A Primrose in November

Chapter 1—The Queen’s Head Pub

Winter in Sussex undressed the trees. Leaves swirled like brown and gold confetti beneath David's tires on the short, winding road from Wyndlan Grange to the Queen’s Head pub. Road-shy estates switched to lane-hugging cottages as David entered the village. Pulford consisted of one street, named The Street, where a tobacconist, a chemist, and a post office combined to form The Store. David parked across The Street from the old, stone church, where attendance never quite equaled the pub’s, save Christmas and Easter.

Leaving his mud-splattered parka in his unlocked car, he walked briskly toward the pub. He alternated between warming his hands with his breath and brushing bits of straw from his sweater. Other than raking a comb through the brown curls rebelling at his collar, he did nothing to change his scruffy appearance. Most of the patrons were farmers who distrusted hands too soft and clothes too clean.

David took two steps downward into the pub, forced to duck under the low doorway. More than six feet tall, he often dodged the low beams of the older pubs, always a treacherous prospect after too many pints. He found an open spot between the low ceiling’s black oak beams where he could stand up straight.

Patrons packed the pub where the fireplace blazed non-stop in winter. David began to lose the chill that dogged him throughout his chores all morning at Wyndlan. Pipe and cigarette smoke hung in the air. He searched the hazy warmth for Jim. His usual 15 minutes late, David expected to find his best friend waiting, pint in hand.

He could not remember the first time he entered the Queen’s Head pub, though his father had told him it was 32 years ago, when he was only fortnight old. As a boy, he often accompanied his father when he popped round for a chat with the locals. All the talk now was about Maggie Thatcher’s stand for Prime Minister, but the decor remained the same. The slate flooring and stone fireplace hadn’t changed, nor had brass harness fittings or the picture of a young Queen Elizabeth on the wall.

You dirty stiff! What are you doing here? asked a young man reeking of beer. You look as though you have been playing with your cows again.

Henry, you are in fine form, David said to his stepbrother who struggled to stay upright. Though Henry was several years younger than David, he logged more hours by far at the Queen’s Head.

What brings you round, you dirty stiff? I thought Michelle forbid unescorted pub crawls, Henry said, rocking back and forth. He threaded his arm through the loop of a leather strap hanging from the beam overhead. He swayed as if he rode a train car on the Underground. Come to buy me a pint, have you?

Henry’s pants were never soiled nor his sweaters tattered. He wore plush, green corduroys with the pant legs tucked neatly into well-polished boots. He looked warm in his military-style sweater with shoulder and elbow patches. His greenish-brown, watery eyes looked painfully bloodshot between his weak chin and unruly brown curls. Half a foot shorter than David, his pale face bore a certain puffiness above his wiry frame.

You are blotto, Maggot, David said, addressing him by his nickname. He earned it as a boy by postponing burying a sheep. When David’s father pressed the point, Henry dug a shallow hole. When the body bulged above ground, he jumped on the grave with both feet, causing the sheep to burst and cover him with maggots. David deemed him Maggot and it stuck.

Of course I am blotto; I am in a bloody pub, aren’t I? I say, David, that French woman hasn’t let you out enough lately. You have forgotten what happens in a bloody pub. I intend to become even more pissed, Henry added, twirling on the strap to face the young man behind him. Nigel, be a good sport and get us another bitter.

Henry passed his pint mug to a well-lubricated Nigel, who hung from an adjacent strap. In doing so, Henry let slip the sling that held him upright and fell backward toward the fireplace. David grabbed Henry by the arm and pulled him away from the flames.

Good show, David. You saved my bloody life, you dirty stiff. I suspect you think I should be ruddy grateful. Henry shook loose from David’s grip and clung to his strap again. Right enough then, I am. Grateful as a bloody stiff. I am forever in the debt of David Elliott, my ruddy stepbrother. How is that then? As he finished, Nigel returned and handed him an unneeded pint. David attempted to slip away.

Aren’t you even the least bit curious why Nigel and I are drinking this wretched pub dry today? Henry asked before David could leave.

When have you or Nigel ever needed an excuse for that? David asked, his eyes searching for Jim.

You make it sound as if I am some dirty, great alcoholic, said Henry. And what does it matter? Today is different. Today we learned that Nigel lost Hill House. Lifting his mug in a sloppy salute, he said, This one is for Hill House.

You sound like a raving madman, Maggot, David said. What are you on about? I suspect only you two could be pissed enough to lose an entire house.

I grew up in that house, Nigel said in a maudlin tone. Henry’s friend stared into his drink, his boring features more vacant than usual. I shall miss the old girl.

Your father is selling, is he? David asked, still confused.

Mind your tongue, Nigel answered. My father would never sell Hill House. It has been in the family since 1773, when my great, great, great grandfather. . . Maybe that should be four ‘greats.’ He paused to search his muddled mind for the answer. I was never quite certain. I shall have to ask Father. I should know. After all—

What are you trying to say? David asked.

I have lived there almost 30 years, Nigel said with a whimper, oblivious to the question.

Bloody hell! I have almost lived there 30 years, Henry said, as if it justified his present state.

Henry, you never lived a day at Hill House, David said. Either you were with your father at Newcombe Manor or home with us at Wyndlan.

