Dad is feeling the next swan. ‘Dead,’ he mutters again.
He watches my face, checking to see if I'm upset, before moving onto the last bird. This one's smaller than the rest and its feathers are greyish-brown. A young one, on its first migration probably. Perhaps it's the brother of the other young one we saw flying around the reserve. It's not fair that it's travelled so far only to crash like this at the end. Dad has to wade in almost to his hips to reach it. The wind gets stronger then, making the reeds hiss and the breath catch in my throat.
‘Come out of there, Dad,’ I say, pulling my hair back from where it's whipping over my eyes. ‘It's freezing. You'll die or something.’
But already he's moving back towards me, dragging the swan through the water. ‘Here, help me,’ he says.
He sticks his arms under the water's surface and lifts the bird. He steps towards the bank and I reach out. Limp, wet wings brush against me. A small hiss comes from the bird's throat. I try not to look at the burnt gash on this bird's shoulder as I shift my hands to get a better grip.
‘It's alive, Isla,’ Dad whispers. ‘This one's alive.’
CHAPTER 3
Dad carries the swan back through the reserve. I have to run to keep up. One of the swan's wings drapes over Dad's arm. It's crooked, probably broken.
‘It'll die if we leave it here,’ he says.
The swan opens its beak as if it's going to peck Dad's arm, but it's too weak even for that. It's as though it's given up already.
‘Where are you taking it?’ I ask.
‘A vet somewhere . . . what's open on a Sunday?’
‘We should take it to Granddad's,’ I say.
Dad stops to look at me. ‘I don't think that's such a good idea.’
‘Why not? He's on this side of town, and his vet's stuff is still in the cottage.’
Dad's cheeks are flushed now from carrying the bird. He shifts it slightly in his arms as he thinks. ‘He won't treat a swan.’
‘He fixed up his neighbour's dog last year when it got run over. He can still fix things.’
‘He won't want to fix this.’
We reach the car. I stick my arms under the swan and help carry it so Dad can get the keys from his pocket. I can feel the dampness of the feathers even through my clothes. It's hard to hold the bird still, but it's more awkward than heavy. My face is so close. I see its eyes try to focus first on me, then on Dad. Its beak is open with its pinky-black tongue lolling to the side. I want to drip water in its mouth.
‘It's not going to last, Dad,’ I say again. ‘Granddad's is the closest place.’
Dad nods reluctantly as he opens the boot. ‘Granddad won't like it.’
He goes silent, like he always does when someone wants to talk about Granddad. He puts the seats down in the back so the bird will fit. Then he takes the swan from me and together we lay it in the boot. Sweat beads form on Dad's forehead, which is odd because the bird isn't that heavy. And Dad's strong, maybe the strongest person I know.
‘You OK?’ I ask.
Dad doesn't answer, just shifts the bird's weight in my direction as we both lower it gently. I try to stretch the broken wing out. I feel all those tiny bones, barely beneath the surface. There's one sticking up where it shouldn't, almost breaking through the skin. I touch it, feel its jaggedness beneath my fingers like tiny teeth. The swan bites me on the hand. Hard. It even draws blood. It hisses until I stop touching.
‘I'm sorry,’ I murmur, sucking at the blood.
I turn back to Dad. He looks worse now. His hand is pressing against the side of the car and his head is bowed. He's breathing heavily.
‘Dad?’
He waves me away. ‘I'm fine.’
I get to his side, wait until he looks at me. I forget about the swan for a moment. Dad's face is so red and sweaty. ‘You were cold a moment ago,’ I say. ‘You were shivering from the water. Now you're hot.’
‘I'm fine,’ he says again.
‘Shall I call Mum?’
‘No.’ He straightens up to show me he's OK, but I can see the effort of moving makes him wince. ‘That chap was heavy, that's all.’
He smiles a little, tries to make a joke of it, but his eyes won't hold my gaze and I don't believe him. He steps towards the driver's door. I stop him from getting in. ‘I'm calling Mum,’ I say, fumbling for the phone in my pocket. ‘Or Granddad, he's closer. Maybe you shouldn't drive.’
‘I'm OK,’ Dad says firmly. ‘I can drive to Granddad's, drive home even. Stop worrying.’
