Weathering

by Lucy Wood

  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 . . .

  Chapter 6

  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 th
e 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 . . .

  Chapter 7

  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.

  The first rungs bounced under her feet. Ten steps up she realised she’d forgotten to ask Pepper to hold it steady. Went back down slowly and showed her how to grip the sides.

  Her heart clanged like the rungs. She paused, then kept going. Felt the ladder tilt, looked down and saw Pepper staring off to one side, only one hand on the ladder. ‘Oi,’ Ada shouted. ‘Concentrate on this.’ Add Pepper if you want to plummet to your death.

  The wind seemed to pick up as she went higher, dragging her hair across her eyes. She made the mistake of looking down again. God it was high and the concrete yard glared below. The trees a swathe of dusky orange, like dim lanterns.

  At the top, she had to lean forward to see into the chimney, hands scrabbling against the roof. There were a lot of tiles missing; something else to add to the list which kept growing and growing. There was a mass of sticks clogging the chimney. She tried to pull one out but tipped, swung sideways, somehow grabbed the ladder. Pepper called something, her voice a thin waver. But Ada couldn’t look down. She clung hard to the ladder, mouth dry, swaying like a pendulum on a broken clock.

  The ladder shook. ‘Can you put your right foot down a step?’ a woman’s voice called up.

  Ada groped with her foot, but her leg stretched down and down without hitting a rung. ‘I can’t,’ she said.

  The rungs clunked. ‘Here,’ the woman said. A hand gripped Ada’s ankle and guided it onto the rung below. ‘Now the other foot, OK?’

  They went down slowly, rung by rung. And then there was the bottom. Beautiful solid ground. Pepper desperate to tell her, the little git, that she’d seen the cat again; it had run right past the ladder and round the back of the house.

  The woman took the ladder down and folded it. ‘Where does this go?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ Ada said, but Judy – she had realised halfway down that it was Judy – carried it back to the shed herself.

  ‘There’s this,’ Pepper said, holding out a white dish. She shoved it into Ada’s hands, stared at Judy for a moment, who shifted and pushed at her sleeves, then ran off in the direction she’d said the cat had gone.

  ‘I brought you something,’ Judy said. She watched Pepper running. ‘It’s nothing much, leftovers, you don’t have to eat it or anything.’ Her russet hair was cut short and clumpy. A kitchen-scissor job. Red cheeks, her eyes squinting even though it wasn’t bright. Her body stockier, something taut in her folded arms. The colours were all washed out of her clothes, mended seams on her jeans. Wellies with an ankle line of mud.

  ‘Up there,’ Ada said, pointing to the roof. ‘I’m sure I would have been able to, if you hadn’t come.’

  Judy pushed her hair out of her eyes. Which had almost rolled. ‘I could use a cup,’ she said.

  Judy’s boots left slices of mud along the floor. Ada put the kettle on. Still the last residue of panic flitting around her body. She made a pot of tea and got out cups. A gaudy purple one for herself and gold for Judy. All her mother’s things either tacky or practical, no middle ground between a garden fork and a plastic chandelier. She heaped two sugars into Judy’s.

  ‘I cut down on sugar,’ Judy said. ‘For the teeth.’

  Ada nodded. She tipped the cup away and poured another. The tea bags rose up in the pot and then sank.

  Judy gulped scalding tea and poured more. The gold cup held carefully in chapped hands. ‘I heard you were back,’ she said.

  Ada looked around the squalid kitchen. She pushed a pile of catalogues out of Judy’s way – outdoor clothes: gloves with leather pads, cheap tweed like shiny granite. ‘Just until this place is sorted out,’ she said. She stood at the edge of the table. ‘How long have you been back?’ There had been a few letters, stilted and formal, neither of them good at writing, then after a while, no letters.

  ‘I’m not,’ Judy said. ‘I’m not back.’ She pushed her sleeves up higher above her elbows. ‘I never left. I wanted to come to the funeral, but Dad got a problem with his stomach, we had to take him to the hospital, turned out there was a pseudo cyst in there.’

  The funeral. Ada took the pot and filled it again. ‘A
pseudo cyst,’ she said. Didn’t that just mean no cyst?

  ‘He’s living in town now,’ Judy said. ‘Had to sell the bungalow, pay for his residential bills. They let him take his sound system but not his fish tank. They don’t allow pets. I told them that if a fish escaped it probably wouldn’t be able to terrorise other residents. They said: how did I know?’ She stopped and looked at Ada. ‘I guess you won’t remember the fish tank.’

  ‘I remember,’ Ada said. They would scatter bright food pellets and watch them sink.

  ‘They said I should buy him curtains with fish on instead. And I did.’ She shook her head. ‘And a duvet.’

  Ada swallowed the gritty dregs in her cup. The kitchen clock went, tick, tick, pause, tick. ‘Mario,’ she said. ‘There was a fish called Mario.’

  ‘There was never a fish called Mario,’ Judy told her. ‘They were all female.’ She picked up one of Pepper’s gloves and smoothed out the wrinkles, then dropped it on the table and scraped her chair back. ‘I should look at your chimney while I’m here.’

  There were the cold remains of the fire. The feathers like decoration. Judy knelt down and put her arm in. ‘What I thought,’ she said. She showed the black twigs and feathers. ‘Some old nests in there. Good job you didn’t light a fire or the whole thing might have caught.’ She started pulling out tangled handfuls.

  ‘I can do it,’ Ada told her. She got out a bin bag but there was nothing to do except hold it open while Judy stuffed twigs in. They ripped holes through the plastic. Lichen flaked like old paint. In one handful, a few broken pieces of egg shell.

  There was a gold band on Judy’s ring finger that was loose and slipping over her knuckle.

  ‘Are you in town now then?’ Ada asked.

  ‘I’m up at the farm,’ Judy said. She nodded towards the window as if the farm was just outside it. ‘We’ve got the whole thing just the two of us now.’

  Ada pushed the twigs down so that more would fit in. ‘You and Robbie?’