Cow Girl

by Kirsty Eyre

  I give up.

  I peel off my clothes and take the longest shower of my life, trying to wash away death. Speedo follows me down to the kitchen, where I sit in Grandma’s dressing gown, my fingers wrapped around a mug of black coffee. The house is silent save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. The number for a local fallen stock collection company is listed at the back of Dad’s red lever-arch file amongst a register of preferred suppliers. I dial the number for Take Stock.

  An unusually jolly man answers the phone and promises to come over ASAP. He lightens the heavy conversation with ‘okey dokes’ and ‘easy peasies’, which doesn’t feel appropriate given the circumstances.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says brightly. ‘We’ve a state-of-the-art processing facility over in Bradford, so they’ll be well looked after.’

  I close the file.

  An hour later, a dirty Blue Group lorry rumbles down the lane and hits the old henhouse, flattening its wire coop. A young guy with acne and a wisp of upper lip hair jumps down from the cabin. ‘Is your husband here?’ He rolls up the sleeves of his overalls.

  ‘No.’

  He glances around the yard. ‘Your dad?’

  ‘No.’ I want to rip his head off and shove it up his arse.

  ‘Well, if you could just point me in the direction of the farmer,’ he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out latex gloves.

  ‘You’re looking at her.’

  He walks back over to his lorry, climbs onto the passenger side step and raps on the window. ‘Rob? I think we might need reinforcements.’

  We trudge through the field, sun gleaming through the branches of the oak tree. Today should be a day for dog-walking through sun-drenched fields, picnicking amongst buttercups and daisies, building treehouses, paddling in streams, not a day to be calling a rendering and incineration company to remove three beautiful beasts. We stand in front of the carcasses, Rob offering his ‘reinforcement’ services in the form of crunching prawn-cocktail-flavoured crisps and licking his fingers.

  ‘Part and parcel of the circle of life, I’m afraid.’ He pulls the corners of his crisp packet apart and tilts the last crumbs into his mouth.

  ‘Shall we get it over with?’ I say.

  ‘Okey dokey.’ He strolls back down the hill, hands in pockets, whistling.

  The lorry backs up until it’s only a few metres away, releasing a heavy-duty rope attached to the vehicle’s tow bar. I study my feet as they wrap the other end of the rope around Jupiter’s ankles, binding her front legs together.

  The engine starts, wheels spinning and whirring as wet mud flies in all directions and Jupiter’s bulk slides through the grime, thick snot flying from her nostrils as she’s dragged across the ground. The buzz of the lorry’s hydraulic lift being lowered to the ground bulldozes birdsong. I make the mistake of taking one last glance and wish I hadn’t. Jupiter’s twisted neck disappears over the mangled body of a dead horse.

  ‘Lovely,’ the main guy exclaims. ‘Just the other two now.’

  They repeat the process, rebolt the back of the van. ‘Everything shipshape.’

  Acid burns in my throat and I’m throwing up in the hedge when Lorna’s Parsons-Bonneville Premier Vets SUV parks up. She gets out of the car, looks into the back of the Blue Group lorry and quickly turns away, slamming the car door shut. Shielding sun from her eyes with her hand, she scans the horizon until she spots me in the field.

  ‘Billie?’ She trudges up the hill, pulling the cuffs of her long-sleeved dri-FIT top over her hands.

  I stare at the yard.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Side by side, we stand in silence, watching the lorry rumble up the lane and drive off into the distance.

  ‘How many did you lose?’ she says quietly.

  ‘Three.’

  She nods slowly, a small dimple forming in her chin. Clunkily, she squeezes me into her collarbone. ‘Let me make you a coffee.’

  We walk back to the house.

  ‘Firstly,’ she says, rummaging through our kitchen cupboards for sugar. ‘You may have lost three cows, but you saved one hundred and forty-seven.’ The bottom of our broken cutlery drawer falls out and a shower of teaspoons clatter on the pans below. ‘Secondly, you singlehandedly sorted it all out, without even missing milking.’ She takes a jug of fresh milk out of the fridge. ‘And thirdly …’ The postman appears at the front of the house and hands Lorna a postcard through the open window. She glances at it. ‘Ma petite Anglaise. I guess this is for you.’ She hands it to me, my heart skipping a beat. ‘And thirdly … I can’t remember what the third thing was.’

