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QUALITY TIME The Equivocal Return of Lizzie Borden S D Anugyan

QUALITY TIME The Equivocal Return of Lizzie Borden By S D Anugyan This book was first published in Great Britain during May 2018. The moral right of S D Anugyan is to be identified as the author and editor of this work, and has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988. All rights are reserved and no part of this ebook may be reproduced or utilized in any format, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers Coast & Country/Ads2life. [email protected] All rights reserved. ISBN-13: 978-1982986339 Copyright © May 2018 S D Anugyan

This body is a mirror of heaven; Its energy makes angels jealous. Our purity astounds seraphim. Devils shiver at our nerve. Rumi ‘This feeling as if something was hanging over me that I cannot shake off.’ Lizzie Borden as quoted in ‘A Private Disgrace’, Victoria Lincoln



CONTENTS Page Chapter 1: On the Geographical Seclusion of Organic Beings ................ 1 Chapter 2: Other People ................. 32 Chapter 3: The Mutual Affinities of Organic Beings ........................ 59 Chapter 4: Beautiful Commerce ............ 96 Chapter 5: Possibilities ................ 131 Chapter 6: The Night Side of Nature ..... 155 The Wonderful Secrets of the Fourth Monkey ....................... 178 Chapter 7: Return ....................... 201 Acknowledgements/Disclaimers . 223



Chapter 1 On the Geographical Seclusion of Organic Beings Two hundred million years ago in what is now the south west of England volcanic breccia and pillow lava once did settle to a vast batholith of molten rock, cooled and crystallised to be revealed eventually as quartz glistening on the granite tors of Dartmoor. Oceans rose and fell accompanying further upheavals; then the Tertiary period ushered in mass extinctions, brought folds and faults, basins of clay, sand and brown lignite from innumerable corpses of primeval flora. More recently, a series of ice ages in the final millions of years broke and carried rocks over great distances, carved valleys and created rivers; till now on this present late spring day, when the shiny feldspar and biotite of the ancient granite could be seen as superincumbent grey sentinels by two females ascending a hill many miles to the south east of the moor; the concrete of the lane masked partially by dry layers of dirt and loose stones, there having been no rain for a week. Cassandra Munby, the elder of the two, was carrying a young feline much to the other’s chagrin, knowing it to be for show, a stratagem to evince compassion and worthiness. Their house and the lane they walked upon were located just south of the Sticklepath Fault and the lucrative Bovey Basin, adjacent to the A381, built just yesterday. The 1

vicinage, and the stage for much of this narrative, is about half-way between Totnes and Newton Abbot; or, as some would say, between Narnia and Neutral Abyss. (To which Cassie’s husband Hugo would respond, ‘Which is which?’, for he rather liked Newton Abbot.) Now within this limited frame, they encountered first a thatched cottage that would fit onto a postcard or a chocolate box only if the resident took pleasure in appearance, which she did not, any colour and style being merely incidental, or due to what paint was on sale on a particular day. Not so the name Equisetum Manor, a joke erudite and personal, its significance never explained to enquirers, none of whom were ever deemed worthy of such esoteric knowledge. “I don’t think she’s in,” muttered the young lady as they approached the freshly painted peach door. At first appearance she could seem something of a hoyden, with her ankle-high boots, worn jeans and black jacket on strong shoulders; then you would notice her eye-liner, the careful application of scarlet lipstick, the lively blue eyes and white face contrasting so effectively with the straight dark hair, and you would be taken aback. There was beauty and acuity present as well as strength. Practical modernity was not sacrificed for elegance by any means. As a teenager she was simply aware of the perils of beauty, the thirteen-and- pregnants lurching through the school corridors, their phones so much brighter than they; and she wished very much to always have things on her own terms. 2

“Maybe she’s round the back,” said Cassie after the knock resounded only with emptiness. “Would you mind checking, Andie?” The girl opened the side-gate and dutifully walked around the edge, chickens clucking as they fled past the wood-pile. “Miss Raymond, are you there?” she called. “it’s Andie from next door.” But there was no-one, only the usual disarray of geological specimens and herb pots under the large, twisted apple tree. She returned to the front. “She’s not there, Mum.” “Mmm, probably scouring the fields again for specimens,” Cassie stated, looking over at her own house and the sky overhead with its luminous grey layer of cloud. “Let’s go on.” “Shall I leave a flyer?” “No, it will be more polite to deliver it personally. I doubt she’ll come though. You know how she is.” “Lilo isn’t hers though,” Andie said as they continued up the road. “She likes birds too much.” “You’ve named the kitten?! You shouldn’t have done that, Andie.” “She’s hardly a kitten. Besides, I still don’t see why we can’t keep her.” “I told you: A. We can’t afford it. B. We won’t be able to go on holiday unless we get a cat-sitter. Animals always dictate whether you can go away or not. And C. She must belong to someone else.” Andie remained silent while they climbed the remaining yards to the next house, following the scar in the 3

road left by the broadband supplier. She was thinking: “A. Of course we can’t afford anything that’s fun. B. (See A.) We never go on a decent holiday anyway, in order to keep our frigging carbon footprint down, or because we’re broke. Being stuck in a prison on wheels that don’t move with people you hate on a rain-drenched Cornish campsite does not count. And C. She probably escaped from a life of torment. Lucky her.” She kept her thoughts to herself. Her mother was enjoying this semblance of bonding, unaware that Andie had several reasons to be so sedated, among them the hope that they wouldn’t find a home for the cat. Then, that they were going to see Gail Raymond was a sweetener. The old lady dressed in colourful long skirts from another era, and Andie was fascinated by her vintage style. However, at the root of the benignancy was that they were going to see the McCoys. This was usually forbidden territory, and like all things forbidden had an allure that grew magically and wonderfully, particularly when the youngest son, or grandson – it was hard to determine which; indeed he might well be neither – could be seen or heard roaring up and down the lane on his Yamaha motorbike at all times of day and night. The McCoys’ was the modernish house a hundred yards up the hill above the Munbys’. Once a semi-detached, it was widely known that the separating wall had been demolished, as several outhouses, caravans, sheds and other appendages accrued along with more McCoys and animals both caged and uncaged. 4

