by Laura Beatty
And then the first mild days, out of the blue as it were. Imagine the high of that, of the cold yielding after all. The sky softening and opening out again. The day the air smelt possible for the first time. One or two birds noticed it the same as Anne. Their songs, which through the winter had been hard and chipped, because nothing could be spared, not even song, melting suddenly. From somewhere unseen, liquid rushes of sequential notes bubbling over each other. Spring songs. They stopped Anne in her tracks. Her legs gave way and she sat down hard. Hear that? she said to a robin cocking its head at her from a hazel. She couldn’t name the bird, when she found it. It was high up in one of the limes, a black and ordinary-looking silhouette, beak wide against the sky. Nothing special to be given such a job, to sing the spring back for the wood. She watched it quivering up in the top of the tree, with song or with wind, Anne didn’t know. Calling to one of its kind somewhere else. Then she shut her eyes to see the trees dressed again. Sound blossoms among the bare twigs. Any minute, she said to the robin, in Steve’s words. Any bloody minute.
No matter, after that, if there was a week of frost, which there was, or more iron days of drizzle. Anne had found her rhythm again. Own days and dump days, only this time she no longer felt awkward about going to the dump just for refuge. Steve had given her a bumper pack of plastic lighters. He wasn’t having that stove going out on her. Every colour of the rainbow they were and their name was Cricket, like summer. She kept them for special but because they were pretty she unpacked them and stood them in a rainbow row on her best shelf.
Steve helped her all the time. He taught her to walk straight away when she got up in the morning. Don’t sit in over the stove. Get going. Get the blood going. Doesn’t matter where you go to. And don’t press on till you get tired. Just till you feel warm enough to do without the jacket, then come back. So that was what she did, if it was dry, walked until she was warm, because exercise gets your spirits up. You can face the day after that. If she couldn’t face the day, she went to the dump. In Steve’s jacket and boots she belonged there now. She felt no uncertainty any more. I mean he didn’t give Suzie his boots or his jacket, did he?
Whenever she rolled in, pink from the walk, Steve wasn’t the least surprised to see her. Hey up. Jacket still doing its stuff? And he’d give her a smile and lumber off. Then Anne would get into what he called a project and she’d work at it for several days at a stretch, mending something, stripping down a dresser once, using Nitromors. The skinhead put his head round the door at her. His name was Carl. He had a red crest of hair now. You want to be careful using that stuff. He nodded at the tin. Lefal that is. Do your head in. He was friendlier now. He wanted to work in theatre. He’d come and tell Anne, when it was cold and he was on a fag break. One day he’d probably go to college. Do design or something. Work in theatre, only he said featre. Then he’d go out again and Anne would watch his skinny cockatoo frame, back to the cranes, hitch his trousers, duck his head so as not to knock the crest and swing up into the cab.
Back to work, painting, switching the old handles over on something that was destined for the wood pile, unscrewing hinges to keep for another project. She kept all the bits and bobs in old ice-cream tubs Mother gave her. Hinges, nails, assorted screws, handles, brackets, you name it. You could start up a DIY shop in there, Steve said. When she’d finished, she always made her way down the path to the bungalow.
Sit by the fire a bit. Warm up before you walk home, and have something hot while you’re about it.
One day, working like this, but slowly because it was a real hard one, minus five Steve had told her when she arrived, she had to give it up before she was finished. Her fingers wouldn’t work any more and she was missing with the hammer. So she left it and went up to the bungalow. Too cold, Steve, she said, when he opened the door.
That’s alright Anne, you go on in.
There was a little girl in spindle-berry colours trundling around the room, her hair up in a fountain on the top of her head, like Leanne’s used to be. Steve’s little girl. Rosie, she was called, but he just called her Littl’un.
Hello Mother.
Mother was in one of her moods. She jerked her head at Rosie. You won’t get no peace and quiet here if that’s what you’re wanting, she told Anne. Anne said nothing. She sat in her normal chair at the table, opposite Steve. Rosie stood at the end of the table, her chin at tabletop height. She pointed her hand at Anne. What’s that Daddy? What’s that one?
