by Kirsty Eyre
It was different coming out to Dad. It just spilled out when he ordered a BLT at a Hathersage teashop and made some crap pun about it being one letter short of LGBT. I told him it was a shit joke and then told him I was gay. He hugged me, likened me to a ‘Jersey cow rather than a common Friesian’, and then we both finished our sandwiches. I felt the glow of satisfaction for days after that, weeks even. As if the pair of us inhabited this warm, cosy bubble that nobody else had access to. Our own little secret. It definitely made us closer. Stronger too.
I form a different set of difficult words in my head now: although they should be simple, they’re far from it.
‘Dad?’ I cross and uncross my legs. ‘Do you think you’ll stay on the farm for ever?’
Dad presses at the edges of the translucent plaster securing the cannula in his arm. He smooths the blanket down over his chest. ‘Ideally we’d downsize. Get a small plot of land for five cows or so. Somewhere a bit closer to town, not so cut off from everything.’
I feel my shoulders relax. ‘That’s what you’d do?’
He pulls at the neck of his pyjamas. ‘I would if I could.’
‘So, what’s stopping you?’ I say.
‘Wolfgang Huxley-Lipyeat.’
‘Who?’
‘The Wolf,’ he clarifies.
It takes me a few seconds to recognize the name. ‘Our landlord?’
He nods. ‘Nobody will buy me out unless I top up the leasehold, and he wants £120,000 for it. That, or it’s £300,000 to buy the freehold.’
‘Three hundred thousand? How can he make those sorts of demands?’
Dad looks lost. Not in a confused way, but in a defeated way – like life itself has gobbled up the very essence of who he is and spat him back out again, upside down and inside out. His eyelids close.
I sit for a while, not knowing what to do, the clock at the end of the ward ticking so much louder than before, Dad’s gentle snoring almost drowned out. I take the clean pyjamas off my lap, put them on the bed next to Dad’s feet and straighten out the collar and cuffs in the way a chambermaid might prepare the presentation of loo roll, like it somehow matters. I squander another Jelly Baby and pick up the smaller card on the bedside table. It’s handmade, bumpy in texture and features a pencil sketch of a Friesian standing in a grassy field. Inside, a lady called Pat wishes him a speedy recovery and looks forward to seeing him back on the bowling circuit. Judging by the pyramid of kisses beneath her signature, she seems to be quite fond of him.
I study Dad. His egg-like head. The absence of his mop of curls. The circle they’ve drawn on his scalp. The faded smattering of freckles across his nose. The way his chest gently rises and falls under his cotton pyjamas, his wedding ring, hanging from his neck, glinting in the light with every inhalation. Hair sprouts from his earlobes. I wriggle my hand into his and feel the weight of his palm in mine.
Forty minutes later, a skinny nurse with the bedside manner of an SS officer declares visiting time is over. Reluctantly, I peel Dad’s fingers away from mine, kiss them and place them by his side.
Everything hurts.
From: Maria
Bilbo! I’ve only gone and got cast as the main ovum in Menstruation the Musical!!! I’m stoked. Thought I’d be tampon chorus for sure. How’s it going up there? Do you reckon you’ll be able to make Alternative Eurovision on Friday? I got you a ticket. Love ya, M x
From: Dave Work
Hey Shitbag, quick reminder that the Newcastle post-grad fair is next week. There are two courses that are your bag. Just thought being up north, you could pop over.
P.S. Met your French girl the other day at a meeting. H.O.T. Mother-fucker!
Does life not have the decency to stand still for just one second when the shit hits the fan? If only popping over to Newcastle was an option right now. Not only do I feel a sense of frustration, but a sense of guilt. Guilt that I should be driving my career right now, the agent of my own destiny. Forging a path to greatness and bagging a PhD. And then I feel guilty about feeling guilty. I shouldn’t be thinking about myself and what I’m missing out on. I should be concentrating on Dad. Besides, how could I possibly prepare for a PhD fair in Newcastle right now? It’s all I can do to get through the days at the moment. The treadmill of farm and hospital. Farm and hospital. Farm and hospital. It’s like one of those dreams where your legs are lead-heavy and, no matter how hard you try to forge forward, you can’t move.
