Flyaway

I wait there for a little while, wondering if he'll wake up. When he doesn't, I write him a note on the back of a flyer for the hospital cafe.

  Keep watching her. Text me if anything changes. Isla

  I leave my number at the bottom. I don't know whether to write an ‘x’ after my name. I look at his white, pale skin. His fluttering eyelids covering up those bright eyes underneath. He looks like one of those stone angels you find in churches sometimes. I don't know why, but I lean forward and brush a bit of hair from his cheek. His skin twitches. I move my hand away instantly. I don't know what I'd do if he woke up and found me touching his face. I hold my breath, waiting. But he doesn't move again. He's already too deep in sleep to even notice.

  CHAPTER 38

  Mum and Jack are waiting on the chairs outside Dad's ward. As I look at their faces, my stomach sinks.

  ‘What's happened?’

  Mum reaches for my hand. ‘His heartbeat has sped up again,’ she says. ‘They're bringing his operation forward.’

  ‘Is he OK?’

  Mum nods. ‘Go in and see him, babe. Jack and I will wait here.’

  I go in alone. Dad's eyes are closed, and he's really still. I can't stop swallowing as I watch him. After a moment, I hold my hand out. Place it down onto his chest. I spread my fingers wide to try and feel. And there, just faintly, is a heartbeat. That quick, unsteady beat is the best feeling in the world.

  I breathe out. I keep my hand there, resting on his chest. I don't want to pull it away. I stay really still, just feeling the soft thuds; the way Dad's skin seems to quiver beneath my fingers. Lying down with his eyes closed Dad looks younger than he normally does.

  I try to pass a thought to Dad, a kind of prayer to make him better. His eyelids flicker as if he's heard me. I sit on the edge of the chair beside his bed and wait. When his eyes open properly, I lean over him. His mouth twitches into a smile as he focuses on me.

  ‘How's that swan?’ he murmurs, breathless again. ‘Still there?’

  I nod. ‘She won't fly.’

  ‘No flock either?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  He frowns.

  ‘Don't worry,’ I say. ‘There's still ages before they migrate.’

  ‘I suppose.’ But he keeps frowning.

  I lean closer to him. ‘She'll fly,’ I tell him. ‘Any day now.’

  And Dad's mouth twitches to a smile again.

  CHAPTER 39

  It's takeaway again. And a trip to Granddad's. Mum gets him the only English meal on the menu: omelette and chips.

  ‘I don't know why I'm even bothering,’ she says as she drives. ‘It's not as if he'll appreciate our visit.’

  I lean forward to rest my head on the back of her seat. ‘But I want to go,’ I say.

  Jack grunts and sticks his feet up on the dash. ‘Just because you do, doesn't mean we all do.’

  Mum leans across to slap his feet away. ‘He's your Granddad, Jack!’

  ‘But it's Saturday night!’ He closes his hand into a fist and rests it against the window.

  Granddad's expecting us this time, and he's got plates already laid out on the table. ‘All right, Cath?’ he says, taking the bags from her.

  Mum raises her eyebrows in surprise and follows him to the table. ‘Graham's operation is on Monday now,’ she says quietly. ‘They've brought it forward. You know, he'd appreciate a visit.’

  Granddad keeps his head down, focusing on taking all the containers out of the bag. ‘So, the ticker is getting quicker?’ he says. His eyes dart over to me and Jack, and then he starts laughing at his joke.

  Mum's lips tense into a thin line. She takes the containers from the middle of the table and thumps them onto our plates. ‘Glad you find your son's illness funny,’ she mutters. Jack slops his curry onto his plate and starts shovelling it in. I chase an onion strand around. I'm not hungry. I just want to eat quickly so I can be out in the barn. Granddad looks at us again before he leans towards Mum.

  ‘Those kids are petrified,’ he says quietly. ‘You don't need to worry them unnecessarily about Graham.’

  ‘And what would you do? Not tell them anything?’ Mum's eyes bore into Granddad's. He looks down immediately.

  Neither of them notices as Jack slopes off to the couch. I suck up a long, thin strand of spinach and think about joining him. I rub my lips together, feeling the grease there. Mum and Granddad start talking about what happened to Nan for the fifty billionth time.

