Part 11 (1/2)
”Crop rotational ecosystem, actually,” Mr. Mower said. ”Listen, you haven't got a cigarette I could nick, have you?”
Laura gaped at him. ”Are you having a laugh?”
”No.”
”Why on earth...” Laura said. ”You don't deserve one, do you.”
”No,” the smoking farmer said. ”I could go inside, but it's just such a ha.s.sle. Takes about fifteen minutes just to get to my room.”
”Yes,” said Laura, handing over the packet, her heart sinking. She really didn't want to be treated to some long monologue about the wonders of the estate, how great Lord So-and-So was, how friendly the people were. Fifteen minutes-she looked at her watch.
”Where do you live, then?” she said.
Mr. Mower lit his cigarette. ”Over there.” He pointed.
Laura followed his direction. ”In...in the house?” she said.
”Yes, that's right,” Mr. Mower said, laughing at her incredulous expression. ”Someone has to, you know.”
”Seriously?” Laura said, impressed despite herself. ”You actually live...there?”
”Yep,” said Mr. Mower. He ran his hand over the back of his neck self-consciously.
”So-how come?” Laura said. Her new inner self was saying, ”No! Don't be impressed by this strange man just because he lives in a big house!” And her old inner self was saying, ”Wow! Cor!” She shook her head, trying to drown out the voices, then realized she must look insane, so she smiled at him almost shyly.
Mr. Mower looked at her for a second. ”How come-what? I live there?”
”Yes,” said Laura. She couldn't help staring at him. He was...well, pretty okay-looking. In a T-s.h.i.+rt, lean, kind of farmer way, she supposed. The old her would have gone for him like a shot, started batting her eyelids and wondering which room was his. The new Laura smiled pleasantly at him, wondering when she should get back to her parents.
Mr. Mower smiled back at her. He looked her up and down. ”Well. I look after it, too. So I get to sleep there.”
So that was what it was like, working for one of these places-you had to be able to make the frigging tea, sell people tea towels in the shop, and get out and mow the fields. What a life. She looked at him with something akin to pity, and he stared back at her with that glowering expression, his brows furrowed. He drew on his cigarette and said, ”What about you? Where do you live?”
”In London,” Laura said. ”I'm on holiday here. With my...er.” She stopped. ”Er...with my boyfriend.”
”And where is he?” asked Mr. Mower.
Slightly nettled by his nosiness, and unwilling to entrench herself too deeply in the lie she was already regretting, Laura said, ”Er...looking at the soldiers. But I got bored, so I went for a walk.”
An expression of annoyance strode across Mr. Mower's face. ”So, you're on holiday together, then?”
”Yes,” Laura said, putting the lighter back in her bag. ”Look, I'd better go. Sorry again about...you know. Don't tell your-well, whatever you call him. Or perhaps you don't see him. Don't tell whoever your boss is.”
”Hold on a minute,” said Mr. Mower. ”What's your name?”
”Laura. What's yours?”
”It's...Nick.” He held out his hand. ”It's nice to meet you, Laura. I'll let you get back to your boyfriend, then. Have a nice holiday. Thanks for the cigarette. Oh, s.h.i.+t. There's Charles. I need to speak to him.”
Laura followed his gaze over to the house. There, under the spreading plane tree by the shop entrance, stood a tall, lean man about her age, stooping slightly as he stopped to talk to some visitors, who were drinking in the sight of him with obvious pleasure. One of them took a photo of him. He smiled, put his hands up in a semidefensive but still polite gesture, and the couple walked away, their heads together, twittering with excitement and looking at the photo on their camera.
”Who's Charles?” said Laura. ”What does he do?”
”Er,” said Nick, scratching his cheek. ”Well-he kind of runs things. You know?”
Laura looked up at him. ”Oh!” she said, realization dawning. ”I'll let you get back to your boss, then.”
”He's not really my boss,” said her companion. Charles waved at them, and Nick waved back. Charles disappeared back into the house via a side door, and Nick turned to her and smiled wryly. ”Well, he sort of is, I suppose. I'll catch him later. Couple of things he wanted to ask me about.”
”Oh?” Laura said, happy to delay her return for a moment or two. She leaned against a tree and watched him. He looked at home there, standing almost arrogantly on the gra.s.s. She suddenly felt self-conscious in her pink top and skirt. A bit flimsy. Silly. ”You are lucky to be self-employed.” She thought of the decisions she hadn't made, the mess she'd left behind.
”What do you do, then?” he asked curiously.
”I'm a...I work with schools,” said Laura uneasily. She could hear her own voice, knew it sounded like a lie, even though it was the truth. ”For the council. I'm a coordinator. Sort of.” She cleared her throat. ”Well. It's kind of weird at the moment.”
”What do you mean?” Nick said, looking at her rather strangely.
”Well...like I don't...I don't really know what I'm doing, even though I know it's what I want to do. Anyway.” She shook her head, and Nick stared at her again. ”That sounds stupid, forget it.”
Nick was silent. After a moment he said, ”No.” His voice was matter of fact. ”It doesn't. It doesn't at all. You love it, but you think you're rubbish at it. I'm the same.”
”That's exactly it,” Laura said. She stared at him. ”It sounds so stupid when I think of it myself.” She smiled at him gratefully. ”Well, I'm going to be late. My parents want to spend a long time in the shop. A long time.”
Nick laughed. ”Doing what?”
”Well...” Laura scrunched her eyes up, trying to explain. ”I don't know what your parents are like in a place like this, but mine like to finish off a long day somewhere like here by going to the shops, buying about fifty postcards of obscure portraits of the family who live there, and then having a really, really long, intricate discussion about the merits and demerits of every tea towel. 'Interesting Norman church fonts of Norfolk'? Or one in aid of the local RNLI lifeboat?” She ticked them off on her fingers, oblivious to Nick's quizzical expression. ”Or 'Narrow Boats and Scenes from the Broads'? Or 'How to Make Cheese in Five Easy Steps,' printed on some cotton so you can dry the dishes with it.”
”Right,” said Nick, smiling.
”Right,” said Laura. ”So I have to meet them to get started with-” She stopped, suddenly remembering what she'd said before. ”Them...and, and...my boyfriend, I mean.”
Nick raised an eyebrow at her. He smiled sardonically, his eyes glittering with amus.e.m.e.nt. ”So you don't have a boyfriend, then,” he said, throwing his keys up in the air and catching them.
”Yes,” Laura said hotly. ”He likes tea towels, too. He's just not here. He's, er...oh, G.o.d. Never mind.”
”Never mind,” Nick agreed politely.
There was a pause.
”Boyfriends are for losers,” Laura muttered after a while.
”Are they?” said Nick. ”Really.”
”Forget it.” Laura said defensively. ”It's not your problem.”
”Not really, no,” said Nick. ”I have no boyfriend problems. Perhaps I should, though. Perhaps I should spend ages in my room reading magazines and writing about how horrible boys are in my pink diary with a padlock so flimsy and c.r.a.p that a blind fingerless newt could break into it if they wanted.”
Since this was how Laura had spent most of her teenage years, she didn't quite know what to say. She could feel herself blus.h.i.+ng, and tried to cover her tracks by saying jovially, ”Well! I've never done that, that's for sure! But-er, I do have some friends who did. How d'you know that?”
”I've got a sister,” said Nick feelingly. ”Well, two. But one of them spent about five years doing just that.”