WARNING -
CONTAINS
ADULT
MATERIAL
It was an unusual sort of fence for a farm. One of those wrought-iron types, all arching fleur-de-lis and curlicues. Once upon a time it had been painted white but now it was peeling badly; the kind of peeling you itch to pick. Hanging over several of the spikes were hoops of wire attached to plaster casts of feet. They were all tiny, some touching toes, some turning their backs like children who’ve fallen out with each other. Campion and straggly daisies poked themselves through the fence, tickling the soles of the feet. Toes wide apart, bent toes, toes clambering up over one another. You’d have thought feet were all the same until you looked at these, chopped off at their tiny ankles, some pitted by the rain; most padded with moss like everything else around here.
It was Hazel Shaddacome’s fence. If you believed in such things as elementals, beings of nature, OK fairies if you like, then Hazel would have been one of them. Put her in a hall full of people and she was like a wild flower left to fade and wilt in a jam jar. But to see Hazel in the hills, amongst the fern and bracken, was to discover another creature
altogether. Fey was the word, light as a dandelion puff. But practical too, perched atop the ancient tractor or herding sheep with piercing whistles to the dogs. She called them Erin and Shee, and they flew round the flock as if by intuition, in love with movement, in love with her. I understood how they felt: she fascinated me too.
The dogs had different names when Badger, her husband, worked them. He yelled out ‘Shep’ and ‘Meg’, often accompanied by a kick. They slunk, low to the hillside, as if they would merge with the grass by sheer force of will. Badger had his own fence too, at the back of the farmhouse, in the shadows. The ‘gibbet’ he called it and it stank of death and decay, fuzzy with flies. Barbed wire beaded with corpses – half a dozen crows, a jay, a brace of magpies, the remains of a fox. ‘It’s a warning to ‘em,’ he told me, taking delight at my all too obvious disgust. ‘Puts off the others. Bloody vermin.’
You’d never believe they were a couple. Hazel, all fire and air, so tiny you’d think she’d blow away in a stern wind, and Badger, rooted four-square to the earth, solid as clay. He was full on thirty years older than her and, when I moved into my cottage, people jumped to tell the tale of how mean-tempered Badger Shaddacome had caught the sprite of a girl from over the hill.
Badger had lived alone since his mother had died, scratching a living in the old-fashioned moorland way – a small flock of sheep, their backsides caked with excrement; hardy creatures left to fend for themselves on the bracken-choked hills. A cow, a few chickens and a scrawny cockerel. His mother’s vegetable patch now grew a fine crop of waist-high weeds, though the potato bed was kept neat and clear. Badger’s finest product was the spirit he distilled in the stone outbuilding that listed as if it too were befuddled.
One evening in autumn, an Indian summer, he went out with his gun - a couple of rabbits for the pot or maybe a pheasant that had strayed from one of the fancy shoots. Instead he met a different prey: Hazel Lisbrooke, following dust motes, fragile as a moth, barefoot and wearing only her nightie. She smiled, even though he was a giant of a man, unshaven and rank with sweat, his hands thick with grime, his breath heavy with drink.
‘Evening, Badger,’ she’d said softly, her voice a mere whisper on the light autumn breeze.
‘Evening, Missy,’ he’d said, lust prodding in his groin, seeing her body etched against the sky, plainly visible through the thin cheap cotton.
He’d taken her quickly, like a dog, ramming himself into her hard and fast, one hand over her mouth. She didn’t fight; she barely whimpered, just got up unsteadily afterwards and limped away back over the hill. She was sixteen years old. She had been a virgin, had never even been kissed.
Three months later, Badger had vigorously denied their coupling when the posse of farmers from over the hill had come banging on his door. Jim Lisbrooke and his three big sons, quiet stolid men who worked the land and went to church on Sundays. No shotguns, but they carried a quiet menace in their eyes.
Badger and Hazel were married two weeks later, in a rare flurry of snow. On their wedding night, in the narrow iron bedstead, she miscarried.
Since then, she’d miscarried again and again, as if her womb refused to carry a child conceived in such brutish ways; as if they were a mis-mating, of different species. Badger took it badly and each time Hazel lost her baby, she gained a few more bruises. She refused to be downhearted – she would have a baby, she insisted. But each time it ended the same way.
Maybe I’m getting a little carried away. Of course I don’t really know what she thought. But I could imagine. While Hazel had lived her entire life in this valley, she didn’t have friends. I suppose I was a little lonely too, a bit adrift. Country life wasn’t quite what I had expected, at least not here, in this moss-drenched valley. If I’m really honest, I found her intriguing, a relic from a bygone age, something to make eyebrows rise when I emailed my friends back in London. Above all, I thought I could help her, I really thought I might make a difference. I used to pass the odd word, taking a pause on my daily jog down the lane.
It was an unusual sort of fence for a farm. One of those wrought-iron types, all arching fleur-de-lis and curlicues. Once upon a time it had been painted white but now it was peeling badly; the kind of peeling you itch to pick. Hanging over several of the spikes were hoops of wire attached to plaster casts of feet. They were all tiny, some touching toes, some turning their backs like children who’ve fallen out with each other. Campion and straggly daisies poked themselves through the fence, tickling the soles of the feet. Toes wide apart, bent toes, toes clambering up over one another. You’d have thought feet were all the same until you looked at these, chopped off at their tiny ankles, some pitted by the rain; most padded with moss like everything else around here.
It was Hazel Shaddacome’s fence. If you believed in such things as elementals, beings of nature, OK fairies if you like, then Hazel would have been one of them. Put her in a hall full of people and she was like a wild flower left to fade and wilt in a jam jar. But to see Hazel in the hills, amongst the fern and bracken, was to discover another creature
altogether. Fey was the word, light as a dandelion puff. But practical too, perched atop the ancient tractor or herding sheep with piercing whistles to the dogs. She called them Erin and Shee, and they flew round the flock as if by intuition, in love with movement, in love with her. I understood how they felt: she fascinated me too.
The dogs had different names when Badger, her husband, worked them. He yelled out ‘Shep’ and ‘Meg’, often accompanied by a kick. They slunk, low to the hillside, as if they would merge with the grass by sheer force of will. Badger had his own fence too, at the back of the farmhouse, in the shadows. The ‘gibbet’ he called it and it stank of death and decay, fuzzy with flies. Barbed wire beaded with corpses – half a dozen crows, a jay, a brace of magpies, the remains of a fox. ‘It’s a warning to ‘em,’ he told me, taking delight at my all too obvious disgust. ‘Puts off the others. Bloody vermin.’
You’d never believe they were a couple. Hazel, all fire and air, so tiny you’d think she’d blow away in a stern wind, and Badger, rooted four-square to the earth, solid as clay. He was full on thirty years older than her and, when I moved into my cottage, people jumped to tell the tale of how mean-tempered Badger Shaddacome had caught the sprite of a girl from over the hill.
Badger had lived alone since his mother had died, scratching a living in the old-fashioned moorland way – a small flock of sheep, their backsides caked with excrement; hardy creatures left to fend for themselves on the bracken-choked hills. A cow, a few chickens and a scrawny cockerel. His mother’s vegetable patch now grew a fine crop of waist-high weeds, though the potato bed was kept neat and clear. Badger’s finest product was the spirit he distilled in the stone outbuilding that listed as if it too were befuddled.
One evening in autumn, an Indian summer, he went out with his gun - a couple of rabbits for the pot or maybe a pheasant that had strayed from one of the fancy shoots. Instead he met a different prey: Hazel Lisbrooke, following dust motes, fragile as a moth, barefoot and wearing only her nightie. She smiled, even though he was a giant of a man, unshaven and rank with sweat, his hands thick with grime, his breath heavy with drink.
‘Evening, Badger,’ she’d said softly, her voice a mere whisper on the light autumn breeze.
‘Evening, Missy,’ he’d said, lust prodding in his groin, seeing her body etched against the sky, plainly visible through the thin cheap cotton.
He’d taken her quickly, like a dog, ramming himself into her hard and fast, one hand over her mouth. She didn’t fight; she barely whimpered, just got up unsteadily afterwards and limped away back over the hill. She was sixteen years old. She had been a virgin, had never even been kissed.
Three months later, Badger had vigorously denied their coupling when the posse of farmers from over the hill had come banging on his door. Jim Lisbrooke and his three big sons, quiet stolid men who worked the land and went to church on Sundays. No shotguns, but they carried a quiet menace in their eyes.
