The Shadow Year (38 page)

What’s worse, they are all treating Freya differently. It’s as though overnight she has sprouted fairy wings and a golden halo. Simon is the worst, as though she’s been elevated in his eyes to something superior and untouchable: the mother of his child. But the others play along too; they tiptoe around her in respectful deference.
Is there anything I can get you, Freya? Here, have my seat, Freya. Let me make you some tea, Freya
. To her face they are all politeness and awe, although Kat has heard the whispers, she knows what they are really thinking; she has heard Carla and Ben talking late at night when they’ve thought everyone else asleep.

‘It’s just bloody odd, if you ask me,’ Carla had whispered to Ben with the tiniest trace of salacious glee. ‘I thought he was supposed to be with Kat, but now this. Perhaps they’re
both
sleeping with him? No wonder he’s strutting around like he’s cock of the walk.’

‘If I’d known we were advocating a polygamist model here I might have made a move myself.’

She’d heard Carla’s low chuckle followed by the thump of a pillow connecting with flesh. ‘We could go,’ she’d heard Carla whisper a moment later, ‘pack our bags and leave.’

‘Leave? You want to leave now?’ Ben had murmured. ‘Just when things are getting so
interesting
. . .’

Kat had turned away from the half-open door and tried to block out the sound of Carla’s sniggers, but she’d been sure to give them both a little less rice at dinner the following night – petty perhaps, but satisfying all the same.

And then, just like that, the sun peers tentatively over the crest of the surrounding hills and they wake to a crisp, clean day. They step out into the pale sunshine like lambs tottering out on unsteady legs.

‘There’s frogspawn in the lake,’ says Ben, pointing down at a glutinous, speckled jelly lying just beyond the jetty. ‘We could be eating frogs’ legs in a few weeks,’ he jokes. ‘They’re supposed to taste like chicken, right?’

Carla leads Kat up into the garden where they pick the tips of young nettles for soup and pull the first leaves of their spring greens from the ground. ‘I never thought I’d be so glad to see spinach,’ she jokes. ‘After all those carbs I’ll be glad of a few vitamins.’

Kat nods.

‘This stuff will be good for the baby too,’ she adds. ‘Where has your sister got to? She was here just a minute ago.’

Kat shrugs. ‘I’m hardly her keeper.’

No one seems to know where Freya has gone and she doesn’t return until sunset, by which time Simon is brooding with quiet fury. ‘Where the hell have you been? We were worried sick.’

She eyes him carefully then pushes past. ‘I went for a walk.’

‘All day? What if something had happened to you . . . or to the baby?’

‘It didn’t.’ Her voice is flat, uninterested.

Kat takes in her sister’s appearance in one sweeping glance: her ruddy cheeks, her plaited hair, her mud-spattered clothes; if anything she looks even more beautiful, like a pale spring flower coming into bloom. Kat sees Simon’s fists clench at his side as he takes a breath. ‘Perhaps you could do us the courtesy of telling us where you are going next time?’

Freya pours herself a drink of water and leaves the kitchen without answering. Kat is surprised. It’s almost as though Freya has wrested some power from Simon and the next day she goes out again, and the next, never once telling any of them where she is going, but always returning just before sunset, until Simon eventually drops the subject. He doesn’t like it but he seems to know that he can’t stop her.

Kat is pleased to see her go. She has no patience for her sister’s gloomy face. Freya is acting like a trapped animal, but Kat knows that really
she’s
the one without options. It’s like some terrible game: everyone on tenterhooks waiting to see what will happen next. Some mornings, when she wakes early, she lies in bed and wishes she were brave enough to leave the cottage – to leave all of them behind – but she just can’t bear to be without Simon. Her heart is still full of him.

