The Old Girls' Network. Judy Leigh

black, cut sensibly to cover her ears, the soft fringe, the tiny pearl earrings. She was stuck in hospital, with nothing to look forward to except routine tests which she was sure would tell her what she knew already. She’d been too busy and yes, perhaps she needed a rest. But there was nothing at all wrong with her. She was fine. And, thank goodness, she was definitely not dead, although she’d feared she had been when she’d stumbled.

      Barbara remained on the bed for a moment, stretching out her calves, considering her options. She felt hungry. And a cup of tea would be nice. She’d stay in the hospital, tolerate the pointless tests and then she’d make some plans. She had already thought about what she needed to do; she’d decided the moment she had fallen down outside the green door of her home, number eighty-six. This was her life and it needed taking by the throat. She had things to do, to resolve, to put right. She wasn’t sure exactly how she would do it yet, but she would make plans. She’d have time to think about it over the next two days.

      She found the bell at the end of the wire by the side of the bed and she pressed it hard. Soon a nurse would come running in, perhaps the young man with the teenage acne. She pressed again, allowing the bell to buzz for a long time. She hoped he’d know where she could find a decent cup of tea.

      2

      The late March wind blew around the corner so fiercely, Pauline almost tottered over as she carried her basket of washing. From this part of the garden, she could see the lane that weaved in front of her property. Beyond it was the new neighbours’ house. They’d moved in a few days ago – she’d seen the removal vans – and Pauline wondered if she should go over and introduce herself. But she decided she’d let them settle in first. She stared across the fields and there in the distance was Winsley Green, nestling between the woodlands and the hills: she could see the church spire, the cluster of houses and a few shops. She could walk there in twelve minutes but it was usually easier to drive, although the lanes were narrow and she was often forced to back up or to pull in for a large farm vehicle. Len from Bottom Farm would always let her through, but most people would glare at her and wait for her to edge back. Pauline hated reversing.

      The clothesline that hung just out of reach above her head was fraying and the ancient wooden prop with its two-pronged end was splintered. But this was the best drying space in the garden; gusts funnelled around the corner, blasts of fierce air, and a duvet cover would fill like a sail and dry in an hour. Pauline struggled with the weight of the wet laundry, but she was used to dealing with strenuous chores by herself now, leaning into the buffeting wind to haul up two towels, a blouse, a pair of jeans, some white underwear and her bedding. The washing flapped in the air, a tall ship borne out to sea, as she hoisted the prop to its fullest height and balanced it upright. She put her hands on her hips and thought about the underwear. She probably ought to buy a new bra. A lacy one might be nice, rather than the two-in-a-pack old plain design. She giggled at the thought of herself in racy red underwear and stared across the farmer’s field. Spring was approaching and there were already ewes grazing, with their lambs huddled against them for warmth.

      Pauline thought for a moment, then she turned her back to the wind as it blew her hair, wrenching silver strands from her hair clip and smothering her face with dancing threads. The breeze was so cold her skin tingled, and she paused for a moment to breathe the chill air, allowing it to fill her lungs.

      ‘An icy wind from the north. Change is in the air.’

      She nodded like a wise country woman, although she didn’t think of herself as being particularly wise. She could smell the sweet scent of spring, and with it the promise of summer’s warmth, new beginnings.

      ‘Change is always good,’ she reassured herself.

      Then her eyes caught a twitch in the grass: a black rump, a swishing tail, just a yard away. There was a flurry of paws and a swift lurching movement. Two green eyes met hers, narrowing. Between the cat’s claws something wriggled: the cat gripped the shrew in its mouth and faced Pauline defiantly; a thin tail and two feet dangled from one side and an immobile head with tiny ears on the other. Pauline muttered to herself.

      ‘That’s Derek, isn’t it? So, where’s the other one?’ She swivelled her head a few inches to the right and, as she had thought, there was the other cat, the brother, all black with white paws: Clive. Pauline chuckled and waved an arm. ‘Go on, you bad boys. Get out of here. Go home.’

      Derek stared at her, just long enough to make the point that he had no respect for humans whatsoever. Then he sauntered forward, dropped the dead shrew at her feet and ambled away. Quick as an arrow, Clive bounced forward with slits for eyes, growled at Pauline, snatched the shrew in his mouth and bolted after his brother. Pauline smiled.

      ‘No wonder everyone round here calls them the Feral Peril. I’m sure Dulcie doesn’t know what they get up to when they come down here. She thinks they’re both little angels.’ She picked up her washing basket and headed towards the back door. She deserved a cup of tea and a homemade cupcake, the fudgy ones she’d made yesterday.

      The kitchen was warm, the womb of the house, the air swelling with the rich scent of baking. Pauline settled the heavy kettle on the Aga and moved to the Welsh dresser, reaching for the tea caddy. It was in its usual place, next to the photo of her daughter Jessica with her horse. Jessica was in her late forties now; she and her partner were living in New Zealand. The photo of her smiling daughter was next to the urn inside its box: next to Douglas. She had not moved it for two years. She wasn’t really sure what to do with the contents. She could hardly scatter them on the floor of the local pub.

      She touched the smooth surface of the box with her fingertips, thinking how she had seldom brushed his cheek with the same tenderness when he was alive. His name and dates were engraved on the metal. Douglas John Pye. 1938–2017. It had become a marriage of habit, a routine, but she’d loved him in her own way. His retirement had suited Douglas more than it had Pauline. He’d led his life the way he’d wanted: he was gregarious and sociable, and Pauline had been in the background. Douglas was always laughing, happiest when he was in the local inn, a whisky in his hand, chatting to other men. A man’s man.

      She’d worked in an antiques shop before Jessica came along. She’d loved it but Douglas had wanted her to stay at home, so she’d been there with a fried breakfast and a full sandwich box in the morning, and a substantial supper when he’d strolled home at night. He’d worked in an office, filing insurance claims. A sedentary lifestyle was no good for a man.

      The dripping tap interrupted Pauline’s thoughts. She shuffled over to the sink and used all the brute force she had in both hands to turn the tap off. The drip persisted and Pauline shook her head. The tiles were cracked around the window, the wooden frame was rotten. There was so much to do. She poured her tea, carried it to the scrubbed oak table and sat down, reaching for the cake tin and fingering a chocolate cream fudge square. She sipped tea and munched her cake, deep in thought.

      She and Douglas had moved here just over three years ago. She’d loved Winsley Green from the first moment she arrived, and they’d said it would be their last home, their most comfortable, the country idyll. The little three-bedroomed cottage was cosy, in need of some TLC, but it would be perfect when it was finished, like something from a glossy magazine about perfect rural lifestyles. Pauline remembered with a sigh. Douglas didn’t make it through the winter. He’d been in the pub, the Sheep Dip, drinking a single malt with the locals. By all accounts he was on his fourth when he fell down on the flagstones and died where he lay. His heart had stopped. A kind doctor had told her much later that Douglas had had a pulmonary embolism; he probably hadn’t felt a thing.

      Pauline had felt alone and empty. Her elder sister Barbara had come over from Cambridge to stay for a week, but she hadn’t helped. Barbara had said that at least Douglas had died the way he’d have wanted to, with a glass of malt in his hand, and he hadn’t suffered. But Pauline was left behind, suffering. She was alone and the house was badly in need of renovation. It was all so sudden, and at first she’d no idea how to pick herself up, or where to start. She’d spent those days after his death sitting in stunned silence. Then, gradually, she started to occupy herself with small things: