Wilderness (8 page)

“Five minutes,” said Aki. “Maybe ten minutes.”

“Not – far,” said Kalle, as Tom and Johnny climbed
back on to the sled.

They heard their mother.

“All right, lads?”

They couldn't see her.

“Yeah!” said Johnny.

“Yeah!” said Tom.

“Miss me?”

“No!”

“Ah, go on. You do!”

Tom and Johnny didn't answer. Kalle gently
dropped the blanket over them.

“Not – very – wet,” he said.

He tucked it under them. Then he walked around
to the back of the sled.

“I wonder is he annoyed,” Johnny whispered.

“Why?” said Tom.

“'Cos he fell off his own sled,” said Johnny.

“Oh, yeah,” said Tom, and he laughed again.

They heard a dog behind them howl. It was Hastro,
their mother's dog, the one with the mad blue and
brown eyes, who wanted to be the lead dog.

“Hurry up there, Kalle!” they heard their mother. “This fella's going crackers.”

The boys laughed. And the sled was groaning, and
moving again, slowly. The snowmobile lights were
with them for a while, and they could see in front of
them, the trees and the path through them, and
Kalle's huge shadow, and even the point of Kalle's hat.

Then they picked up speed. Or maybe it just
seemed like that, because they left the lights behind
and charged straight into the black darkness again.
They felt the sled climb the drifts. It tilted and
swerved. They leaned back when they thought they
were going to fall out. The rug came off, but Johnny
grabbed it back before it went under the sled.

They saw the light.

Ahead of them – gone, then back. Between the
trees. A red light.

“Is that the hut?” said Johnny.

“Yeah; must be.”

“Is that the hut?” Johnny asked Kalle.

“Yes,” said Kalle.

They'd made it. They were there.

The light stayed small, and disappeared. The sled
turned. They could see a clear path. It was nearly a
tunnel between the walls of snow-fat trees. The light
was straight ahead. And they could see the shape of
the hut.

“It's big,” said Tom.

He wasn't disappointed. It was like a house. The
roof was a big triangle, and he liked that. He'd imagined a shed, or a tent made of animal skins. But
this was better. The dogs brought them closer, and he
could see the windows. There was flickering light
behind them – candles, or a fire. It would be warm in
there already. Tom was freezing. They were closer
now, and Tom could see inside. There was a lovely
shining brown colour, and candle shadows ran across
the wood.

The snow was hard here, and it wasn't thick. The
sled was louder, going over ice.

There was a veranda at the front of the hut. Tom
saw the icicles hanging from the roof. They were huge
and amazing. One of them stretched down nearly as
far as the wooden rail at the front of the veranda. He
saw movement inside; he thought he saw a face. He
could already feel the heat. He could nearly smell the
food. He couldn't wait to take off his red suit. And his
boots – his feet felt dead inside them.

The dogs stopped. The sled stopped. The boys got
out of the sled. They rolled off. They let themselves
fall on to the snow. They heard the other dogs behind
them, and they could see Aki's lights through the
trees. Like the night before, they'd have to help before
their day was over. And, like the night before, they
didn't mind, once they were in among the dogs.

“I'm bursting,” said Tom.

“Me too,” said Johnny.

Kalle was near them.

“Hey, Kalle,” said Johnny. “Where's the toilet?”

Kalle pointed at a smaller wooden building. It was
down a bit of a hill, so they slid and fell, and pushed
each other. It was great to be moving again.

It was great to be safe.

They climbed the steps to the toilet door. Tom lifted
the wooden latch and pulled the door open. There
was light inside, but it was still quite dark – and warm.
They felt the heat on their faces. There were three big
candles lighting the place. There were toilet cubicles,
two of them, to the left, and a sauna right in front of
them. The coals were red and there was a bucket of
water beside it, with a little ladle for the water. Johnny
took off his gloves. He lowered the ladle into the
water.

“Stop messing with it,” said Tom.

“Why?” said Johnny.

“You'll get caught.”

“Doing what?” said Johnny.

He lifted the ladle out of the bucket and poured the
water on to the coals.

“Big crime,” he said.

They heard the hiss and felt the heat. Tom went
into one of the cubicles. As he was closing the door,
he felt Johnny trying to shove it open.

“Privacy, please,” said Tom.

He pushed, and locked the cubicle door. He heard
Johnny, doing Kalle's voice.

“I'll – be – back.”

And he heard him go into the cubicle beside him. It
took ages to get out of the stupid red suit. It was like
peeling metal off himself. He was bursting. It was one
of those wooden toilets, just a hole in a plank. He
shoved the suit down to his knees. He'd be able to go
now. He opened the zip of his jeans. He looked up at
the roof. He closed his eyes. He started to go.

He opened his eyes.

Johnny was looking down at him.

“Where's the fire?”

Tom thought he'd wee all over the place, because
he was laughing so much. But he didn't. Johnny's face
was gone. Tom could hear him next door, doing the
same thing Tom had just been doing.

Tom pulled up his suit.

They heard Kalle, outside.

“Irish boys!”

“Oh-oh,” said Tom.

