BreeChapter 7 Shannon and Jake the Donkey
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The Girl was gone again.
From her bed of clean sheets, she fell into the mattress, swallowed into memories past with a foreboding gulp.
The Man was there, and the Woman. Their voices rang off the walls and drifted up to the Girl’s ears in a roaring song of battle.
The Girl shivered in her bed and wrapped her arms round her body. Sleep, she thought to herself. Think nice thoughts.
The screams were cacophony. The Girl’s brother was quietly sobbing on the landing.
Think nice thoughts.
All at once, she awoke in the grown-up bed in the house that did not smell like dog hair and sweat. She breathed deeply, the air was clean. Above her head, the window was ajar. The curtains were open.
Don’t keep the curtains open – this is a house, not a shop window.
She put the voice away and rolled out of bed.
It was the funeral today. It was good weather for it – dry, not too cold.
Not every night was like the previous. Some nights the voices and the memories stayed downstairs: they did not creep past her bedroom door and bare their teeth at her in dark. But since the Man died, they had begun to fester under her pillows.
One less person left to blame, now. One less place for those memories to go.
The Girl put on baggy trousers and a dull shirt. It did not matter what she wore – never did. She scraped back her hair – the one thing she liked about herself..
She had tried very hard, but she could not be sad that he was gone.
She poured her cereal into a bowl and silently scorned herself for the size of the portion.
That’s why you’re so fat – you eat so much.
Nope, that didn’t affect her, not any more. She was going to eat it, wasn’t she? Most people she knew today probably wouldn’t be eating any breakfast, their stomachs would be heavy with grief.
Why was she not like them? Why did she not feel it?
She added her bowl to the pile of washing up and thought about how lazy she was. She would tidy up if she had visitors, but not for herself.
The walk to the Woman’s house was short and brisk. Leaves, the same bronze shade as her hair, pooled at her feet and stuck to her plain shoes. She would have worn heels – they made her legs look longer – but they were so uncomfortable. She probably looked silly in them, anyway.
The air was heavy at the house. People lingered in corners, muttering to each other. The Girl did not know how so many shadows had managed to escape the sunlight, but here they were, enjoying the misery.
She added her bouquet to the arrangement on the driveway. So many flowers, so much guilt. She was surprised there were so many tributes here because she was expecting a small funeral. The Man had not had many friends that she was aware of. He had a large family but they were not close to him. He had not been a sociable creature.
The Girl bent to read the cards on the flowers. The first one was from her younger sister: Thank you for being the best father in the world. The Girl felt a lump in her throat. She closed her eyes.
When she opened them, she stood at the bottom of the stairs in the old house. The smell of wet dog filled her nostrils.
There was a scream – young, high pitched – and her sister came tumbling down the stairs. Her sister clutched her head and sobbed in the relentless way children do. At the top of the stairs stood the Man, his face set cold beneath his black beard.
‘You pushed me!’ shrieked the sister.
‘No,’ said the Man. ‘Don’t lie.’
The Girl felt the familiar anger rise. It made her want to rip the paper from the walls. She blinked away tears and found herself back on the driveway, surrounded by satellites of sorrow.
She decided not to read any more cards.
A swarm of people awaited them at the church. Was there another funeral on today? The Man did not know that many people, let alone have that many friends.
But they were not leaving. The church was fit to bursting with people who touched each other easily, safe in the knowledge they had grief in common. What was this, some sort of cruel joke? This funeral was not for the Man that she had known. Where had he gone? Where was his cold, empty wake?
The Girl watched as the strangers stood at the front of the church and talked about a good man. A peacemaker. The congregation nodded in agreement, the Girl fought vomit. He was taken too soon, they said, One more angel called to heaven.
She tried, but she could not be sad.
The wake was enormous and the Girl did not have the energy for it. It was full of people who had pretended to like her for years and she was not in the mood to pretend to like them – especially not as they shared their happy memories of the Man.
She wondered, as she rifled through the cloakroom for her coat, if she had any happy memories to share.
Every argument your Mother and I have ever had is about you, said the voice. Your Father doesn’t care.
There was the rank taste of soap in her mouth after she had repeated a dirty word, from his nephew. There was her hamster lying bloodied in his ball after it had been kicked across the garden. And there was her china tea set, so delicate and pretty, lying in pieces in its box where it had ‘fallen’ from the shelf.
