Missing Mavis

Missing Mavis

Jack woke with the five o'clock crow of the rooster. Pushing away the quilted eiderdown, he swung his legs from the bed and sat up. He'd slept in his socks again. A pair of thick wool ones to keep out the cold. Mavis wouldn't have liked that, but it didn't matter. She wasn't there to say anything. She'd gone. And good riddance.

Chilblains were the blight of his life in the winter months and it wasn't long before the chill from the linoleum floor seeped through to his toes. They started to itch and then burn. The metal springs on the bedstead creaked with the shifting of his weight as he left the bed and padded soft-footed across the bedroom to the window. A thin coating of ice had formed on the inside. He scraped a jagged hole in it with his fingernail and stared out at the morning.

It was still dark, but shards of light from a full moon on the wane lit up the frosted ground. To get a better view, he twisted his head until the pane pressed hard against his cheek. Across the yard, the bare branches of the trees in the apple orchard glistened like a glitter covered Christmas card. The beauty of it was lost on Jack. Cold air seeped in through a crack in the sash and he shivered beneath his sweat-stained long john's. He didn't believe in central heating. It bred germs. It was one of the reasons Mavis had left. She'd been wanting a few more home comforts. Well, at least that's what she'd said.

Downstairs in the kitchen, the Raeburn had been alight all night and the room was warm. Jack shuffled about in his slippers getting his breakfast. Tea and toast was all he seemed to eat these days. He couldn't be bothered with anything else. He rinsed the mug he'd used the night before under the icy flow of the tap and then filled the old tin kettle ready to set on the stove. A used tea-bag, forgotten in the corner of the sink, bled a sepia stain on the white enamel. Jack saw it and swore. Mavis would have had his guts for garters. He picked it up and threw it in the over-flowing bin.

While he waited for the kettle to boil, Jack pulled a crumpled packet of Park Drive from his pocket, shook out a cigarette, pushed it between his lips and lit it. The acrid blend of tobacco smoke, mixed with the sulphur from the match, made him cough as he inhaled. His eyes watered. Opening the fire door, he spat into the grate and then sniffed. He hated winter, always had. It was the wasted hours of the dark mornings and afternoons, the idleness of it, which got to him most.

Out of pure frustration, he stabbed at the embers of the fire with a poker until they glowed. There was nothing to rush for today. He cut a thick slice of bread from the loaf on the table. As the knife slid through it, crumbs scattered across the scarred wooded board and fell onto the plastic tablecloth. He'd left the bread out and it'd dried, but it'd do for toast. The kettle pitched its squealing whistle and he lifted it from the stove, filled the mug and left the tea to stew while he browned the bread on the fire. The tips of the toasting fork glowed red hot when he pulled the burnt bread from the prongs. He'd left the butter out on the table as well. He scraped a knife across the creamy yellow solidness and spread it in thick lumps on his toast.

****

Jack slurped the last, sweet dregs of tea and wiped the crumbs from his chin. Time to do something, anything, or he'd be sat, like a useless lump of lard, by the fire all day. He left the kitchen and went into the hall, reached up to the hook and took down his old Barbour coat. The colour of it had faded over the years and the front was smudged with the grubbiness of old animal muck. On the inside, the checked lining held the marks of hard labour where dark patches had gathered around the armpits of the sleeves. He'd never contemplated getting a new one. Over the twenty years he'd had it, it'd become like a second skin. He slipped it on, but left the buttons undone, then slid his feet into the frigid rubber of the Wellington boots he always left by the back door. They were caked with mud and straw from the day before. He hadn't bothered cleaning them. Mavis wasn't there to notice if a stray clod dropped off onto the hall floor and he didn't care.

The damp of the morning had swollen the wood of the back door and it was stuck hard in the jamb. It was an effort to pull it open. He freed it with an effort that left an arc scored across the tiles of the hallway. That would have made Mavis swear. She'd have had to get down on her hands and knees to polish it off.

The bucket for the chicken feed stood on the back step. There was still some grain left in it. A few scraps which the rats hadn't thieved in the night. He reached down and grabbed the handle. It was iced and the frozen aluminium stuck to the palm of his hand. Jack cursed, the words escaping from his mouth in clouds of hot breath, then rummaged through his pockets for his gloves. They weren't there. He'd left them in the barn. Angry, he kicked at one of the terracotta pots of dried up twigs clustered on the step. It rolled down and spilt brown earth onto the white, frosted ground of the yard. Herbs, he thought, that's about all she'd been good for, growing herbs.

Having heard the clatter of their feed bucket, the chickens had come strutting in from nowhere, but scattered as Jack strode across the yard. “Stop yer cacklin' or I'll wring yer neck and have yer with dumplings for me dinner.” The rooster flapped his wings in fright at the sound of Jack's voice, then settled to peck at the frozen mud.


Jack spent all day in the barn doing nothing but tinkering with the tractor. He stayed there until it was too dark to see what he was doing. In the end he flung the spanner down in a fit of temper. He couldn't help it. The silence was getting too him. It was the deadness of it he couldn't deal with. Being on the farm was like being down in the valley after a heavy snowfall. All sound was muted. Before, they'd always been there and there'd been some sort of noise, even if he hadn't noticed it. It was like the beat of his heart. Something he hadn't noticed unlil it stopped.

