to her, but to Luiza and Elena. Use Grace’s absence to scare them into agreement if necessary. Mama will not remain here while the rest of us go upriver. Here,’ he said, and reached into his pocket for a wide, flat stone. ‘You will need this.’
Dalip took the sea-worn rock and hefted it in his hand. ‘What’s this for?’
‘For sharpening your knife. You must grind an edge on it for it to be useful.’
The rock was smooth, fine-grained, black and heavy. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Dalip. ‘I don’t know how.’
‘Then I will show you. Now: tell me where the eggs are to be found. If we are to walk far, we must be fed.’
9
The moon rose later and less full than the previous night, but it still resembled a huge skull of cratered bone hanging over their heads, casting its light through the canopy. Beneath its ponderous orbit, they spoke, argued, shouted and finally decided. There were tears and red faces, and eventually capitulation and sleep.
In the morning, Mary went down by the river to wash, scrubbing at her skin and scalp with her fingers. The water was cold when she wanted hot. She had sand when she wanted soap. She told herself that there was no point in wishing for things that none of them had, but it didn’t stop her wishing anyway.
Stanislav had emphasised that none of them should ever be on their own, just in case. So Dalip was nearby, and she wasn’t watching him as such. Not closely. He was downriver from her, secluded but not private, going through the ritual of washing his hair, combing it straight, tying it up and imprisoning it under his turban. Every so often, that plain steel bracelet he wore high up on his forearm slipped down, and he’d reposition it again before carrying on.
And when it was time to go, they just left. There was nothing to carry, except the net, nothing to pack, except Dalip’s sharpening stone. Stanislav raked out the fire with the end of a branch and gazed at the embers as they grew dull. With everything unspoken, he threw the stick he’d used on the ashes aside, and simply started. One by one, they followed, leaving the coast, and the door, behind.
She remembered that stupid kid’s joke – she couldn’t remember where from or who told it to her first – about ‘when is a door not a door?’ Who knew there was another answer, one which involved the door merging with a sheer cliff?
They kept to the tree line for a while, but as the estuary narrowed, so did the distance between the bank and the forest, until it became necessary to walk amongst the trees and keep an eye on where the river was.
The sun slewed around behind them, but they were shaded. It was cool under the canopy. Insects turned slow loops in the shadows, and skittered over the face of the running water. Sometimes a fish rose for one with a soft approach and a powerful escape. Birds called unseen from the upper branches.
Back when social services were still trying, they’d tried to make Mary do one of those adventure holidays – they said it’d be character building. The pictures they’d shown her to encourage her, the ones of stark rock ridges and barren, boggy moors where the wind and rain spotted the camera’s lens, had the opposite effect. She wasn’t doing that. Why should she? What possible purpose would it achieve? She’d started with a hearty ‘fuck off ’, and it escalated from there.
She hadn’t gone.
Perhaps the mistake they’d made was making it too safe for her. Where was the challenge in climbing a hill thousands had already climbed that year, and getting roped up to abseil a few metres down a rock?
Now, with no one to plead with her, cajole her or compel her, she was walking and camping out, foraging for food and eating with her fingers, all the things she swore she’d never do, because she wasn’t a fucking animal.
She didn’t even want a cigarette. She couldn’t normally make it five minutes after waking without one.
With slow inevitability, they became strung
Dalip took the sea-worn rock and hefted it in his hand. ‘What’s this for?’
‘For sharpening your knife. You must grind an edge on it for it to be useful.’
The rock was smooth, fine-grained, black and heavy. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Dalip. ‘I don’t know how.’
‘Then I will show you. Now: tell me where the eggs are to be found. If we are to walk far, we must be fed.’
9
The moon rose later and less full than the previous night, but it still resembled a huge skull of cratered bone hanging over their heads, casting its light through the canopy. Beneath its ponderous orbit, they spoke, argued, shouted and finally decided. There were tears and red faces, and eventually capitulation and sleep.
In the morning, Mary went down by the river to wash, scrubbing at her skin and scalp with her fingers. The water was cold when she wanted hot. She had sand when she wanted soap. She told herself that there was no point in wishing for things that none of them had, but it didn’t stop her wishing anyway.
Stanislav had emphasised that none of them should ever be on their own, just in case. So Dalip was nearby, and she wasn’t watching him as such. Not closely. He was downriver from her, secluded but not private, going through the ritual of washing his hair, combing it straight, tying it up and imprisoning it under his turban. Every so often, that plain steel bracelet he wore high up on his forearm slipped down, and he’d reposition it again before carrying on.
And when it was time to go, they just left. There was nothing to carry, except the net, nothing to pack, except Dalip’s sharpening stone. Stanislav raked out the fire with the end of a branch and gazed at the embers as they grew dull. With everything unspoken, he threw the stick he’d used on the ashes aside, and simply started. One by one, they followed, leaving the coast, and the door, behind.
She remembered that stupid kid’s joke – she couldn’t remember where from or who told it to her first – about ‘when is a door not a door?’ Who knew there was another answer, one which involved the door merging with a sheer cliff?
They kept to the tree line for a while, but as the estuary narrowed, so did the distance between the bank and the forest, until it became necessary to walk amongst the trees and keep an eye on where the river was.
The sun slewed around behind them, but they were shaded. It was cool under the canopy. Insects turned slow loops in the shadows, and skittered over the face of the running water. Sometimes a fish rose for one with a soft approach and a powerful escape. Birds called unseen from the upper branches.
Back when social services were still trying, they’d tried to make Mary do one of those adventure holidays – they said it’d be character building. The pictures they’d shown her to encourage her, the ones of stark rock ridges and barren, boggy moors where the wind and rain spotted the camera’s lens, had the opposite effect. She wasn’t doing that. Why should she? What possible purpose would it achieve? She’d started with a hearty ‘fuck off ’, and it escalated from there.
She hadn’t gone.
Perhaps the mistake they’d made was making it too safe for her. Where was the challenge in climbing a hill thousands had already climbed that year, and getting roped up to abseil a few metres down a rock?
Now, with no one to plead with her, cajole her or compel her, she was walking and camping out, foraging for food and eating with her fingers, all the things she swore she’d never do, because she wasn’t a fucking animal.
She didn’t even want a cigarette. She couldn’t normally make it five minutes after waking without one.
With slow inevitability, they became strung
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