The Girl did not have any memories of her stepfather that were suitable for a wake.
She hurried along the road and round the back of the library, feeling in her pocket. The plastic rope felt cool in her hands,.
The path at the back of the library led down to the brook wood, full of solid old trees and cigarette packets. It was dark there. She needed shadow and solace. She needed the space to let go.
Slumped against a tree, each tear was a miserable little orgasm, a triumph of pain.
I TRIED TO BE GOOD. I TRIED SO HARD. I TAUGHT MYSELF AND MOULDED MYSELF AND EVEN WHEN I CHANGED, IT WASN’T ENOUGH.
And the Man did what he wanted.
I WANTED TO BE LIKED AND TO BE LOVED AND I TRIED SO HARD. EVERYTHING I WAS, EVERYTHING I BECAME, WAS NOT ENOUGH.
And the Man had been enough.
His funeral was proof . The Girl’s funeral would not be like that, she was sure. She would not be called a peacemaker, an angel called to heaven. She had been a horrible little girl, everyone said so. She had punched and bitten, lied and stolen. She had not known how to be any other way.
But now she was ready to let it go. She pulled the plastic cord from her pocket and unrolled it, winding the end round her fingers. She glanced above her head at a solid-looking branch. She could tie the right knots, she had read about it on the internet. Practised at home.
Why was she crying again? It would all be over soon. She knew she wanted to go.
‘I don’t think you want to do that.’
The Girl looked up, her heart pounding.
‘Who – who said that?’ Her voice wavered.
She glanced round anxiously. Curled up in the roots of a big tree was a fox with silky copper fur and a fine bush of a tale. He was smiling.
‘I’m sorry?’ she whispered.
‘Aye, it’s me,’ said the fox. He had a husky voice with a Scottish lilt.
The Girl didn’t remember taking any drugs, but it was feasible that she’d forgotten.
‘Foxes don’t talk,’ she whispered. ‘They eat rabbits and live on farms.’
‘The rabbits round here are a bit bland. And if you must know, I live in a shed.’ He uncrossed his paws. ‘But that isn’t my business.’
‘Then what is?’
‘You,’ he said, ‘and you do not want to do that.’ He nodded at the plastic rope.
She grasped it defensively.
‘How do you know?’
‘I already told you, it’s my business. The Misery, that is. The Misery has brought you here, hasn’t it?’
She lowered her eyes.
‘I can’t forgive him. Them. I’m the only one who can’t.’
The fox cocked his head.
‘But nobody is asking you to fo
rgive anyone. The question here is, do you want to keep on living?’
She shrugged. ‘No.’
‘You just don’t know what else to do with yourself.’
‘There’s nothing I can do with myself,’ she said scornfully. ‘Now leave me alone so I can…you know.’
‘No. I have something for you. It’s all part of the business.’
The Girl looked up at him, eyes defiant.
‘What might that be?’
‘They’re over there.’ He nodded towards the fence bordering the library. ‘Two saplings, down at the bottom. See?’
She leaned forward, squinting. Right near the ground were two green streaks of life, pale leaves pointed.
‘I see them.’
‘Those are for you,’ said the fox. ‘In exactly five days, I want you to come back here to see how they have grown. You will decide which one you are.’
‘What?’ The Girl frowned at the saplings, then back at the fox. ‘Firstly, that’s a barbed wire fence. Those trees aren’t going to grow far next to a barbed wire fence. And secondly, even if they did grow…they won’t do much in a week.’
‘But then foxes don’t talk either, do they?’ He cocked a bushy eyebrow. ‘Five days. You come back here and listen to what I have to say. If you don’t like it, you can carry on and do whatever it is you want to do.’
The Girl considered this. She was not sure what she was being offered, not even sure she was awake. She thumbed the plastic rope, could she bear another week?
‘Yes you can,’ said the fox. ‘Five days is nothing. And yet, it could be everything.’
‘Ok,’ she said eventually, mostly because she needed to escape.
‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘Come here. Closer.’
The Girl got up and stepped toward him with caution. She felt the tickle of his whiskers against her ankle and stiffened.