No-one actually knew why they were called thus, for it wasn’t their name, nor had they any Irish lineage. Their name was Milton, at least of the patriarch, a short perpetually unshaven man – his chin never quite bare nor bearded – who had retained a cropped mane of thick messy black hair even in his advancing years. Yet he, like the rest of the clan, would answer to the name McCoy if so addressed, his sly grin repeated with his affines as well as blood-kin. Generalisations beyond appearance regarding the clan tended to be short-lived. That they were three generations on the dole was contradicted by their industrious nature; they were always up to something. Those who had uncertain dealings with them had also asserted that while some of the family placed great emphasis on which team won or lost on Saturday, others had no such interest. Thus, if a generalisation were possible, it would be one of division, or a precarious kind of balance; an equilibrium redolent of eternity, for nothing ever really changed. When the McCoys had arrived was anyone’s guess. It was as if they were always there despite the house being only forty years old. There was no sign at the crumpled iron gate that lay permanently open to one side. Nobody, except presumably Royal Mail, knew the house name. It certainly wasn’t on Google. This hadn’t prevented anyone from finding it in the past, whether tradespeople, acquaintances or occasional visitors from the police or social services. Only the latter two found their visits unfruitful, the McCoys being a valuable nexus of goods and services. Cassie herself often bought eggs, vegetables and apricot jam from the shrine-like 5

box by the entrance. The source of the apricots was never dwelt upon. “Looks like the Marie Celeste,” she commented. Indeed, they were the only visible signs of life as they crossed the yard strewn with scrap, livestock droppings and the recent addition of a maroon van. “The what?” “Never mind.” Cassie refrained from her usual comment that they clearly didn’t teach the important things at that school. The house faced the valley in the same way theirs did lower down. The field between was contentious. It seemed to belong to the McCoys who sometimes put sheep there, then it was alleged that while the sheep were possibly theirs, the field certainly was not. There were rumbles of court proceedings that never actually happened. At the moment the field was empty except for wildflowers, the dull purple streaks of sorrel and the effervescent yellows of ragwort. As they passed the empty kitchen with its door wide open, they neared the front door which was also open, from which sounds of groans and cheering could be heard. “They’re all watching football,” said Andie needlessly. “Even the dogs.” Normally they couldn’t pass the gate without being accosted. “Hello?” As they stepped over the threshold, the customary barks erupted and two collies ran forward. “Come on, 6

Poppy, Ingo, we’re old friends.” Cassie held the kitten tighter as it attempted to get away in its panic. The dogs calmed quickly as the rest of the pack around the massive screen at the far end of the room became aware of the arrivals. There must have been close to twenty people, one of whom detached themselves from the group to speak to the women. He was one of the older sons; like many of the stock, muscular in a tight t-shirt and jeans, thick black hair and a devilish grin. “Ladies…” “We found this lost little girl in our garden,” Cassie declared, “and wondered if she’s yours.” He was amused somehow, as if by all this fuss over a cat. “Mum!” he called back over the din. “They have a cat. Is it one of ours?” “What colour is it?” “It’s black-and-white, Mrs Milton!” Cassie yelled. “Ahh!” came a new, sympathetic voice from the crowd, as a red-haired woman in her early twenties rose and came over, smiling infectiously. “Ain’t ours!” came the pronouncement from the crowd. “Can I hold him?” the girl asked, holding out her arms. And what lovely-shaped arms they were, compactly held in soft grey sleeves. Neither Cassie nor Andie had met Marina, only having heard of her arrival to the clan. She was going out with another one of the brothers, it was believed. That she was beautiful and warm-hearted was generally acknowledged at Ipplepen Post Office. How beautiful could 7

only be appreciated fully on meeting her. She was a bit below medium height, and perfectly proportioned – that is, curves in all the right places – and a face rich with freckles, lips poised as if always ready for a kiss, and dazzling wide turquoise eyes. Yet it was her warmth that performed the real magic. When she turned her attention on you, you knew with certainty that you were loved, and appreciated for who you were. You wished to disappear in her gaze. Cassie lost all awareness of her own body, that stodgy ageing beast with lumps in all the wrong places, her varicose veins, her shortness of breath, the long straggly black hair dripping alongside her plump face. Even her floral dress and plimsolls, much-maligned by her daughter, were transformed, for this exquisite creature was treating her with respect. Andie, mouth hanging open in testimony, had also never seen anything like her. Marina’s clothes were simple jeans and the grey cardigan, which she wore as if on a fashion-shoot. The young McCoy stood back in deference as Cassie passed the animal over to her. “He’s so lovely!” Marina cooed. “She,” Cassie managed to say. “She. Elsie! Can we keep her?” Marina’s warm, melodic voice soared through the air. “Let me see.” Mrs Milton raised herself, straining, and came over, empty mug in hand. A small wiry woman with streaks of grey in her dark hair, and a perpetual weariness in her craggy features, she tended to focus almost exclusively 8

on the practicalities of the household, allowing the rest to take care of itself. She simply glanced at the ball of warm fur in Marina’s arms before proclaiming, “Sure. It can stay here. One more won’t make any difference. Would you like a cuppa, Mrs Munby?” “Thank you,” said Cassie following her through to the kitchen. “(Come on, Andie.) I didn’t know you liked football.” “I don’t.” Cassie had sometimes felt an affinity with Mrs Milton as apparently the only unprepossessing one in the family. It had not always been so, she could tell. There was evidence of past beauty in her lines, and a current resentment. Andie hovered, reluctant to follow. She was aware that the cat, which had no known identity, had been transferred between two owners in total disregard to whatever the truth of the situation may be. “She’s so sweet,” Marina declared, cradling. “I wonder what we’ll call her.” “I called her Lilo,” Andie shrugged shyly. “‘Lilo’. I like that.” Someone else now detached himself from the rabble just as the brother standing by idly returned to it, his services not required. The new arrival was a thin man about the same age as Marina. Light brown hair a few inches in length, a carefully- trimmed beard, and a pale complexion with hints of rose, distinguished him from the others. “Can I hold her?” he asked. His deference to Marina was also in contrast from the 9

previous male presence, an easy intimacy, as shown by their mutual smiles, as if they were reflections of each other; and by the soft caress of her cardigan sleeves as they brushed against his bare arms, and her long copper-red hair fell briefly upon his shoulder. Andie was distracted by the sound of a motorbike as it punctured the crowd noise. She went outside. Her mother in the kitchen saw her go past but was too busy being the honoured guest to intervene. The young man in tight jeans, a blank white t-shirt and leather jacket, looked approvingly, and a bit patronisingly, at Andie as he got off the bike and placed the helmet on the back. Knowing each other by sight, they greeted and exchanged the usual, focusing on the bike itself. As he lit a cigarette, Andie thought she had never seen anyone so impressive, his self-assurance unknown in other boys of her acquaintance who, at the most, had only an ignorant smugness. She saw him on the road even on days she was sick, so he had obviously abandoned school early, or it had abandoned him; in her view, either scenario spoke of individuality and hidden depths. Her mother emerged, as did – from the other door – Marina, the young man and the cat. Andie resented the intrusion. “Come inside, Andie. It’s too cold.” “No, it’s not.” “Where’s Jenny?” the motorcyclist asked Marina with a sly grin. “She’s watching the football,” her companion answered. 10

