by Emma Carroll
The barn door swung open as Helen came back in with a bowl of steaming-hot apple crumble. “Get that down you,” she said, placing it in Derek’s hands. “Things’ll seem better on a full stomach.”
Derek tucked in, scraping the bowl so hard I thought he’d take the pattern off. As we watched him, it occurred to me I’d just had a conversation with Derek. A proper one that didn’t involve making anyone cry.
“You can stay here tonight if you like,” I said.
He didn’t answer straightaway. When he did there were tears in his eyes.
Early the next morning, before anyone else was awake, we took the otters back to the river. It was just the two of us, Derek and me, carrying the box between us. We cut down through Longhorn Meadow, then turned right and followed the otter path away from the village as far as we could go.
“Dad never comes this far,” Derek remarked as we set the box down on the bank.
“Exactly,” I replied.
The mother otter appeared snout-first from the box. She was cautious, sniffing the air, listening, then tiptoed across the grass to the water’s edge. The cub bounded after her, all clumsy and rubbery. They slid into the water together. Within a few strokes, the mother had rolled on to her back. She was making an excited, chattery sound, and when the baby joined in, we both laughed. And laughed.
Not long after that, Derek moved away to live with his mum. He never did go home to his dad, or come back to school. In fact, I never saw him again. One day after school, I told Mabel all that’d happened.
“Maybe I got Derek Patterson a bit wrong,” I admitted. “He was nasty because he was scared.”
Mabel nodded. “Remember when he took my sandwiches? He gave them straight back when no one was looking.”
“It’s like he was acting tough to try and please his dad. Underneath, I think he was actually rather nice.”
“It’s when you get to know people that you see what they’re really like,” Mabel agreed. “Look at your dad with those land girls. He never stops singing their praises.”
As usual, Mabel had a point. Vera’s rat-catching skills quickly made her famous throughout the district, and Helen was now in sole charge of the horses, who worked better for her than anyone. Meanwhile, Mum wasn’t hiding her library books any more. She even persuaded Dad to go to the pictures with her one evening.
The otter path was still a special spot for me. One day in late spring as I followed it away from the village, the surface of the water broke with a line of bubbles. Three otter heads popped up – one smaller than the other two. They stared at me. And I stared in wonder at them.
This time I didn’t tell anyone what I’d seen. I didn’t even mention the otter path, which, after all, was just a faint track through the grass. Most people didn’t know it existed. But all you had to do was look closely, quietly. The rest came as a wonderful surprise.
A bell is ringing. I think this means it’s time for breakfast.
A bell! How old-fashioned.
Mum and Dad dropped me off at the farm yesterday evening. They were in a rush to catch their plane so they stayed less than an hour. I’d watched their car lights trail away into the night, getting smaller and smaller, and then, nothing.
“You’ll get used to us and our ways!” Aunty Mo had smiled.
“And we’ll get used to yours,” cracked Uncle Lee.
Maybe I will and maybe I won’t. There’s a lot to get used to.
So now I’m inside the airing cupboard. My extremely narrow bed has been built out of wooden pallets and my mattress is made of sofa cushions. My clothes are still in my suitcase as there’s nowhere else for them to go. But I’m not complaining. I’m the only kid in the house with their own bedroom. I have five cousins. Yes, FIVE. All boys. Somebody save me!
I wrote Marnie a message last night, but it didn’t send because there’s no Wi-Fi in here.
I look at it now, to remind myself what I’m in for.
Emergency Situation: abandoned with hardly seen relations for two weeks.
In countryside. On farm. Trees/tractors/mud/dark etc.
Five boy cousins aged from 7 to 15 years old. Ben, Barney, Sid, William, Jack. Can’t remember which is which.
Uncle Lee and Aunty Mo. Aunty Mo told me not to call her“Aunty”because it makes her feel old but I’m too embarrassed not to.
Why did my evil parents leave me here? Why why why? Miss you forever! How is Canada? Every time I see a plane in the sky I think of you!
I sniff a bit, feeling tears come. I miss Marnie. I rub at my eyes and breathe.
