The Shadow Year (41 page)

A pool of pig’s blood is spreading at her feet. Kat steps backwards, so as not to tread in it.

‘We thought it was time for some roast pork.’ Simon is smiling but Mac’s face is a picture of horror.

‘You don’t do it like this!’

‘Why not?’

‘You don’t do it on a whim, in the dirt with the animal half scared to death. You do it with preparation and respect.’

The smell of blood fills the air. Its cloying metallic tang fills Kat’s nose and lungs; it makes her feel sick.

‘We were prepared,’ Simon says coolly.

Mac shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says firmly, ‘not like this.’

Simon rolls his eyes at Kat but Mac doesn’t seem to notice. He is too distracted by the pig. ‘We’ve got to get it off the ground. Raise it up. Slit its throat. If we don’t remove the stomach and intestines quickly the meat will spoil.’ Mac stares at the pig and shakes his head. Kat is shocked to see tears in his eyes.

‘I do know all this,’ says Simon through gritted teeth. He takes a step towards Mac and Mac, sensing the movement, swings his head up in surprise. They face off across the dead animal, tension radiating from both of them. Kat sees Simon’s hands clench at his side, a flash of silver – the hunting knife – held in one curled fist and Kat knows this isn’t just about the pig any more.

She would intervene. She would tell them to stop being such macho idiots and just butcher the pig before the entire exercise is wasted, but she doesn’t have time to worry about that now. The sight of the fleshy pink pig, lolling on the ground in the dirt, and the coppery smell of the blood makes her guts heave violently. She turns and runs to the doorway, only just making it out of the barn before her stomach clenches and a stream of watery vomit splatters onto the dirt outside.

Freya returns late, to a cottage still simmering with tension and filled with the sickly-sweet aroma of roasting pork.

‘What’s that smell?’ she asks, shrugging off her cardigan and hanging it by the door. ‘Has someone been shopping?’ She puts her nose to the air.

Ben glances across at Kat, clearly not wanting to be the one to tell her.

Kat swallows and then clears her throat. ‘It was . . . it was time . . .’ She can’t finish her sentence and she looks to the floor instead.

Freya stares from Kat to Ben and then back to Kat. ‘What?’ she asks. ‘What was time?’ Slowly, her smile fades. ‘You didn’t,’ she says, her voice barely a whisper.

It’s hardly a question but Kat finds she doesn’t have the answer anyway. All she can think of is the pig’s terrified blue eyes staring up at her, just before she pulled the trigger.

‘Wilbur?’

Ben nods.

Freya’s cheeks flood with colour. She turns on Kat. ‘Who did it?’

Before she can answer, Simon sidles into the room in bare feet, his hands wrapped around a chipped mug of tea. ‘Oh, hello, Freya,’ he greets her with airy nonchalance, ‘back from your walk? And just in time for dinner, good.’ He stops and looks between the three of them. ‘What?’

‘Who killed Wilbur?’ Freya’s voice is ice. ‘Was it you?’

Simon gives a small smile and shakes his head. ‘I had no idea your sister was such an excellent shot. We’ll have to take her out hunting with us next time.’

Freya spins back to Kat in disbelief. ‘You?’

Kat drops her head. The look in her sister’s eyes is worse than she had imagined.

‘You should be thanking us,’ says Simon from the doorway. ‘You could do with a little more protein in your diet . . . for the baby,’ he adds unnecessarily.

Freya stares at him, her eyes like daggers, but she has no words. Instead she pushes past him and stomps up the stairs, the sound of her sobs echoing behind her as she goes. Simon shrugs. ‘I don’t know why she’s so upset. It was going to happen sooner or later. We always told her he wasn’t a pet.’

It’s a miserable meal. They sit round the table pushing charred pieces of meat about their plates while Freya’s seat remains glaringly empty.

‘She’s remarkably stubborn, isn’t she?’ says Simon to no one in particular.

