MORNING SERIAL
AS she walks, she wonders if she would ever do what Baba Olena has done. Return to a place half toxic, needing to be home despite the abandonment all around. Anton said her place was clean, and Helen knows that there are areas outside the Zone that have higher radiation levels than some inside. Belarus took a heavy hit, but no one talks about that on the tourist sites. There are still people living in villages that should have been evacuated and weren’t. But home is home. And fences can’t contain contamination. It drifts.
When she gets close to the house she runs the dosimeter over her trousers and boots, notes only a tiny jump in the reading, and turns it off, tucking it back into the side pocket of her rucksack. In the yard Baba Olena comes towards her with her hands outstretched.
Pulls her in for a hug. It’s as if she knows Helen has failed. Helen holds her back, wishing this was her mam: strong and solid in her arms. Then turns away and walks back outside. Rinses the headscarf carefully and hangs it to dry, then sits in the field holding her phone until the light begins to fade and her jeans are sodden at the seat from the damp earth. Watches a snail traverse a cracked plant pot, then teases its sticky foot off the ceramic rim and lets it unfurl and spiral her fingers, welcoming the solid rock of pain that fills her chest as she thinks of Jack, tries to imagine him here, beside her.
After an hour or more Baba Olena brings her tea, and when she reaches her hand up to show her the snail, the old woman plucks it off Helen’s hand and drops it into the salty tub that sits beside the barn along with the other slugs and snails that risk her crops, and nods, satisfied, wiping her wizened hands on her apron. Practical. Helen takes a deep breath and gathers her thoughts. Runs through her options: waiting for Anton, or striking out on foot, alone. Tests, briefly, the idea of staying.
> The Half Life of Snails by Philippa Holloway is published by Parthian at £15
CONTINUES TOMORROW