Green Grass

by Raffaella Barker

  It’s important for a mother to know her place, she reflects, listening out as Dolly and Tamsin head for the bathroom. But all she hears is Tamsin blurting, ‘Oh Dolly, it’s been such a pain running away, I can’t be bothered with it any more,’ before the door is closed on her curiosity.

  Laura decides she will drive Tamsin and Dan back to Norfolk the next morning, partly to get away from Inigo and his packing, and partly out of sisterly duty to Hedley, who is anxious that Tamsin should not be allowed out of an adult’s sight for more than a moment.

  ‘It’s all right for you to let her go to the loo on her own,’ he agrees, when Laura telephones to tell him her plans. ‘But hide her shoes.’

  Laura is incredulous. ‘Why?’

  Hedley groans. ‘So she can’t do it again, of course. I saw it in a film about the Second World War.’

  ‘Just keep quiet about things like that and I’m sure she won’t do it again.’

  ‘Hmmmph,’ says Hedley, making Laura glad for Tamsin’s sake that she will be present at their reunion.

  It is not until she, Tamsin and Dan are in the car and heading for the motorway that Laura realises she hasn’t said goodbye to Inigo. When she returns tomorrow, he will have left for New York and their life together will cease. Or will it? The situation over the past weeks has been so difficult and ambivalent that Laura is not sure what is really happening. Inigo is going to New York, but is he moving out? Is he removing his belongings from the house? Is Laura supposed to take her things out of the studio? Or is she still working there? Instead of pain, Laura finds she is experiencing disbelief.

  Tamsin leans forward from the back of the car into Laura’s thoughts. ‘Can we have some music on, please?’ She waves a disc, and grateful for the curtain of sound to hide behind, Laura turns the volume higher and gives herself up to introspection.

  The teenagers shuffle closer together and surreptitiously hold hands in the back. Glancing in the rearview mirror, Laura notices Dan wink and grin at Tamsin as the track on the sound system changes to a song from the genre Laura thinks of as: ‘Cut the bitch up and stuff her in the boot’ songs. It is possible they have a shorter, more user-friendly classification, but no one has told Laura yet. Fred, who likes this music, generally ushers his mother out of the room when he is listening to it, saying, ‘It’s not your sort of thing, Mum, it’s a bit difficult to get into,’ as if she is only fit for the Eurovision Song Contest. He has a point; Laura’s taste is moving steadily towards the rocking chair of easy listening, and she can no longer hide her preference for Radio Two because it is the only station tuned in on the car radio. Dolly loathes this nose-dive out of coolness, and as a reaction has moved on to tinkly, and sometimes moany Moroccan-based music. Laura is not sure which she dislikes more, but knows that in order not to alienate herself from her children she must try to pretend to appreciate both. Maybe Tamsin will report back how much Laura is enjoying the car music. She turns it up a bit and pretends to hum a note or two. The song however, descends into fast and filthy rap and Laura is left way behind mouthing, ‘Oh baby.’ If Inigo were here he would love it. He is always prepared to give all music a chance, and positively relishes listening to Fred and Dolly’s latest favourites. He likes to put them on in the car at full volume and drive. Aching sadness cuts through Laura’s thoughts, and she has to take deep breaths and concentrate on the rapper, who has now tied up his baby and left her in a bedsit, to prevent herself from U-turning the car and heading back to London to beg Inigo to stay.

  At Crumbly, Hedley bounds out to greet them, his enthusiasm only just eclipsed by that of the Labrador Diver, who sticks his nose up Laura’s skirt as she fumbles in the car for Tamsin and Dan’s backpacks. Behind her she hears Hedley’s voice, faltering, ‘Tamsin. Hello. It’s nice to see you.’

  ‘For God’s sake give the girl a hug.’ Laura spins around to see Guy is here too. He pushes Hedley towards Tamsin, as she stands awkwardly, pale and numb by the car. Tamsin reddens and falls into Hedley’s arms, sobbing.

  ‘I’m really sorry, I’ve been so stupid and I realised it was a mistake. I quite like Gina, in fact and I don’t really want to go and live with Mum in her women’s camp, and Dan …’ Hedley, finding his shoulder damp already, thrusts a handkerchief at her. Tamsin blows her nose gratefully. ‘… And Dan was brilliant because he came to take care of me and he didn’t want to because he had to miss kick boxing and he knew his Mum would blow him out.’

