by Lucy Wood
Someone came to fix the leak in the hall but the next day it leaked in a different place.
The power chuntered. The radiators screeched and were only hot halfway up. And the worst thing: something went wrong with the cooker so that it wouldn’t light.
‘Why is this happening?’ Pepper said. She had started wearing two jumpers and a hat indoors, which made her skin itch. She scratched her arms until they bled. She looked at the tins of beans and soup on the shelf, tried not to imagine eating them cold.
‘There’s gas left in the bottles,’ her mother said, tipping them to one side. ‘I can hear it.’ There were tired circles under her eyes. When a door creaked in the draught she spun round as if she expected to see someone there.
Pepper ate slice after slice of bread until her stomach bloated and gurgled. She was supposed to stay by the fire but instead she stirred the saucepan of leaked water until it spilled, picked at rust on pipes, pushed her fingers into spongy plaster. The new paint wouldn’t dry properly and when she leaned against walls it left smears down her back.
Judy came over and looked at the cooker. She touched the top of Pepper’s head and her hands smelled like medicine because of the cream she rubbed in – to stop her skin cracking, she said. Pepper thought about the silver necklace in her mother’s bedroom; she’d seen the other half in a drawer in Judy’s house.
She sat on the kitchen floor, opened a cupboard and took out the little spice bottles. Something she used to do a lot. She opened each one and breathed in the familiar smells, dusty and exotic: the orange one like powdery sand, the spicy one that smelled of biscuits.
Her mother and Judy clanged the gas bottles and laughed quietly. Her mother said that people kept telling her Pepper should be in school. Her voice sounded different with Judy, something lighter in it, not so tired.
Pepper tipped out the balls of nutmeg and rolled them around her hand. Dug into her palm with the sharp black cloves.
On Saturday morning there was a soft knock at the door and it was Petey. Dressed in a blue and purple sweatshirt, a scarf covered with snowmen. A smart wool coat that hung off his shoulders and down past his knees. ‘I thought I should invite you to play,’ he said. He pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger.
Pepper stood behind the door and made it swing open and shut. ‘Why?’ she said.
Petey blinked and looked up at her from the bottom step, his body a dense, rigid square. ‘I thought I better invite you,’ he said.
Pepper stopped swinging the door. ‘What would we do?’ She could hear her mother doing something with the radiators, the metal pranging, the sound of air gushing out of them. Looked out at the freezing mist and frost – nothing but bare, spidery trees; the river; wet, wet grass.
Petey frowned and then turned and gestured into the distance. ‘The usual things,’ he said. ‘The usual things people do.’ He hunched his shoulders and started to walk back up the drive.
Pepper had no idea what those things were. She watched him for a second, then called into the house: ‘I’m going outside.’ Heard her mother say don’t go too far, as she pushed the door closed and ran to catch up with Petey.
They walked along the road, staying on the verge. The grass was very long and there were lots of tall, brittle stalks sticking up. There was a clump of blackberries with furry mould all over them and a fat spider with gold stripes. Sometimes Petey would stop and crouch down and poke at something in the grass and sometimes he would find something in the hedge and put it in his pocket.
‘What are you doing?’ Pepper said.
‘Collecting,’ Petey said. He picked something up and put it in his pocket but didn’t show Pepper what it was.
She picked at the dry skin around her mouth. ‘Why are you?’ she said.
Petey put his hand deeper in his pocket. Pepper followed behind, stopping when he stopped. She watched him carefully, the red marks his glasses made behind his ears, the clean nails on his fingers. He smelled like onions and soap. He was wearing grey school trousers and school shoes, which made her feel sick. She tried to see what he’d found. Her glove caught on a sharp twig and it ripped a hole. She clenched her hands. ‘I won’t be here much longer,’ she said.
Petey turned up a lane with grass down the middle. He sniffed.
‘It’s not what I expected,’ Pepper said. Her voice sounded very loud in the cold air.
Up ahead the road widened and there was a group of small houses that all looked the same, with patches of muddy grass and cars parked outside. Satellite dishes, aerials, washing drooping out on the lines. At the front, there was a set of rusty swings and a seesaw. Petey sniffed again. ‘What did you expect?’ he said. He chose a swing and sat on it but didn’t swing.