The bell rings harder as I shuffle down the bed and thump at the tiny ivy-streaked window. It creaks open and a delicious draught of air comes in.
From my perch I can see the farmyard, a row of low old buildings with birds flicking in and out from under the roofs, a dirty quad bike, and various buckets and bits of machinery. Beyond the yard is a large modern barn full of black-wrapped silage bales. I know what they are at least. The tin roof creaks as the wind blows.
On the far hill I can see the horses swishing their tails against the flies.
It’s July. I’ve just broken up from school. I didn’t sleep well. I had too much to think about and the bed is so small, and it was really stuffy and I could hear the muffled arguing and chatting of my cousins in the bedrooms beyond.
Five boys!
I hear footsteps on the landing, the thudding of feet down the stairs. There’s not time to redo my plait so I wrap my dressing gown round me. (It is PINK. I wish it wasn’t. In this house of boys, the colour feels like a challenge.)
There’s a bang on my door.
“Hurry up, Fay, or it will all be gone.”
I think that was Barney. I can’t be sure. I’m hoping that he is going to be OK. I don’t know any of my cousins especially well. I’ve only seen them in the distance at weddings. They are farmers and Mum says farmers don’t often leave their farms. Her sister is my Aunty Mo. Mum has always said they didn’t have much in common.
Anyway.
I tie the pink ties tighter round my waist, lift myself off the bed, edge along the wall and open the door.
The clamour grows louder as I approach. This is an ancient house with thick walls and probably lots of dusty history. But it’s not spooky.
At home I eat breakfast alone. I read and eat my cornflakes to the hum of the shower pump and the whirr of the hair dryer as Mum gets ready for work. Dad would have already left.
It’s not like that here.
When I open the door I’m blasted with warm air and smells. Smells of bodies, smells of burnt porridge, smells of coffee and toast. And the noise! A radio playing, loud chatter, a dog barking, Aunty Mo clattering dishes in or out of the dishwasher. The sounds layer over each other.
Uncle Lee is frying eggs. He’s wearing a grey boiler suit with mud on the knees. I count twelve eggs in his frying pan, which must be the largest one in the world. And there are many, many boys sitting or standing at the table, feeding like hungry livestock.
One of the cousins has built a wall of cereal boxes around himself. All that can be seen are his pyjamaed elbows. Someone else is reading the paper, the pages held high so I can’t see anything of him either.
There is thumping coming from under the table, which makes the breakfast plates jump.
“STOP IT, Sidney,” snaps Aunty Mo. “Hello, sleepy,” her voice kinder when she speaks to me. “There’s eggs, bacon, toast, cereal, juice, tea, coffee…”
“Thanks,” I say, aware of many eyes upon me. The eggs in the pan hiss and spit. Uncle Lee grins at me. He’s missing a tooth. “Sunny side up?” he says.
I can’t speak in front of all these people so I just smile in return and wonder if I’m brave enough to cross the room and sit on the only empty chair. It’s beside a huge teenager, who has hair growing thickly on his arms and a smell coming off him like he’s eaten a bucket of garlic and run a marathon.
This must be…
“Jack,” say
s Jack. He grimaces “Don’t eat Dad’s cooking. He never washes his hands and he’s been docking sheep.”
I hesitate. Was docking sheep anything like docking your phone?
“Sleep well?” asks Uncle Lee, not bothering to defend his hygiene.
I nod, sit next to Jack-the-giant and bravely spear a slice of toast from a cracked plate in the centre of the table. Jack shovels in a huge spoonful of Cheerios then empties out the box for another round.
He really stinks.
Uncle Lee, catching my eye, winks and opens the window above the kitchen sink.
“How’s the cupboard, Fay?” says a high voice. I think I know this one – this is Ben. My youngest cousin. He’s small and a little bit chubby, with dark hair and a smiley face.
“Great,” I say, realising it’s the first word I’ve said.
“It was full of our sheets and towels, but we reckoned we could turn it into a tiny, tiny bedroom for you.” Aunt Mo looked apologetic.
“I love it,” I say truthfully.