Nigel here is my oldest chum, Henry said. I have had a good many laughs at Hill House and I cannot forget that. You would not make light of it if you were losing your bloody Wyndlan, would you?

Make light of what? David asked in frustration.

Show some sensitivity and buy us both a round, Henry said in hopes of persuading David to go the bill. This has not been easy for Nigel, you know.

You are so far gone I haven’t a clue what you are on about. You both run to the nearest pub if your dog dies or to commemorate the latest labor strike. Perhaps after I down a pint or five, I shall understand what you keep nattering about, though I doubt I shall have the time to catch up with you two before closing.

David left them both and made his way to the wide bar on the opposite side of the room. The crowd, mostly men, queued three deep before the counter. David swam between them and answered greetings from fellow farmers, friends, and acquaintances. Acquiring a lager was a difficult but familiar task in the busy pub.

He finally managed to land an arm on the bar towel. The barmaid set down three pints for the chap beside him, all filled just above the brim. They drenched both the towel and David’s elbow.

She must have been the Canadian girl someone mentioned the other day. He could not remember if it was his stepbrother Peter, or his brother Chad. She was somewhat smaller than his girlfriend Michelle, though still attractive in a different way. Her eyes were a sparkling blue and her brown hair had a touch of red. She pulled the brass-topped draught handle with graceful strength.

Waddullit be? she asked David.

Pardon me? He did not understand her question straightaway. It had been a good long while since he last heard a Canadian accent.

Would you like something to drink? she said, smiling as she enunciated each syllable.

A beer, he answered with equal deliberateness, and returned her smile with a twinkle in his eye.

Great. What kind? During the noon rush, she could not spend too much time with any customer.

Do you stock a decent Canadian beer? David felt a challenge coming. He quickly slipped from friendly to flirtatious, his worst habit as well as his greatest pleasure.

I only wish we did, she said with a quick glance to the publican filling pints at her side.

A pint of lager then, David said with resignation. You must be dreadfully thirsty.

I’ve adapted. It was that or go dry and I’m not ready for anything that drastic. As she spoke, she selected a mug for him and pumped it full of golden brew. She scooped off the foam and filled the glass full up. She set the dripping pint on the towel between them. You are the first person who hasn’t called me a Yank.

You don’t sound a thing like a Yank.

I don’t, eh?

Not a bit. I did some rough-necking on the oil rigs of the Northwest Territories a few years back. Canucks don’t sound like Yanks at all. The part about the oil rigs was true. He looked at her sincerely, straight on, hoping the rest would be believed.

Funny, I could never tell the difference myself, she said with a smile. Maybe it was his honest blue eyes and the appealing trace of freckles high on his cheeks that prompted her next question: Are you married?

Considering that I don’t even know your name, that’s a rather forward question, don’t you think? David asked, leaning back from the bar.

If you mean I’m blunt, yes. I’m very blunt. Excuse me, she said as she refilled two empties for another patron. From a few paces away, she continued talking over her shoulder to David as she pumped the draught handle that faced the lounge bar. It’s just that I’m pressed for time. I need to get married soon. The only hitch is, I don’t have a groom.

That could bog you down, David said after a sip. He put his coins on the counter, intending to make a quick exit. Marriage was never a comfortable subject for him, particularly when it needed to occur in the foreseeable future.

It’s not what you think, she said. The mugs she placed on the soaked towel overflowed on to the heavily lacquered surface of the wood bar.

What might I be thinking? David asked.

I’m not pregnant, she answered. That’s what you were thinking, right?

Perhaps. David’s eyebrows jumped once. He was relieved it was not what he thought. I suppose it did occur to me.

Of course it did, she answered, collecting empties and washing them in the sink beneath the bar. Why is it every time I ask a man to marry me, he immediately assumes I’m in some sort of trouble?

Because in this country, customarily, it is the man who proposes.

Intrigued, David no longer tried to fade away into the crowd. While allowing other patrons access, he firmly secured a spot where the countertop met the wall. It was a precarious location considering its proximity to the dartboard, but he felt it worth the risk.

He often felt awkward re-entering the pubs in November after spending summer and half of autumn alone on a tractor. The first few weeks after all that solitude, he tended to find himself clutching his pint mug to his chest, straining to be sociable after months of grumbling to the cattle. She brought him out of his shell quickly and painlessly.

Men are supposed to pop the question in Canada too. But I find that archaic. She smiled at the thought, unconsciously tugging at the sweater beneath her white apron.

I suppose it is. I try not to dwell on the subject.

Well? Are you married? she asked.

Would you care to know my name first? he asked. Or is that a bit old fashioned as well? He could not help but smile at her tenacity.

Oh all right, have it your way. What’s your name and are you married?

David and no. Or no and David if you prefer.

Terrific. Will you marry me? She proposed with less awkwardness than most people display when asking directions to the loo. And as if it were twice as common. Then she dried her hands and readied more clean mugs.

You must be joking. I don’t even know your name, he answered. Her unconventional approach thoroughly amused him, especially on a topic he normally found distasteful at best.

