Cow Girl

by Kirsty Eyre

  ‘This is meant to be a dairy farming campaign!’ the Wolf howls. ‘Not something from the Folies bleeding Bergères.’

  ‘It is.’ Lorna drops her coat. ‘But there’s no point in having some fuddy-duddy civil servant scrutinize the paperwork behind closed doors. We need the Great British Public to buy our Milk for Farmers milk.’ She throws her arm around me and yells, ‘Milk, milk, they’re milking our milk!’

  I throw my coat at Bev, my body jerking with cold.

  ‘Great!’ the photographer says. ‘And if the three of you could link arms. Fantastic. That’s it! All say moooo!’

  ‘Moooo!’ we scream through gritted teeth – the water is bone-stingingly freezing.

  ‘You’re a disgrace!’ the Wolf yells. ‘You should be a-bleeding-shamed of yourself.’

  Click, click, click. We sell our souls for the price of milk.

  The Wolf snatches the petition and stomps towards the town hall offices.

  ‘Take no notice of him, Billie Goat. You’ve done great.’ Grandma wraps me back in my coat and hugs me to her chest, and I feel safe and soothed against her soft, dappled skin, chlorinated water drying in the folds between us.

  ‘Well done, Bell Ender.’ Graham holds his hand out for me to shake. ‘Never thought I’d say it, but that was an absolute triumph.’

  ‘Fantastic!’ Tazzy wants a hug.

  ‘Good work!’ Hamish Eccles shakes my hand.

  People are flocking around me and I can’t tell who’s who any more.

  ‘All hail the Cow Girl!’

  A sense of satisfaction builds within me. I feel a mixture of relief and hope, pride and elation. I watch Lorna disappear into the crowd, her trilby getting smaller and smaller.

  ‘Cow – Girl – Cow – Girl – Cow – Girl!’ they chant.

  Marjorie waddles over with tears in her eyes. She reaches out and adjusts the lucky ladybird brooch on my chest. ‘Well done, Billie love. Your mother would’ve been proud.’

  Words stick in my throat and my eyes fill with tears. Marjorie Pearce has called me ‘Billie love’ for the first time in eighteen years. Lorna is talking to me. The march has been a success. I allow myself the satisfaction of feeling content in Marjorie’s embrace until I realize there’s one thing missing.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ I say.

  ‘Cow – Girl – Cow – Girl – Cow – Girl!’

  ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘Cow – Girl – Cow – Girl – Cow – Girl!’

  ‘I need my dad!’ I shout.

  The crowd parts as Grandma pushes Dad towards me in the wheelchair. His body trembles as the wheels judder over uneven grass.

  ‘Dad!’

  He’s awake, just. His left cheek bears the imprint of the wheelchair frame. His fingers are interlocked, as they always are when he’s asleep, the sleeves of his jumper trailing from his lap. His eyes light up when he sees me and, for a second, I think he’s going to leap out of the wheelchair and dance with exhilaration; but even if he could, Dad’s never been a showman. Instead he holds out his arms. ‘You did it, Bilberry! You did it!’

  I grasp his hands in mine. ‘We did it!’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE MASKED BALL

  From: Rachel Fletcher

  Thanks for hearing my dad out. He’s genuinely mortified.

  To: Rachel Fletcher

  Don’t worry, he’ll come around! Failing that, take him to see La Cage aux Folles. It worked for my grandma.

  The next day, Lorna, Maria and I are plastered over the front page of three of the main broadsheets. Within the space of a week, one big supermarket chain has already signed up to our Milk for Farmers scheme and the marketing people are in discussions with two more. It’s about time. Premier Milk has committed to increase milk prices by 1p per litre; although it’s only a small win, it’s a step in the right direction. There remains, however, the small matter of negotiating the farm’s freehold – something of a challenge considering that Huxley-Lipyeat hasn’t yet forgiven me for the bikini stunt.

  A week after the march, we sit opposite each other in the Bakewell community centre’s otherwise empty hall. For the first time, I’m actually on the stage with him at the big table.

  ‘Cow Girl, the papers are calling you.’ He looks at me through piggy eyes. ‘Cow Girl, my arse. What sort of person takes a cheap shot with a bikini?’

