The herd, p.29
The Herd, page 29
She has to force the voice out of her throat as she says, ‘But they can’t, they can’t see me like this, Jack.’
‘We talked about this, remember, Elizabeth? The doctor said that at some point it would be worse to keep them away, that they’d feel like they were being lied to or ignored. They’re begging me to come home. They know you’re not well, they’ll give you space, but let them come home, Elizabeth, please.’
She feels herself nod because he’s talking too much, and she longs to slip back down into the comfort of the cool darkness she knows will be waiting for her as soon as she closes her eyes again.
She’s lying with her hands turned up, empty, when she hears the scratch of a key followed by the tingle of the bell on top of the front door as it rattles open. Her chest tightens as she braces herself to hear one of her children calling her name, but where there should be running feet or raised, excited voices there’s just more silence, until someone with slow, plodding steps starts walking upstairs, turning the lights on as they pass through the landing. Elizabeth ignores the crash in her head as she lifts herself up to lean against the wall. Maybe Jack changed his mind about bringing the children home after all. But then from across the landing a voice calls, ‘Elizabeth?’ followed by a gentle tap at the master bedroom door. Through the chemical fug another memory demands attention. It’s years ago and Elizabeth’s dad has just died and Elizabeth is crying in the early morning. She’s hiding her face in Bry’s shoulder, Bry’s hand stroking her hair and reassuring her that she’s not alone. That Bry will never let her be alone.
Bry calls again.
‘Elizabeth?’
But Elizabeth can’t reply because her voice is jammed by a thick plug of fear, so she just sits in the darkness and waits.
She hears the little bell to Clemmie’s door ring before Bry appears, backlit, in the doorway. Elizabeth’s eyes crease, assaulted, as Bry turns on the main light. Even though she must have expected to find her somewhere in the house, Bry still lets out a startled ‘Oh’ when she sees Elizabeth cowering in the little bed. For a moment the two women just stare at each other, and in that moment every human emotion seems to flow between them. It’s too much; Elizabeth can’t take it. She drops her head to her knees and braces herself for Bry to say or do whatever she’s here for. She feels Bry move into the centre of the room, hears the soft thump as she sits down on the carpet.
She hears her shuffle to get comfortable, her breath, and then she hears her say, ‘I want you to know I don’t expect you to say anything or do anything. I’m here for me.’
Elizabeth doesn’t move.
‘I did exactly this, after Clemmie lost her sight. I couldn’t get out of bed, I felt like I’d bled every good thing to death. I felt if I moved in the world again, I’d only cause more suffering and I couldn’t, I just couldn’t bear …’ She can’t finish her sentence but she doesn’t need to.
‘Then I realised something, Elizabeth. I realised that even though I hated having to exist, I had no choice – I have to exist.’
Elizabeth doesn’t move but she feels her face wet with tears.
‘You cannot abandon your children, Elizabeth. They need you to show them that recovery is possible, that no matter how much sadness, guilt or shame they feel, no matter how many times they fuck up, it’s all surmountable, that they have survival in their DNA. We all carry shadows. But if you sink too far, Elizabeth, if you go to a place where no one can reach you, then you’ll be dragging them down with you and, just like you, they may never get out.’
There’s a small fracture to Bry’s voice, but she limps on.
‘It’s time to get up now, Elizabeth. It’s time to stand in the shower and be downstairs when they come home. They need you and you need them.’
For the first time, Elizabeth looks up at Bry. They are both crying freely now but neither woman reaches for the other. Elizabeth feels like she’s dissolving, as though layers of herself are melting away with every tear that rolls, plump, from her eyes. She feels ancient and brand new, raw and flawed. But she also feels the hard ball of fear release and she knows, for the first time, that she’s going to have to survive.
Clemmie falls asleep on the drive home, Claude next to her on the back seat, his yellow head and shoulder her cushion. The boys stare, grave as monks, out of their windows as Jack whispers careful words of instruction, of reassurance.
‘Just give your mum space, OK, boys? She needs lots of rest at the moment so she gets better quickly, OK?’
