MORNING SERIAL
‘SPEND this time resting, going out for walks, cooking. Reconnect with your family. You’ll need time and space to cope with your mother’s situation. The job isn’t going anywhere. Find strength in those around you, and you’ll come back fortified.’ She’d written a prescription for Diazepam, ‘to take the edge off ’.
Jennifer had let her out, shaken hands on the doorstep and thanked the woman for her time. Then closed the door and wandered into the kitchen, furious. Time is the last thing she needs.
She sits at the table and makes a list of everything she can do to keep busy.
Tax returns. She could do them herself this year instead of turning over their payslips and profit and loss accounts from the farm to the accountant. A holiday, maybe. Repairs on the house. Guttering and pointing to fix the storm damage of the winter and prevent further costs.
Jack is quiet upstairs. The lamb’s box is empty, the towel rumpled and stained. She can hear the drone of a fly in the window. Sunlight penetrates the glass.
Time to hang the washing out.
She makes it as far as the kitchen door before her chest tightens. The smell of detergent fills her head. Flowers, or a version of them, orchids maybe. She rubs her nose and looks out of the window beside the door. Real flowers press their petals against the salt-smeared pane. Beyond, Jack is walking down the path, away from her. His dark hair defying the sunlight as his legs disappear into the long grass at the end of the garden. Above him the washing line is an empty thread.
She knocks on the window to get his attention, to beckon him back in, but he is lost in the dappled light beneath the apple tree. She takes a deep breath and picks up the basket of laundry, gets to the end of the passage and places it on the floor. A fly is dying slowly on the windowsill, its wings picking up dust as it struggles on its back.
> The Half Life of Snails by Philippa Holloway is published by Parthian at £15
CONTINUES TOMORROW