A pain shoots up my neck as I swivel to see Mr Waters’ head peeking over the top of the fence, his cloudy, pale eyes meeting mine before resting his gaze on the dead fox.
‘A badger?’ I don’t know why I’m answering. I don’t want to become embroiled in a conversation about this atrocity. I want to clear it away, dart back inside the house, double lock the doors and stay there for the remainder of the day.
‘Aye. Vicious little buggers they are. Fox probably made off wi’ his dinner or tried to steal one of its cubs and this is the net result.’
My eyes are suddenly heavy. I squeeze them shut, sigh, try to gulp down a nervous rush of saliva that has filled my mouth.
‘Surprised you didn’t hear it all last night. Right ruckus it was. I were stood at t’ bedroom window watching it all ’appen. Could ’ave sworn I saw somebody down here afterwards. I thought it was you cleaning it all up. Mind you, my eyes aren’t what they used to be. Bloody cataracts. Could have been the shadow of the trees. That wind blew everything around. I heard my bin topple over onto the patio at one point. What a clatter it made.’
The nervous rush of saliva turns into a tsunami, flooding the recesses of my gums, swilling around my mouth; a sour wash of liquid I am desperate to spit out. I try to smile, to appear at ease as he speaks, all the while wishing he would disappear. I need time to think. I need some space on my own.
‘Anyway, if you need any help clearing it up, you know where I am, lovey.’ His head disappears, sinking behind the fence.
I fear that he hasn’t gone back inside his own little house but is squatting down on the other side, listening to me, working out whether or not I know how to dispose of this thing safely. Only when I hear the click of his door do I move, my head swimming, a cold sensation shifting around my belly, a coiled viper slithering around my guts.
Could have sworn I saw somebody down here afterwards. I thought it was you cleaning it all up.
I bat away the residual thoughts that linger in my brain, thoughts conjured up by his words. It’s nonsense. Mr Waters is an old man. His eyesight is spectacularly poor. He is bored, has an overactive imagination. Likes to embellish on the facts, conjure up a story when there isn’t one to be had. As he said, it was a stormy night. Bad weather, poor visibility, things strewn around the garden.
On and on I go, convincing myself of his many faults and delusions as I pull on a pair of latex gloves and wrap a towel around my face to mask the smell of the blood, to try to distance myself from this situation.
The fox is heavier than I expected, its body solid and still marginally warm. I retch. Despite my best intentions to stay calm and remain in control, I heave and gag. I stuff it into a black bin bag, tying it tightly before double bagging it and dropping it into the wheelie bin next to the back door. The weather isn’t so warm. That’s a good thing. No chance of insects swarming around. No danger of maggots eating their way through the bloodied corpse, wriggling their way around the bottom of the bin.
Only when I am back inside and the door is locked do I allow myself the luxury of crying, letting it all out – the worry, the fear, the terror of the unknown – it all comes spilling out of me, a river of anxiety.
My eyes burn, my throat is thick and glutinous as I make myself a coffee and sit at the table, a series of small, hiccupping sobs still constricting my breathing. It was always going to be difficult, living on my own. I knew this. None of it is my doing and yet as I sit here, trying to piece together what has just happened, I can’t help feel that I am being punished. Recently widowed, frightened at the prospect of living by myself and, although it pains me to admit it, lonely. With one child living in Australia and the other living almost 250 miles away in Oxford, there are days when I feel totally isolated. The shiny new future I regularly speak of is still a far-off object, too distant to reach. I’ll get to it one day. I’m just not quite there yet.
More tears fall. I wallow in self-pity until my chest aches and my throat is sore, my tear ducts desert dry. I force myself out of it, the abyss of misery I regularly stumble into. It’s not healthy being overwhelmed like this. It’s not who I am. Besides, I chose to live here, back at my childhood home. It felt comforting, the thought of being here. Still does most of the time. I could have continued living in York, in my lovely city home, grieving, expecting to see Warren every time I walked into a room, and compounded my unhappiness with unrealistic expectations. The move here made sense. Still does. Last night, this morning, the find in the garden, it’s all a blip in my existence. Here had its losses as well but they are not as fresh, not as raw. Here is a compromise, not a new, unfamiliar home, someplace where I would struggle to adjust. My surroundings provide some comfort and God knows I could do with plenty of that.
I stand at the sink, splash my face with water, my flesh numb from the cold. Icy water laps at my skin, the gush from the tap dragging me out of my sullen musings. It feels good, the cold against my flesh – revitalising, blocking out any unwelcome thoughts. Thoughts that have been rekindled now I am living alone. I push them away, shove them back in that dark place in my head and get on with my day.
2
The words won’t come. It’s all such a mess, my ideas jumbled, my thoughts non-linear and chaotic. I should stop writing, not force it. Find something else to do, something that will distract me and free up my thinking. And yet I don’t. I stay seated at my desk, deflated and desperate, my self-confidence shrinking by the second. Despite many cups of coffee, the plot and characters refuse to show themselves, staying half hidden in the shadows, dancing on the periphery of my thoughts.
A sandwich later and I am up at the kitchen window staring out into the garden, ruminating over last night. Thinking about the dead fox. Thinking about the blood. The muddy footprints. My dirty feet. Did I do it? Am I capable of such an act? Moreover, why would I be out there and why can’t I remember anything?
