrary, he now had a book deal he wouldn’t otherwise have had and owned his own restaurant.
‘Walter was devastated, of course,’ Lena was saying. ‘He’d lived on that farm all his life. It must have been awful to see it raffled off.’
Beth wished she’d known this earlier. It was her own fault for not being more interested, and she felt guilty and ashamed for judging him so harshly. His tale didn’t detract from the fact that he was grumpy and argumentative, but she could now understand why – to a certain extent.
Feeling better about returning to the cottage on Muddypuddle Lane and vowing (yet again) to be more sympathetic towards Walter, Beth drank her coffee, glad that Lena had explained. And when the conversation moved away from Walter and onto their respective families and other things, Beth hoped that she had made her first real friend in Picklewick.