Cow Girl

  Please find enclosed my real-world case study, showing how calcium gluconate can not only treat eclampsia but also milk fever. Note: Mademoiselle is not a woman but a pedigree cow.

  Wishing you a Merry Christmas and all the best for the New Year.

  Yours sincerely,

  Billie Oliver

  And now it’s gone midnight, one final text.

  To: Lorna Parsons

  Lorna, I know you still hate me, but I still miss you like mad. Just wanted to wish you a very Happy Christmas. Love Billie x

  It’s Christmas Day and another four inches of snow have come down overnight. It should feel magical, yet winning the freehold without winning back Lorna doesn’t feel right. The sweet taste of victory isn’t so divine without a loved one to share it. Still, I can’t wait to tell Grandma and Dad once they’re up.

  Hallam FM declares Cliff Richard the Christmas number one. An ex-Pussy Cat Doll is interviewed live from the Bahamas on what it’s like to have ‘the perfect beach body for Christmas’, and the inflatable Father Christmas tethered to the roof of the cowshed has popped, a hollow corpse swinging back and forth in the breeze.

  I pull on wellies and trudge across the unspoiled, glittery white blanket of snow to the barn. The herd greet me, their groans and grunts faithful to our everyday routine. There’s something comforting in the whole milking process when you’re feeling shit. It’s just me and the girls, and it’s better that way. Although animals can harbour resentment and hold grudges, it’s always short-lived. They may be demanding, but they’re always fair. Treat them with respect and they’ll respect you. ‘Happy Christmas, ladies.’

  From: Maria

  Happy Christmas, Bilbo Baggins. Love you long time xxx

  From: Kat Leason-Mellor

  Happy Christmas, Bill. Hope you have a cracker! We’ve got Bev’s mums over until Boxing Day. Wish me luck!!! Still, not as much oestrogen as at your place. Send our love to the cows. Love and moos, Kat and Bev x

  Back in the kitchen, Grandma is loosening grapefruit segments with a serrated knife. ‘Happy Christmas, Billie Goat.’

  I peel off my damp welly socks and drape them over the radiator. ‘Happy Christmas!’ I hug her tightly and smile, deciding to keep the news until we go out for dinner, where I can make a moment of it.

  At 11 a.m., as tradition demands, Grandma wheels her Japanese ash hostess trolley festooned with flapjack into the living room. She turns on the television, navigating her way around More4 to find Countdown. She takes a seat in the Tudor orthopaedic armchair she inherited from her mother.

  ‘Of course, the Countdown clock ticks quicker than what it used to,’ Beatrice says, helping herself to a honey granola chunk.

  ‘I know,’ Grandma agrees.

  ‘Disqualified.’

  ‘Shouldn’t have been.’

  It’s good that Grandma has a partner in crime. It’s been thirteen years since my grandpa died, and that’s a long time to be alone. I just wish Dad had someone. He’s been on his own for longer than he was with Mum and would enjoy a companion.

  ‘Shouldn’t have got three points for that.’

  ‘Were about to say the same.’

  We exchange presents at midday. Grandma gives me thermals and an urban dictionary, which she and Beatrice pore over, tittering at words like ‘White Walling’ and ‘Facebortion’. Dad snores, surrounded by socks, Jelly Babies and brandy.

  The clock strikes three, which signals Christmas dinner at The Cavendish. I’m about to get ready when an email comes through.

  From: Professor N. Williams, PhD, MD

  Re: ‘Thinking Outside the Box’ for PhD in Eclampsia Research

  Dear Billie,

  Now that’s what I’m talking about. This is genuinely exciting!

  I’d love to be part of your PhD journey and help you on your way. May I suggest you pop in and see me at Sheffield University in the new year and we can talk through your application form.

  Wishing both you and Mademoiselle a very Happy Christmas.

  Best wishes,

  Nigel

  I feel all floaty and possibly like Buddhists do when they reach enlightenment.

  Grandma fixes her hair in the hallway mirror. I’m bursting to tell her but Speedo’s throwing up yesterday’s turkey over the lounge rug and I figure it deserves a bigger moment, along with the freehold.

  ‘Remember it’s very posh, dessert fork as well as a spoon.’ She says the same thing every year.

  We arrive at The Cavendish, an upmarket hotel with white starched tablecloths and silver cutlery. A ‘please wait to be seated’ sign greets us in the entrance to the restaurant, where Christmas carols play over the chink and clink of cutlery on china.

  ‘We’ve a reservation under the name of Oliver,’ Grandma announces proudly to the waiter in her poshest voice.

  ‘Mrs Oliver times four,’ the waiter confirms, looking at his booking sheet and then at my footwear, as if it’s broken some sort of law.

  The door swings open behind us, letting in a gale. ‘Would you mind making it five?’

  Lorna Parsons beams from ear to ear, fresh-faced and perky.

  ‘Lorna!’ I squeal, wrapping my arms around her. ‘How did you know …’

  ‘You come here every year,’ Lorna says.

  My dad kisses her cheek. ‘Why don’t the pair of you join us in a second?’ he says, walking Grandma and Beatrice over to the table.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say, still beaming.

  Lorna pulls me back into the foyer, pushes me against the door and kisses me, long and hard. ‘Happy Christmas,’ she whispers.

  I study her face. Her kind eyes, her dancing freckles, her pretty pink scar. ‘You know, nothing went on with Joely.’

  ‘I know.’ She kisses me again. ‘I’ve been reassured a few times now.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘Maria and Kat both wrote to me. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for it back then, but I’ve had plenty of time to think it through and … well, it was actually Guy, really.’

  ‘Guy?’ I say, realizing I’ve got mud on my boots.

  ‘He said you looked like a lost puppy on our doorstep yesterday and I should forgive you.’

  ‘Fuck, I’ve missed you,’ I say, taking her hand and interlacing my fingers with hers.

  ‘I’ve missed you too.’

  She smiles. ‘I guess we’d better not keep the old girls waiting.’

  We go through to the restaurant. Lorna squeezes in beside me and pinches my knee as Grandma flits between foie gras (pronounced foy grass) and duck à l’orange on the menu.

  ‘You don’t even like duck, Kathleen!’ Beatrice mutters.

  ‘I do when it’s French,’ Grandma says, folding her menu and dusting imaginary crumbs off her knee.

  ‘Everyone likes anything when it’s French,’ Lorna smirks.

  After a momentary flirtation with nut log, the five of us order roast turkey. The waiter lights the log fire in front of us, which crackles and glows. Lorna slots her hand into mine under the table and everything feels warm and right.

  ‘I’d like to make an announcement,’ I say, squeezing Lorna’s hand. ‘Yesterday, I secured the—’

  ‘Red or white?’ the waiter leans over and lights the candles on our table.

  ‘I think we’ll want a bit of both, won’t we?’ Grandma says.

  ‘I’ll not have a wine, but I might manage a spritzer,’ Beatrice says.

  ‘A bottle of each, please,’ Dad says.

  I take a deep breath as the waiter shuts his notebook. ‘Yes, so yesterday when I was at the carol concert—’

  ‘Actually, I will have a wine,’ Beatrice says.

  ‘OK.’ The waiter flips open his notebook and changes the order.

  I run my fingers over the silver serviette ring. ‘I was at the carol concert and Mademoiselle, the Wolf’s pedigree cow was—’

  ‘Although I’ll regret it in the morning,’ Beatrice says, turning back to the retreating waiter. ‘S
orry, love. I’ll stick to a white-wine spritzer.’

  ‘I’ve got the freehold!’ I shout.

  Everyone in the restaurant stops what they’re doing and looks at me. Lorna has instinctively let go of my hand and my whole family is staring at me.

  ‘Yesterday, I got us the freehold to the farm,’ I say.

  ‘For how much?’ Dad says.

  ‘For nothing,’ I say, fiddling with my fork. ‘I saved Mademoiselle from an eclampsia seizure, and in return, Wolfgang Huxley Knobhead has given us the freehold.’

  Dad says nothing and gives me the same look he did when I came out to him.

  ‘I’ll believe that when I see it in writing!’ Grandma says.

  I take my phone out of my pocket and enlarge the text. ‘Here.’