You certainly are a stickler for details. She stepped back and took a deep breath, standing still for the first time since he stepped up to the bar. She brushed an errant strand from her forehead with the back of her hand, only to have it return to the same spot. Not only was she pretty in a very natural way, but David found her outlook quite game. He detected a reoccurring sparkle in her eye and enjoyed the moments it flashed at the gleam in his own.

You think it odd to ask one’s name before entering into nuptial bliss with them? he asked.

There’s no bliss to it, she answered.

My thoughts exactly, he said with a sly smile. The din of the pub was like a far-off rumble, punctuated by an occasional rowdy laugh.

Fine. I’m Lyn. How about it?

How about what?

Oh never mind, she answered. She pulled the draught handle again with exasperation. You’re too much of a stuffed shirt for what I need.

Stuffed shirt? Me? He pulled his ragged sweater away from his shirt and inserted a finger through a well-worn hole. Tattered, yes. Stuffed? Never. What might you need that I don’t have?

I need an unstuffy, male British citizen to marry me. I need him fairly soon in order to stay in this country and earn a living wage. Face it, as a Canadian, my chances of landing a decent job here are pretty slim.

You need a royal, though not necessarily loyal, subject. Is that it? he asked as he pushed his empty pint forward for a refill. Another please.

We could have some sort of friendship I suppose, but it would be a little cumbersome, she answered, refilling his glass but ignoring his money.

Cumbersome? We wouldn’t want to muddle our priorities then, would we? He reclaimed his mug and, after the first sip, licked a foam mustache from his thin upper lip.

You take it all so personally, she said. As she attempted to explain, her features became more animated. Her normally expressive hands remained trapped close to her body by the cramped working quarters. David noticed a ring on her finger and suspected she was just having him on.

A pint of ale, please, Miss. The request came from the lounge bar, perpendicular to the busy pub. She snagged the customer’s glass and filled it beneath the draught handle closest to David.

It might interest you to know I am not that sort of fellow, David said, leaning forward and lowering his voice. After looking around discreetly, he added, I would never consider marrying anyone without knowing her last name.

Does it matter? she answered quietly, cocking her head slightly. After all, we’d use yours.

Which you do not even know, he said as she smiled and walked away.

Now I suppose you want me to ask you what your last name is, she said. She returned to stand in front of him, pausing briefly to put her hands on her hips before turning away. He watched her draw a gill of whisky from the inverted bottles overhead and noticed her heels left the floor slightly as she reached up to fill the glass. He remembered Canadian women as being adventurous.

You dirty stiff, said a familiar voice. You are quite keen on chatting up the barmaid and denying us all another pint, aren’t you? Henry stepped beside David, leaning against him slightly.

Consider it mercy in your case, Maggot. I have only your well-being at heart.

All right, Lyn said to David after placing the small glass in front of an older patron and collecting his pound note. Have it your way. What will my last name be if we get married?

Married? David, you dirty stiff. What are you up to?

Elliott, David answered, ignoring Henry’s remark while prying the mug from his fingers. Please draw another bitter for this chap before he perishes from thirst.

You dirty rotter. Are you seriously considering marrying the barmaid? Henry asked.

Take your bitter and be off, David answered.

This should delight Michelle immeasurably. Henry reached for his pint as he issued his sloppy threat.

It is a pity you are so hopelessly plowed or you could tell her yourself, David said, dismissing him.

I already know, Daveed.

David knew it was Michelle without looking. He turned slowly, smiling the entire time, never looking nearly as worried as Henry hoped he would. Michelle stepped in front of Henry, who faded back into the crowd.

Have you been here long? David asked.

Long enough to know you are marrying the barmaid, she answered. Her coal black eyes looked straight into his blue ones.

Dressed in red and black, her striking, tall frame bore a sophistication that set her apart from the local girls. Her black hair formed a smooth shadow that framed a classic face and a clenched but delicate jaw. David could sense her seething as she struggled to contain her anger. After four years as a couple, off and on, the last year spent living together, he felt he knew her well enough to know it would pass. Still, it tended to make her accent more pronounced and her English slightly stilted.

Surely you cannot be cross with me, he said, acting perplexed at her discontent. When she had his back to the wall, he would apologize. Until then, he preferred to coax her out of her bad mood and evade the crux of the matter. Shall I buy you a drink? Almost closing you know.

No, thank you, she answered, flashing a cold look at Lyn before focusing her glare on him.

Michelle, I would like you to meet Lyn. She has come all the way across the pond to work in this pub and find a suitable mate. First-rate hunting grounds, don’t you think? Michelle’s icy silence punctured David’s attempt to make light of the matter.

Pleased to meet you, Lyn said, removing a glass from the counter. I didn’t realize David was married.

Oh, he is not married, Michelle said. However, he could soon be very available.

I shall buy you a drink, David said again. What do you fancy?

I am not thirsty, Daveed.

I would never marry her without consulting you first, David said. He reached for Michelle’s hand but she withdrew it. She would have to meet your approval first or—

Stop it, Daveed. He angered her even more when he toyed with her temper. Must I treat you like a child and demand you respect my heart? Today, we were to meet for lunch. I rushed home but you were not there.

I left a message at your office, he said, lifting his lager for a sip and watching her from the corner of his eye.

