Life is Sweet

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘Obviously,’ Coco grins. ‘I’m unique.’

  I lower my voice, watching my little sister combing and plaiting Caramel’s mane. ‘Jas is finding it harder than the rest of us,’ I whisper. ‘She hasn’t settled at school. Some of the kids are teasing her a bit … and I’m at the secondary, obviously, so I can’t do much to help.’

  Coco frowns. ‘Ouch. Does your mum know?’

  ‘Jas won’t let me say anything in case it makes things worse. It sucks.’

  ‘Look, I’ll talk to her,’ Coco says. ‘Tomorrow, maybe. Don’t worry, Lawrie … look at her now; she’s totally blissed out!’

  ‘She loves Caramel,’ I agree. ‘This break will be good for her, and if you can have a word with her too … that’d be great.’

  Coco grins. ‘Well, it’s New Year, isn’t it?’ she says, quietly. ‘A time for new starts for all of you. Anything is possible, right?’

  I sigh. I am a lot more practical than Coco, and I cannot see things improving for us any time soon. Still, I like Coco’s optimism. The stable is silent for a moment, apart from the sound of Jasmine whispering to Caramel; and then a voice rings out though the darkness. Paddy is calling us from the house.

  ‘Kids, where are you?’ he yells. ‘Coco? Lawrie? Jasmine? Come on back to the house – it’s almost party time!’

  In the house, Mum is in her element; she seems to have taken charge of things, the way she did when she worked briefly for Paddy and Charlotte. She thrives on chaos, and a transformation has taken place. The main lights have been switched off, replaced by fairy lights and jam-jar candles, and swathes of holly and ivy are draped everywhere. In the conservatory, tables have been pushed together, covered in festive tablecloths and piled high with party food; potato salad, coleslaw, hummus and crusty bread jostle for space with trifle, yule log and trays of iced mince pies and cupcakes. Pizzas, quiches and sausage rolls are lined up in the kitchen waiting to be cooked, while jacket potatoes are baking in the Aga and more soup is simmering on the stove top.

  Honey is creating a non-alcoholic punch with bottles of lemonade, orange juice and tons of chopped fresh fruit and ice; Paddy is stirring mulled wine on the Aga, and the whole house smells of oranges and spices.

  You can almost taste Christmas in the air, or New Year, anyway. It’s a kind of magic. At Gran and Granddad’s, Christmas is about thickly iced fruit cake and cold turkey sandwiches and Quality Street toffees and an endless menu of TV Christmas Specials. At Tanglewood, things are different.

  ‘What about the dogs?’ I ask Coco. ‘Will they be OK?’

  ‘Fred’s fine with big groups of people,’ she says with a shrug. ‘Sheba should take her lead from him, but if she’s looking stressed just tell me and we’ll take the two of them upstairs for some peace and quiet.’

  Cherry and her boyfriend Shay are testing out the party playlist, an eclectic mixture of teen music and retro stuff that Paddy and Charlotte like. Alfie, Summer’s boyfriend, has arrived too, and before long we’re all clowning about to the music as we set out paper cups and last-minute bowls of nuts and crisps and nibbles.

  And then a car draws up outside and the first proper guests arrive, stomping the snow from their boots and handing coats to Alfie who stores them carefully in an upstairs bedroom. By the time the first drinks have been poured, the door opens again and a tribe of villagers comes tumbling in, and then another car draws up and the stream of incoming partygoers becomes constant. Shay turns up the volume and Summer and Skye duck through the crowd with trays of food, and people are slapping me on the back and asking me how life in Kendal is going and I surrender myself to the chaos, to the party.

  4

  I remember looking at the kitchen clock at about nine thirty, and gathering up an armful of coats from another band of newly arrived guests. I remember seeing Jas playing with Alfie’s little sisters, watching the three of them weaving through the crowds, smiling because I haven’t seen her so relaxed for ages. I’m keeping an eye on Sheba too, but she just pads around after Fred, looking for scraps and galloping up the stairs to the landing whenever she needs chill-out time.

