“What are you doing?” Marcie appeared at my shoulder, and I jumped.
“Just waiting for Dad to be finished,” I said.
“I’ll come outside with you.”
I looked at her skeptically. She hated the outdoors usually.
“You can show me what I’ve been missing,” she said, and she linked her arm through mine.
We ran up to the room together and pulled on our Wellies. Marcie smiled at me as she shrugged into her coat, and I felt my chest warm. It had been a long time since she’d shown an interest in anything I was doing.
Though it was April, there was still a cold nip in the air, and the recent rainfall had turned the yard into sludge. I led the way, picking out the least muddy route I could find, in case the mire dissuaded Marcie from accompanying me. She didn’t complain, though. As we reached the field dotted with cows, she pointed things out and asked questions I was thrilled to answer.
We started at the hedgerow. I flipped logs and showed her thetreasures underneath: the beetles and worms and nasty-looking orange centipedes that scuttled for cover as soon as the light hit them. We’d only been looking for five minutes when I noticed Marcie’s attention waning.
“I was talking to Dad the other day,” she began slowly. “He was telling me something really gross.”
I dropped the log I was peering under and looked at her, swallowing the small spark of jealousy that she and Dad had had a private conversation without me. “What was it?”
“He was saying that sometimes worms live in cowpats. They help turn it into compost.” She looked at the cows grazing to our right. “Told you it was gross.”
Secretly, I thought so, too, but if Dad thought it was worth mentioning, I was willing to set aside my true feelings. “Shall we have a look?” I said, and Marcie nodded. I found a large stick in the hedgerow, and we approached the cows slowly. Several fresh pancakes steamed in the cold air. As we drew nearer, Marcie close at my shoulder, hundreds of yellow flies took to the air. I held my breath and poked at the mass on the ground with the stick.
It happened in a split second. One moment I was on my feet, leaning over just enough to catch a glimpse of the writhing mass of worms. The next, there was a hard push at my shoulder, and I was tipping forward, straight toward it. I didn’t have time to break my fall with my hands. I landed heavily on my shoulder and felt it spatter upward, onto my face, into my mouth, which was open in surprise. I could feel the cool dampness seep through my jumper as I sputtered and tried to extract myself from the mess, which only made it worse. I tried to raise myself on my hand and accidentally pressed it right into the center of the dung. I felt it squelch through my fingers and my stomach turned.
“Marcie Jones, you come hererightnow.” It was a tone I had never heard Mum use before, and certainly not with Marcie, but it rang outacross the field with so much force even I quailed. I felt strong hands under my armpits as Dad lifted me from the cowpat. Mum had grabbed Marcie by her upper arm. Her jaw was set with anger. A few feet away, Grandpa and Granny stood, mouths ajar.
“You’re OK,” Dad said softly. “It’s just a bit of muck. We’ll get you cleaned up in no time.”
I realized I was shaking. I felt sullied. Disgusting. Betrayed. I stood with my arms at right angles to my body, spitting onto the grass. I thought I felt something—a worm perhaps—slither down my back, and then the tears came, and they did not stop.
“You willneverbehave like that again.” Mum was marching Marcie back toward the house, dragging her by the arm, voice carrying on the wind. “In front of your grandparents, too. Are youtryingto embarrass me? You can forget about having your friends over next weekend, that’s for sure.”
I waddled back to the house with Dad and his parents. They tried to make me feel better with vacuous comments—“At least it wasn’t dog or badger poo. That really stinks!” And, “It’ll wash out and you won’t even know. I’ll put the washing machine on as soon as we get in.” But they couldn’t know how my skin itched, how it burned with the thought of those worms and those flies. How it tasted: earthy, just a little bit bitter. I continued to spit until we reached the front door.
Dad offered to sit with me as I showered, but I shook my head and locked the door behind me. I stood under the weak, lukewarm water and scrubbed at my skin until it burned. Until it was red and raw. Still, I did not feel clean.
After my shower, I gave my soiled clothes to Granny and went to my room to change. Marcie was hunched on the side of her bed, shoulders shaking with tears. She glared at me, puffy-eyed.
“It was anaccident, Iris. Tell them! This is sounfair. You know Mum’ssaid I can’t have anyone over for the rest of the holidays? It was only a joke. You found it funny, didn’t you?”
Her tone was pleading. It was the first time she’d ever been the sole recipient of Mum’s anger. The first time she’d been perceived as anything less than perfect.
I ignored her question and instead spread a puzzle over the floorboards. I spent most of the rest of the week in that bedroom. Dad tried to tempt me outside again, but each time I shook my head vehemently and refused. Each time I finished the puzzle, I broke it up and started again. The encyclopedia lay, deliberately forgotten, on my bedside table.
And, by the end of the week, it was as though nothing had ever happened. Marcie had managed to worm her way back into Mum’s good graces, where she stayed until she died.
Ten
A grief group isnot the right forum for someone with an aversion to bodily fluids. I’ve known this all along, but tonight it’s particularly grating. Rita tears off a square of blue roll and blows her nose noisily. I feel my stomach turn and look away, but my gaze snags on Jack.
Jack: the man who took my number last week, promised to message, then failed miserably at this one simple task. It’s as though our encounter meant nothing to him. As though he’s forgotten the energy that crackled between us at the café, forgotten the coincidence that brought us together, so strange it feels like fate. Which—call me bigheaded—simply cannot have been the case.
He sits like a man who is totally at ease: legs spread just wide enough to ensure his comfort but not wide enough that he could be accused of manspreading. He is giving Rita—sobbing about her father—his full and undivided attention. This does little to brighten my mood. Rita is one of those women who manage to pull off the damsel-in-distress look effortlessly. She has that hint of the pathetic about her that men seem togo wild for. She dabs at her eyes with more delicacy than she usually uses during her frequent crying spells.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry. Look at me, not being able to keep it together. What must you think of me, Jack?” She gives a wet, girlish giggle that makes me want to shove the wad of kitchen roll straight down her throat. She’s amped up the makeup this week, too: a garish red smear round her mouth, layers of mascara on her lashes, which she is currently fluttering in Jack’s direction.
He shakes his head as though it’s nothing, as though he understands completely, then reaches out and pats her on the arm. It’s too much. Almost enough to make me spring from my chair, leap across the room, and forcibly separate them. No, that wouldn’t be enough. I’d grab Rita by her flimsy lace collar and drag her all the way out onto the street. Preferably into the path of a passing bus. I don’t do this, obviously. I’m not mad. Instead, I look on with a benign smile, as though Jack’s casual intimacy with Rita hasn’t sent fury rippling through my veins.