There was a sharp, wet pain and she jerked her leg away. ‘You bit me!’ She retreated back to the shadow of her tree and knelt to touch the two curved, red welts upon her pale skin.
The fox smiled. ‘I’ve made you the same as everybody else. Just for the week.’
The same as everyone else? She had longed for this. Now she realised that she didn’t know quite what it was.
Nevertheless, it was exciting.
The Girl looked down at the floor to find the rope was missing.
‘You can have it back in five days,’ said the fox.
***
She left the wood with a light head. If she believed in whimsy Hallmark-type feelings, she’d have said she had a spring in her step.
. . . like everybody else. What was that? A normal girl, who did normal things? Who had a normal family and a normal life?
She stopped outside a grocery shop and gazed into the window at the fresh fruit. She took her time, enjoying the decision, ignoring the people who pushed by. Then, she went inside and purchased a punnet of shiny red cherries.
At home, she sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her favourite film, sucking the tart cherries from their stones, staining her fingertips bright pink.
It was one thing to enjoy her own company.
It was quite another to be all right with that.
***
The following day was a Tuesday, and that seemed a good a day as any to be a normal girl.
The Girl still wasn’t sure what that was – but she didn’t think it was staying in the house. So she showered and let her hair dry in curls, put on her prettiest clothes and went out into town to find herself a normal job.
Employment was hard for the Girl. It wasn’t actual work that was the problem, she was more than able. It was the situation, the social predicament. There were groups of people and the Girl never felt like she belonged to any of them.. Judgement got in the way of friendship.
Besides, if they ever actually liked her, what did that make them? Did they have no standards?
Then there was the act of getting out of bed in order to get to work, to care about that job enough to find that energy.
Well, none of that mattered now. She would be fine with a job.
At the Job Centre, she stood at the electronic notice boards and began to read through the adverts, a nervous excitement bubbling in her belly. One step closer to becoming like everyone else.
A tall boy with straight brown hair appeared at the next board. He stood out in the centre because his clothes looked clean and his hair was tidy. A normal person would say hello to another normal person, she decided.
‘Hello,’ said the Boy, noticing her staring. She found herself smiling weakly.
‘Hello,’ she replied. ‘Are you…looking for something particular?’
‘Yep. Paid would be good.’ He had a cheeky grin and she found herself liking it.
‘Me too.’ Her heart thumped in her chest. What do normal people say to each other? Usually she was able to walk away at this point, to escape and be done with it.
Except, she found herself not wanting to escape from this Boy.
‘What did you do before?’ he asked, stepping closer. This was good – she didn’t have to look him in the face if they were shoulder-to-shoulder.
‘I ran an art gallery,’ she said quietly, worried it would sound snobby, ‘but that was over a year ago. I wasn’t very good.’
He shrugged. ‘You must have been good if you were running the place.’
‘It was easy enough. You know, pretty pictures, lumps of clay shaped like toilets priced at four thousand quid.’
The Boy laughed. ‘I like that. That’s funny.’
She paused. She hated compliments, how was she meant to respond without sounding like she had expected it? How did normal people respond?
‘Thanks,’ she said eventually, ‘I try.’
‘I’ve just dropped out of uni,’ the Boy went on. ‘I was doing a course in art and design. Then it occurred to me that I was probably going to spend my life with lumps of clay shaped like toilets, but considerably cheaper ones than yours.’
She giggled. ‘You didn’t like them then?’
‘Oh, I liked them, as much as you can. But they don’t make you much money, and I’ve decided I want to own a Porsche by the time I’m 30.’
‘I’ll settle for a moped,’ she said.
He grinned that grin again. ‘I like a girl with ambition.’
The Girl felt as if she was watching herself from ten feet away. Who was this person, who knew how to speak to a boy? Who didn’t mind it, who wasn’t suspicious of him?
She carried on talking to the Boy and he asked for her phone number. She found herself giving it to him. She found her hopes rising when he said that he would call.
She didn’t find a job.
***
The night passed with no tooth-baring intruders and she awoke with a churning stomach. The Boy was going to take her for a picnic and she had to be normal for an entire day.
She rifled through her clothes, finding nothing suitable. It was all the sort of thing that a very sad, lonely girl might wear.
There was a pretty sweater at the back of the wardrobe but that wasn’t coming off the hanger. It hadn’t since the last time she’d worn it.
