Six

By Jane Burdiak

Nourishing and restorative, Six is an uplifting story that chronicles 2015. In twelve monthly instalments, Six captures a heart-warming insight into daily life - its rich detail is closely observed.

Against the never-ending clamouring rush of the overstretched day, little things that underpin the foundations of family life are crowded out, overlooked, diluted or ignored.

Between the soothing repetitions of making cups of tea, the loyal dependability of the ticking clock and the mesmerising rhythm of the sea, Isaac and the kingfisher give joy and delight.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781528955164

Jane Burdiak

Jane Burdiak lives in Bukinghamshire and is married with four sons. She works in a large comprehensive school as a food technology teacher, enjoying the challenge of a demanding and stimulating environment. Domestic Science is her second book to be published.

Book preview

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 wanted her children to come home and have the freedom to play, to go outside and run around, not sit down and do more schoolwork. Anyone in the workplace who works all day and takes work home rightly feels disgruntled. In most jobs, work is left in the workplace, it doesn’t happen, so why should it be acceptable for children to spend a further two hours or more huddled over the table, if they had a table. The quality of the homework that she marked varied from pages that had clearly taken hours, to dire, not worthy of the paper it was scrawled on and certainly not her time spent marking it. Sometimes mothers and grandmothers would do the homework. She gave their talent 10/10 but recommended that ‘little Jimmy’ did his own homework. Lots of pupils were not encouraged to do homework. At parent’s evenings, pupils would squirm on the moulded plastic chairs at the mere mention of the word. There was a ‘wait till I get you home’ moment. It was always a battle. She sympathised with all concerned. So much needless negativity was generated. If homework was abolished altogether, there would be none of the angst at pupil’s home and none of the angst in the classroom and none of the overwhelming angst that so beset her when she sat for hours marking it.

She assembled dinner, leftovers followed by cheese, (the use-by dates on the Brie were about to expire) and biscuits and fruit. She cleared up, filled the dishwasher and had a go at the crossword. She finished reading the paper and watched Dad’s Army followed by Albert Nobbs. Her husband received a text message. Would we like to go for lunch on Sunday? Well, of course.

4 January 2015. She woke to freezing fog. About seven, later than usual, she got up, scoured the face and applied the slap. In her pyjamas, she made toast and a cup of milky coffee before layering a small bowl with newsprint, inverting it over a tumbler to dry. With a few minutes to spare, she sat writing in her notebook. It was quiet. She was aware of her neighbour vacuuming and the clock ticking. Guy and Abbi called to return the oven containers, plates and napkins borrowed for their New Year’s Eve soiree. No one sat down. Instead, they hovered between rooms talking about this and that for half an hour. As they were leaving, she noticed a large John Lewis bag in the hall. In it there were glasses and tumblers. She hadn’t wanted them back. Suddenly the two of them made a dash to the car, laughing. At 12.40pm she and her husband left. Away from the urban shelter of the town it was colder. The hedgerows became whiter and whiter, the fog denser and denser. Buzzards were unable to take to the air and sat hunched, biding their time. Lunch was wonderful. Roast lamb, Dauphinoise potatoes, mange-tout, courgettes and then a bread and butter pudding. Mmm – scrumptious. In the draining light, she and her daughter-in-law took Harvey, the black Labrador who lived opposite out for a fast walk. Returning, she downed the remains of her red wine and headed for the car. All the way home, visibility was poor. Now, was that because of the flagons of red wine consumed?

Plugging in the laptop, she opened word and brought up an empty page. She typed the title of her next book and her name. At 10.30pm she saved it and logged off.

5 January 2015. Gathering the mugs and glasses, she placed them in the dishwasher. She filled the kettle and turned on the radio. From beneath the dresser she took out the bowl of wallpaper paste and the torn newspaper. Carefully she applied the next layer of paper to the bowl, attached the handle and returned it to the upturned glass to dry again. It was milder, and later in the morning she walked into town with her husband. Being Monday, pink recycling bags and black sacks bulging and bloated with festive indulgence leant and slumped against boundary walls. Having had another bank holiday it was unlikely that they would be collected until Tuesday. Already some black sacks had been plundered, carcases had been dragged out, leftovers mauled over, seeping liquids lapped. Needing milk, she went to the local Tesco Express where milk cost £1, then around Tongwell Lake, still gripped with ice. Returning home, Isaac was playing about.

She attempted to lift the papier-mâché saucers from the saucers. It was exacting. When they finally became free, she was disappointed with the rough surface underneath. Hopefully, she would be able to smooth it with a coating of paste.