I keep my hand on his arm. It's the only thing I can do to stop him from getting in. ‘Mum said you were sick,’ I say quietly. ‘She said you were sent home from work.’
‘Did she?’ He wipes his hand across his forehead, his eyes flicking away angrily. Then he sighs, leans back against the car to look at me. ‘I'm cold and wet and that thing was heavy, that's all. The quicker we get to Granddad's the better, yes? That swan's going to die otherwise.’
I nod, reluctantly, as he turns to open the door. I glance around the car park. There's still no one else here. Suddenly, I just want to get out of there, take Dad somewhere where it's not only me around. ‘I'm calling Mum if you're not better soon,’ I say.
‘Fine.’ He brushes my words off with a flick of his hand.
I watch every single move he makes as he gets into the car. He's frowning a little and his skin looks tight. If he's worried, he's trying to cover it up in front of me. But this isn't the first time this has happened. Mum said that when Dad was chopping branches in the city park, he had chest pains then too. That's why he was sent home early. I get into the car, still watching him. I look over at the swan in the back. It's not moving, though it's still making a low, hissing noise. I touch its wing, and hope we all make it safely to Granddad's.
Dad tries to smile at me as we pull out of the car park. ‘He'll be OK,’ he says, nodding at the swan.
But I don't know whether it's the swan or him I'm more worried about. I hold my breath all the way down the lane until we're back on the ring road. There are other cars around now. More people than just me and Dad. And it's not far to Granddad's house.
CHAPTER 4
I can't remember the last time I went to Granddad's. It must have been months ago, back in the summer. Dad tries to avoid Granddad in the winter, says he's too grumpy and takes longer to warm up.
The turn-off is only a few miles down the ring road, but I watch Dad carefully all the way. He drives slowly but confidently, his skin gradually turning back to its normal colour. It feels strange, pulling into Granddad's lane. The hedgerows seem so much smaller and deader. But then, it is winter. I glance at the new dairy farm that's been built right next door, the one Granddad hates so much. A cow lifts her head and watches us as we pass.
The engine strains as the tyres churn through the puddles of Granddad's drive. The house is how I remember it, maybe just a little more run down. The big tree out front is fragile-looking without its leaves and the front gate is off its hinges. No dogs come running to greet us, as they would have once. It's quiet and cold when Dad turns off the engine. Dad gets out quickly and goes around to the boot.
‘I'll take it,’ I say, reaching for the swan.
‘I'm fine, I told you,’ he growls, a little angry with me now. He places his hands under the bird and lifts it up. I run ahead to get the door. There's no answer at the front, so I run around to the back. Dad follows slowly behind. I watch him, as carefully as I can, checking to see if he looks as weak as he did at the reserve. But he's better now. Strong like he normally is.
Granddad is in his conservatory, sitting in the cane chair that looks out over the fields behind his house. I turn and try and see what he's looking at. Cows . . . fields . . . I can't see his lake from here. I stand on my tiptoes and listen for the sound of swans. Maybe the flock has gone there. But Dad's caught up with me now and has seen where I'm trying to look.
‘Not a chance,’ he says. ‘It's too built up now for swans. They won'
t like the dairy farm.’
I keep standing on my tiptoes, hoping to catch a glimpse of the water but there's too much field and too many cows in between. ‘The flock has to go somewhere.’
Dad shakes his head. ‘That lake's ruined from the cows.’ He looks back at Granddad in the conservatory. ‘Get the door.’
Dad's cheeks are going red again and I see the strain in his face. Granddad still hasn't noticed us, so I have to rap on the window to get his attention. His eyes open wide as he sees me, as if he's trying to work out who I am. I hear his old dog, Dig, start to growl. Granddad looks behind me, his lips pressing together as he spots Dad struggling with the swan. He takes a key from under an empty plant pot and opens the door.
‘Why've you brought me this?’ he says immediately.
‘No hellos then,’ Dad mutters.
I step forward to explain. ‘It flew into a power line above the wetlands reserve, we thought you could fix it.’
Dad nods at that.
Granddad flicks his eyes skyward. ‘This thing's alive?’
‘It is at the moment,‘ Dad says.
Granddad turns away. ‘You know I don't fix swans.’