Besides, there are moments of hope. Whenever she has just about convinced herself it’s over between them, he surprises her by taking her to one side, singling her out, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze, or her back a rub or once or twice leading her upstairs while the others are distracted with their chores outside, where he pins her down on the mattress and makes love to her with a ferocious intensity. There’s something about it she hates – the lack of time and tenderness – but she consoles herself with the fact that it is, at least, something and she holds the memory of him on her bruised thighs and in her dishevelled hair like precious secrets.

In the end, it’s the smallest detail that creates the biggest drama: a ball of purple wool unspooling in Freya’s lap. Kat watches it unravel from across the room, listens to the rhythmic click-clack of the knitting needles as they twist in Freya’s hands and the longer she watches, the hotter her rage burns. Simon must have bought it for her with the money from the tin.
Their
money. Since when are Freya’s sewing materials considered essential for the maintenance of the cottage? One rule for Freya and another for the rest of them. Kat takes a breath and tries to steady her voice. ‘What are you doing?’ she asks.

Freya doesn’t bother to look up. ‘Knitting.’

‘I can see that. What are you making though?’

‘A blanket.’

Understanding dawns: a baby blanket. She studies Freya for a moment. ‘Where did the wool come from?’

Freya remains silent and Kat feels her anger burn more brightly. She knew it. ‘Did Simon buy it for you?’

Freya shakes her head, her tongue caught between her teeth as she counts a row of stitches.

‘But it’s for the baby, right?’ There is nowhere else she could have got it from.

‘I had the wool already, OK? I brought it with me.’

Kat shakes her head. ‘No you didn’t.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I would have seen it before now.’

Freya sighs. ‘Just leave it, Kat. It’s not important.’

But it is important; if Simon has been buying gifts for Freya – if they have been discussing the baby, making plans, spending what little cash they have left on the child – then Kat wants to know.

‘Just tell me where it came from.’ She tries smiling, softening her voice. ‘It’s no big deal.’

But Freya shakes her head then ignores her sister, focusing purely on the needles clacking between her fingers.

‘God dammit, Freya, why won’t you tell me? Just admit that it was Simon.’

Freya’s hands fall still. She looks up from the tangle of wool in her lap. ‘You may think you know everything about this place, but you don’t. You don’t know anything.’

Kat bristles. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Freya shakes her head and returns her attention to the knitting in her lap.

‘Come on,’ says Kat, well and truly goaded. ‘What did you mean by that? Spit it out.’

‘Forget it,’ says Freya, and Kat can tell from the determined set of her sister’s jaw that she won’t get another ounce of information from her. Bloody Simon, it has to be him.

She finds him in the kitchen, just moments later. He sits at the table, parts of the rifle disassembled and spread before him. ‘Why have you been buying Freya gifts?’ she asks, unable to stop herself.

‘What?’ He looks up, bemused, black grease smeared across one cheekbone. Even in her rage, she feels her heart twist at the sight of him. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘The blanket . . . the one Freya’s making for the baby.’

‘What blanket?’ He gazes at her, his eyes like charcoal in the fading light. He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about,’ and he returns his attention to the gun.

‘Sure you do.’ She sidles over and stands beside him, her shadow falling across the table. ‘You bought her wool.’ She says it with a smile in her voice, even though her guts are still gripped with anger. ‘With our money.’

He throws her an irritated look and sighs. ‘What wool? Can you move, you’re in my light.’

He returns his attention to the gun barrel in his hands and Kat feels heat simmer in her belly. In one smooth movement he slides the bolt back into the receiver. Kat shifts closer. She reaches out a finger and rolls a cartridge across the table, forwards and backwards, forwards and backwards.

‘Don’t,’ he says, grabbing the cartridge from her, snapping it into place.

‘Can’t you leave that alone for one minute while we talk about this? It’s important.’

He won’t even look at her. ‘Is it?’ He sounds doubtful.

‘It’s important that we all have a say what we spend our money on. I didn’t think there was room for personal indulgences. It’s only fair.’

‘I’ve told you,’ he says, his voice grim now, a warning. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He pushes the bolt handle down locking the round in place and lifts the gun experimentally to his shoulder.