“Eggs,” says Uncle Lee, and flips one on to my toast. It’s a deep yellow. It would be like eating sunshine. My stomach rumbles and I remember I was too tired, too flustered, to eat anything when I arrived yesterday. Through all the noise and chatter, someone shoves a dish of butter at me, and from somewhere else the tomato sauce lands near my plate.
Aunty Mo places a mug of tea in front of me.
“This treatment won’t last long,” says a voice from behind the sports pages of The Times. “Tomorrow you’ll have to fight for every scrap like the rest of us.”
This must be William. He lowers the paper and takes a slug of tea. He is extremely thin, with long arms. His knuckles look like they’ve been glued on.
He’s also wearing a pink and yellow flowery dressing gown. If anything it’s more girly than mine. His bony wrists stick out from the lacy hems. He looks the tiniest bit like my dad.
“So then, cousin Fay, why have your mum and dad gone on holiday without you?” pipes up Ben.
“Shhh,” says Aunty Mo.
“Don’t they like you?” asks Ben, not shhh-ing.
I can’t think of anything to say when everyone is looking at me.
“Shut up, Ben,” says Uncle Lee. “Her parents don’t need a break from her. They’re having an anniversary holiday.”
I stab my egg. I don’t mind my parents going off to Paris without me. But I do mind coming here. I was supposed to be staying with my other GIRL cousins. Ones I know. Stella and Lou. But the whole house got a sick bug and so I’ve ended up here on the farm in Somerset, in the middle of the countryside, with no Wi-Fi, no shops or buses and all these boys.
“You need a haircut,” says Ben, twitching the end of my plait.
“I know,” I say.
“Sid had long hair but he kept getting nits,” continues Ben. “He had more lice than the dog.”
“I see,” I say.
“Mum said she should get a flea collar for him,” says Ben.
“Well, I haven’t got nits,” I say somewhat haughtily.
“Got one!” shouts Ben, pinching at my hair.
“Leave her alone, Ben, you little beep,” says William, whacking him with his newspaper. “Don’t worry, cuz, it means he likes you.”
“Great,” I say uncertainly.
“You don’t say much,” says Ben.
“You say too much,” says Uncle Lee.
“Do you ride?” comes a fresh onslaught from under the table.
“A little bit,” I reply. I lean down and lift the tablecloth. Underneath, a boy about my age sits cross-legged, wearing nothing but old jogging trousers. A plate of toast crusts rests on his lap.
“I’m Sid.” His hair is shaved nearly to his skull and there is a smear of jam on his face. “We’ll meet you in the yard in ten.”
I am instantly horrified. I haven’t ridden for years and even then I wasn’t particularly good at it. I stopped riding because, Alice, one of Mum’s friends, fell off her horse and broke her leg really badly.
She still has a limp now.
“She doesn’t have to get on a horse the second she gets here. She might want to come and look at the cows first,” protests Uncle Lee.
“She can ride Crispy. He’s good with everyone.” Aunty Mo clears plates and wipes up spills. “She can do The Race with us.”
“Do you want to ride?” asks Uncle Lee. “This lot are all horse-mad but you don’t have to be. You can come and help me turn the hay if you like. How old are you? Twelve or so? You look like you wouldn’t have much problem driving a tractor.”
“She’s eleven,” says Aunty Mo. “Don’t let him bully you into it.”
“I’m not,” protests Uncle Lee. “I’ve got a new tractor. Well, new-ish. Only fifteen years old. It’s got a hydraulic seat and a cab radio. The brakes are very responsive; you’ll have no trouble stopping,” he added.
“Er,” I say. Everyone is looking at me.
“Tractor driving is a life skill,” says Uncle Lee. “You can put it on your university application under ‘interests’.”
Was he joking? I couldn’t be sure.
“Shut up, Dad, she’s coming with us,” says Ben. He looked at me. “Hurry up! It’s race day!”
“Do you want to?” asked Aunty Mo, looking hopeful.
“I’ll do it,” I say, and instantly regret it.
