Mrs Ursula Hardesty was another reason he had left home.
She was standing in the hallway as he came in, primping her hair. She was tall, bony as a clothes-horse and wearing a light green Yves St Laurent dress that was at least twenty years too young for her. Her eyes were as pale and watery as Little Neck clams, and her neck was withered and white, although it was sparklingly decorated with three strands of diamonds and pearls. She gave him a lopsided smile, and raised her arms like someone signalling to a passing ship.
‘Edward. My dear. I thought I’d surprise you.’
‘Hello, Mother.’
He embraced her as circumspectly as he knew how. Curling his arm around her waist and yet not quite touching her; kissing her cheek from a fraction of an inch away.
‘You’re looking peaky, dear,’ she said. ‘Are you still taking that tonic wine I brought you?’
‘When I remember. I’ve just had a bad night, that’s all.’ Mrs Hardesty glanced towards the living-room, where Ed could see Season’s arm on the back of the settee, holding a smoking cigarette.
‘I hope you’re not having any trouble,’ she said, her voice as brittle as fractured porcelain.
‘You mean you hope I’m not having too many arguments with Season? Is that it?’
Mrs Hardesty looked pained. ‘I’ve never had anything against her, Edward, but I can’t say that she’s really cut out to be the mistress of a wheat-farming empire, can you? I mean – fashion and style are all very well,, but has she bought herself any galoshes yet?’
‘Mother,’ Ed told her, ‘I’m not having you start all that again. Season’s settling in pretty well, all things considered. It’s a big change to come to Kansas from New York City. A big shock to the system. Season’s going to have to be given time to get used to it.’
‘Well…’ said Mrs Hardesty, disapprovingly, turning her mouth down at the corners.
‘Well nothing, Mother,’ Ed retorted. ‘And as to when she’s going to buy herself any galoshes… she’ll do it when Gucci bring out some galoshes with red-and-green bands round the top.’
‘It’s your loss,’ Mrs Hardesty said. ‘If you want to carry the whole burden of South Burlington yourself… it’s really up to you. I can’t influence you.’
‘No, you can’t,’ said Ed. ‘Now come and have a cocktail before I start getting mad at you. I’ve got enough problems on the farm without getting mad at my mother.’
‘No serious problems, I hope?’ said Mrs Hardesty, as they walked through into the living-room.
‘Moderately serious. Some sort of crop disease. We’re not sure what it is yet.’
Mrs Hardesty frowned. ‘Is it bad? You’re almost ready for harvesting.’
Ed walked around the back of the sofa, clasped Season’s hand, and bent over to kiss her. She was dressed in tight dark blue velvet pants and a cream-coloured silk blouse. Her hair was freshly washed and shining, and she had let it hang loose to her shoulders.
‘How is it?’ she asked.
Ed shrugged. ‘Hard to tell yet. But it’s still spreading. We saw patches of it all over.’
‘Did Dr Benson call yet?’
‘Willard’s trying to get in touch with him now.’
Mrs Hardesty sat down in the velvet-covered armchair by the fireplace, facing the library chair which had once been her husband’s. She sat stiff and erect, raising her head like an inquiring eagle. ‘You’ve sent samples across to Dr Benson?’ she asked. ‘Your father always thought that Dr Benson was a quack.’
‘Perhaps he is,’ said Ed. ‘But he’s our first line of assistance. Jack’s been trying to isolate the blight all night, and he can’t make out what it is.’
‘I could give you Professor Kornbluth’s number,’ said Mrs Hardesty. ‘He did some wonderful work for us on seed dressings.’
‘That’s very kind of you. Mother, but Professor Kornbluth is an expert on the protection of germinating crops, and that’s it. This is a blight of the whole ripened ear.’
‘Has it spread very far?’ asked his mother.
‘Two, maybe two hundred and fifty acres.’
‘Two hundred and fifty acres? And you’re leaving it to Dr Benson? My dear, you can’t do that!’
‘What else do you suggest I do?’
‘Go over his head. Your father would have done. Go straight to the Department of Agriculture.’
Ed sat down in his father’s chair, and crossed his legs in a deliberate effort to show that he was relaxed. ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘Dr Benson is the Kansas state expert on crop protection. Whatever father thought about him, and however erratic he might seem to be—’
‘Alcoholic, more like,’ sniffed Mrs Hardesty.
‘All right, alcoholic. Erratic. Whatever. But he’s still the man I have to do business with, week in and week out, and if I go over his head now there’s never going to be any chance of my getting a favour out of him in the future. I know what he’s like. I’m not dumb. But I told Willard to kick his keister if he dragged his feet, and I think he’ll be able to help us.’
Mrs Hardesty suddenly and unexpectedly turned to Season. ‘What do you think, my dear?’ she demanded.
Season shrugged. ‘I don’t think anything. I don’t think I’ve ever met Dr Benson. Whatever Ed decides to do is fine by me.’
Mrs Hardesty rose to her feet. ‘Isn’t that marvellous?’ she said, in a frivolously sarcastic tone. ‘“Whatever Ed decides to do is fine by me.” Have you ever heard any wheat-farmer’s wife come out with such a positive and helpful contribution? Do you know something, my dear, when I was mistress of this farm, I used to spend all my waking hours finding out about crops and how to grow them. I was as much an expert on wheat as Ed’s father was. I could talk about planting and harvesting with the best of them, and I could take a tractor to pieces with my own bare hands. This region is lousy with sidewalk farmers, who commute to their farms from Wichita and Kansas City, and lousy with suitcase farmers, who spend most of their time in Chicago and Los Angeles, and only fly in for the sowing and the harvesting. Well, Dan Hardesty wasn’t one of them, and neither was I. We lived on our land and we took care of our crops and we produced more grain on these eighty-five thousand acres than most farms that were twice our size. We did it together, Dan and I, and that’s why I can hardly believe my ears when I hear you saying that you don’t care about it.’
‘I didn’t say that I don’t care about it,’ put in Season. ‘I simply said that I respect Ed’s judgement.’
‘Come on, Mother,’ said Ed. ‘We all know what you and Daddy did to build up South Burlington. It’s part of the family’s history. But can’t you just leave it alone?’
‘I see,’ said Mrs Hardesty. ‘You’re prepared to talk about your father and I as ancient history – a bedtime story for Sally, maybe – but you’re not prepared to take my advice?’
‘Mother, this is my farm now.’
Mrs Hardesty looked out of the window across the sunlit yard. Her hands were clasped together in controlled anguish. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know it is. And I also remember what it cost this family for you to have it.’
Season turned around. That, Ursula, is a grossly unfair remark,’ she said, coldly. ‘Ed was just as hurt as you were by what happened to his father and what happened to Michael. Good God, you’re talking as if he killed diem with his own bare hands.’
Mrs Hardesty stared at her. ‘My only regret,’ she said, ‘is not that Edward took over the farm when his father and his older brother both died. My only regret is that he should have brought to South Burlington a wife who treats the farm and everything that it means to this family with such obvious contempt.’