The Butcher's Daughter Page 8

  When I hear a knock on the porch door, I almost trip over myself in my haste to answer it. It’s him. I know it is. He’s come to apologise. But when I reach the door, I am alarmed to see the gypsy woman staring back at me through the glass. It never enters my head not to answer. If she wants a fight, bring it on; I am in the mood for it. Besides, I have done nothing wrong. I have not encouraged her man in any way.

  I push open the door and we size each other up. There is no scowl on her face, just a look of intense interest. This is not at all what I was expecting. I can’t seem to work either of them out. When I see she is holding a dead cockerel, I take a step backwards.

  ‘I’m Merry,’ she explains, as if I ought to know this.

  Not waiting for an invite, she marches straight past me into the kitchen, where she stands, looking about her with unveiled curiosity. When I eventually catch up with her, she thrusts the dead bird at me.

  ‘The chicken is for you.’

  When I do not make any attempt to take the chicken from her, she frowns. ‘It died of natural causes. His name is, was Fury.’

  ‘I saw your husband kill it myself.’ I draw myself up to my full height and jut out my chin. I will not be lied to in my own house, I think stubbornly, even though that is exactly what has been happening for the last sixteen years.

  ‘Do you always believe everything you see? Sometimes, Natalie, the truth is different.’

  ‘You know my name?’

  ‘Of course. Take the chicken. It is a welcome home gift.’

  I have no idea how she knows my name or that I have only recently returned to Little Downey but she doesn’t know enough about me to work out that the gift of a dead animal is the last thing anyone could give me to win me over. However, I do get the impression she is the sort of woman who could twist anyone, Jed included, around her little finger. For some reason, this makes me feel sadder than ever. I am jealous of her I realise suddenly; because she is everything I am not—beautiful and womanly with the kind of hourglass figure I have always dreamt of. She also has Jed.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to be polite, reluctantly taking the dead chicken from her. Placing it on the kitchen table, which I will scrub with bleach when she is gone, I realise that the poor thing’s head is still intact. Perhaps she is telling the truth after all, because this bird certainly never died on a chopping block.

  While I wash my hands at the sink, I watch the way she touches things; marvelling at this and that—the electric kettle and the modern washing machine which is a new addition to the household. Suddenly, she stops what she is doing, shrugs apologetically and laughs.

  ‘Sorry. I don’t know what it’s like living in a real home.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it that,’ I say with an edge to my voice.

  ‘I’m Jed’s sister.’

  ‘His sister! I thought...’

  ‘I know what you thought, Natalie. You like him. And he likes you.’

  ‘I’m not sure I believe you.’ I do not know who I am angrier with—Jed for his earlier behaviour or Merry for her audacity. There is no getting away from the fact that I am still smarting over Jed’s putdown, but Merry, she doesn’t even know me—

  ‘You caught him at a bad moment. He was burying his dog.’

  ‘It died! But last night, I thought I heard it…’

  I pull out a chair and sit down, feeling suddenly tearful. Poor Jed. No wonder he spoke to me the way he did. How could I have been so stupid? Whatever must he think of me? And why didn’t I cotton on to the fact he was burying his dog when I came across him, or guess at his relationship to Merry for that matter? They both have the same soft lilting Irish accent, both are dark skinned with hair as black as my own.

  ‘We must have killed it after all, in the car.’ I hesitate, scared to go on in case she or Jed should hold this admission against me but then I remind myself that I am meant to be an advocate of plain speaking. ‘It ran out in front of us, you see. It was an accident.’ I confess, hardly daring to meet her eye.

  ‘It had had its neck broken. On purpose, if you ask me,’ Merry snorts.

