The Farm Read Online Free PDF

about to describe never really took place.
    • • •

S O FAR WE’D BEEN STANDING with the satchel resting on the table. My mum gestured for me to sit down, indicating that her account would take some time. I obeyed, taking a position opposite her, the satchel between us as though it were the stakes in a poker game. She studied her journal, focused on finding the relevant entry. Briefly I was taken back to the many occasions when she’d read to me at bedtime, saddened by the contrast between the tranquillity of those childhood memories and the anxiety I was now feeling. It might seem that I lacked curiosity or courage, but my impulse was to implore her not to read.
     
    Last time you saw me was on the day of our leaving party. 15 April. We hugged goodbye beside that old white van packed with all our worldly possessions. It was one of those days when everyone was in high spirits, laughing so much – a happy day, truly happy, honestly among the happiest in my life. Yet even that happiness is now the subject of dispute. Looking back, Chris claims I was chasing a perfect life in Sweden and a gap opened in my mind between expectation and reality, a gap that expanded as the months progressed, and out of my disappointment was born the belief that there was, in place of paradise, a hell of depravity and human disgrace. It’s a seductive argument. And it’s a lie, a clever lie, because underneath the laughter I understood better than anyone the difficulties ahead.
     
    Here’s what you don’t know, Daniel. We’re broke. Our family has no money. None. You knew there were difficulties during the recession. It was far worse than we let on. Our business was in ruins. It was necessary to deceive you because Chris and I were embarrassed and didn’t want offers of money. Let me be honest – today is a day for honesty and nothing else – I was ashamed. I’m still ashamed.
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H EARING THE NEWS, I REACTED with a muddle of shame, sadness and shock. Mostly there was disbelief. I simply hadn’t known. I hadn’t even suspected. How was it possible I could be so ignorant of their circumstances? I was about to put the question to my mum, but she sensed that I intended to interrupt and touched the top of my hand to stop me.
     
    Let me finish.
    Please.
    You can speak in a minute.
    I’d always been in charge of the accounts. I’d run a tight ship for thirty years. We’d been okay. The garden centre never made much money. But we didn’t hanker after wealth. We kept our heads above water. We loved our work. If we didn’t holiday abroad for a couple of years, we’d go for day trips to the beach. We always got by. We were light on debt, low on overheads, and good at our jobs. Our customers were loyal. Even when the cheaper out-of-town garden centres opened up we survived.
     
    You were living away from home when the letter landed on our doorstep from an estate agent. They explained the true value of our tiny garden centre. It was incredible. I could never have dreamed of such wealth. We’d spent our life working long hours, growing plants, and earning the slimmest of margins while underneath our feet the land which we’d done nothing to had increased in value so dramatically it was worth more than we’d ever earned through work. For the first time in our lives Chris and I were drunk on the idea of money. We bought you dinners in fancy restaurants. We gloated like fools. Rather than simply sell up, I made the decision to borrow hundreds of thousands against the value of our land. Everyone said it made sense. Why hold on to money? Property was like magic: it could produce wealth without work. Neglecting the garden centre, employing staff to half-heartedly do the tasks we’d always done passionately ourselves, we bought investment flats. On the face of it, Chris and I made the decisions jointly, but you know him – he’s not interested in numbers. He took a back seat. I found the flats. I chose them. Within the space of