by Polly Hall
So, this is our second Christmas together on the Somerset Levels. Preparation is key to a perfect day, you always say. Tree—tick. Decorations—tick. Food—tick. Booze—tick. Christmas music playing in the background—tick. And enough logs to see us through if this deep freeze doesn’t thaw like the Christmas I spent in Poland with my family as a child. The thickest drift of snow in decades, great white waves wedged up against the walls of the house, as if a truck had tipped it there on purpose. We were holed up for over a month before it melted. We couldn’t even open the front door, so Rhett and I ended up climbing out the upstairs window instead and slid down the roof. Mother and father together and in love. Our family grew close, laughter and mealtimes shared in the big house my father had rented for work. That year really did feel like Narnia. We made up stories holding a flashlight under the duvet like a giant billowing tent, nibbled biscuits and pretzels, we were even allowed to sip hot vodka. No pretzels this year, and no Rhett. Yet.
I soon forgot the snow when I returned to England, let the memory melt into grey sludge and trickle away down the drain. There were other years in the UK when I felt the similar effects of that childhood snow. It was fleeting. Cars soon returned to the once-blocked roads, and the momentary inconvenience of a bit of bad weather was shoved to the back of everyone’s minds.
For us children it was a novelty. I felt sorry for the animals during those harsh winter months, some bound in hibernation burning their body fat like oil lamps. Those winsome dormice tucked up in burrows and even the stinky, robust badgers having a hard time of it. I can feel their pain more than ever now. Each squeak becomes a roar to me. Their cries prick me like sharp needles.
It’s the damp I worry about this Christmas. After all the rain this year, we may as well have grown webbed feet and gills, evolved into creatures that swim—amphibi-sapiens. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A new species to tinker with? Mermaids and mermen inhabiting the Somerset Levels. I am tingling, thinking about your hands at work. Do you remember how it all began in January? You were really fired up then. I like to think I still ignite your passion. I do, don’t I?
Henry Royston Pepper. How could I not love you with a name like that? My spicy peppercorn. You are my true love, my confidante, my savior and all those clichés we toss about when our hearts get stolen. So here we are at home, alone, on Christmas Day—our favorite day of the whole year.
February
The weather girl, in a tight-fitting blue vest, flourished a bare arm toward the map of the British Isles. I didn’t normally watch television in the mornings but I felt grotty so was lounging about after breakfast before you went off to your workshop. Cartoon clouds and perfectly spaced diagonal droplets of rain swept across the screen in regimental fashion as the time fast-forwarded across the bottom to forecast the gloomy day ahead. Most of the weekend would be under a low front—squally showers and a brisk wind from the west, turning north-westerly. Followed by gales overnight.
“Gone with the Wind, Miss Scarlett.” You winked at me, kissed the top of my head then let the door slam behind you. I flinched; the gales made me jittery. You calling me Miss Scarlett reminded me of Rhett.
My name was a source of ridicule for most of my childhood. The fact that my parents named my twin Rhett made it all the more embarrassing. It was Mother who had latched on to Scarlett O’Hara as the brave, resourceful woman, and Rhett Butler, the rebellious rogue. She thrived on longing, an old-fashioned romantic at heart. She used every opportunity to fuse us together, like those fancy-dress parades she insisted we join or the matching cardigans she knitted for us. I was used to being dressed up like a mannequin. I’m sure you could tell.
My parents were immortalized by the fact that they were dead, and the very few memories I had were kept tightly encased in a part of my mind reserved for family access only. Although you are family to me, you know what I mean, it’s never simple, is it? Do we decide where we belong? Or is it decided for us?
The windy weather tied me in knots. One moment a calm lull like an exhalation, then a door slamming hard like a snapped jaw. Relentless, buffeting madness. The dogs felt it; “wind up their arse,” you would say as they deftly slinked about the yard, tails up, darting about then crouching down as if they could stalk the invisible currents of air.
