Kat stands frozen in her hiding place. She doesn’t know what to make of what she’s just seen, but she knows who the woman is, she’s sure of it; it’s the same woman who waved at her that morning all those months ago, from up on the ridge. Kat’s brain clicks into gear and things quickly begin to fall into place: the lavish Christmas Day basket . . . the purple wool. Freya has been making friends with the locals. Freya has been cheating. While the rest of them have been toughing it out, sticking to the rules, trying to live frugal lives of self-sufficiency, Freya has been indulging herself with social outings and home comforts. Kat’s smile is grim. It’s hardly the image of independence that Simon has extolled and Kat knows he would class it as a betrayal, not least because Freya has potentially jeopardised their entire project. Simon didn’t even want them visiting local pubs or shops too often. What on earth would he make of Freya befriending a local farmer, visiting her regularly for cups of tea and cosy chats?
It’s a long walk back to the cottage and once or twice Kat isn’t even sure if she is following the right path, but she picks her way across the moorland and then down the hillside until she rejoins the track leading to the meadow and the lake, buoyed by the knowledge that she has something that shows Freya in a less than perfect light. Finally, she has ammunition to use, when the time is right. Kat knows there is no way Simon will forgive Freya for this and she smoulders with indignation and anger the whole way. But there is something else there too, lurking in the hot furnace of her belly: a spark of relief.
Simon is waiting. He appears in the doorway of the lean-to and beckons for her to join him. Kat walks across the trampled grass, taking the moment to observe him from a distance. Living together in such close proximity, she’s grown used to seeing him up close; she has forgotten to see the full shape of him. Now she regards him as a stranger might: a tall, lean man with dark hair curling to his shoulders and a faint shadow of stubble on his chin. He is thinner than he was at university, but somehow he looks stronger, more muscular and powerful, his body honed by physical work. His face is changed too – all angles and shadows in the half light of the shed, like a cubist painting – and yet still the familiar curve of his lips, the high cheekbones, the dark, brooding eyes. She feels his beauty – and her desire for him – like a hot ache.
She is expecting him to ask where she has been but his mind is on other matters. ‘Come here,’ he says ushering her into the shadows of the lean-to.
She throws him a playful smile but as soon as she is inside she sees the bucket, rope and hunting knife laid out upon the wooden crate and a little further away, the rifle propped against the wall where it gleams ominously in the gloom. ‘What’s all this?’ she asks, the smile beginning to fade on her face.
‘It’s time for Wilbur to meet his maker.’
Kat stares at him. ‘But . . . Freya . . . she’ll be devastated.’
Simon shrugs.
‘Does Mac know?’
‘I hardly think we need his permission, do we?’
Kat clears her throat. ‘Shouldn’t we wait for him though?’
‘Why?’ asks Simon, a tight smile playing on his lips. ‘You think Mac’s the only one who knows how to do anything remotely useful around here?’
‘No, of course not,’ she backtracks. ‘I just thought . . . you and him together . . . it would be easier, surely?’
‘Don’t worry; I’ll hold the pig. You’re the one that’s going to shoot him.’
Kat swallows. She searches his eyes for a spark of humour – hopes to see that he is just toying with her – but his face is set with grim determination. ‘One shot through the head. Then we hang him up, skin him and remove the entrails. How hard can it be?’
Kat swallows again. ‘I don’t know . . .’
‘What don’t you know, Kat?’ Simon looks at her, his head tilted to one side. ‘Isn’t this what it’s about? Growing and rearing our own food . . . being responsible for death as well as life?’
‘I don’t think—’
‘He’s been royally pampered all the time he’s been here. Probably eaten better than us most days.’
She can’t return his smile. She can’t get Freya out of her head. Her sister loves Wilbur. She thinks about the way he follows her about the cottage garden, or trails her by the lake, the affection she bestows upon it as she would a spoiled child. Kat is agonising over the decision when the hapless pig wanders into the barn. He snuffles and snorts his way through the dirt, then stares up at them longingly, hopeful for a dry crust or a handful of scraps.