Behind me, my phone pings, a shrill reminder of how empty this house feels today, how empty I feel inside.
It’s Kim. She has sent me a text, checking how I am, monitoring my mood and making sure I’m up and functioning, getting on with my day.
I sigh, bite at my lip and think hard before sending my reply.
I’m fine thanks. Sitting trying to write. Shall we meet for coffee sometime this week?
Communicating with her is never easy. In her mind, I am still her younger sister, the sibling who never grew up. She sees it as her duty to take care of me and whilst her interventions and actions are well-intentioned, she forgets that I’m now a grown woman with adult children of my own and therefore perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Warren’s death heightened her need to protect me, to keep checking up on my every movement. It is kind and I’m lucky to have somebody watching out for me, I do know that, but there are times when her constant monitoring overwhelms me more than any bouts of loneliness ever could, her messages often reminding me of my current predicament. Of my bleak state of mind.
That sounds perfect. Tomorrow at midday. Our usual haunt.
Her reply is immediate. I am being pushed into a corner. Her text reads as they usually do, worded as a fait accompli. I have no choice in the matter.
My head aches. I am being uncharitable. I am also at an all-time low. Kim knows this. I would do well to loosen up, allow her in, let her care for me a little. I should indulge her, let her feel as if she is helping. She too, has her foibles and needs. We all want to be wanted, including Kim.
I consume more coffee, dark and as strong as my taste buds will allow, while I sit at my computer in the small den next to the kitchen, hoping an influx of caffeine will stimulate my brain. Ideas begin to flow, a slow but steady stream. Not an earth-shattering amount but I manage to write over two thousand words. It’s better than nothing and more than I expected after this mornings’ rude and unwelcome introduction to the day. Words are words. They all help to build the story, to flesh out the bare bones of the plot. Words help me escape. They are a way of blocking out the darkness, a way of stepping back into the light.
Listen to me, wallowing in my own wretchedness. Anybody watching would think I enjoy living like this, suspended in a well of unhappiness. I don’t. I need to stop it, start being more positive. My life has changed and it is what it is. Time to accept my lot and move on. Time to start again.
We have the café almost to ourselves. A young couple sit in the corner, their voices lowered as they sip at their coffee. They are locked into their own conversation, unaware of our presence. Outside, a large raven pecks at a pile of indistinguishable scraps in the gutter. People pass by the window next to where we are seated, their eyes fixed forward, their minds focused on other things. I sometimes forget that there is a world out there, a world full of people who have their own lives, their own thoughts and worries. All together and yet all very much alone.
‘How are you settling in? I wish you’d let me come over and help you more often. I feel as if I’m neglecting you.’
I shake my head and smile. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’
Kim is being polite, going through the motions. She doesn’t particularly care for spending time in our childhood home. Never did, as I recall. She was utterly incredulous when I told her I wanted to buy it and move out of Lilac Crescent in York, convinced I did it just to infuriate and upset her. My sister forgets that not everything is about her.
‘Put the past behind us. Put it behind you,’ she had said when I told her of my plan.
She put every obstacle possible in my way when I tried to purchase it, claiming it had rising damp, that the 150-year-old roof was leaking and would need replacing. ‘You’ll live to regret it. That place is an ever-open mouth,’ she had said, her eyes dark with smouldering fury.
I had ploughed ahead anyway, ignoring her words, blocking out her negative comments. Besides, I needed a project. Lilac Crescent was a bland box, each room resembling a show home with its magnolia walls and neat, modern furniture. I needed a change. I needed to challenge myself, try to take my mind off Warren, my circumstances, my fogged-up brain.
The purchase also put some cash into Kim’s pocket. Mum signed the house over to us before her dementia accelerated, leaving her a husk of the woman she used to be. I bought Kim’s half. She has no reason to be aggrieved. Apart from the memories, that is, those dark, harrowing remnants of our past. Yet, I’m the one living with them every day. If I can cope then why can’t she do the same? Simon was a long time ago. And yet there are days when it feels as if it was only yesterday. I feel closer to him here. The thought of selling the house to strangers has always filled me with dread – an army of faceless people traipsing through the place, trampling the memory of our brother underfoot, ripping the very soul out of it – it makes me shiver. His memory is embedded deep within the house, imprinted into the walls, his voice, his face embroidered into the very fabric of the building. To leave him alone with strangers would be a sin. He may not be a tangible form but I have always felt that he is around, still here, his soul wandering free. Still the same boy he used to be.
That sounds ridiculous, I know, as if I am able to see into the future, which I am most definitely not. I do feel as if we would be abandoning him if we sold Woodburn Cottage. It is where Simon was born, where he lived as a child. Where he will always remain.
Warren died of natural causes, a heart attack taking him before his time and it was tragic, horrific actually, completely unexpected, but leaving Lilac Crescent wasn’t a wrench. I wasn’t leaving him behind. We had only lived there for five years, having moved from our previous home where we lived for much of our married lives. Lilac Crescent didn’t define him, wasn’t a part of him. As I couldn’t go back to our other home, this place was the next best thing. It’s comforting, living somewhere familiar when my world has been tipped upside down.
