‘You’re sure we can’t just do a couple,’ he suggests. ‘Then we could just chuck the others away in the wood. It would be good for the circle of life.’
‘No. How could we choose?’ I answer, breathless already. We continue panting and digging, my efforts even less successful than Giles’s due to the collapse of my flip-flops as I attempt to lever the spade into the earth. The Beauty and Felix materialise with cardboard shoeboxes and flowers.
‘Here are the coffins. They’ve got to share,’ announces Felix, brilliantly relieving us of half the workload with his practical undertaker’s approach. Lay the hapless bunnies in their coffins, and try not to shudder and scream when The Beauty lifts one from the pram, hugs it and rains kisses upon its forehead.
Giles rolls his eyes. ‘She’ll probably get myxomatosis,’ he says.
Am becoming very sick of the whole dead-animal saga now, and after what feels like hours but my watch says is a mere three minutes, have dug a hole too small to put a tulip bulb in, never mind a hefty trainers shoebox containing two rabbits and a garland of campanula and pulsingly bright pink cosmos. The dogs are sniffing about. Find myself wishing they had eaten the rabbits rather than just killing for pleasure and leaving us with the toil. Seize the pickaxe that Giles has leant against a tree, and begin a Grim Reaper attack on the bone-hard earth with it.
Start to quite enjoy the profound ghastliness of the scene in the wood, where the peaty smell of leaf mould mingles with a gamey essence of hung flesh, and where, of course, no one is helping me, the children having run off to play hide-and-seek. I lean on the pickaxe handle and gaze out at the countryside, so familiar it is my sanctuary as much as this garden and this house, my home.
Yesterday’s storms have not broken the taut line of low cloud above the water meadows, and although the sun is out, its light is heavy and indolent, creating rich tones in the tawny trunks and green-gold leaves, but absorbing any movement to leave the view still and silent, glowing as if it has just been painted. Autumn is creeping in on the faint mauve mist above the stream which threads through the fields, and in the soft smoke tint the wood beyond has assumed. Voices bounce off the trees around, recalling me, and the echo and the flurry of feet falling in leaves fills our small wood with more than just the children and me. I look towards the house. The windows are lit orange in every pane, flames licking the stretched glass. Everything inside me lurches in dizzy horror and I fling down the pickaxe. I almost run back across the lawn to save the house, but, before I have finished forming the thought, I have stopped again. The house is melting in the low evening light, burning the reflected sun as it sinks to the horizon.
The children rush up behind me, and Felix grabs my skirt and crows, ‘I’m safe. Mum is base.’ Giles runs away to hide again. His voice swoops laughter back towards me. In the still moment while Felix counts, a pigeon claps up into a branch and begins to coo.
School starts tomorrow, and we will fall back into the ritual of routine. I will miss them in the day, but The Beauty will attend her nursery three days a week, unless she is expelled, and I can work. My life is not in pieces, as I have sometimes thought recently. It is a happy whole. Apart from having these corpses to deal with.
I am about to turn back to the wood, with the half-hearted compromise that I will bury one shoebox tonight, when Felix has finished hugging me and counting. The dogs stop hurtling in circles on the lawn, and suddenly charge as one beast to the gate, barking manically. They fall silent as if they have been switched off, and I swing around, my heart pounding as I hear a step on the gravel and a man’s voice saying, ‘Down. Come on you lot, it’s me.’
Digger has rolled over and is lying panting with pleasure, his legs wiggling like a centipede’s. It can only be David. My hands become clammy, and I stand staring, not even able to breathe, as still as stone with a bumping heart. But it isn’t David. It’s Desmond. Snap at him most unfairly.
‘What are you doing here, and why did you walk?’
He gives me a severe look. ‘One of these days you’re going to turn into a real old curtain-twitching busybody,’ he says. ‘I walked because Minna and I are having a drink in the pub, and there’s a fantastic cricket match going on. I thought the boys might like to come down and watch it.’
The boys are already on their skateboards, Giles towing The Beauty who has climbed into her pram, and they are out of the gate and on their way to the village.
‘Hurry up Mummy,’ commands The Beauty. ‘You can have Coke and crisps if you like.’
‘But we haven’t buried the rabbits,’ I wail. No one answers.
‘Come on Venetia,’ urges Desmond, ‘it’s only a drink. I’ll go and shut the dogs in. You go on ahead.’
My mother and Minna both look slightly aghast when they see me, but they quickly explain that it is only due to my staggering gait, caused by broken flipflops. Minna goes into the pub to procure drinks for all.
‘Isn’t it time you got some sensible shoes?’ asks my mother. ‘You’re supposed to be a businesswoman.’
Decide not to rise to deliberate provocation as am so enjoying the restful, civilised air of the evening.
‘You’re not the first person to say that,’ I remark amiably. ‘I’m going to change my appearance completely when the children go back to school tomorrow.’
‘The end of summer,’ muses my mother.