  ‘It wasn't Graham's fault that she died in hospital,’ Mum says, raising her voice a little.

  I put my knife and fork neatly together on the plate, drag my chair out quietly and slip away from the table. I walk to the barn, sticking my hands deep into my coat pockets. The pages I printed out in IT are there, folded up neatly. I pull back the bolt, flick the light and walk straight to the stuffed swan. A door slams somewhere. I don't know whether it's to do with the argument or the wind. I listen to hear if anyone's coming looking for me, but it's quiet again immediately after. I touch the glass surrounding the swan, make a line through the dust as I trace his wings. It would be brilliant to have wings, to be able to fly away whenever you needed to. Birds have it easy like that.

  I take the instructions out of my pocket. I glance over the long equipment list: one large bird, leather, strong rope, buckles and belts, knife, stiff thread . . . I look at the diagrams that show how to cut the wings, how to thread wire through them and make them move. Then I look at the diagrams that show how to make the leather harness in the middle. It looks so complicated. If Dad were here, he'd be able to do it so easily. I think of him lying in his bed, all alone and waiting, with us all here at Granddad's.

  I go looking for equipment. I find a black plastic box with a whole lot of knives and clamps and clipper things inside. It must be stuff Granddad used in his vet practice. I pick up the box and go back to the swan cabinet. I lay it face down against the concrete. There are small metal fasteners, attaching the backing to the frame. I use pliers to get them loose then grip the backing and pull. It's heavier than I thought because the stuffed swan is attached to it, but I manage to lift it out. I turn it over, put it on the floor and look down at the huge white bird at my feet. It's so massive, stretched out like that. I run my hands over its spread wings. They're so soft, but springy and tough, too. And so wide, like fans. I remember what Dad said about swans’ wings catching souls and carrying them to heaven, and I think I can understand why people thought that. If anything could carry something precious, they could. I shudder suddenly, remembering the way the swans were hovering when Dad fell down in that field. Were they waiting for him then? Waiting for his soul?

  I take a small, sharp knife and slit the tight loops of string that fasten the swan to the backing. The wings flop backwards when I've finished, bigger than ever. I smooth them out then run my hands down to the place where the wings join the body. It's firm there, as if there are still muscles pressed up against the feathers. I think about the knife hacking through them all, ripping them apart. I sit back onto my heels. I don't know if I can do this. It would be like chopping up a bird, destroying something beautiful.

  There's a thud. Then footsteps, thumping heavily towards me on the path. I freeze, the knife still in my hand. I don't know why I should feel guilty about what I've been doing, but I do. Should I try to hide it? I stand and walk towards the door.

  Jack comes storming in before I get there. He doesn't even look at me, just kicks a cardboard box so it goes skidding across the concrete.

  ‘Bloody Mum.’

  ‘Why, what's she done?’

  He boots a pile of junk, sending a plastic plant pot into a corner. ‘Can't she just accept the fact that Granddad's not going to visit Dad? She's driving me nuts!’ He sends another plant pot in the same direction as the first. ‘Why are you in here, anyway?’

  He turns around then flinches when he sees me. ‘What are you doing with that?’

  He's looking at my hand, looking at the knife that I'd forgotten to leave w
ith the swan. His eyes flick back to my face. He's staring at me as if I'm some sort of psychopath.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  But he doesn't believe me. He walks towards me, grabs my arms. Turns them over.

  ‘I'm not trying to hurt myself, don't be stupid.’

  His eyes narrow. I wrench my arms away from him, put the knife back in my coat pocket. Jack's eyes flick to where I've come from in the barn.

  ‘Show me,’ he demands. I don't move for a moment, but he steps up closer and says firmly, ‘Show me what you're doing.’

  CHAPTER 40

  I don't argue with him. What would be the point? Besides, perhaps he can help me understand some of the complicated instructions.

  ‘I've seen this thing before,’ he says, when I take him to the swan. ‘I remember it from when we were young.’ He lifts the swan away from the backing and the wings hang down over his arms. ‘Why have you taken it out of its case?’