They wanted to come home but now he can feel their hesitation; the air in the car is thick, troubled. Jack pauses for the hundredth time, wonders whether he should turn around and drive them back to the cheery Christmas lights, tinsel and pine-scented air of his parents’ house, instead of towards the unfathomable depths of their mum’s desolation. Jack wishes he could tell them the truth, wishes he could tell them that he’s frightened too. That he’s terrified Elizabeth will rebuff or, worse, ignore them, or that having them close could cause her to sink even deeper. It has been months after all, all the way back in that lost world of ladybirds and sunshine last summer, since she last tucked them in or kicked a ball with them, since she’s been the mum he wants them to remember. They’ve adapted, as kids do, but the cracks are starting to show. Jack had been called in at the end of term to Max’s school after he hit another boy in the playground. Charlie had become uncharacteristically withdrawn and moody, and then Clemmie had burst into unexpected tears yesterday. It had almost broken Jack when her small hands wiped away the tears that had also started to run down his own face, as he tried to convince his little girl that it most definitely wasn’t her fault that Mummy was so tired and needed so much rest.
If anyone has mistreated Elizabeth, Jack knows it’s him. He’s known since the beginning that the case was never about setting a precedent or helping others. It was instead the only way Elizabeth knew how to live with her pain. Anger, he now knows, is so much easier to feel than sadness. He should have stopped her then, he should never have let her take it so far. No, no, he’s still getting it wrong. He should have stopped her seven years ago when, in a high, tense voice, her face blank, shadowed with exhaustion, Clemmie a tiny baby at her breast, she’d promised that she was OK, that of course he should go to work, she was absolutely fine. For seven years she’s been in perpetual motion, always doing something useful, whether it’s sharpening the boys’ pencils for their art class or campaigning against the development of another supermarket site. Sometimes he found her busyness admirable and sometimes he found it intimidating, but it should always have been a warning. He should have got her to stop but he never did, because he never took the time to figure out how to get her to stop. Sometimes being still and sad is the hardest thing.
He has no idea how the next few hours, let alone the coming months, are going to work out. The few friends who haven’t withdrawn their offers of support since the case was dismissed have advised him to use the money from the Kohlis to get them through financially and to take one day at a time. There’s no other way, they said, and they are right of course. Eventually they’ll have to move – somewhere cheaper, somewhere with space to rebuild their lives – but not today. Today he just has to get his children home and make sure his wife doesn’t slip – seen but unreachable – beneath the impenetrable ice of her sadness.
Clemmie stirs as Jack parks the car outside their house. Number 10 along with the unlit Number 9 are the only houses on the road not to have any fairy lights or Christmas cards on display. Even the new tenants next door have put a small silver tree in their front window. The boys look curious and a little shy as they stare at their home while Clemmie, her hand on Claude’s head, asks, ‘Are we home, Daddy?’
Jack’s relieved – as he knew he would be – that he left the downstairs lights on so the house wouldn’t look too bleak when they arrived. Everyone turns towards him for an answer, so Jack opens his door and forces brightness into his voice as he says, ‘We’re home!’ And as he gathers Clemmie up, yawning, into his arms, Charlie suddenly grapples to undo his seatbelt and kicks open his door in a rush, and as soon as his feet touch the ground he starts running, with a little yelp of joy, towards the front door.
With Clemmie in his arms and Claude now circling his feet, Jack can’t see what’s got him so excited. But then Max, his head craning and bobbing to see what his brother just saw, shouts, ‘Mum!’
And before he’s even seen her for himself Jack starts running too, Clemmie laughing now in his arms because she doesn’t need her eyes to tell her that her mummy is there, standing in the doorway, her arms wide and aching to hold them all again.
