by Terry Tyler
I thought for a while. "I don't know. I feel angry all the time. That these bastards can get away with what they're doing."
She nodded. "You have the facts but you can't prove them, because your friend Andy won't be named. You're certain Kendall was given this abortion drug, but you can't prove she didn't obtain and take it herself, or even that she took it at all, now. You think Nick was killed because of what he revealed, but you have no proof whatsoever."
"That's about the size of it, yes."
She gazed into the fire for a while. Then she said, "You could still go public with it."
"Where? Before, I was thinking of J'accuse, or Voice."
"Yes, that's the best avenue to choose. It would be dangerous, I won't lie to you. But there are ways to keep you safe."
"I don't think I'm ready to blow up my life again, to be honest. Not right now."
"I understand that. But maybe in a while. That anger won't go away until you take action."
"I know. I can't do it just yet, though, that's all."
She nods. In the flattering, warm light of the flames, I can see what she must have looked like when she was a young woman.
"I have found, over the years, that if you're not ready to take a big step, it's a good idea to think, fine, I won't do anything right now. I'll put it away in a box, and stop worrying about it. But on―insert date here―I will take it out and consider it again. I did that about my divorce, my job, my decision not to have children, everything. It takes the pressure off, and sometimes you find that you're ready to open the box earlier than the given date. You could, for instance, put this away until 1st January. Concentrate on yourself, on Kendall, healing from all you've been through, and getting to know Brody again. Would that work for you, do you think?"
This is why she is my new best friend.
I love it here. Now that I've emerged from the brain-dead fug of Hope, though, I find that my online urge is not entirely conquered. I admit it; I do have the urge to blog about this place. I want to tweet that it's a beautiful, bright, freezing December day and I love my cosy little log cabin, but I can't, and that's frustrating.
The other day I mentioned this to a guy called Leo who's been here for eight years, and he said he felt the same for ages.
"Gradually, you get used to enjoying the moment, without the need to tell the world. You actually enjoy it more; if you're not busy taking a selfie so you can show everyone on Imagio what an awesome place you live in, you can just appreciate that gorgeous frosty morning for what it is." He eyes me, thoughtfully. "I think it helps you move away from self-absorption, too, if you're not always looking to validate your life by sharing it with a bunch of strangers."
I explain how, in the last five years, reticence on social media has become the new black, with the cool people posting stuff of general interest rather than the constant me-me-me, and he laughs. "Doesn't that show you how daft it all is? When not posting stuff on social media has become a social media trend?"
He's right, of course; I tell him about the popularity of Offline Day, and we have a good laugh about that too. And no, I don't tell him that I initiated it. I'm getting better at this.
We get up when we wake up and can eat breakfast in Jaffa's kitchen; as there are forty-two of us, we drift in and out between seven and nine. There's always a huge pan of porridge on the go (yuck), and eggs, bread and coffee; coffee is another essential of life that comes under the heading 'yes, we're an off-grid community but let's not get silly about it'. Some of our produce is sold at local farmers' markets, and the proceeds go into a kitty for general expenses.
We're vegetarian, but only a few are vegan; our happy livestock provides us with eggs and milk, so we have butter and cheese, too.
During the day we work, on food production, maintenance, whatever. Jobs are rotated so that we can all do everything, taking into consideration any particular skills or preferences. In the evenings we can come together in the kitchen or the drawing room of Jaffa's house, if we want, and in the evening the pan of porridge is exchanged for one of chilli, stew or curry, but Lake Lodge isn't about a totally communal lifestyle. Many have come here because they hated the way that 21st century living means a farewell to anonymity. One or two are loners; they do their bit, but don't hang out much. Jaffa says that's fine; Lake Lodge is a way to live life on your own terms.
I love it here.
Nick would have loved it, too.
There I go again, you see. I never go long without thinking about him, and the sadness, the emptiness, the ache of missing him is followed by the rage. The sick fury and frustration that makes my neck tighten, gives me a headache, and churns my guts.
