I remembered standing in our workshop in the early days of Petals, wondering how we could supply the winter weddings that were growing in popularity, taking inspiration from English gardens, the seasons. Winter foliage and berries that were as beautiful as summer’s abundance of blooms. We worried at first that in refusing to use imported flowers we’d lose business. But offering something different, something ethical, became our strength.
You were proud of what we did.
It’s the way forward, you said. If each one of us does what we think is right, it might not seem like much. But together, we can make a difference.
It was a philosophy that inspired your dedication to the animal shelter. There were injustices to heal; so many wrongs you wanted to right. It drove you on.
That weekend, when the pony was sick, you fought with it, gave it kindness while it lived. And you took solace from that. But there were always more animals. Not even you could change their outcomes.
As more time passed, it didn’t get any easier for you. After one particularly traumatic day, I watched your heart break.
‘It isn’t all right,’ you sobbed pitifully. ‘All these animals who suffer, because of people…’
I wasn’t sure what had happened or what you’d seen. I tried to comfort you, but it wasn’t possible. You bore too much weight on your slender shoulders; had seen too much. Eventually I got it out of you that you’d been out with Lea, who ran the shelter. The two of you had gone to an industrial dairy farm, where those innocent, unwanted boy calves were too many.
‘Do you know what happens to them?’ You were inconsolable. ‘They take them away from their mothers at birth. The mothers cry, Mum. Their calves can barely stand. Then they kill them.’
‘Surely not.’ I was shocked. Couldn’t contemplate that such things went on. But they did; not everywhere, though on a scale that was unbearable to you. To me, too. But until then, I hadn’t known.
You’d witnessed their last seconds. But it got to you more because they were babies. Newborns, who would never get the chance to have a life. ‘Cows’ milk is for calves. Not for people.’ You didn’t understand why people couldn’t see that. It was the very definition of exploitation, the way you saw it.
‘Tens of thousands of calves are killed – every year, all so that humans can consume dairy products. They shoot them on farms or send them to slaughterhouses.’ Your eyes were haunted. ‘Can you imagine the uproar if they were puppies or kittens? Calves are babies. It’s no different.’
I felt your pain – though less acutely than you, whilst my worry grew for you. I hoped you might step back, but instead, it hardened your resolve. I watched you channel it the only way you could, using it to sharpen your focus, to drive you.
It wasn’t long after that you started attending slaughterhouse vigils.
Ollie tried to talk you out of it. ‘You can’t do anything, Lex. It isn’t going to stop. Only change at a higher level can do that.’
‘I’m still going.’ Your mind was made up. ‘I’m going to document it. People don’t know what goes on in these places. It’s up to people like me to show them.’
You went, standing outside the slaughterhouse gates, adding your presence to the silent protest of others, offering animals water through the slats in the trailers that carried them in. Watching, powerless to do anything as lorries containing month-old boy calves arrived, witnessing the last minutes before their deaths.
But even that still wasn’t enough for you. You joined a group to film what went on inside, too. Your eyes told of the horrors you’d seen. Then your Instagram started. @animalwarrior. Angry posts that drew anger in response.
I appealed to Ollie. ‘Can’t you explain to her that blaming everyone won’t work? People don’t know what goes on. She needs to educate them more gently.’
‘She knows that. But she’s hurting, Mum. I will try, just don’t expect anything.’ Ollie dutifully gave it his best effort. You spoke for hours that afternoon. Afterwards, something must have registered with you.
When you came downstairs, you looked lighter. ‘Sorry, Mum. It just gets to me sometimes.’
‘I know.’ I paused, glad you’d found a way to park it, if only for now. ‘What you see is brutal, Lex. I worry about you.’
‘There’s no need. I’m fine,’ you said. ‘I’m going out later. I’m meeting some friends.’
‘That’s nice.’ Relief filled me, that you were doing something normal; but it was overtaken by confusion. Suddenly it was like you were a different person. ‘Do you need a lift?’
‘Thanks, but Ollie’s taking me – and picking me up,’ you said.
I was asleep when you got home, only dimly registering yours and Ollie’s voices as you came upstairs; your laughter. Laughter there was no sign of the following morning, when I came down to silence.
Ollie emerged around midday, bleary-eyed and lanky-limbed, still in his pyjamas. Yawning, he put the kettle on, then made himself some toast.
‘Good night?’ I asked.
‘Yeah.’ He stretched. ‘Actually, it was. We all ended up back at Mark’s house.’
Mark was one of his oldest school friends. ‘Was Lexie with you?’
