‘We’re re-building a cottage and I’m growing vegetables and…’
‘There’s no future in that,’ he shouts.
‘And we’re living the way we want to and it’s different …’ Her chin thrusts out, the force of her words makes her shake. ‘I don’t want to be like you. I’m not like you, with your boring life and your television and your…’
He stands up. His face is flushed.
‘If you want to come and meet my friend, get yourself into the skirt I bought you for the funeral. It’s hanging in your room. And the top I gave you for Christmas.’
‘Wear the clothes from Mum’s funeral? Isn’t that a bit weird?’
‘I just want you to look your best when you meet her…’
‘Then I don’t want to meet her!’
But that wasn’t true.
13
‘Shit’, Seymour pads into the kitchen, ‘that fucking cat.’
The goose carcass is strewn across the kitchen, bits of skin stuck to the flagstones. The Minton china platter from which the bird was served yesterday at Christmas lunch lies on the floor, balanced on a roast potato and a rib bone. Though he has always found its flower-patterned border somehow wearying, he is relieved the dish remains intact. It holds memories from his childhood, both good and not-so-pleasant. The upturned gravy boat is coated in congealed fat.
‘Why didn’t they close the kitchen door before they went to bed?’ Seymour delicately lifts a piece of half-chewed meat from between his toes; he flicks it under the table. Someone else can clean up the mess. As he puts the kettle on the hob, he decides to return to London later that day. It’s getting tricky here, what with one thing and another.
‘Hi.’ Stella is in the doorway in her night clothes, her hair wild from sleep, her eyes ringed with make-up.
‘Cat’s been up to his tricks. He wasn’t shut out of the kitchen last night,’ Seymour replies.
‘Don’t fuss, darling.’ She glides over to place a cool finger on his lips.
Strands of hair lie like fine spider webs across her neck. He ignores the thought of brushing them off her skin with his tongue and kissing the soft indent above her clavicle where her scent pools.
He steps backwards. ‘Shit!’ Mushy roasted carrot sprays over his foot. He wipes it back and forth across on the floor. ‘I’m going back to London.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘I’ve got to do some work.’
‘I don’t care, I want to be with you.’
‘Stella, you should stay here with Julian.’
‘I don’t want to stay with Julian. There’s a synchronicity between us that’s irresistible.’
‘Stella, you’re going out with Julian. You’re his girlfriend.’
‘I’m sleeping with you.’
‘Only a few times.’
‘I want to be with you, Seymour.’
‘Stella, our being together. It was… you know…’ He watches her face fall. ‘Of course it was wonderful. But you and I, we knew it was just a casual fling. Friends. Nothing more, you knew that. We discussed it.’
Her eyes are glassy like one of the dolls his sister had as a child. It’s the look she has as she reaches orgasm. He takes a handful of her hair, as heavy as a curtain and tugs it gently. He won’t leave this afternoon. He’ll leave as soon as he’s dressed. Alone.
Gerald swerves on to the verge just outside the village as Seymour roars by. The man didn’t notice him. Parking his car in the farm yard, Gerald is relieved to have made it safely. In truth he’s a bit too smashed to be driving. Luckily the roads are quiet on Boxing Day.
He weaves his way into the house, Jackson at his heel. No sounds of life.
‘Jules?’ he calls weakly.
He is the only person who uses this nickname and, though he knows his friend hates it, Gerald still uses it. Jules is quicker to say than Julian and anyway, the boy – for Julian is still a boy – should not be so precious. It’s only nomenclature.
‘Anyone here?’ Gerald says again but this time he expects no answer.
Gerald collapses on one of the sofas in the sitting room. It’s cold. He pulls an abandoned jumper over his body. ‘Jackson, up here boy.’
Both man and dog know this is not allowed but needs must. Gerald lights a joint and stares at the ashes in the grate as though with enough concentration the embers will spontaneously ignite. At some level, he believes it might just happen.
Minutes later, he is asleep.
The smell of smoke doesn’t rouse them. If they stir, they will assume that Simon has lit a fire. Why would they get out of bed for that? Downers and dope have made Julian drowsy and Stella, propelled by confusion and misery when Seymour left the farm twenty minutes ago, had fled back to their bed and fallen into an unhappy slumber.
Jackson’s barking woke them long enough for Julian to mutter: ‘Stop that fucking dog’s noise,’ and for Stella to mumble back, ‘It’s your turn to make tea,’ and for Julian to reply: ‘We don’t do turns, haven’t you noticed,’ before they both fell asleep again.
A strange smell wends its way through the house. Like cooking milk.
Earlier that morning Simon had been struggling to get any out of Daisy. Despite pulling and squeezing her teats, only a few drips plopped into the pail. When the animal stepped on his foot with her sharp pointed hoof, Simon bellowed. It was all much harder than Amy had led him to believe.
‘You need help.’ Lynn was leaning against the shed, her eyes flashing with amusement. ‘Just let me finish this.’
Taking a final hard suck, she stubbed out a cigarette, rolled up her sleeves and took his place on the milking stool. Her dark curls hid her face but he sensed she knew he was mesmerized by her pale forearms as they moved up and down in a rhythmic dance.
Lynn sometimes came into the farmhouse to return something her mother had borrowed or to use