Badger and Hazel were married two weeks later, in a rare flurry of snow. On their wedding night, in the narrow iron bedstead, she miscarried.
Since then, she’d miscarried again and again, as if her womb refused to carry a child conceived in such brutish ways; as if they were a mis-mating, of different species. Badger took it badly and each time Hazel lost her baby, she gained a few more bruises. She refused to be downhearted – she would have a baby, she insisted. But each time it ended the same way.
Maybe I’m getting a little carried away. Of course I don’t really know what she thought. But I could imagine. While Hazel had lived her entire life in this valley, she didn’t have friends. I suppose I was a little lonely too, a bit adrift. Country life wasn’t quite what I had expected, at least not here, in this moss-drenched valley. If I’m really honest, I found her intriguing, a relic from a bygone age, something to make eyebrows rise when I emailed my friends back in London. Above all, I thought I could help her, I really thought I might make a difference. I used to pass the odd word, taking a pause on my daily jog down the lane.
When the postman told me about the latest miscarriage, I went round, a box of chocolates, a pot of lavender and a few old magazines nestled in my wicker basket. Peering through the small window, I could see her sitting in the shadows of the kitchen, turning a knitted bootee over and over in her small rough hands. The door of the range was open. I thought she was going to add another log but instead she poked the bootee inside onto the flames. I waited and watched while she pushed every item from her lap into the fire. Then I briskly knocked at the door and strode in with a cheery, ‘Helloo’.
The stench of burned wool hit me at the back of the throat and stung my eyes. Hazel smiled, a new moon smile from thin pale lips. I glanced at the range but Hazel misunderstood. She hefted the solid kettle onto the range. ‘It’ll be tea. Yes?’
I tried to get her to talk about her babies. Surely she needed to talk to someone? But she shook her head.
‘It’s nature’s way. I’ll try again.’
‘Not right away though? Let your body get its strength back. You need to rest.’
The tea was thick and pungent, served in a mug celebrating Princess Diana’s wedding.
‘Not good stock.’
I looked up, questioningly.
‘Same with sheep. If the blood’s not good, if the stock’s not good, the pregnancy won’t hold.’
‘You’re young. You’ll have babies. You just have to give it time.’
‘See, if an animal is barren, you puts it down. No point having animals that don’t breed eh?’
She laughed. I laughed too, grateful for a lightening of the mood.
‘So it’s the knacker’s yard eh?’ I said cheerily.
‘Happen.’
We both laughed again, and drank more tea.
A few days later as I trotted past, I noticed a new pair of feet on Hazel’s fence. They gleamed in the weak sun, shiny, white and new. The moss hadn’t got to them yet, but let a season or two pass and it would have softly burrowed its way into the plaster, singeing it green. Leave anything on the moor and it will be embraced by moss.
There was another new addition; a bull, thickset, solid, burnished reddish-brown. Its bulk was so dense it made me think of black holes, or whatever it is in the universe that is so compact, so heavy, that it sucks everything else into it. I could see the muscles bunched under its taut skin and my eyes fell inevitably to the tuft of hair on its belly and to the enormous penis that hung like a bell-pull, dragged down by gravity. I felt a tingling in my breasts, a tightening in my groin, and with a flash remembered when, as a young girl, I had seen a bull mounting a cow, its hips bunching and thrusting.
‘Fine bit of flesh, eh?’
I spun round, feeling the flush rise from my chest to my face.
‘Badger. You startled me.’
‘Getting more cows see? E’ll do the business. Look at the balls on ‘im.’
‘I thought it was all done by artificial insemination nowadays,’ I said, instantly wishing I could take the words back, looking swiftly away across the field, more nettles and docks than grass.
‘No, you need a bit of the old jiggery-pokery.’ He raised his hands, square and thick, the fingers tinged yellow from tobacco, and thrust his solid thumb in and out of a ring made with the index finger and thumb of his other hand. My cheeks burned.
‘Well, I must get on, Badger. Give my love to Hazel.’
‘Love eh?’ He laughed coarsely. I jogged off as briskly as I could, feeling his eyes following my hips down the road.