  I look down at the postcard. Life and Seoul. A picture-perfect lotus pond. A gold-adorned pavilion. A moonlit cityscape of neon-pink skyscrapers. I rub my thumb over the area I know Joely has kissed. Her handwriting is elegant and evenly spaced, the tops of her l’s curling over like a crest of a wave. I’ll save it for when I’m alone.

  ‘Very romantic!’ Lorna sits down opposite me and tucks her mousy-blonde hair behind her ears. ‘I can’t remember the last time I got anything handwritten.’

  I toy with a smile.

  She looks at me, all chapped lips and freckles. ‘There is nothing more that you could have done, Billie. You’re in shock. You’ve just been through something horrific. The most horrific thing you’ll probably ever go through.’

  A light breeze comes in through the window, Grandma’s bird calendar flapping against the wall and fluttering through months at a time. The room darkens as the sun dips behind the clouds and, for a moment, all I can hear is the tick of crickets. Lorna fiddles with the I London salt and pepper pots I bought Grandma years ago as a joke. Her fingernails are bitten right down to the pink bits and the backs of her hands are rough and weathered. The salt and pepper pots clink against each other as she moves them to the centre of the table, her gaze momentarily diverted to the gift-wrapped ring box containing the pendant addressed to ‘Goddess Joely’ in the fruit bowl.

  ‘You’re doing a fantastic job,’ she says.

  I run my bare feet over the wooden frame of the table. The silvery pink scar on her forehead looks softer than usual; no longer a blemish, rather a feature that’s become part of her face. Part of her. It’s not until she flattens her fringe down over it that I realize I’ve been staring. ‘Thank you,’ I say quietly.

  She dabs her finger on the flecks of pepper that have escaped onto the table. ‘You know, I’ve always—’ Her phone bleeps. ‘Shit!’ She jumps up and pours the remains of her coffee down the sink. ‘I’m late for my next appointment and I haven’t even looked at Nadia. Are you going to be OK?’

  I nod mechanically.

  ‘I’ll come back first thing tomorrow and check Nadia out, then I can check in on you too.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Promise you’ll call me if there’s anything you need.’ She reaches across and gives my arm a squeeze. Her hands are small and rough.

  ‘Thanks.’

  The door clicks shut behind her.

  The postcard sits on my knee. I’m about to read it when I see a mail come in from Joely on my phone, so I go to that first, wondering whether the ‘I love you’ I blurted out on the phone is going to reciprocated.

  Dear Billie,

  I’m sorry that it’s so difficult on the farm and that nobody is available to help you. It’s crazy how much your life has changed in a month, isn’t it?

  I’ve reflected a lot recently and, although it’s difficult to say this, I think our relationship is probably not the best thing for either of us any more. You’re so busy with the farm and my roadshow has been extended so I don’t know when I can see you at all. I tried to contact you yesterday to talk it through, but you didn’t pick up again. You never pick up.

  Sadly, I think it’s better if we separate. You can focus on the farm and I can concentrate on my work projects.

  You are special, Billie. You are funny, kind and intelligent. I am sure you will succeed, whatever yo
u choose in life. A relationship will not help you at the moment.

  I will miss you.

  Bisous,

  Joely

  At first, I read it as a cry for help, our relationship redeemable if I can lavish her with attention. But each time I call her, voicemail kicks in, and instead of kicking in after its usual ten rings, I’m being cut off at two, three and four. It can’t all fall apart like this. It just can’t. I was committed. I am committed. The farm thing is just temporary, and we can overcome this. Surely, she can see this. Maybe she was drunk when she wrote it. Maybe she just felt neglected. Maybe she should answer her fucking phone. Why is it so much easier to communicate with animals than humans? And I don’t mean in the reductive ‘I’m hungry’ or ‘I’m in pain’ sense. Cows are great communicators. Their body language will tell you if they’re having a good day or not. If they’re feeling unloved or pushed out. Confused or unsure. Jealous or angry. A tail flick of annoyance. A moo of intrigue. A bellow of disgruntlement. A limb-locked stillness of fear. It’s all obvious without words. Words just seem to complicate things.

