Tagged: Short Story

June 6th

 

The past few days have proffered something of a fresh experience. My first single male has been hosted – and not, it has to be said, by design.

On Friday, Trevor arrived at my door. A little earlier than anticipated (if you’ll forgive me a moment of pedantry) and conspicuously alone. Somewhat taken aback and peering quizzically over his shoulder, I began to question whether my recollection of accepting a booking for a Trevor and Harriet had not simply been the imaging of a senior moment. Laughing heartily and pushing past me into the hallway, Trevor explained that Harriet had decided literally at the last moment not to accompany him on his personal pilgrimage to follow in Sebald’s footsteps. I hadn’t the faintest idea what the man was wittering on about.

So there we were, Trevor and myself – an unlikely couple to say the least. Each morning he would venture out with a little brown rucksack on his back and ankles bolstered by chunky walking boots. For the first time since commencing this usually enjoyable sideline, I felt as if someone was intruding in my home. Ridiculous, I know, as he was openly invited through a standard commercial agreement, but Trevor had a peculiar ability to set one ill at ease. He made constant jokes where humour was notable only by its absence and, in the deafening silence which invariably followed these egregious bon mots, would fill the void with the sound of his own laughter. This, I’m afraid, I can compare only to the honking of a riled goose. He also revelled in the irritating habit of turning up whenever one was least expecting him.

A for instance: on the second day of his stay I was mixing concrete in the barn. Now, the barn – as I had explicitly detailed during the induction and house tour through which my guests are meticulously guided upon their arrival – was absolutely, one hundred per cent off limits. Also, I had watched Trevor leave the farm right after breakfast. Supplemented by his fleece, a Thermos of Bovril and some self-made sandwiches unattractively wrapped in sweaty clingfilm, he had bidden me good morning with yet another inane quip: “I’m off to find out what the North Sea”. I had, quite naturally, anticipated that he would be gone for the remainder of the day and accordingly began to tackle the tasks I had planned. Trevor, however, was nothing if not full of surprises.

“And what are you up to in here?” His nasal whine even managed to overpower the motorised churn of the concrete mixer. I switched off the machine, failing to disguise my fluster.

“Trevor!” I barked. “What are you doing back? What are you doing in here?”

His initial announcement had been made from the doorway of the barn. Somehow, he seemed to translate my astonishment as a bizarre invitation to step across the threshold and pursue a more intimate discourse. “Well, I’ve had myself a good old morning in the fields. Only so much coast you can walk along, isn’t there? Thought I’d pop back here and see what my favourite landlord was up to.”

“I’ve a great deal to do, actually,” I seethed. “And I did tell you that the barn was private. There’s a lot of work going on in here.”  

“Oh yes, I can see that. You’re just about as busy as a bee, aren’t you?”

“And with all the tools and things, it’s not particularly safe.”

“No, I imagine it’s not. Not safe at all.”

A moment of rather uncomfortable silence passed. I was absolutely flabbergasted that the man wouldn’t seem to take the hint and leave.

“You’ve been getting a lot of phone calls,” he said, seemingly apropos of nothing. I begged his pardon and he continued. “I’ve heard you. There seems to be a lot of wrong numbers. People asking for a different farm. Asking for people who aren’t even here.”

“Yes. And what of it?” I waved my hands to dismiss the notion. “There must be a mix up somewhere. Lines get crossed. It happens in this part of the country. We’re not in the big city now, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that,” he said, somewhat gnomically, before commencing a study of my concreting technique with an intrigued eye. “You’re tucked away from everything here, aren’t you? All by yourself. All secluded.” 

And then, without a further word of elaboration, he span on his heels and returned to the farmhouse, leaving me alone with my concrete and thoughts.

Later, I was in the kitchen preparing to dine. Trevor had not enquired about an evening meal and I had no desire to extend an invitation. No, I was perfectly satisfied with my own company, thank you very much. Trevor, however, had other ideas. Intruding upon my supper, he crept into the room and took the seat opposite me. No excuse me; no do you mind. The man had the manners of a swine.

“That’s a good deal of work you’ve got going on in that barn,” he said, picking up precisely where our earlier conversation had fallen away, as if the time elapsed had been mere seconds rather than hours. The room was illuminated only by the lamp in the corner and the left hand side of his face fell beneath shadow. I asked what he meant. “The concreting, the digging… I imagine that you barely have a moment to yourself.”

I explained that repairs were required. Foundations. Reinforcements. Running a farm was a constant war of maintenance. 

“Harriet’s expecting me back home tomorrow,” he continued with a quite bizarre swerve of discourse.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“Just that I’ll be missed. That’s all.” 

With that enigmatic declaration, Trevor rose from the table, tucked in his chair and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. In the subsequent silence, I became aware of the suddenly deafening sound of my own breathing. I sat and wondered exactly what on earth I was going to do with him. Trevor, oh Trevor… Precisely the sort of guest whose moment of checking out could not have arrived too soon, but what methods lay at the proprietor’s disposal to expedite that magnificent moment to the fore?