I did not expect a message at my office. I expected you. At home. She stood rigid just out of reach, avoiding any physical persuasion on his part. I called Wyndlan. I thought something was wrong. Perhaps you were hurt . . .

Oh. He winced and lifted his shoulders, as if preparing for a thump on the head.

They told me you were here . . . with Jim. Michelle looked around conspicuously.

Ah, yes. Jim—

Instead I find you proposing to the barmaid.

But it’s true, he said. Jim asked to meet me here after one of his dreadful bank manager meetings, poor bloke. Diabolical sort, those bank managers. He is probably being parted from his wallet as we speak.

He tried to sound completely earnest, but knew she believed little of his story. Justified or not, she was frequently annoyed with him. He enjoyed their reconciliations so much, he wondered if he did not subconsciously provoke her.

Have a drink, then, he continued. Fetching new frock you have on.

Just a tonic with a twist. I have a terrible headache, she said with a pout as she relented. David nodded to Lyn and she poured it quickly.

Sixty pee, and I suppose this means our wedding is off, Lyn said, swiping his note from the countertop. She returned his change with a twinkle in her eye. Before passing the drink to Michelle, he gave Lyn a smile, though he knew he might not live to regret it.

Last call, gentlemen. Last call, the publican shouted.

David and four others drained their pints and smacked them on the counter.

Another lager, David said, amid the flood of requests for ales, bitters, and Guiness. He turned his attention to Michelle. Tell me why you look so ravishing today?

She seated herself on a bar stool beside him with a sigh. A provocative slit in her deep red sweater dress accentuated her long legs. As she crossed them, one black high heel let loose of her heel. A black belt encircled her narrow waist and matched her oversized black blazer. She sat gracefully erect, both hands tastefully jeweled. One delicate hand held her tonic, the other touched her forehead before resting on her thigh. Henry returned and leaned against her.

Another man? David asked, eyebrows raised.

Oh, Henreee, go away, she answered, as she pushed him upright against the counter. This headache is all your fault, David.

What did I do?

You drove my car, she said. David thought she sounded exhausted and truly angry, not just about lunch either.

I have not driven your car in over a fortnight. His eyes never left hers as he felt for his pint on the bar and brought it to his lips.

Because of you, I had to stand before the magistrate today, she said.

Oh, that, he said, hiding most of his face behind his pint.

Yes, that. Because of you, I had to pay £12.00 for an illegal turn I did not make. She placed her glass on the bar, waiting for his explanation.

Actually, it wasn’t very sporting, he said, holding his mug to his chest and drawing back from her slightly.

I tried to explain that I was in Rome at the time, Michelle said. I even presented my passport as proof. He said that it was my car that made the turn, and since it had not been reported stolen at the time, it was my responsibility. When provoked, her eyes always filled with a passionate indignation that David found enticing.

You requested that I— he started.

Perhaps I should tell them you stole my car. Maybe then you would obey the driving laws of this country. She paused, showing signs of fatigue but not resignation.

You asked me to drive your car, David said, grabbing the opportunity to answer in his defense. You wanted your turn indicators repaired while you were away. I was taking it to Wyndlan when a bobby spotted me. It was not a proper ticket; not the sort where he gave chase. One ought to be nabbed in the act, not through a notice in the post. He pleaded his case to a less than impartial juror.

I still must pay the £12. She waited for him to repent.

He knew he should offer to pay the fine, though she never considered paying for his auto repair services. However, reimbursing her would have been far too simple for their relationship.

Your glasses, gentlemen, please, the publican said, officially announcing the two o’clock closing.

Now I’ve done it, David said as he finished off his pint with a gulp. I have wasted an entire lunch talking about your car without so much as a bite to eat. Man does not live by lager alone, he said. The room was nearly empty room. Henry swirled in a semicircle, still hanging from the support strap in the center of the room. Nigel sat slumped in the corner. Most men at any rate.

You are hopeless, Michelle said to David.

Yes, I know, Henry answered.

Henry, did you really threaten to shoot your neighbor’s dog? Michelle asked, recalling some local gossip.

I did and I shall, he said, announcing his position with pride to the empty pub. He pulled himself upright and appeared, for an instant, stone sober. The same fate awaits any dog I find chasing my pheasants.

Maggot, David said, crossing his arms across his broad chest. Surely you realize the RSPCA will have your neck. In this country, one would be safer as a baby basher. You won’t have a friend left in all of Southern England.

I don’t have friends. I have pheasants. He released the strap, and wobbled upright for a moment.

Glasses, please, the publican announced with a bit more authority. At his plea, Henry and Nigel both deposited their well-drained glasses on the counter and stumbled out the door together.

We should best be off, David said to Michelle and finished his drink.

Where’s Jim? Michelle asked, rising to stand between him and the way out.

Ah, Jim, he answered, turning in his pint glass and feeling the wall at his backside. Poor bugger. Those bank managers can be rough. It will be in all the papers tomorrow. ‘Dairyman Dies Dreadful Death in Bank Manager’s Office.’

Be serious, Daveed, Michelle answered, her accent more noticeable again. You say you came to lunch with Jim. Instead, I find you here with Henry and Nigel proposing to the barmaid.