13 January 2020
The removal men don’t stop for a chat or even a cup of tea; they can sense the urgency, Bry’s need to leave quickly and cleanly. They’ve been paid extra to start so early, while it’s still dark, with the hope of avoiding as many watchful eyes as possible. This place that once represented freedom has become a panopticon, somewhere Bry and Ash feel constantly observed, a place where people will always mutter and point. It can never be home again. Light the colour of dirty water starts to bleed through the dull sky just as Ash comes out of the house, helping the removal men carry the huge rolled-up rug from the sitting room. Apart from Rosalyn and Row, they’ve heard nothing from their old neighbours. It is as though they’ve all agreed to pretend they never sipped wine in each other’s gardens or babysat for Alba. The two years they spent on the street are like a stain they all want to ignore. But her family have lost too much to worry about the neighbours. They’ve become a juicy footnote in the history of the street and the town. So be it.
Alba has spent the last hour moving solemnly from room to room, stroking the walls and saying goodbye to the creaky stair, the wall in the loo where she used to scribble with her crayons, and other secret places. Bry was worried it could confuse or upset her, to see their old home emptied and lifeless, but she’s too interested in the future to bother much with the past.
Just as the grey morning starts to blanket the sky, Bry notices Jane’s curtains quiver open. If she’s watching them, she’s doing so from a safe distance. Bry turns away and, as the men feed the carpet into the van, Ash dusts his hands on his jeans and says, ‘Well, I think that’s it. That’s everything.’
He puts his arm over Bry’s shoulders and they stand silently watching as the removal men make sure all their possessions are secure and packed safely for the drive to the flat, which is still just a flat but will somehow magically become their home. They both turn towards the front steps to watch as Alba skips down them for the last time.
‘I’ve done goodbye,’ she tells them firmly before sliding her hand into Bry’s. ‘Can we have pancakes now?’
Bry squeezes her daughter’s hand and is about to lead her to the car when someone from down the road clatters their recycling bin out of the side gate and away from them along the pavement where other green bins are congregated, waiting to be emptied. Bry’s new instinct is not to look up, to keep pressing Alba towards her car seat, but Alba isn’t afraid. She lifts her hand to point at the man who has now turned around to walk back to his house, the man who used to blow raspberries on her stomach and gave her her first scooter. She shouts, her voice high and excited, ‘Uncle Jack! Uncle Jack!’
Quick as a fish, Alba’s little hand wiggles out of Bry’s and, ignoring Ash and Bry calling her name, her hands fold into fists and start to pump the air as she runs towards her old friend. Jack, in bathrobe and slippers, just stands and stares, frozen and uncertain like Bry and Ash. What will they do? Jack watches Alba blankly for a moment before he turns and calls something inside his house. Alba slows before she reaches Jack and Bry clutches Ash’s arm as Clemmie, using the recently fitted rail, starts to walk slowly down their front steps. She’s taller and her hair has grown in even thicker waves down her back. Bry moves to go to them but Ash stops her.
‘Just watch,’ he whispers.
Alba has reached the steps now, Jack still some way beyond, but she’s not so interested in him any more. She gives a little hop as Clemmie reaches the bottom step just as Elizabeth appears at the top, hugging a mug with her hands. It’s the first time the girls have seen each other since Clemmie’s party in July. Alba, still fizzing with excitement, moves closer to Clemmie and Clemmie tilts her head, thoughtful for a moment, before Alba says something, something that makes Clemmie smile, and she moves closer to Alba and places her hands on Alba’s face. They stand like that for a brief moment before Alba starts to shake with laughter, which makes Clemmie giggle, and then Alba turns away from the girl she used to call her sister and calls out, ‘Bye, ’lemmie!’ and waves at her, before she turns around and starts skipping again towards another ending and another beginning.
Author’s Note
I can remember the exact moment I felt the first spark of an idea for The Herd. It was the sweltering summer of 2018 and I was bouncing on a birthing ball, crotchety and swollen, nine months pregnant with our first son in our overgrown garden, watching my husband James and Sophie, our birth doula, argue.
