Chapter 2: Double Digging

I spent the remainder of the morning checking the contents of the stores, becoming more and more impressed by the former owner. He had spent wisely on machinery, although it showed signs of recent neglect. Belle called me in at one o’clock for homemade lentil soup and freshly baked bread; her sleeves were rolled up and her arms covered in baking flour. She was keen to hear my first impressions.

“What was your husband’s name? Looking at his possessions has let me see into his mind and I can’t go on thinking of him as ‘the old farmer’. It’s almost as if he’s let me into his friendship.”

Belle had been standing at the cooker, her back to me, but now she turned with tears running down her cheeks.

“Claude,” she whispered through sobs. When she had recovered, she added: “I’m so pleased that you appreciate what he did here. The rest of them think he was a stupid old man, half lost to senile dementia.”

I told her all the evidence I had found of meticulous planning from digging through harvesting to marketing. There is even a machine for wrapping produce for sale. I had noticed that the produce on Cherry’s stall was unwrapped; Belle told me that her daughter reported the wrapping machine broken.

“I noticed that it had run out of the plastic, but I’ll have a look at it when I have some time.”

“So, you really think you can make a go of things?” Belle was becoming enthusiastic.

“I’m sure of it, but it will take a week or so for me to come up with a plan. How would things stand if I wanted money for development?”

“What sort of thing do you have in mind?”

I was not entirely sure, and I told her so. She wanted a rough estimate, which left me scratching my head. I could see lots of potential, but I had no idea how far Belle would want to develop the business. Something had stirred a thought as I looked at the equipment and, true to my nature, I blurted it out.

“Well, I don’t know if Claude ever talked about it, but it looks as if he was thinking of going fully organic.”

Belle had been standing at her ease with her back to the cooker but now her face crumpled, and she turned to dash out of the room. My guess was that she had been taken aback by my casual use of her late husband’s name, so I shrugged and left the kitchen.

I attached the heaviest plough to the mini-tractor and drove through the gap in the wall and down to the far end of the market garden which had clearly not been cultivated for several years. I wanted to turn deep furrows as soon as possible to give the frost time to break down the soil. I worked an oblong from the stream that formed the far boundary to a point about half-way to the wall. There were two women harvesting cabbages and sprouts on the remainder of the ground. One of them was Cherry, the stall holder who had growled at me, and I assumed the other was her twin Angie, although I could see little resemblance between them.

They were working close together, loading the produce onto an open cart attached to an even smaller tractor than the one I was riding. When I was moving towards them, they concentrated on the plants, never even glancing in my direction. When I was driving away from them, however, and took a look back at the plough, they would be standing looking in my direction in heated discussion. Having no means of knowing what they were saying, I made up a story. One of them thought I was a passing fancy of their mother’s and should be ignored until she tired of me; the other thought that my willingness to work might make me a greater threat to them in the longer term.

I do not suppose that my speculation did any harm, and it certainly helped to while away the hours while I drove up and down the bleak field. I went on until dark, driving the tractor back under the arch where there was enough light from the stable yard to allow me to clean the plough. I was still finishing up when Belle called me in for dinner. It was an Irish stew, served with their own vegetables. The combination of fresh air, hard work and the best tasting food I had eaten in years resulted in me making a pig of myself.

After dinner, Belle, as promised, told me the story of her life. When she finished, I asked for her car keys so I could retrieve my sleeping bag and air mattress. She was outraged.

“This house has nine bedrooms and four bathrooms. I’ve put your stuff in one of the second-floor bedrooms, but you can pick one of the others if you want.”

The owner of the farm at the time Victoria came to the throne had ten children, so he built on a generous scale. There were only three sons, one of whom inherited. Of the seven daughters, five remained unmarried, living all their lives in their parents’ home. They demanded conveniences and their indulgent father did his best to satisfy their wishes. Each unmarried daughter had a virtually independent establishment within the house, with her own maids and footmen.

