Roadkill

She must have died instantly. The trauma was massive. Her skull was shattered and separated from her spine. A leg was missing completely, her pelvis broken. She bore Silent Witness to the carelessness of the driver. He must have been speeding. This stretch of road is, after all, wonderfully, liberatingly straight. Driving up towards a rare Fenland summit, it is exciting to keep the pressure on the accelerator: a little more, and more. There won’t be other traffic, just that slight bend at the top by the trees announcing Nine Wells Farm.

She also admired speed, loved tearing across the fields, jumping high to see who else was about. She was in her prime: her eyes bright, intelligent, her muscles toned. The coat she wore that day was a thick beautiful russet brown, with darker highlights in the fur on the back and tips of her pert ears. Her underbelly was soft and the purest white. It had kept her warm throughout a tough winter without central heating. Her mate, no doubt, had admired it, and her. Where was he now? And their children? Do hares mourn for long?

When I brought her back for the post mortem, Ʃ said I looked like the sad obsessed creature Golem with his coneys. Remember the scene when he says he likes his flesh fresh and wriggling? I’m not at all like that. I’ll marinate the meat for some days in my Mum’s homemade wine, then cook it in a good rich stew, and serve with taters, of course.

And it was delicious... and enough to provide a dozen portions.