That’s Anne.
What’s that?
That’s Anne, sweetheart. You going to say hello? Rosie lowered her hand and stared. Is that one Nanne? Pointing again. Yes, I told you. Say hello then.
Mother swivelled her head. It’s rude to point. You should tell her Steve. It’s rude to point. Didn’t your mother tell you?
Let her alone Mother. She’s only little.
Rosie lost interest in Anne and went back to her game. She was playing with a porcelain pig off Mother’s mantelpiece, trotting it about on the end of the table and muttering to herself under her breath.
You mind that, Mother called at her. That’s valuable that is. Steve was leaning on his forearms, watching. She’s alright, Mother. She’s careful, aren’t you, Littl’un? Then, to Anne, she’s very forward for her age. Very forward, isn’t she, Mother? Mother grunted and looked away again. Gets it from her mother, Steve said. She doesn’t get it from us. I was never great at school, was I, Mother?
It’s choosing wives you were no good at. Great lummock.
There was no getting round Mother. She was out of sorts, you could see that a mile off.
Anne was sorry for Steve. She’d never seen Mother this bad.
‘Lo Nanne. Rosie looked at Anne looking at Steve.
Is it two Nans, Daddy, is it two?
That made Steve laugh. No, sweetheart. One’s enough. That’s your nan. This is Anne. Rosie’s direct and uncomprehending stare. Go on. You can say Anne, can’t you?
Rosie went back to the pig without committing herself.
Steve went out to take a delivery. Mother wasn’t talking. She sat by the fire with her mouth turned down. Mind she doesn’t break that ornament, she told Anne again, when Steve was gone.
Anne made a newspaper home for the pig and the pig went to bed. Rosie put her finger to her lips and whispered, Mustn’t wake him up. Anne nodded.
MORNING TIME, Rosie put the whole of her body into shouting, back arched, tummy forward. Mother and Anne both jumped. Bedtime again immediately. This time Rosie was cross. No more juice, she told pig. That’s my last warning. Steve came back in. MORNING TIME.
Oi! Steve said. Keep the noise down. You’ve got a big mouth for a little girl.
Rosie looked at Anne. Morning time I said.
Pig came out and trotted across the table. Anne told Rosie, You better give him some breakfast. He’s a hungry pig.
What can he have for breakfast?
What does he want? Anne asked.
Rosie bent to the pig. What do you want for your breakfast? Apple juice and a cakey.
Steve sat watching. Seen Anne playing with Littl’un, Mother? Tell you what, she’s got a right bloody touch with kids. You made a friend there, Anne, I reckon.
Mother looked round, still with her mardy face on. She has got a touch. She’s a good girl that’s what, not like that piece of work.
How did Steve stay so even-tempered?
Fancy a bit of dinner?
Rosie said, I’m busy.
I’ll make you a sarnie and you can have it while you’re playing, how’s that – a Dad’s special?
Hoops, Dad. I want hoops. Without looking up from her game.
Say please.
Steve got up and made four plates of spaghetti hoops. Pig trod in the tomato sauce. Mother started up again in earnest. Rosie cried. Anne took the pig and wiped it carefully on her own jumper and put it to bed. It’s alright Mother. It’s not broken.
Rosie whispered to Anne through her tears. Morning time.
You’re that good with kids, you got family, Anne?
Anne startled and looked down. Steve hadn’t asked about her background for a long time. Steve and Mother were both looking at her now, as if they’d seen her in a new light. She hid the redness rising in her face in pig’s wants. No she didn’t. She didn’t have no family. She said it without looking up. Not getting involved with that lot again, she thought. Not having Suzie brought into it again, not now anyway.
Mother and Steve looked at each other. Steve’s mate Barry arrived and the bungalow got crowded. Stopping for tea Barry?
Anne thought she’d better go. What are you doing, Rosie wanted to know. Are you putting your coat on now?
Barry sat down in Anne’s chair. Smarty’s sold half his land for development. Had Steve heard?
You’re joking.
I am not.
Silence, while the men looked at each other across the table. Steve rubbed his hand over his head. Bang goes our shooting then.