You had decided to work all weekend, which suited me. My head was thumping. I was worried about Rhett. We were connected even when apart, a shared ancestry and subconscious connection. No matter how far he travelled geographically we were always close. We were together from the very beginning, do you understand? Perhaps you don’t. You never had brothers or sisters.
Even the air pressure seemed to affect me, especially when it rose and fell so frequently, as if I were being squashed between two sheets of metal.
Later in the day, I retreated to have a lie down like a bird taking shelter from the storm. The sound of pellets on a tin roof woke me. It sounded rhythmic though, like someone urgently knocking at the door. If I ignored it, I thought, I could block it out or it would eventually cease. But it was knocking. Sharp raps on our front door. Ours was not a house that was en route to anywhere except the marshes and the fields; any visitors had to make a determined effort to find us.
The knocking continued, so I threw on my old, sloppy cardigan over my pajamas, slipped my feet into my boot slippers and ventured downstairs, half hoping whoever it was would have given up and gone to find you in the workshop by the time I opened the door.
“He’s dead.” Penny stood on the doorstep, arms wrapped about her cashmere coat and the wind fighting against the pins in her hair. Even in her disheveled state she had an air of old-school glamour. I focused on her through a haze of headache. The pulsing returned to my temples. She continued to speak as she pushed her way past me and stepped over the threshold, fingering her windswept mop of blonde hair as if it were candyfloss.
“Henry not at home?” She asked, looking down her nose at my pajama bottoms, which were frayed and torn at the hems.
I caught the door just before it was about to slam again and shut it tight against the wind. Penny was pacing around the kitchen, eyes darting about for an answer to her own question. She didn’t want me, she wanted you. I stood my ground waiting for an explanation, feeling my hackles raise as she slid her fingers across the work surface and inspected for dirt.
“Henry’s working,” I told her.
“Darling, I’ve not slept a wink.”
“What’s happened, Penny?”
“I told you—he’s dead!”
“Who?”
“He’s in the car—I put him in the deep freeze overnight. I hope I’ve done the right thing.”
“The deep freeze?”
“Congenital heart defect,” she continued by way of explanation. Her cool, matter-of-fact manner replaced the mock grief offered on the doorstep.
“Really?” I couldn’t believe she was talking so freely about putting someone in the deep freeze.
“Yes. None of the others ever had anything like that. They always seemed so fit.”
I knew she’d had a few partners in her time—groomed, compliant types—but the way she was speaking disturbed me. I could not imagine how she even lifted his body. Did she cut him up? My head thumped loudly in my ears.
“Kyrano and Virgil are pining,” she was babbling now. “I’ve got to keep their spirits up. We’ve got three dog shows coming up. Poor little pumpkins. Parker was running around bright as day last week.”
Then it all became clear.
“Parker?”
“Yes, darling. Parker, of course. He was my favorite, although we shouldn’t really have favorites. He was my prize-winning boy.” She sniffed loudly and dabbed at her nose with a lace-edged cotton handkerchief. It had an embroidered letter “P” in red cotton at its corner. Parker? Penny? Pepper?
“Oh,” I said, “Parker the Poodle!”
“Of course, dear. He’s always been a poodle. Now, where is Henry?” She seemed to snap out of he
r grief and peered behind me as if I might be concealing you in the room somewhere.
That was the weekend before Valentine’s Day. I know this because you said you’d work all that weekend and we’d spend the next together. No work—just us together.
I should’ve known it was the start of something complicated. Penny had been breeding poodles for years and of course Parker wasn’t the first to die. But she’d never had any of them immortalized through taxidermy before. Perhaps what she really wanted was attention, for you to comfort her with your strong arms wrapped around her, but I sure as hell wouldn’t disturb your work for her. Just turning up like that in her flashy convertible, wanting you to drop everything for her. It made me livid. Her thin smile was plastered with a shade of lipstick I can only describe as neon tangerine. It matched her nails and that thin line of flesh inside her lower eyelids.