Claude made a great deal of money when he sold much of his land for housing development, and he had not stinted in spending it on improving his remaining property. The generous expenditure on equipment for the market garden was repeated in his refurbishment of the house.

From the outside it was a red brick cube with rectangular windows regularly distributed across the façade. It was functional without even the merit of being truly ugly. The kitchen had been extensively modernised; it was saved from being clinical by little touches, like the collection of copper jelly moulds on a Welsh dresser. Now Belle led me into the main hall where there was a stunning staircase, rising in two curving wings that met on a gallery at first floor level. The old Victorian farmer rescued it after fire damaged a stately home a few miles up the road, Belle explained.

She pointed left to the master suite of rooms, then to the right where two suites sharing a bathroom were occupied by Cherry and Audrey; The stair up to the second storey was much less elaborate and the corridor at the top was narrower. There were three rooms and a bathroom in each wing. I was led to the middle bedroom on the left where the bed was made up and turned down ready for use. Belle led me to the bathroom.

“This floor has its own combi-boiler so there’s always tons of hot water. It’s a bit spartan, I’m afraid. Will it do, Bill?”

“You saw my flat, Belle. What do you think?” She joined in the laugh.

She had put my clothes in the fitted wardrobe, she told me before she left me to relax in a warm bath. Good food and a day working in the fresh air ensured that I slept like a baby. I woke at five, as I always do, except after drinking two large glasses of Glayva! I showered, shaved and went exploring the drawers in the wardrobe. My socks were in one drawer, but in its neighbour, where I expected to find my boxers, there was a collection of new-looking pants, made from silk, if I could believe my senses. I was wondering what my next move should be when the house phone on my bedside table rang.

“I noticed your underwear was worn,” Belle began as soon as I lifted the receiver. “Well, to tell the truth, I snooped. Anyway, charity shops won’t take underwear, so I brought you some of Claude’s pants. It’s all been properly laundered.”

“Is it silk?”

“Of course!” She sounded shocked that I would expect anything else.

So, I went down for breakfast in silk drawers and socks under my jeans – I had left my work boots in the kitchen the night before. There was a woman of about fifty, introduced as Audrey, sitting at the table who finished toast and coffee, before she sauntered off, with only a nod in response to my greeting.

Belle and I chatted about my plans for the day while I ate a large breakfast of bacon, sausage and egg. The weather was overcast so I spent the first hour checking the packaging machine. I loaded plastic film and ran it before I moved it into the barn used to store root vegetables. When the ground had dried off a bit, I completed the ploughing of the main field, leaving the area of cabbage and sprouts untouched. Cherry had gone off early to another market.

Belle appeared just as I was finishing with a flask of soup and a ham sandwich. She shared the soup, but I demolished the sandwich without assistance. The conversation was easy and relaxed at first, as I told her that I intended to spend the afternoon replacing broken glass in the greenhouse, but she began to tighten up as she was clearing up the remains of our meal.

“The others were asking about you, Bill.” She busied herself tossing the crumbs towards the birds that had been following the tractor all morning and were already replete with worms and insects turned up by the plough share. “We’re having a family meeting tonight. Will you come and answer their questions?”

“My tuxedo’s at the cleaners.”

“There’ll be enough stuffed shirts there, believe me.”

She left then, saying that she would go into town to see Cherry at her stall but that she would be back in good time to prepare the family feast. I was to appear in the dining room at eight. She made it clear that it was a plea rather than an order. I worked until it was too dark to safely continue, then I went upstairs and had a leisurely bath. On my dresser there were two shirts in their shop wrappings with a note: ‘I’m keeping your shirt as a nightie. Hope these will compensate, B, XX.’

I could hear the din from a room across the hall from the kitchen when I got to the bottom of the stairs. I was wearing one of the new shirts with the only respectable pair of trousers I owned. I hesitated; Belle had told me to meet her in the dining room, but I decided that I would start in the kitchen to test the atmosphere.