  She subsides into Hedley’s arms, and he, stroking her hair, leads her towards the house, saying, ‘Come on, Tamsin, you need to sit down and tell me everything when you feel a bit better. Dan, you come too, we’ll sort everything out.’

  Laura leans against the car, arms folded, amazed at her brother’s transformation into a caring and sensitive listener, a responsive and loving stepfather. She turns to Guy, rushing over her words. ‘I think you must have been working on him. I was so worried that he’d shout at her.’

  Guy shrugs and digs his hands into his pockets, rolling a stone under his shoe and not looking at Laura. ‘No. I just told him to hug her. The rest comes from him. He’s been so worried, and since he knew she was with you, he’s done a lot of thinking.’ He looks up, straight at Laura. ‘It looks like Hedley’s finally had to grow up.’

  Flustered, Laura suddenly wants to be on her own.

  ‘I must get to the Gate House,’ she says, jumping into the car. ‘Say goodbye to Hedley for me.’ Rap music floods out, drowning anything else she was going to say. Guy laughs and waves, mouthing something Laura can’t hear.

  Chapter 23

  Autumn has come to the Gate House. Walking up the damp path to the door, Laura steps over windfall apples amid a tapestry of gold and green leaves. The roses by the porch are still flowering sparsely, and delicate pink petals drift against the wet red-brick of the wall above a few straggling lavender heads. The grass, grown long once again, Laura notices in despair, is covered by curling oak leaves and half-open chestnut shells, and an impromptu pond, a silver disc with tufts of green bristling at the edges, has formed in the middle of the lawn, nowhere near the official pond.

  Inside the house, the chill in the air tells her as she opens the door that the Rayburn is out, but even so, Laura moves instinctively towards it, her hands outstretched, anticipating warmth she knows is not here. Collecting kindling and newspaper to light it, she wonders why it is that fires which are out leave a room so much colder than fires which are never lit. It must be to do with expectation, or more mundanely, flues, she decides, putting her coat back on now she has lit the stove, and stamping her feet to try and warm them up. It’s no good, it’s freezing. The only way to get warm is to go to bed. Laura does so, and inevitably falls asleep, waking with a heavy drugged feeling, and no idea where she is.

  Her phone rings. It is Fred. ‘Hi Mum, I’ve borrowed Shane’s mobile to call you. I’m on the way home from school. We had curry for lunch today.’ He pauses expectantly.

  ‘Good,’ says Laura encouragingly. ‘It’s lovely to speak to you. I’ve seen Hedley and—’

  ‘The thing is, Mum, the curry’s reminded me that Vice needs some more roadkill really badly and—’ background sounds of: ‘Wicked, Fred. Whaddyamean roadkill? Is it like, dead bodies?’ interrupt him, but Laura knows what is coming next,

  ‘So seeing as there isn’t much in South End Green, do you think you could possibly go and find some today?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Laura realises how ungracious she sounds. ‘I mean, yes of course I will, if I really have to.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum. Get a rabbit if you can. I hate plucking pheasants.’

  Laura tries to divert him. ‘Don’t you think Vice might like some bacon or something to keep her meat-eating instincts alive until you next come here?’

  Fred shouts back, ‘NO, and make sure it isn’t too splatted. GOT TO GO. BYE, MUM.’ More background appreciation from Fred’s ghoulish friends and the line goes dead.

  Ah good, Laura thinks wryly, now the re
st of the day is taken care of. No time to start feeling sad again; this is not the moment to sit down and make plans for life or the garden, nor to sweep dead leaves. It’s time to get up, get dressed and hit the road with a spatula. Laura wishes, not for the first time, that she had known more about the private lives of ferrets before agreeing so blithely to Fred having one. The thing to remember now is that he is bound to want another one, and it is important to be vigilant in preventing this. Any slacking and Fred will have a whole ferret farm. What a hideous prospect. Laura makes a big attempt to do positive thinking and after a struggle, finds it in herself to be pleased that Fred is being responsible about his pet’s diet. Even though the hunter-gathering is palmed off on his mother, Fred has been thinking of someone or rather something other than himself, and that is a good thing. Armed with this uplifting thought, she removes the spatula and, not wishing to be under-equipped, the fish slice from the drawer, and heads out to the car.

