I’m taking big breaths in, yet the air seems thick and soupy and I can’t quite fill my lungs. I’m trying hard to stop my hands from shaking, and my eyes sting, either with dust or tears, I can’t tell.
‘Scarlett?’ Clare puts an arm round me, and I wipe a hand against my eyes. The fourth bag holds clothes. On top there’s the red velvet dress I wore on my eighth birthday, then the cerise silk crinkle-skirt I wore on holiday in Corfu. There’s a red fluffy jumper, the one I wore when we went to see The Nutcracker, the Christmas I was six, and the crimson corduroy pinafore dress I loved so much when I was five. We pull out dress after dress, a dozen different kinds of red, shades of scarlet, ruby, burgundy, crimson, each one soft velvet or thick wool, embroidered cotton or crumpled linen.
‘Red was my favourite colour,’ I whisper.
Clare strokes my hair. ‘I think that’s what I was remembering,’ she tells me. ‘All the little red dresses. But you need to keep these, Scarlett – I wouldn’t dream of asking you to cut them up. They’re special, aren’t they?’
My throat is aching, and I can’t quite find the words to explain just how special these bin bags full of memories really are. I just nod and smile and hug the dresses, breathing in a long-forgotten smell of lemony washing powder and happiness.
‘They’re special,’ I say to Clare when I can speak again. ‘That’s why I want to use some of them for the quilt, OK? Please, Clare? It’s the best thing I can give to the new baby. My baby brother or sister.’
Clare hugs me, and I don’t pull away. It’s only when the thunder crashes again, right above our heads, that we break apart. ‘Goodness, if this storm gets any closer it’ll be right inside the attic!’ Clare exclaims. ‘Let’s get back downstairs.’
I pick out two or three of the little red dresses and throw them down through the open hatch, watching them flutter down on to the landing carpet.
I climb down first, hands holding tight to the smooth, paint-spattered wood of the ladder. Once my feet are firmly on the floor again, I hold the ladder steady for Clare. Looking up, I see her legs lowering shakily down, her brown feet in flip-flops feeling about for the rungs.
Then there’s a loud bang from downstairs and the lights go out, leaving us in semi-darkness. A roar of thunder rumbles out above our heads, and suddenly there’s a scream and Clare is falling. I put my hands out to catch her, but my hands close round the crinkly fabric of her skirt, which tears from my grasp. She falls heavily against the ladder, then twists to the side and lands with a sickening thud on the carpet, red velvet and crimson silk all around her.
‘Clare?’ I whimper, my voice so small and scared I barely recognize it. ‘Clare? Are you all right?’
Clare is still and silent. She’s lying awkwardly, her head at an angle against the skirting board, blonde curls spread out around her. She looks very pale.
‘Clare,’ I hiss urgently. ‘Please wake up. Talk to me, Clare!’
Panic rises up inside me, a tidal wave of fear. I don’t know what to do. A voice in my head tells me you’re not supposed to move people who’ve hurt themselves, but it can’t be right to leave her squashed in against the wall like that. I tug her shoulders, pulling her away from the wall so her head can rest more easily. As I straighten the hair at her temple, my hand touches something warm and wet. Blood.
I feel like I’m falling down a deep, dark well, and I know there’ll be snakes and sharks at the bottom. Then, abruptly, Clare speaks.
‘Ow,’ she says, her eyes fluttering open. ‘What the heck happened there?’
‘Clare!’ I gasp, my body slumping with relief. ‘You’re OK!’
I put my arms round her and help her to sit up. She leans back against the wall, a hand pressed against her temple. ‘I don’t feel like I’m OK,’ she says in a shaky voice. ‘I feel like I just got run over by a truck.’ She squints around her in the dim light. ‘I’m on the landing?’ she asks, puzzled. ‘What did I do?’
‘The lights went out – it’s a power cut,’ I explain. ‘Something to do with the storm. You were coming down the ladder from the attic, and you lost your footing. Remember?’
Clare frowns. ‘Not really… I fell off a ladder?’
‘We were in the attic, sorting through clothes for the patchwork cot quilt,’ I tell her. ‘My fault, really. Stupid thing to do in a storm.’
As we listen, there’s a distant rumble of thunder, less angry now. The storm is passing.
