‘Um, Beatrice?’ he calls just as I reach the door of the tractor. As I turn around, he points to his exposed legs and Italian loafers.
With another stifled laugh, I head back into the grain store and find a pair of wellies that I think might fit and pass them to him. Murmuring a thank you, he tosses his own shoes to the side of the yard and slides the wellies on without a second thought.
‘It’s so flat,’ Arthur says after driving in silence for a few minutes, ‘and so empty.’
He looks across the farmland and shakes his head as though unable to believe what he’s seeing. I follow his gaze, trying to picture my home through the eyes of someone who has only known the glitz and glamour of city life. The sun is only just peeking out from the distance and its dim light settles in a haze over the countryside. Farmland spreads for miles, and the only interruptions on the horizon are houses dotted sporadically around, or trees left with enough room to reach their branches out so wide they always look as though they’ve just woken up and are having their satisfying early morning stretch. The landscape is so flat and so undisturbed that you can see the next town over miles and miles away. Looking out over it now, it feels lonely, so much empty space, so much distance.
I can imagine it all being a little intimidating, like being plucked out of a bustling society and dropped into the middle of the ocean with no sight of land on the horizon. I know, because I felt it too when I moved home from London. Moving there at eighteen years old and only everknowing this wide expanse of nothingness, it was like being thrust into the middle of a beehive, where bodies flit around you, a constant buzz of noise fills your head all through the days and nights, and where monuments loom over you, so every street, tube, café, bus, feels like claustrophobia personified. I got used to it quickly enough, though, and now I feel the silence, the space, the isolation of home a little too much.
‘It was all under water once,’ I say, trying to distract myself with facts before I allow my thoughts to run away on their usual negative spiral. ‘The Dutch helped us drain the land centuries ago. Most of it is still below sea level.’
Arthur only hums in acknowledgement and continues his survey of the acreage around him. ‘Makes for good farming though,’ I say, quietly. Arthur says nothing.
Finally, we reach the destination of this morning’s task: the old fence in the back field. It’s a job that has been on my list for months since the goats in the next-door farm chewed the wire and managed to pull down four fence posts last summer. It’s a two-man job and since it’s only usually me, I’m actually grateful for another set of hands – even if they are those of Arthur Cavendish who is currently struggling to jump down from the tractor.
‘Where are the cows?’ he asks, still clinging on to the handle only the old guys have to use to hoist themselves into the cab.
‘The cows?’ I ask, huffing impatiently as he still takes his time disembarking.
‘Yeah, you said we’d be milking cows.’ I give him a little helping hand in the way of a gentle shove and he splashesdown into the earth that the goats have kindly fertilised. ‘Was that necessary?’ Arthur turns back to me, splatters of mud tracing up his wellies and landing on the little patch of still-exposed skin above.
‘That was a joke. I’ll be milking the cows later. You’d really think I’d let you anywhere near my poor girls on your first day? Absolutely not. I thought I’d test out your skills on something a little less important.’ I bypass the steps and jump down into the loam. Arthur, struggling with his wellies in the thick muck, is far closer than I anticipated and I land almost on top of him. With a wobble, I grip his overalls like my life depends on it and instinctively he wraps his arm around my waist to steady me before I end up arse over tit. For just a moment he holds me, and I allow him to. His face is so close to mine I can see the tiny speckles of dirt that have flecked into the stubble of his chin and his breath comes out in a soft cloud in the February morning.
Finally returning to my senses, I shove myself out of his grip and turn to stomp through the mud to put as much distance between us as possible. ‘Do you always have to dawdle? We’ve got work to do and you’re dithering about at the bloody tractor,’ I call over my shoulder with hot cheeks, and he rolls his eyes.
‘Sorry if some of us have never actually ridden in a tractor before. You do know people have lives outside of wading through shit all day?’ He too seems to regain some of his composure, and a little too much of his cheek.
‘Oh my gosh, you’re telling me there is another world outside of Lincolnshire?’ I reply with an exaggerated gasp.I think about my tiny flat in Elephant and Castle, and sitting down to write in cafés that shook each time a tube passed beneath it.
‘What do you need me to do?’ is Arthur’s only reply.
‘The fence needs fixing,’ I say. ‘I just need you to hold a few things whilst I do the actual work.’
With a huff from the both of us, it’s clear that neither one of us wishes to be here, so we spend the rest of the morning in relative silence. Only speaking to grumble at one another for doing something wrong, I realise after the third hour of fixing fence posts that it would have probably been easier to just do it by myself.
The rest of the day plays out much the same. Arthur is useless at mucking out cows, he has no idea how to use any machinery without giving me anxiety, and he didn’t even bring his own packed lunch so I have to, reluctantly, share my sandwiches with him.
We sit in the old wheat field in the middle of the day and I watch Arthur eating my beautifully hand-made sandwiches with a scowl on my face.
‘Have you got crisps in this?’ he asks after his second bite.
‘Salt and vinegar chip sticks,’ I reply.
‘In a ham sandwich?’
‘Look, if you don’t like it give me it back and I’ll have it.’
‘All right, all right. I was only asking.’ He sighs and takes another bite. ‘Are you always this friendly to guests in this village?’
‘Me personally, or everyone else?’ I take a bite of my own sandwich, trying to remain as nonchalant as possible.‘We’re nice to people who are respectful to us. Guests don’t usually get the street party greeting like you, but if you haven’t already guessed, your dad is a pretty big deal round here.’
‘So, you don’t think I’m respectful?’ Arthur asks, placing down his lunch and shuffling up closer towards me with his brows furrowed.
‘Don’t worry I’m only some “local weirdo” after all. What does it matter what I think?’
With that he leans back as though attacked by his own words.
‘Do you often eavesdrop on people’s conversations?’ A peculiar look crosses his face, as though he’s trying to be angry but his conscience hasn’t quite caught up and he clambers to his feet as though planning to run away.