Kat spears a piece of meat with her fork and puts it to her lips. She isn’t hungry but she forces it into her mouth and chews slowly. It is tender and sweet, a little smoky where the fat has charred, but all she can think about is the creeping pool of blood on the dirt floor of the barn and the terror in Wilbur’s wide blue eyes. The meat slips down her throat like a hard marble and lands in her guts where it churns sickeningly for the rest of the evening. She feels, in Simon’s approving gaze, that she has won something, but she’s not sure if Freya will ever forgive her for what she’s had to do to claim her prize.

21

LILA

May

Lila has just towelled her hair dry, pulled on a clean dress and headed downstairs in bare feet to boil the kettle when there is a loud rap at the front door. ‘Coming,’ she yells. The excited barks accompanying the knocks tell her who it is before she’s even thrown the door open.

‘Oh good,’ says William, standing on the doorstep wearing a freshly ironed shirt and a tentative smile, ‘we were hoping to catch you.’

‘I don’t leave until the morning.’ She steps back. ‘Come in, please. I was just going to make tea. Or perhaps you’d like a glass of wine? There’s a bottle in the kitchen.’

William hesitates. ‘Thank you.’ He slips his boots off by the door then follows Lila into the kitchen, Rosie trotting at his heels. The dog curls up in her favourite spot by the range while William perches on the wooden bench, stretching his long legs in front of him. Both he and Lila see the hole in the toe of his sock at the same time and William grins and folds his feet back beneath him.

‘Want me to darn that?’ Lila teases.

He blushes. ‘No, thanks. I can manage it myself . . . just.’

She holds up a bottle of red wine for his approval then fiddles with the corkscrew, pouring him a glass before turning to the kettle to make tea for herself. When she eventually sits down opposite him, William pushes something across the kitchen table towards her. ‘Happy birthday,’ he says.

Lila looks at him confused. ‘How did you kn—’

‘You told me, last time I was here, remember?’

‘Did I?’ Lila shakes her head. She doesn’t remember, but then she’s been so preoccupied with thoughts of her possible pregnancy perhaps it’s not a surprise. ‘Well, thank you,’ she says, looking down at the small tissue-paper wrapped gift. You really shouldn’t have.’

‘It’s just a little something.’ William shifts in his seat as Lila begins to pull at the wrapping. ‘It might not be to your taste,’ he says, ‘so please don’t feel obliged to wear it.’

Inside the paper is a small black box. When she lifts the lid she sees a fine silver chain with a circular pendant nestled on black velvet. She holds it up to the light: an oval about the size of a fifty pence piece made from finely beaten silver with three small raised flecks within. The metal has been worked so expertly it feels as thin and delicate as a sheet of paper between her fingers. Lila stares at the pendant and knows instantly what it is: three seeds inside a papery pod. It’s a seed head – an
honesty
seed head – just like the ones growing around the cottage; just like the ones she’d found in the upstairs bedroom when she arrived all those months ago.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she says, fingering the delicate necklace. ‘Is it—’

‘Yes,’ he nods, knowing what she’s going to ask before she can finish her sentence. ‘It’s one of Evelyn’s. I think she’d like you to have it.’

‘Really?’

William nods.

She holds the chain up to her neck.

‘Here, let me.’

He reaches over and brushes the hair from the back of her neck then fastens it in place.

‘I want to see it.’ She heads into the front room and admires the necklace in the mirror above the fireplace, grinning back at William where he stands just behind, watching. The pendant gleams like a silver coin in the hollow of her throat. She reaches up, smoothing her fingers once more over the delicate metal. ‘Thank you. I love it.’

‘Good,’ says William. In the reflection of the mirror, his eyes seem to shine just a little too brightly. ‘It suits you. Mum will be thrilled.’

Evelyn, she thinks, of course; it must be hard watching her deteriorate. ‘How
is
she?’ she asks as they return to the kitchen table.

‘She’s fine. She keeps asking after you though. You must come and visit us again, when you get back from London. That is,’ he adds quickly, ‘
if
you come back.’

Lila nods and takes a sip of her tea.

William cocks his head to one side. ‘You look different. What is it?’

