Chapter Text
The farmhouse was built for a large family. Over the course of one summer, three generations of farmers came together day in and day out to build a home. Their home. A home made to stand for when the time comes that they no longer can. A home for the children running under their feet, and for the children that will one day run underneath theirs. In the end it became three stories tall with twelve bedrooms, three bathrooms and one large kitchen that opened up into an adjoining dining/living room area, big enough for everyone that was family and for those loved so quickly that the title soon included them.
As the fields began to prosper, with the invention of the almighty aubergine, the house was never left empty. It became a beacon of warmth for the whole village. A weekly roast was held for anyone and everyone in need of a good meal, the bedrooms were on a constant rotating basis from the youngsters moving out to new in-laws moving in and they even lent the south facing field for an annual summer fete.
There was seldom a time the front door was closed. Even now you can see where the wood has gotten worn down between the floor and the door stop that wedged it open so passionately.
This is what Derek was told as he introduced himself to the locals of the village. The older ones’ eyes gleamed in youth and their smiles stretched just at the mention of the place. They all said the same things:
“Oh what a lovely place”
“What a lovely family”
“Ah yes, some lovely memories”
“It’s just a shame that-”
“Not since the old man-”
“It’s been a while since-”
It turns out none of them have visited in a long time. Life they said. And death. The last summer fete was cancelled due to the dates clashing with the old farmer’s funeral. The attendance was the same. Both young and old came to pay their respects, led by his sons, James and Titch. The former of which being the eldest was meant to lead the ceremony but after a speech of silence that went on a tad too long it was the latter who took over. A pattern, or so he’s heard.
Only one person had something different to say.
“Fresh meat” The woman didn’t spare him a glance from whatever it was she was stirring. Derek had only entered the store after his third wrong turn… and as she offered no more words he was regretting that decision immensely.
“Right. It was nice to meet you Miss but I should be going-”
“Margaery” She looked up finally, squinting her unnaturally green eyes, looking him up and down humming to herself. Finally she smiled and her shoulders shook in a silent laugh “Lady Margaery if you want to be so formal. Good luck working for that one, right stick in the mud he is. Better than his brother at least”
“How’d you know which one I’m working for?” Or that I’m here for work at all. He felt silly asking but the feeling was familiar, like he missed something obvious while everyone else was waiting for him to catch up.
“Well only one of them’s working works out. Especially enough to require a live in assistant” She barks out a laugh “Also I’m a witch, here’s my card”
Derek pockets it without looking and rushes out of the shop - or de facto witches hut - suddenly weary of every bottle or weird looking nick nack surrounding him.
That’s cursed. Definitely cursed. Extra cursed. If she knows why I’m here, is she psychic? Cursed. Does she know what I’m thinking? Shit! Cursed and broken.
He practically trips his way outside, of course not forgetting his goodbyes, smiles and well wishes. As he rambles out his fifth “Goodbye” and “have a lovely day”, his feet firmly outside, Margaery calls between the shutting door.
“Remember! A new lick of paint may look nice but it won’t stop the foundations from cracking and crushing you in your sleep… Yeah something like that”
He didn’t quite know what she meant.
-
Now, as Derek looks up at the farm house Lady Margaery’s words swim laps around his head. Whispers of people are everywhere; an old tire swing hanging by thread on the tree by the porch, worn down stairs from constant use, etchings of names and doodles into the old wood of the banisters. And yet, despite all that, the place held no warmth.
The tire is caked in dirt and dust, the stairs look fragile and old, any message that still lay visible was clearly left a long time ago, and above all else, it is silent. Derek can hear the wind whistle through the cracks in the panels like ghosts going through walls. If it weren’t for the crops growing bountifully on half of the fields he would have thought he was in the wrong place.
He wonders what the nice old people in town would say if they came to visit now. Is it still lovely?
Wrapping his flimsy jacket tightly around himself he draws in a deep breath. No need to fret. This is his new life. He’ll do what he has always done best.
Derek smiles.
With teeth on show, he tightens his grip on his sole bag and steps up to the farmhouse door. The stairs creak under his weight and they sound like a sigh, as he raps his knuckles on the door the sound echoes back in a rhythm. This is his new home and it will welcome him with open arms.
But no one answers. He knocks again. And again… and again. Quite honestly Derek doesn't know how long it is until knocking becomes impolite so he stops after 7 and a half minutes.
It is his new home so he supposes it isn’t too bad if he were to just enter. Praying an apology to his mother who definitely taught him better than that, he gives the door handle a jingle but even then the house seems to reject his advances. A push and a bruised shoulder later there is still no give.
Derek turns to look at the vast fields before him, slumping over the creaking wood of the vandalised banister. Everything was becoming too familiar. The ache in his bones, the growing pit in his stomach and the pinch behind his eyes. A few shuddering breaths swallowed down any thoughts of the past and he forced himself to look - really look at the now. The beauty that was in front of him.
He had heard gossip of the brother’s and their… varied success in growing crops, but seeing it felt as if he had stepped right into an impressionist painting.
From this angle green was all he could see. Long, uniform rows of it. Emerald leaves peaking out of carefully ploughed dirt; and as far as Derek could see the crops, he could see the halo of grass that surrounded them from the nearby fields. Bending towards the aubergines as if giving a soft caress, as if the earth itself were a mother, protector, cradling all that grows there.
It was not yet plucking season but Derek could not wait to see the small violet petals that will flower, making way for a far more rich, royal colour to take its place. The paint on the canvas not yet dried, he could see the hard work in each brush stroke. So neat, so rigid and so so full. It was almost too busy for his eyes.
He felt his heart simmer comfortably in his decision. Turning his head he could see the beginnings of the other brother’s work.
The contrast was harsh. The fields were barren, undeniably so. Crops - or perhaps weeds - stubbornly poked their heads out of the ground to take a peak enviously at their neighbouring brothers, each tilting as if towards a magnet to where they’d be better off.
And yet the scene was no less beautiful.
Whereas the lush green shone, demanding attention in its bounty, this part of the farm held an orange hue that glowed gold with the setting sun. Subtly presenting itself to those with eyes patient enough to see.
The dirt was well trodden, ploughed just like the other but far less tidy. There are tools left were last used and traces of wild flowers that splattered colours wonderfully through the planes.
The charm of the amatuer is one to be appreciated, and this one brung with it so much hope that it rang out all through the empty, but not desolate, fields.
The house may feel cold behind his back but the farm itself still held life and love. Finally, Derek’s heart settles in his chest like an ember and he feels content in his new life. Or what is to be his new life. Once he can open the door.