  I immediately want to ask her if she is sure but I can tell by the outrage in her green eyes that she has never been surer of anything. Guiltily, I look away, realising I have known this all along. The truth has been hiding in the back of my mind, making me an accomplice of sorts. What a coward I am. Daniel killed the dog. I saw him do it, in the dark and from a long way away, but I still saw him. Yet I managed to convince myself I was mistaken; not wanting to spoil our night out or what I thought we had, which, in the end, turned out to be nothing. How could I? How could he? Why would he? I think up excuses for him. They come too easily. He killed it to put it out of its misery, I try telling myself. But if that was the case, why lie? To protect you, Natalie. But I am a woman, not a child.

  ‘That kind of thing happens all the time around here. They don’t like us in the village. But we’re not the only ones.’

  Taking this to mean I am equally disliked, I watch Merry take a crude necklace out of her pocket. It looks as if it has been made from a shoelace and has a row of chicken’s claws and canine teeth attached to it. I have never seen anything so macabre or ugly.

  ‘This is for you,’ she tells me.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, getting to my feet. I am not sure I want to know but I realise that I quite like her and do not want to offend her. There is something sultry and dangerous about her but at the same time she is childlike. I don’t have to look far to realise who she reminds me of—my mother. The real one. Not that other thing.

  ‘A lucky charm to ward off evil. Jed told me about your ghost.’

  She is obviously referring to my mother and I feel surprised and a little hurt that Jed has shared this information with her. I try not to let this show, but she is incredibly intuitive—

  ‘We tell each other everything. That’s how I know he likes you,’ Merry says with a knowing smile.

  Hearing this makes up for everything, and I feel a smile creep on to my own face, as I hesitantly take the necklace from her.

  ‘Now you have to give me a present,’ she says, pointedly looking around the room.

  I watch her eyes darting here and there, like a child’s greedy hand in a sweet jar, before settling on a plastic bumblebee fridge magnet. I must confess that I am somewhat baffled and beguiled by this strange creature but I go along with the request anyway.

  ‘Consider it yours,’ I tell her, watching her quickly pocket the fridge magnet as if appropriating things that are not her own comes naturally.

  ‘Shall I make some tea?’ Merry asks, taking me by surprise all over again.

  Feeling like a stranger in my own kitchen, I sit back down but do not take my eyes off her as she busies herself with the kettle, quickly finding cups, sugar and teabags. It occurs to me that she finds everything too quickly; as if she automatically knows where everything is. How she could possibly have known where to find the cups, which are hidden behind the curtain under the sink? I get the feeling I am deliberately being kept in the dark about something. I may have spent most of my life in an institution, where normal doesn’t exist, but even I know this is not standard behaviour for the outside world. Feeling annoyed, I push the charm away from me, instinctively nervous of it, because I suspect it has more to do with witchcraft than good luck.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten how to find your way around a kitchen then?’ I point out at last.

  ‘Not this one,’ Merry replies mysteriously.

  She is not fazed by my question but her eyes remain clouded with secrecy. I do not appreciate her playing cat and mouse with me in my own home. My mother would not have tolerated this, nor must I, so I get to my feet and fold my arms to show I mean business.

  What is that supposed to mean? I am about to reply, when out of the window, I catch sight of my father’s van pulling into the yard. I am immediately fearful for Merry. Like most of Little Downey, my father hates gypsies.

  ‘You must go,’ I s
ay panicking. ‘There’s no telling what my father will do if he finds you here.’

  ‘Never mind Frank, Natalie,’ she chuckles. ‘His bark is worse than his bite.’

  The suggestion that these two have crossed paths before doesn’t go unnoticed. But, as much as I know this to be impossible, now is not the time to ask questions. I must insist she leave. Walking over to the door, I pointedly hold it open until she gets the message.

  And with that, she is gone, leaving behind a trail of wonder and mystery, which I assume is perfectly normal for someone like her.

  Little Downey

  Having braved the village shop again, receiving just as chilly a reception from Mrs Abbot as on my previous visit, but escaping her husband’s ever-watchful scrutiny from out back, as he is nowhere to be seen, I collect my bicycle from the narrow alleyway where I left it and cycle through the village towards home. I’ll never know what makes me turn right instead of left on the coast road. Perhaps my head is too full of Jed and Merry and my father, but mostly Jed, to notice that I have taken a wrong turn; but as soon as I see the ugly outline of the grey windowless building up ahead, I experience a numbing kind of terror.