  She puts on her reading glasses. ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ Dad says, taking the phone. ‘Fuck me!’

  The only time I’ve ever heard Dad say, ‘fuck me’ was when Donald Trump came to power, though that was accompanied by a look of horror, whereas now he looks caught between amazed and enraptured. ‘Jesus, Billie. You’re one in a million.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Lorna finally gets hold of the phone as the waiter fills our glasses. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

  ‘Not as proud as I am,’ Grandma announces.

  ‘Nor me!’ Dad says, standing up and inadvertently addressing the room with a raised glass. ‘To my brilliant daughter!’

  ‘To Billie!’ Grandma and Lorna clink glasses.

  ‘I’m not following,’ Beatrice says, looking at me. ‘Are you getting married?’

  Grandma realigns her cutlery. ‘She’s got the freehold to the farm.’

  ‘The what?’ Beatrice says.

  ‘It’s worth hundreds of thousands,’ Grandma says.

  ‘So, which one of you is going to carry the egg?’ Beatrice persists.

  ‘You probably don’t need an egg these days, Bea,’ Grandma says.

  ‘Of course, they didn’t acknowledge lesbians back in our day,’ Beatrice says. ‘And there were none of them trans-whatsits around either.’

  ‘Transvestites?’ I suggest.

  ‘Women with meat and two veg,’ Beatrice says. ‘You don’t mind so much if it’s some hairy man in fishnet stockings and a mini-skirt, but tampering with what Mother Nature gave you? That’s just plain wrong.’

  ‘Not for …’ I trail off as Lorna squeezes my knee under the table.

  ‘Never know what you’re getting these days,’ Beatrice says. ‘There was a lady down our precinct, who were seeing a man, who turned out to be a woman. Went out for a jacket potato and came back with a steak and kidney pie.’

  ‘It’s early days yet, Grandma.’ I smile, my roots well and truly entwined with those of Lorna’s. ‘We haven’t even been out on a proper date!’

  ‘You’d better get your skates on then,’ Beatrice says. ‘You don’t want to leave it until you’re both in your seventies.’

  Grandma takes hold of Beatrice’s hand over the table. ‘No, you don’t want to make that mistake.’

  Lorna’s jaw drops slightly, and she nudges my leg with her knee, the cutlery jumping. I look at her with a face that says, Come on, you knew, right? and she looks back at me with one that screams, No!

  ‘What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?’ Grandma looks at Lorna.

  Lorna blushes. ‘Sorry, I just …’

  That’s the thing about being in your eighties: companionship doesn’t need classification. Friendships don’t need boundaries. And relationships don’t need outing. Love is love, whether it’s sleeping together, holding hands, or living alongside someone, playing Scrabble. Why ruin it with a label?

  It’s New Year’s Eve. The girls are on their way up. Grandma has defrosted a shrimp and macaroni casserole, which Dad has declared too adventurous for his pallet and is sticking with sausage and mash thank you very much. Bev is bringing Manfred, an injured violet-crowned hummingbird, who traditionally winters in Mexico but this year will be holidaying on the Derbyshire/Yorkshire border with the heating on. Kat is bringing her laptop and has a work deadline. Maria is bringing five family packs of extra strength verruca cream, now that she is the face/foot of Bazuka Verruca Removal Gel.

  ‘Do you think you’ll stay up for midnight?’ I say to Dad as he clicks shut the padlock to his shed.

  ‘I think I might.’ He drops the key into his pocket.

  I take a handful of leftover toffee Quality Streets from my pocket. ‘We’ll prod you if you fall asleep.’

  ‘Thanks, but you won’t be there.’ His eyes twinkle. ‘I’m going out for a drink with a lady friend after dinner.’

  I grab his arm with excitement, releasing my grip when I see him flinch. ‘Really?’

  ‘Pat, a lady from the bowling club.’

  ‘Friesian-card-with-the-kisses Pat?’

  He smiles. ‘The very one.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ I squeeze him until he can’t breathe.

  Lorna presses her nose against the kitchen window, and I realize I’m late for our haystack reunion.

  ‘You’d better be off,’ Dad chuckles.

