by Edward Hogan
Maggie put her hand on his back.
The floodwaters drained from Detton at the rate of two inches an hour, and underneath the water the village was a wreck. Filthy, shit-strewn, and covered with every kind of waste.
The RAF were drafted in to search houses, and the police prevented residents from gaining access to properties that were unsafe. People wanted to return to their houses, even if those houses were cold and wet and dangerous. They could not help it.
An amateur photographer had taken shots of Tim Nettles, the former postman, being winched through his skylight to the safety of an RAF Sea King, his aged body limp and dull, clashing with the bright yellow of the helicopter. The power of the image and the happy outcome ensured that this became the lead story in the local news. Louisa’s accident was relegated to the middle paragraphs, a woman who became trapped trying to cross a field.
Looking out on the high street at the dropping water level, Brian Wicks asked, ‘Who pulled plug?’
* * *
The rhythmic beeps of sound grew faster. The light from the transmission receiver flashed from Christopher’s lap as they drove up past the reservoir. ‘Erm. Why are we doing this, again?’ he said.
‘Because it’s nice,’ said Maggie, concentrating on the surrounding fields. ‘It’s a nice thing to do.’
‘Oh right,’ said Christopher.
‘The signal is awfully, erm, stable,’ said Christopher. ‘We just keep getting closer and closer. Do you think that means the bird is, you know, deceased?’
Maggie looked up at the hilly fields on both sides of the road, and the sheep, bright in the gloom. ‘He might be. We have to be ready for that possibility.’
‘Do you think it will be like in E.T.: The Extra Terrestrial, where E.T. dies and the boy gets better?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Maggie, pulling over.
‘If so, we really have to hope the bird is dead, or mangled in some way.’
They got out of the Land Rover, climbed over a small stone wall, and walked uphill. The rain was soft, now. Christopher took the hand-held device and the big receiver with its unwieldy aerial, and Maggie carried a lure, some rope and a few strips of beef. Louisa had once told of a time when she had trapped a saker by getting his foot in the loop of the line and walking around him in slow circles while he ate.
The field had a fenced-off coppice, shelter no doubt for sheep or cattle that had been taken under more substantial cover this week. It was the only place that Diamond could be. Maggie put on Louisa’s tattered glove and began to swing the lure. She headed for the trees, whistling, letting out the line a little more. Any moment now, surely.
Nothing.
‘Diamond. Come on, sweetie.’
Maybe he was injured, or scared. The signal was close beyond its tuning now – a smooth tone – so Maggie told Christopher to switch it off. Christopher was ten metres behind her, creeping like a cartoon burglar. In the shadows of the trees Maggie saw Diamond’s colour, the flash of the transmitter. She straightened and moved in quickly. But it was his dock feather alone, slate blue and slick, caught on the fence, the transmitter still attached with its little wire, the bird long gone. She unhooked the feather carefully, and turned to Christopher. ‘Not gonna find him now,’ she said.
‘Oh, right,’ Christopher said, standing up out of his frozen pose. Maggie walked back to meet him, and gave him the feather, which he studied. ‘Oh well. For the best, I suppose,’ he said.
‘Really? Why?’ said Maggie.
‘Well. He was keeping Louisa cooped up in that house all day.’
Maggie closed her eyes and smiled. Christopher tapped his watch. ‘Erm. Hint, hint.’
‘What?’ said Maggie.
‘A little thing called visiting hours,’ Christopher said.
Back in the Land Rover, Christopher talked about his plans for the future. Maggie didn’t really feel like discussing such matters, but he was insistent. ‘I’ve been to the local studies library, and they’ve said I can volunteer. They need someone to help with school visits.’
Maggie raised her eyebrows. ‘They want you to do that?’
‘Erm, yes. I like children, although I’m probably not in a stable enough financial position to have my own progeny. The manager liked my idea about having a story competition where children write their own versions of the, erm, Robin Hood myth.’
‘Sounds great,’ Maggie said.
‘So, erm, you see, I’m going to be absolutely fine. And I’m going to patch things up with Louisa Smedley, when she can talk properly again.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘After all, she put her life in mortal danger on my behalf.’
‘Well. Yes.’
‘Erm, so did you.’
‘Well.’
