‘No,’ she says, ‘you didn’t think. That’s the problem.’ And she turns and walks away from him, back towards the shadows of the cottage.
There doesn’t seem to be much point staying any longer, so they pack up their things and return to the car in silence. The rain has stopped, but the drive home is still torturous, the atmosphere in the car claustrophobic with despair and disappointment. Lila can barely exchange more than a couple of words with Tom all the way back to London. She just sits in the passenger seat, gazing at the mottled sky as it turns slowly from grey to orange to dusky pink. Red sky at night, shepherds delight, she thinks, but even the dispersal of the rain clouds and the promise of a better day can’t lighten her mood. We can try again, Tom had said, but Lila doesn’t want to try again. How do you replace the irreplaceable? How do you bear the unbearable? She just wants their daughter back. She just wants this sickening, hollow feeling eating her up from the inside out to disappear. She thinks about the bottle of pills in the bathroom cabinet at home. She imagines unscrewing the lid and swallowing them all down, one by one, slowly giving in to oblivion.
She shifts in her seat, turns to gaze out of the window. She thinks about Tom and about the steep precipice their marriage teeters upon.
How quickly things have changed for them. A mere two or so years on from their wedding night and for all their giddy, whispered promises, she sees now how they were caught up in nothing but naive innocence – no, worse than that – arrogance . . . to think that they were special . . . different. She knows now that they aren’t either of those things; they are just like everyone else – a couple of years of wedded bliss and here they are, flailing and floundering through the rocky terrain of their relationship.
She thinks of the cottage they have left behind – cold and lonely – standing beside that strange, shimmering lake and realises that is exactly how she feels: cold and hollow and empty. She had love growing and blossoming inside her, but now, perhaps like the cottage, it is gone; and the thing that scares her most of all, she thinks, glancing across at the grim face of her husband, is that she’s just not sure if they will ever get it back.
4
AUGUST
1980
Kat lies in the tin boat, a fishing rod propped against the side of the hull, its float bobbing lazily somewhere out on the lake. Overhead, ephemeral white clouds drift across the sky, morphing into ever-changing shapes. She closes her eyes, giddy with the gentle rocking sensation of the boat – the wide-open sky – the freedom of it all.
It’s only been a few short weeks since they moved to the cottage but already she has lost track of the days; they spiral away at the lake hazy and unchecked, the five of them falling into familiar patterns and routines, mostly revolving around sleeping, smoking and drinking, with the lake forming a focal point of sorts. In the mornings they bathe in the shallows, wring out T-shirts and bathing suits ready for the day ahead; at lunch, during the warmest part of the day, they float upon its mirrored surface, soaking up the sun’s rays; and in the evening they build campfires down on the shingle, swat at midges and watch the sun set over the surrounding hills. So far, time spent at the cottage has felt like one, long, lazy holiday – one that no one wants to end. Kat has never felt so blissfully content.
Mac sits opposite her at the other end of the boat. She hears him pull on the oars, splashing them once, twice through the water, steadying their position. He has been fishing almost every day since they arrived, but for Kat it’s her first time out in the boat and she likes the new perspective it gives her: the gentle rocking motion reminiscent of a hammock in the breeze, the cottage standing like a doll’s house in the distance, the lazy clunk and splash of the oars, the low hum of a dragonfly skimming the lake. She reaches out and trails her fingers through the cool water. It is hard to believe that not so very far away there is a whole world out there bustling with life, while they wile away the days in isolated paradise. It’s hard to believe that just a few short weeks ago they’d needed Simon to persuade them to give this idea a try. For despite their fears, no one has arrived to lay claim to the derelict cottage; no one has come storming over the hills and threatened to throw them off the land. They are all beginning to relax a little and entertain the thought that maybe, just maybe, this cottage has been lying here waiting for them to claim it all this time – waiting for them to make it their home.
‘Look,’ says Mac from the opposite end of the boat, ‘that one looks like a shaggy dog. See, up there.’
She squints to where he points high above their heads until she sees the gliding wisp of cloud with drooping ears and feathery tail. She smiles and watches it drift and morph in shape until her vision blurs and she has to tear her eyes from the powder-blue expanse.
