by Lewis, Gill
All the adults cheered. But I didn’t. It wasn’t enough. We’d found out at the end of the week that it wasn’t that simple to just fly Jeneba out here. She wasn’t British so her treatment would have to be paid for, and it would cost tens of thousands of pounds. I went to sit on the same table with Rob and Euan.
‘It’s a start,’ said Rob. ‘We can raise more.’
I nodded. I didn’t want Rob to think he’d sold his bike for nothing.
‘It sold then?’ said Rob.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
Euan was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I still can’t believe you did it,’ he said. ‘I mean, that bike was part of you. What’ll you do without wheels?’
Rob slumped further in his seat. ‘I’ve still got legs,’ he said with a half laugh. ‘I guess I’ll have to take up running instead.’
It was dark by the time we’d cleared the hall and put the chairs away. We walked out into the car park while Mum locked up the village hall.
Euan nudged me. ‘Over there,’ he said.
I looked across the road. Under the street lamp stood Mr McNair with Rob’s bike.
Rob noticed too, but kept his head down and followed his dad to the car.
Mr McNair wheeled the bike over to us and stared at Rob from under his bushy eyebrows. There was an awkward silence.
Mr McNair didn’t take his eyes off Rob. ‘So you’re Rob, the boy with the mean mouth and the big wheels,’ he said. ‘Mean mouth and no manners, that’s what I once heard.’
Mr McNair was so close to us. I could see the spidery veins across the white of his eyes and the lined bristly skin of his face.
Rob glanced at his bike and then at the ground.
‘Come on,’ said Rob’s dad, pulling Rob away.
Mr McNair pushed the bike closer, almost touching Rob. The tick … tick … tick of the turning wheels sounded loud in the silence. ‘It seems,’ he said, ‘you’ve got your manners back.’
Rob turned to look at him.
Mr McNair glared at him gruffly. ‘You’d better have your bike back too. It’s no use to me.’ He pushed the bike into Rob’s hands and patted the plastic bag with Euan’s fish. ‘I’ll keep these though. It’s a long time since I had a bit of fresh trout.’ He tucked the bag under his arm and shuffled away up the dark street.
‘Wait,’ called Mum. ‘Mr McNair … maybe I could cook those trout for you. With a bit of parsley and butter … ’
Mr McNair turned and nodded. ‘Aye, Mrs McGregor, that’d be grand.’
I glanced at Rob. He was speechless.
‘You’ll have to ride home now,’ said his dad.
Rob grinned, big and wide. He swung his leg over the bike and circled round the car park, shooting up and down the grassy banks.
‘WATCH OUT!’ I yelled.
A car shot into the car park and screeched to a stop beside us, headlights full on, blaring. A young woman, blonde and smartly dressed, opened the door.
‘Is this the village hall?’ she asked.
Dad nodded.
She smiled at all of us. ‘I’m looking for Callum McGregor,’ she said.
Everyone looked in my direction. ‘That’s me,’ I said.
She held out her hand. ‘Karen Burrows,’ she said. ‘I heard there’s a village fair here.’
‘I’m afraid it’s finished,’ I said. ‘You’ve missed it.’
‘Oh?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘No matter. I’m from the Highland Chronicle. I want to write a piece on your fundraising.’
I knew the Highland Chronicle, it was the local paper for the area, with local news and events and adverts. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re a bit late,’ I said.
‘It’s not that,’ she said. She reached into the car for her notepad and voice recorder. She smiled at me, a sort of smile that held known secrets. ‘It’s just that I heard you’re raising money for an African girl … ’
I nodded, but a deep knot tightened in the pit of my stomach.
‘ … and,’ she said, ‘it’s all because of an osprey you saved, here, in Scotland. Is that true?’
CHAPTER 36
‘How did that reporter know all about the osprey?’ I said. ‘We told no one.’
We stood in the village hall car park watching the taillights of Karen Burrows’s car disappear up the road.
