Rules for a Perfect Life

by Niamh Greene

  ‘Yeah, it was really creepy. No one knew who it was – some people thought it was a local. You know, someone with a grudge.’

  A local with a grudge? Who could that be? All the locals I’ve met so far have been nice – eccentric, maybe, but not the type who’d do any breaking and entering in their spare time. Then again, what do I know, really? Appearances can be deceptive. That fat man in the blue jumper at the meeting could be a criminal for all I know. Come to think of it, he did have shifty eyes. And he was quite aggressive. I make a mental note to watch him from now on.

  ‘Yeah, there’s lots of bad feeling between people here,’ Matilda goes on ominously. ‘It can get pretty nasty.’

  ‘You mean like feuds?’ I’ve heard of these country feuds – they can be passed on from generation to generation. Families can be mortal enemies for donkey’s years, often about the simplest of things, like right of way across a field. ‘Isn’t that sort of thing usually about land?’ I ask, suddenly feeling very uneasy.

  What if someone’s granny used to live in Rose Cottage and they don’t take kindly to a blow-in moving in? What if I become a target? An innocent victim of gangland warfare? It wouldn’t be called gangland warfare down here, of course, maybe culchie warfare – but it would amount to the same thing: me, dead.

  ‘It can be land, yes,’ Matilda confirms. ‘Of course, it being a local was just one of the theories. It might have been the Mad Man of the Woods.’

  Matilda turns her face away from me and looks out of the window. I follow her gaze, feeling a little shaky. There’s no one at the diesel pump any more – Edward has disappeared inside to pay.

  ‘What Mad Man of the Woods?’

  ‘I shouldn’t get into it – I don’t want to scare you.’

  ‘Tell me.’ My voice is shaking.

  ‘Honestly, it’s probably nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Tell me.’ I want to know who this man is now.

  ‘OK, if you insist.’ Matilda shrugs her shoulders. ‘There’s a man who camps out in the woods sometimes – he’s been doing it for years. People say he’s crazy.’

  ‘What do you mean, crazy?’

  ‘Oh, the usual stuff. He talks to himself, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Talking to yourself isn’t illegal,’ I say. Matilda’s just trying to frighten me, that’s all. This guy is probably harmless.

  ‘You’re right,’ she muses. ‘But the story goes that he has some sort of criminal record. He might be on the run.’

  ‘That’s a little far-fetched, don’t you think?’ She’s making all this up, it’s so obvious.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right, it does sound far-fetched,’ she agrees. ‘I’m sure it’s all nonsense. But there were the knives, of course.’

  ‘Knives?’

  ‘Yeah, a local farmer found a stash of knives in the woods – it was really odd. And then all the burglaries started …’

  ‘Did they catch him?’ I say, genuinely nervous now. Maybe there’s more truth in this story than I’d thought.

  ‘That’s the really weird part. He disappeared, and then the burglaries stopped.’

  ‘So, if it was him, he’s moved on.’ I sigh with relief. Thank God for that.

  ‘You’d think so – but there’s a rumour going round that he was seen in the woods again recently.’

  ‘Do you mean Glacken Woods?’ My heart quickens as I put two and two together. Don’t they back on to the cottage?

  ‘Yeah, apparently the same farmer who found the knives swears he saw the man a few weeks ago. He reckons he might have been hiding out all along. The woods are pretty deep – God knows what goes on in there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ My heart flutters with fear. None of this sounds good, even if she is just trying to scare me. Those woods are far too close to the cottage.

  ‘Well, you know. Wooded areas can be a magnet for all sorts of … deviants.’ She lingers on the word, a sinister edge to her voice.

  Deviants? Knife stashes? I feel sick: this place is far more dangerous than the city!

  ‘But I wouldn’t worry about it,’ she continues, her tone more casual now. ‘You know how people can be. They love to spread silly stories about nothing.’

  ‘Everything all right?’

  A gust of wind engulfs the interior of the Land Rover as Edward opens the door and jumps back into the driver’s seat, oblivious to the conversation we’ve just had.

  ‘Fine, Dad!’ Matilda smiles.