‘And not a moment too soon,’ I retort tartly, grabbing a drink off the tray Minna is placing on the table. We sip gin and tonic and watch the cricket, all of us bathed in the last glow of the sun, while dark blue shadows creep from across the green towards the cricketers. Desmond joins us, smirking unnecessarily, and sits down next to Minna.
He passes me an envelope.
‘This is for you.’
‘Oh, right. Thanks.’ Take it, and assuming that it is a bill or similar, put it in my pocket without looking at it. Have another slug of gin, and notice that everyone at our table is looking at me, not at the cricket. Even my children have all stopped cramming their mouths with crisps and are gazing, unblinking, at me. Creeping sense of disquiet tingles in my fingers and begins to course through my body, no doubt causing my face to turn scarlet. No one speaks. They all continue to stare at me. I can bear it no longer; I am now experiencing non-specific guilt. Stand up and glare back at them all.
‘What? What have I done? Why are you all looking at me like that?’ Gesture towards The Beauty. ‘And why is she looking at me like that?’
‘I’m not she. I’m me. How dare you,’ mutters The Beauty crossly, breaking the tension because both my mother and I snort with laughter. Giles leans on me.
‘Mum, why don’t you look at the envelope Desmond gave you.’
Pull the envelope out of my pocket again and look at it. It is just an envelope. Sealed, but blank. Glance up to say, ‘So what?’ and find they are all at it again. Staring.
Have now completely had enough. Slam the envelope on the table and march off, shouting over my shoulder, ‘You’ve all gone mad. I’m going to the loo for some moments of sanity. Could you please all be normal when I come back.’
Lock myself into wonderful chamber of peace and contemptation and begin a leisurely perusal of old copies of Hello!. Some time passes. I must take the children home and clean them up for school. Am just flicking through a fifth magazine, promising to myself that it will be the last, when there is a fumbling at the door, and the now battered envelope creeps in, pushed by a small hand from the other side.
Yell, ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ and hear the familiar echo of The Beauty relishing her favourite blasphemy as she trails back to my mother. Grinning, I picture her shaking her head and muttering, ‘Godssake, godssake, godssake,’ all through the pub. Anyway, opening the envelope is a good delaying tactic. Inside is not a bill. Instead there is a letter from Giles to me. Weird. Scan it quickly. Then read it again. And again.
Dear Mum,
I don’t think you wanted me to do this, but I told David you were going to
marry Hedley in an email and he said I shouldn’t intafere but I’ve done it again. I told him you weren’t going to marry Hedley after all, and now he’s come home. He’s at home at our house right now, and he wonders if you would like to marry him instead. I know it would be better if he asked you, but I thought I’d better write it down in case he didn’t get round to it again. He says he must be mad not to have done it before this summer ever happened. Sorry I intafered. Granny said I should, but that’s no excuse is it? Sorry.
Love Giles
ps David said he would bury the rabbits.
Only because I am locked in the loo and no one knows can I admit that my first coherent emotion, as numb shock passes and the light fades, is huge relief that the rabbits have been dealt with. Otherwise am utterly pole-axed and suddenly coy about returning to the table outside the pub and my mad, staring family. Concoct a cunning plan involving climbing out of the loo window in order to return home by the fields, but am thwarted by heavy breathing and a loud thud on the other side of the door. It is Felix, the family emissary.
‘Come on Mum, we know you’re in there. Granny wants to go home now. Can we all go with her and watch Grease? Is The Beauty allowed to stay up? Please, she’d love it and I want to see her dancing along to the songs.’
The heavy breathing ceases while The Beauty announces kindly, ‘Course I am.’
I must pull myself together. Open the door, blinking in the bright strip lighting outside the cubicle, and inspect the watch on Felix’s wrist. Oddly, it is still early.
‘All right, you can go. I’ll come and collect you in an hour. You can miss baths. We’ll just pretend you’re very suntanned at school tomorrow.’
‘Cool,’ yells Felix, and hurtles back outside to the others who are already packed into my mother’s car.
Wave, and walk back to my house through the dusk, suppressing hysterical excitement, determined to be the poised epitome of languid sophistication when I see David. In the event, this is not possible.
A Note on the Author
Raffaella Barker, daughter of the poet George Barker, was born and brought up in the Norfolk countryside. She is the author of seven acclaimed novels, Come and Tell Me Some Lies, The Hook, Hens Dancing, Summertime, Green Grass, Poppyland, A Perfect Life and most recently, From a Distance. She has also written a novel for young adults, Phosphorescence. She is a regular contributor to Country Life and the Sunday Telegraph and teaches on the Literature and Creative Writing BA at the University of East Anglia and the Guardian UEA Novel Writing Masterclass. Raffaella Barker lives in Cley next the Sea, Norfolk.