Euan glanced at his dad, then at me. ‘I think it was me,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to. I was talking about the fundraising to one of the people who deliver the papers to Dad’s shop. I said the Gambian girl had found an osprey, but I never said it was from here. I hardly mentioned it.’
‘Well, that woman’s going to put it in the papers next week,’ I said.
Hamish stepped between us. ‘She doesn’t know where you live,’ he said.
‘Not yet,’ I said angrily. ‘I bet we’ll soon have people snooping all over the farm. Once Iris comes back, she’ll never be safe again.’
‘It’s only a local rag running the story,’ said Dad. ‘It’s not like it’s going to be national news.’
‘Well, it only takes one person to steal the eggs,’ I snapped.
Dad opened the car door. ‘Come on, let’s go home. It’s been a long day.’
The Chronicle ran the story on Monday. Dad showed me the paper when I got home from school. I was relieved to see it wasn’t on the front page. It was a small article near the middle of the paper showing a picture of an osprey and the poster Rob had made.
‘See?’ said Dad. ‘Blink and you’d miss it.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ I said.
‘I’m always right,’ Dad said with a grin.
I tapped in Iris’s code on the computer. I wanted to tell her it was safe to come back. I wanted her to come back here, to the farm. I checked on her every day now. It was as if keeping that connection kept her alive, as if she knew I was there, watching her. She was still in The Gambia, near the coast. The photos showed long wide sandy beaches and river deltas with mangrove forest. Her signal had criss-crossed the same river inlet for nearly a week. Hamish said the first week after release was the hardest. It was make or break. But Iris had made it. She was still flying, still hunting. She was alive.
I missed her. I hadn’t been to look at the eyrie for ages. I promised myself I would get up early the next day and go and check it for storm damage. It was an excuse to go up there, really. After a week of organizing the fundraising fair, I just wanted some time alone, up on the hills. I put out my fleece jacket and thick socks and set the alarm for six thirty.
I woke before the alarm. It was still dark outside and silent. Fern patterns of frost sparkled on the window in the light of a half moon. I got up, dressed in several layers of clothes and went down to the kitchen. It was warm from the heat of the cooking range. I tore off a piece of bread from the loaf Mum had left out, put on my boots, and slipped out into the yard.
The lights were on in one of the barns. Dad was up already, checking on the sheep. I heard the rustle of straw as Kip came out to greet me. His tail thumped on the wooden sides of the kennel, his breath misted white in the cold air.
‘Come on then,’ I said. I leaned down to unclip his chain and ruffled my hands through his thick winter coat. He licked my face and barked. I put my hand over his muzzle. ‘Shh, Kip, no noise.’ And as if he understood, he padded silently ahead of me, out of the yard and up the track leading to the loch.
I loved the farm before the dawn. It was a different place. Frost-crusted puddles reflected the moonlight and lit up the path. The outline of hills was soft and dark, like waves on a midnight sea, and the woods were a smudge of blackness so deep it looked impossible to enter. There were no colours, only the deepness of blue.
I was out of breath by the time I reached the loch. The moon was a shining white ball in the water. I couldn’t make out the eyrie very well. It was almost hidden from the ground. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d miss it.
I thought of going to the tree-house, just to look. But I could
n’t do it. Iona and I never did get to sleep the night up there. I sat down on a flat rock jutting out over the loch, and chewed on the piece of bread from my pocket.
A pale light was spreading across the eastern sky and the night farm was fading. Colours slowly merged into the day, the pale greens of the fields, peaty browns of the loch, and strips of promised sunlight beneath the clouds.
Maybe Iona and I would have sat here, on this rock, and watched a dawn just like this. Maybe.
I threw Kip the crust. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘I’ve got school and you’ve got work to do with Dad today.’
I jumped down from the rock and whistled to Kip, but he was standing absolutely still, staring into the valley below, his ears pricked.
‘Come on, Kip,’ I said. He followed me down the path by the river, but stopped again. A low growl built in his throat and his hackles were raised.
