Authors: Lucy Wood
Mick, who owned the shop with his wife, looked up at Ada and then went back to talking to another man, who was propped against the counter. Mick’s grey hair was pulled back into a ponytail and he rubbed his cheek slowly as he talked. Very small teeth, which gave his jaw a caved-in look. ‘The car jackknifed in the road,’ he said.
‘I heard the deer ran straight out,’ the other man said. His nose was hatched with blood vessels. He got out a tissue and blew it.
Ada took a basket from the pile. Tinned peaches, tomatoes, chickpeas. Rice. A box of cereal. Milk. Firelighters. Matches. Three withered onions from a basket – there was hardly anything fresh. Instead, tins of baby carrots, peas and potatoes. A vacuum pack of beetroot. A tube of garlic. She looked over at the counter and saw that Mick was watching her. ‘Do you . . .’ she said. ‘Is there any more fruit, or any veg?’ The shop was a lot smaller than she remembered.
‘There’s plenty out,’ Mick said.
The other man said, ‘Supermarket opened a while back. Edge of town. About forty-five minutes’ drive.’ He stared at Ada. ‘You still singing with that group?’
‘I only did that once,’ Ada said. ‘With the school.’ She had no idea who he was.
She felt Pepper tugging at her arm. ‘Can we?’ she asked. She held up two apples, both bruised, one with a mushy hole bored out. Mick was watching so she couldn’t say no. They went up to the counter and she picked up the least-crushed loaf of bread. But still a dark burn spread over the top of it.
Mick rang in the amounts for each item. He watched Pepper, who was sidling with her back to the wall to hide the wet patch. ‘Is that your kid? She’s not going to steal anything is she?’
‘The car leaks,’ Ada said, as if that explained anything. She looked in her bag for her purse, didn’t see Pepper glance at Mick, then gently knock a packet onto the floor.
‘Mine does that,’ Mick said. He took the last tin out of her basket. When everything was rung in it came to a small fortune. ‘And I took it to the garage and they said it’s water coming underneath when it rains. Does that make any sense to you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ada said.
‘Yeah, it makes no sense to me either.’ He scratched his cheek and it made a rasping sound. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Sorry to hear about all that with Pearl. But I’ve got her milk bill here, bit overdue.’ He checked in a notebook and rang in the amount. Ada felt herself grow hot; it was six months of milk at least. ‘Good for the teeth,’ her mother always said. Except her teeth had always been weak and wobbled like old gravestones.
Mick took the payment. ‘I’ll keep you down for the milk delivery,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘We won’t be here long.’ She lifted down the bags, which Mick had packed too full, tins on top of the bread. He always used to be out the back watching TV: antique programmes – cackling when people paid too much for junk.
Mick seemed to know what she was thinking. ‘She’s gone,’ he said. ‘Five years ago now. In her stomach. The dog knew before me. Took to following her everywhere.’
‘Dogs’ll do that,’ the other man said. He drummed his fingers on the counter. The worn leather of his hands.
‘The dog knew before me,’ Mick said again. He rasped at his cheek. There was a collecting tin on the counter. ‘Collecting for old Edwards, remember him? He’s had a few problems, asking everyone if they want to contribute.’
‘I don’t know who he is,’ Ada said.
‘Edwards,’ the other man said loudly.
‘I don’t know who he is,’ Ada said. But she felt in her pocket and put in a handful of loose change and crumbs. ‘Wood,’ she said quickly, so they wouldn’t check how much she’d put in. ‘Do you know where I can get some wood?’
‘Well,’ Mick said. ‘You’re in luck actually. I’ve got some round the back. I was going to hang on to it myself, but I’ll do you a deal. Seeing as you need it quick.’
They followed him round to the back of the shop, where there was a heap of fat mossy logs.
‘I suppose I could do you a couple of bags for thirty,’ he said.
She nodded and thanked him. Drew out her purse once again.
‘And what about kindling?’ he asked. She’d be needing some of that, wouldn’t she? He had some good cheap stuff if she was interested. He loaded up the bags and swung them into the boot of the car, then pocketed the money and gave a small smirk. He went back into the shop without any kind of goodbye.