Also by Raffaella Barker
Come and Tell Me Some Lies
The Hook
Hens Dancing
Phosphorescence
Green Grass
A Perfect Life
Poppyland
From a Distance
Also Available by Raffaella Barker
COME AND TELL ME SOME LIES
Gabriella lives in a damp, ramshackle, book-strewn manor in Norfolk with her tempestuous poet father and unconventional mother. Alongside her ever-expanding set of siblings and half-siblings, numerous pets and her father’s rag-tag admirers, Gabriella navigates a chaotic childhood of wild bohemian parties and fluctuating levels of poverty. Longing to be normal, Gabriella enrols in a strict day school, only to find herself balancing two very different lives. Struggling to keep the eccentricities of her family contained, her failure to achieve conformity amongst her peers is endearing, and absolute.
Come and Tell Me Some Lies is Raffaella Barker’s enchanting first novel – a humorous, bittersweet tale of a girl who longs to be normal, and a family that can’t help be anything but.
‘Funny … Clever and touching’ Guardian
THE HOOK
Christy Naylor was forced to grow up quickly. Still reeling with anger after the death of her mother, she abandons college in order to help her father uproot from suburbia and start a new life on a swampy fish farm out in the sticks, a prize that he won in a shady game of poker.
Amid this turmoil, looms the mysterious Mick Fleet, tall, powerful and charismatic. Unsettled and unsure of herself, Christy is hooked on his intense charm. She knows nothing about him yet she feels like she is being swallowed up in his embrace and she plunges into a love affair blind to the catastrophe he will bring…
‘Stylish and insightful … With the pace and verve of a thriller’ Independent
HENS DANCING
When Venetia Summers’ husband runs off with his masseuse, the bohemian idyll she has strived to create for her young family suddenly loses some of its rosy hue. From her tumble-down cottage in Norfolk she struggles to keep up with the chaos caused by her two boys, her splendid baby daughter and the hordes of animals, relatives and would-be artists that live in her home. From juggling errant cockerels, jam making frenzies and War Hammers, to unexpected romance, Bloody Mary’s and forays into fashion design, Hens Dancing is like a rural Bridget Jones’ Diary as it charts a year of Venetia’s madcap household.
‘A positive hymn to provincial living, it is an entertaining celebration of family life with all its highs, lows and eccentricities’ The Times
GREEN GRASS
Laura Sale has grown tired of her life. Her daily routine of dividing her time between pandering to the demands of her challenging conceptual artist husband, Inigo and those of their thirteen-year-old twins Dolly and Fred, has taken its toll. She longs to remember what makes her happy. A chance encounter with Guy, her first love, is the catalyst she needs, and she swaps North London for the rural idyll she grew up in. In her new Norfolk home Laura finds herself confronting old ghosts, ferrets, an ungracious goat and a collapsing relationship. As she starts to savour the space she has craved, and she takes control of her destiny, Laura finds it lit with possibility.
‘I love Raffaella Barker’s books – so funny and acerbic’ Maggie O’Farrell
A PERFECT LIFE
The Stone family live a seemingly fairy-tale existence, complete with fire pit barbeques and seaside picnics in their idyllic home in rural Norfolk. Nick, Angel and their four children appear to lead a charmed life.
But if everything is so perfect why is Nick away all of the time? Why is every conversation between husband and wife filled with growing silence? And why does their eldest child seem so disillusioned?
We all want a perfect life, but at what price?
Come and Tell Me Some Lies is Raffaella Barker’s enchanting first novel – a humorous, bittersweet tale of a girl who longs to be normal, and a family that can’t help be anything but.
‘To write well and with such open-hearted affection is an achievement’ Observer
POPPYLAND
On a freezing cold night in an unfamiliar city, a man meets a woman. The encounter lasts just moments, they part barely knowing one another’s names, they make no plans to meet again. But both are left breathless.
Five years on they live thousands of miles apart and live totally separate lives, except that they both still think about that night. So when they meet again it seems clear that they will do all they can to try and stay together, but can it be that easy? Will they be able to escape their past? Will they be able to take the risk they know they should?
‘A modern day Brief Encounter’ Daily Express
FROM A DISTANCE
In April, 1946, Michael returns on a troopship from the war. In shock, he is caught in a moment at a station, and on impulse, takes the train heading west to Cornwall. In doing so he changes his destiny.
May, 2012, and Kit, a charming stranger, arrives in a coastal Norfolk village to take up his inheritance – a de-commissioned lighthouse, half hidden in the shadows of the past, but now sweeping it’s beam forward through time. Married Luisa falters in the flow of her life – suspended, invisible – as her children begin to fly the nest. When Kit and Luisa meet, neither can escape the consequences of the split-second decision made by Michael all those years ago.
‘
I love Raffaella Barker’s books – so funny and acerbic’ Maggie O’Farrell
www.bloomsbury.com/RaffaellaBarker
First published in Great Britain in 2001 by Headline
This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © 2001 Raffaella Barker
The moral right of the author has been asserted
The right of Raffaella Barker to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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eISBN: 978-1-4088-5064-0
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