  As for Mum, she’s in the thick of it: chatting to Mrs Lee from the post office about fortunes and futures, to Alfie’s parents about the trials of raising a teenage boy, and even discussing the perils of Internet dating for the middle aged with Shay’s Uncle Matt. Internet dating? I’d have thought she’d have had enough of romance to last a lifetime after dodgy James Seddon, but I guess you never can tell. You’d think that people would give up on all that mushy stuff once they’re over the age of thirty and officially ancient, but apparently not.

  I end up offering round plates of warm mince pies with Coco – the two of us wearing reindeer antlers, chatting to Shay about music and to Honey about her stay in Sydney, Australia, as well as having a long talk with Joe, the farmer who owns the land next to Tanglewood, about how awesome shire horses and Clydesdales are. Time slides by without me noticing and the next thing I know it is almost midnight and Skye and Summer are wandering about with paper snowflakes, asking everyone to write their wishes for the New Year on them in silver pen.

  ‘We used to write wishes on a Chinese lantern and let it go at midnight,’ Skye tells me as I scribble my wish. ‘Then Coco found out they’re not eco for some reason. Maybe sheep eat them, or they set fire to trees or something; anyway, we had to come up with a new idea.’

  ‘We’re going to throw the snowflakes into the sea tomorrow morning,’ Summer adds. ‘At high tide. When the tide turns, it will take the snowflake wishes out to sea.’

  ‘And our wishes will come true,’ Skye finishes. ‘Maybe …’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I tell her. ‘If only it were that easy!’

  I write my wish anyway; a garbled plea for a flat of our own, a job for Mum, for Jas to be happy at school.

  ‘Make a wish for yourself too,’ Summer says, glancing at what I’ve written. ‘You worry a lot about other people, but you’re allowed some dreams too.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I don’t need much to be happy …’

  My eyes scan the room and I catch sight of Coco, still wearing her reindeer antlers, and I am almost certain she is talking about Greenpeace or giant pandas or climate change. That makes me smile.

  Suddenly the music is switched off and Paddy is yelling that’s it’s almost midnight, and that we have to go outside.

  ‘Outside?’ I echo. ‘What? In the snow? We’ll freeze!’

  ‘Tradition,’ Skye says. ‘Come on, Lawrie, grab your coat … you’ll see!’

  There’s chaos then as the party moves slowly outside, Alfie and Shay handing out coats and scarves and jackets at the door. The snow has stopped and the night is still and silent as we gather on the driveway. Paddy is counting down from ten, then everyone shouts ‘Happy New Year!’ The minute midnight passes, people are crossing their arms and linking hands and Coco appears suddenly to my left and says this is a Scottish tradition, and that ever since Paddy and Cherry came down from Glasgow to join the family this is what they do every New Year’s Eve. Everyone sings ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and although we don’t all get the words right it doesn’t seem to matter. There is much swinging of arms and shuffling about, but it feels like a nice thing to do, even though the bloke on my right is tone deaf and keeps treading on my foot with his snow boots.

  When everyone breaks apart there is a terrifying moment when everyone seems to be kissing everyone else, which is not my thing at all. I’m wishing I was a million miles away when Coco appears from the darkness, flings her arms round me in a hug and kisses my ear clumsily. I panic; am I supposed to kiss her back? If so, do I aim for cheek or ear or … we
ll, lips? My heart thumps and I’m still trying to work it out as Coco spins away from me and I have to make do with a hug from Mum and a sugary kiss from Jas, who skids in and then hares off again with Alfie’s sisters.

  I notice that Sheba, at my side, is shivering in the snow.

  ‘Coco?’ I touch her sleeve. ‘Shall we go back in?’

  Coco nods her head. ‘Sure,’ she says. ‘It’s freezing.’

  As she speaks, a firework goes off: a plume of white that shoots high into the air before exploding into a fountain of red, blue and green sparks as the gathered partygoers whoop and sigh. More fireworks follow in quick succession, and I can feel Sheba shaking, pressing against my leg.

  ‘Sheba’s terrified of fireworks,’ I say. ‘I need to get her inside.’