Lila smiles. She wonders for a moment whether to tell him about the possible pregnancy, but then decides against it. Not yet. Not until she knows for sure and has had a chance to tell Tom. However she feels about him right now, Tom should be first. ‘Must be all that swimming I’ve been doing,’ she says.

‘I have to say,’ he glances curiously about the cottage, ‘it looks as though you’re almost finished here.’

‘Yes,’ she admits, following his gaze around the room. ‘I was thinking the same thing earlier.’ The interior is no longer dingy and draped in cobwebs and dust, but a welcoming space of light and colour. The walls and ceilings gleam a crisp, clean white, setting off the characterful wooden beams slung low across the ceilings. Lila has restored and painted a shabby dresser picked up in a local junk shop, installed it along the wall next to the window seat and lined its shelves with an eclectic array of glass bottles found about the cottage grounds. Colourful curtains cut from an antique patchwork quilt frame each window. There are fresh meadow flowers on the window sill and fruit in an earthenware bowl on the table.

Through the open doorway she can see the sofa standing beneath the window in its new linen slip covers and scattered with colourful cushions, as well as the low coffee table fashioned from the log rescued from the forest. The floorboards have been repaired and polished and gleam a warm honey colour beneath the new jute rug. Above the fireplace hangs a large, speckled mirror, reflecting the light from the windows back into the interior. Upon the mantel Lila has lined coveted treasure from her walks: a giant pine cone, a polished stone, the long feather from a pheasant’s tail, an old milk bottle filled with cowslips.

Upstairs the bedrooms are now cheery and bright. William’s antique bed is covered with pillows and a colourful patchwork quilt gifted by Evelyn, while a fresh sheaf of green honesty seed heads has been hung up to dry, homage to the previous occupants. Beside the bed stands an upturned wooden crate with a vintage lamp and a pile of books resting beside it.

Only the spare room remains empty, its floorboards repaired from the water damage and its walls freshly painted but for the rectangle where the strange, faded mural remains. Every time she’s thought about painting over it, something has stopped her. She’s not sure why, but she isn’t quite ready to cover it up. Not yet.

As Lila lets her mind wander through the cottage she can’t help smiling; she knows she’s done a good job. She’s respected the property, honoured its past, and yet transformed it into an inviting space to be. She’s made it into a home. Whose home, however, she still has no idea.

It’s as if William has read her mind: ‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do with this place?’

Lila shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. I wondered about getting a valuation done, seeing what the property market is like up here.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘But you know, I’ve worked so hard. I feel as though I’ve come to know every inch of this place one way or another . . . and there are other improvements I’d like to make too, given time.’ She casts her gaze about. ‘You know, heating . . . a proper bathroom.’ She sighs and slides her hands to her stomach. ‘It’ll be hard to give this up but I suppose real life beckons down south. I can’t hide away for ever.’

She can admit it to herself now; she has been hiding – from her grief, and from Tom and from the message hidden within her dreams. But the time for hiding is over. She wants to confront the future and the truth head on, whatever it brings. She has to understand about the fall once and for all. She shakes herself. ‘Anyway, it’s not as if I have to make any immediate decisions, is it? Summer’s coming. Perhaps it would be fun to come back and hang out here for a bit . . . to enjoy the lake and the cottage. Maybe I’ll just hold off from making any big decisions for the time being.’

‘Yes,’ agrees William, ‘there’s no need to rush. Enjoy your birthday with your friends and family in London.’ He takes a sip of wine. ‘Has Tom got anything special lined up?’

Lila shrugs. ‘I’m not sure. He’s booked a dinner somewhere, I think . . . and I’m having lunch with Mum.’ Lila smiles. ‘She’s coming from France especially.’

William drains the last of the wine and stands. ‘Well, I hope you have a lovely time.’ Rosie jumps up from her spot by the hearth and winds herself about his legs. ‘Come along, Rosie, time for us to leave.’

Lila shows them both to the front door where the first stars are beginning to speckle the darkening sky. ‘Thank you for the gift. I love it. Will you thank Evelyn for me too?’