pot.
Mrs Buckingham exhaled bitter laughter. ‘In our house, those two tea bags would have to be used at least six times. The fat in the chip pan was only renewed for Christmas.’ Her face grew pinched at the memories.
‘You were poor?’
‘Not particularly. We had in excess of 130 acres. Marginal land, mind – always appallingly overgrazed. Waste nothing. Make every square yard earn its keep. Have you heard of hydatid disease?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Causes cysts to grow on internal organs, sometimes the size of pomegranates. Originates from a tapeworm absorbed bydogs allowed to feed on infected dead sheep. Or, on our farm,
required
to eat dead sheep. Human beings can pick it up – the tapeworm eggs – simply through stroking the sheepdog. When I was sixteen I had to go into hospital to have a hydatid cyst removed from my liver.’
‘How awful.’
‘That was when I decided to get out. I doubt my father even noticed I was gone. Had another mouth to feed by then. A girl again, unfortunately.’
‘Menna?’
‘She would be... ten months old when I left. It was a long time before I began to feel guilty about abandoning her – fifteen years or more. And by then it was too late. They’d probably forgotten I’d ever existed. I expect he was even grateful I’d gone – another opportunity to try for a son, at no extra cost. A farmer with no son is felt to be lacking in something.’
‘Any luck?’
‘My mother miscarried, apparently,’ Mrs Buckingham said brusquely. ‘There was a hysterectomy.’ She shrugged. ‘I never saw them again.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Found a job in Hereford, in a furniture shop. The people there were very good to me. They gave me a room above the shop, next to the storeroom. Rather frightening at night. All those empty chairs: I would imagine people sitting there, silently, waiting for me when I came back from night classes. Character-building, though, I suppose. I got two A levels and a grant for teacher-training college.’
It all sounded faintly Dickensian to Merrily, though it could have been no earlier than the 1970s.
‘So you never went back?’ The phone was ringing.
‘After college, I went to work in Hampshire, near Portsmouth. Then a husband, kids – grown up now. No, I never went back, until quite recently. A neighbour’s daughter – Judith – kept me informed, through occasional letters. She was another farmer’sdaughter, from a rather less primitive farm. Please get that phone call, if you want.’
Merrily nodded, went through to the office.
‘As it happens’ – closing the scullery door – ‘she’s here now.’
‘Listen, I’m sorry,’ Eileen Cullen said. ‘I couldn’t think what else to tell her. Showed up last night, still unhappy about the sister’s death and getting no co-operation from the doctor. I didn’t have much time to bother with her either. I just thought somebody ought to persuade her to forget about Mr Weal, and go home, get on with her life. And I thought she’d take it better coming from a person of the cloth such as your wee self.’
‘Forgive me, but that doesn’t sound like you.’
‘No. Well...’
‘So she didn’t say anything about holding a special service in church then?’
‘Merrily, the problem is I’m on the ward in one minute.’
‘Bloody hell, Eileen—’
‘Aw, Jesus, all the woman wants is her sister laid to rest in a decent, holy fashion. She’s one of your fellow Christians. Tell her you’ll say a few prayers for the poor soul, and leave it at that.’
There was an unexpected undercurrent here.
‘What happened with Mr Weal after I left the other night?’
‘Well, he came out. Eventually.’
‘Eventually?’
‘He came out when
she
did. And he chose to accompany her down to the mortuary.’
‘Is that normal?’
‘Well, of course it isn’t fockin’ normal. We’re not talking about a normal feller here! It was a special concession. Merrily, I really have to go. If the
Mrs Buckingham exhaled bitter laughter. ‘In our house, those two tea bags would have to be used at least six times. The fat in the chip pan was only renewed for Christmas.’ Her face grew pinched at the memories.
‘You were poor?’
‘Not particularly. We had in excess of 130 acres. Marginal land, mind – always appallingly overgrazed. Waste nothing. Make every square yard earn its keep. Have you heard of hydatid disease?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Causes cysts to grow on internal organs, sometimes the size of pomegranates. Originates from a tapeworm absorbed bydogs allowed to feed on infected dead sheep. Or, on our farm,
required
to eat dead sheep. Human beings can pick it up – the tapeworm eggs – simply through stroking the sheepdog. When I was sixteen I had to go into hospital to have a hydatid cyst removed from my liver.’
‘How awful.’
‘That was when I decided to get out. I doubt my father even noticed I was gone. Had another mouth to feed by then. A girl again, unfortunately.’
‘Menna?’
‘She would be... ten months old when I left. It was a long time before I began to feel guilty about abandoning her – fifteen years or more. And by then it was too late. They’d probably forgotten I’d ever existed. I expect he was even grateful I’d gone – another opportunity to try for a son, at no extra cost. A farmer with no son is felt to be lacking in something.’
‘Any luck?’
‘My mother miscarried, apparently,’ Mrs Buckingham said brusquely. ‘There was a hysterectomy.’ She shrugged. ‘I never saw them again.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Found a job in Hereford, in a furniture shop. The people there were very good to me. They gave me a room above the shop, next to the storeroom. Rather frightening at night. All those empty chairs: I would imagine people sitting there, silently, waiting for me when I came back from night classes. Character-building, though, I suppose. I got two A levels and a grant for teacher-training college.’
It all sounded faintly Dickensian to Merrily, though it could have been no earlier than the 1970s.
‘So you never went back?’ The phone was ringing.
‘After college, I went to work in Hampshire, near Portsmouth. Then a husband, kids – grown up now. No, I never went back, until quite recently. A neighbour’s daughter – Judith – kept me informed, through occasional letters. She was another farmer’sdaughter, from a rather less primitive farm. Please get that phone call, if you want.’
Merrily nodded, went through to the office.
‘As it happens’ – closing the scullery door – ‘she’s here now.’
‘Listen, I’m sorry,’ Eileen Cullen said. ‘I couldn’t think what else to tell her. Showed up last night, still unhappy about the sister’s death and getting no co-operation from the doctor. I didn’t have much time to bother with her either. I just thought somebody ought to persuade her to forget about Mr Weal, and go home, get on with her life. And I thought she’d take it better coming from a person of the cloth such as your wee self.’
‘Forgive me, but that doesn’t sound like you.’
‘No. Well...’
‘So she didn’t say anything about holding a special service in church then?’
‘Merrily, the problem is I’m on the ward in one minute.’
‘Bloody hell, Eileen—’
‘Aw, Jesus, all the woman wants is her sister laid to rest in a decent, holy fashion. She’s one of your fellow Christians. Tell her you’ll say a few prayers for the poor soul, and leave it at that.’
There was an unexpected undercurrent here.
‘What happened with Mr Weal after I left the other night?’
‘Well, he came out. Eventually.’
‘Eventually?’
‘He came out when
she
did. And he chose to accompany her down to the mortuary.’
‘Is that normal?’
‘Well, of course it isn’t fockin’ normal. We’re not talking about a normal feller here! It was a special concession. Merrily, I really have to go. If the
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