  ‘Fred’s legged it back to the house already,’ Coco says. ‘He hates fireworks. For goodness’ sake – whose idea was this? We never have fireworks. I should have made sure the dogs were shut inside! Come on …’

  We are halfway to the house, my hand on Sheba’s collar, when the sky explodes in a series of ear-splitting bangs that fade into screeching howls. The crowd cheer and whistle, but Sheba freaks completely, ducking backwards, sliding right out of her collar. She bolts away, running along the drive and out towards the lane.

  ‘Sheba!’ I yell, but the words are drowned out by the noise of the fireworks. ‘Sheba! Come back!’

  I break into a run, skidding on the snow, but Sheba has vanished. ‘Sheba!’ I yell again. ‘Sheba!’

  Coco runs up behind me. ‘At least we can see her prints in the snow.’

  ‘I think she’ll be looking for shelter,’ I say. ‘Somewhere quiet, somewhere safe …’

  Coco takes my hand and we start to run again through the snow.

  5

  ‘Sheba!’ Coco shouts into the darkness. ‘Where are you? Sheba!’

  ‘We have to find her,’ I say. ‘This isn’t her home; she’ll never be able to find her way back, and if we lost her, Jas would be devastated …’

  I would be devastated too. We run on up the hill, slower now, feet slipping in the powdery snow. And then the prints disappear into a stand of trees and my heart sinks.

  ‘She’s gone into the woods,’ I say. ‘We’ll never find her now!’

  ‘Of course we will,’ Coco says, confidently. ‘It looks like those stupid fireworks are over … Sheba will calm down now. We’ll get her, Lawrie.’

  We cross the ditch and step into the woods. There’s only a light covering of snow under the trees, but we can’t run because the ground is too rough and uneven. Coco uses the torch app on her smartphone to help us follow Sheba’s prints. And then the snow disappears completely as the woods get more dense, and there are no more prints to follow.

  ‘Where are we?’ I ask, my breath gathering in the air before me like a cloud.

  ‘No idea,’ Coco whispers. ‘The woods stretch along the coast for miles. If you walk far enough, you get to the cliffs above the Smugglers’ Caves. Not the ideal place to go walking in the dark …’

  I clench my fists. ‘Too bad. I’m not turning back; I can’t. This is all my fault … and now she’s gone …’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Coco says. ‘It’s nobody’s fault, Lawrie … even the idiots responsible for the fireworks didn’t mean this to happen. I have a feeling it was Alfie’s dad and uncle … They were definitely planning something. They probably thought it would be a cool surprise; they wouldn’t have been thinking about the dogs …’

  ‘I know,’ I mutter, but right now it doesn’t matter what Coco says; I feel sick with guilt, furious with myself.

  And then the torch app dies suddenly, and we are left in darkness.

  Coco swears beneath her breath. ‘Phone’s out of charge,’ she says. ‘Have you got yours?’

  ‘Left it in my rucksack,’ I admit. ‘Back at the house. It doesn’t have a torch app anyway; it’s just a cheap pay as you go …’

  ‘We should’ve rung home,’ Coco says. ‘Mum and Paddy and your mum would know what to do. The party people will be leaving now and they’ll wonder where we are. They’ll be worried …’

  ‘I’m not giving up,’ I blurt out. ‘I can’t!’

  ‘I’m not either.’

  I look at Coco in the moonlight and see that she’s shivering, her face pale and shadowed with blue. My hands are numb with cold and my teeth are chattering, and I know that staggering around blindly in the dark in a wood that edges on to clifftops is crazy and quite possibly dangerous.

  ‘Sheba!’ I shout into the stillness. ‘Where are you?’

  We stumble on, breathless, numb; feet slipping in the snow, tripping on roots. Sheba could be anywhere in the woods, running scared in the darkness towards the dangerous cliff edge. My fault, my fault, my fault.

  ‘Lawrie?’ Coco says in a small voice. ‘I’m not being funny, but I think we’re lost. Should we stop a minute, try to get our bearings?’

  ‘I’m not going back without her,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ Coco says. ‘Nor me. But we need to think, or we’re going to end up frozen stiff and stuck out here all night.’

  Flakes of snow are drifting down on us through the trees, softly at first and then faster. I feel like crying, but that wouldn’t achieve anything; and boys don’t cry.

  ‘Sheba!’ I roar with all the breath in my body, and this time, in the silence, comes the sound of twigs cracking, leaves rustling. My heart begins to pound and hope unfurls inside me, and at last Sheba bursts into the clearing, shaking and panting.