Mac’s eyes are closed again, his own shaggy hair falling away from his face, his chin lifted to the sun. Kat watches him for a moment. Without the usual fringe of hair obscuring his eyes, she can see him clearly for once and something about him seems altered. He is still skinny, still kind of odd-looking. Unlike Simon and Ben, Mac remains caught somewhere in the awkward no-man’s-land between man and boy, with a rash of spots blossoming on his stubbly chin and his tall, rangy frame yet to fill out properly; but compared to just a few weeks ago, he already looks different – a browner, healthier version of his former self. She supposes they all are now; three weeks of living outside in the fresh country air is transforming them all.
‘What do you miss?’ Mac asks, his grey eyes still closed to the sun.
Kat smiles. ‘It’s only been three weeks.’
‘I know,’ he says, ‘but you must miss something.’
‘But we’ve brought almost everything with us.’
Mac grins, his eyes still closed. ‘True.’
‘God,’ laughs Kat, ‘those first two days were nothing more than a back-and-forth march across that bloody meadow, lugging all that crap we brought with us. I nearly gave up on the whole idea then, to be honest.’ She settles back against the warm metal hull. ‘Thank God I didn’t, hey?’
‘It might seem like crap now, but we’ll be grateful for it all soon.’
Kat shrugs. It had all seemed a bit pointless to her, the endless discussions about what they would need to survive up at the lake. She’d thought Simon had said that everything they required could be found up there, but the more they had thought about it, the more it had become clear that they would have to procure a fair few essentials if they were to get up and running. Their lists had included bedding and kitchen equipment, tools and groceries, firelighters, lamps and candles, batteries, matches, pen knives and fishing rods, a basic first aid kit.
‘For people supposedly giving up the trappings of modern life we sure do seem to need a lot of stuff,’ she’d half joked. ‘I understand about your guitar, Ben, but do we really need all these old Melody Makers? There’s a whole box of them here.’
‘You’re taking books aren’t you?’
‘Books are different.’
‘Why?’
Kat had shrugged. ‘They just are.’
‘Not to me,’ he’d sniffed. ‘If I can’t have my records then these are the next best thing.’
In the end it had all come with them. They bought practical walking boots and waterproof coats too and just when Kat had thought they might be drawing to the end of their list, Mac had started adding some very odd things: wire and nails, an axe, a hacksaw and a fierce-looking hunting knife.
‘Bloody hell, Mac,’ Carla had laughed, ‘you’re not going to get all Heart of Darkness on us, are you? What exactly are you planning to do up there?’
He’d shifted his weight and patiently explained. ‘Chicken wire for the chicken coop we’ll build. Copper wire for fixing snare traps. A good knife for skinning and gutting rabbits.’ They’d looked at him in amazement and he’d shaken his head. ‘What did you think we’re going to be eating up there? It’s a long way to the nearest chippie.’
Simon had simply nodded and added everything to the
list.
‘Well if Mac gets wire I want toilet paper,’ Carla had chipped in. ‘It’s going to be bad enough going in that outside pit. I don’t want to have to wipe my bum on dock leaves as well.’
‘What about a homebrew kit?’ Ben had suggested, to everyone’s murmurs of agreement, and so the list had grown. In the end the most sensible thing had seemed for them all to pool their savings and to stock up on the essentials that they needed. It had been a relief to see that even after they’d bought out half the local camping shop, they still had a healthy sum of money left in their kitty. Simon had reassured them that as long as they were careful with it they’d easily make it through to spring.
‘I’m not sure I miss anything yet,’ Kat says finally, eyeing Mac across the boat. ‘Give it a few more days though and I’m sure I’ll be sick of you lot and desperate for a hot bath and a bar of chocolate.’
Mac smiles. ‘What about family? Don’t you miss them?’
Kat thinks for a moment. ‘I don’t have a family. Not really. Just a sister – Freya.’
‘Where are your parents?’
Kat shakes her head. ‘God knows.’
Mac throws her a curious glance.