  Rain drums hypnotically on the corrugated-iron cowshed roof. My head lolls onto Lorna’s shoulder as the two of us lie entwined on top of the haystack. I stare at the small rectangular space in the roof where a panel is missing; a casualty of the storm. It feels good to be back on the haystack with Lorna, making idle chitchat, my head propped on her shoulder, listening to the howling wind while we’re safely sheltered, Parsnip chomping on hay next to Jupiter II in the pen below.

  ‘I’m glad you don’t hate me any more.’ I chew on a piece of hay.

  Lorna smiles. ‘So, forgive the lesbian angst, but what happens now?’

  I tilt my head to one side and grab her waist. ‘How would you feel about me moving to Sheffield to do a PhD?’

  She rolls over so that we’re face to face. ‘Serious?’

  I run my fingers over her pretty horseshoe-shaped scar. ‘It’d mean getting a flat somewhere in Sheffield.’

  She stares at the roof, pulling her coat tighter around us and running her fingers over my thigh. The barn door rattles in the wind and the light flickers. Parsnip shuffles Jupiter II closer to her and groans.

  ‘But what about your life in London?’ Lorna says. ‘Your friends, your—’

  ‘My friends will always be my friends, no matter where I live. We can visit London whenever we want. You’re up here and so is the PhD. It’s a no-brainer.’

  Lorna smirks.

  ‘What?’ I say, digging her in the ribs.

  ‘You’ll make a brilliant doctor,’ she says, plucking a coarse strand of hay out of the bale we’re sitting on and tracing my face with it. ‘But you’ll always be my cow girl.’

  Parsnip moos. Lorna’s ladybird pendant catches the light and I know that everything’s going to be OK.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you firstly to Adam for surfing the highs and lows of writing alongside me, for championing Cow Girl from the very beginning and for reading countless drafts and shouldering a multitude of meltdowns.

  Massive thanks to Helen Lederer and all the wonderfully witty women involved in Comedy Women in Print for setting up an award that recognizes comedy writing as a craft in its own right, and to the judges, Jenny Eclair, Susan Calman, Fanny Blake, Lara Marshall, Martha Ashby, Jennifer Young and Karen McPherson, of the Unpublished category, for selecting Cow Girl.

  Thank you to Martha, at HarperCollins, for guiding me through the editing process with precision, humour and the odd pet anecdote – always felt on the same wavelength – it’s been a blast.

  Thanks to my agent, Felicity Trew, who loved Billie enough to take a punt on me, and to everyone at the Caroline Sheldon agency.

  Thanks to Jacq Burns at the London Writers Club for her invaluable critique of Cow Girl. Jacq, your LWC sessions are solid gold for debut writers and provided an introduction to Felicity.

  A
nd not forgetting a HUGE thank you to my writer friends, who read my early drafts, encouraged, critiqued and provided constructive feedback – especially to Clare Lydon, Loretta Milan and everyone on my CBC writers course, after whom I’ve named a cow. Oh, and to KT for being a muse and Susie for her unfaltering support.

  Cow Girl by Kirsty Eyre was the winner of the Comedy Women in Print’s Unpublished Novel 2019.

  Comedy Women in Print was set up by Helen Lederer to shine a light on witty women authors and is the first literary prize to bring forward the next generation of witty women authors as well as shine a light on those with established comedy writing careers.

  Entry details for the Published and Unpublished prizes are here https://www.comedywomeninprint.co.uk/how-to-enter

  Become a friend https://www.comedywomeninprint.co.uk/friends-of-cwip

  At last, female comedy writing has a place within the canvas of literary prizes.

  www.comedywomeninprint.co.uk

  About the Author

  Kirsty grew up in South Yorkshire, idolizing comedy writers like Sue Townsend. Having studied languages at Nottingham Trent, her love for theatre led her to write and direct several comedy stage-plays, which received favourable reviews at the Edinburgh and Brighton Fringe festivals.

  Kirsty now lives in South-East London with her partner and two children.

  Cow Girl is her debut novel, and won the inaugural Comedy Women in Print Unpublished Prize 2019.

  Facebook.com/kirstyjaneeyre/

  @KirstyJaneEyre

  About the Publisher

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