That’s it, Barry said. We’ve got till the end of March apparently.
Well, bloody hell. Bloody Smarty. Who’d have thought it.
He got a good price for it apparently.
Steve sat rubbing his chin. I’ll bloody bet he did.
Even Mother was interested now. The place is changing, she told Steve. The place is changing.
Thought I’d see if you fancied some lamping, Barry said.
Why not, Steve nodded at him. Why not. Sandra will be up to collect the Littl’un after work, sevenish sound OK? He looked across at Anne. You fancy coming along Anne? We’ll get you some rabbits for the pot.
Rabbits, that was plural. Her face said yes without her opening her mouth. Steve laughed. That’s set then.
Thank you, Steve. Thanks, Barry. Anne folded her arms across her chest and held tight, to keep the pleasure in. Steve gave her his alarm clock, so she’d know when to be at the gate. We’ll meet you at quarter past, how’s that?
Can I come with you? Rosie was looking up at Anne. Can I come at your house, can I?
Anne looked at Steve.
Not today, sweetheart.
Dad, can I come at big Nanne’s house? Then without waiting for a reply she told Anne, her finger raised in admonishment, Wait a minute ‘fore I put my boots on.
Anne didn’t know what to say.
Steve got up from the table. That’s alright Anne, you get going. He picked Rosie up. What do you think Mummy will say if I tell her you’ve gone off to the woods with Anne for the night? You can come with me some other time, alright?
As Anne went out, Mother was crowing with laughter in her chair, her top teeth flying forwards every time she opened her mouth. You see what that piece of work says about you taking her down the woods. I’d like to see her face when she hears.
Anne banged the door behind her.
Give it a rest Mother, Steve said from behind the closed door.
♦
They were already there when she got to the gate, leaning on their arms, black bulks in the dark. Barry was smoking. She could see the red end of his cigarette moving around like a firefly. Hey up, in a soft voice. Had they been waiting long? No, love, only a couple of minutes. Very cold. Frost underfoot already and a black star-pricked sky. No moon, which helped. Across the field to the truck where Buster was whining. Anne in the cramped back seat and Barry driving. Get the old heater going, Steve said, rubbing his big hands. Bloody brass monkeys. They bumped about the field, the headlights catching the glint of eyes.
Something over there Barry, and Barry turned the truck and the lamp picked out the silly little rabbits, hopping and nibbling. Bang. Bang. And their back legs kicked and windmilled and they lay still. Round and round the fields. To Anne, getting out of the truck to pick up, it was a feast. It was nights of eating, rabbit stew with turnips from the fields. It was luxury for no effort. She couldn’t believe it. She was practically singing.
Sling the rabbits into the back of the truck and off again, the lamp sending its shaft across the inky spaces. Once, as it swung round, she saw him – reddish, sharpish. He had his head up, ears pricked, and he was beautiful, but it was only a second. He flashed round as soon as seen, his big tail swinging wide. He knew what they were about. He was no fool, the fox. And bang.
Steve was an expert shot. She didn’t think he ever missed and only this time did she let out a cry, because, although she knew, she hoped so much that it wasn’t her fox.
Steve and Barry looked round. What’s up Anne? It’s alright Anne, just a bloody fox.
But she couldn’t explain, so she got out and went to pick him up.
Holding the body still warm in her hands and the live stink of him, his lips curled back to show his teeth. She stood with her back to the truck. She didn’t turn round immediately. She just stood with her shoulders bent over and the fox lying across her open hands. She couldn’t explain how hard he’d worked at staying alive that winter. How he’d used his wits to the last drop, how he was clever and fast and kept her company through the desperate days, the wood’s great predators, herself and him. She couldn’t explain how she’d envied him, how he was better at survival than she was.
He was just a bloody fox after all.
So she slung him over, among the rabbits and got back into the truck.
Alright Anne? Steve looked concerned.
OK Steve.
And she stared out into the blackness and crossed her fingers, for nothing. Goodbye fox, she said in her head, over and over, and the tears made hot tracks, which turned cold under her chin. Goodbye fox.