I pick up one of Clare’s flip-flops from across the landing. ‘These probably didn’t help,’ I tell her. ‘It’s OK, Clare. You’ll feel better in a minute. It was just a shock.’ I have no idea if this is true, but it sounds reassuring. Right now, both of us could do with that.
‘Every bit of me hurts,’ Clare murmurs. She curves her arms around her bulging tummy and a new fear hits me. My mouth feels dry.
‘Clare, is the baby OK?’ I ask. ‘Can you tell? The baby’s OK, right?’
Clare takes my hand and rests it on her belly, and I feel a sudden movement, like ripples underwater, beneath the floral print of her dress. ‘He’s kicking,’ she whispers. ‘Or she. The baby’s fine, just mad at me for giving him such a jolt.’
‘Thank goodness for that. You scared me, Clare,’ I tell her. ‘I thought you were really hurt!’
She looks at me, a smile twitching her lips. ‘I think I’ll be black and blue in the morning, and I do feel kind of hazy about what happened, but I guess I’ll live.’
‘Are you OK to stand up?’ I ask, and with an effort and some help from me, Clare gets to her feet slowly.
‘No bones broken,’ she says a little shakily.
‘It was a nasty fall,’ I say. ‘You gave me a fright. You’ll be fine now, though. And Dad’ll know what to do, when he gets back.’
Clare leans heavily on the landing banister, looking kind of vague. ‘That’s right. Chris will be back soon,’ she says. ‘Where did you say he’s gone?’
‘He’s in Galway,’ I tell her. ‘With Holly, remember? They’ll be back by teatime. Dad can run you to the doctor’s, get you checked out.’
‘Ah, sure,’ Clare says. ‘I’ll be fine, just fine. They’ll be back any minute.’
But it’s barely lunchtime, and Dad and Holly won’t be back for hours. I make a decision to ring him on the mobile he keeps in the car for emergencies. This is one, loud and clear, and I’m way out of my depth.
We take the stairs one at a time, side by side, arms round each other for support. Halfway down, Clare stops, her face creased with pain. Her breathing seems shallow, and her eyes flutter closed.
‘Clare?’ I panic. ‘Clare, what’s wrong?’
‘Ah, it’s nothing,’ she says, her face relaxed again. ‘Just a little twinge, so.’
We go on, step by step, until we reach the bottom, and I lead Clare across to the kitchen table, still littered with scraps of fabric and threads. She falls into a chair, and I grab a clean tea towel and dip it in warm water to clean up her cut. When I turn, though, she’s doubled up in pain, her face grey.
‘What is it?’ I demand. ‘Clare, what’s hurting? Shall I ring a doctor?’
Clare straightens up, taking a deep breath in. ‘I think you should.’ She frowns. ‘Call Chris, or the doctor. I’m not sure I’m feeling too great.’
I try not to panic, but my fingers tremble as I grab the phone off the wall and punch out Dad’s mobile number from the list of useful numbers taped to the wall. I hold the receiver to my ear, but there’s no dialling tone, nothing at all. I must have dialled it wrong, or perhaps Dad has his mobile switched off.
I try the doctor’s number, more carefully this time, but again the line is dead. I put the receiver down and pick it up again, rattle the cradle, shake the receiver. The whole phone is dead, totally.
‘Clare, it’s not working,’ I say as calmly as I can. ‘The line is dead. The storm must have knocked the phone out too. What shall I do?’
Clare is hunched over again, her whole body rigid with a new wave of pain. I reach
out, grab her hand and squeeze it tight, and she squeezes back, so hard it hurts.
Then the moment has passed and she looks up, her face relaxed again, eyes soft and heavy. ‘I think I’d like to lie down,’ she says. ‘I’m so tired. I’ll just close my eyes, and everything will be better…’
A memory surfaces, something from a long-ago school playtime when a boy called Roddy Mitchell fell over and banged his head, hard. The teachers called an ambulance and sat talking to him, keeping him awake, refusing to let him drift off into sleep. ‘He’s concussed,’ our teacher had explained. ‘Sleep is the very last thing he needs right now.’
‘No, sleeping’s not a good idea,’ I say to Clare. ‘Not after that fall. You lost consciousness for a bit back there, and you could be concussed or something. I’m sure you’re supposed to stay awake, keep talking, until we can get you to a doctor.’
‘Oh yes, a doctor,’ Clare says, her voice dreamy, distant. ‘You’d better get a doctor. I think I’m in labour, Scarlett – the baby’s coming.’
