Sascha the breeding sow looked on anxiously from the segment
behind the fence, waiting for her share. Elaine had kept the small holding for
15 years now, the last 5 working alone. Her mother had been with her at the
start, but gradually her health prevented her doing any but the lightest work and
she had had to move to a nursing home three years back when Elaine could no
longer cope with caring for her and the animals. She visited twice weekly,
weather permitting, but still felt the pain and the shame of abandoning her
mother’s care to others in a home that she felt barely provided a decent
quality of life and certainly not up to her own standards.
She felt worse about letting her mum go to “Rosy Banks” care
home than she had when her dad has died in ’83. That had been sudden, and she’d
been powerless to help, and although as a teenager she’d felt less
responsibility she had been able to let out more grief. They’d all been so
happy on the farm; her earliest memories were of the cows being driven into the
yard towards the milking parlour. Susie, her younger sister, and she had made a
pact to keep the family farming. They’d been tenants on the Castleford estate
and the tenancy had passed on in the family. But the bloodline, tears and sweat
had not been enough even before Susie had left home to marry John.
Elaine had persevered on the land although their dairy income
had struggled once the milk marketing board was abolished. So she eventually
moved with mum to the small holding, keeping goats not cows now, but selling a
little milk, as well as a small pig unit around the acre of root vegetables
grown in the soft fen soil. Somehow she kept the mixed enterprise running,
scratching a living from the land like one of the half dozen free range hens
she kept for her own eggs (and for barter to anyone willing to overlook the
lack of mandatory salmonella testing).
She sighed as she tipped the last of the pignuts into
Sascha’s trough. They’d been one of the lines of feed cereals John had been
selling for the agricultural wholesalers when he first met her and Susie. He’d
been a handsome young salesman who had flattered both the sisters before
sweeping Susie off into matrimony.
Elaine had had her romances too, most notably with David
another member of the local young farmers. They’d been engaged for years, and
she could have been a farmer’s wife with all she’d wanted … but she’d broken
off the relationship months before the wedding.
She still felt bad for David – “It’s not you it’s me” had
been about all the explanation she could give him – but it wasn’t enough to
satisfy either of them. She’d never been able to tell anyone the real reason …
that watching her sister’s marriage to John she’d become infatuated with him …
loved him still, and could never show it, or admit it even to herself.
Pulling her mind away from the everyday issues of pignuts
and the memories they had awoken Elaine turned and took the empty bucket back
towards the house.
Chores were done, for an hour or two anyway, and
mid-afternoon she took a short break and watched a little TV. She switched on
the set and browsed the channels while the kettle boiled.
Come Dine With Me was on, and she watched the set of four
people prepare their meals and and host their dinner parties. One of the contestants
(quite a handsome man) hosted a fancy dress party, and she mused on what she
would wear… She’d always longed to be dressed as Cleopatra, like Liz Taylor in
the film. But with hardly a pause in her train of thought she decided she was
more Margaret Rutherford than Elizabeth Taylor.
Maybe a Marie Antoinette dress, or Regency – was that
contemporary with the French Revolution? Frocks with lace and frills and some
pizazz.
But who would she invite to a dinner party? She’d never feel
comfortable on any TV programme – never mind one with all the sarcastic
comments from the narrator.
What was that dinner party game? Your ideal guests from
history, present or even fiction.
She’d have Liz Taylor for sure … there were so few real
stars these days. Tom Cruise maybe. Also her parents of course, Susie and John …
and … Neil Sedaka, he writes such lovely songs. It would be nice to have
someone handsome and attractive like the TV man … someone like John, but
unattached. Someone who might get attached to her. They didn’t need to be a
farmer, or even a dog lover, as long as they had some compassion for animals.
Maybe somewhere there was a man who’d put up with her irritability, someone she
could get close to. Someone like John …
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