Since Jim is just back from the States, I thought you would understand—

If he were here, I might. I am leaving for New York in the morning. I thought you might want to be with me. She turned away to collect her purse and scarf.

New York? I thought it was Boston, he answered, dreading another long separation. Her career as a buyer for a clothes marketing firm kept her traveling far too much. He dug his fists deep into his pockets and his shoulders hunched up to his ears. It’s all running together, I guess.

Boston was last month. Don’t you remember? Maybe it isn’t important enough, she answered, squaring around to resolve the matter on the spot.

Please, he whispered as he moved himself between Michelle and the employees behind the bar. Shall we discuss it tonight?

Why don’t we discuss it now? Or should I leave you here to make your wedding plans with— Jim?

Jim? he repeated and followed her gaze to the door. His friend arrived with a familiar spring in his step and cheeks flushed from the cold. Jim’s dark shaggy hair hid his green eyes and his full black moustache covered his smile. I thought the bank manager had you this time, David said with relief.

So sorry I’m late, he said, rubbing his hands together and casting a forlorn glance at the empty pint mugs, lined up like soldiers on the counter. The whole business lasted a bit longer than I expected. Hello, Michelle, he said with a smile.

Hello. Please excuse me but I have to go, she said, starting toward the door so quickly, he had to race back to hold it open for her.

But I’ve just arrived, Jim said, sounding a bit confused as she passed him. Surely I haven’t put a foot wrong already.

I am off for ‘New York,’ she said, with a stabbing look back at David. I have an early morning flight. I still must go by the store and pack too. Good-bye, David. Pardon me, she said to Jim as she exited in a flurry of red and black.

Cheerio, David said, missing the kiss not given.

Cheerio, Jim echoed faintly and turned to David. Doubtless I have arrived at the wrong moment. . . again.

On the contrary, David said, as he shifted his gaze from the door to his friend. It is just possible you saved me from a fate worse than death. She is truly cross with me this time.

I have botched it for you, haven’t I?

Nonsense. Have I ever needed help making Michelle cross with me? David asked Jim with a reassuring smile. How is the bank manager then?

Interesting. He’s quite a good fellow, you know, Jim answered with a smug look.

John claims there are only two kinds of bank manager meetings, David said, recalling his father’s words. He grasped the leather strap hanging from the beam nearest him. In one, he offers you a stiff back chair and suggests you get straight on with business. In the other, he invites you into his office, inquires after your health, your family, and the weather while opening his finest Scotch. Which was it then?

More like the latter, I would guess. Without the Scotch, unfortunately, Jim added with a mournful glance to the bar. Not to worry though. I didn’t sign anything.

Come along, David, Jim, the publican said to them. Must be closed by 2:00. If the bobby pops round, we shall all be up on ‘after hours’ charges.

Cheerio, guv’ner, Jim answered, starting back toward the door.

Too bad, Lyn said, passing David on her way toward the bar with a tray full of empty glasses. About us, I mean. I sort of like the name Elliott.

Been in the family for generations, David answered as he disengaged his arm from the strap. All for the best perhaps, what with me being so ‘stuffy’ and all.

You’re probably right, she said to his surprise as she slipped behind the bar.

Cheers, he called back as he and Jim started up the steps and out of the sunken pub. He thought he heard her say good-bye as the door closed behind them.

What was that about? Jim asked as they crossed the damp tarmac to The Street.

She wants to marry me.

What?

Of course, once Michelle appeared, she rescinded the offer.

If she is desperate, perhaps she will marry me, Jim said, almost sounding serious. She’s quite a good looker, you know.

She isn’t that desperate, David answered before thinking.

Thank you very much, mate.

I mean she is not in a family way. It would purely be a marriage of convenience.

Whose convenience? Jim asked, recalling Michelle’s hasty departure.

Hers. She wants me for my citizenship and whatever job opportunities it might provide.

Not my idea of convenience, Jim said as they approached his car with Pippa his dog asleep inside. I need a bird who wouldn’t mind being knocked up at dawn’s first light to help me pull 450 titties.

You have a way with words and women, David said with a laugh. He knew he could never explain Michelle’s anger, first because Jim was not in the pub, and then because he was. Why were you so late?

It was all a bit too much to fathom in a single meeting.

Sounds like my finances.

Oh, we dispensed with that part rather quickly, unfortunately. It was all the nasty stories about Ivan Warner and Patsy’s mill. Jim’s voice faded as he looked around discreetly before opening the car door. What with the jet lag and all, you have one perplexed dairyman.

What possible connection could there be between Henry’s father and the sawmill at Wyndlan? What did the bank manager say about Ivan, our illustrious magistrate?

Best not to discuss it here, Jim said, looking up and down The Street.

You’ve gone all cloak and dagger over this, haven’t you? David asked. As he spoke, the sun was barely clinging to one corner of the autumn sky. As mysterious as it all sounds, I am afraid it will have to wait. Chad is off to London for the day and I am left with his work as well as mine. David grimaced at the thought of another late night at the farm and the subsequent displeasure it would cause him when he reached Michelle’s.