The electricity’s gone, the phone line is dead and Clare is bruised, concussed and in labour at not quite eight months’ pregnant. The baby isn’t due until the end of August. This is bad – seriously bad.
We are in the middle of nowhere. There are no neighbours, nobody to help. We’re eight miles from the nearest village, more than thirty from the hospital, and Dad and Holly are miles away in Galway, delivering boxes of lemon-zinger soap and eating pizza for lunch.
‘Clare, what shall I do?’ I whine again, but Clare is lost in her own world, drifting somewhere between pain and sleep.
‘Open your eyes!’ I tell her. ‘Get up, Clare! It’s important! You need to stay awake, keep walking, OK?’
‘OK,’ she says hazily.
We walk round the kitchen a few times until Clare is halted by another contraction. She gives a low, animal groan that makes me shudder, and I realize that unless I do something fast I’m going to be delivering this baby myself, on the kitchen floor.
‘I’ll get help,’ I promise Clare. ‘I’ll find somebody, get us to the hospital, OK? I won’t be long. Keep walking, OK? Stay awake.’
It’s just past one, and Kian will be at the lough, waiting for me. He’ll know what to do. Clare looks at me in horror as I open the door, step out into the rain. ‘Please stay!’ she whimpers.
I feel torn, but I have no choice – I need to get help.
I run down the lane, splashing through puddles, brushing against the wet leaves of the fuchsia hedge. It’s still raining, and by the time I reach the edge of the woods my clothes are soaked. I plunge into the trees, stumbling over the roots and stumps, hurtling down to the lough. A branch catches the hem of my red skirt, ripping it slightly, but I don’t stop running.
‘Kian!’ I scream as I run. ‘Kian, help!’
Any minute, he’ll hear me, he’ll come riding through the trees on Midnight, and they can go for help while I wait with Clare. Any minute.
‘Kian!’ I shout, my lungs burning. ‘Kian, where are you? Help me, please!’
I stumble out of the woods on to the grass at the water’s edge. Kian is not there. I scan the hillside, rain running down my face. There is no sign of Kian, or Midnight. The lough is deserted, silent and brooding under the darkened sky. No fishermen, no tourists, nobody at all.
I stand still, my breath coming in gasps. He said he’d be here – he promised. Kian has always been here when I needed him. Today, though, when it really, really matters, I’m on my own. Maybe he’s hauling canvas over new-made hayricks, or sheltering with Midnight until the storm passes. He’ll be here soon. So why does the lough feel so silent, so deserted?
My eyes fix on to the wishing tree, searching through the rags and ribbons that hang heavy, dripping, from its branches. My heart is pounding. I tear at the branches, pulling them out of the way, until I can see the forked branches in the centre of the tree where Kian’s rucksack should sit. There’s no rucksack, no bedroll, nothing, just a wisp of wet hay clinging on to a branch.
Everything’s gone.
I wasn’t worth a promise, an extra day, not even a goodbye. I want to scream, I want to howl, I want to lie down on the wet grass and never get up, but there’s no time for any of that. I have to be strong because Clare needs me. I have to help her, because there’s nobody else to do it.
I tear a strip of ripped red fabric from the hem of my skirt and tie it on to the highest branch I can reach. ‘Please,’ I’m whispering into the hazel leaves. ‘Please let Clare be OK. Let the baby survive. Let it all work out, please, please…’
But the tree just shakes rain down on me, and I turn away, helpless. I run back through the woods and out on to the lane, and by the time I reach the gate the clouds are lifting and a few bright rays of sun shine through.
Beyond the dripping fuchsia hedges to my left, in the distance, a shimmering rainbow arches across the valley, and as I stare at last my heart lifts. I can hear something, in the distance… the hum of a car motor.
All I can do is step out into the middle of the lane, drenched, my breath coming in gasps. The engine sound gets louder, and after an eternity a red Skoda swerves into sight. ‘Stop!’ I shout, running drunkenly towards the bonnet. ‘Please, please stop!’
The car slows, coming to a halt right beside the gate. I stagger over to the driver’s door, wait for the window to buzz down.
‘Hi there,’ says an American tourist in a palm-tree print shirt, grinning widely. ‘Some weather you get around these parts, huh?’
