Chapter Ten
Sylvie walked back into her mother’s room for one last time. It smelt fresh again and she had managed to condense the things she held most dear into one large box that she could take with her when she actually managed to move out, although that felt like a fast-fading dream at present.
It was nearly the end of September and she had been hanging on for winter lets to come available next month, far from ideal but at least something, a stopgap.
Only to be told by the letting agency yesterday that they had nothing at all, not in that village.
She could hear his voice now, a young man barely out of college with a smug look and lilac tie – perhaps she should try further afield, Penmenna might not be the best choice for her budget.
She had wanted to take the sheaf of paper sitting on his poxy glass desk and scrunch it into the air, letting each sheet fall as she maintained eye contact – but of course she didn’t.
Penmenna had been her home since birth until she had fled to London.
She hadn’t expected to be priced out upon her return.
But she couldn’t really stay at the farm much longer, and neither did she want to.
Not only did it feel like living in the Dark Ages – neither her mother nor uncle seemed to have understood the term ‘decorating’ or ‘natural light’ – it wasn’t fair on Tom either.
She glanced around the room one more time before shutting the door and heading back downstairs.
She had dropped most of her mother’s clothes to the charity shop before braving the agent’s and the furniture in the room would remain in situ, each bit a part of the farm’s history, here long before the word flat-pack had been dreamt up, and bound to remain in place for many more years yet.
Tom was ten years younger than her mother and had been dating Julie, who lived at Brokenshire Farm, three farms down the lane.
They had been dating for years now and it appeared to be a relationship strongly rooted in a bygone age, that revolved around country walks, holding hands and home-baked pies.
It was not, she imagined, a relationship that felt the need for new furniture.
It was however one that was perhaps waiting upon Tom’s niece and great-nephew to sod off so he could make an honest woman of his sweetheart.
She left the room and went downstairs to the writing desk situated in the dining room; again, like the farm itself and Tom and Julie, it harked back to a former time.
She knew her mother had done all her correspondence from there, preferring to write letters by hand and using cheques to pay for feed, vets and all the other things the farm required.
Her father had bought them a computer, a big old heavy-backed monitor and tower that would still burr and whirr as it fired itself up, but as far as she was aware her mother certainly never used it and Tom only did so for a basic spreadsheet facility.
Alongside it sat a printer which looked as if the ink might have dried up some twenty years ago.
It was only as Sylvie moved back home that they had even countenanced the need for Wi-Fi, and even then she had known it was to humour her.
She sat at the desk and saw how at odds the outdated beast that took up so much space was amongst the floral notelets that her mother favoured, watercolours of violets, roses and carnations sacked up in a neat pile next to a pad of blue Basildon Bond and matching envelopes that Margaret had also used.
Her mother had been forty when she had had Sylvie, but her rural upbringing had such an influence she appeared older than the other women her age that Sylvie had met and known in London.
They wouldn’t have been seen dead with a floral notelet.
They would have been Biba and Mary Quant whereas her mother would have been ecstatic about a new mid-calf polyester skirt.
Sylvie let her breath out slowly and counted to ten before returning to the task in hand.
She knew she didn’t really need to go through this bit of the house, but after clearing her mother’s room and having a wildly unproductive kitchen sort-out, this was all that was left.
Then everything would be done, bringing an air of finality, of closure, that Sylvie needed.
Maybe with all this done her mind would be free to magic up a new home for her and Sam regardless of budgetary restriction and snotty letting agents. Unlikely as it was maybe it was this, a formal goodbye to the farm and her mother’s life within it, that was holding her back.
She pulled open the first drawer and saw nothing of note – receipts and account books, all to do with the farm.
Some had the neat cursive script of her mother’s hand and some had Tom’s scrawlier scribble, but there was nothing that needed to go.
She pulled each walnut side drawer, some stickier than others, and all but one contained farm things.
The bottom one had her mother’s driving licence, a passport that had expired years ago and other bits and bobs that could be brought out to go into the memory box.
She leant back in the high-armed chair, letting her upper body be encircled by the wood, and looked at the passport photo.
She could remember their one trip away as clear as yesterday.
It was meant to have been the start of many family holidays, a plan that could never come to being once Tom’s ashen-faced arrival in the farm kitchen had occurred.
She didn’t want to dwell on that day, the day that shaped her mother’s determination that Sylvie must escape the farm and make the most of any opportunity, whatever the cost. The day that cemented in her mother’s mind that sending Sylvie to board at the Royal Ballet School at eleven was the best way to guarantee her a bright future.
As an adult Sylvie had wondered if this was in homage to her father, as much about the past as the future.
Ensuring her father’s dreams for her came true as much as Margaret’s.
Today though she turned her mind to their holiday, the one the passports had been issued for.
There had been so much excitement; they were a family that never left the farm, so when her father decided enough was enough and booked tickets for a week in France, neither Margaret nor Sylvie could believe their luck.
After arranging cover for a week with John, who was a casual farmhand at that stage before the necessity had turned him into Tom’s right-hand man, they had boldly caught the ferry to Roscoff.
Just the sway of the water had felt so glamorous to Sylvie, and then to discover it had not one or two but three restaurants and a cinema on deck.
And signs that were both in English and French.
She felt like Cinderella, and it was not outside the bounds of possibility that there could have been a French prince just waiting on board for a Cornish maiden to appear and make his dreams come true.
It was all so bewitching she would have been happy to spend their week away just exploring the boat.
Instead they’d stayed at a campsite just outside of Morlaix and there had been a water slide and swimming pool and boules.
The list of new treats had been endless and the chatter of the families around them was exciting, not just their own Cornish accent, but English accents from up and down the country, intermingling with the French, Germans, Dutch and Spanish.
Sylvie had felt she was in a multicultural mecca and resolved that as soon as she was old enough she would be leaving Penmenna and exploring the delights of the world.
She was sure there were probably even more campsites in France to see.
Having made friends in the pool and the children’s club – the girls being entranced as she flew across the grass lawns almost pulling off a grand jeté and the boys equally so as she threw the biggest one to the ground when he had laughed at her – meant that she was sure she could shake off the shackles of Penmenna and mix internationally from here on in. Not a bad lesson for a nine-year-old.
She chuckled at the memory, her mother’s passport still in her hand, and forced her mind back to the trip, revelling in the memories of her father.
How they had crammed themselves with French bread and cheese, although Sylvie wasn’t quite sure of it, all squidgy with a different smell from that which she was used to but her mother and father had loved it, talking about new adventures and new things to try which had led to a heady night where the two of them had tried snails, green and oozing with garlicky butter. A step too far for Sylvie.
Her parents had been so happy and playful that week, different people from when they were at home and the burden of the farm was upon them.
The three of them had sat on the grass outside their tent on that last day and Sylvie had made them do a pinkie promise, a promise that they would come away again.
And spent her return journey feeling replete, secure in the fact they would have so many more adventures, and that maybe there was more to her parents than she had thought.
Life had different plans for the three of them.