“Thanks, Ren.” He headed inside, cigarette dangling from his lips. “René, your car is crying again,” Marina said, nodding compassionately at the maroon van towards the gate. “Oh shoot.” There was water pooling under the front end and spilling into the yard. He ran to take care of it, Marina absorbed with fondling the cat. “He’s wonderful, thank you.” “You’re welcome,” said Cassie, before going back inside. Andie felt adrift with nowhere to turn, till Marina took a few steps closer and spoke to her. “Let me know if anyone asks after him…her. It will be hard to part but…” “Marina!” came a shout from the front door, and a new player came on stage. He was six feet tall, in the obligatory jeans and t-shirt – green this time – but had a head of spiky red hair that distinguished him from the others. Andie thought he and Marina might be siblings until after a dismissive laugh at ‘my new rival’, he and Marina kissed passionately, his muscular torso pressing forcefully against her yielding form, while she turned the animal aside protectively. “Hello there,” he greeted Andie from above Marina’s head, “who are you?” The more she simply hung out, it transpired, it became evident that she didn’t actually have to do anything to fit in. People kept tumbling out of the house then back again, only to re-emerge at a later point, and they all talked to her. She felt she was being pulled into a large, welcoming family as 11

a long-lost sister. Chuck, the motorcyclist, even brought her biscuits and ice-cool shandy at some point. He also brought his girlfriend who got onto the rear of the bike determinedly, and pointedly. They roared off, her long blonde hair waving in the wind defiant of any law. He didn’t however leave without a wink at Andie, and a whisper, “Come up sometime.” Her mother came after finishing her tea and Eccles cake. Seeing the bike turn into the road, and her daughter’s expression, she knew something had transpired. “Come on, Andie. Time to leave. We don’t want to outstay our welcome.” There was no danger of that, the McCoys could absorb a police raid in their stride, but Andie returned her empty glass to the kitchen dutifully. As they left to a chaotic chorus of farewells, Cassie stopped to talk to the flustered young man fixing his engine. “You’re René, aren’t you?” “Yes, I am.” “Mrs Milton says you’re a bit of a wanderer.” “Yes. I live in my van. Even when it’s broken,” he said with gentle acrimony, holding up his greased hands, his blue eyes shining. “They let me park it here in exchange for some gardening.” “Is that what you do?” “When I can get the work it is. Mind you, I haven’t done much to get clients since I arrived. The place becomes self-containing.” He looked over at Marina who was seated on a garden wall, showing the cat to some urchins who had spilled out of the house. 12

“Well, if you ever fancy a change of scenery, we’re the next house down! Maplecroft. Unfortunately we can’t afford to pay you, but you could stay with the same deal. You can park behind the house, there’s plenty of space. Oh, here… Andie, where are the flyers?” “I left them inside,” her daughter exclaimed, running back inside. “Silly girl. Anyway, I’m starting a service – I’m sure nobody else here will be interested, but you might be – of supplying unpasteurised milk.” “Really?” “It’s very healthy.” This wasn’t the first business idea she had attempted, and in her family’s eyes neither was it the worst. Cassie had discovered that while it was illegal for a third party to benefit from selling said milk, with the demand from the Totnes crowd she could claim quite a bit for expenses such as advertising and transport, and ensure that was where the profit lay. She was hoping eventually to afford a second car. In the meantime, she would make the deliveries – mostly to one drop-off point in Totnes, another in Dartington – in the evening, after her husband brought the car back from work. Andie returned breathless and resentful, shoving the flyers into her mother’s hand. Cassie gave one to René. It had a picture of a milk bottle on it plus the following: 13

MILK PARTY! Announcing a new delivery service Of Unpasteurised Milk Also a jolly good excuse for an Afternoon Party with Cassandra and Hugo Munby at Maplecroft (Just outside Totnes on the A381) Dates and details followed including a few of the numerous alleged benefits of unpasteurised milk. “Come on down,” said Cassie, “even if just for a bit, meet some people.” “Do you think she’s happy with them?” Cassie wondered aloud, as they retraced their steps down the hill. “It’s hard to tell whether a cat is happy or dead,” was the response. “What do you mean?” Andie refrained from further comment. Cassie also remained quiet in order to prolong the amnesty. There was a familiar thudding sound as they neared Equisetum Manor. The ground was reverberating rhythmically. They could feel it under their feet in second- long bursts, delivered with great precision. Gail Raymond was at the side of the house, chopping wood in her billowy dark green skirt and purple blouse with 14

its sleeves rolled up, wisps of grey hair falling wantonly over her ice-blue eyes. Andie often uttered an encomium regarding the old lady, only to herself. Her friends were not quite prepared to hear how cool an octogenarian could be; that she was healthier than most teenagers would be considered heresy. “Miss Raymond, should you be doing this at your age?” Cassie asked, in the silent gap of the raised axe. The old lady paused mid-swing, eyeing her visitors suspiciously. She had no time for Cassie’s fictive sympathies, and the daughter was a dark, alien thing. She put the axe down. “What can I do for you, Mrs Munby?” “This!” Cassie presented her with a leaflet. “I thought you might be interested.” Gail Raymond clutched it. “Come to my office,” she said, leading them out the back, ignoring the rooster and hens running towards her in hope of further sustenance. In addition to the rock specimens Andie had noticed before, there were three standing frames of mounted dragonflies, butterflies and moths. She stood mesmerised by them. All these specimens, caught in another era; once alive, now trapped by a pin in simple, brutal, humiliating mummification, available to be gawked at for all time. Yet as she peered close, the illusory aspect of permanence was evident in the faded labels, the yellowing mount, the dusty fragile samples themselves fading like great statements. “Found them in the market today,” the old lady commented, seeing Andie’s interest as she slipped on her 15

gold-frame spectacles to read the flyer. “Just got back on the bus.” “Is all this part of your studies?” Cassie asked, looking around at the paraphernalia of evidence. She was dubious that there was any merit in a woman of such advanced years indulging in her lucubrations. What could she offer the world? She already had a doctorate and written several books in which nobody could possibly ever be interested. Gail Raymond ignored her while she read, saying eventually after a minute’s silence, “I won’t come to your party, Mrs Munby, but you can put me down for two pints a week. I’m tired of the white water they sell in supermarkets. It’s not the milk I remember as a little girl. Maybe this will be an improvement.” Andie, reading the faded specimen labels, paid the other two no attention. She had seen Latin nomenclature before, in class. It had a straightforward poetry in the sound that she hadn’t noticed previously. Libellula quadrimaculata. Libellula fulva. Macroglossum stellatarum… It was the directness that appealed, a lack of subtlety, she felt. She liked that. As with the specimens, words were pinned down, they meant what they were meant to mean and no more, even if she didn’t understand them. “That’s super,” declared Cassie, “I’ll write you down then. I thought you were a more likely candidate than the McCoys.” “Well, if you must associate with people like that,” sniffed the old lady, putting her spectacles back on the 16