‘Junkies,’ she explains, looking out over the water. ‘They fall into that category of grown-ups who never should’ve been allowed to have children. Dad left us first. Mum fell to bits after he walked out.’ She swallows. There is so much more she could say but she doesn’t want to release the ugly words into such a glorious day.
‘Sorry,’ mumbles Mac.
‘It’s OK. We were taken into care . . . raised by foster parents. Peter and Margaret Browning.’ Both of them hear the slight edge in her voice. ‘Don’t get me wrong, they were nice, but I think they were ready to see the back of us as soon as we both turned eighteen. Sent us off to college with a pat on the back and a suggestion that the odd letter might be nice; “just to let us know you’re still alive”.’ She looks at Mac. ‘Twelve years I lived in their house and all they wanted was the occasional letter. It stung a bit.’ She tries to smile.
Mac stares at her. ‘That must have been tough on you and your sister.’
It had been tough, yes but it hadn’t been nearly as tough as the years that had preceded life with the Brownings. Kat shrugs. ‘It’s just the way it was. I think our foster parents liked the idea of “rescuing” us more than the actual job of parenting. Besides, Freya and I were good at being independent. We learned pretty quickly to rely only on each other. Freya’s all I have in the way of family but she’s in London now, at art college.’ She studies Mac a moment. ‘She’s great. You’d like her.’
‘Are you very similar?’
‘Me and Freya? Not really. There’s only two years between us, but we’re really different.’ She looks at Mac and smiles. ‘Everybody likes Freya. There’s something about her.’
‘Have you told her about this place?’
Kat shakes her head. ‘What do you think? Tell no one, isn’t that what Simon said? But what about you?’ she asks, deflecting Mac’s attention. ‘Do you miss anything . . . anybody? Your family?’
Mac shrugs. ‘No. It’s just me and Mum now and she doesn’t seem to mind what I do, as long as I’m happy.’
‘She sounds nice.’
Mac nods. ‘She is. Dad was a lot older . . . a farmer. He used to take me out on the land and teach me about farming and hunting, about respecting the environment. He’d probably love what we’re trying to do here.’
Kat smiles. ‘Is that how you know so much about the countryside?’
He shrugs. ‘I guess so. He taught me a fair bit . . . until he died a few years ago. A stroke. He always wanted me to go to university though. He wanted me to have “options” so that’s why I went. For him, really.’
Kat studies the frayed coil of rope lying on the bottom of the boat. ‘Do you miss him?’
‘Course,’ he shrugs again. ‘He was my dad.’
Kat hears the tenderness in Mac’s voice and swallows down the ache in her throat. She’s never spoken of her parents like that. Not once. She reaches down and touches the coiled rope, lets its thick hemp scratch against her skin. ‘It’s strange, isn’t it? All that time sharing a house and we never once talked like this.’
Mac nods.
‘We had to come all the way up here to find out a little more about each other.’ She stares across at him and this time he holds her gaze until the solemn moment is broken by the sound of a splash. They both turn to see the float at the end of Kat’s fishing line bob and then duck down below the surface of the water. ‘Eh up,’ says Mac with a grin. He stands carefully and slides across to sit beside her in the boat.
Kat seizes the fishing rod firmly in her hands then turns to Mac with a burst of helpless laughter. ‘Is now a good time to tell you that I’ve got no idea what I’m doing?’
‘Just reel it in, slow and steady. Like this.’ Mac puts his hands over hers and shows her how to turn the handle on the rod. She concentrates, spooling the line, her tongue caught between her teeth, hauling it in until a huge silver perch lies flip-flopping on the bottom of the boat. Kat looks at it, half amazed, half repulsed. Its scaly sides heave in and out, its mouth gapes open and shut.
‘What do we do now?’
‘Stand back,’ says Mac, and he bends down, removes the hook from the fish’s rubbery mouth and then, before she can say another word, he grabs a heavy wooden stick lying on the bottom of the boat and clobbers the creature over the head. One sharp blow and the fish is still.
‘Oh,’ says Kat, horrified. ‘Couldn’t you have left it? It would have died soon enough.’