Maiden II
You make your house and you roof it, and you warm it with a stove and it keeps you safe and it keeps you dry, but the place where you live is not your house. Where you really live is inside the framework of your life. That’s what keeps you going, stops you going round the bend. You have to build yourself a routine, as well as a house. You have to have a structure to your days. Anne had own days and dump days. And she fitted her own days, with their duties, round the dump, which was always the centre. She had milking time and hunting time, gardening and fixing up and collecting, and she shifted them round as need be, ordering herself within them in a pattern that only she and the season understood. It pleased her, like a kaleidoscope.
A dump day, and Anne went down to the sheds, to fossick for projects. There was a chest of drawers, drunk-looking, on three legs, quite a nice cabinet, with the bottoms of the drawers gone, could be made good quite easy. Lately, with spring arrived, she’d hoick the piece onto the hard standing, in the sun, if sun there was, because it was nicer to work outside. Also that way if she was there, Rosie’d see her and come down. They had nice chats and Rosie would pick out the nails with her little fiddly fingers, or find the handles in the boxes. And often, when Anne was finished, she’d make something for Rosie, like a little house for a teddy or for the spider they’d found in the cupboard that Anne was working on that day. Until Rosie’s demands got too much and then Anne would stop. He wants a car big Nanne. That’s not a car. He wants a car what drives.
But there was no sun today and no Rosie, so Anne fixed herself up in the workshop, where the music was on all day, and the men came to have a cuppa at teatime. She’d been going a while, but she couldn’t concentrate. She’d got like the animals now, one ear pricked all the time and an extra sense for when things weren’t right. No Steve. Anne came out of the shed and stood in the middle of the dump. Sid, the old man, was taking deliveries but he never spoke to Anne so she wasn’t asking him. Carl was far away, under his crest, in the crane, fag clenched between his teeth, dreaming of drama school while the grabber swung out and back. Light drizzle, otherwise quiet. The pylon, obviously, and a few starlings hopping about, doing everything together, flicking themselves into the sky all at once, like a handful of pepper thrown. Perhaps he was in the bungalow.
Up the garden path. She had meant to fix that gnome. Fall into the birdbath one of these days if it wasn’t careful. She could h
ave sworn it was getting worse. Knock on the door and open it like normal, and Steve met her in the little passage. All wrong, Anne could see that at once. He just stared at her for a moment, like he didn’t recognise her, and his hair looked worse than hers and his clothes were as if he’d slept in them, or not slept in them more like. Really at a loss he was.
What’s up Steve?
They looked at each other in silence and Steve’s face did something unusual, a sort of twitch. Mother’s gone. Passed away. He stood back to let Anne into the old room. No fire on. Empty. Just plates and cups about anywhere. Steve sat down again, in his chair, still looking at Anne, as if she could have fixed it for him, put it all back together again, like she did the furniture. His eyes were soft with tears.
First Anne sat down opposite him and just looked her sympathy. Sorry Steve. It was almost a whisper. Then, later, she said, She was old, wasn’t she? And, When did she die? And Steve told her. It had been very sudden. Sunday night she was taken bad and they had the doctor out but she wasn’t going to hospital. You know what Mother was, Steve said. And Anne nodded. She knew. Died Tuesday.
Then Anne made them both tea and toast. She did the washing up and tidied and made one of Mother’s breakfasts.
You’re a good girl Anne. Mother always said that.
They ate the breakfast. Between mouthfuls Steve looked nervously at Mother’s chair. You wouldn’t think moaning was company, would you?
Anne nodded. She knew. You can take your time Steve. After a while she said in a small voice that rose at the end, as though it was a question and not a statement, I could help.
Course you could Anne, without taking his eyes off Mother’s chair. You do. You do help.
Anne spent the day in the bungalow, being company and making him food and sorting things. Sometimes they just sat looking at each other in silence. Sometimes Steve would have a cry. Then Anne would make another cup of tea and Steve would blow his nose with a noise like a trumpet and there would be quiet again.
Funeral’s the day after tomorrow. Fancy coming along? Mother would like it.