the flinch in her sister’s face. ‘… but women who’ve not had children can’t comprehend the visceral connection between a mother and her child. No amount of condescending rationality can make the slightest dent in it. I daresay I’m being ridiculous …’
‘Of course you’re not.’
‘Making mountains out of molehills, but nothing you can say will stop me worrying about her. Apart from everything else, I just can’t get it out of my head that Mel’s in a part of the world which has suffered from coups, riots, terrorist bombs, earthquakes, a tsunami … Fran’s voice was cracking. She didn’t know whether she wanted to cry or shout. Talking to her sister reminded her how it had always been. She would get angry about something, seeing the world in black and white, for her or against her, while Dory remained coolly superior. It might be commendable to be objective, to rationally examine every angle, but there were times when Fran wanted support and agreement. Anything else looked like a challenge, felt like she was being put in the wrong.
‘I’m sorry,’ Dory said. She looked contrite and suddenly sad. ‘You’re right, I’m not a mother. How can I know what you’re going through?’
Chapter Nine - Stefan
This morning was his new start. In one hand he held a heavy knot of keys, with the other he pulled a battered pack of cigarettes from an inside pocket and tipped one into his mouth. He had parked in the furthest corner of Wyvern Mill, between a breezeblock outbuilding and a chain-link fence. Instead of heading for his new workshop, he walked over to the padlocked gate. He unlocked it and dragged the gate open; the shriek of the hinges fused in jarring cacophony with the scrape of the gate across the uneven ground.
Beyond the fence all was a still, green wilderness. The bronze surface of the silted-up canal, scribbled by curls of yellow leaf, seemed scarcely to move. The banks were an impenetrable tangle of long grass, reeds, and weeds. Stefan lit up and stared into the sluggish water. He could stay here as long as he liked. He could even sit down. There was a bag of cement that had been left, forgotten, in the long grass beside the towpath. It had solidified into a hard, bag-shaped block. The slight depression where the bag had sagged made it an inviting perch for someone who might want to stay and let this silence creep into his bones.
Restless and wanting to do something constructive, he didn’t sit down. After only a few puffs, he dropped the cigarette and obliterated it beneath his foot. The grinding squeal of metal against concrete jagged through his brain again as he pushed the gate shut. He crunched back over the yard. It had once been surfaced, but so long ago it had broken up in an uneven jigsaw, the wide cracks colonised by pads of wiry grass and weeds.
Today was the first time he had come here to work. Until now, his trips to the new premises had been devoted to transporting the rationalised contents of the barn and setting up his new studio. In that short time, the site had become completely familiar. Wyvern Mill was only one of the many nineteenth-century mills – evidence of the town’s semi-industrial past – that had grown up along the bottom of the valley, around the river and the canal. From the local history he’d retained he knew that they’d originally been woollen mills. Fabric for making British army uniforms had been woven here. The image of the river, flowing red with the run-off from the dyeing of the cloth, had stuck in his mind since primary school days.
Since their heyday, the fortunes of the mills had mirrored those of the country – decline and dereliction followed by reinvention. As he had driven down through the rambling Wyvern Mill site and over the bridge, he’d passed a variety of small businesses and workshops, some in the original buildings, some in newer structures that had grown up over the centuries in an ad hoc sprawl. Finally, at the very back of
‘Of course you’re not.’
‘Making mountains out of molehills, but nothing you can say will stop me worrying about her. Apart from everything else, I just can’t get it out of my head that Mel’s in a part of the world which has suffered from coups, riots, terrorist bombs, earthquakes, a tsunami … Fran’s voice was cracking. She didn’t know whether she wanted to cry or shout. Talking to her sister reminded her how it had always been. She would get angry about something, seeing the world in black and white, for her or against her, while Dory remained coolly superior. It might be commendable to be objective, to rationally examine every angle, but there were times when Fran wanted support and agreement. Anything else looked like a challenge, felt like she was being put in the wrong.
‘I’m sorry,’ Dory said. She looked contrite and suddenly sad. ‘You’re right, I’m not a mother. How can I know what you’re going through?’
Chapter Nine - Stefan
This morning was his new start. In one hand he held a heavy knot of keys, with the other he pulled a battered pack of cigarettes from an inside pocket and tipped one into his mouth. He had parked in the furthest corner of Wyvern Mill, between a breezeblock outbuilding and a chain-link fence. Instead of heading for his new workshop, he walked over to the padlocked gate. He unlocked it and dragged the gate open; the shriek of the hinges fused in jarring cacophony with the scrape of the gate across the uneven ground.
Beyond the fence all was a still, green wilderness. The bronze surface of the silted-up canal, scribbled by curls of yellow leaf, seemed scarcely to move. The banks were an impenetrable tangle of long grass, reeds, and weeds. Stefan lit up and stared into the sluggish water. He could stay here as long as he liked. He could even sit down. There was a bag of cement that had been left, forgotten, in the long grass beside the towpath. It had solidified into a hard, bag-shaped block. The slight depression where the bag had sagged made it an inviting perch for someone who might want to stay and let this silence creep into his bones.
Restless and wanting to do something constructive, he didn’t sit down. After only a few puffs, he dropped the cigarette and obliterated it beneath his foot. The grinding squeal of metal against concrete jagged through his brain again as he pushed the gate shut. He crunched back over the yard. It had once been surfaced, but so long ago it had broken up in an uneven jigsaw, the wide cracks colonised by pads of wiry grass and weeds.
Today was the first time he had come here to work. Until now, his trips to the new premises had been devoted to transporting the rationalised contents of the barn and setting up his new studio. In that short time, the site had become completely familiar. Wyvern Mill was only one of the many nineteenth-century mills – evidence of the town’s semi-industrial past – that had grown up along the bottom of the valley, around the river and the canal. From the local history he’d retained he knew that they’d originally been woollen mills. Fabric for making British army uniforms had been woven here. The image of the river, flowing red with the run-off from the dyeing of the cloth, had stuck in his mind since primary school days.
Since their heyday, the fortunes of the mills had mirrored those of the country – decline and dereliction followed by reinvention. As he had driven down through the rambling Wyvern Mill site and over the bridge, he’d passed a variety of small businesses and workshops, some in the original buildings, some in newer structures that had grown up over the centuries in an ad hoc sprawl. Finally, at the very back of
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