Chapter 29 #2
The change of character was alarming, but her willingness to feed and comfort the babies took the pressure off Cat and me about having to go on our goat hunt before we were sure my hand wasn’t going to poison me.
And Storm stayed even closer to Freya, closer than ever in fact.
She was the most unsettled of the three of us about her sister’s change, but she only talked about it one time.
Storm caught me scratching at the itching under my bandage. I stopped, somehow guilty, as if I shouldn’t have been doing it.
Does it hurt? she said.
It’s just healing, I said.
She nodded and looked away as if she too was guilty for having intruded on my private moment.
I’m sorry I shot you, she said. And I didn’t really want to shoot the dog. I was just…
… Scared, I said. It was just a reflex. You didn’t have time to think. It’s OK.
Maybe it was easy to forgive her because I was remembering how I’d done the same thing, killing the Russian without time for thought, the moment he hit Cat.
I was terrified. She grinned. And if you had been taken prisoner by the Russian, you’d be scared of them.
I would, I said. I absolutely would. I understand.
Maybe, she said. Or maybe you’re just being Mouse.
Well, I said. I don’t have much choice about that.
I mean being tough and kind, she said. Not soft. I do know the difference, you know. Freya might not, but I do. I do know that.
And in the silence that followed I did believe that we both felt comfortable, maybe even comforted by each other just sitting quietly watching a hawk hang over the Tanglewood.
I need to give you something, she said. Something to thank you.
You don’t, I said.
I do, she said. I know you had a deal with Freya about the babies. I know you and Cat think she’s so broken in her head that she might not keep on feeding or looking after them.
She just needs rest, I said.
No, she said. She doesn’t just need rest. She just needs to go to the sea.
We don’t go to the sea, I said. Death comes from the sea.
It comes from the land too, Mouse, she said. But I know you and Cat will never go. So here’s my thank you: I give you my word that we will never harm the babies, never leave them to starve. None of this is their fault. If you and Cat want to go goat hunting, I swear we’ll be here when you get back.
And after? I said.
After, we will see if being able to stop feeding lets Freya mend and be herself again, she said. Maybe it’ll do her good.
I’d like that, I said.
Me too, she said. It’s what I hope for.
So believe it will happen, I said.
I would, she said. But miracles don’t happen.
They must have happened once or twice, I said. Or people wouldn’t have known what they were.
They don’t, she said.
But sometimes they do. In fact, sooner than sometimes: two days later, exactly.
My first thought when Digger went rigid beneath my hand as I was sitting in the sun absentmindedly stroking her back – and thinking how nice it was that it had stopped itching and throbbing and really was healing – was that it was the Russians were moving towards us through the copse at the top of the hill.
As soon as I felt the dog tense and start vibrating with anticipation, I realised I had heard something on the very edge of my hearing but not paid it enough attention.
It was the clink of metal on metal coming from the top of the hill where no one should be, since Cat had walked off on her own to check the fish traps, the one bit of good news to that point being that her ankle had healed and her limp was gone, while Storm and Freya were with the babies in the shade behind me.
I rode the urge to leap to my feet and instead moved very slowly and kept low, which is the best way not to catch the eye of anyone else in the landscape who might not have noticed you.
I turned to raise a warning finger to Storm and Freya but when I saw their faces I realised they were already frozen in worry by the unusual slow deliberation of my movements.
Storm mouthed, What? Freya just stared white-faced at the slope behind me.
I made a “be calm, stay still” signal with my hand and slowly turned back to the direction of the metallic clinking, just in time to see several figures moving towards us through the dappled shadows in among the hazels.
I again heard that chink of what I took to be a bridle chain and cursed myself for not having my bow and arrows nearby.
And by the time I’d stopped trying to work out how to get to them without breaking what little cover might still be hiding us from the approaching Russians it hit me that there was no point, because I couldn’t work my bow any more as my hand was still swaddled in bandages. It was too late.
They came out of the trees one behind the other.
Shit, said Storm from just behind my shoulder. I mean really, nearly, I almost shit myself!
I could hear the smile without looking round. The truth is I was too busy trying to believe what my eyes were telling me was approaching.
Yeah, I said slowly. That must be one of those miracles that just don’t happen, happening, right?
I told you I put it on, she said. It must have broken.
The clinking noise was the chain of the hobble, or rather the broken hobble that was still fixed round the goat’s back leg.
Because there were no Russians. Just goats.
Goats, plural. Goats who seemed way more unimpressed by all this than we were.
Three new goats tagging along behind our old goat, Devil.
I don’t believe it, Storm said.
Goats, said Freya.
And then, and only then, did she start crying.
Cat, when she arrived, couldn’t believe it either.
Well, she said. I suppose it makes sense. Devil is our goat. This is his home. It’s all he’s ever known. And he brought friends. Lady friends.
Milk, I said. He brought milk. Yes, said Cat looking at the girls. Maybe this will change things for the better. Freya looks almost happy.
Actually catching the new goats was trickier, and took the rest of the day.
But by sunset we had them all properly hobbled and in the big field eating a welcoming dinner of early windfall apples.
And so we had the rare experience of going to bed happier and more optimistic than when we had woken up.
And for the next week even Cat allowed herself to relax as she saw how attentively Storm and Freya looked after the goats and milked them and made sure the babies got used to the new feeding regime.
Then one morning I found Freya crying very quietly, the bottle still in her hand, both babies happily asleep in her lap. And she didn’t bite my head off for finding her like that. That should have been a warning sign.
It’s OK, she said smiling through the wetness on her face. It’s OK. It’s not having to be a milking machine day and night. I’m just relieved.
At the time I believed her.
You’ve done a great job, I said. Look at how healthy they are. How happy.
And then before she could reply, just as she was opening her mouth I carried on.
I know every time I say something nice to you, you bite my head off, but you’ve done great, I said. Really. You’ve definitely kept your word. Freya, see how well they look.
I did, didn’t I? she said and then she turned her head away from the sleeping babies and looked me in the eye.
You’re still soft, Mouse, she said. But that’s OK. Being soft with them is OK. They’re so little, and there’ll be enough time for hardening up when they’re bigger.
I remembered that later too. But it was, at the time, as unexpected as her earlier collapse into lifeless passiveness. It was another mood swing, I suppose. But a benign one. And Freya did, in that moment, have the sunshine in her smile that Storm had told me about. So that’s a good memory too.
I talked to Cat about it that night as we turned in to sleep. We could hear Storm and Freya whispering away in their room, obviously speaking low trying not to wake the babies. The Bunker felt fuller and warmer somehow than it ever had, maybe safer too.
This is nice, I said. Like a family.
Don’t jinx it, said Cat.
And then after a pause she said, But yes. It is nice.
That’s when I told her what Freya had said to me about being soft being OK.
Hmmm, Cat said. Let’s take it slowly. One day at a time. Let’s not, you know…
Count our chickens before they’re hatched, I said.
Those girls aren’t chickens, Mouse, she said. I still think they’re wild. Like leopards. And they don’t change their spots.
I went to sleep grinning and looking forward to telling Storm that Cat thought she was a leopard. For some reason I thought she’d find it funny.