Is that new? said the Man. It looks nice on you. Makes you look like a nice young girl. I want a nice young girl like you to take to bed and –
Shuddering, she closed the wardrobe doors, the voice safely behind them. Something else would have to do.
She was too nervous to eat. She was still suspicious as to why all this was happening. The fox didn’t feel real, she suspected that when she returned in five days, she would find nothing but an empty wood. Yet the bite was still present on her ankle, the pain vague and sweet. It seemed to have twisted her world on its axis. Why would someone in the business of Misery want to help?
***
She awoke the following day to find the Boy in her bed, snoring.
It wasn’t that she didn’t remember what they had done. She remembered it all and was glad, because it had been fantastic. No, it was the fact that it had been so good which was bothering her, because…what h
appened now?
The previous day had been like pouring years of longing into a few short hours. It had been intense and exciting. It was strange and unsettling and wonderful to have someone to simply open her mouth to, who touched her without checking anyone was watching. Who said her name.
She wasn’t in love with him, not yet, anyway. Was that a good idea? She had decided a while ago not to trust anyone with her feelings. She needed to be responsible because, when it all went wrong, she needed somebody to hold accountable. And to punish.
A delicious little cycle, turning something good into something bad, making herself feel worse. She could feel that building already. What would she do to herself this time?
The Boy opened his eyes and grinned at her.
‘Come here,’ he said, extending his arm.
She went.
***
The Woman invited her for dinner on Thursday. The Girl wondered how anything was meant to be normal in the old house.
The Woman was pleasant to her. She made no remarks about what she was wearing or what she ate. She gave no lectures about finding a job, but was pleased to hear the Girl was looking for one again.
The Girl found that, for once, she wasn’t bothered whether the Woman was pleased.
‘How are you coping after the funeral?’ the Girl asked. The Woman shrugged.
‘Life goes on.’ She stroked and pulled at her black hound’s ears. ‘I can’t really believe he’s gone.’ There was a distance in her eyes. ‘I know he wasn’t a saint, but I can’t help but miss him. And you know how your brother feels…he’s in bits.’
The Girl’s stomach lurched as she watched the Woman’s sadness, and for a second, wondered if she was finally experiencing grief.
No. She still did not feel anything for the Man. But she felt for those who grieved him. She understood their loss and wanted to be of comfort. She felt.
***
She lay awake in bed the next night , worrying about her meeting with the fox.
She liked being normal. She had realised that it didn’t mean you had to be like everyone else, or to be accepted by everyone else. She had realised it meant that you were just okay with going on living.
Perhaps she would find a way to be like this, even without what he had given her. It might have been in there all along, and she hadn’t wanted to bother trying with it.
The Girl she had been before wouldn’t have known where to look for it, and even if she’d found it, she would have been far too afraid to use it. The voices would have pointed out how pointless it was.
That was how the voices, how the Man and Woman, had felt. That there was no point to living. They had tried to find one in the bottom of a bottle and at the end of a fist, but the Girl had seen first hand that they didn’t learn anything new from those things.
The question, once again, seemed to be, did she still want to go on living?
***
The boy met her on Saturday afternoon and they walked toward the park for another picnic.
His hand felt warm, his skin smooth. She liked his pulse. She liked hers. She had decided that much, and it was enough for now.
She paused as they reached the library.
‘I have to go somewhere for a moment,’ she said. ‘Will you wait for me?’
He peered down the path to the wood. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right by yourself?’
She nodded. ‘I’ll be fine. Just wait here a while and I’ll be right back.’
***
She reached the tree she had slumped against five days ago, plastic rope in hand. It was uncomfortable to think about it, but sure enough, the rope was there now.
She reached down to pick it up.
‘You see, I told you I’d let you have it back,’ said the fox.
‘Thank you,’ said the Girl. She pushed it into her coat pocket, it seemed right to take it back.
‘So,’ said the fox, ‘how have the past few days been?’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Better than I had expected.’
The fox nodded towards the fence behind her. ‘Have you seen the saplings?’
She turned and walked over to the fence, bracken crackling beneath her heels.
She was surprised at what she saw.
The first sapling had tried to grow around the barbed wire, and was distorted, its trunk warped. Its branches seemed to tuck back into itself rather than reaching for the sun.
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