Free Homecoming by Susie Steiner Page A

Joe thinks Eric resembles one of those life-size fibreglass men, wearing striped aprons, which used to stand outside butcher’s shops.
    ‘You’re alright Eric, I’ll get them in,’ says Joe.
    ‘Don’t be silly man, I’m buying.’ Eric smiles, his voice jovial as always. ‘A pint for Joe,’ he calls to Keith Tindall, who is busying himself in the kitchen to the rear of the bar.
    ‘That was a wet harvest,’ says Ron, whose thinness is accentuated by standing next to Eric.
    ‘Mudbath,’ says Joe. He takes off his Barbour and hangs it on a wall hook. ‘Total mudbath.’ He notices that Eric’s shoes are new. Smooth brown loafers, unmuddied.
    ‘Did you lift the beet alright?’ asks Eric.
    ‘We did, and in a day. The soil was that sticky, but a good harvest it was. Thanks Keith,’ Joe says, taking his pint from Keith, who quickly disappears again.
    ‘And tupping?’ says Eric, like he’s hungry for news of his old life. ‘Good tups this year?’
    ‘Very good, yes, very good,’ says Joe.
    ‘Those lamb prices at Slingsby were shocking, so I’ve heard,’ says Ron. ‘Stores going for under a tenner.’
    ‘It’s the cheap foreign imports,’ says Eric, shaking his head.
    ‘What can ye do?’ says Ron.
    They look into their pints.
    ‘Bomb New Zealand?’ says Joe, and they all laugh. ‘It’ll pick up, you watch. Farmers have gone through this type of strife before.’
    ‘Not as bad as this,’ says Eric.
    ‘Aye and worse,’ says Joe. ‘You wait till lambing and you’ll both be round mine, rubbernecking over the fence at my prize gimmers and tups.’
    ‘At least I’ll not be up against ye at the shows, Joe,’ says Eric. ‘I could never beat you.’
    ‘You nearly killed yourself trying. You and your tweezers.’ And Joe thinks back to the Fadmoor show, must have been eight-odd years ago now. Their rivalry was friendly back then, but with a serious edge. Those rosettes affected the price you got. Joe had walked round behind one of the livestock trailers and caught Eric bent over a Swale with a pair of tweezers.
    ‘Now that is truly pathetic,’ Joe’d said.
    ‘Ah now man, don’t say owt,’ said Eric. ‘I’ve seen you do the same. Just a couple of grey hairs –’
    Then Eric had stood back, admiring his ewe. ‘She doesn’t need any help, this one. She’s nigh-on perfect.’
    But Joe had won top prize and Eric had taken it with his usual good grace. Perhaps you were dealt the hand you could best cope with, Joe thinks now. Eric had got out of farming not long after – in 2001, after the foot-and-mouth culls, like Ron. But while Ron was driven out, for Eric, it was the assault on his feelings that he couldn’t take. Seeing those pyres had finished him off. ‘I admire you, Joe. Restocking, carrying on,’ he’d said. And Joe had put an arm round him, saying, ‘Could be the stupidest thing I ever do.’ Now Eric was rich as Croesus, the smile all over his face. And with smart new shoes.
    ‘How are your boys, Joe?’ says Ron, interrupting his thoughts.
    ‘Not so bad,’ says Joe. ‘Bartholomew’s garden centre’s going great guns by all accounts. And you’ve heard about the baby.’
    ‘Smashing news,’ says Eric.
    ‘It’ll be nice to have a little one around the place again,’ says Joe. He sees Eric’s face go slack, the darkness come over it like a shadow. The son Eric and Lauren had lost. Joe kicks himself for bringing Eric’s lost child into the room. Say something, he thinks, but Eric’s face is re-animating already, the sad lines stretching over another tight smile.
    ‘Have you been down to Bartholomew’s place then?’ asks Ron.
    ‘Not me, no. Ann’s visited. She’s says it’s a nice place he’s got down there. But the south’s not my thing – too crowded. I’d sooner stay up here and hear about it on the telephone. Anyway, Bartholomew’s none too keen on my advice, no matter how I give it.’
    ‘Ah, they never are Joe, they never are,’ says Eric. ‘My