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Authors: Alexia Casale
Tags: Fiction
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bothered. ‘Can’t we go in the kitchen where it’s warm?’
‘Don’t want to wake Amy,’ someone else whispers back just as loudly.
‘You honestly think my sister’s asleep?’ Uncle Ben. Uncle Ben and Paul.
‘Well, I don’t want her overhearing,’ Paul admits.
I can imagine Uncle Ben is sighing, but this I can’t hear through the window I don’t dare open. ‘How about Evie?’
I press myself flat to the wall beside the window, though there’s no way they can possibly see me from where I know they’re standing.
‘Thankfully Evie’s not taking after Amy as the most accomplished worrier of the century,’ Paul says. ‘Besides, her window’s closed: we won’t wake her talking out here.’
‘I’m just amazed Amy hasn’t come creeping down to find out whether we’ve returned mortally wounded . . .’
‘Which is precisely why we parked two houses over and came round the back instead of going in through the front door,’ Paul interrupts, abandoning the whisper. ‘Besides, maybe she really did fret herself to sleep. There’s always hope I’ll avoid the third degree until morning.’
‘What will you tell her, though?’
‘Just what I told her earlier. Plus that you’re joining the Neighbourhood Watch and I’ll be going with you on your rounds for safety in numbers. She’ll be too happy about that to think anything of the rest.’
‘I still think you should talk to Evie.’
There is a pause.
‘She’d understand, Paul. She’s old enough now. And it might help her, you know, in a funny, roundabout sort of way. It would certainly help you.’
‘Are you honestly suggesting that there is the slightest good to be had from dragging her into all this with us?’
The snort is audible even through the window. ‘As if Amy would ever agree to that in a million, trillion years.’ Another pause. ‘You know I’m not talking about bringing Evie with us. And I agree we can’t tell Amy. I just think Evie’s another matter.’
‘Evie does not need to hear about my troubles. She’s got enough – far more than enough – of her own.’
They don’t speak again for a while after that. Finally, Uncle Ben says he’d better be going and I hear him turn down the side of the house while Paul works the lock on the back door.
I let the corner of the curtain fall closed and creep back to bed, settling against the headboard and placing the Dragon on my knee.
‘Do you think Paul will listen to Uncle Ben and tell me what’s going on if I ask? Or maybe not ask-ask: not outright. But maybe if I just give him plenty of opportunities without Amy there . . .’
We must be very careful , the Dragon says.
I wait, but the Dragon doesn’t speak again.
I fall asleep watching its tail twitching back and forth, forking at the air, while I wonder if this is a sign of worry or frustration, excitement or concentration.
The Dragon is purring against my neck as I cycle slowly along the towpath.
I wish I knew how to describe the smell of the fens. Think of dark, slow waters lying heavy between rushes and grasses: see them in your mind’s eye. Now try to imagine that image is a smell. Earth and water and decay and growing things, all combined with something secret: something you just can’t put your finger on, can’t pin down. Not a thing you see or smell or touch exactly. If you swapped all your senses around and tasted what you heard, smelt what you saw . . . then you might finally grasp the scent of that secret thing.
I don’t say any of this to the Dragon, but feel its amusement anyway.
We turn off the towpath and bump along a farm track. To one side, a shallow wash of icy water glints across a flooded field. On the other, summer-golden grasses are crumpled, browning. I let the bike stutter to a stop. Leaning it against a fence post, I climb on to the top rail. In the bracken, dew has traced the lines of a pair of cobwebs.
‘Do you think they share?’ I ask the Dragon. ‘The
‘Don’t want to wake Amy,’ someone else whispers back just as loudly.
‘You honestly think my sister’s asleep?’ Uncle Ben. Uncle Ben and Paul.
‘Well, I don’t want her overhearing,’ Paul admits.
I can imagine Uncle Ben is sighing, but this I can’t hear through the window I don’t dare open. ‘How about Evie?’
I press myself flat to the wall beside the window, though there’s no way they can possibly see me from where I know they’re standing.
‘Thankfully Evie’s not taking after Amy as the most accomplished worrier of the century,’ Paul says. ‘Besides, her window’s closed: we won’t wake her talking out here.’
‘I’m just amazed Amy hasn’t come creeping down to find out whether we’ve returned mortally wounded . . .’
‘Which is precisely why we parked two houses over and came round the back instead of going in through the front door,’ Paul interrupts, abandoning the whisper. ‘Besides, maybe she really did fret herself to sleep. There’s always hope I’ll avoid the third degree until morning.’
‘What will you tell her, though?’
‘Just what I told her earlier. Plus that you’re joining the Neighbourhood Watch and I’ll be going with you on your rounds for safety in numbers. She’ll be too happy about that to think anything of the rest.’
‘I still think you should talk to Evie.’
There is a pause.
‘She’d understand, Paul. She’s old enough now. And it might help her, you know, in a funny, roundabout sort of way. It would certainly help you.’
‘Are you honestly suggesting that there is the slightest good to be had from dragging her into all this with us?’
The snort is audible even through the window. ‘As if Amy would ever agree to that in a million, trillion years.’ Another pause. ‘You know I’m not talking about bringing Evie with us. And I agree we can’t tell Amy. I just think Evie’s another matter.’
‘Evie does not need to hear about my troubles. She’s got enough – far more than enough – of her own.’
They don’t speak again for a while after that. Finally, Uncle Ben says he’d better be going and I hear him turn down the side of the house while Paul works the lock on the back door.
I let the corner of the curtain fall closed and creep back to bed, settling against the headboard and placing the Dragon on my knee.
‘Do you think Paul will listen to Uncle Ben and tell me what’s going on if I ask? Or maybe not ask-ask: not outright. But maybe if I just give him plenty of opportunities without Amy there . . .’
We must be very careful , the Dragon says.
I wait, but the Dragon doesn’t speak again.
I fall asleep watching its tail twitching back and forth, forking at the air, while I wonder if this is a sign of worry or frustration, excitement or concentration.
The Dragon is purring against my neck as I cycle slowly along the towpath.
I wish I knew how to describe the smell of the fens. Think of dark, slow waters lying heavy between rushes and grasses: see them in your mind’s eye. Now try to imagine that image is a smell. Earth and water and decay and growing things, all combined with something secret: something you just can’t put your finger on, can’t pin down. Not a thing you see or smell or touch exactly. If you swapped all your senses around and tasted what you heard, smelt what you saw . . . then you might finally grasp the scent of that secret thing.
I don’t say any of this to the Dragon, but feel its amusement anyway.
We turn off the towpath and bump along a farm track. To one side, a shallow wash of icy water glints across a flooded field. On the other, summer-golden grasses are crumpled, browning. I let the bike stutter to a stop. Leaning it against a fence post, I climb on to the top rail. In the bracken, dew has traced the lines of a pair of cobwebs.
‘Do you think they share?’ I ask the Dragon. ‘The
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