May 15th

 

From the rear window of the kitchen at Willingworth Farm, one is rendered practically breathless by the view which presents itself. Miles, I would estimate, of rolling, pristine countryside. The land stretching to the horizon with the characteristic planarian spread of Norfolk. Fields chequered in an earthy palate of greens, browns and yellows; the harsh boundaries of criss-crossing hedgerows surrounding the single grey slither of road that ploughs from my drive all the way back to the B362. I remember when my wife and I would sit in that spot, gazing out upon the world as the seasons changed and accordingly charged its display. Happy memories, and it was therefore with a great swell of warmth that I entered the room this morning to find the latest recipients of my bed and board, Kim and Steve, sipping freshly brewed coffee in a pose identical to the one which Barbara and I would once upon a time have held.

Steve is in finance. Up to his neck, apparently. He revealed this to me within seconds of walking through the door. Working in The City, he confided, was not for the faint of heart. By all accounts it was a visceral conflation of teeth and claws, of dogs eating dogs, of backs being washed or scratched or stabbed on a seemingly indiscriminate basis. Kim – obviously no stranger to this monologue – failed to mask a dismissive chuckle which, I noted with my own wry smile, stole the wind somewhat from Steve’s billowing sails. Kim, however, had quite the contrary vocation to her partner’s. I was greatly impressed by her account of volunteering for various charities: the soup kitchens, the refuge centres, the fundraising and campaign management. What a dedicated, compassionate and resourceful woman! It was apparent there and then that the long weekend ahead would offer the chance for some stimulating conversation.

They claimed they had come to Willingworth Farm to “wind down”. I wasn’t at all convinced that this would prove itself a serviceable ambition. The very second that Steve had prised the wireless network key from my lips, he practically barricaded himself in their bedroom with a spread of laptops, tablet computers and phones. Kim seemed to accept this behaviour with the nature of one well accustomed to it and spent the majority of the weekend walking the local area by herself. I offered – on more than one occasion – to provide her with company, although each time she demurely declined. As I watched her from my bedroom window, it occurred to me that I had inadvertently taken a ringside seat to a marriage falling apart. A dilemma arose: should I try to offer advice from the benefit of my own experience? I had, after all, been in a very similar position. I could have comforted or counselled; I could have offered a shoulder upon which to cry. But where should the host draw the line? The privacy of a guest is paramount, and there are moments when all one can do is look on from a distance.

That evening, I heard them arguing in their room. Not that I was listening, but Willingworth Farm is an old building with thin walls and echoing corridors. Occasionally, there are things which just cannot be ignored, no matter how hard the individual in question believes that they should try. The row was constructed from all the usual wrangles – that he worked too much, that she had no grasp of the real world, that he was absent from the relationship, that she was unrealistic and demanding… And so on and, indeed, so forth. The collapse of their relationship was in no way unique, but this didn’t diminish their pain nor lessen their suffering. I retired to my bedroom, bare feet stepping softly back along the hallway in darkness, to contemplate this quandary alone.

The next morning at breakfast, Steve and Kim were pleasant enough, but this comportment felt like a curtain behind which I had already peaked. I cooked and gave them the low down on Belminster, suggesting that perhaps they should pay a visit to the town. Steve, however, was adamant that he’d need to put in a few hours at the computer. As I cleared away the plates, he returned – true to form – to the bedroom, while Kim donned her fleece and took to the fields. For a while, I followed her progress. First from the kitchen, then round into the living room, and then from the bathroom window – which I had to race upstairs and open – for one last angled view afforded only as I perched with tiptoes on the toilet seat. They’d be with me for one more day, but it felt as if they hadn’t been here at all. Not really. It was to my great regret that, for this particular pair, Willingworth Farm had failed to cast its spell.

Kim didn’t return until late afternoon while Steve’s appearances were short and sporadic. He would emerge from his room to indulge in the coffee and sandwiches of which I maintained a ready supply, only to disappear again the moment the plate or mug was clasped in his hurried hand. It was the strangest situation. That evening, I prepared supper for the three of us, but the conversation around the table was sluggish at best. Not even my celebrated tale of when Mr Gister, the owner of the farm four miles away, got his foot caught in a drain managed to raise spirits. Eventually, they went – quite reluctantly, I suppose – to bed. I remained in the kitchen and pondered their situation, considering what mercy I could possibly bring. As guests they were not the slightest trouble, and yet they were obviously so very troubled themselves. It made me realise that it would be impossible to completely understand precisely who I was welcoming through my door. I would never fully appreciate the secrets folded inside their luggage. I would never be privy to the complications they would carry to their bedroom, the complexities they would unpack into my wardrobes and drawers, the character they would sweat into my sheets.

