Winter

At thirteen years old I found a dead body.

Well, I didn't actually find it, teenage girls don't go looking for corpses. I stumbled across it as I walked through freshly fallen snow on the way to my aunt Kate's house on New Years day.

His lifeless eyes stared at a cold sky; his mouth gaped open in silent scream. I remember looking at the clean slice that cut across his throat, and thinking it gave the impression of two mouths, one screaming, the other grinning from ear to ear. Shamefully, I think I may have giggled.

His right hand lay upon his chest, tightly clenching a butchers knife. Charlie Neegan slaughtered pigs for a living - had he slain himself?

"Are you dead Charlie?" I asked, just to make sure. Despite my youth, I'd already seen three corpses; my maternal grandparents, who passed on when I was nine and my father who died a year later.

Mr Neegan's prostate corpse however, was in marked contrast to the neatly dressed bodies of my family members. When the full horror of my discovery hit me, I ran home at full throttle.

......

I rushed through the door shaking with anticipation at the prospect of telling Mum about my find. She continued to knead bread as words flew from my mouth. She removed flour and dough from her fingers with a slow calm, wiped them with a towel and put on her winter coat.

"Can I come with you Mum?" I asked. This was my story; I didn't want to miss any of the drama. "No, you've seen enough," she said, giving me a maternal hug.

Disappointed, I sat to reflect on the mornings events. As an only child living deep in rural countryside, I had to make my own entertainment during the school holidays. This was better than anything I'd read in my adventure books; I wasn't going to let a real life drama slip away easily.

If Charlie Neegan had sliced open his own throat, then why? I vowed to find the truth.

......

I bombarded Mum with questions when she returned. As I expected, she gave me evasive answers. She held me close, "Try not to think too much about what you saw today. With time the memory will ease from your mind," she said, with concerned eyes.

I decided to ask no further questions, didn't want to sound overly interested; I shrugged my shoulders, "OK, Mum." She kissed my forehead and told me to get ready for bed.

I knew that my aunt Kate would visit that evening. I went upstairs and waited.

......

"Is she asleep?" aunt Kate whispered conspiratorially to Mum.

"She went up about an hour ago, she should have dropped off by now."

I lay on the floor with my ear placed directly over the crack in the floorboard, the best eaves dropping position in my bedroom.

The whispering continued.

"Is she feeling alright? The poor child, that's an awful thing for anyone to find, let alone a young girl."

"She seems fine, but the doctor told me to keep an eye on her, the trauma could come on later. He was an awful sight Kate; I'll have trouble getting over it myself."

I didn't understand why Mum had

spoken with a doctor, I wasn't feeling ill, far from it.

"Did he leave a note?" asked aunt Kate.

"I don't think so. That'll be the hardest thing for the rest of them, having no explanation. Tragedy seems to follow that poor family," said Mum.

"I know. What will they do with Charlie gone? He did everything for them. It's like they've lost their parents twice over isn't it?" said aunt Kate.

I listened, frustrated, as I heard nothing but the usual tittle-tattle that Mum and aunt Kate always engaged in. I crept back to bed with stealth like precision and formulated a plan. It would begin with immediate effect the following morning by my staking out the Neegan Farm. I figured that the secret to Charlie's death was most certainly contained within its secluded environs.

......

The wilderness and woods were my constant companion, I knew them intimately. I set off early, on a mission.

Camouflage is essential when spying, so I dressed in dark green corduroy trousers, boots and dark brown parka, its grey and black fur flecked hood, perfect for the job. I told Mum I was going for a hike. She reiterated her usual,

"Don't get all muddy, do you here me? And make sure you're back well before dinner time." With that, I was off.

......

The Neegan Farm lay secluded deep within a remote valley. It's reached by a narrow overgrown dirt path that stretches for a mile off a secondary road. About a half mile of woodland separated our houses. I walked, driven by instinct rather than design.

The bare skeletal trees allowed the woods be flooded with cold winter sunshine. Good for my guidance. Bad for my cover.

The scurrying sounds didn't bother me, I was used to the noise of disturbed woodland wild life.

The first journey was tough. I had to carve a path through brambles with a branch I'd collected before I set off. Soon, the woodland became less dense, I knew then I was close.

I trod carefully so as to minimise any intrusive sounds that would give my game away.

"Cock a doodle do!" A rooster's territorial screech let me know I was on the verge of a domestic dwelling place.

A wall of oak trees lay ahead, their ancient trunks stretched hundreds of years high. I sidled up to them. Once secure that the gnarled trunk provided adequate cover, I turned to look at what lay between the trees.

There it was. I took it all in. The place I had only ever heard about in hurried and hushed conversations from the adults in my life. I stared in excited awe with my own eyes at Neegan Farm.

I was surprised by the grandeur. The main dwelling consisted of a solid stone built building with three Sash windows placed either side of a large front door. Four large sash windows ran across the top of the house, under a traditional well maintained slate roof. Ivy crawled prettily along its walls, carefully controlled to avoid intrusion on windows etc.

It had a neatly tended front lawn, surrounded by a short picket type fence. One corner of the lawn to the right was cordoned off and an aviary had been created with wire mesh, allowing chickens to roam freely in its space, grazing and clucking contentedly.

A small gate led from the house onto a concreted yard on the far side of which stood a long windowless concrete building with a galvanised metal roof, I took this to be the piggery.

I absorbed every nook and cranny of a place that had acquired an almost mythical quality in my mind. Mum used to play here when she was my age. Her best friend being Cecilia, the youngest of the four Neegan siblings. When their parents were killed in a road traffic accident the eldest son Charlie became their guardian.

With their parents gone they withdrew from the world. Mum soon tired of visiting her friend when it became clear she wasn't being made welcome. They became reclusive.

