Embalmer's Recipe Book

Ann Lingard

Description

People, flowers, memories: how do we preserve the past? Set in the Lake District, the shifting mosaic of the narrative explores life, love and prejudice through three very different women: Ruth, a taxidermist; Madeleine, a widowed sheep-farmer; and Lisa, a mathematician. As Lisa is drawn into the group it becomes clear that the other women have strange secrets: Ruth's 'blogs' have an increasingly dark undertone - but these stark themes are offset by the warmth and humour of the rural community to which the women are bound. 'A charming, intelligent and engrossing book, with enough dark heart to drag it away from the domain of standard female fiction fare and into much more engaging territory. I found myself drawn in by the delicate prose and fascinating descriptions an engrossing and enjoyable read.' Kat Arney'A powerful and haunting story An exhilarating and compelling read.' Professor Sir John Sulston, Nobel Laureate'An intriguing novel in a haunting setting, rich in texture, humorous and concerned, raising important questions about science and our relation to the natural world, to the individuals we know and to the communities we live in. A lovely book.' Jenny Uglow 'A rich, absorbing, intriguing novel ... All of (the characters) felt like real people, whom I would want to know ... an absorbing, clever writer ...' Oxford Times

Informations

• Publié par: eBook Versions
• Date de parution: 11 février 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781843963356
• Langue: English

Extrait

Firstpublished in
GreatBritain 2008 by Indepenpress

Second edition published 2014 by
LittoralisPress, Cumbria, United Kingdom.

Copyright © 2008, 2014 Ann Lingard
All rights reserved

Ann Lingard has asserted her right
under the  Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988 to be identified as the author
of this work

ISBN 978-1-84396-335-6

Also available in paperback

ISBN 978-1-50303-691-8

This book is sold subject to the condition
that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise,
be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise
circulated without the author s prior
consent in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and
without a similar condition being imposed
on any subsequent purchaser.

Cover design
Linus Design
www.linusdesign.co.uk
Based on a photograph of
Herdwick sheep kindly provided by Rob
Fraser, from the Landkeepers project
about upland sheep farming in the Lake
District.
www.landkeepers.co.uk

eBook edition production
www.ebookversions.com

Back cover
Suffolk sheep from iStockphoto
www.istockphoto.com
The
Embalmer s Book
of Recipes


A charming, intelligent and engrossing book, with enough dark heart to drag it away from the domain of standard female fiction fare and intomuch more engaging territory. I found myself drawn in by the delicate prose and fascinating descriptions ... an engrossing and enjoyable read.
Kat Arney

A powerful and haunting story of genetic difference, interwoven with maths, taxidermy, and the tragedy of foot- and-mouth disease. An exhilarating and compelling read.
Sir John Sulston

A rich, absorbing, intriguing novel ... All of (the characters) felt like real people, whom I would want to know. And they were dealing with authentic issues, from everyday problems like relationships and family rivalry to the impact of foot-and-mouth on the local Cumbrian community and the implications of unravelling the genome for people like Lisa. [Ann Lingard] is an absorbing, clever writer.
Oxford Times

Ann Lingard skilfully weaves a handful of lives together ... Thisengrossing and unusual tale is a scientific window on the soul.
Michael Brooks, New Scientist
The
Embalmer s Book
of Recipes


Ann Lingard





LITTORALIS PRESS
Contents


Cover
Copyright Credits
Reviewers comments; The Embalmer s Book of Recipes

Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Acknowledgements
Bibliography
Background Material
Also by Ann Lingard: Seaside Pleasures
About the author
ONE