“The giant will eat us if we don't hurry up,” said
Johnny.

They ran outside and skidded back, to the dogs and
Kalle. The other people had arrived, or were arriving.
The boys heard the dogs and the different languages.

They worked with Kalle. They unhitched the dogs,
one by one. Kalle brought Rock. Tom brought Pomp.
And Johnny brought Bruno. They followed Kalle to a
place away from the path, with hooks screwed into the trees. Kalle tied their straps to the hooks. The
snow was thick here, and some of the dogs went
round and around, and made a hole for themselves.
Then they lay down in the snow, with their noses
tucked under their tails.

They brought all the dogs to this place. Then they
followed Kalle across the deep snow, to a big water
barrel at the corner of the hut. The top of the barrel
was level with Johnny's chin, and Kalle had to bend
down to whack the ice with his elbow. They heard the
ice creak and break. Kalle wasn't wearing gloves now.
And he took off his hat. He put it on the veranda rail.
Then he picked up the big pieces of ice from the
barrel with his bare hands and he threw them into the
snow.

He stood back. He looked at Tom and Johnny.

“Good – workers,” he said.

He didn't smile, but they knew he was being nice.

He walked away.

They knew what to do. There was a pile of wooden
bowls on the veranda, under the rail. They dipped the
bowls into the barrel. They had to lift their arms to
reach, and the water ran down their sleeves. It was
horrible, but they didn't mind it too much. They were
working for the dogs.

They walked among the dogs, through the light that
came from the hut. The other people had arrived. The
rest of the dogs were being tied. Aki's lights sprayed across the snow and lit the dogs and the legs of the
people in its way, and made crazy shadows that
merged and broke. Then the snowmobile engine was
off, and the light and shadows were gone.

They heard Aki.

“Home, sweet home.”

The boys put water in front of all the dogs. They
patted them all, especially the ones who'd pulled their
sled. The dogs were tired; Tom could feel that through
his gloves. It was like their blood had slowed down,
and they were getting ready to sleep. They pushed
their snouts against the boys' hands.

The boys were finished now; their work was done.
They went up the steps to the veranda. They did what
they saw the man from Belgium do, in front of them.
They stamped their feet, to make the snow and ice
drop off their boots. They followed the man from
Belgium into the hut. They felt the warmth, like a
thick invisible wave. They saw the man from Belgium
take off his glasses; the lenses were covered in steam.
They saw the other people, the woman from Belgium,
and the others. They saw Aki.

They didn't see their mother.

 

 

Gráinne watched her mother looking around the
kitchen.

“This is strange,” she said.

“No, it isn't,” said Gráinne.

“Oh, dear,” said her mother.

She sounded like the mothers of some of Gráinne's
friends – from the time when Gráinne had friends. No
matter what the mothers said – “Turn that down,” “Is
that all you're going to eat?” – the message had always
seemed the same. The sad breath that came with the
words, and the same half-closed eyes.

“Oh, dear, what?” said Gráinne.

They were sitting at the kitchen table. The table
was between them. It was twenty past three. Gráinne
saw that on the clock, on the wall above her mother's
head. Her father was in the house, somewhere. He'd
stayed home. He hadn't gone to work.

“I'll get out of your way,” he'd said.

He'd smiled at Gráinne and walked out of the
kitchen, leaving Gráinne with her mother.

It was the first time he'd seen her mother since
she'd left. Gráinne thought of that now, for the first
time. She was nearly certain it was true. Her mother
had rung the bell. Her father had answered the door.
They must have stood looking at each other. Gráinne
didn't know for how long. She'd been upstairs, in her
room. Not listening.

It was what Gráinne had wanted. She'd wanted him
to stay.

“I can go somewhere else while she's with you. I
can be gone when she arrives.”

“No,” Gráinne had said.

“No?”

“No.”

“All right,” he'd said. “I'll stay, if you want me to.”

It must have been weird for him, seeing his wife –
his ex-wife. She wondered – was he OK? He was
probably in the front room. Maybe in his bedroom.
She hadn't heard him going up the stairs. He was
probably in the front room. Maybe looking out the
window.

Her mother looked straight at her.

“Will I go now, Gráinne?” she said. “Or will we try?”

This was important. Gráinne knew. She had one
chance. It was her choice.

She looked at her mother.

“Try,” she said.

“Good.”

They looked at each other. Her mother didn't smile. She knew too – everything was vital. Every word,
every expression.

“I said it was strange,” she said.

She lifted her hand. She waved it around.

“What I meant was, it was strange to be back. It hit
me,” she said. “I used to live here.”

Gráinne said nothing.

“It hasn't changed much,” said her mother.

It wasn't true. The room had changed a lot. Gráinne
remembered it the old way. There was a different
fridge, and the counter hadn't been there before, and
other stuff. But it was the same room. So it must have
been strange for her mother. Bad memories. And that
made Gráinne angry. Why were her mother's
memories bad? What had been so bad, enough to
make her mother leave her? It was how Gráinne had
felt for years, all her life:
What did I do? Why did you
leave?

“Why didn't he move?”

Her mother's voice surprised her.