  I show him the instructions. He reads them quickly, his eyes squinting at the small text. He looks back at the swan, brushes his fingers against the section where the wing joins the body.

  ‘You're going to cut it up? Why?’

  I shrug. ‘Just a project.’

  ‘You're crazy.’ He laughs suddenly. ‘And what's Granddad going to think?’ His expression changes as he imagines it, and he holds out his hand towards me. ‘Give me the knife.’

  ‘Why?’ I close my fingers over it.

  He sticks his hands back on the wings. ‘I'll do it.’ He's nodding slightly, full of energy. I can imagine the way he'll hack through the bird in his current mental state. He just wants to destroy something.

  I put the knife into my pocket. ‘I'll do it myself.’

  ‘I bet you won't.’ His eyes dart to my face. ‘You've probably been sitting here for ages wondering if it's the right thing to do, I can just imagine it. You wouldn't want to chop up a bird in a million years, even when it's stuffed. Give me the knife.’

  He tries to get his hand into my pocket. I turn away from him quickly. ‘I can do it,’ I say.

  He makes another lunge at me, but I step back, avoiding him. ‘I thought you wanted my help,’ he says.

  ‘Not when you're like this.’

  He holds his hand out. ‘Come on, Isla,’ he says, his tone more reasonable now. ‘You know you won't really do it. You're too much like Dad to chop this thing up. You're too soft.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Show me, then.’ He smiles a small, tight smile as he watches me.

  He stands and scuffs his shoe against one of the wings. I know he's only angry because of what he's heard in the house, but it makes my fingers tense around the knife all the same.

  ‘I'll do it,’ I say.

  I crouch, with the knife hovering above the bird's right shoulder. I bring it down until it touches the feathers. I press gently, testing to see how hard I need to push. Jack kneels down too.

  ‘Go on,’ he whispers. ‘What's all this for anyway? Your little boyfriend in hospital?’

  Something snaps inside me then. I turn from the swan to push him away. I hold the knife up towards him.

  ‘Just get lost!’ I say. ‘Go and be angry somewhere else.’

  Jack's sneer drops immediately. He holds his hands up in defence. ‘Hey, calm down,’ he mutters. ‘I was only trying to help.’

  ‘You're not helping,’ I say. ‘You're just making everything worse.’ I glare at him. I keep the knife clenched in my fist until he gets up from the floor.

  Jack takes a couple of steps away, looking at me like I'm mental. I don't care. He can think whatever he wants as far as I'm concerned. I turn back to the swan, wrap both of my hands around the knife and thrust it down.

  There's a ripping sound as it goes in. I grit my teeth and push harder. I push until the blade clinks against the floor on the other side. Then I hack down, pulling the knife in jerky movements to make it go through all the stuffing. I shut my eyes so I don't have to think about it too much. I keep going until the whole wing is chopped off.

  Only then do I open my eyes. There are chunks of stuffing everywhere, all over the wings and floor. All over me, too. The separated wing reminds me of the one in the reserve that the fox didn't eat. It doesn't smell as bad, but it still makes me feel slightly sick. I wipe the blade on my trousers to get rid of all the bits of stuffing. Then I drag the swan's body back towards me and get started on the other wing. I try to pretend it's just a pillow I'm cutting into, not a shoulder. Not something that used to be alive.

  When I look up again, Jack's gone. I sit back. Focus on the strands of cobwebs linking the rafters in the roof. I take one deep breath then another, then rest my head on my knees. The knife clatters as it drops to the floor and I can feel tears pricking my eyes. I hug my knees to my face and let them come.

  CHAPTER 41

  The barn gets colder. A wind starts battering at its metal sides. The fluorescent light above me flickers. After a while, I crawl forwards on my hands and knees, through the bits of stuffing. I pile the two wings on top of each other and put them to one side, then make myself lift the body. It feels so long and thin. It's much lighter without its wings, like lifting cotton wool. I don't know where to put it, so I lay it on the old operating table. I stretch it out like a corpse and turn its face away from me.

