Cow Girl

by Kirsty Eyre

  ‘How’s about you introduce me to the happy couple?’ she says, grabbing my arm and leading me back into the wedding.

  Back inside, the party’s in full swing. Dave flings two middle-aged ladies in low-cut blouses around the dance floor to ‘Stayin’ Alive’.

  Lorna removes her coat to reveal a jade cocktail dress.

  I hug her. ‘You look fucking amazing.’

  ‘You don’t scrub up too badly yourself,’ she says. ‘We got him out, the Hereford calf. Little boy. All healthy.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I say, aware that the person I was six months ago would’ve glazed over at this sort of detail, unable to relate to any part of it. Six months ago, I was a different person. God knows which one is better.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder. Lorna’s smile dissolves into a look of horror, her body becoming brittle. I turn round to see Joely, who has at least pulled her dress back on. I grab Lorna’s hand.

  ‘Ma petite Anglaise.’ Ignoring Lorna completely, Joely threads her arm through mine.

  Lorna’s face drops. ‘Billie?’

  I try to flick Joely’s arm away, which only makes her cling onto me.

  ‘Why is she here?’ Joely slurs, hanging onto my elbow.

  Lorna grits her teeth. ‘I could ask you the same question.’

  I peel Joely off my arm and try to grab Lorna’s, but she keeps both hands firmly welded around her bag. ‘I didn’t invite Joely. She just showed up,’ I say.

  ‘Nobody just shows up to a wedding,’ Lorna says, walking away from me towards the bar.

  ‘Nobody except Joely,’ I say, following desperately, Joely slumping into a chair behind us.

  ‘Nobody except Joely. You say it like she’s something special. And meanwhile, I’m just some sort of comfort blanket? Good old “get you out of jail” Lorna?’

  Neve looks our way and does a double-take when she sees Lorna. Lorna squints back and then returns her frown to me.

  ‘Jesus, Billie,’ Lorna says. ‘Just exactly how many people did you have on stand-by?’

  Then, before I have time to do anything about it, Lorna charges back through the room and heads straight over to Joely. I watch them exchange a barrage of words, which leads to Joely showing something to Lorna on her phone. I hurry over in trepidation.

  ‘Just showed up, huh?’ Lorna waves Joely’s phone in my face. On her screen, a photo of the wedding invitation looms large.

  Joely smells my desperation and capitalizes on it. ‘You invited me, Billie.’

  ‘Months and months ago, when we were together!’ I say.

  ‘Spare me the bullshit, Billie.’ Lorna turns on her heels, the muscles of her bare back flickering as she retreats to the main door with her coat.

  ‘Lorna, wait!’ I rush after her, negotiating tables, umbrellas, coat-stands and waiting staff, the double doors slamming in my face.

  She trots along the pavement, teeth chattering, arms folded tightly over her chest, holding out her arm in the hope of stopping a cab.

  ‘It’s not what it looks like!’ I shout. ‘Nothing happened with Joely.’

  She takes off her ankle boot and shakes out a stone that skims into the road, her big grey eyes boring into me. ‘Did you really need to humiliate me like this?’

  ‘I haven’t humiliated you!’ I say.

  ‘I’m going home. I don’t want you to contact me.’ She hails a taxi.

  ‘Lorna, wait!’

  The door clunks shut behind her.

  ‘Lorna!’ I scream, but she’s gone.

  Maria appears at my side. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been? Bev’s uncle’s looking for you.’ She looks at me. ‘Bilbo, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Lorna’s gone.’

  ‘Lorna?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gone where?’ she says.

  ‘Home. Away. Anywhere. I don’t know.’

  Dave appears next to us. ‘I think your femme fatale might need a bit of help.’

  Maria rolls her eyes and drags me back inside where Joely Chevalier is slumped against the wall in a pool of vomit.

  ‘Can you move her outside?’ Bev’s uncle says. ‘I can’t afford to lose my deposit on the venue, what with Christmas only around the corner!’

  I look at Joely and want nothing to do with her, but she’s now my responsibility. I want to tell her to go fuck herself. That she’s ruined everything. But what’s the point? She’s too paralytic to understand what I’m saying. Maria helps me bundle her into the Ladies’, where she slumps over the washbasin, head lodged under the soap dispenser, dress stained with red wine and diced carrot. I peel off her dress at arm’s length and shove it into a pedal bin bag we find under the sink.