Kip saw the man before I did.
We hardly ever had walkers and ramblers on our farm. Not at this time in the morning, anyway.
We met on a corner, where the bend was steep. Small loose stones skittered under the man’s feet.
‘Hello,’ he said. He had a posh, southern accent. He smiled as if he was expecting to meet me here. ‘Callum McGregor, is it?’
I nodded.
He held up his camera. It was one of those big ones with a huge lens. ‘D’you mind if I take your photo? I’m doing a feature on the osprey you saved.’
I could feel Kip press against my leg. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I said. ‘I’ve lost some sheep.’ I pushed past him and ran down the track. When I turned around at the bottom of the hill, I could see him coming down the track too. I ran on, as fast as I could, back home. I had to tell Mum and Dad and Hamish. I had to tell them there was someone snooping on the farm.
I burst into the yard. Mum was grim faced by the back door.
‘Euan’s dad has just been on the phone,’ she said. ‘There are TV cameras and journalists swarming all over the village. It’s you they want to talk to. We’d better get down there.’
CHAPTER 37
Dad pulled up in the road behind the village hall. We could see the car park was full of camera crews and journalists. Mrs Wicklow was standing in the back entrance of the village hall beckoning us in. Mum, Dad, Graham, and I scrambled over the back fence into the village hall.
It looked as if everyone from the village was crammed in there. I could hear reporters knocking at the door.
‘It’s big news,’ said Euan’s dad. ‘Seems everyone wants to know.’ He shook his head. ‘There are more reporters on the way here. There’s even a television crew from CNN. It’s world news now.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Euan.
Mrs Wicklow put her hand on my arm. ‘We won’t tell them about the osprey on your farm.’
I looked round the faces staring at me. ‘Oh, so everyone knows, do they? I may as well take the reporters up to the loch now.’
‘But they don’t know where the nest is,’ said Euan.
‘And none of us are going to show them,’ said Rob’s dad.
I glared at them all. ‘It won’t take them long to work it out. Iris will never be safe again.’
Just then there was a splintering sound and the doors were flung open. Reporters and cameramen surged into the hall.
Euan caught me by the arm. ‘Don’t say a word,’ he whispered. ‘Rob and I have got a plan. Wait for us. Don’t say a word.’ I watched them push their way through the crowd and go out into the open air.
‘There he is.’
I turned to see the tall reporter I’d met on the hill striding towards me. He held out a hand. ‘Here’s the boy who can tell us all about it.’
I backed away. Suddenly all the cameras were pointing at me. About ten people were asking questions all at once. Everything seemed to slow down and speed up at the same time. I could hear Mum calling me from the back of the crowd. She sounded far away. A woman took me gently by the arm and led me outside.
‘This way, Callum,’ she smiled. I followed her, squeezing through jackets, coats, and cameras.
I found myself standing in front of a TV camera, next to the smiling lady. ‘We’re going on live TV,’ she said. ‘Everyone wants to know your remarkable story.’
The cameras were running and she was talking. And I was telling her about Jeneba, about the fundraising to pay for her operation over here and about the Gambian villagers finding the osprey from the satellite signals in the mangrove forests.
‘And this osprey,’ she said, still smiling. ‘How did you get to know about this osprey?’
My mouth went dry. I stalled. There were microphones all pointing at me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a truck screech into the car park. I saw Rob and Euan and Hamish running towards me. It all seemed to be happening in slow motion.
‘This osprey,’ said the smiling lady. ‘Did you find it here, in this valley?’
I opened my mouth to speak as Hamish wrapped his arm around me and stepped in front of the camera.
‘No,’ Hamish said. ‘Callum and his friends here have been following one of the ospreys at the nature reserve where I work. We had a breeding pair there last summer. As you know they’re endangered birds. We have CCTV and razor wire to protect them. And if you’d all like to come with me to the reserve, I can show you the nest right now.’
I sank into a chair. I felt exhausted. The last of the reporters’ cars had left the yard, following Hamish on the fifteen mile trip to the nature reserve.