What he missed most were their throaty bellows from across the yard when it was getting on for milking time. Their snorting breaths on cold mornings and the rub of their hide against the fence when he'd gone down to open the gate and let them out. There was no more tap of hooves muffled by the hay strewn on the flag-stones as he cush-cushed them along and they wandered into the dairy. He hadn't realised he'd talk to them, but he had. Now there was nothing. The same as when Mavis went, only worse. He wasn't bothered if she didn't come back. He sighed and scratched at the stubble on his chin. He missed the cows.

****

It'd been a long day. Jack stood in front of the stove and warmed the seat of his trousers before he sat down. With one hand resting on the arm of his rocking chair and the other cupping the stub of his cigarette, he listened to the radio in the dark. The door of the fire-grate hung open and shadowy flames flickered and danced across the wall behind him. It wasn't worth the bother of getting up and switching the light on. The kitchen missed Mavis's touch. It'd been homey and comfortable when she'd been there. With the light off, he couldn't see the mess.

Without getting up, he took a log from the pile by the side of the stove and pushed it into the fire. The wood was green and spat and sizzled as it caught hold. A stray spark flew out and landed on the rag rug. Mavis had made that. She'd sat night after night twiddling with it. Cutting old clothes into strips and then pushing them through the Hessian with her hook. He smiled. He'd called it her lethal weapon and told her not to be getting any funny ideas, the insurance had run out and he hadn't renewed it.

The spark'd left its mark. A hard-edged, black-rimmed hole on a strip of blue polyester. Jack remembered the dress Mavis'd cut it from. She'd worn it for a wedding. It had suited her. He wondered why she'd cut it up, but supposed she hadn't really needed it. They never went anywhere. He stamped his foot hard on the spot where the spark had landed, just to make sure it was out.


Sitting there rocking in his chair there wasn't much to do apart from doze and reminisce. Jack's thoughts drifted back to the day the knackers yard lorry had come to take them away. The vet had done his bit first. He'd gone in the kitchen out the road, but he'd still heard the shots ring out, even with the radio on full blast. The sound had echoed across the yard. Followed by the thump of the beasts weight hitting the ground. He'd heard it all or imagined he had.

The vet had wanted them to finish the job there on the farm, but he'd been having none of it. He'd lost his temper. Had one of what Mavis called his radicals. “No take'em up to Baker's Point,” he'd told them. “Burn'em with ol'Smithy's sheep.” And in the end he'd got his own way. It'd been Smithy's fault anyway. The vet had found the blister in the old ewe's mouth. His cattle had been grazing on the same land. “Nothing for it, Jack,” the vet had said. Sorry, he'd said as well. It was a small word and meant nothing when you were losing everything you had

Two hefty lads, their faces strained, had wrapped chains around their forelegs then winched them, tongues lolling, onto the back of the lorry and then drove off with his herd. If he'd thought that was bad, it'd got worse. The army had moved in. He tutted under his breath. Gone were the days of the land girls, he wouldn't have minded a bit of lipstick and hairspray. A touch of the Vera Lynn's his dad would have said. It might have helped him cope. Would have made it all less antiseptic, less final. But not that lot. With their white suits and face masks and super clean wellies, they'd high-power spayed and disinfected the whole farm. Sometimes he could still smell the stuff they'd used. It'd had stuck in his lungs and made him feel bad for days.

Jack stood up quick, leaving the chair rocking. It wasn't any good looking back. There was nothing he could do to change it. It was late and he was tired. The only thing he could do was go to bed.

****

Jack woke cursing the rooster. He hadn't crowed once and he was late up. He'd scrambled, still half asleep, into his old boiler suit before he remembered he didn't have anything to rush for. He decided to take his time and maybe make himself a proper breakfast. The thought of another day, tinkering with the tractor in the barn, was more than he could bear.

The kitchen was the same as he'd left it the night before, but he didn't notice. Jack's eyes were fixed on the scene he could see through the kitchen window. The vet's Land Rover, pulling a horse-box behind it, was bouncing over the frozen ruts of the road to the farm. Jack's shoulders sagged. More paperwork to sign. After all this time, all he wanted was a bit of peace. It didn't look as though he was going to get any though. He stood there, propped against the sink, watching the vehicle until it pulled into the yard.

It was an effort to make himself go out and greet the vet. He didn't have anything to say to anybody these days. He opened the back door and saw Mavis sitting in the passenger seat. She gave him a tentative wave. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and slouched his shoulders.

When he looked up, she'd got out of the car and was waving him over, a daft smile on her face. “Come on, Jack, come here and have a look in the back.” He didn't know what else to do but do as she bid. His boots had lead weights in them as he crossed the yard and sidled around to the back of the horse-box. Over the tail-gate, the face of a Heifer calf stared out at him with coal black eyes. Jack's chest tightened and he wondered if he was going to have a heart attack. Inside and further back, the ears of another twitched.

Mavis had come round to stand by his side and she slipped her hand in his. “It's time to start again, Jack. What do you think?”

Jack stared at his feet. On the ground, in a spot where the frost had melted, the delicate, white bloom of a snowdrop had pushed it's way through. It stood alone, a stark contrast to the dark earth surrounding it. It was a good sign that a thaw was on the way and Spring would soon follow it. Jack thought about picking it and giving it to Mavis, but said instead, “Shall I phone Watson's, the plumber and get a quote for the heating?”