As soon as I’m out of the lifts, I subscribe to Science Matters in a bid to ‘stay at the cutting-edge of science matters, because science does matter’. I’m so busy scrolling through articles that I promise myself I’ll read later that I’ve wandered into the hospital gift shop and have no idea why.
Why are hospital gift shops so random? Rather than selling bed socks and headphones or anything that might be of practical help to someone who is bedridden, the Royal Hallamshire gift shop is stocked with African face masks, Indonesian jewellery and Balinese cookery books. A row of wooden bird boxes sits below a display of catchphrases carved into shabby-chic nautical driftwood, should anyone fancy giving their garden an overhaul after being discharged. Live. Love. Laugh.
God only knows why I’ve wandered into this Aladdin’s cave, but just as I’m about to leave, I spot a piece of treasure in a glass cabinet next to the till: a silver ladybird pendant just like my mum’s brooch in the home video. Its wings are delicate and striking in equal measure; the craftsmanship that has gone into its intricately sculpted antennae, the raised spots, the segmented legs is insane. That such a precious thing can be found nested in a hellhole of death, disease and decay surely means there’s hope. A lucky ladybird, just like my mum’s. With Joely’s birthday coming up soon, it almost feels like fate that I should buy it for her. It’s too perfect not to.
The lady behind the counter, all incense sticks and tie dye, apologizes that they’re out of pendant boxes and will a ring box do? I say that’s fine and she explains that the ladybird symbolizes the essence and embodiment of the divine feminine and a profound connection of two souls, emerging to journey to freedom together. As well as unearthing treasure, it seems I’ve hit the aesthetic and spiritual jackpot. I pay up, write ‘Goddess Joely’ on the tag with a novelty Eiffel Tower pen at the till, and leave with a handful of gift-wrapped hope. A profound connection of two souls. Everything slots into place: I bloody well love Joely and it’s about time I told her so. And what better way than with this ladybird?
A few laps of the ambulance bay and I’ve got her birthday all planned out: I’ll take the early train down after milking and meet her for brunch on the South Bank before heading to the Tate Modern where we’ll cavort between the acrylics and oils of ‘The Ladybird and I’, an exhibition of ‘LOVE – arts meet amour’.
‘Happy Birthday!’ I’ll say, carefully fastening the ladybird pendant around her neck. We’ll stroll on to the second exhibition, ‘Curiosity: Art and the Pleasures of Knowing’, where I’ll reflect about curiosity being ‘an ambiguous passion: the virtuous impulse behind the search for knowledge and at the same time a disreputable desire for novelty and strangeness’, because it says so on the internet. She, at this point, will be in awe of my appreciation of the intellectual and aesthetic freedom of this artform and will beg me to go home with her.
Without consciously thinking about it, I video-call Joely from the hospital entrance.
‘Billie!’ Her face appears, doing a 180° in the KSG corridor. ‘It’s so good to see you.’
‘You too!’ I say, feeling travel-sick as her phone tilts left then right, as she strides between two walls lined with KSG catchphrases in block print. SYNERGY. EQUALITY. STRAIGHTFORWARDNESS. TRUST.
‘Are you in the hospital?’ she says.
‘Yeah. Just seen Dad.’
‘Is he OK?’
‘Kind of. It’s pretty difficult,’ I say.
‘I can only imagine,’ she says. ‘I miss you! I miss your face.’
I smile. ‘I’ve just bought your
birthday present.’ My hand reaches for the small gift-wrapped box in my pocket, the soft ribbon running between my fingers. ‘If I can get Nathan to cover, I thought I could come down to London and take you out.’
‘I’m so sorry, ma petite Anglaise, I’ll be in South Korea for my birthday. Did you get the link I sent you?’
It’s only when she says it that I recall a text she sent a couple of days ago with quite a few links that I promised I’d check out later and then completely forgot about.
‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘I know how busy it is on the farm.’
‘I’m sorry, Joels.’
She presses her nose playfully with her forefinger and smiles. ‘Don’t worry about it. Did I tell you I miss you?’
‘Did I tell you I miss you too?’ A fuzzy feeling fills my stomach and I’m dying to tell her I love her but want to save it for when we’re face to face. ‘So, tell me about South Korea!’
‘KSG have an Obstetrics event in Seoul and want me to deliver the presentation I did in London. It got some good feedback, so …’ She acknowledges a man in a suit passing her in the corridor with a bow of the head.