6 January 2015. She spent fifty-five minutes doing Pilates, then before doing anything else, she smoothed paste on the undersides of the saucers. She trimmed the surplus paper from the bowl and ran her thumbnail round the rim, then a pin, then the point of a knife. She cut it and soaked it and still it stuck fast. It was back to the drawing board – never a truer saying. She submerged the bowl and washed the saucers. She peeled potatoes and made a cheese sauce for a fish pie. When the potatoes were cooked, she mashed them and spooned them over the filling, forking it to finish because that was what she did.

Starting again, she covered the dishes with cling film and pasted the first layer of newspaper in position. Putting them to dry, she tidied up. Around lunchtime, Isaac called with his mum. With no sign of her, they went through the house, out the back door and round to the garage. Isaac loved the garage. He loved the washing machine and the tumble drier, their doors and dials his height. He would put anything in the machines, an onion, a cut-off of wood, close the door and press the button. Or, if there was washing in one machine, he patiently transferred little handfuls from one drum to another. There was always a fuss when he was forcibly removed. He would stay in there all day. Of course, there was a wealth of interesting things to be discovered. When his dad or his granddad busied themselves in the garage, he loved being in there with them, chatting away, one of the lads. No amount of coaxing would make him come out. Hearing their voices, she went to the garage. Filling, with Isaac’s help, the laundry basket with the dry washing and she picked it up. With much protest, Isaac’s mum picked him up unconcerned about his protests and deposited him on the kitchen floor. He opened his mouth and just howled. It was short lived. Promptly, she put the fish pie in the oven and heated the baked beans. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a pudding as such but supplied instead a slice of Christmas cake and a cup of tea. Once fed, Isaac forgot about the garage, he played around, messed about in the sink, did some drawings, played with the hole-punch and the stapler and switched the lights on and off. The morning rain had long gone to be replaced with a clear blue sky. Isaac spotted the planes, golden sparks moving across the sky. At 4.30pm Isaac and his mum said goodbye. She and her husband settled to watch Countdown and Pointless – sad. Plugging in the laptop, she brought up the title.

7 January 2015. Up and about by 6am, she emptied the dishwasher. As soon as everything had been put away, she applied the second layer of newspaper to the bowl and the saucers, hoping that by the evening they would be dry enough to apply the third layer when she came in from her Pilates class. From the freezer she took out a plastic tub. From the overall colour she assumed it to be a chilli or bolognaise but was pleasantly surprised to find meatballs – a step up from either. About midday she walked into town for an Angling Times for her husband. Even walking the long way home took no time. On her return, she gathered the shopping bags together, picked up the list that lay on the kitchen table and went to Tesco, the first and much needed shop for three weeks. While she could get by in the food department for another two days, she urgently needed washing powder, dishwasher tablets and fruit. The store was surprisingly busy. Maybe everyone had reached that point of needing to restock the fridge. Once the shopping had been distributed round the kitchen, she spent the afternoon typing her notes. Dinner was good, but really, she should not have eaten before going the Pilates class. It was the first since before Christmas and everyone was saying ‘Did you have a good Christmas?’ and ‘Happy New Year’. Coming in from the lesson, she made her husband a cup of tea and got on with the third layer of papier-mâché.

8 January 2015. Waking to the sound of rain was never good. The third layer of papier-mâché had not dried sufficiently, thus delaying the progress. Instead, as she had the ingredients, she made a chocolate cheesecake in readiness for friends staying at the end of the month. Thankfully, by midday the rain cleared away and the sky brightened. It turned blue. At last the ‘dishes’ felt dry enough and she applied the next layer of newspaper. Tidying up she launched into peeling potatoes, and dicing vegetables for a Shepherd’s pie. With that done, she sat at the computer, listening again to the early Sunday morning programmes, hoping to hear something that she thought she had heard. It was time-consuming research.