wooden table. “They’re rogues, the lot of them. That new one, Marina, is a wanton, and Mrs Milton a harridan.” Not wishing to become prey to animadversion herself, Cassie smiled, took her leave and her daughter. They were neighbours to Miss Raymond but could never be friends. Maplecroft was to be a Devon longhouse, for that had been Cassie’s dream even before meeting her husband. Economic reality dictated otherwise, as it did location. They had been unanimous on the choice eventually, delighted with the thatched roof and outlook, and put an offer in early. The timing was perfect, in the middle of a slump, and their compromised dream was theirs with, after Cassie’s inheritance and Hugo’s asking for help from his family, a minimum mortgage. That they would be hit early on by numerous repairs and the ongoing maintenance of the roof, took them by surprise, as did Hugo’s cut in salary. His contribution to the house purchase had already been only ten percent, no matter that it was all he could get, no matter the mortgage being paid in ten years. Soon after Andie’s birth he announced they could temporarily afford only one car. She never forgave him for the circumstances in which she found herself: impoverished, imprisoned, except when the car was available in the evenings and weekends. She resented the short walk to the bus stop, particularly when Andie was young and had to be carried, a journey made worse in foul weather. The temporary situation became permanent, only resentment accruing, especially with the arrival of Alex. As judgement is the poor relation of truth, so anxiety may be to angst; and any real significance, the 17

deeper questioning, eluded Cassie forever after while she worried about bills and prestige. It is a shame really, an onlooker might reflect, as the women perambulate downstreet from Gail Raymond’s house, Andie eventually pushing on ahead in her own cloud of resentment. It is a shame because it really is a beautiful house. Detached two hundred year-old thatched cottage. Superb south-east expansive view. Kitchen. Two reception rooms. Three bedrooms. Study that can be converted to a bedroom. Bathroom. Kitchen with Aga. Shed. Front and back gardens. Ample parking. In good condition. Exposed timber beams and window seats providing the perfect vantage point to enjoy the surrounding countryside and wildlife. Perfect for a family home. As viewing is highly recommended, and Andie has stormed ahead, let her mother be our cicerone. The single-storey extension at the back, in the north corner, is the only modern addition; built in the 1990s as a reflection of the contemporary owner’s ability to borrow, no matter his circumstances. The door there with peeling forest green paint has been left ajar by Andie, more out of a lazy anger than courtesy. The back garden has long had any life crushed out of it by a second car – when they had one – trade vehicles, footfall and neglect. It was always destined to be more a yard than a garden perhaps, with an oil tank resting against the back wall of the house, a rotary washing line, trash and recycling tucked behind the extension, and various discarded bits of metal such as fuel cans and an old lawnmower that Hugo still hadn’t taken to the dump. The 18

new (as in second-hand) one is in the wooden shed pushed against the imitation dry-stone wall at the periphery of their land, behind which rises a barbed-wire fence and the contentious field. The McCoys are mostly out of sight, hidden by the rising ground, only their roof visible. Cassie used to insist on using the front door, for its view, she was convinced, that accounted for a large portion of the sale price. It was still used, especially by Hugo and visitors who parked that side of the house, but daily pragmatism had chosen to emphasise the back, as now. Cassie enters, takes off her shoes and places them neatly together. She scowls at the chaotic jumble of shoes, and the pile of flyers tossed onto them. Pushing past the coats in suspended animation as they await other seasons, she glances at the room of her youngest. This was originally the study. The phone line however entered the house upstairs and at a time when the internet was gathering pace as a basic human need, they decided to opt for the superior signal there and swap functions. The ex-study became a guest room, then when Alex was born Hugo slept there for a while. Their son was then tucked into the new office upstairs before being foisted on young Andie for an ill-fated few months. He often woke up crying. The downstairs room was fitted with a child monitor, and it became Alex’s for good. He rarely woke up crying, which they took as a good sign. There was some expectation that Andie would move there when reaching teenagehood. This did not occur. The remoteness of the room did not make up for the fact that it was too small, it was damp and smelly, and the wi-fi didn’t 19

reach properly. Besides, her room was her room, and that was that. Nothing needs to change. Next to Alex’s room is the bathroom, unadorned, with a simple acrylic tub and electric shower. Cassie forgets now her and Hugo’s attempt to share a bath in their first week at Maplecroft, the awkwardness of it, impracticality and clumsiness precluding any romance or eroticism. Not as advertised. Instead she remembers the countless times when taking a shower or sitting on the loo, either of her children at various stages of life, banging on the door. “What are you doing, Mum?” “Can you come and get me the Marmite? I can’t reach!” “When will you be finished?” “There’s a man on the phone…” The desire to transform, to emerge anew, challenged and denied by the brutal, relentless gaping beaks of shrieking chicks, their needs trumping all others. Even as she enters the kitchen, the first part of the original building on our tour, and low-ceiled like the rest of the ground floor, she is greeted by muffled bass notes and heavy steps resounding through the ceiling from Andie’s room above. Otherwise the kitchen is ideal. There on the right is the old Aga she insisted on keeping despite its need for extensive refurbishment and regular maintenance. There is the rustic wooden table with matching chairs, the spice rack between the gas cooker on the left as she enters and the enamel double-sink with washing machine tucked under and to the side. The cupboards are sage-green against yellow walls. The plates and other surviving crockery in the wooden rack above the draining board are mostly chipped, once upon a time their pattern of cornflowers and buttercups 20

adding considerably to the overall cost of the kitchen. The room’s design, including the crockery, she had copied from a magazine, despite which she had managed to get herself and her family into a colour supplement some years later, making and having dinner in situ. Andie was ten and hated – as now – cooking or helping in any way, yet she performed magnificently. Hugo and Alex both knew to keep quiet, the former bemused while they sipped consommé, and a large black-and-silver camera clicked them all into posterity. Cassie bought ten copies of the paper that Sunday, making sure her sister got one magazine. The sister, not being a favourite of any grandfather despite being more beautiful than Cassie, was dependent on a rich, dull husband, and thought the article the final straw – until, rallying, she wrote a vicious letter to Cassie, attacking the reporter’s credentials, order thus restored. The dining room at the house centre became the music room for a while, then the homework room, or for sporadically enforced games of scrabble, with actual dining happening at the black veneer table only once a week at Cassie’s insistence, or when someone important visited. (This did not include her sister’s family. Sensing power still in the kitchen, that was where Cassie would insist on seating them, taking pleasure in the nuances of discomfort upsetting their tight faces.) Andie had taken lessons for a while on the piano that had come with the house, ill-advisedly as she had no propensity whatsoever despite her mother’s resolve. Her foot never seemed to discover the soft pedal, and delicacy generally proved elusive. The tendency for musicians to be 21