I reach out and grab his arm. ‘Please,’ I say. My eyes dart to Dad's face. ‘Just help us carry it to your surgery.’
Granddad follows my glance and looks more carefully at Dad. Perhaps he also sees that Dad doesn't look well because all of a sudden he sighs and reaches for the swan's shoulder. The surprise registers in Dad's eyes as Granddad takes the weight of the bird and lifts it right out of Dad's arms. Granddad doesn't look down at the swan, though. He keeps glaring at Dad.
‘Not worried about my shaky hands now, then?’ he murmurs.
I brace myself, wait for them to start arguing. They usually do, at some point.
But Granddad sighs slowly. ‘You've got a nerve, bringing this,’ he says.
‘It was her idea,’ Dad says, nodding at me. ‘I was going to take it to a proper vet.’
I grab Granddad's arm and lead him towards the cottage before he can say anything else to Dad.
‘You OK with that?’ I ask. But Granddad's not struggling with the weight of the bird at all. As we walk the twenty metres or so to the cottage, I glance across the fields again. There are no birds in the air. No birds anywhere. No sound of swans.
I switch on the lights in the old cottage surgery. It all looks the way I remember it, just smells different. The medical posters on the walls are turning yellow at the edges, curling up over the Blu-Tack. Granddad carries the bird through the reception area and into the operating room, lays it on the steel table. Dad follows after us a moment later, shutting Dig outside.
The smell is stronger in the operating room. It's clean-smelling and dead-smelling at the same time, as if Granddad has wiped down all the benches with a skeleton. I remember the last time we were all here like this. It was a couple of years ago and Granddad's other dog, Rocky, lay between us, fur bloodied from the truck that slammed into him. His head had lolled to the side when Granddad injected the anaesthetic. He'd never woken up.
Dad creaks open a window and stands near it, breathing deeply. Then he sees me watching and jerks his head towards the swan. So I go back to Granddad. He's running his hands over the bird's body. He shakes his head as he touches the wings. I reach out and stroke its neck, touch the wet, cold feathers.
‘Can you fix him?’ I ask.
Granddad doesn't answer, just keeps pressing his fingers to the swan. He stares up at Dad.
‘We couldn't leave him,’ Dad says quietly. ‘He would have died there.’
‘He'll die anyway,’ Granddad says. ‘He's in a right mess.’
I step away from the table. I don't want to believe him. But the swan's eyes are starting to close and there's a horrible gurgling noise in its throat. ‘You can't do anything?’
Granddad stops staring at Dad and looks at me instead. His face changes as he watches me, becomes kinder somehow.
‘This bird has broken its wing quite seriously,’ he says. ‘I could try and pin it, but I suspect that his liver also burst from impact with the water. That's why he's making that sound.’
Dad turns away from the window, steps towards Granddad. ‘You must be able to do something,’ he says, staring him full in the face, with his cheeks reddening. I remember how flushed and sick he looked as he leant against the car in the reserve. I don't want it to happen again here.
‘Try something,’ Dad whispers.
‘A bullet?’
They stare each other out. The swan's leg moves a little and I glance back to it, wondering how much pain the bird is really in. He's brave about it, that's for sure. When I look back at Dad, he's watching me; wanting to know if I'm about to cry probably. But, like the swan, I'm good at holding stuff in.
‘If the bird's in pain . . . ’ I say. ‘Maybe Granddad's right.’
Granddad turns away and loads up a syringe, drawing up some sort of liquid from a glass phial, then flicks the top of it. Granddad catches Dad's stare and frowns. His hands shake as he moves the needle towards the swan's neck. I expect Dad to say something, but he doesn't. I know he's thinking it, though. Granddad's hands were shaking like this when he put the anaesthetic into Rocky's body, too.
‘That won't kill him, will it?’ I ask.
Granddad pricks the swan's skin. ‘No, just makes things easier. It won't be long though until he . . . ’
I think he wants to say more, but he's not sure how. Instead, he presses down on the syringe and the liquid glides into the bird. I watch the swan's eyes shut. The skin on its eyelids is wrinkled and slack, like the skin on the back of Granddad's hand. But the bird's still breathing, just.