9 January 2015. Knowing that she would be looking after Isaac, she got up and got on with the day, organising dinner, sorting the swim bag, fetching the potatoes from the sack in the garage. Her husband had gone fishing. She wrote two cards ready for posting. She washed her hair. What she wanted to do was to see if her cling film solution had worked. She cut off the surplus paper neatly then with a little tug and the ‘saucers’ came free. Carefully, she peeled off the cling film. Brilliant! Now for the bowl. She trimmed close to the rim leaving the cling film as a lever to pull against. She pulled and pushed. It could not possibly be stuck. But it didn’t move at all. She left it for a few minutes. From the cutlery drawer she took a sharp knife and made a small incision in the base. Pressing her thumbs and fingertips firmly against it, she released the vacuum and slowly the paper slipped from the bowl. Hooray. Reusing the one and only suitable bowl as the mould for her cups, she once more covered it in cling film and applied a layer of torn strips. Isaac was duly delivered about 11.30am along with the pushchair, a nappy, wipes and his drink bottle. She showed Isaac the swim bag, his shorts and the shower gel. She explained what they were going to do and where they were going to go as she fastened him into the pushchair. They set off via the town to post the cards, then onto the library to renew the books. He gave the librarians his ‘hello’ wave. Pulling out a chair, he sat down and began to pick books out of the tubs and give them to her. She read a few lines from each. Seeing the swivel chairs at the suite of computers by the door, he wanted to sit on one. She lifted him up. He watched the screen change. Obediently, he didn’t touch the keyboard. On leaving, Isaac pressed the big square pad. Magically, the door opened. They walked to the pool. After parking the pushchair, they waited in the queue to pay. Isaac gave his ‘hello’ wave to the lady. Holding his hand to the changing cubical, she dumped the bag on the narrow shelf and locked the door. While Isaac explored, she peeled off her clothes and was quickly into her swimsuit. Then she attended to him. Gathering their things, she held his hand to the locker, fed the £1 coin into the slot and piled the bag, their shoes and the towels in, shut the door and turned the key. Pulling the key over her arm, she took Isaac’s hand and walked down the shallow steps into the water. Conscious of the water rising on his warm tummy, he looked a little unsure. But soon she had him swimming on his front and on his back. Becoming more familiar with the pool again after the long break, his warm, friendly smile spread across his face. He jumped in off the side and held her hand when he walked in big floating steps. After a warm sprinkling shower, she patted him dry and draped the towel round his shoulders. They changed back into their clothes and she blow-dried his hair. Fastening Isaac back in the pushchair, they made their way home. The mocking wind had increased, exciting the brown swollen river further. At the bridge, they stopped and watched the ducks. Isaac was engrossed.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him dart and land on the nearby wall, where once, years ago, the river was used for bathing. Against the dull, leafless background, the kingfisher was even more flamboyant. No matter what, that remarkable little bird always stopped her in her tracks. The gaudy spectacle was every bit as thrilling as anything seen on her travels. Everything about him was distinctive, his dapper prismatic shape, his pointy beak, his whistle which often preceded his sighting and above all, his piquant plumage. He filled her with delight, a delight that lasted all day.

With Isaac in mind, she had kept a serving of shepherd’s pie back for Friday’s lunch. All that swimming had given him an appetite. He ate with gusto, then had a Clementine and a piece of flapjack. With eating dispensed with, he played around doing all the Isaac things. He stood watching her when she struck the match and lit the fire. Eager, he didn’t miss a thing. Tall and stretching up, taller still, he saw things that two weeks ago were unseen. Her notebook with an old pen enclosed within its pages and held fast with a piece of elastic. Curious, he made a beeline for it. He reached and muttered, not knowing the words for ‘Please, will you pass me’ or ‘I want’. She leant across and passed it to him. He prised the pen from the tightly held pages. For at least ten minutes he sat on the carpet, engrossed, pressing the push button of the retractable pen before returning it with great difficulty to the notebook. He liked a pen. Grown-ups used them all the time. From a charity shop, she had bought Isaac a phone with a receiver. Even though it was like new, she wiped it thoroughly with anti-bacterial wipes and replaced the batteries. Unable to resist, he pressed the red button on the dial. The noise frightened him. He whimpered and backed away. She could see that the toy phone, still in perfect condition, would be finding its way back to the charity shop at the next opportunity. He left with his mum at about six, happy enough to put on his coat and sit on the bottom stair for his shoes. She turned on the oven for the shepherd’s pie enclosed in pastry, pie. They had it with cabbage and a mix of fresh fruit for dessert. On clearing up she applied another layer of newspaper to the bowl. All evening, her notebook lay open on her lap. There was nothing much on TV. She wasn’t keen on Benidorm – all brash and sweltering.