You must have had some kind of forged trust with her, for her to turn up with her beloved prize-winning poodle expecting to jump to the front of the taxidermy queue. What kind of hold did she have over you? Why had I even bothered to get out of bed? You must’ve heard her arrive too. It was as if you wanted me to answer the door to her. As if you wanted to prove you had nothing to hide from me by letting her barge into our sanctuary unannounced. She never wanted to speak with me normally. That day was no different; I was but a signpost to your whereabouts. I told her where to find you and she scurried out, leaving me to catch the door again before it slammed.
From the window I watched her retrieve Parker from the boot of her car, a not-quite-frozen package, wrapped in what looked like a silk bed sheet. That was when I saw you come up the path from your workshop and walk up to her. She tossed her head back in that way she does when she’s flirting, handed you her dead dog and offered you her cheek. It looked like she was passing a child from her arms to yours. Was it instinct or habit that made you linger as you kissed her? You must’ve known I could see you both whispering to each other as the trees whipped their bare branches above you. I took another two pills and went back to bed.
The next week I felt cleansed. The weather had calmed and the sun was shining. Inside, behind glass, I could close my eyes and pretend I was sunbathing on a beach. Outside, the winter still had its grip upon the landscape and the air was crisp and fresh. You took my hand and led me down the path toward your workshop, where you had spent most of the morning. The hedgerow rustled with dead leaves embraced in its skeletal frame, but new life was beginning to shoot through the dark layers of bramble, and a blackbird chattered noisily across the grass. I breathed deeply as if to distil the afternoon breeze into colors that I could draw upon when the darkness descended.
“Don’t peek or you’ll ruin it,” you whispered while guiding me through the doorway. I knew the route even with my eyes shut, but you held my shoulders from behind as if I might stumble, your hands tightly gripping me.
The smell of your domain hit my senses—the usual scent of animal skins, and the sticky resinous glue that lingered like molasses in the air. It was a musky smell, an afterword to real life, which seemed to settle like a well-read elegy on the benches and floor. It was like breathing in fragments of your imagination. You closed the door, so the cool air did not intrude and we were enclosed in your private space.
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” you boomed, and I took this as your cue for me to open my eyes.
There before me on your bench I saw the bowed heads of two stuffed swans nudging together in perfect symmetry, like one of those hearts drawn as a doodle—the perfect gift for Valentine’s Day. White, serene, austere. I tried to take in what my mind could not comprehend. There were swan heads and necks, but not swan bodies. The heads and necks of two swans rose up from one newly imagined round globe of a body. As my eyes re-focused, I could see that they were not just swans, but swans with fur.
Positioned among the soft feathers of the globe was a small heart-shaped swatch of white fur. I could tell you wanted to experiment with the texture. Swans combined with a poodle—not just any old poodle—you had used part of Lady Penelope’s prize-winning pooch! A quick stitch job and a remnant of Parker’s coat had been mounted onto what looked like a perfect feathered sphere. Personally, I think you could have used Parker’s body, but I understood she was waiting for him to be returned complete. It just looked a little, well, crude, but I never would have told you that then. Something lurched inside me. You had taken something precious from her and given it to me. That was love, wasn’t it?
“How did you dream this one up?” I gently ran my fingers over the silky orb-shaped body beneath the swans’ curved necks as you stood there, a grin lighting your face as you held it out like a trophy to be awarded. The texture of Parker’s fur in a heart shape was ovine; it jarred on my senses, contrasting with the sleekness of the swan’s feathers. It was a beast of one color but two origins. The masculine fuzz of fur had been fixed onto the bulbous ball, the size of a football, set against the feminine gloss of swans’ necks rising above it. It had no legs. Long-necked and legless, it looked top heavy; a white ball with only the red of the bird’s beaks offering an airy kiss to one another.
Valentine’s Day offered more than just roses or chocolates or heart-shaped soft toys with cutesy smiles. My true love, you, only you, would surprise me with a swoodle. Feathers and fur belong on a catwalk. They say, “Look at me, I’m gorgeous.” But white feathers and white fur—really? I was speechless. My card to you and homemade rose chocolate hearts were boring in comparison to this gift. It was safe to say no one had ever given me real swans as a gift before (especially stuffed ones).
