Flyaway

  The day fades into dusk. I drop my sketchbook back in my bag and clasp my arms tight around me. Stupidly, I left my coat in the car. I hold myself tighter and try to get warm. I breathe out and my breath hangs in the air like a cobweb. I have to stand and move, or risk turning into a human icicle. I jiggle my legs and take a couple of steps.

  ‘Will you follow me this time?’ I say.

  The swan cocks her head to the side as if listening. I clap my hands suddenly and loudly; she flinches but doesn't back off. A couple of mallards take off immediately. I start walking around the track. As soon as I set off, she does too. She glides across the water, towards me. I shake my head, laugh at her.

  ‘You're weird,’ I say. ‘What about if I do this?’

  I break into a slow jog. The movement feels good straightaway, and my body begins to thaw. I look across at the swan. She starts to beat her wings against the surface of the lake, lifting herself up. She gets faster. Her feet slap on the water until she catches up with me. Her wings are beating slowly, holding her there. She doesn't take off. It doesn't even look as though she wants to. Instead, she watches me.

  ‘Come on then,’ I murmur. ‘Fly!’

  Her head is parallel to the water's surface, her neck moving like a snake. Drops of water spin out to me as she edges past. I don't stop this time. I want to know how fast she will go. I want to know if she will take off.

  I look at her wings, outstretched now, beating the surface of the water and creating ripples. They're so strong and strange and intricate. A perfect work of art. While the part of the wing nearest the body keeps still and firm, it's the outer half that beats downwards. They look impossible to copy, impossible to make a model of.

  She starts to edge ahead. I lengthen my stride, go faster. This time it's me keeping up with her. She doesn't look it, but she's really quick. It feels as if my feet are whirring beneath me as I try to keep pace. I don't know how much longer I can keep going. I look back to her face and her eyes lock mine. I stumble a little as I try to keep straight. I gasp for air. Keep running. I'm still looking at her eyes when my feet hit something. My body jerks forward, my legs tangling.

  I hit the track, still moving, and slide along. I'm almost at the edge of the lake before I stop. Air wheezes out of me and there's mud on my teeth. There are reeds near my eyes. I wipe the back of my hand across my face. There's blood, a small smear on my skin . . . a trickle running down my cheek.

  The swan is still on the lake. She circles back towards me and approaches the bank. I don't move. Her eyes are like dark pools of deep water, keeping me still. I get colder as I watch. She stands in the shallows and flaps her wings, sending a stench of mouldy water to my nostrils. She nudges her large, round body towards me.

  My breath comes back in a rush as she gets closer. She looks at me so intensely. It's not the way a normal bird looks at humans, all jerky and quick and scared. She's not nervous at all. Her eyes roll up to meet mine. She moves her beak until it stops a few centimetres from my nose, and I think she's going to peck me. I'm hardly breathing now. My whole body is still and stiff, waiting to see what she'll do. I just hope Harry is watching this. I need someone else to know it's real.

  Her beak touches my cheek. I flinch, expecting it to hurt. Instead, a bead of cool water drips from her feathers onto my skin. I feel her breath, light and cool. She smells like damp feathers and reeds. I stay stiller than a stone.

  She moves her beak to my neck, touches there too. I remember my dream, and half expect to feel a feather growing beneath my skin. I'm waiting for the pain. But instead, I go cold. Really cold. A shiver shoots down my spine. Even my fingers go tingly. I keep looking at her dark eyes. It's as if she wants me to understand something.

  ‘I'm imagining this,’ I say, louder now, so I can hear it and take it in. ‘This isn't happening.’

  She moves her head quickly as she hears me. I frown at her, and for a second I think I see a glimmer of confusion in her eyes. Then she lifts her wings. Without thinking, I cower, raising my arms to protect myself. But the wings don't come crashing down. She holds them there, centimetres from my face, their ends brushing my hair. I glance over them quickly, checking for damage. There are no jagged bones pushing through and no ruffled feathers. They're perfect. Her head moves into a kind of nod, as if she agrees.