Take a sour git and leave stewing for thirteen years.
‘He knew who you were,’ Pepper said. She stuffed a hunk of bread into her mouth.
By the door, the billboard for the local newspaper said:
PACKAGING FACTORY TO CLOSE. FARM FIRE NO ACCIDENT
. TREE FALLS ON HOUSE
.
She swept out the stove and emptied the ashes, the lumps of charred wood and newspaper. Laid down two firelighters, then kindling on top. The flame flickered and grew. She stacked up the wood next to the fire – it felt good and heavy. Maybe now she could get back to what she actually needed to be doing. The sooner out of here the better. The flames roared. She put on a bigger piece of wood. The flames shrank, licking tentatively at the sides. Then they disappeared. She got it going again with another match and the flames leapt up then shrank back. The wood smoked. What was she doing wrong? Why would the bastard thing not just bloody . . .
So good to have her feet in the water. Soothing the sore bones. A root gripping her leg but no matter. Silt in her pockets. The river spread out around her, grey now and calmer, thin mist hanging either side like curtains. Two leaves dipped under. A branch turned slowly in the water. The water finding its way around rocks. The rocks slowly chilled. Her hands blue, her back numb, couldn’t remember when she’d last felt warm. How long had she been here? Hours or years, it was impossible to tell. And her feet in this intolerable water, making the bones sore. Another leaf was dragged under. Nothing but mist and water, mist and water . . . What was that? Something rustled, there was a sound like breathing. Pearl sat up straighter, felt the tug of the root on her leg. It was nothing, just the river rushing to keep its appointments. But was there someone? She sat very still and listened. Nothing. No one rustling but her.
She stared for a long time at the river. It looked familiar . . . the bends, the rocks, the trees. That rotten stump. Slushy rapids like river soup. She racked her brains, felt the clack of small stones. It did seem familiar for some reason but it couldn’t be the same old river, it would be ridiculous if it was the same old river – back where she’d always been. She watched a feather float past. She couldn’t still be here, could she? When she could have ended up anywhere. The feather tipped and then sank. She leaned forward and caught it, a grey, bedraggled thing. ‘Am I still here?’ she asked it. The feather crumpled and stuck to her drenched skin.
Now where was she again? She had lost her trail; it was easy to lose the thread of it. It was hard enough trying to keep herself together. Ah yes, that was it: trees everywhere. Trees like brown dye dripping. She spat out a mouthful of river. Pulled a weed out of her hair. The water moved in slow circles, winding itself in loops. Twigs and feathers piled up in drifts. Pearl tangled up in them. Stuck in the lull of it, a root wrapped around her leg, weed in her shoes, going nowhere.
Gulumph. Gulumph. The river circled and sang out bass on the rocks.
‘Shhh,’ Pearl said. ‘Shut up for a second.’ Water soaked into her boots, ruining them probably; her favourites, her absolute favourites, well, they were alright, she had never liked them really. But for God’s sake why still here, of all places? She kicked at the weeds. Another rustle. What was that? Somebody coming? Nothing. And now her feet were all wet – how had that happened? The moss sodden and her clothes sodden and no one to pass the time of day. It had always been lonely with nothing but this river. Nothing except the river’s chatter. Although sometimes a slippery knot of fish fighting against the current. And once a whole flock of sheep washed down like rising loaves.
The water turned dark. Shadows came and went. So did the wind. The moon appeared, floated, and then left, appeared, floated, and then left. As if some idiot was switching a lamp on and off.
Pearl hunched on the rock at the edge of the river. Skin the colour of water, hair the colour of water. No reflection but the water shifting. Sodden bones. Staring down at the liver-coloured stones. God, it was boring and cold. Her feet endlessly tugged by the current. Everything dripping. A crap situation. She scowled at the water, watched it peak, then ruck up like an old carpet, then turn smooth as poured glass. It could never make up its mind – never just one thing or another, always moving, always changing. She sat on the rock and her thoughts peaked and rucked up and turned in circles.
