“…the body of a middle-aged woman was found in the River Cam at dawn today, in a nature reserve near the village of Newnham…”
The words are drowned by a crash. I look up from my cereal. Mark has dropped his mug. It’s now in a dozen pieces on the kitchen floor. A steaming puddle of Earl Grey lies in front of him. A limp tea bag has draped itself over his foot.
“A spokesman for the Cambridgeshire Constabulary says the police are treating the death as suspicious and an investigation is now under way,” the newscaster is saying. “Moving to the weather forecast, the Met Office says the day will be windy…”
I switch off the radio. The resulting silence seems twice as unsettling.
“What’s the matter?” I say.
Mark does not respond. His eyes are out of focus. His shoulders are strung in a tense line.
“Was it the report about the dead woman?”
My husband blinks; I must be right. It is about her. But why?
“I was…just shocked by the news,” he says, stumbling over his words. “They probably found her in the Paradise nature reserve, down the road. How dreadful. So that’s why I heard police sirens this morning.”
I study his face. His jaw is clenched.
“I don’t understand why you look so agitated.”
“I’m not,” says Mark, although the tautness around his shoulders suggests otherwise. “I’m just careless. First the teapot, now the mug. Sorry. I’ll clear up again.”
He turns away from me and marches out of the kitchen.
I stare at the remainder of the cereal in my bowl. I’m no longer hungry.
Mark has swept away the remnants of the mug and retreated to his study at the end of the garden. I’m tempted to take Nettle for a walk in the nature reserve. While sections of the park are likely to be cordoned off, I might catch a glimpse of what the police are up to.
I place Nettle on a leash and head out into the sunshine. The morning air is crisp, even chilly. Faint notes of honeysuckle perfume the sidewalk. We proceed in the direction of the kissing gate at the end of Grantchester Meadows. Nettle bounces forward, sensing a rabbit or two. I tighten his leash. The kissing gate squeaks; we step through into the reserve. The ground underfoot is soft, even boggy in places. It’s pockmarked with footprints, mostly fresh ones. A speckled wood butterfly dances up ahead, a flickering silhouette against rays of sunlight.
I hear muffled voices as we head down the woodland path, past several mature willows and a murky offshoot of the Cam on the right. Black helmets bob in the distance. I move closer. Several people are gathered on a strip of boardwalk, their heads turned away from me. They are held back by three policemen. A long ribbon of yellow tape winds between two trees, its ends fluttering in the wind.
Pulling Nettle’s leash tight, I join the crowd. A denim-clad man with a green padded jacket is operating a camera. A suited newscaster with a pronounced quiff is speaking into a microphone. Most people are staring at the riverbank. Thrusting myself upwards on my toes, I peer over their heads.
“No smartphones.” One of the policemen is shaking his finger at a boy.
The spectacle that greets my eyes is disappointing. I do not see a body—or a body bag. Only two men in white protective suits and blue rubber gloves. One of them is sealing something into a plastic bag. The second man is taking photographs of a large tree overhanging the Cam. Its enormous main trunk, partially submerged, protrudes over the waterway for about twenty feet before branching upwards into leafy boughs.
“What’s going on?” I turn to a man in fluorescent orange running shoes.
“They found a dead body in the river earlier this morning.”
“Can’t see it.”
“They took her away some time ago, down that lane.” He points in the direction of a second woodland path, opposite the place where Nettle and I have come from.
“Must have been an awful sight.”
“They were zipping her up into a bag when I first jogged by. That was a couple of hours ago. Blond. Long-haired. Couldn’t quite make out her face.”
“Do you know how they found her?”
“I overheard that man.” He turns his finger to the newscaster with the microphone. “A jogger apparently saw her wedged in the reeds, floating in a facedown position. Right at the base of that large tree.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Wish I’d got up earlier this morning. Would have spotted her first.”
“I wonder if they know who she is.”
“The newsman said they found a driving license in one of her pockets. But he didn’t mention the name.”
I nod.
“I’m off now. It’s getting boring. Nice dog.”
He turns and jogs away, his orange shoes flashing between the trees. I can see the newscaster putting his microphone away. The camera is no longer rolling. I loosen Nettle’s leash and begin tugging him in the direction of home, between willows rustling in the wind.
Poor woman. I wonder what happened to her.
Mark isn’t around when I get home. He must be in his study. I unfasten Nettle’s leash and pour a generous helping of biscuits into his bowl. As he crunches them down, I put on my overalls and gloves. My diary tells me that I have not done any outdoor work for at least two days. The garden must be crying out for some pruning and weeding. All 1.4 acres of it.
I push the door of the conservatory open and head out into the sunshine again. The wind has picked up. I troop down the paved path that slopes downwards in the direction of Mark’s study. The thunderstorm of two mornings ago has left a trail of destruction across the garden. Broken twigs and snapped branches are strewn about everywhere. Hundreds of leaves whirl in circles, swept up by the wind. The storm has even uprooted some of the polished black and white pebbles along the garden path. Dark, grassless indentations mark the stones’ absence.
I do not see the dislodged pebbles anywhere nearby. Nettle must have carried them off. He has a history of squirreling things away, because my diary says I found two stones and a manky tennis ball in his basket last Christmas Day. I’m good at learning small random facts, despite what Mark thinks.
I get to work at once, grabbing a rake from the garden shed. Before long, I’ve accumulated a stack of wilted leaves near the hedge at the front of the house. A comforting, earthy smell wafts from the pile. Gardening is therapeutic; this must be true, as the unease in my stomach is evaporating. Or perhaps it’s because the hefty pile of leaves testifies that I’ve accomplished something useful this morning. Homemakers like me are reduced to measuring their daily accomplishments by the number of items they have cleaned or cleared away. It is probably the only thing that keeps us sane (or less depressed). Unlike Mark, I do not have book sales in the millions to be proud of.