I imagined Mum playing in this grand space, the perfect arena for a girl's imagination to flourish.

I was so caught up in my thoughts and imaginings, that I jumped when the front door flew open.

A man in a dark coat backed out of the door carrying one end of a table. Once out on the lawn the man carrying the other end appeared. I assumed they were the younger Neegan brothers. Charlie, being the only brother to attend church and visit town, was familiar to me. Granted, he hadn't looked his best when I'd seen him the day before, but where as in life his looks had been stern and severe, these two looked soft and gentle.

The taller of the two, a strikingly handsome man with thick dark hair that fell in shiny waves to his collar, spoke, "Come on Cecilia, everything's fine," he said, with a soft tone.

My breath quickened, as I readied to see Mum's childhood friend; a woman I only ever heard about in whispered tones through my bedroom boards.

His sudden change of tone alarmed me, "For God sake woman, will you pull yourself together, it's Charlie's funeral tomorrow, start bringing them out!" he said, with an angry impatience.

A short, round woman, who looked far older than my mother, emerged from the dark doorway. Dressed all in black, she scurried out, carrying what looked like a small woven basket.

Her aged appearance made me gasp audibly - she shot a glance in my direction - followed by an ear piercing scream.

I covered my ears. Heart pumped. I'd been caught on my inaugural mission.

Head jumped into overdrive - should I give myself up? Tell them I'd found Charlie's body and wanted to pay my respects.

The brother began to talk again, his tone in marked contrast to what went before: soft, gentle, caring,

"Cecilia, there's no one there. It's the foxes smelling the pig swill, you know that. Now come on, we've to clear the dining room to make way for Charlie's remains, let me help you." She answered in a strange, girly voice, "Are you sure there's no one there Dermot? Please go and have a look for me, just to be sure." My body stiffened.

"All right Cecilia, I'll go and take a look, you go and wait inside; I'll come and tell you if there's anybody there."

I ran. And ran. Only slowing when I realised I wasn't being chased.

I Looked back - nothing - just the sound of my exhausted breathing.

Then came a rustle from my right. I froze. The sound of slow crunching footsteps on frozen ground.

I crept forward and leant tight into a tree trunk.

The shorter Neegan brother appeared from a bunch of bare trees, breathing heavily, his head focused on the forest floor. He carried two large buckets, one of which overflowed with food scraps.

As he turned towards the house I caught a glimpse of something shockingly familiar in the second bucket. It made me jolt. I strained to get a clearer look. Was it? It couldn't be?

He disappeared into the woods, and I began my journey home. I tried to make sense of what I thought I may have seen. Sunlight darting through winter woodland can play tricks on the eye I surmised. But the image kept on replaying in my mind. It was a split second glance - but I saw a tiny hand, grey, doll like - pointing skywards from the bucket.

I longed to talk to Mum about what I may have seen. I struggled to rationalise as I lay in bed, disturbed and uncomfortable.

I played the scene over, attempting to slow down the footage looping through my head. It came to me in a flash - a piglet's trotter! Surely that's what I'd seen - a tiny piglet's trotter.

Of course it was. The Neegan's had been the towns biggest pig farmers when Mum was my age, and they still bred pigs, all be it on a smaller scale.

Satisfied, I decided to return in the morning for more surveillance.

Aunty Kate arrived at 8 o'clock the following morning while Mum and I were having tea and toast.

"Can I squeeze another one out of that pot?" she said, taking off her coat.

"I'm sure you can Kate. Why you here so early?"

"I thought I'd just pop in before I go to work."

I loved my aunt Kate. Being five years younger than Mum, she had a youthful out-look and fashionable dress sense that I admired.

"I'm excited about this evening, aren't you?" aunt kate asked Mum with a giggle. "God forgive you Kate, how could I get excited about a poor man's tragic death and funeral?"

"Ahhhhhhhhh, you know what I mean Maureen, don't pretend you're not interested in getting to know Cecilia and the boys again. It's been years since we were at Neegan Farm. I wonder if they've kept it as nice as it was?" said aunt Kate.

"Curious - is the word I am Kate," said Mum. Aunty Kate looked at me, gave me a naughty wink, before continuing. "Maureen - didn't you always have a bit of a thing for Dermot Neegan, you never know, this could be your chance for a bit of romance." Mum nearly choked on her tea.

"Kate! Stop talking such nonsense." Without thinking I opened my mouth and dropped myself right in it with -

"Which one is Dermot, the tall or the short one?"

They both looked at me with quizzical eyes before saying in tandem,

"And how do you know what heights the Neegan brothers are young lady?"

Ooops! I tried to squirm my way out, "I've heard you two talk about them," I said, not very convincingly.

"And when was that, what did you hear us say exactly?" Mum asked, a knowing tone to her voice. I lowered my head; no point in lying, Mum knew me too well, I'd been rumbled.

I told them both everything, apart from the little hand/trotter in the bucket incident, I thought that just too odd to mention.

After my confession, I asked,

"Can I go to the funeral Mum?"

"No"

"Please, Mum?"

"No"

I tried my aunt.

"Aunty Kate, please - because I found his body?" She put her hand on my shoulder and gave me her earnest look,

"You mustn't make light of that kid, in time's ahead you might become troubled by it."

I decided to be brazen, "Why did he kill himself?"

Aunty Kate began to answer, "Well, they say he suffered with depression. And the poor man had to take on a lot when his parents were killed. Then I suppose he heard all the gossip and rumours..."

Mum cut her off with a shout, "SHUT UP KATE!"

And she did, abruptly. Then the awkward and uncomfortable silence descended; the quiet that always followed when the conversation began to wander into adult territory. I so hated being young. I ached to share all the secrets that adulthood obviously had to offer.