life at all.
She sees a sign: Society Cafe. She goes inside, orders a cup of tea and sits in the corner. There is an old bicycle hanging on the wall. The walls themselves are stripped and worn. It looks as though a painter and decorator prepared the area and wandered off without finishing the job. Apparently this look is fashionable right now, it says so in the magazine on the table— shabby chic . It’s all about salvaging, reusing, recycling. Miriam likes the look of it but not the philosophy. She is too immersed in letting go and throwing away to stomach this cafe full of old things that probably attract dead people who used to own them years ago.
“Thank you for the tea,” Miriam says, on her way out of the door.
“You’re welcome, honey,” says the man behind the counter.
Miriam smiles. It’s weird being called honey by a man. Fenella uses that word all the time but it feels different when she says it. She turns around and buys a flapjack from the man. The flapjack is made by a company in Devon called Honeybuns. The man tells her this as he smiles and chats so easily, so lightly, and Miriam wants to say isn’t that a coincidence, you called me honey and this is a Honeybuns flapjack, and the way you talk so easily and so lightly is awesome.
Now she is eating and walking in the sun. She thinks of Florence, who is actually the actor Rebecca Hall, two women rolled into one, separate but never distinct. Thoughts of Florence lead to thoughts of the path. The one you take if you want to cross the fields and go to the pub; the one you take if you want to walk straight into the woods.
She remembers his eyes: brown, hard, confused, scared.
She remembers the words: “What the fuck? Are you crazy?”
She remembers running. Slamming the front door. Locking it with key and bolt and chain.
Is he still there? How ridiculous, Miriam—of course he’s not. It’s perfectly safe to go there again. So is that what I need to do? Is it like throwing away my mother’s things? Is that what I need to do?
And so she walks.
Walks until she can see the woods.
Stops and stares.
The path is five minutes away—all she has to do is cross the meadow and she’s on it.
Go, Miriam. You can do this.
She crosses the meadow.
Walks faster and faster.
Breaks into a run.
Passes the spot where it happened.
Runs straight into the woods.
14
IT WAS ALL GOING ON, WORDLESSLY
“D o you know what you’ve done?” she said. “You’ve ruined my life. And do you know why? You’ve taken away the one person I love.”
Miriam just stood there in a stripy polo neck and grey cords.
“Shall I tell you what happens now?”
She shuddered.
“You’re going to run upstairs and fetch your writing paper.”
What?
“Then we’re going to write a lovely letter to your grandmother. We’re going to tell her all about the fun things we’ve been doing and how happy we are. From now on, you’re going to write what I tell you to write. Your words will be my words. What goes in your mouth and what comes out of it are up to me. Understand?”
That’s the punishment for telling Mrs Jennings? Miriam expected her mother’s fist or feet. She expected to have to eat a jar of mustard or a piece of stale fish. She expected a mouthful of cotton wool ( you’re lucky I’m here to stop you choking ) or apillow dipped in petrol ( be careful missy or I’ll throw a match ). But writing letters?
Easy.
“What’s a lovely thing like you doing out here, eh?” Ralph says, tickling Treacle’s stomach. “You don’t look like a wild cat. No collar, though.”
Today is Ralph’s third day with Treacle. He has made trips in and out of the woods to buy supplies and telephoned Kathy the receptionist (“Can you cancel my appointments this week? I need to start my summer break early, family crisis, if anyone needs urgent help refer them to Karl, yes that’s fine, he’s my emergency contact, it’s absolutely fine, can you explain things to Karl, tell
She sees a sign: Society Cafe. She goes inside, orders a cup of tea and sits in the corner. There is an old bicycle hanging on the wall. The walls themselves are stripped and worn. It looks as though a painter and decorator prepared the area and wandered off without finishing the job. Apparently this look is fashionable right now, it says so in the magazine on the table— shabby chic . It’s all about salvaging, reusing, recycling. Miriam likes the look of it but not the philosophy. She is too immersed in letting go and throwing away to stomach this cafe full of old things that probably attract dead people who used to own them years ago.
“Thank you for the tea,” Miriam says, on her way out of the door.
“You’re welcome, honey,” says the man behind the counter.
Miriam smiles. It’s weird being called honey by a man. Fenella uses that word all the time but it feels different when she says it. She turns around and buys a flapjack from the man. The flapjack is made by a company in Devon called Honeybuns. The man tells her this as he smiles and chats so easily, so lightly, and Miriam wants to say isn’t that a coincidence, you called me honey and this is a Honeybuns flapjack, and the way you talk so easily and so lightly is awesome.
Now she is eating and walking in the sun. She thinks of Florence, who is actually the actor Rebecca Hall, two women rolled into one, separate but never distinct. Thoughts of Florence lead to thoughts of the path. The one you take if you want to cross the fields and go to the pub; the one you take if you want to walk straight into the woods.
She remembers his eyes: brown, hard, confused, scared.
She remembers the words: “What the fuck? Are you crazy?”
She remembers running. Slamming the front door. Locking it with key and bolt and chain.
Is he still there? How ridiculous, Miriam—of course he’s not. It’s perfectly safe to go there again. So is that what I need to do? Is it like throwing away my mother’s things? Is that what I need to do?
And so she walks.
Walks until she can see the woods.
Stops and stares.
The path is five minutes away—all she has to do is cross the meadow and she’s on it.
Go, Miriam. You can do this.
She crosses the meadow.
Walks faster and faster.
Breaks into a run.
Passes the spot where it happened.
Runs straight into the woods.
14
IT WAS ALL GOING ON, WORDLESSLY
“D o you know what you’ve done?” she said. “You’ve ruined my life. And do you know why? You’ve taken away the one person I love.”
Miriam just stood there in a stripy polo neck and grey cords.
“Shall I tell you what happens now?”
She shuddered.
“You’re going to run upstairs and fetch your writing paper.”
What?
“Then we’re going to write a lovely letter to your grandmother. We’re going to tell her all about the fun things we’ve been doing and how happy we are. From now on, you’re going to write what I tell you to write. Your words will be my words. What goes in your mouth and what comes out of it are up to me. Understand?”
That’s the punishment for telling Mrs Jennings? Miriam expected her mother’s fist or feet. She expected to have to eat a jar of mustard or a piece of stale fish. She expected a mouthful of cotton wool ( you’re lucky I’m here to stop you choking ) or apillow dipped in petrol ( be careful missy or I’ll throw a match ). But writing letters?
Easy.
“What’s a lovely thing like you doing out here, eh?” Ralph says, tickling Treacle’s stomach. “You don’t look like a wild cat. No collar, though.”
Today is Ralph’s third day with Treacle. He has made trips in and out of the woods to buy supplies and telephoned Kathy the receptionist (“Can you cancel my appointments this week? I need to start my summer break early, family crisis, if anyone needs urgent help refer them to Karl, yes that’s fine, he’s my emergency contact, it’s absolutely fine, can you explain things to Karl, tell
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