Pepper sat on the swing next to him. She pushed herself high up into the air. Higher and higher, so that the frame creaked. ‘What did I expect?’ she said. But she just carried on swinging and couldn’t answer.
It looked like there were bits of grit and glass stuck all over the houses. One of the doors opened and a man came out, whistling. He looked over at them and then called out: ‘Alright kid. How’s it going down at the house?’ It was Ray, the man who had come over to see if he wanted to buy it.
Pepper slowed down on the swing. Her mouth felt dry, her hands clammy on the chains. ‘People keep saying they want to have a holiday there,’ she said. That’s what Howard had told her Ray wanted it for.
‘Really?’ Ray said.
‘Yes,’ Pepper told him. ‘You would be silly not to buy it probably.’
‘Is that right?’ Ray said. He got into his car and music blared out. He started the engine and pulled out onto the road.
Petey sat very still and upright on his swing. ‘It would be a good place for a holiday,’ he said.
‘That’s what I told him,’ Pepper said. She could smell the swing’s sharp, rusty metal.
‘I would like to go there on holiday,’ Petey said. ‘Right down by the river.’ He looked up at the window of the closest house and there was Clapper. They nodded to one another. Clapper was holding a mug of tea and sipping, the TV flickering behind him.
‘You live here anyway,’ Pepper said.
But Petey was looking dreamily upwards. ‘Right by the water,’ he said. ‘Then I could look out of the window and see fish whenever I wanted.’
Pepper skidded her foot on the gravel so that she stopped swinging. She leaned in close to Petey. ‘Have you ever had a pet?’ she said.
Petey shook his head. ‘I want one.’
‘Yes,’ Pepper said. ‘But you get a thing and you think it will sit on your lap, or come and find you, or not kill anything, or stop you feeling lonely. But it doesn’t.’
‘I know it,’ Petey said.
Pepper sighed and tipped herself backwards on the swing. Five was too young to understand.
‘I got a fishing rod,’ Petey said. ‘And it was meant to be the best one and it was my birthday present and my Christmas present and it broke first time. And another time I had a clown at a party and he was meant to sing songs and be funny but all he did was eat all the food and steal my grandpa’s watch. And they said a night-light would help me but it keeps me awake even more.’
They both sat in silence for a while. The swing’s chains rattled.
‘I hate clowns,’ Pepper said.
Petey nodded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of wrappers and bottle tops. Rubbish that he’d picked up off the verge. The swing creaked as he got up and put the rubbish in the bin. He went over to the seesaw and sat on it and Pepper sat on the other seat. He was heavy and she got stuck in the air. Petey got off carefully. He pushed his glasses up his nose. He started to lift his end of the seesaw so that Pepper could go up and down. ‘You are very light,’ he said.
There was the sound of a car and Ray drove back in. He grinned and saluted Pepper and she gripped the seat and closed her eyes and felt, in her stomach, the world lurch up and down.
Chapter 20
‘Howard’s off sick,’ Val said. Something she hadn’t mentioned to Ada on the phone. ‘He was talking about his chest. Can you have a heart attack without knowing it? He wasn’t sure. He’s drinking bicarbonate of soda, making funny breathing noises.’ She gestured to the deer. ‘He usually deals with this kind of thing. Do you know how to sort it?’
Ada stayed where she was. ‘Maybe Howard could come in for this,’ she said. She leaned against the door and breathed out slowly. Her hands clammy, stomach tense and gritty. Couldn’t deal with this as well. One of the deer’s legs looked broken, the bone jutting out.
‘I got it cheap,’ Val said. ‘It’s been skinned and gutted.’ Something sharp and irritated about her this morning, she kept glancing at the door to the bar. ‘I thought there was a book about it here somewhere.’ She opened and slammed cupboards. ‘Knew I should have bought that computer, I could have looked up a diagram or something.’
