Freya North - Fen

Standing barefoot on the stone steps of his home, he watched the dogs race each other over the lawn. ‘In-digestion!’ he called after them in warning, stopping them momentarily in their tracks, before they resumed their intricate chase in and out of the cedars. James looked over to the great house, the gables of which he could see through the shrubs and trees. ‘Morning all,’ he said quietly, ‘apologies, as ever, should my dogs shit in your shrubs.’ He shut the front door and went to change. It was ten in the morning and he was running late.

James Caulfield is forty-nine years old. He lives at the Keeper’s Dwelling of Delvaux Hall, near Bakewell, Derbyshire. The Hall itself is no longer lived in by Lord Delvaux, or anyone of remotely aristocratic lineage, however tenuous. Fifteen years ago the Hall was converted into ten luxury apartments, the stables, the keeper’s dwelling and the forester’s lodge into self-contained residences. James is a landscape gardener for whom an address as seemly as Keeper’s Dwelling, Delvaux Hall, Near Bakewell, Derbyshire, is essential to his trade. His clientele would be strictly limited if his van and cards gave some cul-de-sac in Chesterfield as his abode. James bought the building as a forsaken shell fourteen years ago, taking on most of the interior renovations himself. Consequently, though his mortgage is relatively small, the upkeep of the place requires a monthly input of funds that his landscape gardening only just about provides for. It certainly does not stretch to fixing the temperamental heating system, or the extensive roof repairs.

While most men his age dress in suits for the office or casuals for tele-working, James’s work attire consists of old khakis, a black cotton polo-neck (the polo part becoming unstitched at the neck), a quilted checked lumberjack shirt, thick socks and hiking boots, an old battered wax jacket slung over his shoulder but worn only in utterly antisocial weather. The whole ensemble, clothing as it does a strong six-foot frame, makes James look much more Ralph Lauren than he does Percy Thrower and that’s why most of his clients are female. His Italian mother bequeathed him a head of tenacious, dark curls that he keeps cut close to his scalp. Though his hairline has receded a little, it has not drawn back further since he was twenty-six, nor have the silver flecks which pepper the sides increased. Because he scrutinized it daily until he was thirty, and it didn’t creep back even a millimetre, James rarely looks at it now – he is more concerned with his torso. When he looks in the mirror, he is always unnerved to see that it is not the body of a man in his mid-twenties that he still fully expects to see. But there again, when he goes for his thrice-weekly run, he is always unsettled that three miles feel much more of an effort than seven ever used to. He fears that age is playing havoc with his memory and powers of logic. Saying that, he is blessed by good looks; working out of doors affords his skin a year-round healthy bloom and his olive complexion accentuates the glint of his nut-brown eyes. His teeth are good. His humour is excellent. His hands are anomalously fine and clean for his job. His self-sufficiency, however, is wholly exasperating.

James is a prime topic of analysis amongst the women he works for. Word of mouth passed him from client to client, and much conversation is devoted to hypothesizing on why such an eligible man is unattached. In their pursuit of the tiniest clue (they’ve given up on full-blown answers), they rarely allow James to garden uninterrupted. He is paid by the hour and if they choose to force him to spend lengthy periods at the kitchen table drinking tea, or juice, or sometimes, according to the season, Pimm’s or spiced cider, then that’s their prerogative. Most would love to object to the presence of his dogs, especially the lurcher with the lascivious glare and probing snout, especially the labrador who invariably digs up much of James’s work before he leaves; but none voice their concern. Whatever makes James happy. What is it that would make him happy? But is he unhappy ? He can’t be happy all alone, surely. Do you know? No, do you? Any ideas? Any clues?

He’s an enigma. In Derbyshire, he is day-dream material, fodder for fantasy. He is Mellors. And Angel. He is Gossip. He’s the highlight of many a Matlock Mrs’s week. He knows it and he chuckles to himself amongst the hydrangeas. He plays up to it. He likes the attention. The company. And the control.

Once James had arrived at Mrs Brakespeare’s near Hassop, had been given a cup of tea, a bun and a run-down on her week, there was just time for him to do an hour’s work before lunch-time; a hearty affair of ham and eggs, orange barley water and the recounted ways, wiles and woes of Mrs Brakespeare’s daughters and granddaughters.

‘And you, James, what are we to do with you?’ Mrs Brakespeare declared quite brazenly, folding her arms in a motherly way, for emphasis and persuasion, while she observed him.

‘What do you mean, Mrs B?’ James asked, quietly enough to disguise his teasing tone.

‘Please, after all this time, and all my assurances, please call me Ruth.’

James nodded, though both knew he never would. All his clients begged him to be familiar but the closest he came was to abbreviate their surnames to the first letter. Mrs Woodgate, in Hathersage, one of his newest clients, longs for the day when she will finally be Mrs W.

‘James, James,’ Mrs B chided amicably, ‘we don’t like to think of you all on your own in Keeper’s Dwelling – it’s a grand place, perfect for a family. Well?’

‘Mrs B,’ James replied, clearing his throat and helping himself to an apple which he bit into and chewed for a tantalizing period before answering, ‘as far as I can see, the only way a family will live at Keeper’s is if I sell it on to one.’

‘But you can’t be happy, truly so, just you on your own?’

‘Oh, but I am,’ munched James. ‘Best to be with nowt, than with the wrong’un,’ he said in an accent that was a whole county north and not at all the Cheltenham-born, Cambridge-educated, Derbyshire-living gardener.

‘But you’re not getting any younger,’ Mrs B all but pleaded, ‘you don’t want to become too set in your ways. I mean, you really should shave regularly, too.’

‘Mrs B,’ James said in a voice that blended warning and flattery, ‘Lunch, as ever, was delicious.’ He kissed his fingers and threw them theatrically to the air, fluttering Ruth Brakespeare’s heart quite intentionally as he did so. Still she knew no more about him than she had six months ago. There’d be little to recount to Babs Chorlton, whom she’d promised to phone at tea-time.

‘James,’ Mrs B called from the back door. James looked up from the roses and cupped his hand to his ear. ‘James,’ said Mrs B, ‘promise me one thing – keep the door ajar, never let it close completely.’

James, who had understood her very well, nevertheless sauntered over to the garden shed, opened the door a little and gave Mrs B the thumbs up. Exasperated, she blinked skywards and then went in to phone Babs because it just couldn’t wait.

James had no more jobs that day and, after an arduous trawl through Safeways, and a demoralizing visit to the petrol pump (he was constantly bemused by the fuel gauge in his Land Rover always hovering at empty), he told the dogs he had spent over half the cash he had earned that day, that it was therefore Safeways’ own brand rather than Winalot Supreme for the next few days. After a run which hurt his legs, his lungs and his pride, he sat down to a bowl of Heinz tomato soup followed by a bowl of cereal: Cornflakes, Alpen and Coco Pops, all mixed together and saturated with full cream milk. The combination was delicious and satisfying – and eaten, as often it was, in gleeful defiance of Dawn.