“What?” said Gráinne.

“Your dad,” said her mother. “Why didn't he move?”

“Move house?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know,” said Gráinne. “Why should he have?”

“I don't know,” said her mother.

Because you did?
Gráinne wanted to say. But she
heard how it would sound; she heard it in her head. It
wasn't the way she wanted to sound.

“We liked it here,” she said.

It was true.

Her mother nodded.

The house had never been a bad place. And it wasn't
just
he
. It was
we
. Gráinne wanted to say that too. But
she didn't.
We liked it here.
That was enough.
We.

Me.

“Of course,” said her mother.

She smiled.

“I liked it too,” she said. “Especially the garden.”

Gráinne remembered helping her mother in the
garden. She'd had her own tools. They were plastic,
but they'd worked. She'd been able to dig little holes
and cut twigs. She'd loved it, even on the days when it
was cold. They'd come back in, for hot chocolate.
They'd sit at the table, here, and drink together.
One,
two, three.
They'd pick up the cups at the same time,
and sip, and put them down so their cups tapped the
table at the exact same time.

Her mother was looking out the window. She'd
lifted herself a bit off her chair. She sat down again,
properly.

“It looks good,” she said.

It didn't; not really. Her dad wasn't interested. He cut the grass when it got too long for her brothers to
play football. And Sandra, her stepmother – Gráinne
remembered her stepmother looking out the window.
She looked at the rain and said, “If that garden had a
roof it would be lovely.”

Her mother put her arms on the table.

“I wish it was easy,” she said.

She looked straight at Gráinne.

“I wish I could just say a few things and make it all
OK,” she said. “It would be lovely.”

Gráinne nodded, once. She didn't think she
understood; she wasn't sure. But she was listening.
That was what the nod was for.

She made herself look at her mother.

“You probably,” her mother began, then stopped. She lifted her hands, and put them down again.

“I've no right to say what you probably think or don't
think,” she said. “But –”

She smiled, and sighed.

“You probably want to know why I left.”

Gráinne didn't nod. She tried not to move.

“I had to,” said her mother. “That's all I can say. I
had to.”

“Why?” said Gráinne.

Her voice surprised her. She sounded calm.

“That's where it's hard,” said her mother. “It's where
words don't work. I can't give you a neat answer. Will
I go on?”

“Yes.”

“So,” said her mother. “OK. It had nothing to do
with your dad. With Frank. Not really. He's a lovely
man. I thought that when I was leaving.”

Gráinne heard the gulp. Her mother was crying.

“It's so good to be able to talk to you like this,” she
said.

She pointed at her eyes, before she wiped them.

“It's relief,” she said. “That's why I'm crying. Will I
go on?”

Gráinne nodded.

“Thank you,” said her mother. “It had nothing to do
with you, Gráinne. That might sound stupid, or
strange. Even horrible. But it didn't. I loved you. I
love
you.”

Everything in Gráinne told her to get up now and
go. She thought she'd explode or die.
Push back the
table. Smash it into her chest. Scream till it's all gone.
She wanted to go before she had to hear anything
else.

But she stayed still. She made herself breathe in.
She said nothing. She looked at her mother. She made
herself do it. She wanted to scream.

“Will I go on?” said her mother.

She wanted to scream, spit, grab her mother's hair,
and her own hair, and pull.

But she nodded.

And something happened inside her. When she nodded, it was like she'd stepped into a new place.
She'd left something behind. She wasn't sure; something had happened.

“I just knew,” said her mother. “I had to go. I was so
unhappy and confused. I was going to die. I'm not
exaggerating. I still think that, looking back at it –
here. I was going mad. Something in me.”

She stopped. She looked straight at Gráinne. And
Gráinne knew. She'd nod, and her mother would talk.

She nodded.

“You get married,” said her mother. “You have
children – a child. You turn from one person into
another person.”

And now – just now – Gráinne understood her
mother. Because that was how Gráinne felt. She'd just
turned into another person. That was what had just
happened to her, when she'd nodded a minute ago,
and let her mother talk.

“I don't think it happens to men,” said her mother.
“Not the same way. But I'm not sure. I never really
talked to Frank about it. We couldn't. We just –”

She stopped. She looked at the window. It was
starting to get dark.

“Anyway,” she said. “I loved being your mother. I
really loved it. That probably sounds – I don't know –
awful. But it's true.”

Gráinne nodded.

“And I loved Frank,” said her mother. “But the old me hadn't gone. And I felt like I was killing the old me
and I didn't want to do that. Because it
was
me. And I
didn't want to kill myself. And I would have. If I'd
stayed.”

She was crying again, a bit.

“Am I making sense?”

“Yes,” said Gráinne.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Will I go on?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” said her mother. “Thanks. I have to be
honest here. I wasn't confused. I knew what I had to
do – what I was doing. And that was what I did. I
went. So –”

She wasn't crying now. She wasn't pleading. She
wasn't asking Gráinne to forgive her. She was treating
Gráinne like an equal. And Gráinne had made it
happen. By nodding every time her mother asked, by
letting her mother speak, Gráinne had decided that
this was going to happen.