by Lucy Dawson
‘Sheryl Sandberg,’ I remark, recognising the quote.
She laughs. ‘No dear: Madeleine Albright, former Secretary of State.’
‘Mummy!’ Rosie breathlessly arrives back alongside us. ‘Come and see this!’ She drags me by the hand to a butcher’s window and the huge, halved dead pig hanging by a pierced back leg on a large metal hook. Behind it are several strung-up pheasants, fully feathered, their leathery black eyelids shut. I’m reminded immediately of Eve Parkes’s comment at Fox Cottage about needing a river to sluice away blood in the olden days.
‘Wow,’ I say faintly. ‘That’s quite something, isn’t it? Come on darling.’ I tug on Rosie’s hand gently, but fascinated, she stares at the pig.
‘Where have its insides gone?’ She points at the empty stomach and intestinal cavity.
‘The butcher does something called “gutting it”,’ says Susannah, matter-of-factly, arriving alongside us. ‘After they kill the pig, they let all of the blood run away and then they take the bits out that we don’t like to eat.’
‘But it’s still got its head?’ Rosie points to the whiskery snout, and I start to feel sick. ‘We don’t eat that? Do we?’
‘No, we don’t,’ I say quickly. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
‘How do they get the blood out?’ Rosie is not to be deterred.
‘With a knife,’ Susannah says. ‘They cut the veins and—’
‘Ooh! We’ve done about veins in school!’ Rosie is excited. ‘They carry blood away from the heart.’
‘No, darling, other way round. Veins take blood to the heart.’
‘Do they do that after the injection?’ Rosie asks, and Susannah frowns.
‘The injection that makes the pig fall asleep,’ I say quickly.
Susannah hesitates then says clearly: ‘They don’t give the pigs injections, Rosie. They give them an electric shock so the pig doesn’t know what’s happening and can’t feel anything, then they kill the pig with a knife, or shoot it. After that, they let the blood out and take out the bits we don’t eat.’
I stare at her, slightly stunned myself.
‘Oh.’ Rosie frowns. ‘Poor pig. That’s not very nice.’
I open my mouth, but Susannah gets there first again. ‘It’s just how it happens. Otherwise we wouldn’t have any bacon. Or sausages.’
Rosie nods. ‘Like in The Lion King where they have to eat the zebra to stay alive?’
‘Exactly!’ beams Susannah, and Rosie skips off happily to look in a bookshop window a few doors down.
‘I know you’re cross,’ Susannah doesn’t skip a beat, ‘but honestly, Claire – you can’t tell the child they put the animals to sleep first!’
‘Why not? It’s true – in some cases,’ I say defensively.
‘Not unless it’s a domestic pet being put down by a vet,’ Susannah retorts. ‘There are plenty of landowners’ children in her school with working farms. They’ll tell her if you don’t – and she was fine. She took it all in her stride. Children ought to understand exactly where their food comes from and how it arrives on their plate. I didn’t go into detail about how they exsanguinate the pigs – or that, actually, it’s often done while the pig is alive.’
Luckily, before I am forced to say anything to that, Rosie calls: ‘Mummy! Can we go in the pet shop over there? I want to buy a treat for Badger!’ She points over the road at PetTime!.
‘Oh darling, that’s so sweet of you,’ says Susannah as we arrive next to her, ‘but Badger has lots of lovely foodie treats at home. Grandpa bulk buys them all on the Internet. Along with those enormous sacks of food that arrive four at a time on a blasted pallet.’ She looks at me, deadpan and rolls her eyes.
‘Well can I get him a toy then? We need a new ball?’ Rosie wheedles, and Susannah softens. ‘Why not? Come on then, Rosie-Posy. Let’s see what we can find!’
We cross the road, and Rosie runs off ahead into the shop. I’m about to call after her to stay where I can see her, like I do at home, but Susannah puts a hand out.
‘She’s safe. Let her start finding her feet. This is exactly what I mean – let her grow up a little.’
Chastened, I close my mouth. Perhaps she’s right, everything is different now and I need to realise that.
Susannah wrinkles her nose as we walk in. ‘I do so hate the slightly sweet meaty smell of pet shops. It’s different to a butcher somehow – it’s the mixture of all of those lovely doggy choc drops, straw and cow hooves, I think. Yuck.’