unconscious of their own mundane discordancy reached a crescendo of parody. By Grade 2 the piano had become a weapon, its bullets dissonant, jarring notes shot out from viciously hammered dentine of murdered elephants. She gave up mercifully before completing the grade. The stand- up piano remains in the far corner, gathering dust and knick- knacks including a memento from Cornwall, a white six- inch lighthouse, and a sea-horse made from serpentine. There was another surge in musical aspiration when Alex was persuaded to take up the violin, even his better efforts accompanied frequently by stamping on the ceiling and foul language from Andie’s room, protesting at the ‘wailing of catgut’. Occasionally she would honour his practice with a personal appearance. (“You’ve got no talent. Just surrender and die, you freak.”) Whether he had talent or not was never discovered as he bowed to fate, or at the very least to forces greater than he, and gave up before completing Grade 1. Apart from the ‘weekly torture ritual’, to use Andie’s phrase, the Anything room became a Nothing room. Recently, as in the last two years, Cassie had developed a habit of sitting in the armchair corner many an evening over by the drinks cabinet, where there was a reading lamp. This had begun innocently enough as refuge from the drone and fury of the washing machine next door. Even in summer the evening light through the small windows was severely limited. Sometimes she had a book she didn’t really understand purchased from Arcturus in Totnes, sometimes a newspaper, sometimes crochet or an iPad solicited last Christmas, always a glass of sweet sherry. The world would make sense 22

for a while, then it didn’t make sense and Hugo would send the kids to bed if possible, or necessary as both children liked their own space. Alex was particularly self-sufficient, often in bed long before being told. Next we have the tiny foyer by the front door, where there is just sufficient room for a shoe-rack and a couple of coats. Others are taken promptly to the rear entrance, except for Andie’s, usually tossed on the floor of her room. The brown threadbare carpet was chosen for practicality and goes all the way up to the landing. Opposite the dining room is the living room, even less used, from which sounds of a football match are currently emanating in strange contrast with its desuetudinous tone. It used to be Cassie’s sanctuary many years ago simply because it was rarely used. This was a mistake. There was no sanctuary. The children would mercilessly wake her if she were dozing or at her most vulnerable; or her husband suddenly needed to use the television for just another thriller, regardless of her state. Ironically, they hardly watched television anymore, nor did the children ask many questions, despite which it never felt like a sanctuary to her again. “Why are you watching football?” she demands, stepping into the austere room, where the lacunae of her past, aborted refuge always haunt her. As if to illustrate this, there are no paintings on the magnolia walls stained with damp, no photographs, no colourful memorabilia on shelves. Alex, fresh-faced and blank, with over-large ears, is in the armchair opposite the door. His general expressionlessness had made them wonder once if he were 23

not challenged in some way, but the tests had all declared him normal. Now he is bored and wondering why the success of one group of men over another should have any significance. On the couch alongside is Hugo, eyes piercing through thick metal-rimmed glasses at the screen, fists clenched. She laughs inwardly, scornfully, at this semblance of being one of the guys. “I thought it would be good for Alex to see a game at least once,” Hugo says without moving. “You’re meant to be in the garden.” He looks up at her now, tiny black pupils in monochromatic steel blue. He pats his short fading fair hair, though nothing is ever out of place. “You were gone. I didn’t know what to do.” She looks at him contemptuously. “I’ll see you out there in five minutes. Alex, go and do some homework.” She leaves, Hugo pulls lightly on his fine moustache, and turns to watch the screen again. He probably has three minutes before there’ll be hell to pay. Above the living room is the master bedroom, the logical conclusion of courtship, the end of a journey along a rocky defile. It is not worth entering. Since Andie arrived the main passion had mostly departed, Alex’s conception being contrived in one last gasp of hope by Cassie. The room had been purely functional ever since, home to nothing but inferior sleep. The office is to the right of the stairs, with one window facing the glorious view, and a computer facing the door. 24

There is an office because everyone has an office. It is assumed to be Hugo’s. Cassie used it to order from Waitrose and various other outlets, finance permitting, before she got an iPad. He never actually wanted an office, spending five days a week already in one whose surroundings looked like an architect’s drawing with token little trees and people. Working flexi-hours made no difference. His role was not even significant enough to have important phone conversations on a train. He used to retreat to the Quiet Carriage, to find himself surrounded by more incarnations of significant people in servitude to their computers, tables commandeered by them hammering on keyboards, klack- klack-klack louder than the train wheels. His job and that of his peers was so pointless, a semi-cult was found in the office around the anarchic film ‘Office Space’, where they’d gather once a month, get stoned and drunk and watch in oblivion and laughter. Hugo was not part of that group, more the general herd who would spin off on occasion in various other directions, such as to golf or strip clubs. He rarely got the chance to attend either. He had grown up in north London, much of his time spent in the vicinity of Camden Road, an area not with any lushness to be soulful, nor bleak enough to be interesting. So much of his life wasted, diluted moments of grey, echoed now by lonely journeys on trains, or long soulless ones on motorways. Like all British men, he is emotionally retarded. Now we have Andie’s room. Cassie’s knock is faint, abrupt, before she turns the knob and pushes open the door. The confrontation of her daughter is courageous or foolish, 25

if not quite masochistic. She knows very well the Fury she has to challenge on a daily basis, too well the eventual consequences. Something drives her to do so anyway at certain times, perhaps her own fury which cannot ever be truly quelled; only at rest the other times, when she cowers. At the root of her courage is the unexpressed thought that her daughter is a spoilt cuckoo; whereas the truth is that her life is fairly austere, and she is as close in nature as a child can be to a mother. It is strange, she has often thought, that boys perceive a teenage girl’s room as a wonderful room in a castle, where wishes are fulfilled. They rarely see it for what it is. In this case there are only two days’ worth of dirty knickers and socks on the floor, interspersed with empty CD cases, teenage fiction and random bits of paper. This obvious sign of improvement gives rise to an unvoiced suspicion, that something new is developing. As usual, Cassie is being kept out of her daughter’s life. She didn’t even get to share the rite of her first period when it occurred, Andie having kept it a secret. “Why did you just throw your leaflets down by the back door?” Cassie demands loudly. Andie is sitting on her bed with her laptop directly ahead, facing the door. Despite the headphones on her ears she hears every word. “They’re not my leaflets, they’re yours,” Andie snarls, glancing up briefly. “I’m doing something for the family.” “Like fuck you are.” She keeps her eyes on the screen. “That’s it! You’re grounded.” 26

