Magpie. Sophie Draper
me.
Duncan said I’d get used to it. All that space, the mod cons, the view – that amazing aspect over the valley. It’s Derbyshire at its best, lush and verdant with the reservoir glittering at the bottom of the fields. And the privacy. There’s not another house for at least a mile in each direction, who wouldn’t want that? And even I had to admit, I did appreciate the privacy.
But home to me is smaller. Shoes by the back door, coffee stains on the table, dog hairs on the sofa, knick-knacks, photographs and postcards cluttering the mantelpiece. A proper mantelpiece, not one of those engineered slabs of wood buried in the wall.
If he clears my stuff away, I discreetly put it back. And if Joe, our son, or Arthur, the dog, leave muddy footprints on the tiles, I cheer. That first scratch on the polished work surface in the kitchen was uniquely satisfying. Always striving for perfection is not much fun.
The front door glides shut with a soft clunk. Duncan has gone to work. I hear the smooth hum of his car and the measured crunch of wheels on gravel. I stretch out the fingers of my hand and roll my shoulders. Then I gather my long hair at the back of my head and twist it into a loose bun. Strands of brown hair fall on either side of my face; I never was much good at grooming.
The wind gusts across the walls of the house and a sweep of rain splatters against the full-height window in the sitting room. I see my own shape reflected back; it makes me look taller, larger than I am, at least that’s what I tell myself. Strong. The sky is green, not grey, coloured by the triple-layered tinted glass so that even the view is tainted by Duncan’s choice of architecture.
Everything about this place was his choice, not mine.
I turn back to the sink. The deep-set window behind it was the only thing left unsullied by the builders. At my insistence. One last remnant of the building that was before, the old cottage that stood beside the barn. I would have kept it whole, perhaps linked by a glass atrium, but Duncan wanted it gone, to focus on the barn itself, stripped and open to the roof. There’s not much sense that this was all once a busy working farm.
As I plunge the mug into the hot water, I see my son, Joe, crossing the lawn from the top field. His head is bent against the weather, his dark hair damp and curling against his neck.
Moments later, the utility room door flies open and dead leaves bluster across the floor. Arthur, our black Labrador, scampers inside. His jaws are slack, drooling with saliva, and he shakes the rain from his coat so that water sprays on to the cupboard doors. He heads for his metal drinking bowl and I hear the sound of his tongue pushing it across the floor.
Joe hops on one foot and then the other, slinging each boot into the corner by the ironing board.
‘For heaven’s sake, Joe, take some care!’
He ignores me. He doesn’t even look up as his awkward frame passes into the kitchen.
‘Where have you been?’
It’s a stupid question, I know the answer. It’s almost eight o’clock in the morning and he’s been out all night. Not clubbing or drinking like most teenagers – I should be so lucky – but out there, in the fields.
Joe doesn’t reply and I see that ‘thing’ he always takes with him, the metal detector. He’s left it against the wall, looping the headphones and cable over the handle. He crosses the kitchen to find the biscuit tin, fishing out a handful of digest-ives. He shoves one in his mouth and the rest stick out from between his fingers like the roof of the Sydney Opera House.
‘Joe!’
I raise my voice, trying to break into his thoughts, but he simply gestures to his full mouth with his biscuit knuckle-duster and leaves the room. I swear I love my son very much, but his lack of eye contact cuts right through me sometimes, even now after all these years.
Today, he seems more than usually distracted.
He takes the stairs two at a time. A door bangs and the music starts. Thump, thump. Rude and raucous and irreverent. Very satisfying. The volume blasts up a notch, a heavy tuneless beat that reverberates through the ceiling. There’s the surge of hot water from the shower in the bathroom. The sound carries across the open roof spaces in the barn. You can hear everything, despite the distance. I let it wash over me. It’s the silence of the house that gets to me, when he isn’t here. Like a cathedral with no worshippers, a grand theatrical production that no one comes to watch. But when he is here, the noise of him annoys me, too. Eventually. There’s no pleasing me. My mouth twists into a smile.
At least he’s looking after himself. Not like before.
I dry my hands, leaving the towel dumped untidily on the kitchen island. I pour hot water from the kettle into a new mug. My fingers reach around to comfort myself and I breathe in the warm steam. The familiar smell of coffee tickles my throat. Familiar is good: a hot drink, a slab of bread thick with butter. It grounds me.
At least this time my son has come home.
‘There was this man ten years ago who discovered a hoard in Somerset.’
I’m prepping tea and Joe is sat at the kitchen island with a long glass of milk in his hand. He fidgets on his seat, as if he can’t stop himself from moving.
‘It was in a field next to an old Roman road. He’d found a couple of coins and ended up discovering a clay pot of some kind, sunk into the ground. It was crammed full of coins – can you imagine that?’
He doesn’t wait for me to answer.
‘And so heavy you couldn’t possibly lift the whole thing out. The sides of the pot were broken and he had to leave it in place, carefully removing the coins under cover of night. He did that so that no one else knew what he’d found.’
I have an image in my head of an old man in his cardigan pulling out green coins with his bare fingers by the light of the moon. I have to smile.
‘Layer by layer, coin by coin, over several nights, until the whole thing was extracted. He didn’t report the find till after that. There were more than fifty thousand coins in total!’
Joe loves telling me these stories, when he finds his voice. It’s his dream, finding a hoard. When Duncan’s not around he talks about it endlessly, the different coin types, how to date them, how to clean them, the different patterns on each side.
‘The rules are complicated,’ he says. ‘And the coroner has to be told.’
Joe’s told me this so many times. I’d always thought coroners only dealt with the dead, but they deal with treasure too, apparently.
‘They have to estimate the level of precious metal content – that’s important when it comes to what happens next and how much the find is worth … Mum, are you listening?’
‘Course I am, Joe. You were telling me about the coroner.’
‘No, I was telling you about metal content.’
He flashes a look of frustration at me. Then he’s off again, detailing different measurements, his hands animated, his body leaning over the kitchen island, gulping down his milk in between long, rambling fact-filled sentences.
It’s a boy thing, I tell myself, all that data and statistics, the kind of information overload that makes me want to walk away but sets Joe on fire. All I can think is, at least he’s doing something constructive, active, and he’s communicating with me. I feel the guilt of my disinterest wash over me. It’s nice to see him on fire.
‘Come on, Joe, that’s enough for now, tea’s ready. If you drink too much of that milk you won’t be hungry. Help me take this through to the table.’
I shouldn’t begrudge him the milk. As a teenager, he guzzles the stuff. Listen to me, I sound so much like the mother that I am. Joe goes to the fridge for more milk and I text Duncan upstairs to say that tea is ready.
We eat in silence. Duncan pushes the pasta into neat piles before scooping it into his mouth and Joe shovels it like a farmhand clearing out