A few days later I met Hazel, feeding the new cows. I had expected honey-coloured Jerseys for some reason, with soft eyes and thick eyelashes. But they were black with a mean look.
‘The bull….I wondered…..’
‘He’s done his job. Good blood. They’re all in calf.’
I couldn’t help it. My eyes dropped to her stomach. She caught my eye and smiled briefly, shaking her head.
‘No, not me. Not yet. I’ve taken your advice, see?’
I felt a warm glow. As I jogged back home I allowed myself to think about Hazel, about what could be. With a bit of guidance, she could make something of herself. She could divorce Badger and start again. When I got home I spent some happy hours on the Internet, ordering information booklets, prospectuses, checking out family law practices.
I had hoped to fire Hazel up about her new life, but the house was always empty. Badger must have added some new victims to his ‘gibbet’ though – the sickly scent of rotting flesh caught at the back of my throat as I jogged slowly by.
I had to go to London for a few days and it was so frustrating. Hazel had to realise her options, she simply couldn’t just give in to Badger and his primitive passion, his thick animal lust. So I pushed the leaflets and brochures into a large brown envelope, wrote her name and left it on the doorstep.
Up in London though, it seemed like some mad dream. My mouth felt sour as I thought about the package of papers left so carelessly on the doorstep. What if Badger, not Hazel, opened them?
I gazed out of the window on the train journey back, my book abandoned on the table. The countryside looked beautiful – soft, mellow, welcoming, the kind of landscape that had lured me from the city. But, as the taxi drove out of town, along the winding valley road, the soft manicured fields and neat cottages faded away, and a rougher landscape elbowed its way in. Thick, green and fecund, I breathed in the thrusting bracken, the soft padded damp moss. Sheer rock faces hemmed the road on one side; an irritable swift river the other. As we turned over the bridge and the road narrowed to our valley, unease gave way to fear. My imagination conjured Badger at my door, shotgun in hand. Or police cars, blue lights strobing the fields, taking away Badger while beyond, in the kitchen, dark blood pooled on the flagstones. A thin arm trailing out from under the red blanket.
We passed the farm and I peered out of the window, barely daring to look. A strange Landrover was parked in the yard, but everything else seemed normal.
My cottage looked the same too, though maybe not as pristinely white as I remembered. There was a faint greening on the rendered walls, a few pads of moss on the slate tiles. I spent the day nervously pottering around the cottage and garden, jumping at the slightest noise. In the morning though, it all seemed ridiculous. I got into my tracksuit and pulled on my trainers. I’d jog past and pop in on Hazel, set my mind at rest.
I could smell burning from a long way off. My heart lurched.
The door was wide open and music danced out. I didn’t even know Hazel had a radio. Something was cooking – it smelled like barbecue with a flash of herbs.
‘Hazel?’ My voice sounded reedy.
‘Hello.’ A man’s voice came from the parlour behind. Then he filled the door, a tall, rangy man, ducking to enter the kitchen. He held out his hand and I paused, noticing long straight fingers with square tightly trimmed nails.
‘You’re the London lady from the cottage.’
I shook his hand, faintly, trying not to look as perplexed as I felt.
‘Where’s Hazel?’ It sounded abrupt, but the man didn’t seem bothered.
‘She’s out back. We’ve been having a bonfire. Getting rid of a lot of old stuff, you know what it’s like.’ He shrugged. ‘Hazel told me about you. Said you’d given her good advice.’
I followed him out through the back door in a daze. Sure enough there was Hazel, wearing cut-offs and a man’s shirt knotted at the midriff. Her hair was tied back with a scrunchie and she looked like a teenager, all long limbs and a taut flat stomach. The smell of cooking meat was overpowering and I clasped my hand over my nose.
Hazel came up and gave her half-moon smile.
‘We’ve been getting rid of Badger’s gibbet, see. Sorry, it do smell a bit.’
I looked in her eyes. The wildness was no longer fey; it seemed feral.
She patted her stomach.
‘It’ll be alright this time. Good blood, see?’
Within the week, there was a For Sale sign outside my cottage. As the taxi drove me to the station I looked for one last time at the farm.
I couldn’t see the fence from the road. But I knew that, whether now or in the days to come, there would surely be another set of feet hanging; this time broad and thick, rough and solid, waiting stolidly to be hidden by moss.