Beside him, a middle-aged blonde in a pink T-shirt leans over, pointing to the sign on the gate. Holly’s cardboard notice, drawn out in a dozen different felt-pen colours, is all smeared and running in the rain.
‘Honey,’ the blonde woman says. ‘We’ve come to buy eggs. We bought some last week from the little girl with the bunches. Best eggs we’ve ever eaten. We’ll take another dozen, please.’
Her husband frowns, looking me up and down. ‘Say’ he says slowly. ‘Are you OK?’
The American tourists are called Ed and Sylvie, and they are driving Clare and me to Castlebar Hospital. Sylvie sits in the back with Clare, mopping her face with wet wipes and telling her to breathe, while I struggle with the road map in the passenger seat, directing Ed through the lanes, past Kilimoor and on towards Castlebar.
‘Stay calm, kid,’ he tells me, snapping his gum. ‘Sylvie has had four littl’uns of her own. She knows all about this childbirth business.’
‘Most natural thing in the world,’ Sylvie says. ‘My third, now he came early too, and kinda unexpected. Three pounds eleven ounces, he was – he’s six foot two now, and running his own company! Just keep breathing, Clare. Don’t worry ‘bout a thing.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Clare says shakily from the back. ‘Really Scarlett. I’m sorry to frighten you.’
‘You didn’t!’ I protest. ‘I was worried, that’s all. You kept going all woozy and sleepy on me, and then when the baby started I just didn’t know what to do…’
‘You did fine,’ Clare reassures me, and then takes a deep breath in as a fresh wave of pain hits her.
‘Breathe, honey,’ Sylvie tells her. ‘Breathe through the pain. There… Now relax. The contractions are still around five minutes apart, so there’s no need to panic just yet. We’ll get you to the hospital, honey – everything’s gonna be just fine.’
Clare’s hand reaches forward to stroke my hair. ‘Stop worrying, Scarlett,’ she says. ‘I felt really woozy back there, but my head’s much clearer now. I’ve got a splitting headache, though. Maybe it’ll take my mind off the contractions!’
‘They won’t know which bit of you to check out first,’ Sylvie laughs, ‘but you seem OK to me. Didn’t anyone tell you not to go climbing ladders when you’re thirty-four weeks pregnant?’
‘My fault,’ I say gloomily ‘I should have stopped you.’
‘Nobody’s fault,’ Clare corrects me. ‘I’d have been fine if it hadn’t been for the powe
r cut.’
‘And the flip-flops,’ I remind her.
‘And the flip-flops. OK, so maybe that bit was my fault,’ Clare admits. ‘Never, never blame yourself, though, Scarlett. Promise me that…’ Her voice trails off as another wave of pain hits.
‘Try that phone again,’ Ed tells me.
I go back to punching numbers into Ed’s mobile. Dad’s number is still dead – his mobile must be switched off – but after a few attempts I get through to the hospital and begin a garbled explanation of what’s happening.
‘Tell them the contractions are five minutes apart,’ Sylvie instructs, and I pass on the information. The duty nurse wants to know how far we are from Castlebar.
‘Ten, fifteen miles?’ I hazard, frowning at the map. She tells us to drive safely, and that they’ll be ready for us as soon as we arrive, a midwife and doctor standing by. I end the call.
There’s some murmuring in the back of the car. When Clare looks up, surfacing from yet another contraction, she looks lost and anxious, her face pale, lips grey.
‘Ed, honey,’ Sylvie says, ‘I don’t really want to deliver this baby in a hire car by the side of the road. Be an angel and step on the gas, would you?’
The maternity wing smells of disinfectant and hope. I sit on a blue vinyl chair in the waiting area, Ed at my side, his big palm-patterned presence calming, comforting. Sylvie has gone off to fetch coffee, which she says will make everyone feel better. Clare is in the delivery suite with the doctor and the midwife. Groans of pain drift out now and again, to reassure us all that the labour is progressing.
I flip open Ed’s mobile and punch Dad’s number in yet again. Why have a mobile if you never switch it on? It’s infuriating. What if I can’t get through at all, and Dad and Holly arrive back at the cottage to find the place deserted, not even a scribbled note on the kitchen table?
I hold the mobile to my ear and as if by magic, this time the call rings through.
‘Hello, Chris Flynn’s mobile, how may I help you?’ a chirpy voice says.
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