  I am back where I started—at the slaughterhouse. I say this is where I started, because I can hardly remember a time when it didn’t feature in my life or give me nightmares. The place is as I remember. The doors might not appear as giant as they once did but they still clang ominously, as if announcing that death is on its way. The stench is overpowering; a mixture of faeces, urine and congealing blood. The building’s familiar shadow falls onto a rough tarmac drive, broken down over time by the wheels of lorries bringing animals to slaughter. In an adjoining pen, tired-looking horses are squeezed tightly together. I dare not look at them, for fear of seeing a grey pony with kind eyes.

  I stand in the lane, straddling my bike, wondering how I got here, knowing I would never have come here on purpose. So, what made you, Natalie? I resist the urge to stick a thumb in my mouth; reminding myself that I am a grown woman, not a frightened child. That’s when I see Daniel’s pickup truck hurtling along the pot-holed lane towards me. I consider standing my ground and challenging him over Jed’s dog but when I see he has someone next to him in the passenger seat, I drop the bike and run.

  It isn’t until I reach the safety of one of the nearby outbuildings that I realise I haven’t been spotted, because he drives straight though the double doors into the building, never once glancing my way.

  I hear the engine being switched off, car doors opening, the clang of metal, shuffling of boots and the echo of male voices, but when I hear a distraught calf calling for its mother, I cover my ears. I have cried like that poor creature is doing. I know exactly how it feels.

  I jump back when I see a tall thin ginger-haired youth come out of the building. Swinging a halter in one hand, he walks over to the pen of horses and goes inside. Patting one of the horses in a friendly enough way, he slips the halter over its head. There is something about his expression that is familiar. I cannot put a name to his face at present, but I am sure I will in time. The horse follows him docilely, ears pricked and tail swinging, as if anticipating a net of hay and a bowl of oats. I cannot stand this. I know what happens to horses once they are inside. The law says you can’t kill a horse in sight of another horse—because they instantly know and freak out. Instead, they are shot separately.

  I am about to run back to my bike and get the hell out of there before the single bullet rings out, when I hear my father’s voice.

  Little Downey Slaughterhouse

  Frank

  Frank and Daniel are loading animal carcasses into the back of the pickup truck. It’s a young man’s job and Frank lets Daniel do most of the work. As the boss, he’s earned that right. Already, his muscles ache. Stopping for a breather, he glances up at the freshly killed beasts that swing from metal chains above his head. After years of practice, he no longer sees dead animals, just meat. Good cuts and bad ones.

  To the right of the double doors there is a small office with blinds at the windows. Through a gap in the blinds, Frank can see a woman he sometimes chats to sitting at a desk typing. Every now and again she picks up a green apple and takes a bite from it. She has a stomach stronger than most, he has to give her that. To the left of him, there are pens of restless frightened sheep, who bleat constantly and stomp their forefeet on the concrete floor. In a stall on its own, a brown calf circles agitatedly, its deep-throated moos noisily echoing around the draughty building.

  A ginger-haired lad, one of Daniel’s cronies, walks a skinny horse into the building. Frank doesn’t know if it’s just him but the blokes they’re hiring these days keep on getting younger, barely out of school that one. He swings his eyes back to Daniel, who is wrestling with the last carcass. The lad is a grafter, he’ll give him that. One day, if Daniel behaves himself and learns how to mind his own business, he will make a fine butcher. Frank is about to carry on minding his own business when the slaughterer, a man he knows well, shouts at the worker with the horse.

  ‘Tie it up, Jono and bring me the calf instead. I can’t hear myself think with that racket.’