  I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. Am I the old or the new me? Am I moving forwards or backwards, or simply treading water and moving around in circles? All I know is that I’m torn between two worlds, an outsider to them both. Even my clothes don’t seem to fit: the ones I brought with me and the ones I’ve borrowed up here. Nothing fits any more.

  I pick up the postcard.

  Dear Billie,

  Greetings from South Korea! Comment vas-tu, ma petite Anglaise? There are people everywhere and everything is mirrored which makes it look twice as busy.

  The roadshow is going well. My presentation is like an autopilot now and I bore myself with the same words every day.

  I miss you like crazy. I can’t wait to see your face again. Let’s go travelling before we settle down and have babies!

  Bisous,

  Joely

  Airmail is a cruel mistress. If you’re going to express your feelings in a postcard, then bloody well make sure you’re still going to feel the same way by the time it’s delivered – the simple things, for fuck’s sake.

  I stamp and scream, screwing myself up into a ball of fury. Speedo retreats upstairs, his ears flat against his head. I can’t lose her. I just can’t.

  Two minutes later, I find myself rummaging in the drawer underneath the television until I have it in my hands: Kay Oliver RIP. Thank God Dad had the old tapes digitized before they wore out completely.

  I open the plastic case and slide the disc into the DVD player slot. A few seconds later, my mother’s twenty-something face appears on the screen. She wears a black felt mortar board and clutches a degree scroll. Her hair is chopped short and dyed a rusty red. She grins mischievously, a hotchpotch of eyeshadow shades running from her eyelids over her eyebrows. The sort of person you’d describe as ‘kooky’.

  ‘Two-one, two-one!’ She jumps up and down. ‘To world domination!’

  She has more freckles than I remember. I pause the DVD here, otherwise she’ll go on to talk about her future and she’ll do this little air-punch thing, which I can’t cope with right now. It’s only when I’ve been staring at her face for about two minutes that I notice a tiny mole beneath her nose that I’ve never spotted before. Considering I’ve watched this video hundreds of times, this in itself is revolutionary – but what’s even more uncanny is that I have the same mole – same size, same colour, same place. I raise my fingers to it and feel a sense of belonging. Sated, even. Like she kept that discovery in the bag for me and knew to release it only when I really needed it. The only thing is, it makes me miss Dad even more, in the capacity of a parent. Someone to lean on, look up to, be guided by. Someone to cry on. I want Dad back.

  I turn off the television and head outside, allowing a cocktail of anger, sadness and guilt to pour out in the form of hysterical sobs. Who cares? There’s nobody here to see me.

  I stumble across the yard, looking up at the low-hanging sky through a blur of tears. The long dirt track stretches out in front, separating me from the rest of the world. I snap a twig from a hazel tree and crush a cluster of hornbeam catkins into a gritty lime-green powder in the palm of my hand before running as fast as I can down the lane, my lungs full of air. Then I stop and scream as loudly as I can. A flock of starlings takes flight from a nearby silver birch. Wings flap, cows bellow, squirrels scatter but nothing changes.

  I kick a stone, only to stub my toe, and trip over, my hands pebble-dashed with blood, dirt and tattered skin. My knees are grazed, and my leggings torn. I want to be scooped up and cradled into the maternal bosom of my grandma. I want Dad to ruffle my hair and tell me everything’s OK. I want a set of giant curtains to open, revealing an applauding audience, my life a hoax; Billie at her most broken on reality TV. I want to go to bed and stay asleep until this whole episode is over. God, I’m pathetic.

  Then, once I’ve indulged the moment for long enough to accept that nobody is going to come to my rescue and that I have to (wo)man up, I peel my body off the ground and cower in the shelter of the dry-stone wall. Dull, matte bracken fronds dip hypnotically in the wind. A ring ouzel keeps watch from an abandoned millstone, and a smudge of dark cloud hangs low over the moorland horizon. A centipede crawls across my boot, her body snaking its way into the grooves of my sole. I dig my fingernails into a clump of soft, damp moss and stare at the gnarly old oak tree at the top of the field.