  Maria hands me a peach table cloth. ‘It’s the only thing I could find!’

  I wrap it around Joely, mummifying her in tableware. We call for a taxi, but when one arrives, it won’t take her. In the end, Dave has to bribe the wedding rickshaw man, who’s been taking wedding guests with small children round the block for a tenner all evening, to pedal her home. And as she disappears out of sight, I sit on the dirty, wet kerb, trying to make sense of everything, headlights reflecting in oily puddles, a pigeon pecking at some congealed chewing gum.

  Maria sits down next to me. ‘Fucked up there, Bilbo!’

  We both stare at the pigeon in contemplation. Were we smokers, she would’ve definitely handed me a cigarette and we would have sparked up in silence, drinking in the nicotine-infused world, but we’re not, so she doesn’t.

  ‘No shit.’ I peer into the gutter. ‘And my fucking phone’s dead, so I can’t call her.’

  Maria dips her hand into her diamanté handbag and pulls out her phone, its screen full of app icons sitting on top of a photo of Dolly Parton. ‘Do you know her number?’

  I picture the eleven digits emblazoned across the Parsons-Bonneville SUV and punch them sequentially into her phone.

  Maria smiles. ‘Maybe there’s still hope.’

  But Lorna’s phone goes straight to voicemail.

  If there is hope, it is not meant for today.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  UNFUCKING THE FUCK-UP THAT IS MY LIFE

  Christmas Eve arrives and Derbyshire is tinselled by sleet. The bookies bank on a revival of Cliff Richard’s ‘Mistletoe and Wine’ being Christmas number one and slash the odds on a White Christmas as weather forecasters predict ‘Snowmageddon’ across northern Britain. I prepare the farm for the worst, gritting the lane, digging out snow chains and stocking up on tinned baked beans, chocolate and anti-freeze.

  In a parallel universe, I am mid-Winter Wonderland romp, frolicking in fresh white powder in the style of a boy band Christmas video, playfully throwing slow-motion snowballs at a giggling, rosy-cheeked Lorna Parsons. In this universe, I’m dragging on wellies and stomping solo in an inadequately lined parka to the milking shed, painfully and resolutely single. It’s been almost two weeks since the wedding and Lorna has rebuffed every attempt I’ve made at contact. I’ve left voicemails, put notes through her letterbox, been turned away countless times at her front door by Guy, and skulked around the village, hoping to ‘just bump into her’. It’s like she’s dropped off the face of my earth.

  A semi-inflated Father Christmas buffets against the entrance to the barn, his neck tethered by fairy lights, his reindeer spattered in wood-pigeon poo and flecked with mud. The wind howls. Hallam FM churns out Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’, and I have never missed Lorna Parsons so much.

  I log onto Dad’s computer and type her name into the search box. The results are impressive. She’s a regular speaker on the veterinarian circuit, a pioneer in bovine podiatry, a co-inventor of the Cowslip, a tough plastic shoe used to treat lameness in cattle. Her headshot is a close-up of her freckled face, caked in mud and smiling. Winner of the National Vet Award three years ago. Runner-up the following year. You name it, she’s got it.

  I type ‘Billie Oliver’ into the internet, which returns umpteen o
nline profiles and several obituaries for Billie Olivers who accomplished great things with their lives: freedom fighters, drug barons, Bodacious Woman Award winners, but nothing related to me. When I hunt hard enough, I eventually stumble across a thirty-five-page case study I wrote at Durham University on ‘Barriers to Reduce Toxaemia in Women with Pre-Eclampsia’. Other than that, it’s just the business-as-usual neglected job profile and a couple of sporadically updated social media sites.

  From: Dave Aspinall

  Subj: Happy Christmas!

  Happy Christmas Eve, Shitbag!

  How’s it hanging? Just wanted to tell you that Queen’s Secret Santa lives on in your absence! Today’s exchange of presents included:

  Me: a piece of plastic sick from the local joke shop.

  New intern: a ‘Keep Calm and Eat Pizza’ fridge magnet (probably from the joke shop).

  Arlene: a plastic dog poo (definitely from the joke shop).