“How will I know the difference?” “And,” Cassie says before leaving, with a mean stroke of genius, “if you visit the McCoys without me, we’ll confiscate your computer.” The object in question had been a gift of surrender, that they no longer knew what to do with her. For all her rebelliousness she was as willing to bow down to a phone or tablet as the rest of the population. Certainly, while she proved on a regular basis how effectively she could engage with the shrill nastiness that lurked at the bottom half of the internet – she was sparing the family from her blunt opinions and unadulterated comments. No matter how condign the proposed punishment, it would reap bitterly upon everyone, and unlikely to be enforced. Andie does not know this. The door is left open pointedly as Cassie goes. She is in the bathroom when she hears Alex enter his room and shut the door. On completing her ablutions, she goes to his room to find him reading a comic. Remonstrations follow, and soon she is joined by her husband. Unusually united, with a secret glee, they refuse to accept lack of homework as an excuse for cheapening an impressionable young mind. Hugo acts by taking the offensive literature from their son’s hands for recycling. “We know what’s best for you, Alex.” “That’s it,” declares Cassie, “we’re all going to do some gardening. Get Andie.” This last command proves easier than we might expect. Hugo appeals to Andie’s need for an easy life, that an hour’s work in the garden could bring a weekend’s peace. In this way they too are united briefly. Left alone she 27

considers briefly her options, looking down at her screen where she is watching ‘The Human Centipede’. Any qualms she may have had once about downloading films were dissipated a long time back after watching too many DVDs that began with a brutal assault on the senses, declaring that piracy was a crime. The latter seemed the lesser evil. Saturday afternoons thus normally spent locked in her room by the tyranny of habit, she is scarcely aware of the poison of discarded truths building up in sewers, evolving to deformed monsters. She looks vaguely around her room at all the creature comforts. Supposedly one wants a home to be warm and cuddly, insulated from what is outside, but a candy house is suspect. There is nothing for her outside, there is nothing for her inside, only the least annoying choice each and every time in the spirit of obviation. The latter part of the muted day, in the latter part of an auspicious spring, a young boy is on his knees in dirt at the front of the house. He is pretending to weed whereas he is really playing with earthworms, marvelling at how they writhe in the ancient soil, plunging into secret depths for refuge. The husband is digging, his only real exercise all week, the woman preparing some plants she had gathered that morning in town. She is talking, he is not listening. Further back, before the trestle-table and before the lawn turns to the stretch of gravel barely wide enough to accommodate the car, a young girl stands overseeing, too afraid to go back in the house, too enraged to actually help. Held fast by the rosined day, let the scene bleed into eternity. 28

Geoff, the oldest grandson, had put on a newly- acquired white jacket and presented it to the assembled McCoys who erupted in hilarity. René, on the couch in the corner was watching ‘Charmed’ with some of the children when the hullabaloo distracted him. “You look like a fuckin’ poof!” taunted one of the brothers. “Or a woman! Hey, Ren, we haven’t noticed any girls hanging out at your van. Fancy a go at Geoff?” At which point Geoff tore off his jacket and threw it at his tormentors, following through with a few playful punches and more jokes. And all this time, all this time, mused René painfully, Marina sails among them, graceful, unsullied by the raucous waves. He returned to the grand court of the people. The three witches were all very beautiful, and their San Francisco house looked perfect when it wasn’t being wrecked by malign forces. He felt a warm glow of faint arousal, but which woman was the most attractive? How did one choose in life? If one had choice, that is. How did you know who was right for you? This was a distraction, as he knew who was right; the challenge was different, in that she did not know, or was too scared to admit. Somebody stood behind him, watching over his head whilst eating noisily from a bowl of cornflakes. The clacking of the spoon shoved all other dialogue aside. He yearned for another life. He recalled walking with kestrels along the cliffs of Dorset, their glide each time keeping the same pace as he, waves crashing far below. 29

“He’s mine! He’s mine!” “It’s a she! Her name’s Lilo!” The couch became a war zone as the children pulled the cat one direction against another. Marina came and swept down to rescue the helpless animal. “We must share her,” she cooed, nuzzling her against her soft shoulder. “Besides, if she’s anyone’s, she’s mine.” René, feeling he must do something, anything to emerge out of the tar pit in which he had fallen, stood up. “There’s a Zen story,” he said amiably, “about a cat being fought over by monks from two different parts of the monastery. Their Master takes the cat, chops it in two, and gives one part to each faction.” “That’s horrible!” exclaimed Marina, turning away to shield the poor thing from such a notion. “We can try that,” said her boyfriend, overhearing, and approaching, cigarette in his mouth. The story is about jealousy, René wanted to say, it’s about possessiveness. Aware that he himself might be prey to the green-eyed monster, that brute parody of angst, he instead walked away. He would return to his eternal solace of gardening, while there was light enough. Once outside, he looked back at the house, glimpsing its occupants, colourful shadowy figures through glass, and it began to dawn on him that for all the dramas within, nothing would ever change. Secreted in the world that was her room, Andie was on the phone. “Yeah, they’re kinda obsessed with God and all that. Not that they’re satanists… I think Italians are always 30

a bit like that. But hey Sookie says she’s a Christian, and she screws vampires and shapeshifters… Maybe you can have a religion and still be open to other things… As Sookie says, ‘Even bitches sing the blues.’ Hey, I watched that movie. It was really stupid, and gross…” Her conversation drew to a natural end. She tossed the phone down on the bed and then went to the south window. She attempted to open it further than its current couple of inches, as if she’d never attempted this before, but it was an expensive eco-model that only opened so far. Its latticing even prevented her from seeing out properly. Never truly resigned, only accepting the temporary situation, she went back to her bed and opened her laptop, the world at her feet. She did appreciate groups such as Lacuna Coil, the aforementioned Italians. She found music globally that spoke to her, a passion she could sense, forever elusive, just out of reach. Something in particular was being imparted through obsessive watching of the American band Gloria’s videos. The gothic glamour, of course, appealed despite the lack of make-up on the lead singer, and songs such as ‘Deep Down’ permeated her addiction to appearance, seeding the idea of there being something more to life. She puts her headphones on, leans back on her pillow, and is gradually lulled to sleep, the immediate world effectively locked out. 31

