Chapter 17
In heat
The babies changed everything, in the way I expect babies always did even when the world was full of them.
Our days got a whole new rhythm, to start with because we all slept and woke when the babies did, and then because we had to deal with Freya’s sadness which blew in out of nowhere about a week after the babies came.
It was a different thing to the spiky complaining Freya we’d got used to.
It was quieter but somehow more dangerous, like a thin crack that runs deep.
Mostly it was like that because she was exhausted all the time, which was understandable because she had to feed two babies and one would sleep as soon as it had been fed while the other took its place, and then the feeding one got full and fell asleep just in time for the first one to wake up and decide it was hungry all over again.
Storm never really left her sister’s side and was really good at helping her.
We all changed their rag nappies at one time or another, but Storm did most of all.
Cat and I took turns at doing the washing and the drying, and most of the time the Bunker looked like it was decorated for a party as the cloths were strung up to dry wherever we could stretch a line.
I escaped with Digger whenever I could to go hunting and gathering.
I said to myself that this was because we really needed to keep Freya properly fed because she was making so much milk for the little ones, but the truth is it was a relief to get out of the Bunker and be my own person out in the wide world again.
I felt guilty until Cat admitted she felt the same, then I just felt bad we couldn’t do anything to help Freya get out from under her cloud of despair, a cloud that got thicker and heavier day by day.
There was nothing in First Aid and Safety for Dummies or Midwifery that explained what was happening to her, but Cat was sure it was a bad reaction to the births.
Again the fact that our sleep was being disturbed all the time probably explains why the next few months blended into a thick and samey soup.
Through it all Freya dimmed, to the point that even I, who had been on the receiving end of her sharpest barbs, began to miss her old spikiness.
She just seemed resigned to existing from feed to feed.
And though she remained dark as ever in some ways, she was also somehow uncharacteristically manageable, teary now instead of shouty.
And that worried us most of all.
Then one day, when spring had turned to summer, I was milking the goats and became aware of someone watching me from the deep gloom between the copper beech and the big solitary Scots pine that is my favourite tree in the world and most definitely one of the Five Things I like about trees.
The watcher was in the beeches, which is how I’m sure it’s summer because the beech’s branches were bending under the strain of carrying the clouds of purple leaves so dark they almost matched the shadow beneath.
And I tensed and then the watcher moved, and I saw that it was Storm.
And I was shocked to see that she was crying.
Because Storm, like Cat, didn’t cry. She was too proud to let herself be seen in this state.
What? I said. What happened?
Nothing, she said, trying for a smile and getting halfway there. Nothing…
And I’d have believed her if it wasn’t for those tears and the way she said “nothing” with such a heavy silence tacked on the end of it, a silence that was just the right shape to have a “yet” added to it.
Come on, I said and put an answering grin over it to take the edge off. There’s always something that’s wrong.
There was a long silence. The only noises came from the goats.
You miss your mother? she said.
It wasn’t a question I was expecting so I sat back and thought about it for a long beat.
Well, I said. Not miss, because I don’t have any memories of her. I was very small. I do wish I had known her. And my dad. But miss is the wrong word. Because I never knew them in the first place…
You’re lucky, she said.
Because you remember yours? I said.
Of course I remember her, Mouse, she said. I wasn’t little like you were when she was killed. I remember her because I knew her properly and she knew me. And I remember how she died.
That’s horrible, I said. I didn’t mean…
No, she said. I REMEMBER it but Freya? She SEES it.
All the time. Every day. What the Russian did to our mother, what the Russian did to her.
Even when she sleeps, because then she dreams it too.
I don’t dream it. It’s a bad memory, but if I’m lucky it leaves me alone for long chunks of the day.
Whole days, sometimes. Freya? It bites her all the time.
Bites her and shakes her and won’t let go.
But you miss her, I said. Your mother.
Once more she looked at me and tried for the other half of that smile. Then she took a deep breath and shook her head.
If she was here, she’d know what to do, she said. And Freya wouldn’t be so… broken. And even if she was, she’d know how to mend her.
