Green Grass Read Free Page A

her.
    â€˜Come on, let’s go home, it’s late.’

Chapter 2
    The winter sun wakes Laura, and she opens her eyes to a dazzle of pink, glad for once of Inigo’s belief that curtains would cut off his creative dynamic with the world. Buoyed by the roseate joy of the morning, she rises, determined to be serene today, and performs what should be a short but satisfying sequence of yoga stretches on the floor at the end of the bed. In fact it is nothing of the sort. Collapsing with a groan from the agony of doggy position, she decides to look for an alternative exercise programme. Inigo sleeps on. All she can see of him is the black slash of his hair on the pillow. In all the years they have been together, he has never woken up before her; even if his alarm clock is set, Inigo is incapable of being first out of bed. He likes someone else to pave his way.
    Outside, sunbeams stretch across the street and the cars parked on each side of the road glitter and sparkle, coated with frost like the crystallised fruits Laura’s mother always has in the house for Christmas. Slappingher feet up the rubber-floored staircase Laura realises with horror that no thank you letters have been written to her mother for the Christmas presents she sent the children, and now it is almost March. She wonders whether to try and get them to do it this morning, but decides it will be easier to forge their handwriting herself and fake the letters. That way at least they might appear to be a tiny bit grateful for Dolly’s flower press and Fred’s mouth organ.
    She opens the door to Dolly’s room, but the bed is already empty, the curtains flung back to let in the light and a rap music station is pulsing from the radio next to the bed. Dolly is in the bathroom. The air is thick with her favourite ozone-killing body sprays and hair volumiser, and the floor is littered with towels, T-shirts and trainers. Clearly Dolly is choosing her outfit for the day. The scene in Fred’s room is somewhat different. A fug of dark, silent warmth greets Laura when she opens the door. She tries a schoolmistress approach first.
    â€˜Good morning, Fred. It’s a lovely, lovely day – do look.’
    Her son does not move or make a sound, despite the rude crack of his blinds pinging up and the searchlight of morning sun falling onto his pillow and his turned-away face. Laura tugs at the duvet, and the visible part of Fred vanishes under the covers accompanied by a low groaning sound.
    â€˜Come on, I’m making breakfast.’ She turns to leave the room, trying not to look at the heaped clothes, the sliding piles of books and hurled odd socks. Picking her way out, Laura stands on something soft and yielding yet crunchy.
    â€˜Urgh, gross. It’s something alive, I think!’ she shrieks.
    Fred is out of bed in a flash. ‘Where? Let’s see.’ He kneels next to her, scrabbling on the rug, then sighs. ‘Mum, you’ve trodden on my owl pellet. That’s so annoying, I was going to dissect it.’
    Laura shudders. ‘Why was it on the floor then? What’s in it anyway?’
    Both of them crouch on the floor, examining the desiccated mess of mangled feather and bone. Fred picks up part of a tiny skull.
    â€˜Look, this is a shrew, I think. I didn’t know London owls ate shrews.’
    â€˜Where did you find the pellet?’
    â€˜Under the oak trees on the Heath. I think the owl’s got a house in there. It’s right by a rubbish bin and that was where I thought he got his food.’ Fred is wide awake now, picking over the bits of reconstituted owl dinner. Laura glances at her watch.
    â€˜Come on. You’ll have to leave it for now. Just hurry up and come down for breakfast.’
    Fred scowls at her. ‘All right, all right, there’s no need to get in a psyche, is there?’
    Laura doesn’t answer. She bangs on Dolly’s door as she passes and shouts, ‘Breakfast