Poppy Clarke decides to drive out to her parents cottage for the weekend. Shes just endured a brutal workweek and, despite trying tablets and valerian, she cant get a wink of sleep. She takes a Friday off, hoping a short break will help, and also plans to help Mum pick blackberries, bring back a few groceries and some medicines.
She parks the car in the small yard of a modest, tightlybuilt threewindow cottage. The moment she steps out, a fiveyearold ginger tomcat named Morris darts toward her. He flicks his tail, sniffs the tyres, marks the driveway as if he were a dog, and then darts off toward the garden while his owner watches from the doorway.
Here we go again, Poppy sighs.
She drags a couple of bags up the porch, stumbling over a mound of shoes that have been left there for ages. The wornout sandals with cracked toes are the very pair she wore as a child. They sit there quietly, as if waiting for a change.
Annoyed, she kicks the old shoes and slippers aside, steps into the entry room thats been set up as a makeshift summer bedroom. Chaos reigns: against a wall covered in fresh paneling stands an iron bed with a few rusted metal knobs. Only the shiny knobs are visible; the rest of the frame is hidden beneath a heap of clothes. If she rummages through the mouldy junk she might find the summer frock she loved wearing when she was ten.
So thats another hurdle cleared, Poppy mutters, her temper rising.
She hauls the bags inside. The house is empty. Her father is probably out on his boat checking the nets, and Mum is wandering among the guests. Soon theyll stroll in, eyes wide.
Oh, love, youre here! We didnt even realise you were coming! theyll say.
Theyve completely forgotten her. This morning Mums been frantic on the phone: Im flat on my back, Ive forgotten the meds, I cant get up, the car wont start, help us, we have no bread, no butter, nothing!
Mums dying again. Either Aunt Daisy is sweeping the thresholds in her skirt, or Aunt Natalie, or Kate, Paul, Mo there are dozens of village friends.
Poppy sets the bags down on the kitchen table, opens the fridge and feels a surge of anger. In the freezer are three halfused blocks of butter, a fourth resting on the bottom shelf. Two cartons of milk bought the previous week are cramped into the modest British freezer, now sour and curdled. Mum must have been trying to make homemade penicillin; itll be good enough in three weeks.
Bits of salami sit next to dried cheese, a tin of stew with a spoon stuck inside balances on a bunch of green onions. Jars of jam, pickled cucumbers thank goodness the freezer is cold enough to keep any critters at bay.
She grabs a bucket and a rag, pulls out the spoiled items and wipes the shelves. Everything thats gone off is mercilessly tossed into the compost pit, where the crows perched on the fence swoop down to sample the leftovers.
Poppy exhales a sigh of relief: its better that Mum isnt home right now, or shed launch into a universal lament.
You mustnt waste food! Its a sin! Id bake a batch of pancakes.
Of course. Poppys take on it is simple: dont let food get to this point! Only take what you can actually eat! Its a sin.