“Is it legal?”
“Scarlett—spoil the mood, won’t you!”
“Sorry, I just thought swans were—well, you know—protected.”
“It’s illegal to kill them. But I didn’t kill them.” You set the swoodle carefully down on your work bench and stood back to admire your creation.
“What, you happened to find two dead ones?”
“They must’ve flown into the power lines—it happens. I’m fairly sure they didn’t suffer. And they are a pair, so just think of them having died together, like Romeo and Juliet.”
“Romeo and Juliet did not fly into overhead power cables!”
“Do you like it though? Say you love it, Scarlett.” You suddenly grabbed me round my waist and squeezed.
“Thank you, Peppercorn.” How could I not love something created by your masterful hands? Yet it unnerved me in close proximity. Two swans combined with a poodle; in life these species would not mix. I could tell the swoodle was uncertain about its place in this world and the feeling was reciprocated. I did not want you to think me ungrateful, so I smothered you with kisses.
I know Lady P expected Parker back in one piece, after all. God knows what she’d think of you if she knew you’d stolen his fur and made it into a love token for me.
I reached toward the swoodle but you leapt forward to grab my hand as if I were an infant reaching for fire.
“Careful, Scarlett. It’s a bit unbalanced.”
“How do you mean?”
“I haven’t decided how to make it free-standing.”
I stopped myself from laughing.
You would think I was laughing at you. I would never laugh at you. You put so much thought into it and would be affronted if I showed nothing but respect. And, besides, it was all for me.
“I didn’t have time to attach the wings.” You held one up to show me the expanse, stretching it full breadth as if it could soar to the heavens on its own.
“They’re magnificent.” I took it, stroking it with the back of my hand, realizing I had never touched a swan’s wing before; I had only touched a single feather. The swans were a common sight, and yet they remained elusive and regal in their stark contrast to the peat-packed land where they nested. The feathers were magical, and I had made some into quills, dipped their sharpened shaft into indigo ink and watched the hollow retain the dark liquid. I scratched archaic letters onto
a card, made up symbols, and mimicked the movement of the birds with the nib. But even the large feathers were scarce compared to how many swans actually populated the marshes.
“Imagine having wings,” I said.
You clasped me about my waist and lifted me effortlessly as if I were a child. You were always sweeping me off my feet one way or another. You set me down. I felt breathless but exhilarated by your strength.
“I must be the only woman alive to own a swoodle!” With my arms looped around your neck, still clinging to the swan’s wing as if it were my own, I could feel the warmth of your body, yet I felt a chill run up and down my spine.
You had worked so hard that week and also completed your taxidermy of Parker. He looked so life-like, and the missing fur was negligible. Penny said she’d collect him as soon as you told her he was ready. Until then, he was positioned silently in the corner of your workshop.
The shelves were filled with jars of objects, eyes, feathers, driftwood and moss as if you were a witchdoctor ready to dispense cures to the sick. Pebbles and fossils from the beach were dotted around the edge as if the tide had washed up and left them like flotsam. I pulled a mound of wood wool from a bulging sack and inhaled its herbal fragrance. Various shapes of wire were hanging from the ceiling, some shaped like limbs of animals, some shaped like heads. Solid mounts of deer heads positioned facing left and right were stacked up against one wall. You kept your brushes in jars and your tools hung by nails. Piles of newspapers and textbooks of your craft were scattered on the remaining surfaces. Sketches of animals were pinned up haphazardly. Cans of toxic spray with skull and crossbones labels, bottles and plastic tubs were lined up. Nearly all the space was used. I was amazed at how you could create anything from so much chaos. I caught a glimpse of something behind the clutter on the shelf: a glass jar filled with liquid and something floating inside. Beside it, a label with my name written clearly in your handwriting.