‘I can’t smell a thing,’ I remind her. ‘For which, right now, I’m very thankful. Where’s Rosie gone?’ I look down the main aisle in front of me, but can’t see her anywhere. ‘Ro?’ I call, peering down the other one to my left. Still nothing. Squashing down an extra heartbeat of panic, I push past Susannah to the right side of the shop and look past the shelves full of bags of food, bedding, collars, treats and chews – to see Rosie stood at the far end, facing and holding the hand of a kneeling Isobel Parkes. Isobel is staring up into Rosie’s shy face with a bewildered but rapt delight as she whispers something to my daughter, her long red hair flowing over her shoulders and down her back.
‘Get away from her!’ I yell immediately and fly down towards them.
Rosie starts to cry at the completely unfamiliar tone of my voice, and as Isobel straightens up I see that she is wearing a green apron and a name badge, but it doesn’t register in time to stop me from shoving Isobel on the shoulder so hard with the heel of my hand that she gives a little cry of shock and stumbles backwards.
I watch, confused and frightened, as Isobel almost falls over some large sacks behind her, but just about stays on her feet, as a much older woman puffs over to us, also in an apron and badge.
‘Hey, hey! What’s all this about, then?’
No one speaks for a moment as Susannah arrives alongside me and the facts shuffle into place. Isobel didn’t follow us, she isn’t attempting to lure Rosie and abduct her – but she was still touching my daughter, talking to her… except I then shoved her. Shit. I shouldn’t have done that.
‘She was calling, “Mummy”!’ Isobel is rigid and breathless with fear.
I can’t help it, I know I’m at fault here, but I cannot stand the sound of the little girl voice coming from the mouth of entirely the wrong person, this adult woman. It’s as if Rosie herself is somehow speaking through the lips of this life-sized, wide-eyed, human doll. I step back away from her, dragging Rosie with me.
‘She was sad,’ Isobel continues, ‘and I said, “don’t worry, Mummy’s here!”’
My eyes widen in horror as Susannah steps forward and places a calming hand on my arm. ‘You saw Claire come into the shop, didn’t you, Isobel?’ she says smoothly. ‘That’s what you were telling Rosie; her mummy was in the shop and she didn’t need to worry – not that you were telling Rosie you are her mummy. Take a breath, Claire.’
‘Mummy?’ It’s Rosie squeezing my hand that brings me back. I look down to see she’s biting her lip and her eyes are still full of tears. ‘I’m sorry. I remembered I couldn’t see you and you always say stay where I can see you.’
I snap out of it immediately, furious with myself for making her feel as if this is in any way her fault. ‘It’s OK, darling. I can see you and I’m not angry with you.’
I pull her into a fierce hug and glare over her head at Isobel. I ought to be apologising for pushing her, but instead I’m accusative. ‘Did you say anything else at all to her?’
Isobel shakes her head violently. ‘No. Just not to be frightened.’
‘Why would she need to be frightened of you?’ I demand aggressively.
‘Claire,’ Susannah’s calm, steady voice interjects again. ‘That’s not what Isobel meant either and you know it.’
‘Can I go now, please?’ Isobel whispers to the older lady.
‘Of course you can, lovely. You go and answer that phone for me. I can hear it ringing out the back!’ The older woman frowns at me and crosses her arms.
; Rosie pulls her hand free from mine. ‘Good bye, Belle,’ she says as Isobel turns to leave, and gives her a small wave.
Belle?
Isobel’s face breaks into a smile of incredible sweetness and warmth. It’s almost angelic, for fucks’ sake.
‘Bye bye, Rosie,’ she says softly, looking down at my daughter.
She knows Ro’s name too? Once she has gone, I gently turn Rosie by her shoulders to face me, and stroke my little girl’s soft cheek. ‘You’re sure nothing else happened, sweetheart? You’re OK? That lady didn’t say or do anything you didn’t like?’
‘Claire,’ Susannah says, ‘they were alone for a matter of seconds. Let’s not make a mountain out of a molehill.’
‘Isobel is a lovely girl, she wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ the older woman says warningly, still staring at me. ‘She wasn’t even supposed to be working today. She made a mistake and came in on her day off. I don’t want her any more embarrassed than she already is, thank you.’