Chapter 2 Other People She was called Big Donna by her friends, or Big Don; and Bella Donna by her few detractors. In truth she wasn’t really that large, only rather full, curvaceous. She was a remarkable woman in many ways, and once she had been a fairly slimmer woman though never actually svelte even as a teenager. In her youth she had discovered that she would rather be plump and happy than the converse, and it was true; she really was happy. She carried herself with sensual ease, her curves moving through the dining room gracefully, lushly, her warmth universal in its generosity. Cassie hated every bone in her big body. For all that Donna was aware of, and she was aware of a lot, personal enmity tended to pass her by. As a regression therapist, having seen so much darkness at the roots of humanity, she was more impressed by the innate need for light that seemed an ubiquitous, core, driving force upwards. If this were a reflection of her own good nature, she would never bother to determine. What was the point of such philosophical indulgence? For all her intangible skills, she knew esoterica wouldn’t keep her warm at night, make her cups of tea, tell her she was loved. She sat now at Cassie’s Milk Party by the window in the dining room, comfortably sipping tea, enjoying the comings and goings, and oblivious to her hostess’s vibes. Cassie was suspicious of Donna’s blissful contentment, and 32

viewed her out of the corner of her eye whilst attending other guests. Aware of her own simple, flowery cotton dress, with an open white cardigan draped over, she noted the other woman’s appearance in all its detail; from the short, neat, blonde hair, the thin grey sweater and skirt hugging her voluptuous body, down to her black-stockinged feet. Shoes being not permitted in the house, Donna’s Italian pair had to make do with the trainers and walking boots in the front hall. Cassie tried to attain some satisfaction from the thought. Indeed, she would like to see Donna wear what she wore now as summer progressed, but instinctively knew the therapist would adapt to all seasons in elegance and style, no matter how limited her budget. Donna unwittingly dug herself further down in Cassie’s estimation as she effortlessly engaged the interest of Tara, an old school friend of Cassie’s who had moved to the area several years ago, soon after Cassie. Their lives had followed such parallel routes, it was strange how they didn’t see more of each other. They had married at about the same time, both had children, and husbands working in Exeter. Perhaps it was that Cassie’s path had more spiritual emphasis, whereas Tara had refuted her bohemian heritage by focusing exclusively on the material. She had come to the party on Cassie’s insistence it was an opportunity to catch up. That she would be commandeered by Donna was not part of the plan. They were not that dissimilar in appearance, both large and elegant. Tara had a firmness to her curves, in contrast with Donna’s softness, as if she worked out regularly; and in 33

her white pullover, black slacks, impenetrable dark glasses and tight face illuminated by the afternoon sun in full blaze, she could have been a film star. To Cassie’s horror, while attending to her hostess duties, the women had found a common theme in shallow ethics, prevalent, they believed, in the area due to indolent thinking. From buying supermarket lettuces in winter, to the carbon footprint of school runs or household pets, they had arrived, giggling like schoolgirls, at the inability to read labels correctly. “Marmite,” said Donna, “which many ethical vegetarians love, is made by Unilever.” As the conversation shifted to how activists were more concerned with the idea of animal welfare than the actuality, her blindness to Cassie leaving for the kitchen in a huff was mainly due to one thing: she was relaxed, enjoying herself in a way that had eluded her for weeks, simply because her extra senses were switched off. She was on holiday. She couldn’t choose such a break, being at the mercy of forces she herself didn’t understand. She was known as a Tarot reader with a background in psychotherapy, who specialised in past lives and their influence on the present. Very few knew that the cards were a prop, a ruse, the information coming to her in all manner of other ways, often ceaselessly. With the cards, she could point to symbols for elucidation, picking the ones that expressed most efficiently what she already saw, felt or heard. In another country she may have been revered as a guru of sorts. Here, despite being in one of the alternative 34

nooks that England provided, she was merely a fringe interest. This, she blamed on a meeting of old men nearly two thousand years before at Nicea. She wasn’t contending with religion, just their version of it. She never advertised, her clientele was by word-of- mouth, exclusive by default; and known on more than one occasion to travel across the world for a single consultation. She was aware that it was a great gap in western culture, also at times envying the ignorance of those around her, the muted joy of palimpsest recall. We paint the world according to the palette we are given, faded pastels have their attraction; and we alter the narrative according to what we must believe. There may be a few reasons we are drawn more to the mystery than the solving, for the ceaseless input towards Donna was random but persistent. She often felt she knew too much. Some revelations were straightforward: such as the children who treated their parents like servants, fathers expecting their families to snap to attention, or the devoted mother confused by her feelings for a young boy next door. Others were complex and required discretion, such as the conquistador now obsessed with spiritual disciplines all around the world, more cultures to conquer; or her only famous client, the reincarnation of Mary Stuart, paranoid about betrayal, needing to learn how to trust again, and not be so attached to what was in her head. Others were so out-there, she would hesitate to voice the truth no matter how well-paid: the dog newly incarnated as human; the alien from a species of clones realising change could only come from experiencing other forms of life; or the soul split into 35

the two bodies of children whose friendship wreaked merry hell upon their families when one sought to relocate. There were group incarnations as well, such as the child-centred school where the A-frame buildings stood like tipis; the children ran around freely playing in nature much of the day, or choosing to ride the horses from the school stables, often without saddles. The flashbacks to Wounded Knee were unbearable, and Donna found herself at the time collapsing behind a tree, so that the tears could flow unhindered by curious eyes. Wherever they were now, she prayed the children had found peace in this life. Being at the mercy of these visions, at their constant beck and call, she was grateful when there were none, such as now at Maplecroft, and she could simply revel in the simplicity of the present. She was enjoying conversing with Tara in this absence of extraneous input, they were simply two women having a chat. The gods were not devoid of compassion, it would seem, unless they were merely protecting their investment. On holiday thus, she couldn’t help but retain a kernel of suspicion in her heart, that she couldn’t truly ever sign up for oblivion even for a brief recess. She thought of her dumb cat that often couldn’t remember that it had been fed. Its persistent crazy behaviour, even with a full bowl right in front of its nose, meant that the problem would be the same, whatever the truth of the matter, a gross parody of eternity. She felt the same about New Age platitudes. People talked about being in the moment. Well, DJs on the radio with their goldfish-memories, were living in the moment. An open 36

