Read Online The Hidden Girl by Louise Millar - Free Book Online
Authors: Louise Millar
Tags: Fiction
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morning standing by the bathroom sink, recalling last night’s bizarre episode with the donkey. The electric heater on the wall burnt her head. Every time it became unbearable, she moved into the sub-zero chill for a few seconds of relief, then back. In between she washed her body in hot water that she’d poured from the kettle.
Then she returned under the duvet and piled on her own clothes, and another dry jumper from Will’s box. When she could bear it, she made a run through a blast of ice-air from the broken hall window to the kitchen, where she turned on the oven and hob rings and stood for another full five minutes, with a cup of tea in her frozen hands, unable to move.
God. How was she going to stand another day of this? She looked out of the window. The soft ridge of snow on the wall was twice its previous height. She prayed Will would find a way home tonight. She couldn’t get the house ready all by herself.
To stop herself panicking she ticked off yesterday’s entry from the schedule, then walked around the kitchen to find a phone signal.
There was still no message from Brian, or from Will. To her relief there was, however, a new message from Laurie, asking if she was all right in the snow. Apparently she and Ian were cut off, too, over in Thurrup. There was no plumber’s number on the message – either Laurie had forgotten or Will hadn’t asked her yet. Hannah sighed. If Thurrup was cut off, then a plumber wouldn’t make it out here anyway.
No. The snow would go eventually. She’d just have to be practical.
Hannah picked up her marker pen. Today’s reworked entry on the schedule, written last night before bed, had been optimistic. Day 11: Tuesday, PAINT SITTING ROOM. She struggled to think straight about what to replace it with. In the end, she replaced SITTING ROOM with DINING ROOM.
First, however, she had to deal with the donkey.
After another cup of tea for heat, she grabbed a carrot, dressed for outside and forced herself into the freezing garden.
The air was thick with icy fog, and her feet crunched on a shell of newly formed hoar frost towards the garage.
Inside, the little donkey looked up at her hopefully.
The red blanket was gone. The loosened twine lay on the floor.
‘Where’s your . . . ?’ she said, looking around. He hadn’t eaten it, had he? She held out the carrot. The donkey plucked it from her with yellow teeth and ate it, as she mucked out into the field, looking around for the blanket. Had he kicked it somewhere?
She checked her watch: 8.30 a.m. This had to be sorted out. If she went now, she could start painting at nine, latest.
Pulling her coat close, Hannah returned to the field. Through the fog she saw that one light from last night belonged to a grey farmhouse, about a quarter of a mile away. The other belonged to a grain shed of some kind. There was no doubt then. The donkey’s owner lived in the farmhouse.
As she passed by its shelter, she saw that it was even more pathetic than she’d realized last night: a few pieces of wood hammered onto badly erected gate posts. They’d clearly done it in a hurry, to move the donkey – and its snow-protest honking, presumably – away from their own bedrooms.
The old sense of injustice sizzled inside her. How could people behave like this?
Hannah wrapped her scarf around her mouth and stomped across the field. Yet ten minutes later, to her surprise, she still hadn’t reached the farm, and her legs were tired with the effort of balancing on the narrow crop tracks. Thank goodness she hadn’t attempted this last night. Distance was difficult to judge in this flat Suffolk landscape.
A few minutes later she reached a scruffy farmyard. Snow-covered machinery was parked around it. The house was built of ugly grey stone and was exposed to the elements. There were no trees or hedges, just fields and barbed-wire fences. Looking back, Hannah saw that the Horseborrows must have planted trees around their property when the
Then she returned under the duvet and piled on her own clothes, and another dry jumper from Will’s box. When she could bear it, she made a run through a blast of ice-air from the broken hall window to the kitchen, where she turned on the oven and hob rings and stood for another full five minutes, with a cup of tea in her frozen hands, unable to move.
God. How was she going to stand another day of this? She looked out of the window. The soft ridge of snow on the wall was twice its previous height. She prayed Will would find a way home tonight. She couldn’t get the house ready all by herself.
To stop herself panicking she ticked off yesterday’s entry from the schedule, then walked around the kitchen to find a phone signal.
There was still no message from Brian, or from Will. To her relief there was, however, a new message from Laurie, asking if she was all right in the snow. Apparently she and Ian were cut off, too, over in Thurrup. There was no plumber’s number on the message – either Laurie had forgotten or Will hadn’t asked her yet. Hannah sighed. If Thurrup was cut off, then a plumber wouldn’t make it out here anyway.
No. The snow would go eventually. She’d just have to be practical.
Hannah picked up her marker pen. Today’s reworked entry on the schedule, written last night before bed, had been optimistic. Day 11: Tuesday, PAINT SITTING ROOM. She struggled to think straight about what to replace it with. In the end, she replaced SITTING ROOM with DINING ROOM.
First, however, she had to deal with the donkey.
After another cup of tea for heat, she grabbed a carrot, dressed for outside and forced herself into the freezing garden.
The air was thick with icy fog, and her feet crunched on a shell of newly formed hoar frost towards the garage.
Inside, the little donkey looked up at her hopefully.
The red blanket was gone. The loosened twine lay on the floor.
‘Where’s your . . . ?’ she said, looking around. He hadn’t eaten it, had he? She held out the carrot. The donkey plucked it from her with yellow teeth and ate it, as she mucked out into the field, looking around for the blanket. Had he kicked it somewhere?
She checked her watch: 8.30 a.m. This had to be sorted out. If she went now, she could start painting at nine, latest.
Pulling her coat close, Hannah returned to the field. Through the fog she saw that one light from last night belonged to a grey farmhouse, about a quarter of a mile away. The other belonged to a grain shed of some kind. There was no doubt then. The donkey’s owner lived in the farmhouse.
As she passed by its shelter, she saw that it was even more pathetic than she’d realized last night: a few pieces of wood hammered onto badly erected gate posts. They’d clearly done it in a hurry, to move the donkey – and its snow-protest honking, presumably – away from their own bedrooms.
The old sense of injustice sizzled inside her. How could people behave like this?
Hannah wrapped her scarf around her mouth and stomped across the field. Yet ten minutes later, to her surprise, she still hadn’t reached the farm, and her legs were tired with the effort of balancing on the narrow crop tracks. Thank goodness she hadn’t attempted this last night. Distance was difficult to judge in this flat Suffolk landscape.
A few minutes later she reached a scruffy farmyard. Snow-covered machinery was parked around it. The house was built of ugly grey stone and was exposed to the elements. There were no trees or hedges, just fields and barbed-wire fences. Looking back, Hannah saw that the Horseborrows must have planted trees around their property when the
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