  The faint buzz of a wasp comes and goes despite it being November.

  ‘It got us on the front cover of every paper,’ I say, taking a sip of water from my Evian bottle. ‘Including the broadsheets.’

  ‘It got you on the front cover of every paper. Not us.’ He rearranges his belt, bloated flesh overhanging his waistband.

  The smell of sweat hangs in the air. Aside from an abandoned badminton net lying on the side of a court previously hosting mixed doubles, it’s just me and him. And a wasp.

  ‘I admit the written articles could have been better, but that’s not why I wanted to meet. I need to talk to you about Fernbrook’s freehold.’ He looks at me like I’m a parasite.

  ‘My dad’s been through a lot and …’ I look up at the corner of the ceiling and there’s the wasp, looping and burring, its legs dangling lethargically behind. ‘The farm’s too much for him. He wants to sell up. Downsize. Look after a couple of cows and experiment with cheese.’ The Wolf rolls a blunt pencil between his chipolata fingers. ‘Of course, we can’t sell without topping up the lease or buying the freehold.’

  The Wolf clears his throat, dislodging phlegm. ‘I think you’ll find we’ve been through all this before.’ The wasp lands on his pencil and crawls towards his thumbnail. ‘I’ve quoted your father a fair price and he wasn’t interested.’

  ‘You quoted him three hundred thousand for the freehold.’

  He bats the wasp away with a slab of hand. ‘Which is more than fair for five hundred acres. He also has the option of paying less to top the lease up to ninety-nine years.’

  The wasp hovers above his head before landing in his thick white curls.

  ‘Careful!’ I gesture to the wasp. ‘It’s in your …’

  He swats at it again, dandruff showering onto his shoulders. It’ll be a miracle if neither of us gets stung.

  I lean back. ‘You quoted one hundred and twenty grand to top up the lease, which puts us in a bit of a pickle as we can’t afford either option.’ The wasp climbs into his empty glass. ‘I was hoping we might negotiate.’ His chubby fingers grab the base of the glass, flip it over and capture the wasp in one fell swoop. The wasp crawls slowly up the inside of the glass. ‘My dad’s an ill man. I’m not sure he’ll be able to go back to full-time farming.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find a way. You seem to be quite good at looking out for yourself.’

  Oxygen-deprived, the wasp starts to tire, its antennae desperately seeking a way out.

  The Wolf shuffles his paperwork. ‘Meeting dismissed.’

  Sheffield’s Winter Gardens stand in the city centre, sandwiched between the Millennium Galleries and the Peace Gardens. A huge temperate glasshouse filled with hundreds of plants from all over the world, it’s the sort of place you ooh and aah over a begonia rather than attend a singles night. I smooth Mum’s halter-neck dress over my hips, catching the faint musk of what must have been her. The dress is so not me. It feels as if I should sing twee songs to woodland animals dressed in little felt jackets in the manner of Snow White. Or kiss a man in a raincoat. I never did get the chance to make a headdress and can’t decide whether the satin sleeping mask that Maria sent me looks OK with eye-holes cut into it, or whether I look like roadkill. I run my fingers over the ladybird brooch for reassurance.

  ‘Better the Devil You Know’ plays through speakers carefully camouflaged by lustrous ferns. A waitress in an ostrich-feathered headdress checks me in on her iPad, her acrylic nails tapping on the screen. She hands me a sticker that reads ‘Angel6’.

  ‘You couldn’t tell me if Angel3 is already here, could you?’ I say, trying
to suppress the desperation in my voice.

  ‘Not yet,’ she says, moving her phosphorescent beaded nail tips down the screen. ‘We always get plenty of latecomers, though. Everyone needs a bit of Dutch courage!’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Anticipation and eucalyptus hang in the air. I help myself to a white-wine spritzer and smile at a girl with a Devil1 sticker caught in her unruly dark hair. It’s greenhouse hot in here and I feel like I’m going to pass out. There’s no sign of Darth Vader, just an atrium of strangers making mindless chitchat.