  I miss our post-match analysis. It’s not the same without someone to laugh about it. You’ve been gone for a fucking age. So long, in fact, that ‘the boss’ packed up all your stuff the other day and sent it to you registered post for fear of not adhering to some HR handbook clause about proprietary rights.

  Thought you also might like to know that your eclampsia case studies got published alongside some video clips KSG put together. Links below.

  Have a Happy Christmas and keep the faith!

  Davo x

  I click on the links. The first video shows a woman with known pre-eclampsia in full-on labour. She lies on a hospital bed, her legs splayed, the bloody, matted crown of her unborn child’s head appearing and disappearing between shudders and shakes. The mother’s muscles spasm, her body jerking and juddering, her neck twisting this way and that. She throws her head back with exhaustion. The midwife passes her a canister of gas and air, which she snatches, biting on the mouthpiece as her head pulses left and right and her body is seized once again. These are no ordinary contractions. She’s practically vibrating. I think of my mum and can’t watch the rest.

  When I press ‘stop’, the image freezes on a close-up of a doctor’s gloved hand poised with a needle of calcium gluconate.

  ‘Billie?’ Grandma hollers from downstairs.

  ‘One sec!’ I close the lid of my laptop. At least, not knowing the outcome, there’s a chance she didn’t die.

  ‘Can you pick up your auntie Bea?’

  It’s tradition in the Oliver household that Beatrice comes over on Christmas Eve and stays until New Year, so that we can all get on each other’s tits and feel recharged once everyone is firmly back under their own roof. It’s also tradition that we have Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve, so that we can go to the Cavendish Hotel for a meal on Christmas Day and pretend to be posh. This is Beatrice’s ‘treat’ to us all, for taking her under our wing, though truth be known, Dad and I would prefer to stay at home and watch telly.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Did a package come for me?’

  ‘No, but we got a slip through.’ She fumbles behind the toaster and drags out a ‘Sorry we missed you’ card, which says I’ve got to drive to some Royal Mail depot in the arse end of nowhere to pick it up. I have no idea which belongings I left at the lab, but don’t really want to leave it until after Christmas in case it gets lost, so I take a detour.

  The man at Raleigh Park depot hands me a heavy cardboard box. ‘There’s £2 postage to pay,’ he says. ‘Looks like they under-provisioned.’

  That’s Queen’s for you. I bite my lip and slide a £2 coin over the counter.

  It’s not until I’ve managed to lug the package over to the car and drag it into the boot, that I open it up, slicing open the brown parcel tape with the car key. The package contains:

  • One box of Tampax

  • One skanky pair of size 4 Fuji Attack Asics

  • One greying sports bra

  • One pair of age 12 boys’ jogging bottoms

  • Deodorant

  • A KSG baseball cap

  • A KSG stress ball

  • A printed biography of Joely Chevalier

  • An unopened box addressed to me from KSG containing twenty-four boxes of calcium gluconate-based product samples

  I drive to Bakewell wondering how much it cost Queen’s to send all this shit.

  Beatrice’s bell doesn’t work. It takes a good ten minutes of thumping on the front door before footsteps descend the staircase. She appears in the holly-and-berry print dress she wears every year with a built-in red belt. With unsteady hands, she crayons on lip-liner in the hallway mirror, primps her pink-tinted hair and slips on a snow-wash denim jacket.

  She reaches for a leopard-skin print scarf and her handbag. ‘Sometimes, you have to compromise warmth for fashion,’ she says, tucking a five-pound note into my pocket. ‘It’s Christmas. Buy yourself something nice!’

  Grandma and Dad are busy arguing over the food safety of defrosted turkey when we get back to the farm. The smell of roast potatoes fills the kitchen. Grandma kisses Beatrice on the cheek and shunts us in with a rolled-up copy of the Christmas Radio Times.

  ‘Why is this house always so freezing?’ Beatrice squeezes her stockinged feet into sheepskin slippers. ‘Anyone’d think it were the North frigging Pole.’

  ‘South Pole, more like,’ Grandma says.

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Penguins.’

  ‘Well, penguins or no penguins, it’s like living in a barn,’ Beatrice says.