We’re doing the best we can, I said. I know it’s not the same. But we are trying.
Yes, she said. But it’s not good enough, is it?
You and Cat, you’ve done so much for her.
For us. And it’s good and I know I don’t thank you enough, and Freya doesn’t thank anyone for anything these days, but…
But you think you’re making things better.
And I know you think the babies will make things better if we just wait, because that’s what I’ve been hoping too. But they don’t—
They might, I said.
They won’t, she said. I wish they would, but for Freya they won’t.
I do remember that the weather was hot and unsettled, which put everyone on edge.
It was the muggy kind of heat that made you feel clammy all the time, with the sweat just oozing even if you weren’t doing anything at all, just sitting out of the sun doing nothing.
It was worse when the wind blew, because that was hot too and didn’t cool you at all.
The frequent thunderstorms that mostly seemed to come after dark were a welcome change as they cleared the air and lifted that weight, at least for a while.
And it wasn’t just us who were as prickly as the heat: Digger got weird too.
At first I didn’t notice her weirdness, and then when I did, I just thought maybe she’d eaten something that wasn’t good for her.
To begin with she seemed a bit quieter and more withdrawn, as if her normally friendly manner was taking a rest. She wasn’t growly or hostile or anything, she just seemed moody.
Like the rest of us. Or that’s what Cat thought.
Digger’s in a grump, she said. Look at her, she’s been lying on that bed all day, and when I pushed her off to take her out with me for a walk, she just turned right round and got back up on the bed, only this time with her back to me.
Maybe she’s sick, I said. Maybe she ate a mushroom.
Despite the heat, which seemed out of season, it was that time of year when the woods bulged with fungi, most of which you should not – according to Cat – even touch, let alone put in your mouth.
Dogs don’t eat mushrooms, said Storm who was sitting on the other side of the room. They’re too sensible.
That’s what I mean, I said. Digger’s not acting normal.
Is she being a pain in the ass? said a voice from the dark corner of the room where Freya spent most of her time. Because that’s normal.
We all looked round, I remember, probably because we were all similarly surprised that the normally silent member of our uncomfortable household had actually spoken. Her face was a pale blotch in the shadows.
Yeah, said Storm. She won’t get off the bed. Just like you, lazypants.
Freya turned away, hiding the momentary revelation of white face back behind her hair, leaving one pale hand in its place, curled into a fist with the middle finger sticking up in the private rude sign they made at each other when they ran out of words, or were too cross to speak.
Storm went outside, leaving Cat and I looking at each other.
Not just the dog who’s moody, I said, looking back at Freya.
Cat grinned and rolled her eyes, then picked up her bow.
Let’s go hunt, she said. Get something for supper.
Normally Digger would slide in behind us when we went hunting, quietly dogging our heels, as if she instinctively knew that if she ranged ahead of us she would startle whatever we came across, which made us think she was either really clever, or someone had trained her as a hunting dog.
Maybe both, Cat thought. Only that time she just stayed on the bed, as immovable and sullen as Freya.
I can’t remember if it was that day or the next that Cat pointed at Digger’s backside and asked me if that was normal.
It wasn’t. Her back end was all inflamed looking.
She’s ill, I said. Like an infection or something.
That’s why she’s been acting strangely, Cat said. Look, I think maybe she’s hurt her tail.
She was right, or at least that’s what I thought when she said it, because Digger’s tail, normally a straight extension of her spine, was kinked at the base in a way that looked like it had to be painful.
What should we do? I said.
I don’t know, said Cat. I’m guessing there’s nothing in First Aid and Safety for Dummies that would cover this.
Nothing about tails at all, I said.
We tried to get her over for a closer look, but all she did was make it into a game, suddenly not moody any more, but instead almost unnervingly playful.
Every time we beckoned her in or got close enough to almost touch her, she’d spring backwards, curving round and round and making quiet happy noises in her throat, which was the closest she usually got to barking, though at that time, since she was the only dog I’d seen, I didn’t actually know this was unusual.
She thinks we’re playing, I said.
Guess that means she can’t be in much distress, said Cat. And it’s better than her being moody.