10 January 2015. There was no respite in the wind. It was ferocious. All night, it had rattled round the house. She had slept in fits and starts, and lay listening to something that sounded like a bucket or a plastic bin. With every squally gust, it tumbled and scraped around in swirling bursts. Now and then it stopped, then with renewed vigour it moved off down the road. Although early, she got up and spent an hour bending and stretching. The wind roared in the chimney. Initially, it curtailed her husband’s fishing plans. Drizzle and sudden showers dampened them further. Suddenly, he announced that he was going to go after all. She quickly made a sandwich. In the time it took to drive the short distance to the lake, the front had pushed through and the sky gave way to fleeting cloud. Within no time, her husband phoned. He was glad to have gone and chuffed to bits that he had already caught a bream. Might she walk over? Ingredients for a pudding, close to their use-by date and too good to waste, were already weighed and the pastry case was in the oven. She would have to bake that first. She sorted the fire, which couldn’t decide whether to burn or not. She put it down to the wind. Also, she gave the little bowl its third layer of newspaper and left it to dry. With the pudding out of the oven, she got dressed to go out, tied her boots and pulled on her hat. Needing to be home again by 2pm, she walked briskly. Everything was on the move. During the night, the merciless wind had snatched at branches, torn at fence panels and gutters. Rubbish had been carried and dumped. Banks of leaves had become wedged in the verges. Being sheltered, Tongwell Lane offered some respite from the persistent roar. She was soon too warm and the gloves were off and stuffed in her pockets. The low winter sun cast long soft shadows across the wide grassy bank that sloped down to the water. Ducks, geese, moorhens and coots bobbed on North Lake. Gulls called and fell about the sky. Where it neared the river and became part of the flood control system, the wide concrete path was littered with spent reeds and detritus, thrown up in the waves when the wind was at its worst. Waves still lapped over the barrier. Her husband sat, braving the elements on the South Lake. He had positioned the umbrella to break the force of the wind. He faced into the sun; his woolly hat pulled down to his glasses. Moving his compartment box, he invited her to sit down. Alert to the time, she perched for a few minutes on the tackle box. Disappointingly, since phoning, he had not had another bite. Facing into the driving wind, she walked back around the lakes. It was hard work. She ate the Clementine that lay snuggled in her pocket. On reaching Willen village football pitches, with her gloves off and hat in her hand, she heard the whistle blow. The boys shook hands and clustered in their teams. She glanced at her watch, 12.30pm. She would be home just after one.

In the afternoon, after calling on her neighbour, she turned on the laptop and sat down to type. Writing in rough, as she did, was manageable but keeping up with the transcribing was a challenge. Even though retired, finding a great sweep of uninterrupted time in the day was nearly impossible. Not knowing where to locate diacritic marks, her son had sent a detailed list of how and where to find them. She printed it. The laptop she was using did not have the function that he suggested, but with his information, she went back into symbols, changed the font and there they were.

With such an indulgent pudding, dinner was sparse. Along with a glass of wine, however, it was surprisingly tasty. Her son and his wife were staying overnight and although the bed was ready, she made some minor adjustments, i.e. moved the charity bag to another room. All evening, she typed. There was nothing much on TV.

11 January 2015. She slept later than usual. Not having anything much in the fridge for breakfast, she made up some bread and used half for a pizza and half for a loaf. It was a bright sunny morning, not a cloud. She gave the small bowl its last layer of papier-mâché and put it to dry over the tumbler for the last time. Unexpectedly, they were invited to their son’s friend’s surprise birthday get-together in the afternoon. They had known the friend almost as long as they had known their son. It was an easy, leisurely afternoon. With wine glass in hand, she talked to Sue, the friend’s mother. Over the years they had got to know each other, but with rarely time to talk, conversations had been short-lived. Besides sharing like-minded interests, enjoying reading and family history, both of them had had a clutch of children who alone generated a wealth of stories they were not short of something to say.

12 January 2015. She spent an hour doing Pilates, then emptied the dishwasher. She sorted the bins and when she was dressed, put them by the front wall for collection. Carefully resting the small bowl on a crumpled tea towel, she neatly trimmed away the surplus paper. Assuming that the incision in the base had been the answer to the first paper cup shedding from the bowl, she repeated it on the second. It didn’t budge. She pressed and pushed with her thumbs and fingertips. She let her hands and the bowl rest, then tried again. She squeezed and squeezed all around the base. There were faint papery creaks. She was hopeful and persevered. She continued to press and push and at last, there was movement. Like a snake shedding its skin, the paper cup edged free of the bowl. In the process of covering the bins, she had had to work on the large bin upside down as the paper kept slipping down and hadn’t thought that it might be a problem when it came to releasing it. As she pressed down and bent the bin-shaped moulds, the plastic cracked like a whip. The plastic broke. Shattered pieces flew across the kitchen. Even though the force, the tension and the splintering sound alone was enough to rip the papier-mâché, it seemed, however, that the sudden violent release of energy was enough to jerk the paper free from the mould. Breathing a huge sigh of relief to see that the papier-mâché shapes were still intact, she went to the dump with the bins for what they were, the Christmas tree along with the bag of branches, a bulk bag of green waste, a tub of old batteries, broken glass and some cardboard. On her return, she attached the handles to the cups and left them inverted on the worktop. She vacuumed the kitchen. Slivers of hard plastic clattered along the pipe.