I haven’t attended me cows in two weeks. I have some good boys but. . . Jim never finished the thought. David understood the importance of minding the stock first hand.

Michelle will be off across the pond tomorrow. Tell me about it then, David said. Looking at the big black dog in Jim’s car, he asked, You didn’t take Pippa to the bank, did you?

Of course, Jim answered, smiling behind his dark moustache. Affection twinkled in his green eyes as he opened the car door and petted his mutt. He slipped into the driver’s seat, forcing the dog over to the passenger side with difficulty. I consult her on all me financial matters. Wouldn’t make a move without her. I’m off. Ring me when the warden leaves.

Right enough, David answered. He rubbed his hands together, feeling a chill from the north wind. He forced them deep into his pockets as he walked to his car. Cheerio, he called back to Jim.

Cheerio, mate, Jim answered after rolling up his window. His muffled response was easier to make out than his blurred face. The fogged windscreen came courtesy of the big-nosed shadow driving away beside him.

Chapter 2—The Hundred Years War

Dusk faded to darkness. David wanted to be at Michelle’s early, but he could not seem to leave Wyndlan. If he had skipped lunch or if his brother Chad were there, perhaps he would have finished on time. Perhaps not. That was the way matters ran about the farm. After feeding the cattle in the barn behind the manor house, he had another barnful to tend near the sawmill. Crossing from the first to the second barn proved a chilling experience on winter evenings.

Headlamps flickered past in the distance at the base of the trees lining the main road. The dark silhouettes of another row of ash trees started at the distant road and ended between Patsy’s house and the Home Cottage where his step-brother Peter lived with his wife, Jillian. Less than half the buildings on the grange were visible from the main road. Most noticeable was the Guard House with its steep gables where Chad lived. It sat in a grove of pines where the long drive met the road. From there, a bit of brick from the manor house, portions of Patsy and Peter’s homes, and a rusting corner of the sawmill were visible through gaps in the trees and front hedge. Hidden were the cattle barns and a row of tidy white cottages. Smoke curled from the small chimney belonging to Miss Frances. She had already lived there for a decade when a young John Elliott came down from London and bought Wyndlan during World War II. Further on, four more bungalows sat near a field of winter wheat.

David splashed across the muddy open square at the center of the farm. It was the axis around which the entire farm rotated. Originally designed large enough to turn a carriage, it was now well-rutted from farm equipment and lorries heavy with lumber.

David stepped inside the second barn. It had the illusion of warmth created by the smell of fresh hay and the swishing tails of forty young calves. Their mournful bellows echoed into the evening sky as soon as he entered. He broke up fresh bales and dispersed the feed with a practiced rhythm. Two pheasants hung on the wall by the door. David’s father, John, spent a good deal of time hunting now. His stepmother, Victoria, spent a fair amount of time cooking pheasant. David had not tasted one of her delightful feasts since moving to Michelle’s last year.

His complicated family overwhelmed Michelle on her first visit to the manor. He remembered bringing her out to the barn for a break. He took some chalk and drew a family map on the wall, now barely visible behind the hanging pheasants.

Michelle’s semi-detached house in Crosham felt wonderfully private. In comparison, Wyndlan resembled a train station. People popped in the back door at tea time without ever ringing in advance.

Initially, David enjoyed the warm evenings at Michelle’s cozy house. It felt so plush and modern with functioning central heating, thick carpets, and quiet plumbing. It was the opposite of Wyndlan’s clumsy furnishings and bald carpets. When Michelle was away, he spent his evenings watching the telly, switching channels at will. He could sleep as long as he liked in a warm bath after a long day at the farm. At Wyndlan, someone always demanded access to the loo before he could catch a proper nap and programs were already selected before he ever reached the den at the end of the day. Still, he enjoyed laughing with others when the latest funny advert aired on the telly. All this he missed within weeks of moving away.

As an overseas buyer, Michelle often jetted off to Paris or Rome or New York for days at a time. Those days often stretched into weeks. Too many times, ice-cold water woke David when he napped in the bath at Michelle’s.

It was so different when Michelle came home. The house lit up when she walked in the door. She would call out, Hello, Daveeed in her desirable French accent. She would hang up her coat and immediately sort the mail and tidy the kitchen. Her unfailing organization was one of her many foreign traits that attracted him. Her skin was not creamy white, nor her cheeks rosy, like most of the English girls in his past. He found her tan skin quite fetching and her hair as black and shiny as obsidian. She moved in a swift but flowing manner, her every step the epitome of grace.

In the beginning, when he grew bored of long nights alone at Michelle’s house, David drifted back to Wyndlan for a meal or two, or worse, with Jim to the local pubs. Michelle’s glamorous job allowed her no time for outside amusements. His diversions raised her suspicion and fiery temper. After learning of his wanderings while she was away, she began preparing meals in advance for him to eat in her absence. She would not have him thinking she did not care about him. His days on the farm were long enough. She saw no reason for him to journey back at night as well. He sighed, once more eyeing the pheasants on the barn wall. In all likelihood, he would not taste them either.

Sing for your supper, he said, tossing feed at the cattle in the stalls.