Ada stayed by the door. ‘I can’t do this,’ she said. She shook her head and turned to go. But then thought about the house: the half-filled boxes, the photos she kept finding scattered over the floor, the dubious oven, the leaks, the hours she would spend waiting, listening. She looked back at the deer. It was easy to see where some of the cuts would have to be made. Under the shoulder, across the ribs, the top of the legs. She tied her apron at the back. There was a saw on the work surface she hadn’t noticed before and a knife which Val started to sharpen vigorously, scraping the blade hard and fast.
‘I remember Howard talking about the saddle. Do you know what the saddle is?’ Val said. ‘I always thought he meant it as some kind of joke, riding the deer around or something.’ Someone called her from the bar. She carried on sharpening. ‘That’ll be the tax woman,’ she said. ‘Coming over to check my accounts. And you know who works in that office, who would have put them up to this? My wretched brother, that’s who. As if I would fiddle them.’ But she looked uneasy as she put the knife down and went out of the kitchen, leaving Ada alone with the deer.
The flesh was marbled and sleek. Ada took up the knife and stood over the table. The shoulders, she knew she had to take off the shoulders. She held one of the deer’s front legs up and ran the knife below it, felt muscle and sinew, saw darker red underneath. The knife was sharp but the handle was loose and quivered as she cut. The shoulder came off in one big piece. She did the same with the other leg. She’d expected a strong reek, something awful, but the deer smelled musty, of curdled milk, and fresh too, like dried grass. ‘There you go,’ she said as she cut.
Now the neck. She used the knife to slice as far as she could until she hit a thick wall of bone. The knife wouldn’t go through it. She glanced at the saw and back at the deer. She picked up the saw and pressed it against the bone, drew it back and then pushed forwards. Licking her teeth at the splintering, grinding noise. Moved on to the meat either side of the spine. Almost lost a finger when the saw jerked over the ribs. Gradually reducing the body down. Cutting away at it, talking softly. Not words, just small murmurs and sounds, and the sound of the knife as it slipped between meat and bone.
The tap dripped and made a small pool in the sink. No voices from the bar. The kitchen cold and quiet.
Ada turned the deer over, cut the flanks near the bone and pulled them back, like undoing a coat. Left now with the meat around the spine, two muscly back legs joined at the end. There was a grainier feel to the muscle in the leg, a lot more meat. She worked the knife and the saw and the legs were off. Then the horrible task of splitting them down the middle. Which she did as gently as possible.
The door swung open and Val barged in, got out a cheap frozen pie and stuck it in the microwave. Ink stains on her fingers, a harassed look. She saw Ada looking and shrugged. ‘No one will know the difference around here.’ The pie came out grey and soggy and Val slapped it on a plate with a heap of potatoes and took it out to the bar. Butting the door open with her hip. The door swung shut again.
The pieces of deer on the table were still quite big; there was probably more she could do with them. Ada looked at the neck and thought it could be cut into rough chops. Steaks from the leg; what she thought might be fillets from the meat around the spine. Hitting a sort of rhythm, slicing the meat off the bone, picking off shin meat, cutting strips from the loin.
Sweat trickled down her ribs. Her hair was damp on her forehead and she brushed it away with her shoulder. Hours had gone by. She tied up the bag of bones for Val to deal with, then found a roll of plastic bags and divided the meat up into neat packages, wrote out white labels with the date on, found an empty shelf in the freezer. Something pleasing about finishing the job and parcelling it up. A relief. She sealed the bags carefully.
Ada untied her apron and washed her hands. Blood and gristle flecked up her arms. She washed the knife and the saw and swept bits of bone and trimmings from around the table. It was early afternoon. She was meant to be doing the evening shift as well – there was enough time to go back to the house, check the gas, try and make another start on the boxes.
But when she opened the freezer, she found sliced apples and bags of peas. In the fridge there was cream, wine, butter, a few soft carrots and half a swede. Potatoes in one of the cupboards, flour, a packet of crumbling stock cubes. She unhooked the apron and put it back on.
She took out a frying pan, a roasting tray and a battered orange casserole. Sliced butter and let it sizzle, added onion, then pieces of the finer meat and cooked it until the juices ran out. Added white wine, handfuls of frozen apple. A bay leaf. Spooned the mixture into a pie dish. In another pot, she braised the tougher meat, added hot water, tomato puree, stock cubes and red wine and left it to cook into a stew.