I've taken Jaffa's advice; the first day of January, it is. That's when I will start making decisions.
Her suggestion has worked to some extent, but I can't stop it popping into my head.
It's December the 18th. I have about thirteen days.
Meanwhile, Brody and I are making up for lost time.
Back in the spring, he had a brief relationship with a woman here called Lauren, who has since taken up with someone else; it wasn't serious for either of them, he says.
"I didn't feel about her how I feel about you. There wasn't that connection."
I prayed he wouldn't follow this up with 'it was just physical', because the thought of him shagging someone else makes me want to be sick, and she's very attractive. Happily, he didn't.
He says he always hoped our relationship would develop into something permanent, when the time was right for both of us, which was why he was so gutted when I blanked him.
"That part of you I couldn't reach," he said to me, the other night, "I knew it was because of your upbringing, or lack of it, but I hoped I could break through, somehow."
He was right about me not being ready to live with him, though (that is too scary) so he shares a cabin with two other guys while I live with Kendall, but we sleep together most nights. He tells me he loves me now, but I don't tell him very often. I can't relax into it, yet.
"I'm never sure what you want," he said, that night.
I'm working on it.
35
21st Century Girl
I'm just nipping into the kitchen for a sustaining cup of coffee before going out in the freezing cold to help spray our cereal crops, when Jaffa calls to me from the office.
"Come and have a look at this!"
It's Mona Morrissey, strutting her stuff at the Young Right Wing Twerps club, or whatever it's called. She's holding up the hand of a new MP for a constituency in North London―Freya Wilson, at twenty-seven, one of the youngest ever female MPs.
"Why can't they just say 'youngest ever MPs', and leave out the 'female' bit?' says Jaffa. "They don't say 'youngest ever male MPs', do they?"
I watch, interested in spite of myself. Although the Morrisseys' shenanigans have had a direct effect on the turning inside out of my life over the past eighteen months, seeing MoMo on the screen again feels like watching something that's no longer a part of my world. And I no longer have my phone in my hand, to check the reactions on social media.
Watching her is like not being able to tear your eyes away from a ghastly reality TV show, because you can't believe how dreadful it is.
She presents her young friend as 'a bright light for the future, one of the new generation of motivated, can-do young women dedicated to making my husband's view of the 21st Century UK a shining reality.'
"I never thought I'd see an MP with false eyelashes," Jaffa says. Indeed, Ms Wilson looks more like a reality show celeb than an MP. No Theresa May, this girl; she's sheeny and glamorous, probably a size 8, in a cute, designer suit.
"I'm two hundred per cent Brand Morrissey!" she declares. "I'm working with Mona all the way to get my generation Fit For Work!"
She laughs, proudly accepting her tumultuous applause. "I've been chosen by you, today's youth and the future of Britain―I was born in the 21st century, and, just like you, I have the breadth of vision
to see that the ideals of our parents' and grandparents' eras are history. Our generation doesn't rebel against structure and discipline, because we know it enriches our lives. We're the thought-leaders, looking forward, because we are tomorrow. And, like you, I know that the way to thrive within that tomorrow is to work alongside our leaders to be the very best me that I can be. Because tomorrow belongs to us. Are you with me?"
The crowd goes wild. Some hold up placards, saying things like #NoMoreButterballNation; one guy climbs onto his seat and brandishes a sign saying 'I'm #FitForFreya'. That'll be viral by tomorrow, no doubt, but I won't have to see and be irritated by it.
Freya Wilson's social media links flick up on the screen, constantly, as she talks. Jaffa murmurs, "Don't tell anyone we're breaking the social media ban."
The glossy Ms Wilson has thousands of followers, everywhere. Two hundred and fifty K on Twitter. Similar on Imagio, on which she posts selfies at the gym, or in her laboratory-like kitchen, preparing healthy lunches. There's even the odd duck face, in a low cut party dress that shows off what surely must be implants; no one that skinny can have boobs that big.