I’d pushed for us to choose Sophie – she was the kind of mother I wanted to be. Strong, unafraid and incredibly kind. Alternative, yes (she had a yurt in her garden where she’d perform rebirthing rituals), but her life choices were rooted in experience and her shelves were heavy with books about birth and parenting. They were arguing because Sophie had just asked us whether we intended to vaccinate our baby. Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it properly yet, but was eager to hear Sophie’s wisdom, while James scrunched up his face as though her question had released a terrible smell.
‘Yes, absolutely we are. One hundred per cent yes,’ he said, without even looking my way. Sophie smiled her calm smile at him, the one I’d seen her use with her young kids.
‘Did you know, James, the UK has one of the most concentrated vaccine schedules in the world? By the time your little one’ – she placed her warm hand on my bump – ‘is four months old, they will have had twenty-three vaccines? At eight weeks old their immune system will be flooded with aluminium – over two hundred times the recommended weekly intake, in one injection.’ I felt our baby twitch.
James’s eyes widened. Sophie’s opinion, I knew, riled him. But James is a history buff, so he came back with: ‘So we should leave our child vulnerable to the diseases – diphtheria, polio, measles – that maimed and killed so many of our grandparents’ generation?’
‘When was the last time you heard of someone contracting polio in this country?’ Sophie asked, still calm, still smiling.
James almost shouted, ‘That’s because of the bloody vaccines!’
That was it. That was the moment. I stopped bouncing and stopped listening to the row. The choice was terrifying. If we vaccinated, we were – according to Sophie – risking damaging our baby’s nervous system, or, if we chose not to vaccinate, did we cross our fingers and hope they didn’t contract meningitis? I was entirely responsible for this new little life, but also helplessly out of control. And that was the moment the idea for The Herd was born.
I had to wait another two weeks for our son.
I started my research a few weeks later, chatting to parents at baby groups and in the park. I heard stories about best friends who no longer speak because one did vaccinate and the other chose not to. I heard of relationships pushed to the brink. I spoke to my ninety-two-year-old friend who shared memories of the night her sister died from polio, and to a father whose one-year-old stopped making eye contact a couple of weeks after he had the MMR. I sat at dinner tables where the topic is banned. For some, it’s just too painful.
I spoke to anyone who’d talk to me about vaccines. And beyond the noise of the anger, the outrage that people could be so ignorant, so selfish, so stupid, I’d noticed the same quiet panic I’d experienced that humid day in our garden. We all just want to do the right thing for those we love and we are terrified of getting it ‘wrong’. I hope I’ve managed to convey this in the novel.
We have chosen to vaccinate our sons and I believe it was the right thing to do; both for us and to help protect others. That doesn’t mean I didn’t dread the moment the needle entered their soft bodies. But I knew it would be infinitely worse to watch them contract measles, meningitis or whooping cough – knowing I could have prevented their suffering.
The timing of this novel has been extraordinary. I wrote the lion’s share during the first 2020 lockdown. I’ve never known a time when our individual choices could directly and catastrophically impact others so profoundly. Learning about all this in theory and watching it play out in practice across the world has been the education of my life.
I really hope you have enjoyed reading The Herd as much as I enjoyed writing it.
With thanks,
Emily Edwards
Acknowledgements
There may only be one name on the cover of this book, but, really, there should be many. Firstly, I’d like to thank my sons for making me live some of the tough decisions faced by my characters and for making writing a book feel easy. I love you very much. I’m also deeply grateful to my husband, James Linard, for looking after our toddler every day during the first, longest and, for us, toughest lockdown, so that I could write. His enthusiasm for digging up worms knows no bounds.
I’m forever thankful to my agent, the indomitable Nelle Andrew, for her wise counsel, unfailing support and for refusing to bullshit anyone, ever.
Huge thanks to Frankie Gray for her dedication and vision for The Herd. It has been an incredible experience working with Frankie and the whole Transworld team, which includes, but is by no means limited to: Imogen Nelson, Viv Thompson, Josh Benn, Phil Evans, Laura Ricchetti, Laura Garrod, Emily Harvey, Gary Harley, Tom Chicken, Louise Blakemore and my copy-editor, Claire Gatzen. Thank you.
