I’ll tell her you liked it. Do you have time for some coffee?’ The dining table had been laid, as it always was, with a neat formality and good china despite the mundanity of the occasion. She lifted the plates, and walked, straight-backed, from the room.
Douglas watched her go, feeling the words leaden in his mouth, at odds with the racing feeling in his chest.
His father took some minutes meditatively tamping his pipe, then lighting it, his thin, tanned face creased into well-worn lines of concentration. Then he glanced at his son, as if surprised that during this part of the daily routine he hadn’t left. ‘Dennis is sowing the tubers this afternoon.’
‘Yes,’ said Douglas. ‘I’m going to head up there when I leave.’
His father extinguished a shortened match and swore softly under his breath, glancing unconsciously at the door where his wife had exited. ‘Want to make sure he gets the distances right. He set them too close together last year.’
‘Yes, Father, you said. I’ll talk to him about it.’
His father looked down at his pipe again. ‘Waiting for harvest?’ he said, lightly.
‘What? Oh—’ It was often difficult to recognise when his father was joking. ‘Oh, no. Actually, Father, I wanted to talk to you about something.’
The pipe was lit. His father leant back, and exhaled a thin plume of smoke, his face briefly relaxing. ‘Fire away,’ he said genially.
Douglas looked at him, and then down, trying to remember where he’d put his folder. He stood, fetched it from the dresser, then began to pull out pages, laying them carefully on the table in front of his father.
‘What’s this?’
‘What I wanted to talk to you about. Some ideas I’ve had. For the estate.’
Douglas rearranged two pages, then stood back, watching as his father leant forward to look a bit more closely.
‘Ideas for the estate?’
‘I’ve been thinking for ages. I mean, since the stuff with the CAP and you talking about giving up on the dairy side of things. We might look at doing things a bit differently.’
Cyril watched his son’s stammering explanation impassively. Then he lowered his head towards the page. ‘Pass me my glasses.’
Douglas followed his father’s pointed finger, located and held out the spectacles. From the kitchen, he could hear his mother placing crockery on the tray, and the sound of cupboards opening and closing. He could hear the blood in his ears. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, then took them out again, fighting the urge to leap forward and point to separate paragraphs on the pages.
‘There’s a map under there,’ he said, unable to contain himself any longer. ‘I’ve colour-coded the fields according to usage.’
Time seemed to drag, then stall. Douglas, staring at his father’s face, saw not even a flicker of emotion as he methodically scanned the pages. Outside, the dogs barked manically at some offender.
His father removed his glasses, and sat back slowly in his chair. His pipe had gone out and, after examining it, he laid it on the table beside him. ‘This what they taught you at agricultural college, was it?’
‘No,’ said Douglas. ‘Actually they’re pretty well all my own ideas. I mean, I’ve been reading up and everything, about kibbutzes – and you know all about Rowntree, of course, but—’
‘Because, if so, we wasted every bloody penny sending you there.’
It came out with force, as if the words had been expelled from a gun, and Douglas jumped, as if they had physically impacted against him.
His father’s face, as ever, revealed almost nothing. But there was a brightness behind his eyes, a faint pallor behind his ruddied complexion that suggested intense hidden anger.
They sat in silence, eyes locked.
‘I thought you had sense. I thought we’d raised you with some sense of what was right and—’
‘This is right.’ Douglas heard his own voice lift in protest. ‘It is right to give something back to people. It is
Douglas watched her go, feeling the words leaden in his mouth, at odds with the racing feeling in his chest.
His father took some minutes meditatively tamping his pipe, then lighting it, his thin, tanned face creased into well-worn lines of concentration. Then he glanced at his son, as if surprised that during this part of the daily routine he hadn’t left. ‘Dennis is sowing the tubers this afternoon.’
‘Yes,’ said Douglas. ‘I’m going to head up there when I leave.’
His father extinguished a shortened match and swore softly under his breath, glancing unconsciously at the door where his wife had exited. ‘Want to make sure he gets the distances right. He set them too close together last year.’
‘Yes, Father, you said. I’ll talk to him about it.’
His father looked down at his pipe again. ‘Waiting for harvest?’ he said, lightly.
‘What? Oh—’ It was often difficult to recognise when his father was joking. ‘Oh, no. Actually, Father, I wanted to talk to you about something.’
The pipe was lit. His father leant back, and exhaled a thin plume of smoke, his face briefly relaxing. ‘Fire away,’ he said genially.
Douglas looked at him, and then down, trying to remember where he’d put his folder. He stood, fetched it from the dresser, then began to pull out pages, laying them carefully on the table in front of his father.
‘What’s this?’
‘What I wanted to talk to you about. Some ideas I’ve had. For the estate.’
Douglas rearranged two pages, then stood back, watching as his father leant forward to look a bit more closely.
‘Ideas for the estate?’
‘I’ve been thinking for ages. I mean, since the stuff with the CAP and you talking about giving up on the dairy side of things. We might look at doing things a bit differently.’
Cyril watched his son’s stammering explanation impassively. Then he lowered his head towards the page. ‘Pass me my glasses.’
Douglas followed his father’s pointed finger, located and held out the spectacles. From the kitchen, he could hear his mother placing crockery on the tray, and the sound of cupboards opening and closing. He could hear the blood in his ears. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, then took them out again, fighting the urge to leap forward and point to separate paragraphs on the pages.
‘There’s a map under there,’ he said, unable to contain himself any longer. ‘I’ve colour-coded the fields according to usage.’
Time seemed to drag, then stall. Douglas, staring at his father’s face, saw not even a flicker of emotion as he methodically scanned the pages. Outside, the dogs barked manically at some offender.
His father removed his glasses, and sat back slowly in his chair. His pipe had gone out and, after examining it, he laid it on the table beside him. ‘This what they taught you at agricultural college, was it?’
‘No,’ said Douglas. ‘Actually they’re pretty well all my own ideas. I mean, I’ve been reading up and everything, about kibbutzes – and you know all about Rowntree, of course, but—’
‘Because, if so, we wasted every bloody penny sending you there.’
It came out with force, as if the words had been expelled from a gun, and Douglas jumped, as if they had physically impacted against him.
His father’s face, as ever, revealed almost nothing. But there was a brightness behind his eyes, a faint pallor behind his ruddied complexion that suggested intense hidden anger.
They sat in silence, eyes locked.
‘I thought you had sense. I thought we’d raised you with some sense of what was right and—’
‘This is right.’ Douglas heard his own voice lift in protest. ‘It is right to give something back to people. It is
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