Wyld Dreamers

old were you?’ Julian passes a plate of chicken to Maggie.
‘About thirteen. Don’t you remember that weird French girl who you got to look after me? She got ill and you had to call the doctor. I remember being in a horse-drawn carriage and seeing a man on a donkey with a basket of cow legs.’
‘Ah, yes, The La Mamounia Hotel with its fabulous garden and fresh oranges. The times I’ve had there.’ Seymour sips his wine wistfully. ‘This shoot will be routine. Winter clothes on the beach, fur meets sand, you can imagine the hassle we’ll get. Fine if they send the right models and plenty of baksheesh for the local fixer.’
Seymour is easy to talk to. Amy mentions the short story competition that David won earlier that year. ‘He wants to be a writer or a musician,’ she says. She sounds proud.
‘If you write another one, David, I’ve a friend who runs a literary magazine. I could send it to him, perhaps,’ Seymour replies. ‘And Maggie, you’re going to be a nurse? Very commendable. I don’t know how you can cope with ill people. Isn’t it all a bit … depressing?’
‘Our mother was a nurse before she got married so it’s in the family,’ Maggie says looking at David for support but he’s too busy eating. ‘I know it is hard work but I’d like to help people. I’ve got a place to train in a big hospital. It’s a good social life and you can travel.’
‘Absolutely. The whole world, you’ll see it all. And commendable, too. I’m sure you’ll be very good at it.’
Seymour turns to Amy. Maggie is relieved she is no longer the centre of Seymour’s attention. It’s like being caught naked in a beam of a strong light. ‘And Amy, what are your plans? You’ve done ‘A’ levels and you’re waiting for the results, I think?’
‘I’m dreading bad news. I’m not sure they went that well,’ the girl replies shyly. ‘I start secretarial college in September. I need to pass both subjects to keep my place.’ Her plans must sound mundane to a famous photographer.
‘A secretary? I should have thought a smart girl like you might find that …a little dull? Anyway, there’s plenty of time to think about what you want to do with your life.’
‘Not really. I’d like to leave home, you see. So I need to earn money.’
‘Yes, a dreadful business isn’t it, money. Julian, time for pudding. Some chocolate tart in that tin, and where’s that piece of brie that’s oozing nicely? Now what will you have, Maggie?’

5
He is easy with it, moves around the farmhouse and the land as if there is nothing unusual about owning a big property in the country. No space within Julian for impression; wealth has created a learned nonchalance. Stella too emanates assurance, even in the way she gazes from a window. Tiny sighs slip between her lips at the merest hint of predictability.
It is not the same for the others. For them it is as though they have stepped into a magic land which shares only superficial aspects with the lives they’ve left behind. Few restrictions or routines, and those which exist are governed by whim rather than will. Each day unfolds depending on fortuity, more often than not, on Stella’s dreams. They rise late, make food and wait for the evening to begin when they drink and smoke, talk and trip until the dawn chorus signals it is time for the party to stop.
It is a land of plenty. Thanks to the three-legged pot on the kitchen shelf there is always cash for food. Like the nursery story Shirley read to Amy of the pot that never stopped producing porridge, as much as they spend it miraculously fills with money. No one seems to find this unusual so she dare not ask how this happens. The privileged assume the world is beneficent, that someone else provides the wherewithal. Who would chose to appear gauche by mentioning reality? The four of them slip into an attitude of entitlement that Julian displays as normal. They are high on freedom.
The builder who is booked to begin renovations on the cottage does not show up. Amy overhears Julian talking on the phone to Seymour’s secretary. He is flirtatious and charming. She imagines a girl with long fingernails writing down his message and giggling. ‘Alright, I’ll give the message to your father. “The builder for Bramble Cottage is a flaky toad.”’
They mustn’t worry, Julian tells his friends. Seymour will find another builder when he gets back from Morocco, if that’s indeed where he is…
Julian shows them around Wyld Farm. Beyond the walled garden, he leads them across a boggy brook into an orchard. Between ripening apples and pears and peaches, David points to a tree covered with misshapen yellow fruits. ‘What are those?’
‘Quince,’ Stella sighs as though David should really know this. ‘It’s cooked into a thick jelly that’s eaten with Manchego cheese. Like in Spain last year…’ She touches Julian’s arm. ‘Do you remember that lunch, Jules, by the pool? That delicious quince jelly, melting in the intense heat…’ She runs her fingers up his neck, blows on his ear. ‘Have you ever tasted quince, Amy?’
Stella, her hand still on Julian, stares at her. Amy jumps. The woman rarely addresses her directly. She shakes her head and wonders why she feels admonished.
Domesticity does not feature in Stella’s lexicon. When she dances, she loops around her boyfriend or sways alone as if in a trance. She is never impolite, will thank the person who brings her something but rarely reciprocates. If she does, the activity is orchestrated with a studied air as though accompanying spiritual practice.
But today something is different. A sheen of sweat coats the woman’s pearly skin. A package addressed to her arrived that morning. Every day the postman walks a mile along the stream and through the meadow to bring the post.
‘Thank you, Garfield, see you tomorrow!’ Amy is about to accept the