There’s a missed call on my phone from my mother. There’s a half-eaten burger in front of the TV. And one eye of my father is roving me. I took a cab from the station to my old family home. It took me six numbers and seventeen minutes to find one. The reception isn’t kind, this side of London. It’s all dial tones and landlines. Endlessly ringing answering machine wind chimes. One lady said, simply, ‘We don’t do that anymore,’ then hung up. I almost phoned Willow, who would’ve had 4G, but stopped myself and went to see what business cards they had inside the train station. The ticket office was closed. The ticket office was always closed. I don’t remember it ever having been open. Rainy, red-brick holes for windows. Waiting room abandoned. Boarded up. Tickets torn up and dropped on the floor around clear plastic bin bags, but not in them. My father knew I was coming, but the whole thing felt like a show.
I found a taxi driver shouting at another car in the rank. Bookings only. Official passes passable to parking officers, but where they were the bemused other-driver couldn’t tell. When I went over, to interrupt, I could hear him trying to explain that he was only waiting for his daughter.
Throat deep in mayonnaise my father says, ‘So tell me.’ He says that and nothing more.
‘The driver told me, “Bookings only,”’ I say.
We’re eating early. Well, he’s eating. I’m picking. Not flicking through channels. Doesn’t matter what we watch. ‘I could see the taxi office from where he was shouting. I had to go over and ask for a taxi, and then I had to wait five minutes. And when they told me, “He’s arriving now,” it was the same driver I’d just spoken to.’
My father nods.
My little sister’s curled up where the dog used to sleep.
‘You spoken to your mother?’ he says.
‘A little.’
‘She still living in Essex?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘You should see her before you find another job and get too busy to visit us again.’
‘Maybe.’
My father nods.
I clear the plates. Kitchen’s a mess. Father says, ‘Thought we might take the guns out tomorrow.’ He’s rolling a cigarette. ‘Bag a few birds while we look for that fox’s den.’
‘Didn’t know you smoked,’ I say.
He nods.
‘Okay.’
‘Okay what?’
‘Let’s take the guns out.’
My sister looks up.
‘I’ve still got that old .410, you know,’ says my father.
‘I thought you’d sold it.’
The bin is overflowing.
‘No. I’ve been popping rats at that new barn they’ve built. You still hungry?’
I look at what’s left of the burger on my plate. Soggy from microwave. Sweaty pillow for bun. Kebab dream meat patty and mystery cheese. I say, ‘No.’ Open the fridge for some juice.
‘Sorry about the smell,’ says my father. ‘I haven’t had time to mend the broken seal. Here,’ he says, getting up and walking over, ‘I bought a cake for pudding, if you like.’ Before I can answer he’s already cutting me a slice. Elbowing around a kitchen that used to feel a lot bigger. ‘Carrot’s your favourite, right? Carrot’s your favourite? I know it’s not homemade, but I’m sure it’ll taste alright. I’ve got some work to do in the village tomorrow afternoon. Bit of plumbing at the church hall. But if you’d like to take the guns out, the morning’s free.’ My sister coughs loudly, expecting a treat. ‘Though, they could do with a clean.’
*
‘There’s newspaper by the Parkray,’ says my father. ‘Put the newspaper on the table and–’
‘Some on the floor?’ I say. ‘I know. I remember.’
My father takes a key from the dresser by the wall bracket TV and opens the door to the cupboard under the stairs where the gun cabinet is bolted. He brings out two cleaning kits. One for the .410 and one for the 12 bore. They’re in long thin cardboard cases, the 12 bore case slightly thicker, its edges worn, one corner torn, and an elastic band round the middle to keep its guts together. My father lays them on the newspaper I placed on the table then goes back to the cupboard. ‘Spoken to Stephanie lately?’ he asks me.
‘I saw her yesterday, actually.’
‘How’s she getting on?’
‘She seems fine. How do you think?’
He brings out the shotguns. Lays them next to the long thin boxes on the newspaper on the table. ‘Just a second,’ he says, going back for the old can of Youngs 303.
‘How’s the baby?’
‘Which one.’
‘The one that’s been born.’ He shakes his head.
‘Quiet,’ I say. ‘Looks more and more like him every day.’
My father nods. ‘Can’t be easy.’
‘She’s cracking on,’ I say. ‘Keeping busy.’
My father nods.
He sits down.
‘She’s got a fox,’ I tell him, standing up from my chair to get a glass of water from the kitchen where, speaking louder, I say, ‘keeps stealing her chickens.’
‘She going to kill him?’ he asks.
‘No. And it might be a she.’
My father shakes his head. ‘She’s a fool there,’ he says. ‘If she doesn’t kill him, or at least get someone else to kill him, he’ll end up taking every chicken she owns.’
I sit down at the table and face him. ‘Probably. But even if she does,’ I say, ‘one of its children will just do the same.’
My father rests his hands on a shotgun. ‘You’ve got to shoot them all, I’m afraid.’
There’s a pause.
‘Look here,’ he says, pointing at the newspaper I placed open on the table, ‘Kelly’s Heroes is on Channel Five tomorrow.’ He sniffs. ‘Shall we watch it? Haven’t seen that in years.’
I smile, tell him, ‘I’d love to.’
‘Good,’ says my father, smiling too. ‘Now, to field-strip your shotgun, you–’