  ‘Your wings don't seem to be the problem,’ I say, quietly, as if she could understand.

  She folds them slowly, moving away. She lowers her head in submission. Whatever this swan is, she's not angry at me. I stare after her as she slips into the water. She doesn't look back.

  I almost don't notice the rain. It's not until the drops soak into my hair and drip down my neck that I remember how cold it is. I know, even as I'm jogging back to the trees, that I'm going to come back here.

  CHAPTER 27

  I pause under the branches to shake the water from my hair. Strands of it stick across my face. I pull up my trousers to see how grazed my legs are, and roll up my shirt sleeves too. Everything stings worse than it looks. I unpick tiny stones from the cuts then roll my clothes back down over them. I dab at my face until it stops bleeding. Then I dash through the rain.

  I go through one of the hospital side entrances and get lucky. There's a trolley of freshly laundered hospital sheets. My trainers squeak and slip on the floor as I hurry towards it. I look around to check no one's watching, then pull a stiff folded sheet from a pile and wipe it quickly over my hair and face, then dab it against my jumper. I carry it with me as I go up the stairs. I'm still trying to shake water from my hair as I turn into Dad's corridor. I just hope the nurses won't notice how dirty I am. I press my hand to my cheek, but there's no blood there now.

  Harry is waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall near Dad's ward.

  I stop, gape at him. ‘How did you know I was coming?’

  ‘I was watching.’ He glances over my muddy clothes. ‘You can't visit your dad like that.’ He walks down the corridor, away from Dad's ward, then turns to wait for me. ‘I'm serious.’

  I hesitate. I really want to see Dad, I need to tell him about the swan. But Harry's waiting for me, calling back. ‘Really, they won't let you in; not the way you look. No chance. They're pretty paranoid about infections here.’

  I look down at the mud on my hands.

  ‘Come on, I'll help you clean up,’ Harry says. ‘Then you can go back.’

  I trail reluctantly. He stops by the entrance to his ward and looks through the glass section. ‘Quick,’ he calls. ‘There's no one on the desk. We can sneak past.’

  He keys in the numbers on the pad and beckons to me. I jog up to him, and he pushes me ahead through the door. We half run, half walk to his room, Harry's hand firm on my back. It feels wrong to be in here, looking the way I do, but it's kind of exciting. Harry shoves me into his room and shuts the door behind us. Then he digs under his bed and finds two towels. He chucks one at me, and keeps hold of the other. He opens the door a crack then goes out with the towel. When he returns, he's smiling.

  ‘No puddles on the floor now,’ he says. ‘We're safe. I don't think anyone even took any notice of us, they're probably off getting dinner for the younger kids.’

  I stand there, shivering. I rub the towel over my jumper and trousers, and squeeze water from my hair. Harry's room is hot as an airing cupboard and, strangely, it makes me shiver even more. I clench my jaw to stop my teeth chattering. I go over to the window. It's getting darker now, but I think I can still see her there, on the lake. For a second I imagine she might be looking up here, finding me. Harry comes over with a white shirt, not too different from the school shirt I've got on.

  ‘Put this on,’ he says.

  I stare at him. ‘I'm not wearing your clothes.’

  He forces it into my hands. ‘It's dry at least.’ He turns away from me, hops back into bed and pulls the covers over his head. ‘I'm not looking.’

  ‘But it's yours.’

  ‘Just put it on, will you? Or you wo
n't get to see your dad today.’ His voice sounds muffled from under the duvet. ‘Anyway, I told you before, you can't catch what I've got.’

  I'm not worried about that.

  I glance back at the small window in his door to check that no one's about to come in. Then I go to a corner of the room. I keep my eyes on Harry's bed to check that he's not peeking. As quickly as I can, I peel my wet jumper over my head and unbutton my shirt. I let them fall on the floor. I stick my arms through Harry's shirt. It's deliciously dry, like getting into clean bed sheets. My cold, clumsy fingers fumble with the buttons. It's a bit big for me, but when I tuck it into my trousers it doesn't look too bad. It smells of pine needles.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  I pick up my sodden clothes, feeling bad about the puddle they leave behind. Harry pops his head out from under the covers. His eyes skim quickly over his shirt on me and I feel my cheeks reddening a little.