She reaches out to bat it away. ‘God dammit, Simon! Put the gun down.’

It’s not exactly clear what happens next. Kat’s hand pushes against the barrel, but at the same time, Simon’s finger must catch inside the trigger, because a split second later a loud shot rings out in the kitchen, sending a shower of dust and splinters from the overhead beam raining down upon the flagstone floor. Kat leaps back, startled. She can feel the thud of her heart in her ribcage and a burning sensation on her neck. She reaches up to touch her skin where it stings and her fingers come away red. As she stares at the blood on her fingertips, the room begins to swim.

‘Fuck.’

She reaches out a hand to steady herself, the blast still ringing in her ears.

‘What the hell?’ Mac appears in the doorway.

Kat stares at Simon. ‘It was an accident,’ she says weakly.

‘I thought the safety was on.’

‘Damn it, Simon,’ says Mac, moving into the room, ‘you could have killed her.’ He takes the gun from Simon’s hands and clips the safety into position, lays it carefully on the table and then turns back to Kat. ‘Are you OK?’

She nods and leans heavily against the table.

‘Oh God,’ says Carla, appearing in the kitchen. ‘You’re bleeding.’ She moves across to Kat. ‘Sit down,’ she urges and then leans in to inspect her neck. ‘I need a cloth.’ Mac throws her a clean tea towel and she begins to dab at the wound.

‘It’s nothing,’ says Kat through gritted teeth. ‘Just a scratch.’ She reaches up and pulls something thin and sharp from the wound. ‘Look, just a splinter . . . off the beam.’ She holds the black shard of wood out to them on the tip of her finger.

‘What’s happening?’ It’s Freya, standing in the doorway, looking horrified. ‘Kat? Are you OK?’

Kat looks at her sister and sees her shocked face, the firm swell of her stomach and the ball of purple wool still in her hands, unfurling at her side. ‘Will everyone stop fussing? I’m fine.’ But she eyes the shattered wood on the beam above the range. An inch or two to the right and things would have been very different.

19

LILA

April

William is throwing sticks for Rosie. He curves them out low over the surface of the lake, like boomerangs that don’t arc back. Rosie waits for the sign – a splash of wood hitting water – then explodes off the bank and into the shallows, spray rising up to hang suspended, for just a moment, as a string of pearls in the sunshine. When the water gets too deep to wade she doggy paddles on, seizes the stick between her jaws and swims back to William, dropping her prize at his feet and yapping like an excited puppy until he throws it out again.

‘Doesn’t she get tired?’ asks Lila, perched beside him on the sagging tree trunk.

‘She’d do this all day if I kept throwing them. Not bad for an old girl.’

‘She’s smiling, look,’ says Lila, pointing down to where Rosie grins at their feet.

‘Who can blame her. It looks inviting, doesn’t it?’

Lila looks out across the lake and shrugs.

‘You don’t think so?’

She shifts on the log. ‘It looks all right.’

‘Only all right?’

She holds up her hands. ‘OK, I confess: I can’t swim.’

‘You can’t swim?’

She shakes her head.

‘Seriously?’

‘Yep.’

He eyes her. ‘Your parents—’ he says and then stops.

‘
My parents
what?’

‘Your parents should have taught you. It’s a good skill to have. Could save your life.’

‘Oh they both tried but they just couldn’t get me near the water. From when I was very little, apparently, one look at the sea, a pond, a swimming pool and I would scream and scream. A bath is fine now but anything deeper . . .’ She shakes her head. ‘I’ve always been afraid of it.’

William studies her with interest. ‘Why?’

‘Beats me. Some irrational fear. Why does anyone have a particular phobia?’

He nods. ‘And yet here you are.’ He indicates the proximity of the lake.

‘Yes, here I am.’ She smiles. ‘I’m OK, as long as I don’t get too close.’

‘It doesn’t have to be like that, you know. You could learn.’

‘Oh, I think it’s a bit late for that, don’t you?

‘Why?’