Page 40 of A Year at Appleyard Farm
‘Says who? Robyn probably won’t even notice. And, excuse me, but you’re not giving up. That makes it sound like you’ve failed in some way, which you haven’t. You have already breastfed her for three months, don’t forget! If you do decide to bottle-feed her, all you’re doing is finding a solution to a problem. That’s what you’re good at, Merry, you do it all day, every day. Don’t make this any different, just because you feel pressured into behaving a certain way.’
The sobs had subsided a little now, and only small sniffing sounds remained. ‘Have you spoken to Tom about this?’
‘A bit.’
‘And?’
‘He said it was daft to carry on when it’s making me this unhappy.’ She wiped her nose again. ‘And I think he’d quite like to be able to feed her actually…’
‘There now see? Why are you giving yourself such a hard time over this?’
Freya watched Merry fidgeting uncomfortably. ‘Ahh, I get it…If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother, right?’ Her lips curled upwards into a smile, as she repeated what had become a stock phrase between the two of them in their younger years.
Merry looked up, and then away to Robyn. ‘She gave me such a lecture…How I was utterly irresponsible for moving here and taking on such a big project when I should be thinking only of Robyn. How she could understand such selfishness in Tom, but not from me. How I’m a mother now, and it’s about time I started behaving like one. How the younger generation don’t know what hardship is, and how we’re all so ready to take the easy way out these days. You know how it goes.’
‘Yes, I do. And so do you, so why do you listen to her? All she ever had to do was keep house, and get your dad’s dinner on the table at half past six. You’ve had to keep house, run a thirty-bedroom hotel and a florist shop, and still have Tom’s dinner on the table.’ She held up her hand. ‘And yes, I know he does his fair share, I’m not saying that. All I am saying is that you have a wonderful, supportive marriage, a beautiful daughter, and now the opportunity to take on a new and exciting challenge. Whatever your mum wants to believe, things are different for our generation, and the truth of the matter is she would probably have given her eye teeth to have the chance to fulfil her dreams the way you have. So don’t let her bitterness and jealousy sow doubts in your mind about what you’re doing here. Put your energy where it’s needed, Merry, not into fretting over something like this.’
Merry was quiet for a moment, plucking at the tissue in her hands.
‘Have I won you over yet?’ Freya smiled, giving her friend a playful nudge. She could see the beginnings of a smile on Merry’s face too, as she nudged Freya back.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
‘What for? There’s no need to apologise, but let’s be honest. How much of this was down to feeling guilty about not wanting to breastfeed Robyn any more, and how much was you feeling a teeny bit anxious about what you’re taking on here, which your mother has now magnified tenfold?’ She gave Merry a stern look. ‘Because, you’re not fooling me one little bit. Since when have you been afraid of tackling anything…? Right, have a good blow. I’m going to put the kettle on and find some biscuits, and then I’ll help you make up some bottles for Robyn – that is if you’ve got any milk?’
Merry smiled wryly. ‘Actually, I bought some with my shopping this week, and then hid it in the back of the cupboard. It’s still there.’
Freya burst out laughing. ‘You daft bat!’ she said, shaking her head in amusement.
18
Merry pushed open the door to the storeroom and took a deep breath. A tingle of excitement rippled through her.
After her release of yesterday, she had slept like a log, as had Robyn who, just as Freya had said seemed to notice no difference to her feeds and suckled contentedly on a bottle. Tom had even given her the last feed of the evening, and the sight of the pair of them snuggled into the armchair almost brought tears to her eyes. She couldn’t believe she had become quite so worked up about something, which now, in the cold light of another (albeit rainy) day, seemed so trivial.
Freya had ended her visit by offering to have Robyn for the whole day today, so that Merry could have a bit of a rest, and do whatever she liked. After the hard days’ graft of late winter, pruning their trees, things were quieter at Appleyard at the moment, and Sam was more than happy to carry on without Freya for a day or two. Merry had wanted to refuse her offer at first, but as she thought about the possibilities of what a day to herself might bring, she practically bit her friend’s arm off.
Now though, of all the relaxing, peaceful things she could have chosen, the minute she’d opened her eyes this morning, she’d had a yearning to carry on clearing out the storeroom, and was now full of energy.
There were more boxes of sodden papers, old cans of hideously coloured paint, and an assortment of paint brushes, the bristles stiff with age and their handles pitted where the varnish had blistered. It was unlikely they would ever be of any use again, and Merry discarded them without a thought. Then she peeled open a box and picked up a few, much smaller brushes, and, as she lifted them, she could see that these were quite different. They were finer, with a longer handle and, although obviously well used, the brushes had been meticulously cleaned. The bristles had been carefully wrapped and were still soft and pliable.
It would seem a shame to throw these away when they were in such good condition, and a long-buried yearning made itself known to Merry. She put them to one side on the floor beside the barrow and carried on with her task.
There really was no semblance of order to the room, and for the next half hour or so, she threw away box after box of sodden papers. She had worked her way towards an old trestle table and, although the table itself had been damaged, she realised that it had protected what was underneath it from the rain. These boxes were different from the others too: they had been sealed with care. Merry peeled back the tape holding them closed, and peered inside. There were more brushes, again wrapped with care, nestling in some newspaper, and under that something more solid, square.
It was the colour that leaped out at her first as she held the small canvas in front of her. Although a little marked and faded, the square was covered with bold blocks of colour in lime green, orange and bright blue. She immediately thought of the walls in the house, and wondered whether the painter was one and the same. She turned the canvas over, but the back was entirely plain. The painting was completely abstract but had a certain symmetry about it and reminded Merry of the pieces she had seen recently in a local interiors shop.
Her excitement mounting, she pulled another square from the box. This time the whole thing was painted an eye popping red with a single white flower in the middle of the canvas, a bright green centre to it. On the reverse she could just make out two initials, CM, and a date: 1973. She scrabbled about in the box, fishing out three more canvases, and then sat back on her haunches for a moment staring at them in surprise. They were not what she had expected to find when she came in here this morning.
The box empty, she hurriedly grabbed another, ripping off the tape and pulling open the lid. She could see straight away that there were no more canvases here, and her stomach sank in disappointment. There was, however, tube after tube of paint, and palettes too, along with various bottles of what looked like some sort of solvent.
Merry tucked her thick hair behind her ears impatiently and began to gather up her finds, cradling them in the folds of her old sweatshirt. She went back through to the main house, entering the kitchen and laying the canvases down carefully on the table. She shouted for Tom, flicking on the kettle at the same time.
By the time Tom wandered into the kitchen, Merry had laid all five pictures out in a row, and was standing back admiring them, cocking her head from side to side. Apart from the first one she had looked at, which was right at the top of the box, they were in very good condition, considering that they were now over forty years old.
‘Good God,’ exclaimed Tom. ‘Where on earth did you find those?’
‘In a box, in the storeroom…What do you think?’