Mum made cups of tea for everyone from the village and soon it became a bit of an early morning party.
Rob’s dad gave me a pat on the back. ‘The osprey on your farm is our secret too. We all stick together for something like this.’
‘How did everyone know?’ I said.
‘No one did until today,’ said Rob’s dad. ‘But Mr McNair saw the journalists arrive early this morning. He saw a reporter heading up to the loch and guessed the osprey nest was up there. McNair told Mrs Beatty at the post office and she told everyone else. That’s why we all came here, to stop the reporters snooping about your farm. We told them you were with us.’
‘It was a close one,’ said Rob.
Euan was pale. ‘We almost didn’t make it.’
‘How did he know?’ I said. ‘How did Mr McNair know about the ospreys on our farm?’
Mum put a cup of tea on the table beside me and sat down. ‘He found a box of Iona’s things, her drawings and pictures. He remembered his father telling him there were once ospreys in the valley too. I guess he put two and two together.’
Rob’s mum arrived at the hall with some bacon and eggs. ‘I may as well make you all breakfast,’ she said. ‘You’re late for school already. I don’t think another half hour will hurt.’
We were finishing our bacon and eggs when a car arrived at the village hall. The tall reporter I had met before came through the door.
Mum started clearing the ketchup and brown sauce bottles away. ‘They’ve all got school now, I’m afraid,’ she said.
The man took out his mobile and scrolled through his messages. ‘I just need to check a few things with Callum. That’s all.’
‘Well, he’s not got long, so be quick.’ Mum pulled on her coat and picked up her handbag.
The man smiled at her. ‘I just need to check the charity number for Jeneba. Our news-desk has already received donations of money towards her treatment in the UK.’
Mum sat down, clutching her handbag. ‘How much money are we talking here?’
The reporter scrolled through his messages again. ‘Well, it’s only an hour since the newscast went out, but there are donations already in the region of about ten thousand pounds.’
I almost choked on my bacon. ‘Ten thousand?’
‘Yup,’ said the man. He scrolled down the messages again. ‘Oh, and there’s an orthopaedic surgeon in London, mad keen on birds. He’s offered to do the operation free.’
CHAPTER 38
Mo
re money came in over the rest of the day, and the following days after that. People from all over the world gave money, from Canada, Japan, France, and America. One of the newspapers paid for someone to be in charge of the charity for Jeneba and arrange her trip over here.
It all happened so quickly. It was out of our hands, out of our control. There were photos of Jeneba in the Gambian hospital bed, photos of the village and the river. My words and the story had been changed for magazine and newspaper articles. Jeneba was suddenly everyone else’s friend, everyone else’s property. I was happy for her. But I felt I’d lost her. She hadn’t answered any emails. I had to find out what was happening from the newspapers.
‘Be patient,’ said Mum. ‘She probably feels the same way too. Suddenly everyone’s taking charge of her life. She’s been sick remember.’
I waited, and I needn’t have worried. Jeneba sent an email:
From: Jeneba Kah
Sent: 1st December 13.30
Subject: Flying like Iris
Hello Callum,
I am sorry I have not written. It has taken much time to clear the infection in my leg. But I am well to travel now. When Dr Jawara told me I was going to Britain to mend my leg I could not believe it. I cannot thank your village enough for helping me. I keep thinking, maybe the marabout is wrong this time. Maybe his dream of me walking across the ocean of clouds will not come true. Maybe I will really walk again.
There have been lots of journalists here too. Mama Binta says they are worse than the village goats just wandering into the hospital when they like. But I like them. They are funny. They bring books and pens and toys for us.
Everything has happened so fast. Tomorrow I fly to London. I am so excited. No one from the village has been in an aeroplane before. I need a nurse to travel with me, so Mama Binta is coming too. Dr Jawara said he feels sorry for all the British doctors! I think Mama Binta heard, because Dr Jawara has been hiding from her all day.
