The First Week by Margaret Merrilees Page B

was old. The shower hung over the bath, years of brown drip marks staining the peeling paint behind the tap. The bath itself was full of soaking clothes.
    Marian sat on the toilet. On the back of the door was a large poster, a forest clearing full of stumps and smoke haze. Man Commits Suicide With Axe it said, and underneath, in smaller letters, No Trees, No Air, No Life.
    There was no sign of a bucket or bowl. She could have a shower with her feet in the clothes, but it might overflow the bath. And anyway, perhaps it wasn’t just washing. It was very black. Marian stirred the water doubtfully with one finger. Were they dyeing something?
    She couldn’t face going back to ask.
    Turning on the tap in the basin she sloshed her face and hands and wiped her armpits with the damp towel. It’s the clothes that smell sweaty, she thought, not the skin itself. She studied herself in the mirror, patted her hair down and hung the towel neatly on the rail.
    Ros was alone and gave Marian a worried smile.
    â€˜Thanks,’ Marian said. ‘That feels better.’
    â€˜Would you like a coffee? The kettle’s boiled.’
    â€˜Yes please.’
    Marian sat down. The table was red laminex, chipped around the edges, but clean. Ros arranged mugs, all very ordinary and domestic.
    â€˜We’ve only got soy milk. Is that okay?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Marian said. ‘At least, I suppose so. I’ve never had it before.’
    â€˜I guess you have real milk do you? On the farm I mean.’
    Marian blinked. ‘You mean from a cow? Oh no. We don’t milk a cow.’
    Something more seemed to be called for. ‘I did it for a while when the boys were small.’
    She remembered her fantasy of a kitchen table with a red-checked cloth, cream in a jug, real butter, the boys scrubbed and beaming with snowy white teeth. Like an Ovaltine ad. But the reality was different. Endless washing and scalding of buckets. Milk going off in the heat. Then the cow getting mastitis, udder hard and hot.
    â€˜I gave it up. More milk than we could get through.’
    â€˜So what type of farm is it?’
    â€˜Wheat and sheep. Hasn’t Charlie told you about it?’
    Ros made a face. ‘Charlie doesn’t talk much.’
    A phone buzzed suddenly. Ros pulled a mobile out of her pocket and, with an apologetic gesture towards Marian, went out the back door, speaking as she went.
    Marian sipped her coffee. On the fridge a row of identical postcards showed a cartoon sheep behind bars. Stop The Live Sheep Trade.
    Her comfort in the ordinariness of the house dissolved. City kids. What would they know?
    But it was Charlie’s house too.
    Charlie, a teenager, handing back his plate of lamb, quiet, but deadly serious. No thanks Dad. I’m a vegetarian.
    Like a slow-motion replay of a silent movie she saw Mac’s fist descending towards the table, vegetables flying, gravy splattering upwards.
    Ros came back in, shoving the phone into her back pocket. ‘Sorry about that. Can I get you anything to eat?’
    â€˜Oh no. I don’t want to make work for you.’
    â€˜You’re not. We want to do something. Help somehow.’
    â€˜I don’t know what there is to do. I have to see the lawyer.’
    Lawyer. The word made a silence between them.
    â€˜Maybe you could tell me what happened?’ Marian asked with an effort.
    â€˜I can tell you a bit. But I was at work. I do overnights at a nursing home. Sam can tell you more. She’ll be back in a minute, just went to do the shopping.’
    â€˜I hope your friend didn’t leave because of me?’
    â€˜Nah. You mean Ben? From next door? He had to go to work, the afternoon shift. By the way, Lee said to come and see her later if you want. She probably knows more about Charlie than anyone. They hang out a lot. Charlie’s been helping with a paper she’s writing.’
    The front door banged and Sam appeared in the kitchen, thin