The Things You Didn't See(41)

‘But it will be his,’ I say, still struggling with all the swirling in my brain. ‘When the farm becomes Samphire Health Spa.’

Your face is stony. You take the appointment letter from the table and carefully fold it back into squares, returning it to your pocket. A shiver of fear runs through me.

‘Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said, Cass? Samphire Health Spa was just a fantasy.’

‘What the fuck does that mean?’

You try to reach for me, but I shove you away so violently that the sugar bowl falls from the table with a crash. I stand up, knowing I should leave, but too angry to move. My future, all our plans, feel as though they’re slipping from me. Samphire Health Spa isn’t only a career ambition, it means Victoria would come home to live. No, Mum, you can’t be ill, it’s not fair.

‘Cass, calm down . . .’ You try to reach for me again, but I won’t let you touch me.

‘You can’t change your mind!’ I’m shouting now, but I don’t care. ‘You promised Daniel the farm.’

‘And he promised me my health,’ you say, so coldly that it freezes me to the core. ‘Don’t you see, Cass, I’m going to save myself, but I’m going to save you too. Do you really think you can run a business? Look at you, stood shrieking like some lunatic!’

Lunatic. ‘I have rights! My daughter, my future . . . Why, you bitch . . .’

The back door opens.

Janet stands still for a moment, staring at us: me standing, you seated, the hard words still in the air. Ignoring the tension in the room, she scampers over to the kitchen worktop and says, ‘Don’t mind me, I just need to get the afternoon tea ready for the men.’

Poor Janet, she looks frail and scrappy, so different from you. You’re defiant. Proud, chin up, with your dark hair and clever eyes, your smart shirt, so smug. You don’t look ill, Mum, not at all.

Janet pauses to cough, her dull hair comes loose from her ponytail and hangs down the sides of her face. Ignoring us, she melts into the background, sets a saucepan to boil for the eggs and starts to butter bread. It’s mesmerising, comforting too, to watch her continue on like a wind-up doll when my world is imploding.

‘You can serve the food outside, Janet,’ you tell her decisively.

She looks up, obediently, at your order. ‘Won’t the men mind?’

‘I don’t want them in here. Tell them they can eat in the barn if they want a real taste of the countryside.’

Janet begins to wipe her hands on her apron, the eggs are boiling noisily, and I’m suddenly desperate to be out of the oppressive kitchen, and away from your scrutiny.

I need to get away and make a dash for the back door.

But at the farm there is no respite from suffering. Outside, stood in the cold October air, I hear the noise before I see anything. The screams of birds dying.

Dad is in the barn, alone, reaching into a squabble of hens who are corralled together by a metal grille. His hands are encased in thick black rubber gloves up to his elbows and he grabs for a bird. When I was a child he’d tease me, prod me with a rubber finger until I screamed. He thought it was funny, but I knew what happened when he wore those gloves. I always hated those gloves, but since his stroke they’re necessary, to give his right hand the support it needs to wring birds’ necks.

Jet runs towards me, jumping up and barking as I pat his ears and scruff his neck, and then he finally lets me pass. Dad is bent over, a hunched man, but between his legs are feathers, a moving shape. The black gloves hold the shape fast, despite its desperate struggles, and I see the black rubber twist, the gloves turn against themselves once, hard and sudden. I marvel he can do this when, without that glove, his right hand is useless. He tosses the bundle of limp red feathers out of the pen and onto the pile of carcasses, all feathers and flesh, but no life. His daily work, the chicken order for the supermarket.

In a second pile are dead pheasants with green and purple feathers and useless wings, the spoils of today’s shoot. The bloodied mass of slack bodies makes me want to heave.

‘What you doin’ here, girl?’ he shouts at me, without looking up, already reaching for his next victim.

‘I came to see Mum. Dad, did you know she plans to sell the farm?’

Now he looks at me, the live chicken caught by the glove, its beady orange eyes glittering with fear, wings flapping. ‘Over my dead body. What do you think this whole day has been about?’

I hear the distant voices of the other men returning from the copse, and start to walk away. ‘Janet will bring food out to you soon.’

He looks back at the terrified bird. And with a deft move, he breaks its neck.

Back in the kitchen, Janet has almost finished preparing the food.

She’s put cream and jam on scones and is mixing gin with prosecco for the boozy drinks. You’ve disappeared. I climb the backstairs to find you. The door to your study is closed, so I know you’re in there. I wonder if you’re phoning Clive, right this minute asking him to come and assess me for admission to the Bartlet. I wonder if you’re looking again at your letter, thinking about all the money you’ll need. After all you said, Mum, about natural treatments. Publically, on the radio. You’ll make Daniel look a fool – worse, you’ll make him look a fraud. I open the door.

You’re on the floor, knelt in front of the safe. You look up, startled. ‘Get out!’ you scream. And I turn to go, but as I do, I see that you’re sliding something into the base.