She boasts of her achievements, with accompanying 'Yays' and appropriate emojis.
She's trending, of course; we enjoy the less than congratulatory tweets:
'JFK knew that what you say matters more than what you do. The Morrisseys know it's what you hashtag. Freya Wilson: it's all about tits.'
'If Freya Wilson is the new face of politics, I'm moving to fucking Mordor.'
'Good thing Freya Wilson's got her seat. She had to shag so many of the electorate in order to win it that she probably can't stand up.'
"And so the ever more faint line between celebs and those who run the country finally disappears," Jaffa says. "I'll tell you what, I'm bloody glad I'm the age I am now. Kids growing up with this rubbish shoved in front of their faces twenty-four-seven don't stand a chance."
36
Open The Box
Following a vote, Christmas was scarcely acknowledged here. There are a couple of Christians who had their own quiet celebration, and a few left Lake Lodge to spend time with their families, but generally we were all pleased to let it pass unnoticed.
There was something delightfully liberating about waking up on the morning of December 25th, and it being just another day. No ghastly, fifty-year-old festive songs, no retail pressure, no tinsel and forced jollity. Jaffa said that when she turned her life around it was the first thing she let go; having spent all those years in TV, married to someone in advertising, she was thoroughly sick of the whole thing.
"It caused me more stress than the rest of the year put together," she said. "Richard liked us to do 'open house' on Boxing Day. Lunchtime onwards. I'd spend the whole of December worrying about whether it was going to be as good as the year before, and the whole of bloody Christmas evening cooking for it. I didn't get the house or my liver back to normal until December 30th, and then I'd have another two days of excessive celebrations."
Now it is New Year's Day, and I have to take it out of the box and decide what to do.
A large part of me wants to do nothing. I'm tired. I just want to carry on living here, and ignore the rest of the world. Jaffa's right, though; Lake Lodge isn't about hiding, but an alternative way of life. And, as she said with a gentle nudge as we all quietly welcomed in the New Year last night, maybe I owe it to those who don't have the opportunity for that alternative way of life, to speak up for them.
"Leave it another month, if you don't feel ready," she said. "Give yourself some breathing space."
I need that breathing space. For Brody and me to do 'normal'. And for Kendall; she's coming out of her shell, now. Making friends. She seems happier, settled.
"It's lovely here," she said to me the other day, when we were stacking up logs for the winter store. "If you'd asked me, two years ago, if I could get rid of social media, I'd have said no way, but I get it now―it filled a gap 'cause I was lonely. Getting a hundred and fifty 'likes' on some stupid selfie, I thought it meant something, but it didn't. Sienna and Jude 'liked' everything I ever posted, but when I asked them to help me, when I needed them, they shut me out. What we've got here is real. I'm not lonely any more."
I think she's more contented than I am.
Although I agree with Jaffa, and give myself official permission to stop thinking about Hope Village and its injustices―no, let’s call them 'crimes against humanity', because that's what they are―until March, my head's not having it.
My head is telling me to wake the fuck up and stop hiding away in my log cabin.
The decision that will take my life down yet another path is made out of the blue, on one random morning.
The tenth of January is a cold, wet day. I wake up while it's still dark; Brody is asleep next to me in my little three-quarter bed, and I know Kendall will be dead to the world for a long time yet.
I'm restless and my brain is hurting with all the stuff circling inside it.
I squeeze myself down the miniscule gap twixt wall and bed (the bedroom is tiny), shut the door as quietly as possible, and tiptoe out into our equally miniscule kitchen space.
I make coffee and work my way through a large slice of heavy, stoneground granary bread made by Leo's wife, Molly; I'm sure it takes as many calories to chew and digest as it provides. I eat it with a huge chunk of hard cheese and some green tomato chutney, because I shall need plenty of sustenance.
I leave Brody a note; I need to walk and think.