Two days earlier, he purchased two new calves from a farmer in Southford. They arrived bright-eyed and strong. Two hours later, he found them down in the hay, weak as kittens. He ruled out shipping sickness and relocated the pair to the old stable behind Patsy and Peter’s places where Victoria once stabled her ponies. Unfortunately, he acted too late. The next day, he found the barn full of sick calves while two healthy ones now lounged about in the paddock.

So sorry for the discomfort boys, he said to the sick bunch. I shall definitely speak to those two about this.

He scrutinized them, wary of the ones who were down. While filling the trough, he leaned out of the top half of the barn’s Dutch door. His eyes found the familiar constellations of the northern sky. He would have gazed longer but he had the two isolated calves to tend before his drive home.

He lifted a bale of hay from the stack by the door and plunged into the cold in the direction of the old stable. He passed Patsy’s well-lighted windows on his left. Off to his right, the telly glowed behind the curtains of Peter’s living room.

His steps sure and his shoulders strong, he hiked through the darkness to feed the two culprits. Many long days he hauled more than one bale at Middle Barn Farm. The land he leased there, 200 acres of prime ground, always brought the joy and agony of season’s first harvest. Every year, when the harvester finished, rolls of hay dotted the prickly bed of freshly mown countryside. At the same moment he enjoyed a successful return, he dreading collecting each roll and hauling it away for baling and stacking. His breath turned to mist as he strode across the muddy path. His hands ached from the cold.

How are you two faring this evening? he asked as he approached the paddock’s high fence. Both black and white calves rushed to greet him. He scaled the top rail and pulled the bale along behind him.

He was first assigned the task of feeding Victoria’s ponies when he was ten years old. He would wrestle a bale of hay into his wagon, where it would bounce noisily behind him in summer. In winter, he strained to heave the wagon through the mud.

You two have given me a barn full of grief, you know. Not to mention the hardship that awaits me at home, he said.

The two healthy-looking calves provided some solace, even if the walk to the paddock lengthened his workday and stole precious hours from his time with Michelle. He climbed out of the paddock only after checking them both as well as the darkness permitted.

He sat briefly on the top rail to ponder his mental checklist of unfinished chores. One tractor needed attention badly; a toppled shed needed mending. With sick cattle and faulty gates, he often thought he must be the worst farmer in the county. Yet each year he saw a higher yield from his crops and livestock. Wyndlan showed a profit unlike many of the neighboring farms. Still, he felt he neglected too much. He pushed himself, even in winter, when farming was supposed to slow down. He hoped that while Michelle was off to Boston or New York, he might gain some headway. He knew it was wishful thinking. On a farm, there was always something to do.

When he sat down in his car, he realized how tired and dirty he was. His boots were caked with mud. Bits of straw and grass remained pasted to his damp blue parka. His appearance would not bode well for him at home. He started the motor and hastily raked his fingers through his hair. Switching on the heater, he began his long drive. As Wyndlan faded from sight, his thoughts turned to the beautiful woman and warm bath that awaited him.

At first, he struggled to call Michelle’s city house home. He wanted her to come live at Wyndlan, but she was too content at her modern house in Crosham to ever be comfortable in one of the farm’s bungalows. She had lived in the city all her life. Her father, a doctor, had a large practice in Paris where she lived as a girl. She and her mother moved to London after her parents’ divorce. Michelle was a townie and changing now proved difficult, if not impossible. Her lifestyle and profession in the import/export end of clothes marketing revolved around the conveniences of city life.

He ticked right along the ten-mile drive to Crosham, late enough to miss traffic time. Stretches of the carriageway, especially near the roundabouts, often bogged down with bonnet-to-boot tailbacks from the work force returning from London. He flew instinctively through each turn and rise in the road. It was a drive he made many times before the day he brought all his clothes along with him.

At one time, there was farmland right to the edge of Crosham. When he was younger, it was nothing more than a fair-sized market town, good for a Saturday shopping venture. Lately, small villages grew together as London overflowed and devoured the countryside. Crosham fell prey to the sprawl with identical, flat-faced brick houses sprouting alongside the main road.

He entered Michelle’s driveway where four terrace homes sat back from the road behind a patch of grass. He was surprised not to find Michelle’s car in its allotted space beside his slot. He was fully prepared for a scolding. He inserted his key into the lock of the third door and entered.

A small entryway separated the rest of the house from the cold air outside. He removed his work clothes there and left them in a small cupboard. He had only lived with her for a fortnight before she requested he do so. She tired of following him around after work, picking up bits of straw and dirt. After a particularly nasty grease stain on the couch, she purchased the cupboard for him to use. Garments he assessed as perfect for tractor mending, barn cleaning or grubbing about in the wheat were to be stored there. He saw no reason to start the day with a fresh set of clothes to ruin. She saw no reason for trailing half of Wyndlan up the stairs.

At first he resented stripping to his briefs before relaxing after a long day. Other cultures only required shoes be removed, he had argued. As the weather grew colder, he resented it again. However, he remembered the number of times his near nakedness tempted Michelle to follow him up the stairs. The ensuing pleasure made the inconvenience worthwhile. No hope of such nonsense tonight. He entered the main part of house shivering and alone.

