Page 12 of Daydreams at the Farm on Muddypuddle Lane
‘I have to sell it to pay for this lot,’ Dulcie said, gesturing around the shed.
‘I thought you said Adam’s quote was good?’
‘It is, but even so, it’s not cheap. Some of the money from selling the old farmhousewill replenish the savings I’ll have to dip into to get the pasteurisation shed up and running.’
Maisie experienced a flash of disappointment. She knew it was a pie-in-the-sky idea, but for a minute she had got carried away with thoughts of living there herself and opening a boarding kennel. Or a cattery, or herding goats, orsomething.
The longer Maisie spent at the farm, the more certain she became that she didn’t want to return to her old life in the city. The problem was, she didn’t have a clue what she was going to do instead.
Whenever Adam drove through the gates separating his parents’ property from the secluded lane leading to it, his heart sank,quickly followed by shame that he felt this way. Most people would give their right arm to have grown up in a place like this, with all the privileges that went with being able to afford a house of this size. It was equivalent to a small mansion, complete with winding gravelled drive, sprawling grounds and several outbuildings, one of which housed his dad’s impressive collection of eleven classic cars.
Adam drew his van up alongside his dad’s Bently, well aware that it would annoy the pants off his old man. His mum would also wince when she saw it, but as her request to park it around the back had fallen on deaf ears up to now, she probably wouldn’t say anything since it would only be the three of them for lunch – as far as he knew. He hoped no oneelse had been invited. Adam didn’t think he could face it.
Although Cedar Trees was his childhood home, he had no emotional attachment to the place. Maybe because it was more like a show house than a home. It was beautifully decorated, tastefully furnished and, as far as Adam was concerned, totally lacking in warmth.
He didn’t bother to knock or ring the bell, instead walking straight in and calling, ‘Mum? Dad?’
‘In here,’ his mother shouted from the kitchen, and when he followed her voice he found her basting a substantial leg of lamb with its own juices. The aroma of rosemary hung in the air to accompany the smell of roast meat.
She tilted her cheek for a kiss, and he dutifully gave her a peck.
‘When will it be ready?’ he asked.
His mum tutted. ‘Half an hour. Can you wait that long?’ Her sharp comment was justified: he had a habit of eating, then dashing off.
But perhaps he wouldn’t if his father wasn’t so intent on dissing his lifestyle choices and trying to shove his own in Adam’s face. Maybe Dad hoped to wear him down, and that Adam would give in eventually. If that was the case, Dad was wasting his time and his breath.
Adam didn’t rise to his mum’s comment. Instead, he asked, ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Take a guess – he’s in his study, working as usual. He has to, since everything is on his shoulders.’
See, they’ve started already, Adam said to himself, the inference being that if Adam hadn’t stubbornly refused to join his dad’s management accountancy firm, then his dad would have had someone with whom to share the burden.
Adam let it go. He had discovered early on that there was no point taking any notice of the barbed comments. It would only cause an atmosphere and he wanted to enjoy his lunch. His mother was an excellent cook (although she often got caterers in) and she took pride in her dinner parties. Which was lucky, since his parents seemed to throw a lot of them.
She asked, ‘So, what have you been up to since we last saw you? How long has it been... two weeks? Three?’
‘Two.’
‘It seems longer. Well, do you have any news?’
He did, but his mum wouldn’t be too keen on hearing it. ‘I’m doing a renovation on a feed shed up at the farm on Muddypuddle Lane.’
‘A renovation? But you’re not a builder.’
‘No, but it’s part and parcel of installing a pasteurisation unit. Goat’s milk,’ he added, in case she was interested.
She wasn’t. She was staring at his hands. No matter how thoroughly he scrubbed them, traces of oil lingered in the creases and under his nails.
‘I wish you would—’ she began, then stopped and clamped her lips firmly shut.
Adam held back a sigh with difficulty. He must be such a disappointment to them. This life wasn’t the one they had envisaged for him, and neither did he look like an accountant. He wondered if they still explained away his hair, piercing and tattoos as youthful exuberance, or had decided he was too old for such an excuse.
He caught his mother staring at his feet, her face full of disapproval. ‘Did you have to wear your work boots?’ she asked, her brow creasing in displeasure.
‘They’re not work boots, they’re hiking boots. I’m going for a walk after lunch.’
‘On your own?’