  What had been a fine day when she went into the house at midday has now become spiteful and nasty. A lowering pewter sky, with blacker patches of rain on the horizon, greets Laura, and a vigorous gust of wind whips her hair across her mouth and bites through her clothes so she shivers as she runs to the car.

  A future of scraping flattened rabbits off the tarmac to a constant background noise of Radio One is a bleak one, and scanning the lane ahead, Laura tries to imagine anyone sane turning down a comfortable life in New York with pavements and underfloor heating to have this privilege. For her though, there is no choice; the impulse to move forwards and to make her own decisions has taken over.

  There is a clap of thunder, the wind rises and rain begins to pour, loud and metallic, on the roof of the car. The wipers flick back and forth across the windscreen, but do not increase Laura’s visibility. Beyond the car a veil of rain sweeps in every direction, fogging the fields and the road ahead. Laura stops the car, unable to see to drive on. Cocooned in muffled safety, she winds down her window to hear the rain. The steady thud begins to slow a little, and other sounds filter into the car; a distant engine explodes into life, there is the startled crack and strangled shriek of a pheasant soaring to roost, and more persistently, a mournful bleating. Laura listens vaguely for a few moments, gradually becoming aware that the bleating is sounding increasingly desperate. Something, a sheep probably, needs help.

  I am a countrywoman now and a sheep needs help, thinks Laura, and looks around in search of more convincing, perhaps more professional help. But there is not a soul, nor a building in sight, not a tractor in a field, not a car on the road. Laura will have to perform a Pet Rescue operation alone. Dolly’s boots – silver with big pink daisies on them, are in the car. She puts them on and scrabbles under the seats and among the layers of sweet papers and old magazines for a hat. All she can find is a pink sequinned straw stetson left over from the summer, mangled and damaged, but better than nothing. She puts it on, but can find no form of coat, not even a plastic bag to convert. Resigned to saturation, Laura climbs over the gate and into the field beyond.

  The scene within is not what Laura had expected at all. Where there should have been a charming flock of sheep grazing on an idyllic green sward beneath an ancient oak, there is a vast mud-brown lake stretching to woodland. Along the middle, and parting around the ancient oak, a current flows vigorously, suggesting that a stream or ditch lies beneath. On the other side of this fast-flowing rip, half a dozen sheep stand looking foolish and frightened, next to a small black pony. They are already submerged up to their knees, and as the rain continues unabated, Laura imagines they will soon be swimming. She must go and find someone. A tractor and then perhaps a small boat will be needed. It is just like Noah’s Ark. Farmers with lifeboat skills, that’s who she needs. There must be some; after all, the sea is only a few miles away. Laura turns to climb back over the gate to the car and her telephone. She should ring Hedley. He will know what to do, and who to inform. Laura has a feeling she has seen the pony before, but where?

  Peering towards the animals again, Laura gasps. One of the sheep has slid from its vantage point with the others and plopped heavily into the racing current. Its legs flail pitifully, its mouth is open as it twirls and bobs along, vanishing beneath brown water. Laura sees the fleece, heavier as it absorbs water, dragging the sheep down. A moment later another sheep, bleating and struggling, slides in too. The pony heaves itself backwards, snorting. The bank the animals are standing on is giving way and none of them can see where to move to in order to save themselves. Horrified, Laura realises that the first sheep is no longer struggling; its legs stick straight out from the scribbled blob of its fleece as it is borne onward along the stream towards the fence.

  Laura swings off the gate and runs towards the stricken animals. After a few strides the water is too deep to run in, and she slows down, wading as fast as she can, plunging deep to her thighs where there is a hollow in the field, then shallower, to her knees again. Her boots fill with swirling water; she kicks them off and wades on.

  The pony has plunged into the deep water now, and is swimming, trying to gain purchase with his feet on the bank. Another sheep struggles on the edge. Laura’s breath comes in rough gasps; she loses balance and falls shuddering with shock and cold under the water. She has stumbled into a deeper part now, and the current pulls her so she is half-swimming towards the pony and his remaining companions. She manages to put her hands out and stop herself being swept past, and she stands up, crouched to protect herself from the hooves and weight of the scrambling pony.