Christopher turned on the transmission receiver again. It started to beep. He put the tip of his index finger against the little light so that the skin glowed red. ‘Look, Maggie, look. It’s like E.T. Erm, erm, erm. Phone home! Phone home!’
She looked down at the light. Given the dirtiness and length of Christopher’s fingers, the impersonation of E.T. was effective. ‘Oh. Yes,’ said Maggie.
Christopher stopped smiling and held Maggie’s arm. ‘No, Maggie. Look. Seriously.’
‘What?’ said Maggie, slowing the Land Rover and looking into the now unadulterated grey of his serious eyes.
‘Phone home,’ he said.
* * *
It happened on £3.50 Fish Supper Night. Christopher thought that was a great way to celebrate, so they went across to the pub, but the aroma proved too strong for Maggie. She had been the first to speak to Louisa when she woke fully; they had all agreed that she should be. She had found Louisa surprisingly lucid. Louisa had nodded when Maggie told her the plans, as if she had been thinking the same thing. Alright, she had said. Maggie kissed her forehead.
Adam said that Maggie should go home and rest. She thought about asking him if he would be okay, but he looked suddenly able to deal with anything. He could not keep the smile off his face. ‘If you get to speak to her again, give her my best,’ Maggie said.
As she left the pub, a roar went up from inside, muted by the door swinging closed. She looked back through the window to see footballers celebrating on the plasma screen.
Back home, Maggie rang the man from Beamish & Fisher, apologised for the lateness of the call, and went through the preliminary formalities. It would take a while, and there was plenty to do.
She went to her bedroom and began to take her clothes, many of which she had not worn for years, from the wardrobe. Silky dresses hung untouched, in the protective sheaths in which they had arrived from London. She placed them all in neat little towers on the floor around her bed. The piles of clothes gave her comfort in the dark, and she slept solidly until late the next morning.
* * *
She heard Christopher talking to the postman downstairs on his way out to college. The door closed, and the house settled. She could hear animals outside. Through everything, their rhythms had remained undisturbed.
Maggie descended the stairs of the big old house in shorts and boots. The merest light funnelled down. Her long figure loped, the sinews of her high bare shoulders like the tangle of wires behind the TV. The heels of her boots kicked up dust from the faded red stair-runner. On the floor, there was a parcel addressed to Ms Maggie – no surname – and she sat down to open it. Inside, she found a buckskin glove. It was plain, but beautiful, the hide thin – a longwing glove.
Maggie took a document from the box – a handwritten invoice for the attention of Louisa Smedley. The glovemaker had written a brief note under the price, but it was too dark to read in the hall. Maggie shuffled round on her knees, bringing an echoey shush from the smooth stone floor. She held the paper above her head, so the light would reach it. The glovemaker’s note read Sorry it took so long, but that was not what Maggie noticed. The paper had become transparent in the light. On the reverse was an outline of her own hand made
in make-up pencil. Maggie let her shoulders drop, and flipped the paper over, remembering as she did so that moment, which seemed an age ago, when Louisa had drawn around her fingers in the bathroom. A different time.
She slipped the glove on, put her hands together, linked the fingers, and squeezed.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Every day I worked on this book with Emily Hahn, and I’d like to thank her for the care, imagination, and most of all love she gave me throughout the process. You’re amazing, Emily, and this one’s for you.
I also want to thank Julie Redfern, for her massive support and astute reading. Thanks to Pop and Blake, and to Ignês Sodré and Gabriel Palma. Thanks to Daniel Jeffreys, who looked at so many drafts, and to Emma Sweeney and Sarah Flax for their insights. It was great to talk to Andrew Brentnall about falconry, and to James Shand about medical stuff. Belated thanks to Keir, Alex, Al, and Ian, for the room.
Francesca Main made a huge contribution to this book; I learned a lot from working with her, and had a great time along the way. Thank you to the brilliant Veronique Baxter, and to Laura West of DHA. Thanks to all the great folk at Simon & Schuster. I’m extremely grateful for the support of the Desmond Elliott Prize, too.
Eddie Hallam ran a wildlife park at Riber Castle, Derbyshire, for many years. Despite similarities in location, this book is not about that park, nor is it about Eddie. He did, however, give generously of his time to talk about his work in conservation.
Table of Contents
Pheasant, partridge.