I set off down the lane and across the fields as the sun makes thwarted attempts to show through the grim, grey clouds. I'm okay, though, swishing along in the long, wet grass in my tough old waterproof boots and ancient Barbour that Jaffa gave me, with my particularly unflattering woolly hat.
It's time. I can't put it off any longer. But I don't want to tell anyone yet, not even Brody.
I reach Ireston just as the village is waking up; there is a café where I can sit and do what I must, and I have my 'pocket money'; we did astoundingly well at the Farmer's Market at Christmas, and Jaffa gave everyone a small share before putting the bulk back into the community kitty.
The warmth of the café is so welcome, though I am pleased to notice that, even though I've walked several miles, my legs are not tired. Another benefit of my new life; I'm fit.
I like it in here. An independent place, run by two women. Untouched by Nutricorp, and may it ever stay that way.
I pass a cheery time of day with the waitress, drink my hot chocolate and eat a scone, and then I take out my pad and pen, for I have a letter to write.
It's time to talk to Andy.
I tell him about Nick, first of all, which is so, so hard. How different this is, compared with writing on a laptop, where you can erase and amend until you get it just right. How did novelists manage, back in the old days? No more 'shove it all down and sort it out in the rewrite'. As it is, I throw away three attempts before I feel halfway happy with it.
After I've delivered the news that I suspect his old friend was murdered but I have no proof, I hit him with my request; I ask if there is any chance of him backing up his analysis of the medication given to Nick in Hope, to whomever I might approach with my story in the future.
'Because I feel that I owe it to Nick, and to all those people in Hope Villages, to do this. My intention is not to lay emotional blackmail on you, honestly, and if you say no, I will respect and understand your decision. If you think there is a chance that you can help, though, here is my address and phone number.'
I head for the post office, feeling better once I've sent the letter. I'm no longer sitting around, being a wimp.
I walk home as light as a feather.
Of course, I can't help telling Brody.
"We need to retrieve Andy's original letter and those samples from your friend June's shop," he says. "Even if Andy says no, we need the samples, and his letter with the information."
Which makes me feel bad for neglecting
June all over again.
She doesn't even know Nick's dead.
I can't shirk it, though, and we set off for June's a couple of days later.
"What are we going to do with it, when we get it?" I ask, on the way. "An exposé site, or d'you think a newspaper? There's only The Speaker that's not Nu-Media, isn't there?"
Brody says, "Can we talk about that side of it later? Jaffa needs to be in on it."
"Why?" All of a sudden I don't want this to be anyone's gig but mine.
Brody takes his hand off the wheel and covers mine. "I've got something to tell you―don't worry, it's all good―but it needs to keep until we get back."
"Mr Mysterious," I mutter, and pull my hand away. I hate being kept in the dark. Then I look at Brody's face, concentrating on the road, and give myself a mental slap. He loves me. I love him. He's a hundred per cent on my side.
I have to be in charge of how I handle this, though.
Maybe I need to get over myself and accept help. Another lesson to learn. Personal growth shit.
"Incidentally," he says, taking my hand again, "I truly believe that you'd have found a way out of Hope, even if it hadn't gone down as dramatically as it did. You're not a defeatist. Look at all you achieved on your own, after your crap start in life."
How does he always know the right thing to say?
Traversing those roads near Hope is awful. That panic rises again, like it did back then. I open the window and take big gulps of the cold air. If Brody tells me to 'just breathe' like Bex used to, I will clobber him. Of course, he doesn't.
"I'm so, so sorry. Nick was such a nice fellow. You poor girl." June throws her arms around me, and for once I don't mind being hugged.
"I'm okay. Things are better now."
She smiles up at Brody. "You're looking after her, are you?"
If it was anyone else, I'd have got antsy and said that I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself, thank you very much, but June was born into a world in which women looked to men for care and security. She can't be that much older than Jaffa, but she's a small town woman, and her life must have been so different.