A phone call determined dinnertime. Her husband picked the Brussels sprouts, dug the parsnips and pulled a leek. The chicken went in the oven to brown, filling the kitchen with a smoky haze. Taking it out twenty minutes later, she turned it over and covered it with foil. She prepared all the vegetables. Isaac came with his mum. Managing dinner all by himself, he ate it all, keeping a little space for pudding. After dinner, he played around. He went upstairs – he played in the sink – he danced – she read two books to him – he took his chair for a walk – they played rugby – he had a cup of tea and a slice of cake cut neatly into cubes – he ate a Clementine and put the peel in the compost bin. His dad came later and they all went home at six o’clock. It was still raining.

13 January 2015. Determined to get on with her writing, she got up, fired up the laptop, made a cup of tea, put a log on the fire, sat down and started to type her notes. Pleased with her progress, she saved her work. She wrote a list, Angling Times, chewing gum, Health Centre, bank. She didn’t write eggs on the list but thought she ought to get some, always useful. The forecast was one of awful weather spreading in from the west. From past experience, bad winter weather brought empty shelves in the local Coop. She checked the balance at the bank, made an appointment for her husband and bought the paper and the chewing gum. During the day, the lovely sunny morning gave way to rain. Just in time, she ran outside to gather the sheets from the line. Her son called at lunchtime. She made him a milky coffee and a plate of toast. He waited for his father to return from being out, so that he could take him to the local nursery and buy his laurel hedging. While with her, he photographed her pieces of papier-mâché on his phone and sent them to her and to her son who lived in London. Last year, when she made two pieces of work and entered them for the Summer Exhibition, she only had her final pictures and wished that she had a few of the work in progress. With the leftover roast chicken and vegetables, she made a pie for dinner. Not until she was peeling potatoes and preparing fruit, was she aware of the superficial cuts on her hands; the result of yesterday’s assault on the bins. Then she sat down again and continued with her typing. She could hear her husband in the garage, constructing a rack for supporting logs when cutting them with the chain saw. When they had eaten, she sat again, the laptop warming her thighs. Until 9 o’clock, her husband watched the fishing programmes. Now and then he checked the football scores then he changed the channels and they watched the second part of Silent Witness. At last, she had caught up.

14 January 2015. She emptied the dishwasher and turned on the radio, filled the kettle, made a drink and then a loaf of bread in the food processor. It took a minute. Dampening the top, she placed the dough in the tin and sprinkled over the oats. Tying the tin loosely in a carrier bag, she placed it on the hearth to prove. Eighteen minutes to eight. Meaning to have done it for some time, she perched on the edge of the settee and sorted two drawers. Besides the clutter, odds and ends popped in the drawers out of sight, they were mainly full of cards, some quite old. She looked at each, lovely cards given with love, most of which went into the recycling bag and some photos which she transferred to the photo cupboard. The clutch of handmade cards was gathered into one drawer. She was out for lunch and it was difficult to settle to anything much. She cleaned the kettle. How, when they were only filled with clean water, did they get so grubby? It had had a good wipe and was descaled just before Christmas. She cleaned the worktops. After a shower, she changed into a printed wool skirt with coordinating tights and cable knit jumper. Her husband said that she looked neat and smelt nice. She wore her big red coat, the longer length back in fashion, and lace-up boots, also back in fashion, both dating from the mid-eighties.