‘Look at him, so spoilt, so fat. He’s not a pet. It’s time he played his part.’ Simon reaches out and touches her arm but Kat can’t help it; silently she wills the pig to run away, to turn and leave the barn . . . but Wilbur, oblivious to the fateful conversation taking place above his head, just trots a little closer, still hopeful for some food.
‘Here little piggy,’ croons Simon. He bends down with his empty hand outstretched and Wilbur trots obediently forwards. When the pig is close enough, Simon grabs him around the neck and wraps the rope like a noose about him. The pig bucks and squeals but Simon ties him tight to one of the wooden posts in the shed and then straddles him, holding him still between his knees. Wilbur doesn’t like it. His squeals rise in pitch. ‘Quick, Kat, fetch the gun.’
She moves on autopilot, takes up the gun in her hands, feels the cool metal beneath her trembling fingers.
‘Take the safety off. Good. Now point it at the front of his head. There. Slightly above and between the eyes.’
Wilbur falls silent. It’s as if he knows what’s coming. He gives one last half-hearted buck but Simon wrestles him back between his knees and secures the noose more tightly against the post. ‘OK, slowly now; I’ll move away, you shoot.’
‘I don’t think . . . I can’t . . .’ Kat is filled with panic. ‘What if I miss?’
Simon’s gaze bores straight into her, his eyes like flint. ‘Don’t.’
She presses the rifle to the pig’s forehead. Wilbur gazes up at her, his blue eyes wide with terror. Kat tries to stare him down then looks away. She can’t do it.
‘Come on,’ says Simon, egging her on. ‘Do it. Shoot him.’ Slowly, he backs away, leaving Wilbur tied to the post, the gun pressed to his head.
She thinks about Freya. She thinks of her sister lying upstairs in the cottage while Simon made love to her. She thinks of the baby, Simon’s child, growing in her sister’s swollen belly. She thinks of Freya and the way she had gazed at Mac only that morning down by the shores of the lake . . . the sight of her walking purposefully out across the moors . . . of how she’d been welcomed by that stranger with open arms.
‘Now,’ whispers Simon.
She thinks of all Freya’s betrayals and she closes her eyes and squeezes the trigger.
The sound is deafening. The impact ricochets up her arms and lodges in her shoulders. She feels the explosion deep in her chest, as if it is her that has been shot, not the pig. Something warm and wet splatters onto her hands. She feels it on her face too. She moans at the horror but gradually the ringing in her ears stops and she hears footsteps running towards the barn.
‘What the hell?’ It is Mac, standing breathless in the doorway. He sees the pig lying on the dirt between them and he races forwards. ‘What have you done?’
A pool of pig’s blood is spreading at her feet. Kat steps backwards, so as not to tread in it.
‘We thought it was time for some roast pork.’ Simon is smiling but Mac’s face is a picture of horror.
‘You don’t do it like this!’
‘Why not?’
‘You don’t do it on a whim, in the dirt with the animal half scared to death. You do it with preparation and respect.’
The smell of blood fills the air. Its cloying metallic tang fills Kat’s nose and lungs; it makes her feel sick.
‘We were prepared,’ Simon says coolly.
Mac shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says firmly, ‘not like this.’
/> Simon rolls his eyes at Kat but Mac doesn’t seem to notice. He is too distracted by the pig. ‘We’ve got to get it off the ground. Raise it up. Slit its throat. If we don’t remove the stomach and intestines quickly the meat will spoil.’ Mac stares at the pig and shakes his head. Kat is shocked to see tears in his eyes.
‘I do know all this,’ says Simon through gritted teeth. He takes a step towards Mac and Mac, sensing the movement, swings his head up in surprise. They face off across the dead animal, tension radiating from both of them. Kat sees Simon’s hands clench at his side, a flash of silver – the hunting knife – held in one curled fist and Kat knows this isn’t just about the pig any more.