  ‘Good. Well, we should be home in an hour or so. I could just about murder a cup of tea, couldn’t you?’

  Matilda raises an eyebrow at me and I wince. If what she says is true, then that’s not all that could be murdered round here.

  I close my eyes and try to block out everything she’s just told me. She was just winding me up: there probably is no Mad Man of the Woods – we’re not living in the Middle Ages after all. This man is just a myth, a figment of a lonely farmer’s fertile imagination. Of course, there is the small matter of the knives. But, then, these stories always get blown out of all proportion. That farmer probably found one small knife and then the rumour mill started. There’s nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

  Rule Fifteen: Find your fun where you can

  ‘Maggie, you know how you’re a painter?’ Polly asks, as she rubs Saffy’s nose.

  ‘Yes,’ I say reticently. Technically, I’m not lying to her – I’m not a professional of course, as half the village seems to think, but I did paint her face as she asked me to. She was so delighted with the tiny stars and flowers I drew on her cheeks one morning last week that she now seems to think I’m some sort of Van Gogh. Luckily, she hasn’t asked to see any of my artwork yet – because there is none.

  ‘Will you teach me how to paint?’ she says. ‘I want to learn how to draw properly. Mary Devlin says I’m crap at art.’

  ‘Does she now?’ I say. Her father wouldn’t be happy if he heard her using that word, but I can’t very well correct her – I’m not her parent, after all. ‘Well, Mary Devlin doesn’t know very much, does she?’

  ‘She brought a dead hedgehog into school the other day. All the other kids thought it was really cool.’ Polly’s face is glum.

  ‘And you didn’t?’

  ‘No,’ she pouts. ‘Who wants to see a squashed hedgehog in a cornflakes box?’

  ‘Not very many people, I imagine,’ I say. I’ve seen any number of dead animals on the road since I came here and it takes some getting used to, even if the locals are completely blasé about it. Peg told me that Betty from the butcher’s sometimes makes stew with road kill, although I can’t be sure she wasn’t exaggerating slightly. There was an unspoken suggestion that Peg wasn’t quite certain what ended up in Betty’s sausage rolls, although I tried to ignore that. I secretly tried Betty’s sausage rolls last week when she pressed some on me in the street and they weren’t half bad. Not that I can ever admit that to Peg – she and Betty are sworn enemies and I get the very strong impression that Peg doesn’t like me even passing the time of day with her.

  ‘So will you teach me?’

  ‘Sure I will, Polly.’ I smile back. She really is very cute. ‘But I bet you can paint perfectly well without me.’

  ‘I’d like you to help.’

  ‘OK, then, I will some day.’ I heave a large pile of straw bedding to the door of the stable, then attempt to sweep the floor – it’s strip day so everything has to be cleared and then washed out. It’s a dirty job but I’m getting much quicker at it. It still leaves me a little breathless, though, even after a few weeks’ practice.

  ‘Which day?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Which day will you teach me how to paint?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I fudge. ‘Some day soon.’

  ‘I know what that means.’ Polly sighs dramatically and rolls her eyes like a pro.

  She must have been watching her older sister for inspiration. Matilda is the Queen of the Rolling Eyes. ‘You should be careful, Polly,�
� I say. ‘If the wind changes your eyes will stay like that.’

  ‘That’s only an old wives’ tale,’ she tuts knowledgeably. ‘Everyone knows that.’

  ‘They do?’ I always used to be really scared to roll my eyes as a child in case they got stuck – but Polly is a lot smarter than I ever was.

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, I know what you mean when you say “some day soon”,’ she says now.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘When grown-ups say “some day soon”, they mean “never”.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ Except it is. This kid is sharp. It’s like she can see straight through my bullshit.

  Maybe Theresa’s right: maybe children can see into your soul. Theresa says both her twins have a ‘second eye’ – they seem to know what she’s thinking or even if she has a sneaky ciggie when they nap. She can tell they know from the accusing way they look at her sometimes. As far as Theresa’s concerned, smoking the occasional Marlboro Light is no big deal – she reckons it’s a miracle she’s not on anything stronger than nicotine, she has so much to deal with. She told me a few days ago that there’s talk at her mothers’ group that a wilder mum – one who doesn’t even believe in the naughty step, a scandal in itself – can actually score cocaine. Theresa says the only thing stopping her giving in to temptation is the worry of what might happen if she did: she doesn’t want to turn into some sort of crack whore – and it’s not as if she can rely on Malcolm to look after the twins properly if she’s carted off to rehab. He’d have no clue how to grill potato waffles the way the twins like them – he can’t even find the toaster.