  A lady with the yellowy-green shine of a recovering black eye taps a metal spoon against a glass and ushers us into the basement for speed dating. At least it’s several degrees cooler downstairs. The tables are dressed with scented candles and love-heart confetti. She and the barman have a bit of a hoo-ha about whether the devils should stay at their table and the angels rotate, or vice versa. He points out that, either way, angels won’t meet angels and devils won’t get to meet devils; something they appear to have overlooked, having only ever run straight events previously. She holds up an acrylic nail whilst thinking it through, and it’s like watching someone trying to work out whether the clocks are going forward or backward, or whether the tide is in or out. Eventually we’re mixed up, a scramble of angels and devils.

  My first date is Devil3, who smells of Deep Heat and explains that she can only stay forty minutes and doesn’t really expect to meet anyone. I refrain from agreeing with her.

  The bell rings a few minutes later, punctuating the arrival of my second date: a girl in a laced corset, who moans about the one-way system around Ponds Forge, and then has a sneezing fit. My third date comprises a nostalgic run through what chocolate bars were popular when we were kids, allowing me to ascertain that she is three decades older than me.

  I’m ready to go home by the time I’m on to the fifth date, until she proves to be a black-cloaked figure in a Darth Vader mask.

  ‘May the force be with you.’

  ‘Angel3?’ I readjust my feathers.

  She gathers her cloak, revealing a killer figure silhouetted by a tight black roll-neck and skinny jeans. She wears fuck-me heels and has an aura of self-assurance; maybe it’s the cloak. Slowly, she sits down opposite me and presses the button underneath her mouthpiece.

  ‘Luke, we meet at last.’ Her breath smells of Parma Violets.

  A few seconds go by.

  ‘So, Angel3, what do you sound like without the Darth mask?’ I say.

  ‘Like this,’ she says, in a very familiar voice.

  A strong metallic taste lingers in my mouth. ‘Lorna?’

  ‘Billie.’ She removes her disguise.

  I rip off my mask. ‘But you said you were American!’

  ‘I said nothing of the sort!’

  ‘But, but …’ Heat travels from my breastbone, branching out across my chest and creeping up my neck until it feels as though I’m wearing an invisible itchy scarf. ‘You said you were an artist and you spell ‘color’ without a “u.”’

  ‘American language settings, and I am an artist. You’ve known me for years and never asked how I spend my spare time. You’ve never asked what my favourite chocolate bar is. Whether I’ve ever been speed-dating. You’ve not once shown any interest in me or taken the time to understand who I am,’ she says, her neck reddening.

  I assess her like you would a new pound coin, looking for everything that’s changed since its last version. ‘I’m sorry.’

  The speed-dating hostess looks over and taps at her face to suggest we should put our masks back on.

  Lorna gathers her cloak. ‘I think we need to talk!’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  We get up and leave, much to the delight of the barman, who springs to life, opening doors for us and winking.

  We stumble out, pumped up and confused.

  The nearest pub is The Graduate, a dimly lit establishment full of students hammering flavoured cider around a jukebox and snogging each other over the pool table. A stag party of twenty-somethings in printed polo shirts with wacky nicknames jeer and clap as Tiddler, their groom-to-be, freebases a dubious cocktail of something dark brown provided by his rotund sidekick.

  ‘Vodka?’ I suggest as we reach the bar.

  ‘Double.’

  I feel a bit like you do when you discover Father Christmas isn’t real – everything slowly falling into place: the different wrapping paper, the different writing on the tags, the disappearance of mince pies and sherry. The carrots for Rudolph with teeth marks. I feel a bit foolish and can’t quite catch up.

  She ties her mousy-blonde hair into a ponytail and smiles, freckles dancing on her nose. ‘I didn’t have much time,’ she says apologetically, tugging at her top.

  I pull myself onto the stool next to her. ‘You look great.’ I think about her online personality. How hot-headed and witty she sounds, yet how cold and aloof she can be in the flesh. Polar opposites meshed together on a bar stool in front of me.

  ‘You too,’ she says. ‘I’ve never seen you in a dress.’

  ‘OK, so I’m still playing catch-up.’ My halter-neck digs in around my neck each time I shift. ‘What are you doing at a gay singles night?’

  The barman places two large vodka and limes in front of us.

  She picks up her tumbler. ‘Sorry?’

  I smooth the scratchy material of my dress over my thighs. ‘Well, you’ve always been quite anti this sort of thing.’

