Never before had I been so utterly responsible for another living thing, a creature that was as unable to articulate its needs as a new-born. What sort of person was I if I couldn’t look after her? Sometimes I’d be doing the dishes or watching TV, and suddenly need to know exactly where Nut was, or I’d be at work and imagine Nut loose in Dukesberry Terrace, hanging out of an upstairs window by a single claw, or lying prostrate across some dark corner, locked in a second seizure. I’d text Art and he’d reply so quickly that I can only guess that he had been sitting with her all that time. Perhaps she was in his study, curled around his ankles or sharing his lunch.
Mistreatment of your ovum organi was an offence resulting in termination of membership, and expulsion from all the benefits that came with it. And where would I end up without the guidance of my mentors? You never heard about anyone this happened to, which made me wonder where they went. Were all we members really as pliable as that?
Losing Nut due to something as stupid as not looking when I opened the door would definitely be seen as negligence, especially since I’d lied about her having her own secure room. There was no way I could return her to the loft now, now that she bumbled around the house like it belonged to her. It would be like removing a child’s favourite toy.
But more than that. Nut had a soul. I could see it now. And when she balanced on my thighs with her hands on my chest, she’d smile and I’d smile back. Her little face brightened a room, and the world was made a better place by her being in it. If only there could be more of you, I’d whisper in her ear, each one helping me to be better.
This was a new kind of love. But if Easton Grove got wind of what had happened they would take her away. And what would happen to her then?
Two more letters arrived in November, each one requesting a house visit. The last one was posted in a sickly salmon-pink envelope, like a jury summons. But with Art working all hours, Nut needing more and more entertainment, and all the purging still to do in the garden it was easy to find legitimate reasons why we couldn’t squeeze in a visit.
Art never noticed the letters on the doormat, but would stare into the recycling before dropping something into it. He’d pause on the way back to his study, watching Nut and I curling into each other like yin and yang, his lips as dry as chalk. He never said anything, but sometimes I thought I could hear him speaking to someone in his study, his voice low, worried. I could never make out the words, even with my ear pressed against the wood.
As the first frost was starting to settle that November, the ringing of the doorbell began. The first time it happened, I quickly ducked down beneath the windowsill, craning my head to see if it was a face I knew. But I didn’t recognise this one, with the thick black glasses and shaved head. But I knew the tweed, the blue folders. I knew what that meant.
I waited for him to leave before letting my muscles relax, one by one, my eyes squeezed shut. A few seconds later, Art’s cool hand was on my shoulder. “How long can you keep this up, Norah?” he whispered.
The same man came back three times over the next two weeks, always in the evening when I’d finished at Stokers. The final visit came late one night, when I was rinsing the toothpaste from my mouth. I peered out of the bathroom shutters to see the man pressing his face against our living room window. Beside me, Nut rubbed her flank against my hip. She knew. “Shhhh,” I mouthed, as I stroked the skin behind her ear. Just then, Art opened the door to his study and my head flicked round, my finger pressed to my lips. He stood, stock still, his eyes wide and luminous in the dark. “Don’t,” I whispered. “You can’t.”
Two days after that night, the final red letter arrived. No more than ten minutes later, I was in the porch with a screwdriver and scissors, cutting the wire connecting the doorbell to the electricity.
I stopped carrying my phone around, leaving it in different rooms and under cushions. It was easier to swipe and clear the missed calls from withheld numbers than to hold the caller in the palm of my hand. Besides, no one else was trying to contact me. Apart from one night shortly after my birthday meal when I’d had three missed calls from Eleanor, my phone felt like it’d become a single frequency radio to Easton Grove. Eleanor hadn’t left a message or even followed up with a text, so I didn’t call her back.
The ground froze that month, tipping each blade of grass like a little silver sword. The soil was solid coal, shot through with the tiniest green shoots. I’d have admired the weeds for their sheer bloody resilience if it hadn’t meant that I’d have to spend hours in the dark, crouching on the bitter earth, pulling them out with stinging fingertips. Gardening gloves were useless for finding the little weeds so I went at it naked, picking at the earth by solemn torchlight.
Afterwards, I’d sit at the dining table, peeling away the broken nails one by one. Nut would usually leap up at this point in a rare show of athleticism, pushing her face in close to inspect the little pile of milky crescents.
I’d grab the nail and cuticle wax and take in the glorious lemon scent – I can still smell it now – then take a generous scoop and massage it gently into Nut’s nails. Her claws were sharp and black, with