‘We understand completely,’ Susannah says soothingly. ‘Come on, Claire, time to go home.’ And without another word, she leads me out of the shop as if I’m the one they all need to be worried about.
As we drive back to The Rectory, I stare at the road in front of me, unable to get the picture of Isobel whispering to Rosie out of my head, but I also know I crossed a line there. Would I have shouted at anyone else like that? Of course not. And I shoved her – these days that probably counts as assault.
Rosie is calmly drawing in the back, and Susannah appears to be tapping away on her phone, but out of nowhere she casually remarks: ‘I’m obviously aware of little ears, so I’ll be circumspect, but I was clueless that particular individual worked there, for the record. It must be a new thing. Had I been aware I wouldn’t have suggested a visit.’
‘Of course. It’s OK,’ I say quickly. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
‘Oh darling I know that.’ She looks up, surprised. ‘I’m just explaining. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. In fact,’ she peers at me over the top of her glasses, ‘nothing actually happened. I didn’t see you push Isobel at all.’ She takes her glasses off, puts them back in their case with a snap and slides them into her bag. ‘Can I give you a word of advice, however? It won’t go down well – particularly with some of the older locals – if you were seen to be less than sympathetic to the limitations of the particular individual’s capabilities. An out-of-towner is unwise to come in and appear to be laying down the law. She may be the village oddity, but she’s their village oddity. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
I nod silently, glance at Rosie in the rear-view mirror and decide not to mention that the strength of the anger I felt at the sight of Isobel holding my daughter’s hand is at best unnerving, and at worse, frightening. Never mind pushing – I pretty much wanted to kill her.
Safely back at The Rectory, I put CBeebies on for Rosie, then return to the hall where I can hear voices coming from the kitchen. To my surprise, Tim is sitting at the table nursing a steaming mug of bright yellow liquid.
‘Hey,’ he says as I appear in the doorway and come to sit down opposite him. ‘I had to stop painting at the house, I’m sorry. I needed some meds.’ He raises the mug and sips gingerly.
Meds? What’s he talking about? ‘That’s just a Lemsip, isn’t it?’ I say slowly. ‘You were all right a couple of hours ago. What’s happened?’
He clears his throat. ‘Nothing’s “happened”; I just don’t feel very well, sorry.’ He shrugs tiredly. ‘Did you have a nice time this afternoon?’
‘It was great, thanks,’ I lie, as Susannah is in the room too. ‘We had a nice cup of tea and then popped to the pet shop for a treat for Badger. So what are your symptoms?’
He gives a resigned ‘so you think I’m making it up’ sigh and puts his mug back down. ‘I feel slightly shivery, light-headed and I ache all over. I haven’t taken my temperature yet, but I will in a minute if you like? I don’t know if it’s paint fumes or I’m coming down with something, but I had to drive Dad’s car back. I’m not doing this to annoy you, Claire. I promise.’
Susannah doesn’t say anything, just carries on rummaging around in a cupboard, her back to us. I narrow my eyes at Tim and nod my head in his mother’s direction, silently making the point that I don’t intend to have a row with him in front of her.
He rolls his eyes like I’m being ridiculous and silently puts his hands up – I don’t know if he’s sarkily saying he surrenders or is asking me to back off, either way, none of this is improving my mood. We’ve got an entire house to unpack. I don’t have time for man flu now.
‘Do you think you might be able to go and get Dad?’ he adds, as the final cherry on my cake-of-crap day. ‘Again. I’m sorry, I know this is really irritating for you, but he can’t get home otherwise.’
‘The only thing is,’ I say tersely, ‘I’ve got Rosie’s tea to cook, then I need to bath her and put her to bed before I go back over to the house to unpack her bedroom there. I think I’d like to try and move in tomorrow, if possible.’
Tim looks puzzled, but before he can speak, Susannah cuts in with: ‘I can do Rosie’s tea,’ as she emerges from the cupboard. ‘I’ll be back to work again next week – play the granny card while you can. You might like to get out of the house and have five minutes to yourself, Claire – or I can get Tony. Whichever you prefer.’