  ‘Sheba, hey!’

  I drop to my knees on the woodland floor and throw my arms round her; Sheba pushes her face into my hair, my neck, and I ruffle her coat and laugh out loud with relief. Coco is on the ground beside me, stroking Sheba’s bedraggled coat, whispering soft words to her. Our eyes meet and I know I’m grinning like an idiot, ridiculously happy.

  I catch Coco’s hand and hold it tight.

  ‘We did it!’ I say. ‘Another adventure … and everything’s worked out. Team work, right?’

  We get to our feet awkwardly, laughing, Sheba still whimpering softly at our feet. ‘Team work!’ Coco agrees.

  And then suddenly, without warning, a piercing, unearthly scream splits the night in half.

  It sends a shiver down my spine, and my heart is thumping so hard I think it must be audible a mile away. Coco’s eyes are wide with terror. Even Sheba is pressed against me, hackles up, frozen with fear.

  The scream cuts through the night again, louder and more haunting, more agonizing than anything I have ever heard in my life.

  6

  ‘What is that?’ Coco breathes, her voice less than a whisper. ‘Lawrie?’

  ‘Someone’s in trouble,’ I say. ‘Someone’s hurt …’

  ‘It could be a murder!’ she whispers. ‘Something bad’s happening, Lawrie. I’m scared!’

  ‘Maybe someone’s fallen, hurt themselves,’ I reason. ‘Let’s get a closer look.’

  ‘No!’ Coco argues. ‘That scream was full of fear as well as pain … We can’t handle this on our own, Lawrie. We could be walking into anything. Look, Sheba’s just as scared as we are …’

  The dog is shaking, pressing hard against my leg, but in spite of my fear I step forward, towards where the scream seemed to come from.

  ‘Let’s go back,’ Coco pleads. ‘Tell Paddy, call the police, get help! Lawrie, please!’

  But I’m running now, ducking beneath branches, skidding slightly on patches of snow, lurching onwards. The scream rings out again, guttural, desperate, and I’m vaguely aware of Sheba running at my side, of Coco’s footsteps
stumbling along behind me.

  We blunder towards the noise, coming to a halt in a small clearing where just a moment before the screams seemed to be coming from.

  ‘Where is she?’ Coco asks, breathless, scanning the dark shapes looming around us. ‘She sounded so close …’

  ‘Hello?’ I yell into the silence. ‘Hello? Are you OK? We want to help you!’

  And then the noise comes again, mewling and pitiful, no longer human-sounding but animal, agonized.

  ‘Hello?’ I call out, moving forward through the trees. ‘Where are you? Hello?’

  ‘Not a person,’ Coco breathes. ‘I don’t think it’s a human scream after all …’

  And then I see it: the glint of silver wire on snow, reflecting the moonlight that streams through the trees. A clump of dead bracken, a wooden peg, tightening wire, crimson blood pooling out across the snow, a ragged twist of russet fur.

  ‘Sheesh …’ I whisper. ‘Coco … it’s a fox! She’s caught in a snare!’

  I don’t know whether to feel relieved or dismayed. I remember now how other-worldly, how piercing a fox’s cries can be. We would hear them sometimes in the hills around Seddon’s farmhouse when we lived in Somerset before. They’d sounded like a woman’s screams, sharp and shrill enough to curdle the blood.

  ‘No, no, nooooo …’ Coco croons, dropping to her knees in the snow. ‘I can’t bear it, Lawrie! We have to help her!’

  ‘We will,’ I promise, without a clue as to how I can keep that promise. ‘We will …’

  I am on my knees beside Coco, straining to see in the moonlight. Sheba is beside me, whimpering softly.

  The fox’s right leg is caught in a slender twist of wire secured to a peg driven into the ground a short way away. The snare is fixed so that every time the fox tries to pull away the wire tightens. You can see where the fur has been cut away by the wire to expose raw flesh and muscle and bone; worse, it looks as though the fox has tried to gnaw at the trapped leg just above the snare, in an attempt to get free. Crimson blood has seeped into the snow, and her teeth are flecked with red.