  Jono does as he is bid and ties up the horse, then slouches over to the stall with the calf inside. Frank grits his teeth at how slow he is. It’s a wonder he hasn’t had the slaughterer’s boot up his arse before now. Daniel straightens up beside him, as if his interest is piqued by Jono’s inexperienced handling of the calf, which is clearly giving him the runaround. Without so much as a “by your leave”, Daniel jogs over to help him. That wouldn’t have happened in Frank’s day.

  While they attempt to herd the bellowing calf between them, using arms, knees and the tips of their steel-toe-cap boots, Frank ambles over to Bob Black. They might go way back but they have never been friends. Frank has fought this man several times, pub brawls mostly, but once at his own wedding, much to his wife’s displeasure, Frank ended up breaking Bob’s nose.

  Bob likes crossword puzzles and prefers Guinness over ale. He is also partial to a game of darts. More mysteriously, his wife Norma never leaves the house, having some form of agoraphobia that Bob doesn’t like to talk about. The only other thing Frank knows for sure about Bob is that he is one sick fucker.

  They both watch the calf stop to sniff its dead mother’s body, which is lying on its side on the ground, steam and blood coming off it. This is a bit too much for Frank, but Bob laughs as if he might piss himself.

  ‘Did you like seeing Mummy snuff it?’ Bob taunts.

  As if it understands, the calf glances in Bob’s direction, raises its tail and lets a stream of loose green faeces shoot out of its rear end.

  ‘You’ll pay for that, you little fucker,’ Bob gestures for the lads to hurry up but the calf only moves when a forklift truck comes forward to remove its mother’s carcass.

  Although armed with a large bolt gun, Bob Black is harmless enough looking but his enthusiasm for the job makes up for the lack of menace in his build. He smiles slyly at Frank’s approach.

  ‘The young and injured are meant to be slaughtered first,’ Frank reminds him sternly. Now they’re up close, Frank is surprised by how much he wants to pummel his fists into the man’s face. Some battles are never forgotten.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with having a bit of fun,’ Bob points out sulkily. Clearly, he hasn’t forgotten about the broken nose either. ‘Then again, you always were a spoilsport.’

  Deliberately clenching his fists in full sight of the man, but refusing to rise to the gibe, Frank wants to tell Bob that killing is one thing but to take enjoyment from it quite another but doesn’t waste his breath. The man is a bully who no doubt terrorises animals and the young lads who work for him, but he is also a coward. He won’t even look Frank in the eye.

  Glancing nervously at Frank’s fists, Bob shouts for Daniel and Jono to hurry up. Finally, the calf is manoeuvred into position. It has given up struggling and has fallen silent but its sides continue to heave with exhau
stion. Daniel has it in a headlock so it cannot move, and his sleeves are soaked with its saliva. Aiming the bolt gun at the calf’s head, Bob makes a friendly clucking noise to get its attention and is about to pull the trigger, when he pauses deliberately, almost for effect. This time he does look Frank in the eye—

  ‘How’s that daughter of yours, Frank? Tenderest bit of meat I’ve seen in a long time.’

  ‘Mind your own, Bob. If you know what’s good for you.’

  Frank would give his right arm to take Bob outside and give him a good kicking but he can’t do that in front of these youngsters, who look up to their elders. He changes his mind, when quite by accident, he catches Daniel passing a lecherous smile to Jono.

  ‘That goes for you an’ all. I want you to stay away from her,’ Frank warns.

  ‘You know I can’t do that, Frank.’ Daniel is all wide-eyed innocence, but a smile escapes him; the sniggering of the other two clearly egging him on.

  ‘She don’t know nothing.’ Frank jabs a finger into Daniel’s chest.

  ‘Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.’ Unsmiling, Daniel bats the finger away.

  Little Downey Beach – Natalie

  My legs are tired from walking but my mind won’t settle. So much for a long walk being good for you. I couldn’t have picked a worst time to come down to the beach. It is swelteringly hot. Even the sea is subdued. There are no signs of birds or wildlife either. The saying “only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun”, a favourite of my father’s, has never felt more appropriate.