The Farm by Tom Rob Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

mine. He’d never lived outside a city and struggled to cope. April was far colder than we’d expected. The farmers have a term called Iron Nights, when winter clings on and spring can’t break through. There’s ice in the soil. Days are raw and short. The nights are bitter and long. Chris was depressed. And his depression felt like an accusation, that I was responsible for bringing him to a property with none of the modern conveniences, away from everything he knew, because I was Swedish and the farm was in Sweden. In reality, we’d made the decision together as a desperate fix to our circumstances. There was no choice. We were there, or nowhere. If we sold the farm we’d have money to rent a place for two or three years in England and then nothing.
     
    One evening I’d had enough of his misery. The farmhouse isn’t large – the ceilings are low, the walls are thick, the rooms are small – and we were spending all our time together, trapped inside by hostile weather. There was no central heating. In the kitchen there was a wrought-iron oven where you could bake bread, cook food and boil water – the heart of the house. When Chris wasn’t sleeping he sat in front of it, hands outstretched, a pantomime of rural drudgery. I lost my temper, shouting at him to stop being such a glum bastard, before hurrying out, slamming the door—
    • • •

I MUST HAVE REACTED TO THE IMAGE of my mum shouting at my dad.
     
    Daniel, don’t look so surprised. Your father and I argue, not often, not regularly, but like every other couple in the world we lose our tempers. We just made sure you never heard. You were so sensitive as a child. If we raised our voices you’d be upset for hours. You wouldn’t sleep. You wouldn’t eat. Once, at breakfast, I banged my hand against the table. You copied me! You started banging your little fists against your head. We had to hold your arms to stop you. Quickly we learned to control our tempers. Arguments were held back, stacked up, and we’d work through them when you were out.
    • • •

I N NO MORE THAN A BRIEF ASIDE , my mum had swept away my entire conception of our family life. I’d no memory of behaving in this way – hitting my own head, refusing to eat, unable to sleep, disturbed by anger. I’d thought my parents had voluntarily taken a vow of tranquillity. The truth was that they’d been forced to shelter me not because they believed it for the best but because I demanded calm as though it were a requirement of my existence, the same as food or warmth. The sanctuary of our home was defined by my weakness as much as it was by their strength. My mum took my hand:
    ‘Maybe I made a mistake coming to you.’
    Even now she was worried I couldn’t cope. And she was right to doubt me. Only a few minutes ago I’d felt an impulse to ask her not to speak, to cling on to silence.
    ‘Mum, I want to listen – I’m ready.’
    In an effort to conceal my anxiety, I tried to encourage her:
    ‘You shouted at Dad. You walked out. You slammed the door. What happened next?’
    It was shrewd to bring her focus back to events. Her desire to discuss the allegations was so powerful I could see her doubts about me disappearing as she was tugged back into the flow of her storytelling. Our knees touching, she lowered her voice as if imparting a conspiracy.
     
    I set off towards the river. The waterfront was one of the most important parts of our property. We still needed a little cash to survive. We weren’t producing our own electricity and there were annual land taxes. Our answer was salmon. We could eat the salmon in the summer, smoke and preserve it for the winter. We could sell some to fishmongers, but I saw the potential for more. We’d fix up the farm’s outbuildings – they used to house livestock but they could easily be converted into rustic guest accommodations. We’d carry out the work with minimal paid help since Chris and I were both handy with tools. Once that was