“Oh good!” Belle’s face was rather flushed. “Grab that tureen and follow me.”

I picked up the soup and followed her round the table while she ladled it into bowls. After I had put the empty tureen on the sideboard, she took her place at the head of the table, seating me at her left hand. None of the other eight people sitting round the board had felt it necessary to wait for us. I was a little surprised to find myself dining with them: I had assumed that I would be called in after they finished what Belle described as a family dinner. Did my presence mean that she considered me as family?

By the time the first course was complete, I had concluded that it was not just the market garden that had been neglected since Claude’s death. I thought I was beginning to understand Belle’s reason’s for bringing me here and for her repeated reminder that her purpose was not romance. Claude had a purpose, and his widow wanted to continue to fulfill it. Her family was contemptuous of the aims of the old farmer and had extended that contempt to engulf his relict. Belle wants me here because I take her seriously.

Audrey helped Belle and me to take the soup bowls to the kitchen and bring back the three roast chickens that were the heart of the meal. Interest began to stir when the birds were placed on the table and an unseemly scramble began to decide who would carve. The men sat smugly complacent while their womenfolk disputed amongst themselves for the honour. Cherry capitulated, leaving the husbands of Angie and Christine in command of the two sets of carving knives.

I missed most of the actual carving since I was trudging back and forward carrying potatoes and vegetables in the company mostly of Belle, although Cherry did fill the gravy boats and take them to the table. We were only twenty minutes into the meal, but I already had a sinking feeling: it appears that I have taken on much more than just a market garden. Belle had certainly given the impression last night that it was her inheritance from the old farmer that financed the house and business. On the basis of what I had seen so far, the others considered her as a rather incompetent dependent.

Ralph, Audrey’s fiancée (her version) or old school friend (as he insisted) carved the third chicken when Graham passed him the knife, after he had reduced the first bird to its components. Graham is, frankly, fat and it was no surprise when he completed the carving quickly and neatly; I got the idea that he would prove adept at overcoming any obstacle standing between him and food. Maurice, Christine’s husband silently took the knives offered to him by his wife, carving silently, using nods of the head to communicate with the people receiving the plates of meat.

There was very little talking until the plates had been emptied. When we were sitting, I could only see Ralph across the table at Belle’s right hand, Audrey, Graham and Angie. Cherry was sitting to my left, but she had her back to me on the few occasions I turned to offer a polite remark. Perhaps it was not surprising since she was sitting beside her boyfriend Darrin, who is at least ten years younger than anyone else in the room. Graham demolished a huge plateful, finishing well ahead of the field; by contrast, his wife picked at hers, finally swapping her largely untouched plate with his so he could clean it for her.

Ralph was the most imposing figure in the room in his opinion, which Audrey very clearly shared. He is the tallest by several centimetres, with broad shoulders but the muscles of his face look like wax that is on the point of melting. It was only when he stood that I could see that his body gave the same impression of slipping from his chest to pool around his belly and backside. He had, I guessed, been an athlete now losing the battle with age. Audrey was giving him the kind of adoration he needed but he treated it as no more than he deserved.

He ignored the one attempt I made to engage him in conversation. When I turned to Belle, she smiled at me, but she said practically nothing apart from the necessary instructions on which dish to place where. The previous evening, dining alone together, she was lively and charming; tonight, she was quiet and, it seemed to me, apprehensive, wary, at the very least. Audrey again helped to clear the dirty dishes, putting the scraps in the bin under the sink and loading the plates into the dishwasher. As before, she sat down without taking any part in serving the dessert. Belle and I brought the plates while Cherry busied herself filling jugs with double cream. Angie and Christine had been arguing but they stopped as soon as we returned to the dining room.

I had little experience of family dinners, but I had expected there to be more warmth. I thought I would be left floundering, coming in, so to speak, in the middle of ongoing conversations. What I had stepped into was an uneasy truce of the kind you get at the weigh-in before a prize fight when the two boxers glare at each other. As I ate the oversweet pudding, I wondered what part I was expected to play. I was happy enough to be the reporter describing the comedy for my readers, but I was certain that Belle was going to expect me to be the referee.

