Weathering by Lucy Wood Read Free Book Online

weeds. She tried again, slopped water everywhere, but couldn’t move any further. She shook her head, wrung out her sodden sleeves and sat back down on the rock. Still stuck in the place.
    The river moved in bulky ripples; behind it, the wet kaleidoscope of trees. The woods were so deep and sometimes there were hoarfrosts so thick in there it was as if the whole world had grown . . .

Chapter 7
    Feathers, and then a few small sticks fell out of the chimney. Ada had avoided the fire for a few days but now she rattled the grate; a stiffness in her back from sleeping on the camping bed, the metal like a trap about to spring. Every night she’d had restless dreams with hot water in them: running for a train and when the doors opened hot water pouring out, heavy clouds louring and then hot water pouring out. Her dreams always straightforward rather than cryptic, like someone saying, very slowly: now are you sure you understand what needs to be done?
    What she needed was a bath and to wash her hair, which was matted and lank, like those greasy clumps of wool she used to find snagged on the hedges around here. She had almost had it all cut off once, but on the bus the woman sitting next to her had touched her hand and said: whatever you’re about to do, it’s a big mistake. She had got off the bus and walked home.
    The wind rattled the chimney and sent down a clatter of grit. Another feather rocked down. Her mother had done this day after day, year after year. Somehow made it look easy. Although once, Ada had seen her kneeling in front of it saying: you keep me tied, don’t you? Not angry so much as surprised, striking a match and letting it go out so she could inhale the spent smoke, eyes closed and face tilted, like a connoisseur. She always cleared her throat before she talked, as if having to force words up that were trapped somewhere. And she started pretending to be deaf. ‘What?’ she would say. ‘Sorry?’ Cupping her ear. Avoiding questions. She wouldn’t answer the door if someone knocked; she would walk straight past the ringing phone. But could still make out the peep of a kingfisher if a window was open.
    ‘We’ve run out of bread,’ Ada would say, leaning round the door of the study.
    ‘What’s wrong with your head?’ Her mother wouldn’t look up from the desk. A clock’s innards spilling out.
    ‘Bread.’ Ada would shake the empty bag. ‘Bread.’
    ‘Pass me that screw would you? It keeps rolling off the table.’
    ‘Pardon?’ Ada would say. ‘What?’
    It went in circles like that. It went in circles like that a lot.
     
    ‘There’s something sticking out the chimney,’ Pepper said. She still had her coat on, her hair specked with mist.
    Ada slid the metal cover off the flue and felt around. Got in past her wrist before hitting something solid. Remembered herself at five, watching a man help a cow give birth. Sleeves rolled up to the elbow. ‘Who’s in there?’ she had asked. ‘Who is it?’
    She took her arm out. ‘It’s blocked,’ she said. ‘The whole thing is blocked.’ Didn’t her mother used to sweep it out every year? Worried it would poison them in the night, smoke them out like foxes; the thought of danger bringing out the glint of drama she harboured – she would turn a near miss into a collision, a twinge into something chronic.
    Ada put on boots and went outside. There were sheep in the distance wrapped in mist, the trees wearing mist as scarves. The light curdled like old milk.
    There was definitely something sticking out of the chimney. She found a ladder in one of the barns, more rust than metal, uneven legs. Dragged it out, the legs jarring on stones, and looked up. It wasn’t a tall house but now the roof seemed to yawn up and away.
    ‘Did you used to sleep in the bed I’m sleeping in?’ Pepper asked.
    Ada leaned the ladder against the house. ‘I’ve got to climb up there,’ she said.
    ‘I’ll do it,’ Pepper said. ‘It’s easy.’
    ‘It’s not