  My phone signal flickers between two and three bars. I call Grandma, who this time picks up.

  ‘How is he?’ I feel detached from my voice, like it isn’t my own.

  ‘Tired.’

  I rub my thumb over the rough granite wall and am about to confess about the storm, when a soft tickling makes me look down. A ladybird has found its way onto my finger, crawling across my knuckles like it hasn’t a care in the world. I look at my hands. They don’t look or feel like mine any more. Muck and grime emphasize the cracks and crevices. My skin is dry and ragged. Then I realize that I’m not supposed to be looking at my hands. I’m supposed to be looking at the ladybird. The ladybird who has visited me throughout my life in various forms. Yes, ladybirds appear on memorabilia. Yes, ladybirds land on people. But do they really visit everyone else at their ebb low? I’m not spiritual, but is the ladybird my mum?

  ‘Billie? Are you OK?’ Grandma’s voice crackles.

  And while half of me thinks I may have become one of those madwomen unaware that birds are living in her hair, the other half finds comfort in the idea. I don’t have to tell anyone about this. I can just keep it to myself. Keep her to myself. Part of my armour. So, I’m actually not alone. I’m not actually running this farm on my own.

  ‘Yes, Grandma. I’m fine.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  PRIDE

  From: Bev

  Sorry, B. Think of it as a relationship sabbatical. You can always give her a shout once you’re back in London. I see this all the time with our flamingos on the ZSL breeding programme. One bird gives the other the cold shoulder for a couple of months, but they always seem to get together in the end. Any chance you can come down for Pride? Hang in there, buddy x

  From: Dad

  If Florence’s teats still look red raw, she might need something stronger. Could you ask Lorna?

  From: Kat Mellor

  Bill, honey. It may sting like a mother-fucker but trust me it’s better that it happens now. How’s about you come down to Pride for a ‘fuck it sambuca’ and take your mind off Joely? Every time you get the urge to call her, call me instead. Chin up, chest out and fuck her. Love you x

  From: Dad

  That photo you sent of Lady Penelope eating dandelions is actually Bessy!

  From: Bev

  P.S. Titania and Theodore had a six-month cooling off period and now their third egg has hatched so, there you go. Living proof!

  From: Maria

  That’s shit, Bilbo. I’m really sorry. Can I be honest? I know you won�
�t want to hear this right now, but I don’t think Joely’s right for you anyway. You need a girl who’ll roll her sleeves up. Someone who loves you for being you, and that includes the farm girl part of you. Darius found a bunch of Wallpaper magazines in your bedroom. That is SO NOT YOU, Billie! Joely’s flaky and vapid. She’s not good enough for you. Love you lots and lots and lots xxx

  From: Dave Work

  Send her a tit pic.

  From: Maria

  P.S. So clearly, you’ll get back together, and I’ll look like a dick for saying all this, but you’re my best friend and I owe you the truth. So, if you do get back together and I tell you I didn’t mean what I said and that I’m sure Joely’s neither flaky nor vapid really, I’ll be bullshitting. There you go, Bilbo. On the line. Love you xxx

  From: Maria

  P.P.S. Pride next weekend. Sure you can’t come?

  From: Dave Work

  P.S. Any chance you can post me your pass, so I can use your credit at the canteen?

  From: Lorna Parsons

  Keep forgetting to mention, your Land Rover’s left brake light doesn’t work. Hope you’re feeling better about things. Remember, it wasn’t your fault. Let me know if you’d like me to pop over.

  *

  Subj: Parsnip

  Hi Lorna,

  Hope all’s well with you.

  I’m worried about Parsnip. I checked her stats and she’s not eating nearly as much as she should, especially as she’s in calf. Each time I go into the field, she’s standing under the oak tree in the exact spot Jupiter died. She’s lost a lot of confidence and has dropped towards the back of the line on journeys to and from the cowshed. When I call her, she’ll come to me and rest her head on my shoulder, but she’s not interested in socializing with the rest of the herd.

  Yesterday, she wouldn’t even take an apple off me and I know how she loves her apples.