Emily decided to spend the weekend at her parents cottage in the rolling hills of the Cotswolds. The week had been a nightmare; after a brutal stretch at the office she lay awake every night, the insomnia refusing every pill and every cup of chamomile. She took a spare Friday off, promising herself a brief rest and a chance to help Mum collect the latesummer blackcurrants, fetch a few groceries and pick up the prescriptions shed forgotten.
She parked the car in the little walled garden of the modest, weatherworn cottage that had only three windows. The moment the engine clicked off, a scrappy ginger cat named Pippin sprang out, his tail twitching with nervous energy. He sniffed the tires, marked the side of the driveway with the confidence of a dog, and bolted into the garden until Mums gentle scolding called him back.
Here we go again, Emily sighed, her voice a low growl.
She hauled two battered suitcases up the stone steps, stumbling over a towering pile of shoes that had been gathering dust since she was a child. The worn, holeridden sandals with cracked soles were the very pair shed worn on school trips a decade ago, now waiting silently for a change that never seemed to come.
With a frustrated kick she knocked the ancient shoes aside, slipped off her own boots, and pushed open the front door into a hallway that doubled as a summer bedroom. Chaos reigned: against the freshly panelled wall stood an iron fourposter bed, its brass knobs glinting like tiny medals. The mattress was buried under a mountain of clothes, and if she dug through the mouldy heap she might find the light summer dress shed loved at ten.
So thats another hurdle crossed, she muttered, anger tightening her jaw.
She shoved the suitcases inside. The house was empty. Her father must have been out on the river, checking nets, while her mother was still wandering the market stalls. Inevitably they would return with wide, bewildered eyes:
Oh, love, youre here! We hadnt expected you at all!
They truly had forgotten. That morning Mum had been frantic on the phone: Im a wreck, Ive forgotten the meds, I cant get up, the milks gone sour, theres no bread, no butterplease help! It sounded as if the world were collapsing.
In the kitchen, Emily slammed the fridge open and felt a wave of fury. Three halffinished sticks of butter were perched in the freezer, a fourth lay forgotten on the bottom shelf. Two cartons of milk bought the week before now swelled into curdled yoghurt. Perhaps Mum had tried to brew her own penicillin; three weeks later it would be useless.
Slices of ham lay beside a block of dried cheese; a tin of stew, its lid still attached to a spoon, rested on a bunch of wilted spring onions. Jars of jam and jars of cucumber brine stared back, their contents thickened by the chill. The freezers icy grip had at least kept any unwelcome critters at bay.
Emily fetched a bucket, a scrub brush, and began hauling out the spoiled bounty, scrubbing the shelves until they shone. Every rotten morsel was tossed into the compost heap, where a pair of crows perched on the fence and immediately swooped down to sample the discarded feast.
She exhaled, a breath of relief escaping her lungs: thank goodness Mum wasnt home yet. Otherwise the inevitable tirade would have begun:
You cant throw food away! Its a sin! Ill make pancakes for you!
Emilys own creed was just as firm: never let food reach this state. Take only what you can eat. Waste is a sin.
