‘I’ll talk to her.’ Joe glances at me. ‘Isla’s coming home for a couple of weeks.’ Isla is his grown-up daughter who moved away. ‘I know she’d love to see you.’
I never find it easy, listening to other families – happy ones, though that said, I’m not sure Joe’s is. Leaving them to it, I go to my room. Standing at the open window, I gaze across the grass towards the walled garden, dimly making out the trees in the darkness, feeling a sudden pang of longing for you.
You used to love coming with me when I first started growing flowers here. It was somewhere untouched by Ryan; a sanctuary not just for me, but for all of us. A memory comes to me of your windswept hair, the bunch of flowers you’d just picked; your pale blue eyes as you smiled. I wipe away the tear that rolls down my cheek. Wonder if these moments will get any less agonising; if I’ll ever get used to losing you, Lexie.
On Saturday I wake up early. With Joe looking after Mary, I am not needed here. But there’s something I’ve wanted to do for some time, now.
I’ve told no one my plans, not even Lucy. Getting up, I go out to my car. It’s a cool morning, and a feeling of uncertainty surrounds me about what to expect as I set off for one of the vigils you used to attend.
I have a nervous feeling in my stomach, a feeling of dread as I park my car and see the small crowd assembled. I’ve never been to an abattoir before and I know this is going to be difficult. But it’s important to me to see what you saw, to feel what you felt.
We don’t go inside. Instead, we stand quietly at the gates, some of the group holding placards. It’s strange to think of you standing here before me, my uncertainty changing to a sick feeling when a lorry approaches. Slowing down, it stops as the gates are opened; but it’s stationary for long enough for me to glimpse the cows inside.
Dairy is a slaughter industry, you explained to me once. It isn’t just the unwanted boy calves that die. All their lives, the mothers are exploited for milk. Then when they’re not productive enough, they end up here.
I take in the black and white hides of the dairy cows in the lorry, observe their restlessness as the lorry carries on, the gates closing behind it. I can’t describe the feeling that takes me over. All I know is it’s how you must have felt. It gets worse as the lorries keep coming, one containing young calves, their voices unmistakable. It’s harrowing to behold, worse to imagine what happens after they’re unloaded.
Across the group, my eyes meet those of a young man with floppy hair. A look of recognition crosses his face before he comes over to me.
‘You’re Lexie’s mum, aren’t you?’ He pauses. ‘We met once – I came to your house.’
I frown, trying to remember.
‘I’m Jordan,’ he says.
A memory comes back, of you wanting his help with something, of a teenaged boy who clearly liked you. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’ He looks older, but we all are, I remind myself.
‘I was so sorry about Lexie,’ he says quietly. ‘She really inspired me.’ He glances around the small crowd. ‘I think it’s fair to say she inspired all of us.’ He touches the arm of the woman standing nearest to him. ‘Jeannie? This is Lexie’s mum.’
Before I know it, word has whispered through the crowd. One by one, they come over, for a moment surrounding me, murmuring the most beautiful sentiments, the most heartfelt words about you. My heart is full to bursting – with pride, with love for you. In that moment, more than ever, I feel the measure of what you’ve done, the difference you’ve made, not just to me but to all of us.
Over the next hour, I endure the arrival of more lorries, trying to imagine how many lives have been taken inside these buildings, before suddenly I can’t bear it. ‘I don’t think I can take any more,’ I say to the woman I’m standing next to. My eyes meet hers, just briefly, yet long enough to see the pain in them.
Walking away, I get in my car and sit there for a moment. Wishing I had a fraction of your strength, Lexie.
I don’t go straight back to Mary’s. Instead, I go back to our old family home, take in the Sale Agreed sign that’s been put up. Letting myself in, I sit on the stairs. A house clearance company has been in and all the rooms are empty; in the silence, the house is no more than a shell.
As I think back to everything that shaped your life, it’s as though I’m surrounded by the ghosts of who we used to be, my mind suddenly filled with if onlys. If only our lives had been different; if only Ryan hadn’t drunk; if only I had been stronger; if only you and Ollie as children had glimpsed a window into a world that was kinder.
Would your life have worked out differently?
As suddenly as I was drawn to come here, I have to leave. Closing the door behind me, I know I won’t be coming back. As I get in the car, it’s as though your ghost follows me.
Your life was short, Lexie. But after what I’ve seen today, more than ever before, I need you to know that what you did was important.
I maintain a façade of brightness when I get back to Mary’s; join her and Joe for the meal they’ve cooked. When she goes to bed early, Joe opens a bottle of wine.
‘You look like you could do with a glass,’ he says quietly.
His words put me on edge – because of Ryan. And because of Ryan, too, I never want to be someone who looks like they need a drink. Even so, I take the glass he passes me.
‘I went to a slaughterhouse vigil today.’ Seeing the look of shock in Joe’s eyes, I get a sense of how it was for you when you told people where you’d been. ‘Lexie used to go to them. She was an animal welfare activist – among other things. I’d never been before. And I’m glad I went. It made me think.’
‘You’re brave,’ he says. ‘I did a few months in a small abattoir in my early days as a vet. I found it incredibly difficult.’ He pauses. ‘Your daughter sounds brave, too.’
It’s like a hand grips my insides, then savagely twists them. I wish I could distil you into a few sentences that describe who you really were. ‘She was a one-off,’ I tell Joe. ‘She cared too much.’ I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘About almost everything, but particularly animals.’
‘You must miss her terribly.’ His voice is husky.
