‘Freddie, just tell me everything,’ she demanded, but in a tone of voice just as gentle as that he had used to her. ‘That’s far from all, isn’t it?’
He gave in then, explaining that after William had called telling him rather sulkily that he had been chucked out, would be home tomorrow, refusing to give reasons bar a brief admission of having had a few drinks too many, he had telephoned Ted Parish, a lecturer at William’s agricultural college. Ted, an old schoolfriend whose elder brother worked the family farm fifty miles or so away in Devon’s South Hams, explained that the real problem was that it seemed likely that William was involved in the drug scene — and not just marijuana either, but cocaine and maybe even harder stuff as well. Ted’s boss, the principal, would probably not send a man down for drunkenness unless it became totally out of control, but he wouldn’t tolerate drugs for a second.
Freddie, ever sensible, understood that. But — after ascertaining that while his son admitted to the allegations of being drunk on college premises (it seemed he could do little else) he hotly denied using drugs — he had asked his friend to push for William to be merely suspended unless the drug allegation could be substantiated. The old-school tie works as well in the farming community as any other and Freddie would always use any means available to protect his family.
‘But that was the best I could do,’ he told Constance. ‘Ted agreed that he would speak up for William, although he sounded as if he was pretty fed up with the lad himself. It seems this has been going on for some time, although we knew nothing about it.’
Constance was horrified. ‘Oh, not drugs, Freddie, surely not that,’ she said.
Freddie shrugged. ‘Let’s hope not. William says no, so all we can do is accept that. Ted said he’ll call as soon as he has an answer from the boss. But even if it’s just a suspension, and even if William is prepared to mend his ways pretty sharpish, the college will take some convincing that he’s turned over a new leaf before they let him back in, I reckon.’
Constance put her mug of tea down carefully on the bedside table. She reached out and touched Freddie’s hand.
‘I can’t believe William would do this to us,’ she said.
‘Con, whatever it is he’s doing it isn’t to us,’ responded Freddie patiently. ‘He’s just a young man kicking over the traces a bit, I’m sure that’s all...’
‘You never kicked anything over when you were a young man,’ said Constance, forcing a strained smile.
‘I never felt the need, and then I met you and I’ve never wanted to kick anything since, not really,’ he said.
She smiled again. This time rather more naturally.
‘I was the odd one out though, particularly in that generation, in the sixties,’ he continued.
She was holding his hand now, his big capable farmer’s hand, and she leaned forward and kissed his calloused fingers. Absurdly he hoped they were clean from carrying the firewood.
‘Whatever you say, I’ll ring his bloody neck if he hurts you, Freddie Lange,’ she said. ‘And anyway, at what time do we expect the little bugger?’
Her voice had its usual sparkle back in it now. She spoke determinedly, facing up to a problem while at the same time making as light of it as possible. Typical Constance.
That was better. Freddie could cope with almost anything as long as he had Constance in the trenches with him. Without her strength and her compassion, without her leadership, her calming presence, he was, in his own opinion, nothing.
William was due to arrive some time during the afternoon or early evening, it seemed. He had not been precise. His mother supposed it would be too much to ask for any consideration from him at the moment.
It was still only just after 8.00 a.m. Freddie had a problem in the piggery to sort out. Constance was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. She had far too much to do to sit around moping all morning, but she had to sort out her thoughts.
It was probably wicked, she considered, for a mother to admit to having a favourite among her children, but William had always been extra special to her. She supposed it was partly because of how much she had known Freddie had wanted a son, an heir to take over and work the land that had been in his family for so long. But also, as William had grown, he had come to resemble his father so much physically it almost made her heart leap when she looked at him.
Freddie Lange had been thirty-one when Constance first met him and William was only twenty. Sometimes she was not sure if she looked forward to her son reaching thirty or not. She was quite sure he would by then be almost a carbon copy of the father he was already so like.
And yet in personality the two were completely different. William was much more like her. He had her drive and ambition — or at least she had thought that he had. Maybe Freddie was right. Maybe it was hard to be ambitious when plans had already been made for your life before you were born, when there was nothing to strive for. But William had never indicated that he wanted any other kind of existence. Never said that he dreamed of being a writer or a painter or a soldier. Not even anything mundane. ‘What I really want in all the world is to be an accountant, mother.’ She let her imagination run riot for a moment, playing games now. And she smiled in spite of herself.
No, William had no dreams beyond Chalmpton Peverill and the nine hundred acres of prime Somerset farmland he would one day inherit — she was sure of it.
He had always seemed so well-adjusted. Certainly so personable, so charming. He had been both articulate and at ease among adults much earlier than most children. He shared his mother’s sense of fun and she thought that perhaps she had never laughed with anyone as much in her entire life — not even with Freddie — as she had with her son.
Indeed, she supposed she had so far had the kind of relationship with all her children that many mothers would envy. All three of them, probably particularly William, always seemed to have regarded her as much as a friend as their mother — amusing and entertaining to be with and certainly so much more fun than the mothers of any of their contemporaries. That’s what they told her anyway. And William, in particularly, always stressed the fun. All three eagerly sought out her company rather than avoiding it, she knew that, sometimes almost competing for her attentions.
She was also aware that when there was such a competition, however subtly mounted, it was always William who won. She felt guilty about that, but did not seem able to fight it somehow and just hoped that her daughters, whom she also adored, were not as starkly aware of it as she was.
It was just that they did not have William’s charisma. Nobody did. It was quite a package for a mother to have a son whose appearance was a mirror image of his father and whose personality was a mirror image of her own. She and William did not clash either as they might have done. They complemented each other perfectly. They thought the same way, liked the same people, laughed at the same jokes before they were even completed.
Only a couple of weeks before William had returned to college, they had danced together most of the night at the hop staged in the village hall in order to raise cash for a new roof. Unlike most young men nowadays, William could dance properly. Constance always thought of traditional ballroom dancing as dancing properly, although she knew that would seem old-fashioned to many, and indeed, she had had to learn herself when she wed Freddie and realised the kind of life she would be leading in a village community. There had not been much opportunity in her childhood for the foxtrot, she reflected wryly.