The thick, beige carpet of the warm living room felt soft and clean between his toes. Michelle must have been there recently. He detected a trace of her perfume in the air. To his left was the short, steep stairway to the top floor. He walked around to his right, past the glass dining table and rattan chairs to the tiny kitchen. He quickly tiptoed across the cold tile to raid the cookie jar. With a mouthful of cookie, he peeked out the curtains of the small kitchen window that faced the main road. He thought he heard her car and hoped she would not catch him spoiling some tremendous meal she had planned. When he recognized the neighbor’s car, he allowed the curtains to fall back into place.

With a handful of cookies, he wandered back to the living room and picked up the remote control. A large bamboo-shelving unit against the tapering wall of the stairs contained the television. Other shelves contained neatly arranged books and handsomely framed photographs while long-stemmed calla lilies rose from a glass vase on the top shelf. One cubicle held assorted bottles of liquor and on the shelf above it, a black tray with crystal glasses at the ready. He stood against the opposite wall, behind the rattan couch with its overstuffed peach pillows. He warmed his backside at the radiator while finishing his snack.

He switched on the telly, mostly interested in the weather forecast as he awaited the first snow of the season. Once again he arrived home too late for the evening news. He had no interest in the BBC quiz shows and family sitcoms. He finished his snack, switched off the set, and headed up the narrow, carpeted stairs.

At the top of the stairs, to the right of landing, the bathtub beckoned. When he turned on the hot water and closed the door behind him, he entered his own private heaven. The stress of the farm rolled away as he removed his remaining bits of clothing. It was the part of the day he looked toward when things began to run amuck. He even toyed with the idea of being buried in a bathtub.

The hot water stung his cold feet. The window and mirror fogged as he melted into the steaming water. His long body unfolded until his toes reached the faucet and his knees were dry islands. He struggled to submerge his shoulders as the stress of the day floated away. He closed his eyes and recalled a day on Miami Beach. The ocean there was like bath water. He remember lying in the sun and wondering if he would ever be cold again. His cares left the tub by way of the overflow drain. He slumped a bit more, fast asleep.

He awoke to chilled water and wrinkled fingertips. When he opened the bathroom door, he heard the telly downstairs. Michelle was home.

He crouched slightly to comb his hair in the mirror on the medicine cabinet. His thick, auburn hair refused his attempts to control its waves. He brushed it to lie across the crest of his forehead, giving single strokes over each ear.

He eyed his face critically, turning his chin left and then right. The lines on his forehead told him he worried too much. The ones at the corners of his eyes were a bit more noticeable than he fancied, until he decided it was likely that he smiled too much. His expressive eyebrows arched well above his appealing blue eyes. When he smiled, slight dimples appeared just above the corners of his mouth.

Across the hall, Michelle’s suitcase lay open and packed full on top of the white fur bedspread. He felt the chill of winter return as he reached into the wardrobe. He withdrew a pale gray shirt, clean and perfectly pressed with a tailored fit. Loving a clothes marketing executive and allowing her to select his clothing suited him. He had little patience for the business of shopping. With her discriminating eye, he was probably the best-dressed farmer in the area, on those rare occasions when he was not actually farming.

He looked in the mirror as he buttoned his charcoal trousers. David always tended to be a bit thin until he moved in with Michelle last spring. He was either too busy to eat or working too hard to carry any extra weight. His snug pants could be attributed Michelle’s French cooking, which gave him a taste for foods he could barely pronounce. He headed down the stairs with a burgundy leather sport coat slung over one shoulder.

His bath restored the bounce to his step. He had every intention of asking the love of his life to accompany him to one of the fancier local eating establishments for a candlelight dinner. When he reached the bottom stair, he hung his coat on the post at the end of the banister. Michelle’s dark hair was just visible above the overstuffed pillows of the chair that faced the telly. She did not acknowledge his presence. He paused and smiled as he savored her perfume.

So, you are home at last, he said from across the room. I’ve been here for hours worrying about you.

Only silence answered his greeting.

It’s wretched to wait here all alone for you, you know, he said. Once again there was no response. Standing behind her, he placed his hands by her shoulders on the back of the chair and leaned forward to give her an upside-down smile.

I have come to take you away from all this excitement, he said.

He glimpsed up at the television program, and then bent over to kiss her. She slid out of the chair, avoiding his kiss and leaving him off-balance with a slight pucker.

Are you still cross about that traffic fine? he asked as she disappeared into the kitchen. It was all done in the line of duty, you know. You must admit, the turn indicator does function now. Certainly my services are worth something. He spread his arms wide and shrugged.

I do not care about the turn indicator, Daveeed, she answered.

Looking toward the kitchen, he calculated how upset she was by the way she said his name. The length of the ee sound was directly proportionate to the extent of her anger. The urge to tease her always overwhelmed him when he felt her anger was unjustified.

Perhaps you should find a better mechanic, he said with a sly grin. He grasped his hands behind his back and rocked up on his toes as he addressed the kitchen area. You won’t find another who delivers as I do.

A plate came flying out of the kitchen in his direction.

Cease fire, he said as he dropped behind a chair. Another plate flew by and smashed into the wall.

Perhaps you think I am responsible for the £12 fine, he started. He began to