John tugged athis eyebrow and his large, square face crumpled in concentration. He held thetelephone tightly against his ear, and nodded as he listened.
Aye.Aye ... Fluke s bad round here, right enough. Aye. It s a wet land, that s for sure, it disnae drain well.
He glanced at Madeleine and, seeing that she was listening, looked quickly away.
Aye ... That would be fine. Next Tuesday then. Aye. You ll come to the house, I ll bewaiting for you. It was a statement, and he replaced the telephone in itscradle on the wall.
Someonewas coming to the farmhouse. She waited for him to tell her; he still spoke toher, she supposed from habit.
Hewas a big man, in his mid-thirties, but, as he stood awkwardly in the doorway,she wondered how she had missed noticing that he had grown haggard, and shefelt helpless because there was nothing she could do.
Somedoctor, from the university. Says she s doing a survey —'
She ?
Aye.A lady doctor. She s doing a survey or something into liver-fluke, she wants tocome and look for herself. She s after getting the snails.
Hehad been going into the scullery to put on his boots when the telephone rang,and he stood there in his socks; there was a hole in the toe and she could seethe yellowed rind of his toenail.
Itreminded her: Is your thumb still sore?
Heblinked and was still for a moment, then he looked at his left thumb, and heldit out towards her. The nail was black and purple, the skin around it suffusedand straining, taut with the pressure.
Aye,my thumb is still sore, he said, gently.
Shereached out and touched it, the rough, hardened skin, but he withdrew his handand she saw how his face went blank as though he drew a shutter down.
Adoctor coming, Madeleine said. Next week. I had better start and make thehouse nice, then.
Aye.
AfterJohn had gone out into the yard Madeleine stood by the sink, staring out of thewindow. The white cockerel was courting the hens, and Madeleine laughed toherself at his ridiculous side-stepping, and the way he dragged his wing,trailing a cloak for his queen of the moment. Why did he think that made himseem desirable? The hen ignored him, staring dreamily into the distance as shescratched the ground, then stepped back a pace or two to interrogate herscratchmarks.
Thepetals of the African violet on the windowsill were velvet-blue, and  Madeleinelifted the pot and tenderly plucked off a discoloured leaf. Condensation fromshirts drying on the pulley had pooled at the bottom of the window and mouldhad scribbled the hems of the orange curtains.
Thekitchen was warm and humid, like the rainforest , Madeleine imagined toherself (was that where African violets grew?); but the world outside lackedwarmth or colour and the wind s pale blade sliced the grey air.
Theair, or perhaps it was the ground, pulsed with the revving of the tractor asJohn shunted it to and fro in the yard. She wondered what he was doing thenremembered that he had mentioned something about pallets, stacking pallets, andalthough she could only see the top of the red cab above the drystone wall, sheimagined the prongs of the forklift, spearing the wooden trays exactly betweentheir bars, carrying them like plates of vol-au-vents extended to guests at aChristmas party.
Herattention was caught by something that flickered in the wall and shere-focussed her eyes, hoping for a recurrence and that it was no illusion butwas real. Years ago the flickering had begun: tiny rectangles and triangles,ever-shifting patterns of black and white at the periphery of her vision, akaleidoscope without colour that gradually encroached, creeping inwards untilthe real world was obliterated for an hour by a changing world of her mind sown making. Ten, twelve, years ago, a time when she had been unafraid to visita doctor: visual migraine , he had pronounced and, in naming it, had dispelledher fear of the unknown. Nothing you can do about it, it ll come and go.
Butthis time the flickering had been a mouse. It reappeared, running delicatelybetween the stones like a child gymnast upon the barre ; stopped to sniffthe air, nose pointing, tail curled  across faded yellow lichen, thendisappeared as quickly as it had come.
Maddie?Mad!
Johnstood by the side-gate, waving to attract her attention. He had put on his oldgreen overalls as a concession to the cold, but the top buttons were undone asthough to point out that this was not mid-winter, merely an unseasonal spell ofcold in April. Blackthorn winter, he called it.
Madeleineopened the back door.
Maddie,can you come and give a hand?
Shelooked back into the kitchen, undecided, not wanting to leave the security ofthe house.
Please,Maddie - it's the lambs.
Wheneverhe spoke to her his voice was calm and reasonable: she loved his voice, shewanted to catch his words and clutch them to her. But now there was a sharpnessto it and she glanced at him quickly.
They lldie if we don t do something.
Theroughness of his fear and sadness frightened her, and she nodded.
I llget my coat.

He needed her tohelp him, to carry bales. They built small shelters of pallets and bales ofstraw, in the open barn, in corners of the yard, and even in the garden.Madeleine s frozen fingers were nipped by baler twine as she carried therustling straw and her old tartan coat bristled with the hollow stalks but shehelped, uncomplaining and frightened by John s haste.
Theblackthorn hedges bore white flowers, a smirr of snowflakes on black pencilledtwigs, but up in the field there was no colour except shades of grey, the skymerging with the sodden land. Her slithering footsteps left muddy trails, andlambs lay huddled and quiet while their mothers nosed at the scanty grass andthe biting wind scoured the landscape.
Theewes cantered for the open gate, their fleeces juddering, and lambs panickedbleating after them so that the lane to the farm was filled with the roaring ofsheep, and they packed the yard with a panting, steaming mass of uncertainty.It took Madeleine and John more than an hour to sort them out and reunite lambsseparated from their mothers, and soon the barn and every shelter was full.Then there was water to be carried, and troughs to be moved, while the winddrove stinging sleet into every corner.
Johnbrought her an armful of packed-tight hay.
Youtake this to the ones in the garden, he said, and Madeleine knew he didn twant her to see how little hay remained in the barn.
Thegrass was not growing and soon the hay would run out, the silage was gone andthe feed bills had been unpaid for so long that there could be no more credit.The ewes were undernourished, and orphan lambs lay down and did not rise again,but died because there was no milk-powder. Madeleine carried the hay to the eweand wished she could take the twin lambs inside into the rainforest warmth ofthe kitchen, away from this unforgiving Ayrshire landscape.

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