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Polly’s voice snaps me back to the present. ‘Daddy says it all the time. I keep asking him when we can go hacking in Glacken Woods and all he says is “Some day soon.” I know what that means. It means “never”.’

  ‘I see.’

  I daren’t say any more. Glacken Woods? That’s where Polly’s mum had her accident. It’s also a haven for deviants, according to Matilda. No wonder Edward doesn’t want Polly to go there.

  ‘Mummy used to paint with me,’ Polly announces out of nowhere.

  ‘Did she?’ I’m not sure what to say to that. Should I say I’m sorry her mother is dead? Are you supposed to acknowledge death to children?

  ‘Mummy’s dead.’ Polly looks at me with clear hazel eyes. She doesn’t sound upset – more matter-of-fact.

  ‘I heard that.’

  ‘Yes. She fell off her horse and then she died.’

  ‘That’s very sad.’ I’m just following her lead, stating the obvious and not being overly emotional.

  ‘Yes, it was.’ Polly sighs. ‘Daddy was sad for a long time.’

  ‘I’m sure he was.’

  ‘He’s cheered up a bit now.’ Polly smiles. ‘I think it’s because of you!’

  ‘Me?’ What do I have to do with it?

  ‘He likes you.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t.’ He likes me mucking out the stables, and that’s about it.

  ‘Yes, he does. He like-likes you. I can tell.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘He wants to fall in love with you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ I laugh. Where did she get that idea from? Edward only tolerates me because Claire is renting Rose Cottage and I provide cheap labour. He wouldn’t choose to have me around, not unless he really had to. And he certainly doesn’t want to fall in love with me. For one thing he’s already in love with the vet from hell.

  ‘I’m not silly,’ Polly insists. ‘I saw it on TV. The man and the woman in the movie pretended they didn’t want to fall in love but they did, really. All they needed was a little help. And someone to get rid of the wicked witch.’

  ‘The wicked witch?’

  ‘Yes – that’s Odette.’ She looks around as if she’s afraid Odette might pop up from behind a bale of straw. ‘In the movie, the dragon ate the witch in the end, but I don’t know what we’ll do to kill off Odette. I’ve never seen a dragon in real life, have you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. It sounds like an interesting movie, though – what was it called?’

  Polly scrunches up her face with the effort of trying to recall. ‘I can’t remember,’ she says at last, ‘but there was lots of kissing. That part was gross. I hate kissing. Do you?’

  How do I answer that? ‘I haven’t been kissed in a long time,’ I say eventually, trying to brush over the subject.

  ‘Really?’ Polly’s eyes widen. ‘Doesn’t your boyfriend kiss you? That’s what all grown-ups do.’

  My boyfriend – that’s right. I told them all I had a boyfriend in the city. Nice one.

  ‘You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?’ Polly smiles knowingly. ‘You told a lie.’

  ‘It’s complicated, Polly.’

  ‘I know what that means. It means you’re lying! Show me your tongue!’

  ‘I will not.’

  ‘You have to! Show it to me – if there’s a black spot on it then you’re lying!’

  If that was true my entire tongue would be black – I’ve told so many lies since I got here that I can barely keep track of them all. ‘Let’s move on, shall we?’ I say briskly, to change the subject.

  Changing the subject is another one of Theresa’s fail-safe ploys with the twins. She can talk about fifteen different subjects in less than three minutes – she timed herself once. ‘Tell me, Polly,’ I ask, keeping my voice neutral, ‘what’s your favourite colour?’ Favourite colours – that’s a safe topic. Probably the number-one safe topic actually.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She frowns, thankfully forgetting about the lying thing. ‘Mummy loved blue. Do you like blue?’