  ‘What do I do with these?’ I ask.

  ‘Easy,’ he says. ‘Chuck them out of the window.’

  He goes across to it, fiddles with a small latch on the side and then opens it as wide as it goes, which isn't all that far. I look directly below. There's a skip, and around it bare concrete.

  ‘Full points if you get it in,’ he says.

  ‘I can't chuck my school clothes out of the window.’

  ‘Well, you're not allowed to have dirty clothes in here.’ He raises his eyebrows at me. ‘Come on, I haven't been picking the lock on that window for nothing.’ He nods towards the glass. ‘It's either you or the clothes. You choose.’

  He starts laughing, which makes me laugh. I'm laughing too hard when I throw them and they land with a smack on the concrete. Harry peers down.

  ‘Maternity Ward will have got a shock,’ he laughs, ‘they're right underneath us.’

  I think about all those women giving birth, wonder if any baby's first view of the world was of my wet shirt flying past the window. I close the window quickly and Harry locks it again. He hops back into bed.

  ‘Thanks for the shirt,’ I say. I'm about to head back out the room to catch Dad when Harry calls me back.

  ‘Aren't you going to tell me what happened out there? I was watching you.’

  So I do. Or I try to anyway. It's hard to get the words out so they make sense. Plus I don't want to be too long and miss Dad altogether.

  ‘Do you believe me?’ I say, when I've finished. ‘About the swan following me and looking at me like that?’

  ‘Weird things happen all the time,’ he says quietly. ‘They've happened to me all my life.’ He glances at his wall with its lime green wallpaper and its pictures of sailing ships and cherry trees. ‘I'd rather have your weird thing than my weird thing.’

  He looks back to the window. It's black outside now and I can see our reflections in the glass.

  ‘So what are you going to do next?’ he asks.

  I sigh. ‘If Dad had been there, he'd know what to do. There's probably a simple reason for why she was following me.’

  A thought suddenly hits me, and I sit down on Harry's mattress, feeling stupid that I haven't asked it before.

  ‘You watch that swan every day, right?’

  ‘Most days. She's only been there about a week.’

  ‘Have you ever seen her take off?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘And have any other swans ever arrived, any of her flock?’

  ‘Never.’ Harry pushes the covers down and crosses his legs.

  ‘But she must have flown there in the first place . . . so why isn't she flying now?’

  Harry chews his lip. ‘She's forgotten?’

  ‘That would be like us suddenly forgetting how to walk. Birds don't do that.’

  ‘Some might, this one might. Are you sure she hasn't had an accident or something? Are her wings OK?’

  ‘I got a close look at them. They seemed fine. No obvious broken bones.’

  Harry blinks slowly. His eyelids look heavy, as if he's trying to force them to stay open.

  ‘Perhaps she just wanted some company,’ he says.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, if I were that swan and you came to my lake, I might want that too.’

  ‘As if I were her flock, you mean?’ I watch a smile grow on his face.

  ‘Maybe. Birds aren't famous for their intelligence, are they?’

  I shake my head as I remember the intense look in that swan's eye. ‘She's not stupid.’

  ‘Maybe she just doesn't want to fly then.’ He leans over to get his glass of water on the bedside. He flinches as he stretches across.

  ‘You all right?’ I ask.

  ‘I'm fine,’ he says, but I don't believe him. Perhaps he's just trying to look tougher than he is. I remember what the nurse said last time about not staying too long.

  ‘I better go.’

  Immediately he leans towards me with his eyes wide.

  ‘I'll come back,’ I say. ‘Don't worry. I just need to catch Dad.’

  He nods at that. I feel guilty about going, about leaving him on his own.

  ‘I'll watch her for you,’ he murmurs.

