With a small sharp knife, Mrs Morle sliced through the rabbit’s thick coat, careful to cut only as deep as the abdominal cavity. ‘If you go through that membrane, you’ll hit the guts and taint the flesh.’
Amy stood at her elbow trying not to wince. ‘Now I take the skin off the body.’
It required far more force than her words suggested. The animal’s front legs flounced in a macabre dance as Mrs Morle dragged the pelt from the flesh, as careful as when rolling her stockings down her legs each night. It was like removing a jumper from a wriggling baby.
The white abdominal sack gleamed.
‘Inside there is the innards and I need to get them out before they turn.’
Mrs Morle’s fingers dove into the sack and wrenched out pink-grey organs that Amy remembered from school science lessons. She had always been fascinated by muscles and sinews and blood vessels. She quite forgot it was a pretty little bunny that was being carved up.
‘Some folk eat the heart and liver,’ said Mrs Morle, ‘but these have been nicked by the bullet so they’re mashed. I’ll give ‘em to the dogs. You want to keep this left hind foot? It’s good luck if the animal was shot by a cross-eyed person at full moon. Who was it brought these to you? Colin? Well he’s certainly no beauty.’
The vivid-pink carcass was now stretched out on its tummy along the cutting board like a diver about to plunge into a pool. Smack-crunch! The rabbit’s head was severed off with a slam of Mrs Morle’s cleaver, then the legs were chunked up into pieces.
‘So that rabbit’s ready for the pot. Maggie, you lurking there, are you, been watching? You cleaning the next one, eh?’
‘I’m a vegetarian, I can’t…’ Maggie had been hovering by the kitchen door, alternatively appalled and fascinated.
‘You’re telling me you’re going to miss a delicious meal of rabbit? I doubt that very much, not when you smell ‘em cooking.’ Amy gutted the second rabbit. A sensible girl and willing to listen, thought Mrs Morle as she watched the girl skin and joint the animal. Not a bad cook neither. She brought two servings of stew over to the cottage that evening along with a nice bit of mashed turnip and potato. Mrs Morle had never tasted rabbit made with garlic before but had to agree with Lynn that it tasted very nice.
Still didn’t make sense though, Mrs Morle thought next day as she swept out the Rayburn. What was a townie like Amy doing at Mr Stratton’s house? In fact, what were any of them doing here, pretending to be builders and smallholders and the rest of it?
It was time they went back to where they came from. Mrs Morle’s cup of tea had gone cold but she drank it anyway.
Although her treasured book on self-sufficiency advises it’s the season to scatter parsnip seeds, it is to the four winds the seeds fly rather than the soil. This morning is a fiasco.
‘How could we ever be self-sufficient if we can’t even get seeds planted?’ Amy bursts angrily into the cottage.
High up on a ladder in a room that reeks of paint, Helen is whitewashing the ceiling. With her arms raised, her rounded belly is obvious. The woman is pregnant.
‘Oh dear, difficult morning, Amy? Where would we be without frozen peas?’ Helen smiles down at her. ‘There’s plenty to do inside if it’s too wild for gardening. Maggie’s painting the bedroom. You could help her.’
‘But I’m meant to be growing the food and …’ Amy grumbles. She wonders if she dares to ask Helen about the baby. She always feels a little uncertain around her. It’s not that the woman isn’t friendly, it’s more that Amy feels gauche and inexperienced by comparison. She kicks at some discarded paper. ‘Alright, I’ll see what Maggs is up to. How are you anyway?’
A grin splits Helen’s face. She comes down the ladder and puts the roller in a tray.
‘I’m going to sit for a moment.’ She massages her neck. ‘I get tired these days. Don’t know if you’ve noticed but, well, I’m expecting a baby. I’ve known for a while but didn’t want to say anything to anyone. It’s due mid-July. Summer baby, just like me.’
‘That’s wonderful. Is it alright for you to be working like this?’
‘I’m fine and what am I going to do – stop? I’m doing what I’ve always done. Not smoking as much as before and I’ll probably stop before the baby’s born. I did have a bit of morning sickness in the first month or so but after that, haven’t really noticed really apart from my trousers are getting tight.’
What does Bob think about it? He already has two children from a previous relationship. They live with their mother some twenty miles away. Amy’s heard him moaning about giving money to his ex-wife.
‘Bob’s getting used to the idea,’ says Helen as though she’s read Amy’s thoughts. ‘Wasn’t that happy to start with, mind. But I think he’ll be cool when he sees the baby.’
Neither woman speaks for a few moments, then Helen climbs back up to the ladder.
The cottage is slowly taking shape. There’s a damp course beneath the newly-laid floors, the electricity and water supplies are connected and the warmth from night storage heaters is drying out the fresh plaster. But it’s some way from habitation…
She finds Maggie in one of the bedrooms. She’s bobbing around to the music on the radio, a paint-laden sponge in each hand. It’s obvious she’s on speed; the building team, as they call themselves, insist it’s the only way to get through the work. Maggie gestures towards