‘That’s brilliant, Joels!’ I feel bad. We’re both so busy fighting our own fires that we’re not aware of each other’s. ‘Amazing.’
‘Yes.’ She grins.
‘Well, when you get back, we should celebrate. I thought you might like to see “The Ladybird and I” exhibition at the Tate.’
‘What is it?’
‘An exhibition of love. Art meets amour, told through ladybirds.’
Her grin dissolves into a frown. ‘Can I be honest?’
‘Of course.’
‘I hate ladybirds. They are essentially flying beetles.’
‘Right,’ I say, shoving her present back into my pocket, a metallic taste in my mouth.
‘Their legs are like sticks and they carry sexually transmitted infections.’ She all but balks. ‘I’m sorry, Billie. I’m moody because I miss you. I miss you too much, and this fucking job …’ She scrunches up her face. ‘I know Seoul is a great opportunity, but I’d prefer to be with you. And I have a stupid award ceremony this weekend before I go, and I just want to spend time with you.’ She stares into the camera, her forehead locked in concentration. ‘Can I show you something?’
A few seconds later, a link to a duck-egg-blue silk dress by Oliver Bonas appears on my screen. ‘You think this is OK for collecting the award?’
‘You didn’t tell me you’ve won an award!’ I give the dress a cursory glance.
‘Not me directly, but with Christophe. For the successful trial of the EPE drug.’
I feel as if I’ve been freeze-dried in a vacuum. Like the air has been sucked out of me and I am held expressionless against my will. This is the drug made from the biochemicals I have spent the best part of two years testing and retesting. The drug whose effects I have prodded and probed under a microscope. The drug whose qualities I have assessed and reassessed. And now I’m having it explained to me like I’m an outsider. Like I never played a part in its journey.
‘Congratulations,’ I say, my mouth drying.
‘Christophe is really happy. He wants the entire KSG team behind him at the awards ceremony.’
‘Right,’ I say. His name alone makes my blood run cold, but as Kat always says, Negative energy is a waste of emotion. ‘Joels, it’s a beautiful dress. Let me get it for your birthday. The thing I’ve got you probably isn’t … I was struggling to know what to get you, to be honest.’
Her eyes widen. ‘No, it’s too expensive!’
‘It’s fine. You’ll look amazing in it. It’s a brilliant achievement, which deserves something special.’
‘Thank you.’ She clip-clops down the corridor. ‘I’ll come up as soon as I’m not working these eighteen-hour days, I promise.’ She stops in front of a framed poster promoting work/life balance. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘OK.’
‘Ciao.’
‘Ciao.’ I sound ridiculous saying ciao.
I ache to see her. To feel her soft skin against mine. The smell of her hair as she leans into me. The outline of her shoulder blades as I lie next to her. The gentle tch-tch-tch sound she makes when my leg’s been wrapped over hers for too long and cramp’s setting in. We fit, Joely and I; an Anglo-French jigsaw of yin and yang.
I buy her the dress – so what if I have to sell a kidney next month.
CHAPTER NINE
RANCIDITY
Two weeks later
From: Maria
Lesbian hen party conundrum #67. BERLIN IS CANCELLED!
Kat and Bear have decided to combine parties so that people don’t have to shell out twice! What’s the fucking point in having a hen do if the person you’re going to marry is on it?!
From: Dad
Just a reminder that Heather is allergic to goose grass so you may want to keep her out of the bottom field.
To: Joely (future wife) Chevalier
Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday, Goddess Joely! Happy Birthday to you! Hip, hip, hooray! Hope you have a cracking day and sorry I can’t be with you xxx
@SCIENCE MATTERS
Don’t become a dinosaur! Why keeping current is critical in scientific research.
From: Wincanton Co-operative
Your milk tanker has arrived. Please dispatch within the hour.
A shiny silver milk tanker rumbles up the hill, hissing and juddering as the driver performs what must be a nine-point turn before managing to reverse into the dirt track. The tail of the tanker swings around in the yard, missing the bulk-milk-tank outhouse by only a few millimetres. A tall man in a faded red boiler suit jumps down from the cabin. His lips are unusually red and the hair on his chin is soft and fluffy. I’d put him at around thirty-five, though it’s difficult to pin an age on him, his baby face contradicting his greying hair.
