He gives me a wounded stare. ‘It’ssoiconic, how can you not like it?’
I pull a face. ‘For me it’s less about icons, and more like I’m a teenager again, walking in on Dad having a full-blown midlife crisis, trying to relive his lost youth on a Saturday afternoon in our living room.’ Complete with flared trousers four inches too small, a skin-tight purple velvet T-shirt and platform-soled boots.
There’s a smile playing around Ross’s lips. ‘Your dad was the one who first played it for me. And time proved him right, itdidinfluence so much that came since. Better still, it’s having a resurgence; hipsters love it.’
I can’t let him get away with this. ‘Shit, Ross, next thing you’ll be telling me you listen to Fleetwood Mac.’
The guilty sideways stare he shoots me is the giveaway. Of course he bloody does. I let out a groan. ‘Why, when we’ve got so much great music of our own, would you immerse yourself in dad music?’
He gives a shrug. ‘I loved those times I spent at your house. You have no idea how lucky you are to have a family like yours.’ He’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘My parents never listened to music, they were always too busy being worried to have time for my friends. But the worst thing was they had no inkling that anything could be different, no ambition to make things better. That wassohard to live with.’
‘Right.’ That’s confirmed my status as the spoiled, entitled child here.
He lets out a sigh. ‘It’s not only the nostalgia; sometimes music resonates because of how you are in a certain moment. This does that for me now.’
The clue is in the name. ‘ThatDark Sidealbum came from a verydarkplace.’ I’m thinking out loud rather than being profound. Not that my dad took it that way when he played air guitar and jived around wailing about people losing their minds and the sun being eclipsed. We kids used to rip the shit out of him because he used his Mick Jagger moves, regardless of what he was singing along to. And then the bigger implication hits me. ‘Shit, Ross, youareokay?’
He tilts his head as he thinks. ‘I’m as fine as I’ve ever been.’ His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel as the car hits a pothole, and he wrestles it out of the nettles and back onto the track again. ‘Just don’t assume everyone’s life is as full of rainbow buttercream as yours is, Cressy.’
I’m not convinced that he’s as fine as he’s pretending to be. But I give a silent hurrah that he’ssooblivious to how far I’m falling and how fast. ‘Point taken. I’ll make sure I bear that in mind in future.’
Then we round a bend and a cluster of stone buildings with shiny slate roofs comes into view, surrounded by a sea of green meadows, and Ross clears his throat. ‘So this is Walter’s place.’
There’s a loud thrum and my whole body shakes as we hit a cattle grid, and then as we lurch into another pothole I catch sight of the signboard in the verge. ‘Snowdrop Farm, High Hopes Hill. What a wonderful name!’
Ross gives an eye roll. ‘Ever the optimist. I’m afraid it’s a lot less picturesque than it sounds right now.’
I might be broke and I’m fully resigned to being #CCsoggybottom for ever. But no one can stop me looking for the good stuff. ‘There’s always a bright side, Ross.’ As he pulls to a halt in a cobbled yard, a group of hens scatter, Diesel gives a bark and I rub my hands together like I really mean business. ‘So what are we waiting for. Let’s go and rustle up some sheep!’
Which might sound enthusiastic for Ross’s benefit but is actually total bullshit. And this really mustn’t take all day, because I’ve got meringues to fill. And after that I really do need to get ready!
18
At Snowdrop Farm, High Hopes Hill
Amateurs, meadowsweet and a nasty slip-up
Saturday lunchtime
‘Your mum must have been a tiny bit romantic to call you afterPoldark.’
My throat is burning and I’m running to keep up with the guy in question, which I don’t mind if it means we get this sheep chase over asap. Somehow I can’t believe his home life was as bleak as he’s making out.
Ross stops for half a step to look back. ‘You’re forgetting how old I am. Aidan Turner only ripped his shirt off five years ago.’
‘There was a 1975 version.’ I know, because my mum isonthis. Even after five series of the new one she still prefers Demelza from the seventies. ‘That would tie in.’
Ross is still pausing. ‘Sorry to wreck your illusions but my parents were driven by tradition. I’m named after my great-grandfather.’
I’m not giving in on this. ‘It’spossiblethey called you afterboth.’
I’ve got my hands in the pockets of my long cardigan trying to stop it catching on the thistles and cow parsley. I’m mighty pleased I brought it, because even though I put bigger shorts on, the minute I bent my legs to get in the car the bare bits expanded horribly and the cashmere hid a multitude.
‘Have your parents moved on?’ He’d hardly be sleeping on the surgery put-you-up if they were still in St Aidan. It’s funny; when you’re younger you accept people as they are, and it’s only now I’m wondering where he came from and why he turned out as he did, but he’s not giving much away.
‘My sister’s near Plymouth. She found them a little place overlooking the Tamar.’
I’m drawing level with him now. ‘A big move if they’d been here all their lives. Do they like it?’