She would intervene. She would tell them to stop being such macho idiots and just butcher the pig before the entire exercise is wasted, but she doesn’t have time to worry about that now. The sight of the fleshy pink pig, lolling on the ground in the dirt, and the coppery smell of the blood makes her guts heave violently. She turns and runs to the doorway, only just making it out of the barn before her stomach clenches and a stream of watery vomit splatters onto the dirt outside.
Freya returns late, to a cottage still simmering with tension and filled with the sickly-sweet aroma of roasting pork.
‘What’s that smell?’ she asks, shrugging off her cardigan and hanging it by the door. ‘Has someone been shopping?’ She puts her nose to the air.
Ben glances across at Kat, clearly not wanting to be the one to tell her.
Kat swallows and then clears her throat. ‘It was . . . it was time . . .’ She can’t finish her sentence and she looks to the floor instead.
Freya stares from Kat to Ben and then back to Kat. ‘What?’ she asks. ‘What was time?’ Slowly, her smile fades. ‘You didn’t,’ she says, her voice barely a whisper.
It’s hardly a question but Kat finds she doesn’t have the answer anyway. All she can think of is the pig’s terrified blue eyes staring up at her, just before she pulled the trigger.
‘Wilbur?’
Ben nods.
Freya’s cheeks flood with colour. She turns on Kat. ‘Who did it?’
Before she can answer, Simon sidles into the room in bare feet, his hands wrapped around a chipped mug of tea. ‘Oh, hello, Freya,’ he greets her with airy nonchalance, ‘back from your walk? And just in time for dinner, good.’ He stops and looks between the three of them. ‘What?’
‘Who killed Wilbur?’ Freya’s voice is ice. ‘Was it you?’
Simon gives a small smile and shakes his head. ‘I had no idea your sister was such an excellent shot. We’ll have to take her out hunting with us next time.’
Freya spins back to Kat in disbelief. ‘You?’
Kat drops her head. The look in her sister’s eyes is worse than she had imagined.
‘You should be thanking us,’ says Simon from the doorway. ‘You could do with a little more protein in your diet . . . for the baby,’ he adds unnecessarily.
Freya stares at him, her eyes like daggers, but she has no words. Instead she pushes past him and stomps up the stairs, the sound of her sobs echoing behind her as she goes. Simon shrugs. ‘I don’t know why she’s so upset. It was going to happen sooner or later. We always told her he wasn’t a pet.’
It’s a miserable meal. They sit round the table pushing charred pieces of meat about their plates while Freya’s seat remains glaringly empty.
‘She’s remarkably stubborn, isn’t she?’ says Simon to no one in particular.
Kat spears a piece of meat with her fork and puts it to her lips. She isn’t hungry but she forces it into her mouth and chews slowly. It is tender and sweet, a little smoky where the fat has charred, but all she can think about is the creeping pool of blood on the dirt floor of the barn and the terror in Wilbur’s wide blue eyes. The meat slips down her throat like a hard marble and lands in her guts where it churns sickeningly for the rest of the evening. She feels, in Simon’s approving gaze, that she has won something, but she’s not sure if Freya will ever forgive her for what she’s had to do to claim her prize.
21
LILA
May
Lila has just towelled her hair dry, pulled on a clean dress and headed downstairs in bare feet to boil the kettle when there is a loud rap at the front door. ‘Coming,’ she yells. The excited barks accompanying the knocks tell her who it is before she’s even thrown the door open.
‘Oh good,’ says William, standing on the doorstep wearing a freshly ironed shirt and a tentative smile, ‘we were hoping to catch you.’
‘I don’t leave until the morning.’ She steps back. ‘Come in, please. I was just going to make tea. Or perhaps you’d like a glass of wine? There’s a bottle in the kitchen.’
William hesitates. ‘Thank you.’ He slips his boots off by the door then follows Lila into the kitchen, Rosie trotting at his heels. The dog curls up in her favourite spot by the range while William perches on the wooden bench, stretching his long legs in front of him. Both he and Lila see the hole in the toe of his sock at the same time and William grins and folds his feet back beneath him.
‘Want me to darn that?’ Lila teases.
He blushes. ‘No, thanks. I can manage it myself . . . just.’