‘Thanks, Ma.’ Tim massages his temples with his eyes closed. ‘God – this head! I can hardly see straight. That would be great, if you don’t mind.’ He opens his eyes, blinks and winces before looking at me again. ‘Dad had practically finished Rosie’s room by the time I left but if you want to move in tomorrow now, the other rooms might have to wait. I’ll do the best I can.’ He sighs as if the whole burden of organisation is on him. ‘I’m just a little overwhelmed today by everything, that’s all.’
That’s the comment that tips me over the edge. I jump up quickly. He’s overwhelmed? All of my promises from last night have completely vanished. Right now I hate him – all of them, actually. Except Rosie, obviously. ‘Fine. I’ll go and get Tony now then. Tell Rosie where I’ve gone, please.’
I march out of the room without another word.
Rather than head straight to Fox Cottage, I drive too fast out further into the countryside, over the border and up into the hills. Pulling into a layby, I stop the car suddenly with a gasp. I feel jittery. My skin is prickling with a fear and fury I have no idea what to do with. I am not myself. Tim’s the one who loses control and builds up repressed anger. This is not me.
I turn off the engine and feel the stuffy artificial warmth of the heating start to bleed away as I look down at the motionless bare trees and dotted cows plodding through cold, distant fields. There’s just enough light to catch the pale reflection of the river as it snakes through the bottom of the darkening valley. I try to draw on this steady, open space to calm me – but as the weak sun slips rapidly out of sight, turning the hills a darker purple, the emptiness becomes oddly claustrophobic.
Desperate suddenly to speak to Jen, I grab my phone… but it’s one o’clock in the morning in Sydney. I’d phone Mel but she doesn’t know anything is wrong, and I don’t want to break my promise to Tim or worry her by blurting everything out in a mad rush. Instead of calling, I type a WhatsApp message to my sister.
Freaking out a bit! Am being absorbed into a life that belongs to someone else, not me. Wrong place, wrong house/friends/school mums/shops/roads. V homesick. Tim being a wet weekend, moaning about the place. I shouted at his ex-girlfriend in a pet shop today. Also went to posh house of school mum dressed like a tramp. She thinks I’ve got cash to splash on doing up Fox Cottage. Can’t be honest and tell the truth so feel like building new friendships based on lies… barriers already up, so couldn’t think of a thing to say and said nothing but boring twatty stuff the whole time I was there. Also got hole house (not typo – intentional) to unpack. Am v tired. Want to cry. Love you.
Seeing it down in blac
k and white, I do start to cry. It’s times like these that I would give anything to ring my mum. I can just hear her voice saying delightedly Hello, my sweetheart! Dad would be pottering around in the background, making a cup of tea.
Perhaps if I were in one of Rosie’s Disney movies they would appear right now, maybe ethereal blue, certainly smiling and alongside each other, to tell me what to do. They might sing a song that would be about not giving up, recognising my inner strength and being a brave girl. We could fly through starry skies or be on top of a cliff so I could see the world spread beneath me that has so much to offer. They’d finish it by telling me they’re so proud of the woman I have become and that there is nowhere I can go that they are not with me. It would feel so real that I would be sure they were actually here with me. I lean my head back. Unlikely to happen in a Volvo on a hilltop in Wales to a forty-one-year old woman though, however much I want it to.
I breathe out and wipe the tears away, before looking down at the WhatsApp message in my lap. I can’t send this to my poor little sister. I delete it all, apart from the bit about shouting at Isobel in the pet shop, because it’s so ridiculous and so not me, it will at least amuse Jen, although I don’t think it’s funny.
I can’t believe I pushed her. I’m far too old to allow myself to feel this way about some poor girl Tim once had something with, however beautiful she is. I look out over the fields again, it’s now almost completely dark. The next 365 days will pass just like this one… steadily I will do this. One year. That’s all. Then we can go home.
I sit up, resigned once again to getting a grip and turn the car around to head back to Fox Cottage.
Sixteen
Claire
Tony is still upstairs finishing off the last of the painting, when I shout ‘Hello?’ from the small sitting room.
‘Ah! The cavalry!’ He appears, brandishing a brush. ‘Just a tiny last section to do, if that’s all right, then I’ll wash my brushes and we’ll be done up like a kipper! I’ve made rather a good job of Rosie’s room as it happens. Want to come and see?’
