Wyld Dreamers

glorious evening like this. I’ve brought food for a picnic. Why don’t we eat outside? In the orchard?’
He opens the oven door a crack and there’s a waft of spice and sweetness. ‘Delicious, what a woman. I’ll put some wine in to cool. We’ll need plates and so on…’
The door slams as he disappears from the house. Molly and her puppies follow him to the door and whimper.
No sign he has brought anyone else with him. She would not admit it openly but she’s relieved. No Sophia with her fringe and obsession with the Bloomsbury artist Dora Carrington or Emile the long-haired French man who turned his bedroom into a meditation temple where he seduced Maggie, or William the physicist who smoked Gauloise and rarely spoke.
And no Coral. Last weekend Seymour brought a tall woman who evaporated upstairs without a word. Next morning, Seymour appeared in the kitchen in a dressing gown and bare feet, his toenails painted silver.
‘Do we have any coffee? Not even milk? I must get you a cow!’ He had winked at Amy, going back upstairs with black tea. An hour later, Coral sashayed down the hall in a tight orange dress to fold herself into Seymour’s car. ‘We’re off to lunch, bye!’ shouted Seymour, slamming the door.
In the scullery Amy finds a basket for the cutlery, glasses and plates. Bizarre to feel so relaxed with Julian’s father. But Seymour is nothing like her parents or their friends who seemed to regard life as a repetitive process that must be adhered to without interest or joy. Seymour knows more about what’s going on in the world than anyone else she knows. And he’s witty.
Anyway, he can’t be that old. Seymour told them one night that he was only 24 years old when Julian was born. Unplanned, he said, reaching over to touch his son’s shoulder. Unplanned and irreplaceable. Julian brushed him away.
It was time to call her parents.
‘Hi Mum, it’s Amy. How are you? How’s Dad?’ Amy cleared a space on the office chair though she know she won’t speak for long.
‘Amy, dear, hallo. How lovely to hear from you. Now tell me what time the train gets in. We’ll meet you in the car.’
‘That would be great, Mum, but I’m, um, not sure that I’m coming home tomorrow, after all. Mr Stratton says it’s fine if I stay a bit longer.’
‘Longer? But you’ve been there for a month already. You don’t want to overstay your welcome, Amy.’
‘I don’t think I am, Mum. I am helping out, working and …’
‘And your college is starting soon, dear. You have to prepare. And your ‘A’ level results. Your letter will be sent here.’
‘Mum, college doesn’t start until September and it’s only July. There’s ages to go. And you can read my results out to me on the phone.’
‘On the phone? But Amy, how long do you plan to stay?’
‘I don’t know, Mum. A few weeks more, perhaps…’
‘Weeks? I’m not sure what your father will have to say.’
There was a silence. Then Shirley repeated: ‘I don’t know what your father will say, Amy.’
‘I don’t have to do what he says.’ Amy’s voice was almost inaudible. ‘I’m enjoying myself. I want to stay.’
‘Amy! What are you saying? That you will not abide by your father’s preferences or what I want? It’s not like you, Amy, to change your mind so suddenly.’
‘It’s not sudden, I’ve been thinking about it for a while.’
‘Have you? Since when? I thought you were determined to… I’m missing you, darling.’
‘I know, Mum. I’ll see you soon, okay. I’ll write in a few days and tell you what I’m up to. Goodbye.’
She sets down the phone like it stings. Years later, on sleepless nights, she would remember the conversation, go over and over the kinder and gentler ways she should have spoken to her mother. But that night all that is in her head is the thought that she can finish making the elderflower wine after all. She wanders into the sunny evening with the basket on her arm.

7
Amy’s father is at her door just after six am again. He whispers loudly, ‘are you awake?’
Lightly sleeping, her limbs began to twitch as his knuckles touch her door. Her eyelids open reluctantly. Like an automaton, she puts on her slippers, reaches for her dressing gown, ties the cord and follows him down the stairs. In step, father and daughter descend; tread by tread, heavy steps, heavy hearts. These early morning sessions began three days ago when she came back home. The thinning bald patch on her father’s head glistens like luncheon meat. Pink and round, it bobs as he goes down the steps.
The kitchen table fits in the alcove. She slides into her chair, the one she’s used since childhood, her back to the wall. She watches her father move about; reaching for the cups, finding the spoons, the feeling of loss filling her belly as he fills the kettle.
She dreads what is coming next but knows there is no way she can stop it. The chair creaks as her father takes his place opposite her.
‘Had she written to you?’
‘No, we only spoke on the phone. On Sundays. You were there in the background, I heard her speak to you, do you remember? She didn’t call during the week, no.’
‘How did she seem? What did she say?’
‘You must have heard our conversations. She seemed okay.
Fine. Said she was missing me, of course.’
‘Did she mention feeling unwell?’
‘Dad, no she didn’t.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘She never mentioned that, no Dad, she’s never mentioned it. Why are you asking me these questions again and again? What does it matter now? It’s not going to bring her back. And why, for God… for goodness sake, why are you whispering?’
She is shrieking now. She can’t help it. There’s a timbre in her voice, one she has never heard before, a dark tone. ‘Why are we whispering, for fuck’s sake, Dad?
‘Watch your language, young lady. It’s early morning Amy, it’s…
‘But there’s no one else in