Maurice was the only person other than the servers who had left the table during the meal. His job was to bring fresh bottles of wine. Graham was as fond of wine as he was of food, with Ralph matching him glass for glass; and, although I could not see for myself, there were obviously other topers of the same calibre on my side of the table, judging by the frequency with which bottles were emptied. In complete contrast to our evening at the hotel in town, Belle made one glass last through the meal.

I was about to rise to collect the dessert plates, when she put her hand on my forearm, so I subsided, letting Audrey and Cherry deal with the mess. While they were out of the room, Maurice went to the sideboard returning with four bottles of wine which he distributed about the table. It was clear that the serious business of the evening was about to begin. Audrey had barely resumed her seat when Christine leaned forward, looking up the length of the table at Belle.

“The suspense is unbearable, Belle darling,” she drawled, looking and sounding utterly bored. “Who or what is this, what’s-his-name that you’ve thrust into the midst of our happy little family.”

Belle turned, smiled at me and put her hand back on my forearm, but this time she left it there. Still with the image of prize fighters in my head, I thought for a moment she was going to raise my arm in triumph telling them that I was still champion of the world.

“Bill has very kindly agreed to put the market garden back in order.”

Belle spoke quietly, setting off a cackling of querulous questions. This went on for some time until Ralph, prompted by Audrey in an undertone, tapped his wine glass with an overlooked dessert spoon.

“To cut to the chase, Belle,” he said in a mellow, self-confident voice. “How much is this fellow going to cost the girls?”

“Belle already owns all the machinery that’s needed,” I told them in the measured tones I reserve for talking to difficult clients. “I can manage with a few hundred for fertilizer and seeds – certainly less than a thousand.”

The cackling began again. Cherry said that we could hardly sell what we grew at present, but I only heard that since she was sitting right beside me. It was Ralph who again brought order out of chaos, after even more frantic encouragement from Audrey.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to work for nothing,” he said, speaking directly to me for the first time.

I looked at Belle, grinning: we had not discussed wages.

“Bill will work for bed and board,” Belle gave a little secret smile.

“I’d go for that!” Darrin spoke for the first time, into the sudden silence. “Especially sharing a bed with sexy Belle.”

I stood, looking over Cherry’s head into his smug face, flushed with too much wine. My move stilled the murmur that had begun.

“I would normally ask Darrin to join me somewhere more private to continue our discussion, but I find myself bound by the rules of hospitality. I am in Belle’s home, although the rest of you seem to consider that you are in charge here; I have eaten Belle’s food, prepared by her and largely served by her; I have drunk Belle’s wine, grateful for the sustenance so freely given.

“All evening, I have been watching you treat our hostess with disdain, wondering why. She asked me if I could restore the market garden to the condition her late husband wanted. I did not know, but I promised to see for myself. I admired Cherry and Angie who spent part of yesterday preparing vegetables to sell in very unpleasant conditions; I did not see any of the others here tonight out in the fields.

“You are all consumed with fear that one of the others will get a bigger share than you do. It was only now, when Belle said I would get no wages that I realised the difference. Unlike you, I trust Belle. I believe she will treat me fairly if I agree to put the garden in order.

“If you want me to throw Darrin out, Belle, I will be happy to, but if not I’m off to bed. Unless you tell me otherwise, I’ll be out at first light assessing the potential of your property.” I turned to Cherry who was now facing me, looking up at my face with an expression I could not read. “I would like to talk to you about the best crops, but if you still can’t lower yourself, at least talk to your mum.”

I do not make speeches, and I dare say I was a bit incoherent, but I do not believe that any of them missed the disapproval of them in my tone. I knew at first hand just how bitchy my new employer could be; I was sure that all the girls and their men had been flayed by her tongue from time to time. She did not, however deserve to be treated with disdain. She has proved herself wiser than they are by grasping the fact that her late husband was a shrewd man. The market garden is failing because of his physical infirmity not because the idea is unsound.

I started the bath running while I planned what I would say to Belle in the morning. Even after two days, I was convinced that I could make the garden fruitful. It would only take minutes to cost the recovery. Where I was clueless was in the marketing of the produce. Cherry could be a big help in that area with her experience of selling to the public, if she will cooperate. I had just begun to wonder if Claude had left any notes on his marketing plans, when there was a knock at the door.

Cherry was outside looking apprehensive, holding out a bottle of bath essence.

“I find this great for getting the knots out when I’ve been working in the garden. I thought you might like some.” Her voice had been confident to start with, but it tailed off towards the end of the sentence.

“I hoped I had hidden how stiff I am,” I grinned at her. “I’m out of condition.”

“I’ve nothing planned for tomorrow, if you want to talk about your plans.”

She left after we arranged to have morning tea in her stepfather’s office in the old boiler room of the greenhouse. This was a softer, prettier person than the stall holder who had ticked me off on Friday; this was not the cold woman who had ignored me all evening. I lay in the bath reappraising Cherry. She has a much more solid build than her mum, not fat but certainly substantial; and she is pretty enough, although lacking her mum’s elfin grace.

I might have carried the thought further the next morning if Belle and Audrey had not been chortling together over the fate of Darrin. After his crass remark, Cherry had sent him home, but she had called the police as soon as he left reporting that he was well over the drink-drive limit. It was a timely reminder to me that Belle and all her brood are complete bitches. I can work for them, but I will be careful not to become personally involved.

After Audrey had gone, coffee cup in hand, Belle explained about my wages.

“I’ll give you pocket money until your divorce is final. Your bitch of a wife will take anything you earn up until then. I’ll get the lawyers to draw up a contract that will give you a share of the profits – but only after the accounts are audited. I reckon that’ll give you eighteen months to get unhitched.”

“Make it a share of turnover and you have a deal.”

“We’ll see,” she laughed.

I had filled the gaps in the greenhouse the previous day and now I set about replacing the plywood that covered a few broken panes. I was on the last one when Cherry brought me a cup of tea. The new boiler was only a fraction of the size of the original coal-burner, so Claude had made a cosy office in the space freed up. I opened the single filing cabinet and extracted a blank map of the garden with only the fixed paths shown.

“Right then. I can fill the garden with healthy plants, but I need help in deciding what will bring the biggest profit. Will you help?”

“Running a market stall three days a week hardly makes me an expert, but I’m yours to command.”

“I thought this was a business meeting,” Belle laughed, coming in at that moment accompanied by Angie.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I smiled, although Cherry looked as if she did not welcome the interruption. “Did Claude have a marketing plan?”

Belle looked at Cherry who flushed, looking distinctly uncomfortable. She sighed deeply before telling me the history. They had a contract with a local greengrocer with three shops in the county. The buyer supplied the lorry while Claude paid the driver, who rode his motorbike over at five every morning to pick up the lorry, loaded the night before. If the forecast was bad Geoff, the driver, would stay over in the farmhouse.

All went well until Cherry arrived. She and Geoff became a little too friendly. It mattered little at first, simply meaning that he stayed over more often but he soon began sleeping in with the result that the vegetables were late arriving at the shops. Claude’s health was beginning to fail, and Belle sided with her daughter, so the situation gradually worsened until the greengrocer reluctantly cancelled the contract.

Belle’s family seem to be driven towards complexity if not total chaos. Claude was not well enough to start again; indeed, he could not cope with the consequences of the cancellation. Geoff announced that he could not be sacked since he and Cherry would be taking over the running of the market garden. They laughed at Belle when she threatened to have them evicted. Fortunately, into the middle of the war zone stepped Geoff’s wife, anxious to reclaim her wandering husband.