I whip off up the stairs feeling excited and scared, and ten minutes later, wearing somebody else’s too-big wellies, I stand in the stable yard, watching my cousins dash about leading, watering and brushing horses, and finding hard hats. In the distance I hear the roar of Uncle Lee’s new-but-old tractor.
I still haven’t done my hair.
It’s a bright but windy day and the wind blows shreds of straw over the yard. A small, off-white dog ambles up to me and gazes into my eyes.
“Hello,” I say, and a thin line of drool spools from its jaw.
“We’re in here,” calls Aunty Mo from the nearest stable. She’s vigorously brushing down a sleepy-looking white horse. The dust from its coat flies into the air.
Aunty Mo hands me the brush. “This is Crispy. He’s very gentle.”
Crispy sniffs me a couple of times, then goes back to munching hay. I set to, brushing burrs and mud out of his coat. I breathe in the smell of horse. It’s a good smell, I remember now.
It’s exactly a month since Marnie left for Canada. We had FaceTimed every day at first, then twice a week, and last week there had just been an email from her.
HI FEEPS!
SO BUSY!
NEW SCHOOL. LOTS OF NICE PEOPLE BUT NO ONE LIKE YOU. MISS YOU, BUDDY!
THIS PLACE IS AWESOME AND THE FOOD IS AMAZING. OUR HOUSE IS BIG BIG BIG.
THERE IS A TEACHER AT NEW SCHOOL CALLED MRS SIDEBOTTOM! REALLY. SO FUNNY.
LOVE
MARNIE. DON’T YOU DARE FORGET ME.
It was weird at home without Marnie. We’d been in and out of each other’s homes all the time and we’d spoken every day about everything. But now she was thousands of miles away forever.
How will I cope without her?
How will I BE?
The dirt comes off Crispy in cloudy, hairy handfuls and settles on my clothes.
I’m wearing new jeans with a purple flower on the leg and my old green T-shirt with more flowers round the hem. Mum likes flowers. Nearly every piece of my clothing has one on it somewhere. I didn’t used to mind, but recently the clothes have felt all wrong.
“They’re too young for me,” I said, when Mum had come home with the jeans.
“But I wear clothes like this and I’m forty!” said Mum.
So I’d worn them. I’m not the arguing sort. But I’d like clothes like Marnie’s big sister, Willow. She wears leggings, long T-shirts, hoodies, plain black trainers. Not a flower in sight.
She has short hair too. It looks cool.
Me and Marnie have the longest hair in the school. We’ve been growing it for years and years. It’s sort of
a competition, but it’s also something that binds us together. I think mine is a bit longer than hers, and she says hers is longer than mine. It grows to our waists. I love and hate mine. Love it because it is thick and soft and on bad days I can hide under it. Hate it because Mum insists on brushing it and that makes me feel like a baby.
“I can brush my own hair,” I say.
“So why all the knots?” says Mum.
On the morning after Marnie had flown to Canada, I asked if I could get my hair cut. I know what I want, a bob, to the jaw. But Mum had just laughed and kept on brushing it out.
“Never make big decisions when you’re feeling stressed,” she said. “I know the day will come when we have to cut your beautiful hair, but not today, not today.”
She’s always saying that.
And now, brushing Crispy’s mane, I tut aloud.
“A horse!” I say. “That’s what I feel like.”
“You don’t look like one,” said a voice. It’s Sid, leaning in through the half door. I’m beginning to recognise these boys now. Sid is the mostly naked one.
Now he’s wearing army shorts and trainers and nothing else.
“Don’t you ever wear any clothes?” I ask him bravely.
Sid shrugs. “They only get dirty and itchy.”
Aunty Mo walks past carrying a saddle.
“He’s never worn them,” she says. “He spent most of his toddler years naked. He’d scream the house down if I tried to put him in normal clothes. It was dreadful when he started school and had to wear proper clothes every day. It was like trying to train a Mongolian Mustang.” She looked at my flowery jeans and sighed. “I don’t expect I’d have had that trouble if I’d had a daughter.”
I smile. There’s trouble and then there’s trouble.
“Why don’t you like clothes?” I ask Sid.
Sid shrugs. “Dunno.”