 

 

Willingworth Farm: Letter Two

 

April 29th

 

It was an utter joy to welcome Ian and Catherine (“Cath” to her friends!) across my threshold. As they absorbed the secluded, rural location, both of my guests were effervescent with the novelty of finding themselves off the beaten track. Urban and urbane they may have been, but they took to the Willingworth pace of life with complete aplomb. Polite, courteous and quiet, I could not have wished for a more agreeable couple to present themselves as my inaugural guests. Cath was particularly fascinated by the guided walking tours I offered around the surrounding country miles, and was all but spellbound as I waxed lyrical regarding the local produce from which the foundation of our meals were formed. On the first evening, she remained with me in the kitchen for over three hours, totally captivated as I exposed a scintillating spread of meats, vegetables, cheeses, chutneys, breads and wines. Poor old Ian was very much left to his own devices that night, I’m afraid! And I do not think it was merely my imagination when, as I insisted on preparing a full English breakfast the following morning, there seemed to be an undercurrent of green-eyed envy within the room.

Still, to Ian’s credit, this bitter feeling never rose to the surface and that meal was as pleasant as any I care to remember. They announced their desire to spend the day in Belminster, the nearest town. A little shopping, some sight-seeing, a wander through the lanes and a skim around the picturesque church. Well, away they duly went. I watched their car motor from the drive and along the road until it disappeared from view. For whatever reason, I then stayed in the same position until I saw it return. A speck, initially, in the distance. A glint of metal reflecting the setting sun. They were coming back, I thought. Coming back to the farm. Coming back to me.

Ian and Cath had already eaten, but I insisted upon preparing a spot of light supper. Throwing together some cold cuts and salad, I inferred from their silence that they wished me to join them. Wearied by the day’s exertion, they were in no mood to talk themselves and so I took a seat at the table, ready to earn my keep by playing host. Veering towards the convivial, I expounded a little on the history of Belminster – an anecdotal approach which served to focus a much appreciated lens on the sights they had earlier enjoyed. After a glass or two of wine, they gradually began to reciprocate and conversation naturally turned towards the personal. We chatted about their jobs and their home and, as we grew more comfortable in each other’s company, it seemed that my guests were finally ready to air the questions they had been longing to ask me.

Was I married? It was Cath who spoke. A sip of wine following the upward inflection of that final syllable; an ambiguous look in her eye. Well, I simply shook my head. Not any more, I told them. No, not any more.

The following day, they snuck out at the crack of dawn. As I hadn’t had the chance to even ask about their plans,  I busied myself with the toil of maintaining a tidy home. The farm, after all, does not look after itself! The hours crawled by and I was clearing up from my solitary evening meal before they eventually returned. They crept through the front door like a pair of skulking teenagers as, readily performing my part of the prudish parent, I pounced into the hallway. 

“And where have you two been?” I intoned with high humour. Ian and Cath pulled appropriately guilty faces before we all fell about laughing.

And so it was the final morning. I served up a hearty breakfast as Ian and Cath announced their intention to indulge a farewell stroll around the fields before leaving for home. It was such a glorious spring day that I could hardly blame them. Off they went, and I watched for a while from the kitchen window until they disappeared around the side of the barn and were lost from my line of sight. And so that was that – my first experience of opening up my doors. All in all, as I stood in the bedroom and considered their packed cases, I thought of how lucky I was to have started my venture with such wonderful people. How impossible it then seemed that I would ever again be blessed with a couple more deserving of my hospitality.

 

 

Willingworth Farm: Letter One

 

A Welcome to Willingworth Farm’s Blog

June 30th

 

Recently, and after much searching of the soul, I decided to open the doors here at Willingworth Farm to the paying public. Employing the convenience of a popular holiday rental platform, I began to engage with prospective guests via the medium of the World Wide Web. My home was announced as a retreat amongst the splendour of the Norfolk countryside. A sanctuary where the weary would be welcomed, where the fatigued could recuperate in both body and soul. Without wishing to boast, it came as no surprise when the venture proved itself an immediate success! Visitors would arrive, practically crushed beneath the weight of the daily grind, only to find themselves a few days later floating in a serene stupor. Some of my guests – God bless their souls! – even found a return to the real world a daunting impossibility.

It has been, to say the least, an eye-opening endeavour. The carousel of life which would appear, bag in hand, on my doorstep has never failed to surprise, stimulate or delight. It was an equally novel undertaking to ingratiate myself with the peculiar etiquette of the internet. Initially, I was somewhat bemused and a trifle affronted by the rental service’s imposing demand that the guests should pen reviews of yours truly whilst, concurrently, I jotted down my own critique of them. The ratings, the feedback, the recommendations, the likes and the references… Those odd and time-consuming waters into which we are all forced to digitally wade.

However, it was not long before this element of the process became something that I began to cherish. Not, I assure you, because of the opportunity to whinge or complain, nor even praise and flatter. Rather, it was the facility to build a record of those who had stayed with me that stirred my appreciation. An electronic log; an online book of remembrance. Sadly, the limitations of character and space enforced by the website review system were a trifle restrictive for my tastes. Therefore, I decided to grasp the nettle. With a leap of faith and any number of stumbling technological false starts, here we find ourselves at the beginning of my very own blog! And so, I welcome you, oh dear and gentle reader, to my modest little corner of the information highway; to my own brief and commemorative record of those who came to stay at Willingworth Farm.

 

Yours

Peter Edingly