stop lying.
Sorry about last night, Will. I need to talk to you. Could we meet for drinks at The George tonight? 8pm okay? x
I press send then scroll through my contacts, pausing when I reach “Mum Mobile”. It’s been three months since we’ve spoken. She insisted, as she has done ever since I returned from Nepal, that I move home and “give up the charity nonsense and get a proper job”. Oh, and see a psychologist. I’ve told her over and over again that I’m fine, that I’m doing what I’ve always wanted to do, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been, but she won’t listen. According to her, I need to go home to deal with my “unresolved trauma”. I don’t know where she got that phrase from; she probably read it in the papers.
I don’t know why I expected her to be different when I got back from Nepal. Maybe because I’d changed, I expected she would have, too.
I tuck my phone back in my pocket and open the van door. Sheila texted me this morning to ask if I’d mind doing a pick-up, as the pet owner only lives a few miles away from my cottage. Usually, the Green Fields inspectors do the pick-ups, but on this occasion it’s just a couple of rabbits from a pensioner who can’t get to the sanctuary to drop them off herself. It’s a simple enough pick-up for me to handle.
Joan Wilkinson greets me at the door with a rabbit under each arm and tears in her eyes. She’s so thin I can see the ridge of her collarbones through her flowery housecoat. Her cheeks and eyes are sunken, her mouth lined with wrinkles, and her sparse grey hair is clipped back on either side of her head with a pink sparkly Hello Kitty hairclip. She has to be at least seventy.
“You from Green Fields?” she asks, squinting at the name badge on my polo shirt then peering past me to look at the van.
“Yes, I’m Jane. I heard you need our help. Rabbits getting a little bit out of control, are they?”
Joan hugs the rabbits closer. One of them, a grey one, objects by pounding her stomach with its left leg. “I can cope, you know. I didn’t want to ring you, but my neighbour made me. She said they’ve been getting into her garden and it’s only a matter of time until her dog goes after one.”
“These two look well.” I gesture at the rabbits she’s holding to reassure her. “Lovely coats, bright eyes, nice and alert. Could I come in for a little chat?”
She eyes me suspiciously, then eases the front door open a little wider with her elbow. “You’re out of luck if you want tea, because my milk’s gone off, but you can have water, if you like.”
“No problem,” I reassure her, with a smile. “I had a cup of tea before I left home.”
The stench of ammonia hits me the second I step through the front door into the hallway. It’s like stepping into a rabbit cage that hasn’t been cleaned for years.
From hip level upwards, the living room looks normal: on the mantelpiece stand porcelain figurines of ballerinas alongside framed, faded photographs of weddings, picnics and children playing in a garden; a pile of
Reader’s Digest
magazines is stacked haphazardly on the coffee table next to a green corduroy armchair; and a cream lace doily slip is spread across the back of the dusty-pink sofa. It’s all just as I’d expect of an elderly lady’s home. But the floor tells a completely different story. The beige carpet is spotted with dark patches of urine, speckled with sawdust and pebbled with rabbit faeces. There are rabbits everywhere, at least ten or twelve, hopping over torn newspapers, shredded toilet rolls and rotting vegetables, nibbling at the anaemic spider plant in the corner of the room and peeking out from beneath the furniture. The air is ripe with the scent of sawdust, animal hair and faeces.
This isn’t a straightforward “pensioner unable to care for a couple of rabbits” collection; it’s a job for one of the inspectors. Officially, I should call Sheila and request an inspector visit, but I
Sorry about last night, Will. I need to talk to you. Could we meet for drinks at The George tonight? 8pm okay? x
I press send then scroll through my contacts, pausing when I reach “Mum Mobile”. It’s been three months since we’ve spoken. She insisted, as she has done ever since I returned from Nepal, that I move home and “give up the charity nonsense and get a proper job”. Oh, and see a psychologist. I’ve told her over and over again that I’m fine, that I’m doing what I’ve always wanted to do, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been, but she won’t listen. According to her, I need to go home to deal with my “unresolved trauma”. I don’t know where she got that phrase from; she probably read it in the papers.
I don’t know why I expected her to be different when I got back from Nepal. Maybe because I’d changed, I expected she would have, too.
I tuck my phone back in my pocket and open the van door. Sheila texted me this morning to ask if I’d mind doing a pick-up, as the pet owner only lives a few miles away from my cottage. Usually, the Green Fields inspectors do the pick-ups, but on this occasion it’s just a couple of rabbits from a pensioner who can’t get to the sanctuary to drop them off herself. It’s a simple enough pick-up for me to handle.
Joan Wilkinson greets me at the door with a rabbit under each arm and tears in her eyes. She’s so thin I can see the ridge of her collarbones through her flowery housecoat. Her cheeks and eyes are sunken, her mouth lined with wrinkles, and her sparse grey hair is clipped back on either side of her head with a pink sparkly Hello Kitty hairclip. She has to be at least seventy.
“You from Green Fields?” she asks, squinting at the name badge on my polo shirt then peering past me to look at the van.
“Yes, I’m Jane. I heard you need our help. Rabbits getting a little bit out of control, are they?”
Joan hugs the rabbits closer. One of them, a grey one, objects by pounding her stomach with its left leg. “I can cope, you know. I didn’t want to ring you, but my neighbour made me. She said they’ve been getting into her garden and it’s only a matter of time until her dog goes after one.”
“These two look well.” I gesture at the rabbits she’s holding to reassure her. “Lovely coats, bright eyes, nice and alert. Could I come in for a little chat?”
She eyes me suspiciously, then eases the front door open a little wider with her elbow. “You’re out of luck if you want tea, because my milk’s gone off, but you can have water, if you like.”
“No problem,” I reassure her, with a smile. “I had a cup of tea before I left home.”
The stench of ammonia hits me the second I step through the front door into the hallway. It’s like stepping into a rabbit cage that hasn’t been cleaned for years.
From hip level upwards, the living room looks normal: on the mantelpiece stand porcelain figurines of ballerinas alongside framed, faded photographs of weddings, picnics and children playing in a garden; a pile of
Reader’s Digest
magazines is stacked haphazardly on the coffee table next to a green corduroy armchair; and a cream lace doily slip is spread across the back of the dusty-pink sofa. It’s all just as I’d expect of an elderly lady’s home. But the floor tells a completely different story. The beige carpet is spotted with dark patches of urine, speckled with sawdust and pebbled with rabbit faeces. There are rabbits everywhere, at least ten or twelve, hopping over torn newspapers, shredded toilet rolls and rotting vegetables, nibbling at the anaemic spider plant in the corner of the room and peeking out from beneath the furniture. The air is ripe with the scent of sawdust, animal hair and faeces.
This isn’t a straightforward “pensioner unable to care for a couple of rabbits” collection; it’s a job for one of the inspectors. Officially, I should call Sheila and request an inspector visit, but I
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