Wyld Dreamers

is wearing the clothes she treasures most; a floor-length purple skirt and a cheese cloth top with lacy sleeves. Both items were from Kensington Market when her mother took her on a birthday shopping trip. She hopes people will think she is a hippy; they might even feel a little leery of her. The style detracts from her rounded tummy and large breasts, too; parts of her body that no amount of hatred can reduce. David assured her that boys liked girls with curves. But she loathes the band of flesh that rests on her thighs like a warm creature when she sits.
Maggie eyes the girls again, then with relief sees her brother in the driver’s seat of a Land Rover that pulls into the car park. Beside David she sees his latest girlfriend, Amy. Maggie has met her a few times before and wonders how long she’ll be around. Maggie refreshes the red lipstick her mother hates her to wear, saying it makes her ‘look like a tramp’. She puts on the divine floppy hat she had stuffed in her bag and inches between passengers towards the bus door.
David had phoned her at home two nights ago and invited her to come down to Wyld Farm. Their mother’s pleas were easy enough to ignore, and anyway the chance to spend a free week in the country was not to be missed, even if Simon Webster would be there. David’s friend had not replied to her letter despite leaving love bites on her neck after they had met at one of David’s gigs last term.
Maggie had raided the savings box under her bed to buy a train ticket. She would get a holiday job and start saving up after her little holiday in the country.
‘Hi little sis.’ David tugs on her hat. ‘Cool look.’
Though she bats away his hand as though annoyed, she is thrilled. ‘So you managed to get away. How’s it been at home?’ He slings her bag in the open back of the vehicle behind a bale of straw. ‘Get in, there’s room for three in the front.’
‘S’ alright, the same really. Mother’s going insane, so many questions. Wants to know how long you’re planning to be here.’
‘Yeah, I’ll call her soon.’
Maggie slides in beside Amy and settles her feet among the rubbish on the vehicle’s floor. Amy looks different somehow, Maggie thinks. Her straight blond hair is casually tied back with a piece of string, her jeans and wellington boots and what looks like David’s jumper make her look glamorously boyish. ‘Hiya Amy.’
The reply is cool as though Amy has given it careful thought. ‘Yeah, hi.’
David starts the engine. ‘So Maggie, just to warn you. Simon is staying at the farm, too. I told you that, didn’t I? ’
Maggie flinches. How can he say this in front of Amy? Maggie looks for the door handle, wishing she could jump out of the Land Rover. But it’s already moving along the road. She shrinks back against the seat. Surely David hasn’t told Amy about her and Simon kissing? Or her humiliation when he didn’t reply to her letter – to either of her letters?
Maggie glances at Amy but the girl is gazing out of the window as though in a trance.
‘You’re not going to believe the place we’re staying, Maggs!’ David shouts over the engine’s roar.
Perhaps her brother isn’t teasing her? Her resentment melts as he rattles on: ‘It’s called Wyld Farm, it’s practically a mansion. There’s land around it, a few barns and this tumbledown cottage and two dogs and ducks. And this Land Rover to drive. Seymour, that’s Julian’s dad, a famous photographer, he says we can use it while we’re staying down here. Amy, can you check the map? I’m not sure of the way back home yet…’
‘Oh David, you’re hopeless at directions. It’s this left here at the junction and then follow this road out to…’
The town is left behind. The vehicle lumbers over a humped bridge and there’s that delightful hollow feeling fluttering in Maggie’s tummy that makes her cheerful again. A few miles later they turn off the main road and drive through a small village past a pub and a shop. A few miles after that, they follow an unmade track across a field. Weeds batter the wheel rims as they drive towards buildings. David parks the vehicle in a yard and a dog barks as she steps down, avoiding puddles. Music she adores, ‘Bridge over Troubled Water’, drifts from the open front door. A man closes the boot of a car. His expression is enigmatic.
‘Come and meet Seymour,’ says David.
It would have been awkward not to eat the chicken. Having only just met Julian’s father, it is polite to muck in with everyone else, and the smell of roasting meat is irresistible. Crispy potatoes, carrots, peas and hot gravy persuade Maggie she’ll be a vegetarian again tomorrow.
‘Sit down, it’s ready,’ Seymour says. She’s never been cooked for by a man.
Amy and David beckon for her to sit down. As Julian carries a plate of carved chicken to the table, a woman appears at the door, flowers twisted through her curls like a Pre-Raphaelite muse.
‘Stella, my dear, Scott McKenzie could write a song about you. Stella, this is Maggie.’ The woman manages a brief nod.
Raising a glass, Seymour announces: ‘You’re welcome to stay for as long as you like, you know. Help out around the farm, start doing up the cottage, you’ll be busy. We’d be grateful, wouldn’t we Julian?’ He taps his glass. ‘Cheers!’
They start to eat. Someone has changed the record. The dreamy voice of Leonard Cohen’s drifts into the kitchen.
‘Julian said you’re about to go abroad?’ David says to Seymour.
She sees her brother is trying to impress their host.
‘Yes, later tonight I’ll drive back to London for a flight in the morning. A shoot in the Essouira, Morocco. Have you been there?’
‘Morocco? No, I haven’t. I’d love to go.’
‘You came with me once, didn’t you Julian. How