  I sit next to the wings and pick up the instructions. A part of me doesn't want to keep going; knows Jack's right when he says I can't do it. But the other part of me is stubborn and can't leave the wings like this: all chopped up and useless. It feels wrong somehow, a waste. I ignore the really complicated instructions about how to make the leather harness and instead follow the ones that tell me to make a series of slits along the wings. I dig the knife in quickly and carefully, then get up and start sifting through the boxes, looking for wire to thread through.

  I hear the barn door open again. Granddad steps in cautiously. Tries a smile. It's obviously fake, put on to pretend that everything's OK now between him and Mum.

  ‘Your mum's asking if you want to go home,’ he says.

  I wonder if he can tell I've been crying. He steps towards me and I see his eyes widen as he clocks the swan's body on the operating table. He frowns as he sees the wings too. He looks at me a little like Jack did, as if he thinks I'm going mad.

  I brace myself as he comes closer, ready for him to be angry because I chopped up something that reminds him of Nan. I wait for his face to go red and scary-looking. Suddenly, I wish Jack had stayed. I try to explain about making a model for my art project. And he stops and looks down at the wings, his face not frowning anymore.

  His joints click as he kneels. ‘All this effort for a school project?’

  ‘And I want to give it to Dad too,’ I say. ‘When I've finished.’

  I hand him the instructions. I don't go on and tell him how I'm hoping, stupidly, that these wings will make Dad feel better . . . how I want them to lift his spirits. I look up at the light, watch the dust particles floating in front of it. When I look back at Granddad, I have tiny stars dancing before my eyes. He takes his glasses out of his pocket so he can read the instructions better. Then he lifts one of the wings, making a noise in his throat that sounds like a mixture of a laugh and a cough.

  ‘I never imagined you'd want Swanson so you could chop him up,’ he mutters. ‘He's been sitting here for years.’

  I tense, still waiting for him to be angry. But instead there's that small cough-like chuckle again. He seems kind of amused. He turns back to the wing and examines the slits I've made there.

  ‘Not bad,’ he says. ‘It wouldn't take much to stitch all that up. A few more cuts here . . .’

  I crouch down next to him. ‘You're not mad?’ I say. ‘That I chopped it up?’

  He peers at me over his glasses, his eyes wider than I've ever seen them.

  ‘Why would I be?’ His voice is low and gravelly. ‘Beth wondered what to do with this bird for years.’

  He picks up the instru
ctions again, reads them slowly. ‘I've got most of that equipment. Even got an old climbing harness of your father's somewhere around here. We could use that instead of making our own.’

  He peers at the diagram that shows how to attach strips of leather to the wings and wrap them around the wearer's body.

  ‘It's for you to wear, yes?’

  I shrug. ‘I s'pose.’

  ‘Your father's old climbing harness would fit then.’

  The wrinkles in his forehead disappear for a moment as he smiles at me. He looks so much like Dad, then, that I can't help gasping. He gets up slowly and shuffles back to the stuff around the operating table. He finds a box that has loads of useful stuff, including the strong thread he used for stitching animals.

  He finds the harness that Dad used to use for rock climbing and turns it over, checking for damage.

  ‘Your dad used to climb everything,’ he explains. ‘Even when he was younger he was a bit of a daredevil; a bit of a fool.’

  He gives it to me to hold. I pull at the straps. It's smaller than the harnesses Dad uses now to chop branches down for work and it would fit me perfectly.

  ‘We just need to run some more material and straps up the back so we can fasten it around your chest,’ Granddad murmurs, turning it to show me. ‘And attach it to the wings of course.’

  He's nodding quickly as he looks at it, his expression no longer like the grumpy old man everyone argues with. So I let him help. It's weird, but he seems to change a bit as he does. He smiles more and his voice gets softer. For a moment, I can almost pretend that it's Dad here with me.

  His eyes squint as he chooses a needle and tries to thread it.

  ‘I'll help,’ I say, and do it for him.

  Then he begins to stitch. He works quickly and carefully, not damaging the structure of the swan's wings at all.

  ‘Did you know,’ he murmurs, ‘that the bones in a swan's wing are pretty much the same as the bones in a human arm. Isn't that amazing? A few people even argue that our bodies have descended from birds.’