Free Homecoming by Susie Steiner Page B

Sylvie’s marrying the biggest layabout this side of the Pennines, but she’ll not hear a word about it from me. And Lauren shuts me up before I try.’
    ‘You’re best off without them, Ron,’ says Joe. ‘Nothing but worry.’
    There is an awkward silence until Ron says: ‘So Max’ll be taking over the farm then, I hear.’
    ‘Do you now?’ says Joe. ‘It’s early days.’
    ‘Only natural,’ says Ron, ‘if he’s to have a little ’un.’
    Joe flinches, hadn’t realised how much this talk would rankle. ‘He’s a lot to learn. We’ll do it gradual like.’
    ‘Not too gradual I hope,’ says Eric. ‘Children are not known for their patience.’
    ‘No, well, I’m not out of the picture just yet,’ says Joe. ‘Let’s just see how he goes.’
    *
    Bartholomew straightens himself, his breathing heavy, and holds the brush’s wooden handle with both hands. He’s built up a sweat clearing the leaves and has taken off his fleece.Behind him is a whole avenue of plants which need potting; and everywhere a mess of dried stems which must be pruned off. Wonderful work, if only there was time. But in an hour the sun will plop below the horizon and the interminable winter evening will set in. Nothing depressed him more than 4 p.m. darkness. Even with floodlights or dragging plants into the warehouse, it was a struggle to keep the life of the garden centre ignited in the winter months.
    He remembers a general slump which took over his family in the run-up to the clocks going back at the end of October, when all the jobs on the farm became a strain – the discomfort of cold, the dark mornings, the tripping up on unseen stones and the way the wet penetrated your bones. Even the laborious pulling-on of winter gear: waterproof trousers, hats, gloves that were stiff and scratchy, three pairs of socks inside heavy boots, so that you were tired before you’d even stepped out of the door. And then, in summer, the sloughing-off of this second skin. As early as March, they all began to breathe out, their bodies relaxing into lighter anoraks and wellingtons. And the physical lightness of stepping out in an ever-warming spring seemed to give the whole family an exuberance.
    Not just the family. He remembers hearing it in the jovial conversations in the streets in Lipton or in the Fox of an evening. Everyone looking forward to lambing and then a warm May. And the smell of foliage straining forward and the grass so green it made your eyes water with happiness.
    He starts sweeping again, aware that the light is fading. He stops and takes out his phone, switching it on. Three messages from Ruby, mostly pictures of food.
    Sturdy but too much salt. R.
    Winstanton in shock as soufflé rises. R.
    Mung beans actually not disgusting. Who knew? R.
    He takes off one glove and texts her back.
    Running late. B.
    *
    ‘So that’s a pot of tea for two. Anything to eat? I’ve got a lovely carrot cake. Come on ladies, you know you want to,’ says Ruby. She feels her phone vibrate in her apron pocket. The two women look at each other, then hunch their shoulders in delight.
    ‘Oooh go on then. We really shouldn’t. One slice to share.’
    ‘Right you are,’ says Ruby.
    The café has its usual smattering of teatime customers: the two ladies who will giggle and chat conspiratorially; the balding man who always takes the most secluded corner, setting out his laptop, looking up at Ruby often, as if in need of confirmation that his work – whatever it is he’s writing – is important. There’s a young woman at another table, texting on her phone. Next to her is a pram, entirely shrouded in a blanket and with a seeming exclusion zone around it, as if it’s a bomb that could detonate at any moment. The woman texts with her arms close to her sides and she keeps on her coat. Ruby gives the pram a wide berth as she walks down the long room to the back kitchen.
    She puts the kettle on and takes down a metal teapot from a high cupboard. She puts