So, over the weekend Emily thought shed pop over to her folks cottage in the Cotswolds. Shed had a brutal week at the office, and after pulling an allnighter to finish a project she just couldnt drift off. Neither the sleeping pills nor the valerian helped. She decided to take a long Friday off, swing by, help Mum with the blackberries, and bring over a few groceries and some meds.
She parked the car in the little gravel yard of a modest, slightly rundown threewindow cottage. Out the gate sprinted their orange tabby, Milo, a cheeky fiveyearold rascal. He gave the wheels a good sniff, left a tiny marker like a dog, and then darted into the garden, waiting for the owners scolding.
Here we go again, Emily sighed.
She hauled a couple of bags up the step, tripping over a mountain of shoes that had been gathering dust since forever. These were the wornout slippers with the cracked little toe caps shed worn as a kid now just sitting there, as if waiting for a change.
Irritated, she kicked the old shoes and slippers aside, stepped into the hallway that doubled as a summer bedroom. It was pure chaos: an iron bed with a bunch of metal bits poking out sat against a wall newly clad in cheap paneling. You could only see the shiny protrusions; the rest of the frame was hidden under a heap of clothes. If you dug through the mouldy junk, you might find Emilys teenage sundress she used to love back when she was ten.
Right, another hurdle cleared, she muttered, getting more annoyed.
She shoved the bags inside. The house was empty. Dad was probably out on his boat checking the nets, and Mum was out visiting neighbours. Of course, when they got back theyd do that wideeyed look:
Oh, love, youre here! We didnt even realise youd be coming!
Theyd totally forgotten. In the morning Mum had been frantic on the phone: Im dying, Ive forgotten the meds, Im flat on the sofa, the ovens gone, help! No bread, no butter, nothing! as if she were actually on her deathbed. Then youd hear Aunt Doris sweeping the porch, or Aunt Natalie, or dozens of other village ladies gossiping.
Emily set the bags on the kitchen table, opened the fridge and let out a groan. In the freezer were three halfused sticks of butter, a fourth one lounging on the bottom shelf. Two cartons of milk, bought the week before, were taking up most of the space in an old Beko fridge. The milk had turned into curdled dairy probably Mums attempt at homemade penicillin, shed joked, good for a few weeks.
Bits of sausage were tucked next to a block of dried cheese, a tin of stew with a spoon still inside sat right on a bunch of green onions. There were jars of jam, pickles, and all sorts of preserves. Thank goodness the freezer was cold enough not to let anything get alive.
She fetched a bucket, a rag, and started pulling everything out, wiping down the shelves. Anything that had gone sour or sticky was ruthlessly tossed into the compost heap, where a few crows perched nearby immediately started picking at the scraps.
Emily let out a relieved sigh. Thank goodness Mum wasnt home otherwise wed be hearing that universal momcry:
You cant just throw food away! Its a sin! Id make pancakes with it!
And Emilys take on that was simple: you shouldnt let food get that bad. Dont buy more than you can eat. Its a waste, plain and simple.