  ‘Don’t worry, whoa, boy,’ she says, stretching up to grasp the pony’s head collar.

  ‘WAIT, I’M COMING. DON’T MOVE, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE DON’T MOVE!’

  Above the rush of the stream, the hiss of rain, the snorting of the terrified pony and the constant tragic wail of the sheep, Laura can hardly believe she had heard a voice. Over at the gate, yellow lights flash on the roof of a vehicle, and through the dusk a dripping figure approaches, beaming a torch at her face, splashing and wading towards her.

  ‘Are you all right? What are you doing in here? Can you get out?’ It is Guy, reaching down to pull her up from the deep water where she’s standing. These must be his sheep, and the pony is the one Hedley was looking after. Knowing the animals personally makes the situation worse. Laura’s teeth chatter, and she grips the pony’s headcollar more tightly, her hands slipping in the fabric as more rain slides down the pony’s face and through her frozen fingers.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. But look, over there – one of the sheep is being swept away towards that fence and I think another has drowned.’

  Guy tries to see where she is pointing; his expression is grim. ‘Can you try to draw the others away from this dyke? Take the pony first. If you go up to the corner, there is a way across and you can lead it up to the gate.’ It is almost dark now, and the rain falls unabated. Guy gestures in the twilight towards the hedge and hurries downstream to the sheep, which has pulled itself out of the flowing current and has collapsed in shallow water, still bleating. Laura scrambles up until she is standing level with the pony and slowly begins to lead it along the edge of the ditch, stumbling in the floodwater. A gunshot echoes across the water. Laura bites her tongue in shock, almost grateful for the throb of pain because it’s warm in her mouth and the rest of her is wrapped in ice by her drenched clothes. The pony, and the sheep following, shy away in fright. The pony flings back its head, its eyes rolling white and terrified. Laura clings to it with both hands, afraid that it might turn and bolt back towards the treacherous dyke.

  ‘Sorry about the shot’ Guy’s voice floats to her out of darkness, somewhere above the bobbing torch. ‘The ewe’s leg was broken, she was in agony. I’m going after the others, just keep going with that pony.’

  Absurdly, tears trickle down Laura’s face as she leads the hesitant pony slowly along the ditch towards the looming blackness of the hedge, small rivulets of warmth running down her chin and her nose. Having reached t
he hedge, Laura knows she is meant to turn and cross the ditch and from there it is just a few steps to the gate. The car headlamps pour light into the field, the bars of the gate burning a black grid into the white beam. The illumination almost reaches Laura, and adjusting her eyes to the eddying flood, she notices the stillness of a width of water ahead of her, beyond which the current pours fast again. It must be the bridge. Treading slowly, sliding her feet one in front of the other, she begins to wade into the still stretch of water, the pony stepping slowly after her, huffing and snorting in alarm. Sure enough, the ground remains solid beneath her, and holding her breath, she reaches the other side. Immediately the height of the floodwater drops and Laura and the pony are on dry land in front of the gate. From Guy’s truck, above the roar of the weather, Laura can hear a throbbing beat and she grins shakily. He is listening to the music Fred lent him.

  ‘Laura, how are you feeling?’ Guy, looking remarkably cheerful for someone who has just had to shoot a sheep, appears out of the darkness, trailed by indeterminate woolly lumps which Laura assumes must be the rest of the sheep. His dog skims the group, trotting back and forth just beyond the beam of torchlight.

  ‘Fine, thanks.’ She nods, and this vigorous movement is too much for the sodden brim of her straw hat. It drops flat over her eyes like a pair of blinkers. Laura removes the hat. ‘What shall we do with them all?’

  Guy unlocks the gate and marches out towards the back end of his truck. ‘We need to get this lot dry. If you wait while I get the sheep in the back, could you drive them back to my place and I’ll lead the pony? I won’t be far behind you. It’s only a mile or so.’ Laura nods, hoping he can’t see the degree to which her heart has sunk. She is frozen, soaked and shocked. All she wants is a hot bath and an anaesthetising drink, and instead she’s going to spend the next part of the evening driving sheep around.