Chapter twenty two
Molly liked spring. She liked the daffodils, that came in yellow and cream waves in fields and gardens. She liked the clumps of snowdrops, pearly and green against mulchy woodland leaves. She liked the warm early sunshine that made you wonder if your moisturizer contained enough SPF, evenings light enough to take the horses out after the school run. And she even liked the grey and cold days that interrupted the glory occasionally as if to remind you not to take it all for granted.
After a year when so much had been stagnant, spring was like jumping under a cold shower. Molly felt invigorated and ready to take on the world, or at least do the grocery shopping.
Finding a dead red squirrel, blood seeping out of the side of its face onto the tarmac suddenly wiped her joy. She had seen cars racing up and down the road on numerous occasions and this was the inevitable result.
By racing, Molly wasn’t even talking Lewis Hamilton and Ferraris, or whatever he drives. Just some moron in a Fiat or a Fiesta going 10 miles over the limit on a Green Lane because it was clearly impossible for them to understand what 15mph felt like.
Molly gently picked up the squirrel before the dog did. It was still warm, eyes dazed but not yet glazed. She had seen lots of roadkill in her time, but never quite as fresh as this. The poor creature must have been mowed down just minutes before she arrived on the scene.
“Did you know the average lifespan of a squirrel is five years old?” Molly was still thinking about the squirrel when she sat down to dinner with Henry later. “Their main cause of death before that is starvation or disease. Not in Jersey though the way some people drive. It’s the third dead squirrel I’ve found this year on that road.”
Henry ate his lasagne thoughtfully. He didn’t want to be irreverent about squirrels to tell Molly how good her homemade lasagne was, but he didn’t want to get too far into the meal before mentioning it, in case next time he ended up with a supermarket one. There was something about homemade lasagne, in particular, his wife’s homemade lasagne, that made him feel lucky – lucky he had married a woman who could cook, and lucky she had the time to do it.
“More wine, dear?” Henry held the bottle of Chianti over Molly’s now empty glass. He wasn’t sure how she had managed to drink a whole glass of wine while giving a soliloquy on squirrels, but squirriloquies were clearly thirsty work.
“This lasagne …”
“Its beautiful tail …”
“Is delicious.”
“Was covered in blood.”
“What?”
“What?”
“Are you still thinking about the squirrel?”
“Is all you think about food?”
“Darling, it’s life.” Henry said, putting his knife and fork down. “We are so lucky to have the red squirrels here. Maybe the amount you see run over is due to their abundance.”
“Cars shouldn’t be the biggest predator of wildlife in the Island.” Molly said. If she had been wearing mascara it would have started to smudge. “One day it’s a squirrel. The next day a cat. Another time a child. Everyone cares about it happening to a child. Some people care about it happening to a cat. But no one seems to care about it happening to a squirrel. If they did, they would drive more carefully in the countryside.”
“It’s just how things are. People have always used the lanes as short cuts, even though most people don’t have a clue where they’re going. At least lockdown means no chance of getting stuck behind a H-plate.”
“But it doesn’t have to be like that. If we all slowed down a bit and looked at the road anticipating that there might be a creature on it, more would have a chance. We have to do something.”
“You’re not planning a … a petition, are you?” Henry gasped in horror at the idea of his wife’s name on some online form where everyone, including his clients, would see it.
“Yes. Yes!” Molly took a big sip of wine. “Yes I am. What a splendid idea, Henry. That’s how we can change this. We need a petition to get the government to start protecting squirrels, and other wildlife of course. You wouldn’t believe how many dead pheasants we find too. And the occasional hedgehog. We need to start doing more to look after those who are getting squashed.”
Molly suddenly looked more cheerful. Henry wasn’t sure if it was the Chianti or the prospect of being a wildlife crusader.
“This petition. Ahem. Is there perhaps someone else who could file it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, your friend Pippa, perhaps, or Lydia? Maybe it would be better if it came from one of them? Just so you can focus on the activities … so you don’t get too bogged down with the admin…”
“Henry. You are a genius. Pippa and Lydia are exactly the people we need to help get this campaign off to a good start. I need to convene a meeting with the girls asap.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