  CHAPTER 28

  I hurry down the corridor. Mum's waiting outside, her arms crossed over her chest.

  ‘Where have you been? Dad's visiting hours are almost up.’

  ‘Sorry, I got caught . . .’

  ‘ . . . in the rain, it seems.’ Mum looks me up and down, frowns. ‘I can't take you in like this, you're a mess. And where's your jumper?’

  I look down at my feet. ‘Left it somewhere.’

  Mum's mouth seems to tighten. ‘We'll come back tomorrow, with Jack. You can see him then. Dad's tired today anyway.’

  ‘But I want to see him now.’ I bite down hard on my lip. ‘I've got things to tell him.’

  ‘You had your chance,’ Mum says quietly. ‘What have you been doing anyway?’

  She's so mad. She's trying to keep her voice steady because we're in the middle of the hospital corridor and there are people watching. Or starting to. She walks ahead of me, and I jog to keep up.

  ‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . .’

  She spins around. ‘Dad was looking forward to seeing you, Isla, and you let him down just because you went to look at a swan.’

  ‘But there's time now . . .’

  ‘We need to pick up Jack from football training.’

  I shut up. I don't even look at her as we go through the car park. Mum's bristling with too much anger to talk to me. She drives too fast, goes through two orange lights. I fold my hands in my lap and look down at them. My stomach feels heavy, as if weighed down by a stone.

  Mum pulls into the car park next to the school playing fields. Jack gets in. I don't look out for Crowy behind him, not this time, I just keep my head down. Instead, I think of Dad in the hospital, waiting for me. Every inch of me feels guilty. Every mile we drive away from him feels too far. My heart is stretching like an elastic band, stretching between him and here. Something feels like it's going to snap.

  CHAPTER 29

  The next evening, I take the drawings I've done of the swan and show Dad. I pull out my mobile phone and show him the photographs I took, too. He's not so pale today, and he's sitting up in bed. He doesn't look mad, or even disappointed.

  ‘I'm sorry about yesterday,’ I mumble.

  Dad shuffles between the drawings. ‘I'd rather you were doing these,’ he says. ‘They're beautiful.’

  I take them back from him, embarrassed. ‘We're studying flight in art,’ I say. ‘I'm going to make a model of a flying machine, like da Vinci did, but I'll base mine on swan wings. We have to sketch them first.’

  ‘That's hard. Wings are so complex.’ He reaches over to grab my hand. ‘I wish I could help.’

  I think about all the times he has helped me with my school projects, about all the good marks I got when he did.

  ‘You'd be good at making a flying machine,’ I say.

  He laughs, but it's not h
is usual big laugh . . . it's soft and sad somehow. ‘Right now I think I need one.’

  He sighs heavily and turns towards the window. The sky is white as paper through the pane. I want to say something, something to make him forget about his sick heart. So I tell him, finally, about what happened when I went to see the swan on the lake. I watch his face as I talk.

  ‘She followed me,’ I whisper. ‘Around the lake.’

  He hooks his little finger around mine in a fairy's handshake; at least, that's what we always used to call it.

  ‘I think that swan is just curious,’ he says gently. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  I want to argue with him, explain about the way she looked at me and how she towered her wings over me, but I see how tired he's looking and I can't somehow.

  Instead I nod and say, ‘Maybe’. Because he could be right. That swan could just be curious, and I could be imagining that there's something different about her. I pull out the feathers I took from the lake and give them to him. He holds them lightly and smoothes them out as if they're precious.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he murmurs, running the edge of them across the back of his fingers. ‘Like tiny works of art themselves.’

  He struggles to push himself up a little further in his bed as he looks at me. ‘You know, real flying machines would never work,’ he says. ‘Not ones based on birds anyway.’

  He grins and I see for a moment that he's more like he usually is, more excited about my school project than I am.

  ‘My model doesn't really have to fly,’ I say, reaching forward to make sure his pillows are comfortable. ‘Anyway, why wouldn't flying machines work?’