It wasn’t far to The Swan in Bromham. It was convenient. It was where she and her long-standing friend met every few months to catch-up with the news. As always, she arrived too early and reversed into her usual parking space to wait for a few minutes. Blurry vapour trails interrupted the cold cloudless sky and opposite, steam and heat escaped from the extraction flue over the kitchen. Like small flaws, long-haul planes ripped into the wide blue backdrop. She walked into the bar, ordered a soda and lime and took a seat. Two women were sitting in their usual corner by the fire but moved when a party of friends joined them. She stood up and moved in on table 15. Eileen had been waiting for the washing cycle to finish so that she could make the most of the blousy day. A watched pot… Giving each other a warm friendly hug, they sat down. Now, where were they? Oh yes. Continuing where they had left off in September, they talked about clothes, food, ingredients, the caravan, charity shops, porridge and the top of the milk. Why don’t you get cream on the top of the milk, like you used to? She knew that and explained to Eileen about milk production. And how cold jeans were, compared to tights a petticoat and a skirt and the length of skirts and the awful feeling of tights rubbing on jeans and boots and coats and of course, their children and friends and starting a business and Peaky Blinders and chickens and writing and how the frosting on a carrot cake can be unpredictable. In between all this, they ordered and ate without drawing breath. With everything off their chests, they hugged and said goodbye in the car park. Until March.

Arriving home, she made dinner for her husband and reluctantly changed for her Pilates class. She was not keen to go out in the beastly weather. Like others, she waited in the car for Jane the teacher to arrive. She didn’t. Her car had a flat tyre. One by one the engines started up, the headlights beamed and they all headed home in the rain.

15 January 2015. Waiting for her husband to return from his appointment, she picked up the three jute bags and the shopping list and went to Tesco. She kept closely to the list, scribbling out each word as she picked up the product and put it in the trolley. She did buy kale, ‘cattle fodder’, her husband would say, that wasn’t on the list, nor were kippers, or the beef for a stew. It didn’t take long. Then she queued for petrol. Soon she was home, putting the shopping away. She made a pan of spaghetti bolognaise for dinner then went out again to the hobby shop to buy paint, transfers and glue for her sculptures. Not being familiar with the cavernous store, or what they sold, had her browsing. Really, she was open to ideas and there were many. She located the acrylic paint on the upper floor and she found what she thought were transfers and the glue. Straight away she painted the insides of the cups, the upper side of the saucers and the bins inside and out. Deciding on the final colours was difficult, so for the time being everything was white. While the store catered for every conceivable hobby, it somehow didn’t quite have what was in her mind as far as decorative transfers were concerned. She could see that she might have to paint her own designs. In the meantime, she carried on thinking. Clearing up, she turned her thoughts to dinner.

The wind continued to howl, funnelling round the house, jostling the door. The flames in the wood-burner danced. A very interesting programme on trams was on TV.

16 January 2015. Another cold day was forecast. A hearty, wholesome stew and dumplings was called for. She sliced and diced the vegetables, browned the meat, added the stock. She made rice pudding, peeled potatoes and left a cluster of dumplings covered on a plate. She always preferred to get dinner prepared earlier, rather than later in the day. It allowed her to settle to other things knowing that it was ready or partly ready. She painted the outsides of the cups and the undersides of the saucers. She waited for Isaac to be delivered. They were going to the pool. The swim bag was ready. He arrived looking tearful. Her son said that it was because he had to share the back seat with Mr Henry, the vacuum cleaner. He liked having the whole seat to himself. Strapping Isaac into the pushchair, she asked him if he would like to hold his hand warmer. With a turn of his head and a whine, she took that to be a no. He seemed unconcerned about his cold, red hands. He was soon chattering in his Isaac patois, looking around, spotting planes. The river was just within its banks, brown and swirling. Further on, however, where the path merged with the trees; the bank could not staunch the flow and had flooded over. It was too deep to walk through without wearing Wellington boots. Turning the pushchair round, she walked back and cut through the houses. Isaac was becoming familiar with the procedure and waited while she paid and hung up her coat. They were soon into their swim things. The water was completely still – and warm. Supporting Isaac under his arms, he swam and splashed on his front and on his back. He walked from one side to another. Now and then, he bravely shook his hand free of hers but found it harder to walk than he thought; she was there not a breath away. He loved the shower afterwards. They changed back into their clothes and she dried Isaac’s hair, important because he didn’t like wearing a hat any more than he liked wearing mitts. She lifted him into the pushchair and fastened the straps. Walking home again, they faced into the sun. Isaac watched the dogs out for their afternoon walks. Dinner didn’t take long to finish off. She dished up. Isaac was already in his chair, waiting. He ate all his dinner followed by a bowl of rice pudding. Until six o’clock he played around, in the kitchen sink, upstairs, he looked at his books, played with the teapots, ate an apple and a Clementine, played with the small wooden tops. She half-watched Benidorm.