  ‘Yes,’ I agree.

  Hmm … maybe not so safe.

  ‘Is it your favourite colour?’

  I think about this. I don’t want to hurt her feelings by saying that blue isn’t my favourite, but then again she’ll know immediately if I don’t tell the truth. ‘Blue does have a lot to recommend it,’ I muse, ‘but I’ve always preferred yellow, to be honest.’

  ‘I like yellow too.’ She smiles at me and I smile back. The gap in her teeth is adorable.

  ‘How about next week?’ I say, unable to stop myself. This child is so sweet – what harm can it do to paint with her for a bit?

  ‘For painting?’ Polly claps her hands with excitement.

  ‘Yes – for painting.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Maggie,’ she squeals, and throws herself at me, wrapping her plump little arms round my waist. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’

  I hug her back, my heart unexpectedly full. Who knew such a small thing could make her so happy?

  ‘What’s all the excitement about?’ I look up to see Edward standing at the stable door, wiping his hands on his overalls.

  ‘Daddy!’ Polly launches herself at him like a rocket, careering across the floor and skidding to a stop millimetres away from him.

  ‘Hello there!’ He scoops her up and hugs her tightly to him.

  ‘Dad! Put me down!’ she yelps. ‘I’m not a baby any more, you know!’

  ‘Sorry, Poll,’ Edward says, setting her down. ‘I keep forgetting.’

  ‘Well, try to remember! I’m six now – you can’t be lifting me up all the time.’

  ‘You’re practically a teenager, I know.’ Edward winks at me over Polly’s head and I smile back – I can’t help it. They’re so cute together.

  ‘I have something to tell you,’ Polly announces. ‘Guess what it is!’

  ‘You’re leaving home?’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘Sorry. Um, let me think … you have a new boyfriend?’

  ‘Dad!’ Polly pulls a disgusted face.

  ‘Well, I don’t know then, I give up.’

  ‘Maggie’s going to teach me how to paint!’ she yells, her chubby cheeks pink with pleasure.

  ‘Is she now? Aren’t you lucky?’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ I say. Maybe it was inappropriate to agree to it without consulting him fi
rst. Suddenly I feel a little uncomfortable – Edward may not want to agree to this plan. Maybe I shouldn’t have opened my big mouth.

  ‘Of course not. And Polly is obviously thrilled.’

  He smiles at me, his eyes warm and liquid, and something strange stirs inside me. Maybe I’m hungry – mucking out is hard work.

  ‘Dad, guess what Maggie’s favourite colour is?’ Polly is hopping from one foot to the other.

  ‘Um … purple?’

  ‘Purple? Urgh, no, Dad! It’s yellow. The same as me!’

  ‘How cool!’ He grins at me now.

  What is it about the way he’s looking at me? I just can’t put my finger on it.

  ‘Yeah. Mum’s favourite colour was blue, but Maggie says yellow is better and I think she’s right.’

  ‘I didn’t actually say yellow was better than blue!’ I start. God, I hope he doesn’t think I was badmouthing his dead wife. ‘I just prefer yellow, that’s all.’

  It sounds totally lame.

  ‘I like yellow too,’ Edward says. ‘It’s so … cheerful.’

  Phew – he’s not insulted after all.

  ‘Do you, Dad? Do you hear that, Maggie? You and Daddy like the exact same colour! That’s just like in the movies!’ She winks knowingly at me and I make a face at her to be quiet. The last thing I need is for her to ask her father if he ‘like-likes’ me. Things are awkward enough.

  ‘Edward!’ A shrill voice sears through the yard. ‘Oh – there you are!’

  It’s Odette – and she doesn’t look too happy.

  ‘Oh, hi, Odette,’ Edward says, turning to greet her.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Polly says, glaring at Odette, unable to contain her intense dislike, and I try to stifle a laugh. From what Polly just told me, Odette is her version of the wicked witch.

  ‘Oh, Polly, hello,’ Odette says, as if the little girl is an annoying fly she’s just found in her soup. ‘I was just passing and thought I’d pop in and take another look at Saffy’s leg. Make sure she’s OK.’ She turns her high-voltage smile on Edward.