It was dark outside. She switched on the lights. Got out a bowl and made pastry, rolled it out and covered the pie. Put it in the oven and baked it. Added chopped potatoes to the stew. Fried the bits of meat she’d picked off the bone with more onion then layered it with potatoes, plenty of butter and the cream. When it came out of the oven it was golden and bubbling.
The window steamed up. A waft of good, rich smells. But she had cooked a lot of food, used up most of what Val had spare in the kitchen. She took off her apron and wiped over her eyes. Tidied up, listening for Val. There was no noise from the bar. She cleaned out the pots and swept the floor, then swept it again.
After a while the door opened and Val came in. She looked around the kitchen at the steaming food. ‘What’s all this?’ she said.
‘I just tried something out,’ Ada said. ‘A few things lying around so I used them. The potatoes going soft anyway and—’
‘Stop whining about it,’ Val said. ‘I’ve got a couple of men out here asking what’s cooking. Realised they were starving – I told them that’s what happens when you come out for a drink over dinner time to escape your family. I’ve got my tax woman telling me she fancies a bite herself. So I need to go and tell them what there is.’
Ada told her what she’d made. Val went back out to the bar and a moment later she was back in again. ‘Four orders,’ she said. ‘Pie and potatoes twice. One of the potato bake things. One stew. Have we got anything green to set it off?’
There was nothing but frozen peas, but Ada mixed in some extra fried onion and butter. She arranged a portion of each dish on the plates and garnished them while Val told her to hurry the hell up before it got cold.
Ada swept the floor once more, then dried up the last of the dishes. Stuck her finger in the stew and tasted it again. It definitely needed more pepper and less wine. And the potatoes were crumbly and grey as old snow. She strained to hear anything from out at the bar. Nothing. Then Val said something and laughter went up like geese.
She stood in the middle of the kitchen. Checked the oven was off – it was. Checked the freezer door was shut – it was. Caught a whiff of the bak
e and it reminded her of the dish she’d left in the oven when she’d moved away – she wasn’t even sure if her mother had eaten it.
It got darker and darker. She switched off the lights and put her coat on, was just about to slip out the back door to the car park when Val came in carrying four empty plates.
Val looked at her. ‘One of the blokes has booked a table for tomorrow night,’ she said. ‘A table of six. His birthday or something. The tax woman finished her plate and said no point scrutinising the rest of the accounts.’ She carried the dishes to the sink and piled them up. ‘I should try some myself. See what the fuss is about.’ She took a big forkful of pie. Chewed it slowly. Her lips pursing like something had irritated them. ‘Come in again tomorrow,’ she said eventually. ‘I’ll pay you a bit more for the trouble. And write down anything extra you need.’
Chapter 21
Typical for Ada to come back now, right in the middle of winter. Not a good time – what with the roads iced up and the house freezing; difficult to get anywhere, cooped up for days, the lights clunking on and off and plunging everything into such deep darkness that it was impossible to move without clouting your hip or your shin. A fretwork of cracks on their bones probably, like maps of the long winters.
Pearl would work out the finances, which always boiled down to the same thing: not enough money for the endless supply of wood the stove needed. So, two jumpers, two pairs of trousers, tie a hot-water bottle to your stomach, don’t sit still long enough for chilblains to get you between the toes. But Ada never listened. She would sit for hours under a blanket, her feet sticking out, nose numb and red. She would run a bath when the tank was low and shiver in tepid water. She would cook a pie that took so long the gas would cut out halfway through, leaving them to pick at the crust, the middle gooey and raw.
One winter, when Ada was twelve, ice took over everything. Pearl chipped it away from the windows, brushed piles of hail from the steps, knocked frost from the car’s wheels. A bracelet of icicles hung from the porch roof. Ada ducked under them when she went out of the door; she had grown three inches in a few months. A new habit of tearing at her nails, a lisp when she was unsure of what she was saying. Made it hard to hear her sometimes.