world’s pretty much one great shitty melting pot of evil and disaster, but I can’t say it keeps me awake at night.’
‘But when you think about all those world disasters – people starving in Cambodia or animal testing or all those poor men burnt to death in the Falklands – doesn’t it scare you, that you can’t do anything about it? That it’ll all be a hundred times worse when our kids are our age?’
Laura drew deeply on her cigarette, blowing three perfect smoke rings into the space between them. ‘Well, I’ve already decided I’m not getting married or having kids, so that’s one less thing to worry about, I suppose. Of course that stuff bothers me. But why get all angsty about these things, that’s what I say. If you care enough about something, you should do something about it. It’s mad to give yourself a coronary worrying about things you have no influence over.’
‘Yes, but how do you “do something about it”? When you’re just nobody from nowhere, with no voice.’
‘Everyone’s got a voice, Wren,’ Laura said, with a face that told her she was shocked by Wren’s naivety. She ground her cigarette into the ashtray on the floor and pulled her chin in. ‘You do believe that, don’t you? Everyone’s got a voice.’
The sky is already growing dark when Wren arrives back at Tegh Cottage. She stands for a moment in the dimming light, looking back along the meadow path, down towards the beach and the caves beyond. The dogs run on, to wait patiently at the threshold of the house until Wren crosses the garden and lets them in. Inside, she drops her keys on the side and enters the back room to ease off her boots andhang up her coat. The wooden trunk sits under the coat rack, almost entirely hidden by buckets and trowels, and sacks of birdfeed. Grasping a metal handle at one end, she drags it out, pushing the various obstacles aside and lowering herself to the stone floor as she unlatches the catch to ease open the heavy pine lid. Willow and Badger stand in the doorway, looking concerned; by this point she’d normally have reached the kitchen to hand them their treats.
‘ Shoo ,’ she whispers, and they turn, dejected, and trot over to their blankets on the sofa.
Inside the wooden box are many of the things she brought with her when she first arrived at the cottage, things she’d thought she’d need, but then found she could do without. A large leather handbag containing the trivia of a past age: a cosmetic bag stuffed with expensive make-up; a red leather Filofax; a dried-up packet of baby wipes; a Clarins hand cream and a pair of tweezers. Wren flings the bag to one side, planning to dispose of it later. One whole side of the trunk is taken up with clothes she had brought away with her, and she lifts them out now, one by one, marvelling at the stark contrast between them and the small capsule wardrobe of earthy garments she wears today. She’s no heavier now than she was twenty years ago, but she could no more wear these clothes in this life than run on the beach naked at low tide. The materials are exquisite – silks, cashmeres, angoras – and the fit of each is feminine and sensual. She holds up a burnt orange blouse, shimmering and sheer, with a draping neck tie at the chest, and without a pause she recalls the day she bought it. It was a bright Saturday afternoon, and Robert was back at home working on his PhD proposal, some months before they would discover the news that they were expecting a child. Wren had phoned Laura to see if she couldmeet up, but, as had become increasingly the case, Laura was elsewhere, doing other things, and so Wren had headed up west alone. From across the road in New Bond Street she’d spotted the orange shirt in the window of Fenwick’s, at the heart of an autumn display ablaze with colour and hope. In what seemed like moments later she was at the counter of the ladies’ department, handing over her credit card and running her thumb over
‘But when you think about all those world disasters – people starving in Cambodia or animal testing or all those poor men burnt to death in the Falklands – doesn’t it scare you, that you can’t do anything about it? That it’ll all be a hundred times worse when our kids are our age?’
Laura drew deeply on her cigarette, blowing three perfect smoke rings into the space between them. ‘Well, I’ve already decided I’m not getting married or having kids, so that’s one less thing to worry about, I suppose. Of course that stuff bothers me. But why get all angsty about these things, that’s what I say. If you care enough about something, you should do something about it. It’s mad to give yourself a coronary worrying about things you have no influence over.’
‘Yes, but how do you “do something about it”? When you’re just nobody from nowhere, with no voice.’
‘Everyone’s got a voice, Wren,’ Laura said, with a face that told her she was shocked by Wren’s naivety. She ground her cigarette into the ashtray on the floor and pulled her chin in. ‘You do believe that, don’t you? Everyone’s got a voice.’
The sky is already growing dark when Wren arrives back at Tegh Cottage. She stands for a moment in the dimming light, looking back along the meadow path, down towards the beach and the caves beyond. The dogs run on, to wait patiently at the threshold of the house until Wren crosses the garden and lets them in. Inside, she drops her keys on the side and enters the back room to ease off her boots andhang up her coat. The wooden trunk sits under the coat rack, almost entirely hidden by buckets and trowels, and sacks of birdfeed. Grasping a metal handle at one end, she drags it out, pushing the various obstacles aside and lowering herself to the stone floor as she unlatches the catch to ease open the heavy pine lid. Willow and Badger stand in the doorway, looking concerned; by this point she’d normally have reached the kitchen to hand them their treats.
‘ Shoo ,’ she whispers, and they turn, dejected, and trot over to their blankets on the sofa.
Inside the wooden box are many of the things she brought with her when she first arrived at the cottage, things she’d thought she’d need, but then found she could do without. A large leather handbag containing the trivia of a past age: a cosmetic bag stuffed with expensive make-up; a red leather Filofax; a dried-up packet of baby wipes; a Clarins hand cream and a pair of tweezers. Wren flings the bag to one side, planning to dispose of it later. One whole side of the trunk is taken up with clothes she had brought away with her, and she lifts them out now, one by one, marvelling at the stark contrast between them and the small capsule wardrobe of earthy garments she wears today. She’s no heavier now than she was twenty years ago, but she could no more wear these clothes in this life than run on the beach naked at low tide. The materials are exquisite – silks, cashmeres, angoras – and the fit of each is feminine and sensual. She holds up a burnt orange blouse, shimmering and sheer, with a draping neck tie at the chest, and without a pause she recalls the day she bought it. It was a bright Saturday afternoon, and Robert was back at home working on his PhD proposal, some months before they would discover the news that they were expecting a child. Wren had phoned Laura to see if she couldmeet up, but, as had become increasingly the case, Laura was elsewhere, doing other things, and so Wren had headed up west alone. From across the road in New Bond Street she’d spotted the orange shirt in the window of Fenwick’s, at the heart of an autumn display ablaze with colour and hope. In what seemed like moments later she was at the counter of the ladies’ department, handing over her credit card and running her thumb over
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