Six , livre ebook

Six
Jane Burdiak
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-11-29
Six Dedication Copyright Information © January February March April May June July August September October November December
Dedication
For
Nick, Alex, Joe, Guy,
Isaac and Finley
Copyright Information ©
Jane Burdiak (2019)
The right of Jane Burdiak to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788781633 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528955164 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ

Continually Inspired
Also by Jane Burdiak
Patchwork
Domestic Science
Between the Stars
The Walk
The Sporting Widow
People were always asking her, “How do you spend your day?”
“Well…” she said.
January
1 January 2015. It was about 7am. She had had enough of lying down and stood in her pyjamas by the Christmas tree in the dining room. Despite being positioned near the industrial heat of the wood burner that had burned day and night for more than a week, it looked surprisingly fresh. So much so that it seemed a shame to dismantle it. But the celebrations were over and reluctantly she started her routine, laying all the baubles, then the tinsel, then the strands of silver and lastly the lights carefully on the settee. Then she tore a black sack from the roll and fetched the secateurs from the porch. She pruned the tree and filled the sack. The tree looked sorrowful. She lumbered it and the tied sack outside. Long spindles carpeted its journey to the back door. The vacuum cleaner quickly clogged up. She took down the cards keeping a few for next year, dusted the shelves and returned the armchair to the corner.
She washed her hair, a job avoided, though pleased when it was done.
With the commotion of Christmas over, she mixed a bowl of wallpaper paste and continued with the next layer of papier-mâché on the waste-paper bin and the small bowl. Her plan was to create and submit two pieces of work to the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition. Even though the process was simple and repetitive, it was engrossing and soothing. The paper was torn across the short grain, like the rice and every piece was readable, the stock market, a forthcoming marriage, or a weather map, a crossword or a headline. She liked the rawness, the soft muted colours of the newspaper images against the slivers of text, but the plan was to cover it all in paint.
The weather had changed. The near zero temperatures gave way to a milder blustery day. Thick gloating cloud filled the sky. In the morning, her husband went out in the Land Rover. In the afternoon, she got ready to go out. In each pocket of her duffle she put a tired satsuma, a tissue and her door key. Her bag would have been better, but with every step it would bang on her thigh and slip about. She laced her boots, pulled on her hat and closed the door. It was 2.23pm. It was silly, but she preferred an actual time, say half past, not the minute hand between numbers. At a brisk pace she set off on what was known locally as the Circular Walk. It was about as wild as a walk could be – fields, tracks, farms, the River Ouse and Bury Common. She walked her least favourite part first, the short distance along the Northampton Road and the sheep field in Lathbury. Walking between the ambling sheep, the twisting path unravelled before her. The feisty wind was fierce and she was glad of her hat. It roared through the leafless willows. Sounding like squeaking hinges, the bigger branches rubbed against each other. Underfoot, the track was muddy and wet. She followed the field round. Already the bright green shoots of winter wheat were promising. On reaching the gate and the single-track road, she turned left towards the farm. Not needing to pay so much attention to where she was walking, she stuffed her gloves into a pocket and peeled and ate a satsuma. Being New Year’s Day, the farmyard was quiet. The monumental barn doors were closed. Behind them, she was aware of the cows shuffling about in the straw, their heavy breathing. Facing into the cunning wind, she crossed the yard into open country. There were specks of flinty rain in the air and she pulled her hood up over her hat. Part of the route went straight across a sown field. It was clearly marked by other walkers. Quickly her boots gathered clods of stodgy earth and at the stile she stopped to scrape off the worst. She ate the second satsuma, crossed the cattle grids and over the river towards the brimming gravel pits. The ducks and the waterfowl dabbled, making the most of the thaw. Opening the gate on the far side of the lakes she picked her way along the narrow muddy track towards the end of Lakes Lane and into Bury Field. The big expanse of sky was a welcome relief as the town neared. Walking home through the streets, houses were still in a festive mood. In crouching shadows, Christmas trees sparkled, wreaths hung on front doors, fake snow stencilled small panes, and lights dripped and flashed on and off from fasciae thus avoiding the inevitable anticlimax.
Making dinner was easy. Lurking in the fridge were two different leftover dinners. She had the fish pie and her husband had the chicken along with some vegetables. Then they had the all-important fruit for dessert. With other full-blown puddings taking precedence, fruit had not been high on the agenda.
2 January 2015. She spent about an hour doing Pilates. A phone call, the previous evening decided what was happening on Friday morning. Isaac was coming round. He was twenty-one months. Before he did, she made a pan of robust borsch with the beetroot that her husband was anxious to clear in order to finish digging. Leaving it to simmer gently, the earthy, pungent smell filled the house. Making the most of the milder weather, her husband went fishing. Isaac padded through the house and gave his ‘hello’ wave. She read, they played, they giggled at the antics of the pull-back cars and laughed at her poor attempts at juggling, especially when the balls touched the ceiling with a thud. Isaac helped to lay the fire. He loved the busyness, opening the door where the newspapers, sticks and the coal were kept. With much huffing and puffing he carried a log from the log basket in the kitchen. Taking it from him she laid it on the hearth. They put three logs on. He pushed his little arm into the red gauntlet and hovered at a distance when she struck the match and fixed the fireguard. Upstairs he fiddled with the clock and danced to the increasing agitation of the alarm, removed the rubber feet from the weighing scales, sat on the swivel chair and did some drawings, twiddled with the radiator caps, dangled the plug over the plughole and checked under the lampshades, all the usual things. They had gone upstairs originally to get the assortment of water-play containers for the kitchen sink and got side-tracked. Eventually returning to the kitchen with them, Isaac settled to pouring and splashing in the sink. She made a chicken and vegetable curry. Isaac wasn’t keen and he found the rice difficult to handle. It didn’t help that he had had hot-chocolate and a piece of flapjack earlier. He drank some orange to cool his mouth. The sun filled the kitchen. With fishing disappointing, her husband returned early, in time to see Isaac before he went home.
3 January 2015. In the freezing rain she walked into town, bought a newspaper, milk and a diary for her husband. Thinking of seeds and planning crops, her husband invited her to go to the garden centre with him. She sighed. He knew that she wasn’t keen. But already that morning she had done a workout, applied a layer of papier-mâché to a small bowl and been to town, so with jobs done she reluctantly agreed. There was something that faintly troubled her when she went out to the garden centre or a DIY store with her husband in the car. It made her feel elderly. She looked at other couples driving about, going to the shops. They all looked the same – the husband gripping the steering wheel, staring straight ahead and the wife sitting, her hands resting in her lap, both expressionless. All the way it rained. They parked the car and made a dash for the door. Her husband bought broad bean and pea seeds and a bag of seed potatoes. All the way home it rained. Puddles spread out over the road. It was gloomy and car headlights streamed. After a bowl of borsch she stored the Christmas decorations that were strewn all over the bed. She started filling a large carrier bag full of odds and ends bound for the charity shop. Downstairs, her husband settled to cataloguing seeds and writing in his diary. The fire was lit and she sat reading the various sections of the paper. Firstly, she read about the frustrating challenges of being a tetraplegic in Melanie Reid’s Spinal Column. She continued to flick through the magazine, glancing at the recipes, rich in kale. Caitlin Moran was always going off on one. This week it was about homework. In the school where she used to be a teacher, it was school policy and she had to set it, she had to mark it, she had to give feedback and report. It generated a pile of work for all concerned. Like Caitlin Moran, she didn’t agree with it either and when it was introduced to her children’s Middle School in the 1980s, she wrote a letter protesting. In hindsight, it must have seemed confrontational, but she had w