To See The Light Return. Sophie Galleymore Bird
‘You’d think we’d get used to it, but hurts like a bitch every time.’
‘What’s all the commotion about?’ Dorcas bustled through the door, red-faced from running up the stairs.
Grief and agony clogged Primrose’s throat; she couldn’t speak. The best she could manage was a wail.
‘It hurts,’ Alise explained, using a thumb to indicate Primrose.
‘Well, there’s no need to make such a fuss! Of course it’ll be a bit uncomfortable for a while. I’ll go get something to help, and we’ll start some compression going when I have a minute. Then I’ll get you something to eat. You’ve been out for two days, you must be starved.’
Uncomfortable? Was she crazy? Slumped and twisted, feeling diminished, all Primrose could do was weep.
Groomed for the farm from a young age, Primrose had been picked out from her six siblings as the one who might fulfil her parents’ ambitions to escape the poverty that blighted their neighbours, the village, the whole of the devolved county of Devon. Distracted by constant, gnawing hunger, made worse by the hours of housework she did every afternoon, Primrose didn’t notice at first that her portions at dinner had become larger; that she was the only one to get extra treats of dripping, biscuits or honey in her tea, or was offered the bits and pieces left over from preparing meals with her mother.
It was one of her brothers who pointed it out, pinching the ample flesh of her upper arm and hissing into her ear how unfair it was, what had she done to deserve it, fat cow? It was mortifying to realise, looking into the eyes of the others scrunched up in the bed they all shared, that they all felt the same way. Next day she’d asked her parents to work in the fields with the others and had refused a special treat of sugar. A week later she was here at the farm. She was eleven years old.
Five years later and here she was still, wheezing and shuffling along the landing towards the bathroom and the bucket, tripped out on poppy juice for the pain. Somewhere downstairs she could hear music playing. Her tormentors were down there, having a laugh and listening to music playing on machinery paid for by her rendered fat, while she was suffering to keep it playing a little longer, and to fuel the cars driven by a select few. How could this be fair? How could she ever have thought it was fair?
*
The buckets were heavy and banged against her shins as Dorcas backed cautiously through the door to the cellar, pivoting on the spot to be sure of not taking a tumble down the steep stone steps that led from the kitchen. She gave soft grunts of effort at each tread, taking care not to spill any of the buckets’ contents. The fat was solid at room temperature, but could still leave a slimy mess, treacherous underfoot.
The smell from the rendering room had permeated the stairwell and she wrinkled her nose in disgust, taking shallow breaths. At the bottom of the stairs was a screen made up of old strips of plastic, to keep flies and other insects out, and here she turned and backed through. It was stiflingly hot on the other side; Agnes had already lit the stove and was warming the pan they would use to melt down the fat Dorcas was delivering. Tiny vents high in the wall were inadequate to remove all the smoke escaping the chimney and the room was slightly hazed.
‘Right girl, you get this lot started, I’ve another bucket to bring down.’
Carrying buckets was more menial work than Dorcas liked her girls to see her do. It was important to her that she maintain her status as someone above that sort of thing, but Ivy was off with the flu and Spight was complaining he didn’t have enough fuel to get the next supply run in to the village, so needs must. And she hated the rendering room and its smells and smoke. Better to do the donkey work than stir the blubber as it rendered down to oil.
Dorcas poured the blood-threaded lumps of yellow, waxy fat out of the buckets and into the pan, scraping out the residue with a metal spoon, then handed the spoon to Agnes, who started poking around and distributing it more evenly.
‘Mind you don’t let it burn,’ Dorcas admonished her, before starting the journey back up the stairs, empty buckets banging carelessly together. ‘I’ve got to go take care of our prize cow. She’ll be shipped out soon enough and she’s got to be fit to travel.’
*
The compression bandages were helping a bit. So was the poppy juice Dorcas had been trotting in with every four hours. It was helping so much that Primrose had spat the last dose into a water glass and hidden it on the windowsill, behind the curtain above her bed, keeping it for later. Because Primrose had a plan. She had to get out of here, and she had to do it tonight while everyone thought she was in too much pain to move. Hopefully, she could stash enough poppy juice to see her through the escape. She could still remember how difficult it had been walking the last time; at least this time, she might be in pain from the dozens of healing punctures in her flesh, but she wouldn’t be carrying so much weight.
Clothes. She needed clothes. And shoes. Her own had been taken when she arrived, and even if she still had them they would no longer fit her. She had grown upwards as well as sideways over the last five years. She knew Dorcas kept a wardrobe of assorted garments and footwear on this corridor, for the rare occasions she took her livestock out of the farm to village events such as Christmas concerts or fêtes. That hadn’t happened for at least a couple of years, since the drive for more and more fuel had become the new norm. But presumably the clothes were still there.
The first time she tried to have a look, pretending she needed to go to the toilet again, Agnes whisked out of a room at the end of the corridor and Primrose had to turn away quickly and pretend she was just on her way into the bathroom. She waited a good ten minutes before going back out, but Agnes was still there, dusting the staircase, and Primrose returned to her room frustrated. She waited another hour, then groaned, clutched her stomach and moaned that she had to go back to the loo. Alise looked at her with indifference and continued crunching her way through a bag of imported crisps, her reward for passing her weight gain target the day before. The rest of her booty – chocolate and a tin of biscuits – lay scattered over her blanket.
This time the corridor was empty. The wardrobe was past the bathroom, set back in an alcove. After checking there was still no one about, Primrose opened one of its two doors and was rewarded by the sight of coats and shoes. She grabbed a coat at random and a pair of shoes that looked like they should fit. The other door revealed shelves of folded clothes and a rail of dresses. Wanting loose garments that wouldn’t aggravate her wounds, she grabbed a dress and what looked like a jumper. Too scared to take the time to look to see what else was there, or to check for fit, she closed both doors.
Now what? She couldn’t take them back to the room while Alise was there and awake. The bathroom had a cupboard for storing the threadbare towels and sheets for this landing, and she headed there as fast as she could limp, burrowing in to the back, stashing the clothes where they would stay hidden until the next bed change, which shouldn’t be for another few days unless everyone became incontinent at once. Heart beating wildly with elation, she closed the door and turned to find Agnes, come to retrieve the bucket.
‘What are you doing in there?’ Agnes was only a couple of years older than her, but she was looking at Primrose as if she had true seniority, rather than a job skivvying for Dorcas and carrying shit around. Primrose felt a blush rise up her neck and, in that moment, she hated the other girl.
‘I was looking for sanitary towels, I think I’m about to come on,’ Primrose improvised, amazed at her own ready response. She clutched at her belly to back up her story and winced as the pressure bore down on the punctures from the liposuction.
‘We don’t keep them in there, Dorcas has a store cupboard upstairs. And you don’t go getting your own, you know we bring them to you.’
‘I know, I’m sorry, I just didn’t want to make a mess for you to have to clear up.’ Primrose smiled ingratiatingly and started towards the door behind Agnes, stooped over and holding her belly.
‘Surprised you can feel anything with all that medicine,’