  She knocks back her double vodka in one go and slams the glass back on the bar. ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Being gay and single.’ I sip my vodka, wondering how she did hers in one hit, the bitter-sweet fire burning the back of my throat.

  She laughs. ‘Billie, I’ve been gay and single for most of my adult life!’

  I squint at her in a way that you might suddenly question the spelling of a familiar word. ‘What about Guy?’

  ‘He’s my partner. My business partner.’ She pushes her glass towards the barman and gestures for a refill.

  I stare at her. Every detail of her face suddenly seems more important. ‘But you live together?’

  ‘We flat-share,’ she says, accidentally triggering Darth Vader’s electronic voice.

  I confiscate the mask, throwing it under my stool. ‘I’m sorry, I’m still …’ I shake my head, thinking it all through. Lorna asking me about my girlfriends. Lorna turning her nose up at Joely. And at Neve before that.

  ‘I like to keep my personal life private,’ Lorna says, dusting her finger in a bowl of roasted peanut crumbs. ‘You wouldn’t believe the amount of village gossip that does the rounds. It’s honestly easier when people think I’m with Guy. You met Jessica, though.’

  I think back to the hoof-trimming accident and my bleeding hands. ‘You were going out with Jessica?’

  She nods.

  ‘I thought you were just friends!’

  Lorna laughs as I bristle at the thought of her with another woman, realizing that for years I’ve dismissed Lorna as some minor annoyance, based on her brusque comments and curt put-me-downs, when all she was trying to do was flirt.

  I finish my vodka and look at her. ‘We probably need to talk about that kiss.’

  ‘We probably do.’ She looks me straight in the eye, her face all perky and fresh. ‘Though I don’t want to get in the way of you and Joely.’

  ‘Me and Joely?’

  ‘This is where I ask you why you’re at a gay singles night.’

  ‘I’m not with Joely, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  Her eyes narrow.

  ‘We split up pretty much the moment I took on the farm.’

  Her face hardens. ‘Not true. She was sending flowers and postcards not so long ago, and after you kissed me, you told me you felt like a dick.’

  ‘The flowers were from my friends, and Joely had already finished with me before that postcard arrived in the snail mail from Korea.’ I move my glass around the bar mat in circles. �
�Never post anything home from Seoul – it takes weeks! And for the record, I said I felt like a dick because Guy saw us and I thought you were together.’

  She studies me. ‘So, you don’t have feelings for her?’

  Feeling nothing for Joely is like the average woman feeling nothing for Don Draper. ‘We’re not right for each other,’ I reply diplomatically.

  ‘Did you pop the question?’ she says.

  My eyes widen. ‘Pop the question?’

  ‘I saw the ring box,’ she says. ‘Addressed to Joely Goddess.’

  ‘It wasn’t a ring,’ I say, almost too quickly. ‘I bought her a ladybird pendant for her birthday, which I never gave her. Turns out she hates ladybirds.’

  ‘Bullshit. Nobody hates ladybirds.’ Her eyes shift around the room. ‘OK, so here goes. I get tongue-tied around you because I like you, Billie. I’ve always liked you. I think you’re bloody brilliant. That’s why I say and do the most inappropriate things around you.’

  An overwhelming sense of happiness glows inside me.

  ‘So, what do we do now?’ She squeezes my knee.

  I reach under her cloak and slide my arm around her waist. She tenses up, her back straightening, her collarbone rising. I feel like liquid. Thick and sludgy at first and then, as I lean towards her, everything dilutes, sloshing and swirling out of control. I press my lips against hers and kiss her.

  Ten stags raise their glasses to us and cheer.

  We kiss again.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  KAT AND BEAR’S WEDDING

  A few days later, and Lorna and I have agreed that we are ‘seeing where it takes us’. Today has taken us back to her flat, which, contrary to preconceptions, is not a wall-to-wall shrine of rosettes and show-jumping trophies, but contemporary cool with retro neon signs, statement sofas and shedloads of vinyl. Her loft conversion bedroom has a living area and an en-suite, which means that the only time we risk bumping into Guy is when he’s in the kitchen, which is not very often as he’s not the most culinary of men. He does, however, think up every excuse under the sun to come upstairs in the hope of catching us ‘at it’.