Granddad slides the needle out from the bird's neck. ‘I'll make him a bed out there.’ He nods towards the room at the back of the cottage where small animals were sometimes kept overnight.
I run my hand down the broken wing. The swan doesn't flinch now. Too deep in sleep. I let Granddad turn me away from the swan and push me from the room.
Dad shuts the window with a thud. ‘Come on Isla, we're going,’ he murmurs, grabbing me by the back of my coat.
I look around to see Granddad's face cloud over. He shakes his head then turns abruptly away. He marches back to the house and slams the conservatory door.
Dad shrugs. ‘He's just a grumpy old coot. Always has been.’
He walks quickly to the car. I hold back a little, wait for Granddad to sit in his cane chair by the window again. But Dad starts the car and I run to get in it.
CHAPTER 5
Mum's waiting at the door when we get home, looking from Dad's face to me and back again.
‘You had the pains again, didn't you?’ She grabs Dad's shoulders and stops him from going in the house until he looks at her.
‘Something like that,’ Dad murmurs. ‘But it's the swans you should worry about. Flew into the wires at the reserve.’
She leads him into the kitchen, ignoring his explanation of what we did today. ‘That's the second time this has happened now, isn't it?’ She glances over at me before lowering her voice. ‘You're going to the doctor first thing.’
‘Sure, sure.’ Dad brushes away her concern, catches sight of Jack in front of the telly. Jack shuffles over on the couch, making way for him, and Dad's already talking about the swans.
‘The power lines, right?’ Jack asks. ‘No markers?’
Dad shakes his head. ‘Swans didn't have a chance.’
He flops down next to Jack and the energy seems to drain out of him immediately. He's suddenly as saggy as the couch. Mum comes over to where I'm still standing by the door, takes my head between her cool fingers.
‘You all right, babe?’ she asks. She's looking at me carefully. I try to force my features into a grin and reassure her. It's not me I want her to be worried about.
‘I'm fine,’ I say. I want to tell her that Dad's not, though. I want to tell her how sick he looked at the reserve, but already she's hugging me
against her fleecy jumper and brushing her fingers through my hair.
‘Pizza for lunch?’
I wince as her fingers get caught in a knot. She takes a comb from her bag and tries to brush through it. I pull away from her strokes, go upstairs and change out of my muddy trousers. When I come back down, Dad has changed too. He's sitting back on the couch in his pyjama bottoms. I sit on the floor, lean up against his leg. Dad's still talking about the swans, trying to work out where the rest of the flock has moved on to.
‘Maybe they've gone back up north,’ Jack suggests.
Dad's not convinced. ‘There are other lakes around that part of town,’ he says ‘Behind the factories, the hospital. The swans are still nearby.’
‘You can feel it, can you?’ Jack smirks at Dad. He always makes fun of the way Dad thinks he has some sort of a psychic connection with swans.
‘Yeah.’ Dad smiles crookedly. ‘I'd feel it if they went somewhere else, sure!’
Jack squawks with laughter and Dad joins in a little.
‘What?’ Dad protests, still smiling. ‘I would!’
I think about that young, grey swan circling around the wetlands on her own. Would Dad also feel it if she went? Would anyone? I turn around to face Dad.
‘Can we keep looking for the swans tomorrow after school?’ I ask. ‘Maybe go back to the reserve?’
Dad starts to nod. But Mum's in the doorway straight away.
‘Doctor first,’ she growls.
Dad holds his hands up in surrender. He winks at me. ‘Sorry, Bird,’ he says. ‘Soon.’
I turn back to the telly, rest my head against Dad's knee. It's kind of nice to hear him call me by my kiddy name again. He hasn't done it for ages. It's what he started calling me when I was a baby, before I had a name. He said I looked like a tiny bird, something fallen from a high place. It makes me feel small and young to hear it again.
Jack turns the telly volume down on the hospital drama he's been watching to talk to Dad. I can smell the mud on the bottom of his trousers and guess he's been playing football this morning. I think about last weekend when he let me and Saskia come with him. He didn't seem to mind too much, even though his mates were all there. Sometimes he's good like that. Or maybe he just felt sorry for me because he knew Saskia was leaving. Maybe Mum told him to do it.
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