He had assured Cherry that he was a widower, having lost the love of his life to the big C. Once that loose thread was pulled, his whole story quickly unraveled; his wife dragged him home and Cherry shrugged and got on with her life. “I was becoming bored with him, anyway,” she admitted. Not for the last time, I thought, remembering that Darrin probably spent the night sobering up in the local nick.

While Belle and Cherry told the story with occasional interjections from Angie, I watched the three women. Before I met them, I had got hold of the notion that the twins were identical; then I saw them together harvesting sprouts and they did not even look like sisters. This was the first chance I had had to study them at close quarters, and I could see that it was lifestyle differences that had moulded their lives.

Cherry is a larger version of her mother, pretty but a little bigger all round. Angie is as slim as her mother but the effort to keep her figure had taken a toll on her facial features. Where her mother looks elfin and pretty, Angie looks gaunt. I had noticed how she picked at her food the previous evening at the disastrous family dinner. I was irresistibly reminded of Jack Spratt who ate no fat and his wife who ate no lean. Graham and Angie had certainly combined to lick their platters clean.

I outlined my plan to clear the greenhouse beginning at the hot end, planting seeds that would later be transferred to the garden. The three women promised to put their heads together and take a trip to the seed merchant for a first order. Belle would go to set up a credit facility accompanied by Angie. Cherry surprised me by offering to clear the seed trays in the upper section of the greenhouse.

When they left, I got out the rotavator and began preparing the beds in the old kitchen garden. It had the best soil and was sheltered so it was the obvious place to bring on the early crops that would begin to get cash flowing in. As I was working, my attention was drawn to the bed opposite the greenhouse which was filled with neglected soft fruit bushes. It was too late to prune them, but I could at least clear the weeds and cut out the dead or straggling shoots. Another job for my list, I sighed happily.

Belle and Angie returned before dark, going straight to the lighted greenhouse where Cherry was still working on the seed trays. Belle left almost at once, hopefully to prepare dinner, but I could see the silhouettes of the two younger women while I finished turning over the rich earth. After I had cleaned the rotary cultivator and put it away, I went into the greenhouse to be greeted by two smug grins.

“Lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber and peppers,” Cherry crowed, waving her hand over four trays each about a metre square. We’ll do more tomorrow, but I’m knackered.”

“You’ve no idea how great it is to have partners.” I told them. “Thank you both, especially you Cherry for getting these trays ready in time.”

“I know you said you could do it alone, but we don’t want you to burn yourself out.”

“It’ll be fine while I’m in the kitchen garden, but I admit that it would be handy to have someone to help when we move onto the main field.”

We put out the lights, and I walked to the main house with Cherry on one arm and her sister on the other. We were joined by Audrey for dinner. This morning, as on the day before, she had barely acknowledged me, but now she listened enthusiastically to the progress we had made during the day. There was a little mutual admiration society formed, with me praising the efforts of Belle and her daughters and them asserting that they could not have done it without me.

I used more of Cherry’s bath oil, although my muscles were less stiff as I adjusted to the work. I went to sleep feeling rather more optimistic; I was certain that I could make the garden profitable, and I had hopes that I had made a couple of friends. Audrey was finishing breakfast when I got downstairs, still behaving as if I did not exist. Oh well, I thought, you cannot win every heart.

Cherry arrived half an hour after I started and immediately set about preparing more of the greenhouse. I again admired the work she had done, and she replied that I too worked hard. When the light became good enough for us to look outside, her mood changed.

“There’s so much to do, Bill. Can we really get it all looking the way it was in that artist’s design mum has?”

I had not seen the drawing of the garden, but I had spent more than twenty years making similar drawings become a reality.

“It will be better, Cherry. The design is two dimensional, but what we will build will have depth and movement. The thing I always get a kick from is that the colours of actual growing plants is so much more restful than the garish paints the artists’ use.”

“I get impatient,” she sighed. “I don’t suppose you have a magic wand you could wave.”

“That would spoil the fun – it’s seeing order slowly emerge from chaos that gives me the most pleasure.”