She holds up a bottle of red wine for his approval then fiddles with the corkscrew, pouring him a glass before turning to the kettle to make tea for herself. When she eventually sits down opposite him, William pushes something across the kitchen table towards her. ‘Happy birthday,’ he says.
Lila looks at him confused. ‘How did you kn—’
‘You told me, last time I was here, remember?’
‘Did I?’ Lila shakes her head. She doesn’t remember, but then she’s been so preoccupied with thoughts of her possible pregnancy perhaps it’s not a surprise. ‘Well, thank you,’ she says, looking down at the small tissue-paper wrapped gift. You really shouldn’t have.’
‘It’s just a little something.’ William shifts in his seat as Lila begins to pull at the wrapping. ‘It might not be to your taste,’ he says, ‘so please don’t feel obliged to wear it.’
Inside the paper is a small black box. When she lifts the lid she sees a fine silver chain with a circular pendant nestled on black velvet. She holds it up to the light: an oval about the size of a fifty pence piece made from finely beaten silver with three small raised flecks within. The metal has been worked so expertly it feels as thin and delicate as a sheet of paper between her fingers. Lila stares at the pendant and knows instantly what it is: three seeds inside a papery pod. It’s a seed head – an honesty seed head – just like the ones growing around the cottage; just like the ones she’d found in the upstairs bedroom when she arrived all those months ago.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she says, fingering the delicate necklace. ‘Is it—’
‘Yes,’ he nods, knowing what she’s going to ask before she can finish her sentence. ‘It’s one of Evelyn’s. I think she’d like you to have it.’
‘Really?’
William nods.
She holds the chain up to her neck.
‘Here, let me.’
He reaches over and brushes the hair from the back of her neck then fastens it in place.
‘I want to see it.’ She heads into the front room and admires the necklace in the mirror above the fireplace, grinning back at William where he stands just behind, watching. The pendant gleams like a silver coin in the hollow of her throat. She reaches up, smoothing her fingers once more over the delicate metal. ‘Thank you. I love it.’
‘Good,’ says William. In the reflection of the mirror, his eyes seem to shine just a little too brightly. ‘It suits you. Mum will be thrilled.’
Evelyn, she thinks, of course; it must be hard watching her deteriorate. ‘How is she?’ she asks as they return to the kitchen table.
‘She’s fine. She keeps asking after you though. You must come and visit us again, when you get back from London. That is,’ he adds quickly, ‘if you come back.’
Lila nods
and takes a sip of her tea.
William cocks his head to one side. ‘You look different. What is it?’
Lila smiles. She wonders for a moment whether to tell him about the possible pregnancy, but then decides against it. Not yet. Not until she knows for sure and has had a chance to tell Tom. However she feels about him right now, Tom should be first. ‘Must be all that swimming I’ve been doing,’ she says.
‘I have to say,’ he glances curiously about the cottage, ‘it looks as though you’re almost finished here.’
‘Yes,’ she admits, following his gaze around the room. ‘I was thinking the same thing earlier.’ The interior is no longer dingy and draped in cobwebs and dust, but a welcoming space of light and colour. The walls and ceilings gleam a crisp, clean white, setting off the characterful wooden beams slung low across the ceilings. Lila has restored and painted a shabby dresser picked up in a local junk shop, installed it along the wall next to the window seat and lined its shelves with an eclectic array of glass bottles found about the cottage grounds. Colourful curtains cut from an antique patchwork quilt frame each window. There are fresh meadow flowers on the window sill and fruit in an earthenware bowl on the table.
Through the open doorway she can see the sofa standing beneath the window in its new linen slip covers and scattered with colourful cushions, as well as the low coffee table fashioned from the log rescued from the forest. The floorboards have been repaired and polished and gleam a warm honey colour beneath the new jute rug. Above the fireplace hangs a large, speckled mirror, reflecting the light from the windows back into the interior. Upon the mantel Lila has lined coveted treasure from her walks: a giant pine cone, a polished stone, the long feather from a pheasant’s tail, an old milk bottle filled with cowslips.
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