Something glinted. At first she thought it was the water but it was further away than that; it looked like a light in a window. What was it – a house? It had slipped her mind, but of course it was the house – there was the house behind her, she could see it through a watery blur. Vague memories of the long hallway, the kitchen with its wet-leaf smell. Or was that just her, smelling of wet leaves?
She watched the house carefully. The river lightened again. The light in the window disappeared. Pearl heaved herself up and put her feet in the water. She took a step towards the grassy bank. Then another. But her feet were so heavy and her leg was tangled up in the weeds. She tried again, slopped water everywhere, but couldn’t move any further. She shook her head, wrung out her sodden sleeves and sat back down on the rock. Still stuck in the place.
The river moved in bulky ripples; behind it, the wet kaleidoscope of trees. The woods were so deep and sometimes there were hoarfrosts so thick in there it was as if the whole world had grown . . .
Feathers, and then a few small sticks fell out of the chimney. Ada had avoided the fire for a few days but now she rattled the grate; a stiffness in her back from sleeping on the camping bed, the metal like a trap about to spring. Every night she’d had restless dreams with hot water in them: running for a train and when the doors opened hot water pouring out, heavy clouds louring and then hot water pouring out. Her dreams always straightforward rather than cryptic, like someone saying, very slowly: now are you sure you understand what needs to be done?
What she needed was a bath and to wash her hair, which was matted and lank, like those greasy clumps of wool she used to find snagged on the hedges around here. She had almost had it all cut off once, but on the bus the woman sitting next to her had touched her hand and said: whatever you’re about to do, it’s a big mistake. She had got off the bus and walked home.
The wind rattled the chimney and sent down a clatter of grit. Another feather rocked down. Her mother had done this day after day, year after year. Somehow made it look easy. Although once, Ada had seen her kneeling in front of it saying: you keep me tied, don’t you? Not angry so much as surprised, striking a match and letting it go out so she could inhale the spent smoke, eyes closed and face tilted, like a connoisseur. She always cleared her throat before she talked, as if having to force words up that were trapped somewhere. And she started pretending to be deaf. ‘What?’ she would say. ‘Sorry?’ Cupping her ear. Avoiding questions. She wouldn’t answer the door if someone knocked; she would walk straight past the ringing phone. But could still make out the peep of a kingfisher if a window was open.
‘We’ve run out of bread,’ Ada would say, leaning round the door of the study.
‘What’s wrong with your head?’ Her mother wouldn’t look up from the desk. A clock’s innards spilling out.
‘Bread.’ Ada would shake the empty bag. ‘Bread.’
‘Pass me that screw would you? It keeps rolling off the table.’
‘Pardon?’ Ada would say. ‘What?’
It went in circles like that. It went in circles like that a lot.
‘There’s something sticking out the chimney,’ Pepper said. She still had her coat on, her hair specked with mist.
Ada slid the metal cover off the flue and felt around. Got in past her wrist before hitting something solid. Remembered herself at five, watching a man help a cow give birth. Sleeves rolled up to the elbow. ‘Who’s in there?’ she had asked. ‘Who is it?’
She took her arm out. ‘It’s blocked,’ she said. ‘The whole thing is blocked.’ Didn’t her mother used to sweep it out every year? Worried it would poison them in the night, smoke them out like foxes; the thought of danger bringing out the glint of drama she harboured – she would turn a near miss into a collision, a twinge into something chronic.
Ada put on boots and went outside. There were sheep in the distance wrapped in mist, the trees wearing mist as scarves. The light curdled like old milk.
There was definitely something sticking out of the chimney. She found a ladder in one of the barns, more rust than metal, uneven legs. Dragged it out, the legs jarring on stones, and looked up. It wasn’t a tall house but now the roof seemed to yawn up and away.
‘Did you used to sleep in the bed I’m sleeping in?’ Pepper asked.
Ada leaned the ladder against the house. ‘I’ve got to climb up there,’ she said.
‘I’ll do it,’ Pepper said. ‘It’s easy.’
‘It’s not easy,’ Ada told her. She looked up once more. The horrible sensation that everything was tipping forwards. And she wasn’t even on the bloody ladder yet.