17 January 2015. It was early morning. Her husband was up and about – unusual if he was not going fishing. He wanted to get the rooms back to normal after Christmas and launched, rather annoyingly for her, into pushing the furniture about to enable the settee to be moved out and the dining room table to be moved in. Gaudy boughs still hung from the lampshades. She looked on aghast. Suddenly her son charged through the house to the kitchen and ran a bowl of soapy water and furiously started cleaning, the already clean in her opinion, high chair. It foamed with brushing and cleaning. He wiped it down and squeezed the cloth and wiped again and again. The reason for the sudden burst of energy was that the Health Visitors were about to call. And they did. The doorbell rang and two women that she recognised as Teaching Assistants from when she was at school, walked in and gave the high chair a thorough check. In the space her husband had created for the table, Dawn, one of the women, spread out soft pale blankets and even though there were chairs, sat down on them and explained that they had examined the chair and found it to be completely clean. Then, other babies appeared. Small and floating, they seemed to drift in. Her head was muzzy.

Her eyes sprang open. Her mouth was dry. She really did feel muzzy. For her, falling to sleep again was never good. Immediately she got up, went downstairs, brought the fire to life, emptied the dishwasher and put two Oatibix in a bowl for her husband. Flicking the switch on the kettle, she had a glass of hot water. She pulled up the blind. Gritty snow was blowing about. After breakfast, she walked into town via Riverside Meadow. Overnight, the flooded path had turned to ice. She returned the books to the library and chose some more, two ‘touchy feely’ books for Isaac and a few for her husband. She bought a newspaper and went to the chemist for a packet of Ibuprofen for her husband’s aching back. Sunlight filled the kitchen. Looking out, birds scuttled through the nest of grey-green branches of the wisteria twinning over the pergola. Thin streaking clouds raced through against the keen blue sky. Blackbirds, starlings and a robin ventured to eat from the tub of maggots, courtesy of her husband. Defrosted, the birdbath steamed. Sparrows splashed and preened. Over a cup of tea, she dissected the paper into its sections and glanced at the book reviews, leaving it folded on the Saturday’s TV page. She looked briefly at the leaflets on cruising and faraway places before recycling them. After lunch, she left her husband despairing at ‘his’ team Nottingham Forest, who were playing Derby to call on her friend, Chris. It was about a month since they had met up. There was a lot to talk about and they soon whiled away the afternoon. It must have all kicked off when she left. Returning home, her husband was chanting ‘twooo – ooone’ as she pushed open the door. He was in fine fettle. She heated the stew and made fresh dumplings. On completing the crossword, she turned on the laptop and began to write.

18 January 2015. Having missed her Pilates lesson during the week, her exercise regime had lapsed. On hearing the boiler click on, she got up and by 6.30am was warming up. If possible, depending on the exercise, she looked at the second hand of her watch, otherwise she counted, sometimes in time with the steady tick of the clock, easy enough when it was quiet but with the wood burner competing, clinking and pinging as it expanded and contracted in the formidable heat, leaving her feeling confused. Lumbering the vacuum cleaner out of the cupboard, she left it on the carpet ready to switch on at a more agreeable time for a Sunday. She made a nice breakfast, kippers and tomatoes, and toast.

She was still undecided about the embellishment for the cups and saucers and wanted to put her thoughts into practice. She wanted to see if it was possible to mould wallpaper over the bowl and the saucers. She had plenty of wallpaper and tore off four pieces from a roll. She soaked one for ten minutes hoping it would become more malleable. Disappointingly it was weak, unlike newspaper it did not have the strength when wet, tearing both ways easily – perhaps if she had torn small pieces… Looking at the wallpaper, however, gave her another idea. With meticulous care, she cut round six rosebud sprigs and scrolled them round the cups and over the base of the saucers. She could see that they would sit perfectly. She put Mr Henry and the feather duster to good use and made an oaty crumble mixture. Although the day was spiked with cold, there was a strong bright sun and to be honest, finding other things to do, even the ironing, was just an excuse for not going out for a walk. She was wearing a skirt and thick tights and despite what she had said the other day, she put clean jeans over the tights. Wrapping up, she laced her boots and pulled her hat down firmly. At a brisk pace she entered Bury Field at Lakes Lane. The sound of the gate rippled around in the cold still air. Already she regretted not changing into socks and just had to ignore the constant friction between the tights and the jeans. It was a glorious afternoon. The sunlight spread over the field. Near the houses, long black shadows stretched across the grass. There were couples dotted about, taking a walk, sometimes with dogs. Leaving the field at Mill Street, she walked beside the river around the graveyard and into Riverside Meadow. It was hard to see in the glare of the low winter sun. She came home glad to have been out, to Isaac and her son. She finished off the crumble and made a pasta bake.