‘Kinder this way,’ says Mac with a shrug, and he looks up at her, his face transformed by the curve of his grin and the fish blood splattered across his left cheek and dripping like a crimson tear from the corner of one eye. ‘One more that size and we’ll have supper sorted. Well done.’
Kat can’t help it; despite her lingering revulsion at the violence of it all, she feels something else welling within her: a warm flush of pride.
The crickets are in full song as they gather around the campfire that evening. They fry the perch over the flames with wild sorrel Mac has uncovered in the woods and eat it straight from the pan, the fish melting like butter in their mouths.
Kat watches her friends hunched over their plates, cramming the fish she caught only hours earlier into their bellies and she can’t stop her mouth twisting into a smile. ‘What?’ asks Ben, catching her eye. ‘Is there something on my face?’ He rubs at his scruffy goatee.
‘No,’ she laughs. ‘It’s just this.’ She gestures around them. ‘This place.’
Simon turns to her. ‘What about it?’
‘It’s even better than I thought it would be.’ Simon eyes her for a moment and then nods. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever felt so at home somewhere,’ she adds quietly. ‘It really feels as though it was meant to be, doesn’t it?’ and he nods again and returns her smile.
After they have picked the last of the fish bones clean, Simon leans back against the grassy slope and eyes them all. ‘I think we should make some plans,’ he says. ‘Summer has been kind but the days are growing shorter already.’
‘Uh-oh,’ jokes Carla, ‘it’s time for a serious-Simon talk.’
He smiles, but he isn’t deterred. ‘Things are only going to get harder . . . and colder and if we’re still here by winter – which I hope we will be – food will become more scarce.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ asks Ben, reaching for his pouch of tobacco and cigarette papers.
‘We need to set up a food store. We could start with the garden. I know it hasn’t been tended in a while and there’s a lot that’s gone to seed, but there are still things we can eat. We should harvest what we can now, before it spoils or the birds and snails get to it.’
‘But what about everything we lugged up here when we moved in? I still can’t see how we’ll ever get through those huge sacks of flour, rice and sugar.
’
‘If we rely solely on that I can assure you we’ll have nothing come October but really bad scurvy. We can’t go running to the village shop every time we need a loaf of bread or a box of cereal. The less we do to draw attention to ourselves the better. Besides, if the weather turns bad – if a tree comes down across that track, or if we get snowed in – we wouldn’t be able to go anywhere.’
‘That’s true,’ admits Kat.
‘And there are other things to think about. We’ll need firewood, lots of it. We need to start stockpiling for winter.’
‘We need chickens, too,’ says Mac.
Carla laughs. ‘Chickens?’
‘Yes,’ says Simon, ‘we need chickens. For eggs, meat too, if we get desperate.’
Mac nods. ‘I can make a chicken coop.’
‘Is there no end to this boy’s talents?’ jokes Ben, putting the flame of a lighter to his roll-up.
Simon ignores him. ‘And we need to start hunting and foraging. Every day. Some things we can store – apples, root vegetables, nuts – things that won’t spoil. We can dry herbs. The supplies that won’t keep we should consider trying to stew or preserve. I found a load of old glass jars stacked up inside the lean-to. We can use those.’
Kat looks at Carla and rolls her eyes. ‘I suppose that will be our job.’
‘Not necessarily,’ says Simon. ‘We don’t have to fall into gender stereotypes here. We set the rules, remember?’
‘So we really are going to live off the land?’ asks Ben. ‘I always just thought that was just a bit of a joke. I’m perfectly happy with my cornflakes and instant mash.’
‘No,’ says Simon firmly. ‘I’m not saying we won’t need to visit a shop once in a while, but our money isn’t going to last long if we fritter it away on unnecessary groceries. No more boxes of cereal. No more biscuits and coffee and hair conditioner.’ He looks pointedly at Carla. ‘We need to adapt, make-do. We’ve been lucky. It’s been three weeks and no one has found us yet but we shouldn’t get cavalier.’ He looks around at them all in turn. ‘Agreed?’
The Shadow Year Page 7