‘Is the boss around?’ he says, clanking open the double doors to the outhouse, his heavy boots clomping across the wooden crates we use to protect the floor.
‘My dad’s ill, so I’m the boss at the moment.’ I retie my hair in a ponytail.
He lowers his head so as not to whack it on the low ceiling and presses the agitation button. The room comes alive, pipes juddering as milk rushes and gurgles. His long, spidery fingers find their way into latex gloves and rip open a small sachet containing a disinfectant wipe. He scribbles ‘Fernbrook Farm, tank ID 2591, 02 June’ onto a label and sticks it to his plastic sample pot, then measures the temperature of the milk. ‘Man’s job really, farming.’
‘What makes you say that?’ I say, recategorizing him as older.
‘Requires a lot of strength.’ He makes a point of handing me the ladle that dangles just out of my reach, giving it to me in a way that suggests he has just saved me from the jaws of a shark.
‘Thanks,’ I say reluctantly, wondering whether he’s going to call me ‘lil’ lady’.
I lift the metal lid from the stainless-steel tank. Milk gushes and whirls hypnotically in the vat below. I plunge the ladle into the deep well and pour its contents into the small paper container he’s holding out.
He takes a sniff. ‘What I’m looking for here is—’
‘A good odour?’ I suggest. ‘Not too bitter, soapy or cowy.’
He clears his throat, lifting his chin to make himself taller. ‘Very good, but has anyone taught you about rancidity?’
‘Spontaneous rancidity or induced rancidity?’ I hand him the lid to his pot.
He studies his sample dipper. ‘Someone’s been busy learning.’
‘Someone grew up here!’
He retreats to the tanker, tapping numbers into his phone, and studies a dial in the back of the vehicle. Happy with the results, he affixes the pipe, turns on the pump and sends the milk chugging into the tanker. The motor hums loudly, the pipe pulsing in fits and bursts.
He turns to me, his face open and friendly. ‘Sorry if I came across as mansplaining.’
He unscrews the pipe, milk froth spewing out onto the concrete floor. ‘I’m Charlie.’ He extends his hand.
‘Billie.’
‘Billie? Bit of a tomboy, are we?’ He heads to the back of the lorry to read the meter. The last drops of milk drain from the tank and a sharp blast of hot water fizzes and spatters against the steel drum as my thumb hits the wash button. ‘Here.’ He takes the Biro from behind his ear and leans on the dashboard to scribble on the back of the print-out. ‘If ever you need anything …’ He hands me the small piece of paper with his phone number scrawled in large digits. ‘… or want me to take you out.’ He jumps into the cabin. ‘There’s a place in Bakewell that does great burgers.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, wondering at what point I should tell him I don’t like burgers.
The tanker chugs and grinds its way across the yard towards the lane, and I’m left struggling with my thoughts. I should feel insulted by the objectification implicit in Charlie’s offer to ‘take me out’. Kat would be outraged, spewing bile on feminist forums. Like I’m not capable of taking myself out? I should have told him I’m gay and that women don’t need to get ‘taken out’, they just go out. I should be annoyed, but if I’m honest, it’s comforting that someone wants to spend time with me.
I miss Joely. I want to hold her in my arms and wish her a happy birthday. I wonder what she’s up to. I miss the way she makes a tray of coffee and brings it up to bed with an eggcup of daisies freshly plucked from the grass verge out-side her flat. I miss the way her anecdotes don’t quite conclude and are left hanging in the air, for me to draw my own conclusion. I miss her barking inappropriate English colloquialisms she’s learned from her teenage nephew at trailer-trash TV, which sound both ridiculous and amusing coming out of the mouth of a grown woman. ‘Snatched!’ ‘Straight fire!’ ‘Skurt, man!’ I want to curl up on her leather sofa, her head under my chin as we shoot the shit, dissecting the day as a Netflix documentary unfolds in front of us. ‘Sick!’ ‘She’s after your cheddar!’ ‘Nice rides!’ It’s all yin and no yang without her, dualism broken, our opposing but complementary forces doing their own thing. Don’t get me wrong, I understand that revolutionary medical milestones take precedent over visiting dairy farms, but I just need to see her. That, and I feel like a bit of a loser if I’m honest – there she is, saving the human race, and here I am, stagnating on a farm with unshaven legs.