19 January 2015. Again, she slept later and felt groggy. Her 8.15am appointment at the dentist for a check-up had her up and dressed promptly. Removing her coat, she sat on the special chair and exchanged her own glasses for a pair of dental spectacles then lowered into position. A disposable napkin was placed over her chest. The dentist commented on her good brushing and suggested a polish, to which she agreed. The dental nurse was in charge of keeping her mouth free of debris, sucking up water, her tongue and her gum. A blast of cold water escaped down her neck. Her hand instantly clasped the paper bib to blot it, where it remained in fear of another soaking.

After breakfast, she and her husband were taking the Land Rover for its MOT. Popping into the ‘all singing, all dancing’ hobby shop on the way, she needed to choose paint and return what she hadn’t needed. While there was a need for a craft shop, somehow the concept didn’t quite cut it. She couldn’t fault the staff manning the tills but it seemed garish and tacky, the sort of place that had been set up to make you believe that you needed what it sold. She chose the paint for her sculptures and made tracks. Her husband had delivered the Land Rover and was waiting for her to pick him up. From there, they went to Browns, to collect the chainsaw that had been there for sharpening.

Before meeting her friend for a cup of tea in the afternoon, she applied the first coat of paint to the insides of the cups and the upper sides of the saucers. They went into their usual café to find the lady spraying and wiping down the tables and about to close for the day. Instead, they went into the hotel next door. Even though they were originally going to have tea, they spent a leisurely couple of hours over a pot of coffee. Once home, she settled to finishing the dinner, liver, kale and spinach, all good stuff.

In the morning, her husband had bought a paper. She perused the crossword clues, quickly concluding that it was too difficult. Nonetheless, she attempted the obvious clues and gradually completed it. They watched Silent Witness then she continued painting. All-bar-one cup had a second coat of paint. Unusually they stayed up later. Why was Waterloo Road on so late?

20 January 2015. First thing in the morning she did Pilates for an hour then painted the outside of the remaining cup. With Isaac calling later, she got on with preparing dinner. She made a basic fish pie and weighed ingredients for a chocolate sponge

With the painting done, a layer of PVA glue was the next step. She had just finished painting glue on the upper sides of the saucers and insides of the cups when she heard the thud of Isaac’s step coming through the house. His first concern was to get the fireguard in position, acting out the sounds of huffing and puffing while his granddad manoeuvred it from the hall to the fire. He smiled at her and gave his ‘hello’ wave. She took his hands in hers. They were freezing. She heated the hand warmer but he wasn’t interested. Instead, she made him a warm drink and then he played, pouring water from one plastic pot to another – soaking all around the sink, looking at the library books – stroking teddy’s furry tummy. He danced to the hand-mixer when she made the chocolate sponge. Gradually, the dinner came together.

In spite of the cold weather, when his dad and his granddad came in, he went outside in his Wellingtons and his jacket. While his dad sawed logs on the latest invention, Isaac was in the garage helping his granddad make a seed tray. Back indoors again, everyone thawed out. Playing continued. The TV went on, the usual late afternoon programmes, then the local news. Isaac had what she called a giddy time, giggling and rolling about, playing boo and shrieking with delight until it was 7 o’clock and time to go home. His protests went unheard. After clearing up, she opened the laptop and started to type. She and her husband watched the second part of Silent Witness.

21 January 2015. For her, staying in bed beyond 6.30pm wasn’t good. After emptying the dishwasher, she gave two saucers and one cup a coat of PVA glue and fixed the wallpaper motifs in position. Her husband went to the shed to sow the broad bean seeds. She vacuumed the whole house. The spell of cold weather had increased their appetites. Needing another loaf, she weighed out the flour, kneaded the dough and put it to prove on the hearth before going back to the hobby shop to swap the two tubes of turquoise paint for two tubes of grey. In the parade of stores, there was a Halfords. Hoping that they might stock the classic red and yellow tricycle, she went in. No such luck. Not wanting to come away empty handed, she bought Isaac a sit-on truck. It boasted a horn, a tip-up seat for storage and a phone, in case of emergencies. Excitedly, she unpacked and assembled it. Then she was back to painting glue on the second cup.

The tubes of grey paint lurked invitingly. Laying the kitchen table with newspaper, she began to paint the insides of the bins. God, it was too dark. It needed rescuing with a good dollop of white. She had had