Extract form 'Greener Grass' by Nadia Kingsley

Tom got up from the kitchen table when he heard the farm dogs barking. By the time he was on the front doorstep a bright yellow sports car was turning into his late father's drive.
The man was driving; though as the couple came towards him, long hair flowing, he wondered if he had got it the right way round. They looked in their early thirties, but who was he to judge a townie’s age? - with their soft unlined faces and perfect librarian hands .
She, in jeans that trailed in the dirt, walked towards him with her hand outstretched. “I’m Evie. This is Ted.”
She winced a little as he shook her hand and raised an eyebrow when he said “Tom Jones” in reply. “That is unusual” she had said, smirking.
Tom turned away from her and directed them towards the house. He told them to take as long as they wanted - he’d be waiting outside.
He stood looking out on his fields, mulling over the long term forecast, trying not to think about the years that his father had spent living here. Tom didn’t like being in the house too long - he could see his father everywhere - in the overlong bath; the nails without their bronzes; the bars and rails he’d installed as his father grew thinner and weaker; the electric armchair his father had barely had a chance to use.
Tom shook his head. He wasn’t cut out to be a landlord, he knew that. But then there wasn’t much money in farming anymore. Everywhere he looked he saw the evidence, of how he had tried to keep it going. He hadn’t sold out like some of his neighbours with their specialty farm shops, pick your owns and hanging baskets, but he agreed with them on one thing: there wasn’t any future in farming, not anymore.
He looked down at his watch. Another ten minutes and more than likely they’d be looking at him through their expensive rear view mirror. This new lot are the eighth fresh-faced couple to look around the house. They all stand and breathe in the air, like pantomime horses, and they look across his fields, and they hold hands and they whisper about the view; about how wonderful it would be to wake up to that, every morning. Next they walk into the house and exclaim about the airing and coat cupboards, as if these were extras that seemed beyond even their dreams. But then they enter the kitchen, and there they all go quiet. ‘Well, it is a nice size’ the man offers as an opening gambit but Tom knows then that the house will remain empty for yet another day as the woman stands in the centre of the kitchen, not touching, just turning; her smile slowly slipping. Once she has muttered ‘Dated’, all that is left for Tom to do, is to lock up behind them.
He didn’t know what townies were used to, but he saw the ads on the TV and felt he could make an educated guess: smooth clean lines, a walk-in shower, mood lighting, instant everything, luxury white goods, remotely controlled living spaces. Their marble work tops and granite flooring would mainly stand empty; their occupants in offices by day; by night they’d be at the latest restaurant, the in-film, buying milk at three in the morning, or just ‘chilling’ the night away.
He noticed a hole in his sleeve, as he locked up; his wife could darn it tonight. There were holes in the tarmac drive too which would need filling before the frosts. The hedges were looking as ragged as he felt, but the tractor had been too busy; getting the straw bales under cover. The piggery looked like it would collapse if he blew on it, along with most of his other buildings. He missed growing crops that you could actually eat: bio-fuels and animal fodder were all he could afford to grow now. Tom sighed, a long, deep sigh, as he made his way back down the drive; home to where his wife would be making stew for their tea. His father would turn in his grave, he thought, if he knew his son was thinking of selling up, and moving into town.