mind threatened to let one’s brains fall out. Only the principle of unconditional love made her temper scorn for facile ideals. She would attempt to argue that such affection was stupid, that it accepted any form of abuse; yet her experiences had allowed compassion to grow in the face of scepticism; and somehow, despite all her forbidden knowledge, she found herself loving people quite considerably. Even an individual who came to her with manslaughter on his record, she saw as a victim of centuries, whom she was able to help. In keeping with her cheerful scepticism, she exclaimed, “Only dead fish go with the flow!” to Tara’s appreciative laughter, as the room started to fill with people from the kitchen, led by Cassie. An announcement was to be made. Any remaining seats were swiftly taken, and of those left standing, the taller individuals opted for the floor rather than having to bow their heads below the ceiling. “I just want to say, thank you, thank you all for coming,” said the hostess to the crowded room, glowing warmly and raising her glass of fizzy apple juice. “I know this is an unusual time to have a party, and many of you had to make arrangements for your children, speaking of which, mine should be here at any moment…” She looked ostentatiously at her watch with its thin leather strap and delicate square turquoise dial. She had been rather clever in her timing, aware that many of her potential clientele worked selected hours, that the novelty of an afternoon gathering would appeal; and had achieved something of a social success, the first in a long time, as illustrated by the 37

numerous vehicles parked on the verge all the way up from the main road. “Although the milk is the excuse for a get- together, I need to remind you to please write your details on the form in the kitchen, including how many pints you want each week and which hub you prefer it to be delivered to. Payment is in advance, and in cash only.” As she talked on, expounding the virtues of raw milk such as the lactase enzyme, resistance to TB in children, whilst glancing at the notepaper in her hand, she was also scanning the heads in the room. She was hoping that the local vicar had made a late appearance, as that certainly would count as a social coup. If he had come, her reputation as a Martin Luther King of the area, bridging gaps where none should be, would have been firmly established. It was doubtless because of her distraction, she finished her address with, “Does anybody have any Christians?” The room burst into laughter, she flustered, putting her hand to her mouth coyly, and the party really took off, everyone forming into spontaneous groups or wandering into the garden and elsewhere with drinks in their hands. “I think,” Tara, one of the few remaining, said warmly, putting her hand on Cassie’s arm, “the answer is clearly, ‘No.’” Donna was in the kitchen, filling her small plate with tortillas and guacamole, when a thirty-something couple recognised her. “You’re Donna, aren’t you,” said the man with a black bushy beard and kindly eyes. “Yes, I am.” 38

“Alicia told us about your work,” he said, glancing at his partner, a woman with straight brown hair and a look of gentle determination. “You do past life readings, is that correct?” “It is.” “Can we arrange a session with you sometime?” “Of course. I’ll bring you a flyer in a mo. My bag’s in the other room.” “No hurry. It must be fascinating work though.” “Always,” she laughed, and they all laughed. Their group, encouraged in part by the congeners of cider, was growing as others felt drawn to the conversation. Her warmth was infectious. At this moment it was like talking about a duty that was far off, in another country, another person’s problem. “I was just thinking the other day,” a plump elderly man piped up enthusiastically as the conversation progressed, “our present cabinet would be entirely at home in Victorian England, not one policy of theirs out of place: wishing every child behind a desk for long hours, viewing impoverishment as indicative of low morality, sickness to be ignored, sex as something to be hidden, and even bringing back the hulk prison-ships. No wonder the Secretary of State wants to see into everybody’s homes.” “That’s so she can control her husband,” someone said sourly. “Personally,” said another, a little bit the worse for cider, “I think they should all just toff themselves.” 39

“Does a lack of progress over the centuries ever depress you?” asked the plump man jovially. “It can,” Donna confessed lightly, “but those who seek advice are invariably seeking change, so that gives one hope.” As the bustle of interest grew, she went back to the dining room to retrieve her bag. She was going to have to give out a lot of flyers. Cassie had just left, after putting music on and opening the window so everyone in the garden could enjoy her good taste. René couldn’t handle anymore. He had decided the day after Cassie’s visit to accept her offer. Life with the McCoys was getting him down. They accepted his departure with pleasant indifference, much as they had accepted his arrival. As Moses or Siegfried, entrusted to rivers once humanity proved too savage, he got into his home, started up the engine, moved into first and to the lane; then returned to neutral and drifted the few hundred yards to Maplecroft. Even the final turn into the rear gate, he managed without engaging the engine. People smoking on the back porch smiled at his silent arrival, which he took as a good omen. He found Cassie around the front, where she was handing out leaflets to her friends. “Are you here for the milk, or to accept my offer?” she asked delightedly, hugging him with one arm, the leaflets in her other hand. “To accept your offer,” he said. “Far out! Did they let go of you easily?” “Yes.” Nobody had even waved goodbye. 40

“Well, make yourself at home, say hello to a few of the nice people here, and we’ll have a chat later.” The children arrived soon after, walking up from where the bus had stopped. They attended the Boniface comprehensive in Totnes, a compromise on their mother’s original dream of sending them to the Steiner school, which finance precluded. She had been looking forward to meeting with other mums; and to this day couldn’t even view those from the much closer St Nicholas private school without resentment, as they clogged the little roads with SUVs and entitlement during the school run. Andie often went on ahead from Alex. This time they were together, he knowing to stay quiet when so graced. Sullenly they approached the festivities, guests in their own home. Andie scowled at the sounds of Bob Dylan disturbing the atmosphere through the kitchen open window. On first seeing images of the Glastonbury Festival she had believed them to be of a concentration camp with an ultimate horror of necessities becoming luxuries. When informed otherwise, she still retained a sense of listening to ‘grampa music’ as the ultimate torture. Her disapprobation of an entire generation was sustained by meeting friends of her mother’s who asserted they ‘really got teenagers’ with such certainty it was clear they got nothing. They went round to the back door. Cassie at this point was in the kitchen being entertaining. “There’s my babies!” She hugged and kissed Alex when he entered, much to his embarrassment. “How’s my little monkey?” as she ruffled 41

his hair. She presented him with a carton of orange juice, and Andie a cup of tea. “What did you put in it?” demanded the latter, pushing past whilst grabbing a bag of crisps. Donna had returned to the dining room, amidst the continued bustle of interest in her work, somewhat calmed by a diminutive forty-year old in camouflage gear delivering his views on a popular rope-swing over the River Dart: “The Department of Health, Safety and Litigation won’t allow that to continue much longer, I tell you…!” There was a lull when Andie entered, not unlike the destruction of mood by a shift in conversation to politics, the sordid game of division. The lull was an echo of a much larger one, Donna realised, knowing her holiday to be over. The young girl said nothing. All eyes were on her ceruse face, the slight mascara applied religiously every time she got on the bus, the sullen rage. Revelations came in all manners, shapes and sizes to Donna. This time it was as if a wraith stooped down and whispered in her ear. “Lizzie Borden.” It was only a few seconds before Andie, resentful – amongst so many things – of the pompous male voice she had heard before entering, and sensing a lack, a lack of something, all the white faces surrounding her, went up to her room. Never before in her career had Donna actually been shocked by an exposé. She withdrew quietly from the 42