  ‘Seeing as it’s a special occasion, we’ll put the heating on!’ Grandma goes into the pantry and rummages for the boiler, which has been in the utility room for eleven years. She comes out holding a bottle of San Pellegrino at arm’s length. ‘I guess everyone enjoys a bit of sparkle at Christmas.’

  Dad turns on the television, which screens some appalling quiz show with minor celebrities dressed in Santa hats. I set the table and wonder what Lorna is up to. Whether she’s with her parents or at her brother’s. Whether she’s with Guy. Whether she’s on her own.

  The four of us sit down to turkey roast with all the trimmings. Speedo whimpers under the table, letting out turkey farts. The sausages are burned to a frazzle and the parsnips are soggy, but nobody says anything.

  ‘Happy Chuffing Christmas!’ Grandma shouts over a shit cracker.

  ‘Happy Christmas, everybody!’ Beatrice chuckles. ‘Thanks for having me again.’

  Dad stands up, holding onto the table. ‘Happy Christmas, all!’ He raises his glass. ‘They say behind every good man is a good woman. I’m just lucky I’ve got a team of women behind me. I couldn’t have got through the year without you, I really couldn’t.’ He raises a glass to Grandma and me. ‘So, Billie. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.’

  Grandma peers at him from under her cracker hat. ‘Is it wise to do this now?’

  He sits down. ‘It’s about the farm, Bilberry. I think the time may have come for me to hang up my boots. The tumour’s been a bit of a wake-up call, if I’m honest, and …’ Tears spring to his eyes.

  ‘It’s OK, son,’ Grandma says, cupping his hand in hers.

  Dad fiddles with his cracker whilst Grandma rubs his back and pours him a glass of sherry. We prod at the vegetables until he regains his composure.

  ‘I know I’m only going to be able to sell for a fraction of what the farm’s worth, what with the number of years on the lease dropping, but it’s only going to lose value the longer I hang onto it. I’m not getting any younger and, as you know, farming’s a very physical job. Billie, you’ve been a star, but they’re not going to keep your job open for ever. It’s time for me to sell up.’

  I feel as if someone’s just stabbed me. ‘What about your dreams of keeping a small plot of land and a couple of cows?’ I try not to choke on the pig-in-blanket I’m trying to chew covertly.

  ‘That would still be the dream, Billie, but I have to be realistic.’

  I want to say I’ll take on the farm, but I c
an’t. I don’t have the capital to buy him out, I can’t make his business profitable and, selfishly, I have my own career to pursue.

  He leans on his elbows and puts his hands together, his fingertips touching. ‘There’s a chap in Bakewell who’s already expressed an interest as a cash buyer.’

  ‘Not the one who wants to turn the farm into a Christian retreat?’ Grandma frowns.

  ‘A Christian what?’ Beatrice says.

  ‘Retreat,’ Grandma says. ‘He wants to open up a Christian centre for the rehabilitation of Young Offenders.’

  ‘Young what?’

  ‘Offenders, Bea!’

  ‘No need to shout!’

  ‘What about the herd?’ I say, looking over at Dad, who looks like he’s just buried a loved one. ‘Is this what you want?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I want,’ he says quietly. ‘It’s what’s best for business.’

  ‘Is rehabilitation even a business?’ Beatrice says.

  ‘Apparently the government is big on grants for that sort of stuff,’ Grandma says, dabbing bread sauce on the side of her plate and spattering it up Beatrice’s sleeve. ‘Though heaven only knows what good it’ll do, letting a bunch of convicts chat to God in a barn.’

  ‘You’ll have to lock your stuff up, all right.’ Beatrice gives her hairdo another pat.

  ‘You’re not helping, ladies.’ Dad chews his turkey. ‘As you well know, dairy is an all-consuming beast.’

  ‘It’s a profession of hope, is farming.’ Grandma reaches for the gravy boat. ‘What was it that Mahatma Gandhi said?’

  ‘“Where there is love, there is life”?’ Beatrice quotes innocently.

  Grandma stands at the helm of our Christmas spread; a matriarch sent by the Angel Gabriel. ‘“The cow is a poem of compassion”.’ She slams her fist down on the table, causing our plates to chink. ‘“We must defend the worship of the cow against the whole world.”’

  ‘I think he meant that as a devout Hindu,’ Dad says curtly.

  ‘Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jew, a cow’s a cow at the end of the day,’ Grandma says.