Free Season to Taste by Natalie Young

like the one she did, she might have made better friends. She took a sip of her coffee. People
     leaned into life when it felt safe to do so. When life felt warm and inviting people came in to be there. Otherwise they hung
     back, waiting, growing pale. Had things been different, she might have gone up to the farm more regularly. Barbara was an
     odd woman, but she might have become a friend.
    â€œGood coffee, isn’t it?” said Lynn, resting her cup on her breast. She used her free hand to wipe around her face as if it
     were a flannel. Then she let out a huge sigh, as if, in almost offering Lizzie the job, she’d tired herself out. “Busy morning
     we’ve had so far, haven’t we, Steven?”
    â€œVery,” he said, and nodded vigorously. Lizzie looked at their trainers. They were wearing the same ones: shiny white with
     a pale blue stripe running down the side.
    â€œIs there a uniform?” she asked.
    Lynn tilted her head over towards the reception desk where a girl was sitting with a headset on.
    â€œCarrie’s in,” said Lynn. “See the shirt?”
    Lizzie looked. It was a white shirt, with a soft frilly collar.
    â€œWhat are the hours?” she said. Steven checked his clipboard.
    â€œVaries,” he said. “It’s done on a rota. Eight-hour standard, though. Six till two. Eight till four. Ten till six. And so
     on.”
    â€œWell,” said Lynn. “Not really ‘so on.’ We don’t go beyond two in the afternoon till ten at night.”
    â€œNo,” said Steven.
    They wondered if she’d like to have a think.
    â€œHow about we speak again Monday week?” he said.
    Lizzie looked at them both and frowned. She was almost being offered a job. They stood up. Lizzie put her coffee cup down
     on the table and gathered her things.
    â€œI’ll show you over to the desk,” said Lynn, “and you can meet Carrie.”

    80.  You are well in there and on your way. It’s time to take a little breather, and understand that there is no going back. Check
     into the body, and see how it is feeling.
    81.  Your husband’s flesh will now be in your mouth and esophagus, your gullet, stomach and intestines.
    82.  If you have managed to go to the loo yet, he will have also come out already as waste. Take a pause here. The more you take
     in, emotionally, at this point, the cleaner your bill of health is likely to be in the future.
    83.  Look at the poo.
    84.  What you have done this weekend is remarkable.
    85.  Don’t suppress. If you need to run into the woods and scream into the trunk of a tree, then do that. Once. Do it. Do it quickly.
     Move on.
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    It was remarkable. On Sunday morning, she’d cooked the right foot. With pumpkin. She ate at the table using the fruit knife to take
     strips off the bone. She sat perfectly still and upright, not needing to read the newspaper or listen to the radio. The workings
     of her mouth, brain and jaw had been in perfect unison. No need for thought. Open. Close. Chew. Swallow. Then the toenails,
     the knuckles and the smaller bones had been crushed in a blender with salt, turmeric and cumin. She’d eaten the mush heaped
     on a plate with herbs from the garden; she had all sorts, and rosemary gave it character. The ankle she put in the stockpot
     and reduced, as before. Then blended again. Reduced, reduced. Then she’d put the stock in a Tupperware container in the fridge.
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    At the Dog and Duck on the way back from the hotel, Lizzie ordered a glass of white wine and a packet of crisps. Mike, behind
     the bar, had a ponytail of dread-locked hair and a black ring in his eyebrow. He said there was a bowl round the back, by
     the door to the garden, if Rita needed a drink.
    â€œIt’s OK,” Lizzie said, catching sight of her face in the mirror behind the bar. Despite her efforts at makeup—enough to cover
     the marks and sags—she