mean.
I know exactly what he'll think. He'll
think we are no different from them. And there'll be no way of explaining it so
he understands; we don't choose them. They choose us.
Something to be thankful for then;
they've decided to leave in convoy. The last of the cars is pulling away,
someone's old banger coughing its way up the lane. They are all old, their
cars, older than ours even. It would be nice, for Dad's sake, to see the odd
new make, shiny and expensive, just now and then - a sign that he was
attracting a better class of person. But it never happens.
And still no sign of headlights from the
opposite direction. No light out there at all now, except for the stars,
shining hard, and cold, and far away. That's the sort of light I like. Distant
and cold. I had the dream again last night, and the light seemed brighter and
closer than ever as he carried me through the house. This time, I could feel
the heat of it, streaming about us as he walked. Too much light, too much heat
– and me like a feather in his arms. A piece of kindling.
Do other people feel as if they could
look at the stars forever? So faint and far away.
IT
was another three quarters of an hour before they arrived. We were sitting in
the kitchen about to have our supper. She said he mustn't be made to
wait any more. He needed to eat when Nature intended. She can't stand it when
anything gets between him and what's meant to be.
So she was about to serve up when there
came the knock at the front door. I'd forgotten to tell them, Lydia and her
father; the front door is all sealed up - nails to fasten it shut, and tape to
block out the draughts. I should have told them to come round the back, despite
the time of night and there not being a single lamp to light their way. She looks at me, meaning I'll be hearing about this later.
It's my job to hurry round to the front
of the house - and there they are, just visible in the darkness. But
something's wrong. Although there seem to be two of them, I'd swear neither of
them was a man. Maybe it's not them.
Then a woman's voice calls out, making a
ringing sound as it bounces off the frosty granite of our house.
'Hello, is someone there?'
It must be Lydia's mother. Silly of me.
I never thought of her. Somehow I always thought her Dad would be bringing her.
Then comes Lydia's voice. 'Is that you,
Kate?' She sounds almost tearful, as if the dark is too much for her.
'Course it's me, goofball.' Notice the
lilt in my voice. Lydia's mum - who is still a surprise to me - will hear it,
and know what to expect as a result, even in the dark. Someone friendly,
someone normal. Not like Lydia at all.
'Is there...is there someone else with
you?' I feel as if I have to ask. You never know, her dad might be in the
shadows, watching, biding his time, the way that...
The way that mine would.
Her mother answers. 'Someone else...? Oh
I see, Lydia's father. No, he's not with us. He's driving Lydia's little sister
down to her aunt. I would think it's taken him almost less time than us.' Now
she's pulling up her sleeve to look at her watch, forgetting she won't be able
to make out a thing in the dark. Silly woman.
'Twenty to eight,' she says in a shocked
voice. 'We've been two solid hours.'
She must have a luminous dial. I never thought
of that.
'Shame,' I say, though it's hardly my
fault. And I don't say a word about how we've been waiting two solid
hours. My voice is still nice and bright. 'Follow me.' Then I lead the way
round the back. The way they should have come in the first place.
THE
back door was closed, naturally. Opening a door, any door, is no reason to let
precious heat escape. At least that's the way she sees it.
There's no fast way of doing this. I
push the door open, stand aside, praying they will have the sense to enter
quickly. Lydia at least I could give a good hard push without anyone noticing,
with the result that she practically barrels over the doorstep, tilting into
her mother
I know exactly what he'll think. He'll
think we are no different from them. And there'll be no way of explaining it so
he understands; we don't choose them. They choose us.
Something to be thankful for then;
they've decided to leave in convoy. The last of the cars is pulling away,
someone's old banger coughing its way up the lane. They are all old, their
cars, older than ours even. It would be nice, for Dad's sake, to see the odd
new make, shiny and expensive, just now and then - a sign that he was
attracting a better class of person. But it never happens.
And still no sign of headlights from the
opposite direction. No light out there at all now, except for the stars,
shining hard, and cold, and far away. That's the sort of light I like. Distant
and cold. I had the dream again last night, and the light seemed brighter and
closer than ever as he carried me through the house. This time, I could feel
the heat of it, streaming about us as he walked. Too much light, too much heat
– and me like a feather in his arms. A piece of kindling.
Do other people feel as if they could
look at the stars forever? So faint and far away.
IT
was another three quarters of an hour before they arrived. We were sitting in
the kitchen about to have our supper. She said he mustn't be made to
wait any more. He needed to eat when Nature intended. She can't stand it when
anything gets between him and what's meant to be.
So she was about to serve up when there
came the knock at the front door. I'd forgotten to tell them, Lydia and her
father; the front door is all sealed up - nails to fasten it shut, and tape to
block out the draughts. I should have told them to come round the back, despite
the time of night and there not being a single lamp to light their way. She looks at me, meaning I'll be hearing about this later.
It's my job to hurry round to the front
of the house - and there they are, just visible in the darkness. But
something's wrong. Although there seem to be two of them, I'd swear neither of
them was a man. Maybe it's not them.
Then a woman's voice calls out, making a
ringing sound as it bounces off the frosty granite of our house.
'Hello, is someone there?'
It must be Lydia's mother. Silly of me.
I never thought of her. Somehow I always thought her Dad would be bringing her.
Then comes Lydia's voice. 'Is that you,
Kate?' She sounds almost tearful, as if the dark is too much for her.
'Course it's me, goofball.' Notice the
lilt in my voice. Lydia's mum - who is still a surprise to me - will hear it,
and know what to expect as a result, even in the dark. Someone friendly,
someone normal. Not like Lydia at all.
'Is there...is there someone else with
you?' I feel as if I have to ask. You never know, her dad might be in the
shadows, watching, biding his time, the way that...
The way that mine would.
Her mother answers. 'Someone else...? Oh
I see, Lydia's father. No, he's not with us. He's driving Lydia's little sister
down to her aunt. I would think it's taken him almost less time than us.' Now
she's pulling up her sleeve to look at her watch, forgetting she won't be able
to make out a thing in the dark. Silly woman.
'Twenty to eight,' she says in a shocked
voice. 'We've been two solid hours.'
She must have a luminous dial. I never thought
of that.
'Shame,' I say, though it's hardly my
fault. And I don't say a word about how we've been waiting two solid
hours. My voice is still nice and bright. 'Follow me.' Then I lead the way
round the back. The way they should have come in the first place.
THE
back door was closed, naturally. Opening a door, any door, is no reason to let
precious heat escape. At least that's the way she sees it.
There's no fast way of doing this. I
push the door open, stand aside, praying they will have the sense to enter
quickly. Lydia at least I could give a good hard push without anyone noticing,
with the result that she practically barrels over the doorstep, tilting into
her mother
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