Wyld Dreamers

a pause, she adds: ‘So you can do the cooking, Amy. I’ve taught you a few dishes and I can lend you my Marguerite Patten recipe book.’
It was her mother’s habit, when uncertain, to thrum her fingers on her bony clavicle. Sometimes Amy wonders if one day when her mother is agitated whether her fingers might leap up and wrap themselves tightly around her throat to strangle her.
‘That’s what I was thinking, Mum. Look, you could always phone up Mr Stratton and talk to him if you’re worried? Dad, why don’t you do that?’
It is a gamble worth taking. Seymour Stratton is unlikely to be at the farmhouse to take the call. He is rarely there, according to Julian, preferring to remain in London where his friends and most of his work are. Often works abroad, Julian explained, photographing models in exotic destinations. It would probably be Julian who answered the phone or perhaps the housekeeper.
Amy predicts the call will not be made for it would imply her parents do not trust their daughter.
Shirley says hurriedly: ‘I don’t think we need to bother Mr Stratton, do you, John? It sounds like a lovely holiday for you both. A month in the country, isn’t there a book by that name? And then, of course, you start the secretarial course in September.’
‘Yes Mother,’ Amy nods. ‘I can’t wait.’
Only economical with the truth, she tells herself next day as she packs her contraceptive diaphragm into a bag of clothes and clambers on the back of David’s motorbike, waving goodbye to the small place where she had once been happy and is now desperate to leave. Any residual guilt is blown away by the wind that flattens her eyelashes and the rain that whips her blond hair into damp spaghetti. Her boyfriend’s greatcoat is as soft as a downy pillow. She presses up against him, comatose with joy.
On the ride, it rains almost constantly. Once they stop to buy petrol and the owner, taking pity on their blue lips, offers them sweet tea. They sit by the electric fire in the smoky office, blowing warmth on each other’s fingers, tingling with expectation like children with sweets.
‘Julian’s girlfriend will be there; Stella, a girl he met in London. I called him last night. His father is bringing Simon down in the car in a day or two,’ David says.
‘I can’t believe we’re on the way,’ Amy is almost breathless. ‘We’re free! A whole month. I was convinced Father wouldn’t let me go. Can I drive the tractor? How much further is it?
Does Julian have a dog? I love dogs, always wanted one. I’m so freezing, so happy…’
The road from Taunton streams out behind them. Lamp posts and traffic signs and letter boxes flick by. The road heaves over the spine of a hill, arching them towards the sky. Now they are racing across the Brendon hills. Fields and trees and vast views of landscape flash past. Sometimes a gust of wind catches the bike and it skitters. For a moment, they seem to hang suspended. Then the wheels hit the tarmac and they are off again. She is not afraid. Lulled by the miles, David almost misses the turning. He pulls on the brakes just past a line of white cottages. The force of the deceleration presses her forward; the damp of her shirt is freezing. They turn down a steep lane. Twisting and turning the bike plunges into a dark, narrowing tunnel, the rumble of the engine dampened by the moisture-laden undergrowth and over-hanging branches. Finally the lane levels. A few minutes later, they ride on a track along the edge of a field and pull up in a farmyard.
David cuts the engine. Thick silence presses in. Across the yard she can make out the shape of buildings. Her feet squelch in her boots as they hit the ground.
‘Come on,’ David says. Like bow-legged cowboys, they waddle towards the house. The front door opens. There is Julian with a glass of whisky in one hand and a big towel in the other. Behind him rolls out the pounding cry of Eric Clapton for love and Layla.
‘You’re both soaking,’ Julian beams, ‘come and get warm.’
Wrapped in towels while their clothes steam on the Aga, David and Amy devour bread and cheese and slug wine from a bottle. Julian watches them with amusement. His girlfriend Stella, her mouth fixed in a permanent pout, appears indifferent. As she drifts in and out of the kitchen to change the record, her beaded kaftan tinkles as it trails behind her.
Julian is more at ease than the few times she’s seen him before. Fetching another dry towel, asking if they’ve had enough to eat, he is the perfect host, regaling them with a story of a brilliant record shop in Notting Hill. Nothing like the mysterious person David talked of, the one who missed his essay deadlines and was hounded by hangovers.
Amy glimpses around the kitchen. It is the exact opposite of her mother’s carefully cleaned melamine laboratory. The walls are painted like cloud-filled cerulean skies. A romantic trompe d’oeil landscape covers the wall behind the Aga. A wooden table that could seat twelve is scarred with initials. Around it cluster chairs painted in primary colours. A pine dresser is chock-a-block with jugs, cups and bowls in assorted sizes and patterns. A deep stone sink. The casual glamour of the place is irresistible.
It feels awkward to ask but she must pee. Julian says there is a loo in the boot room. She had never been in a room called that before. Over dusty linoleum she picks her way between shoes, wellingtons, coats, an odd sock, a coil of wire and a sleeping dog she later knows is called Pilot to a door behind which there is a toilet. The sink has not been cleaned.
Sitting on the peeling wooden seat, the chain flush and porcelain handle dangle by her ear. Her mother has always sung the praises of her