Flyaway (31 page)

Mum throws him a look too. But already his eyes are on the sky, following a small bird that's flapping in bursts.

‘Brambling!' he says, pointing it out to me.

I look up, catch a glimpse of orange on the bird's chest. Then I'm running ahead to show Harry.

‘I've found one of your birds!' I call.

Behind me, Dad's got his binoculars out, already looking for more birds. He's talking to Granddad as he does this, telling him about the letter he's just sent to the council about the new power lines. Granddad's murmuring in response.

The air is heavy with the smell of mud and moss, but it's not cold today. It's one of those rare winter days when the sunlight is bright and warm, and it feels like a gift.

We wheel Harry and Dad close to the lake's edge. The swans are spread out right across its surface. Harry's eyes are scanning the flock, but I've seen her already. She's right in the middle, her feathers much whiter than they were before. She looks like so many of the others, but I know it's her. She stares at me with her deep, dark eyes, and, even now, I feel the pull to be with her. I know Harry is watching me.

‘Is that her?' he whispers.

I nod. She leaves the flock and floats towards us. I feel the flutter in my chest as she gets closer. She looks like a mythical creature arriving out of a story. Her new feathers shine like armour. I glance at Harry, see the pinkness in his cheeks. I lean over and hug him, not caring that his mum, and my mum, and Dad are right behind us. Granddad steps up to the bank and crouches down next to me. He's got his eyes fixed on the swan too. There's a faraway smile on his face, and I wonder if he's thinking about Nan. I don't think he's been birdwatching since she died.

It takes only a few seconds for the swan to swim to our bank. She waddles up onto it. Harry's mum starts forward and puts her hands on the wheelchair handles, but Harry waves her away.

‘The swan won't hurt us,' he tells her. ‘Believe me.'

Harry's mum keeps standing there, watching anxiously. The swan stands to her full height, only a metre or so away. I hear the nurse gasp, and I'm amazed too by how big she seems. She's grown so much in the last couple of weeks; she's matured into a full-sized swan. She steps closer and Harry's mum can't help but move the wheelchair back a little. So I walk forward to the swan instead.

The swan presses her beak against the back of my hand. It's wet and cold. A chill goes up my arm. I stroke the top of her head and she closes her eyes. She nuzzles in towards me, gurgling at the back of her throat. She looks up at me and I can guess what she's thinking. She waddles towards the water and slips off the bank. Rising up on the surface of the lake, she beats her wings. I look across at Harry.

‘Go on,' he says. He's also seen the look in her eyes. He knows what it means.

Dad's nodding at me, too, the smile already on his face.

I take a few steps. The nurse and Harry's mum are going to think I'm nuts, but I don't care: I start to run. I know she'll keep up. I lengthen my stride into a proper pace and hear the slapping sound as she brings her feet up onto the surface of the lake. The other swans make way for her, and a mallard shoots up suddenly from the reeds. I push myself harder, the
thud of my trainers keeping in time with her feet on the water. I beat my arms up and down. The swan's feet lift from the surface and in one smooth, graceful sweep into the sky, she takes off, tucking her feet up as she goes. I feel the fluttering in my chest again, the urge to be up there with her. I keep running a little way, watching her soar higher and higher above me. One long white feather drifts all the way from the sky and lands on the ground at my feet. I bend to pick it up. It's a primary flight feather.

Then I'm running back to the group to give it to Dad.

CHAPTER 72

W
e drop Harry back in his room. He's more tired than I've ever seen him, but he's happy. He grins every time I catch his eye.

‘Don't stay long, Isla,' Mum whispers.

I wrap my arms around him and plant a kiss on his neck. He leans back against his pillows and holds onto my hand.

‘Thank you,' he murmurs.

It feels like there's a huge lump of conversation in my chest; all this stuff I want to tell him before he goes in for his transplant. But I can't find the words to start and I just stare at him in silence. My throat goes tight as I lean forward to stroke his fuzzy head.

‘I'll come back before your transplant,' I say.

Two days later Mum takes me to the hospital again. I bundle my flying model in a coat and carry it in my
arms. Jack comes with me. He's curious about Harry I think, plus it means he can get a lift to football practice. He glances nervously from side to side as we go through the cancer ward.

‘It's fine,' I tell him. ‘It's probably the nicest ward in the hospital.'

He tries not to stare at a bald kid who passes us.

None of the nurses stop me. I think they must be used to me by now. They don't even seem to mind that I have a strange-looking bundle in my arms. I keep my head down and drag Jack by the sleeve.

‘Wait there a second,' I tell him, leaving him in the corridor.

I don't give him a chance to refuse. I just walk straight into Harry's room and shut the door behind me. Harry's sitting up in his bed.

‘I've got a present for you,' I say.

I drop the bundle on his duvet. He leans forward and takes the coat away without saying a word. He gazes wide-eyed at the flying model for a few long moments then begins to unfold the wings carefully. With all the extra cleaning I've been giving them lately, they look whiter than ever. He holds them delicately, as if they're the most precious things in the world.

‘You can't give me these,' he says.

‘I just did.' I nod at the wall behind him, calculating where all the picture hooks are. ‘Dad wants you to have them, too. I thought we could stick them up there.'

I sit on his bed, smiling at the puzzled expression on his face.

‘Dad's always said swans' wings are magical,' I say. ‘I just keep thinking that if I give you these wings, you'll be safe. You know, safe for your transplant. Is that stupid?'

Harry keeps grinning. ‘You're amazing,' he murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine. ‘Thank you.'

He holds my hand to his chest and I can feel his heartbeat and his Hickman line at the same time. I think of someone else's bone marrow going in through that line, someone else making him strong. I just hope they do. He leans forward, and I think he's going to kiss me again. I shut my eyes, but Jack bursts into the room instead.

‘I'm not waiting out there any longer,' he says. Then, seeing what we were about to do, adds, ‘Sorry.'

I leap off the bed and grab the flying model. Harry shuffles back into his pillows.

‘This is Jack,' I mumble. ‘My brother. I thought he could help.'

I dig into my coat to get the string and masking tape I took from the kitchen drawer, and push them quickly into Jack's hand. Then I go over to Harry and help him out of bed.

‘Sit on the chair,' I say. ‘Jack and I will do it.'

Jack stands on Harry's bedside table and I stand on the bed. Each of us holds a wing. We take down the painting of boats bobbing on the ocean, and the other one of a cherry tree. We tie the wings to their hooks then use masking tape
to secure them more firmly. Somehow it works. The wings stretch out across the wall.

‘I hope the nurses don't make you take them down,' I say.

‘I won't let them,' Harry breathes. He keeps staring at me.

After a moment I realise that Jack's still there, smirking at us.

‘You're as bad as her,' he says, laughing at Harry. ‘Birds of a feather. Isn't that what Dad says?'

He turns and slips out of the room. My heart beats faster as I hear the click from the door closing, and I lean towards Harry again. I brush my lips to his. I love the way his eyes widen with surprise as I do. I don't want to stop. I can't help thinking that this might be the last time we ever get to do this.

Harry pulls away, laughing breathlessly.

‘Stay with me for a while,' he says.

So I do. Neither of us talks much. We just look out of the window at the lake. An unexpected beam of winter sunshine falls into the room, lighting up Harry's face and lighting up the wings, making them both shimmer. The sun is warm on my skin, and makes me think of spring. I hold Harry's hand tighter.

‘I'll keep watching the swans,' I say. ‘They'll still be there when you come out.'

‘
If
,' he says quietly. ‘
If
I do.'

‘You will. And when you do, we can go back to Granddad's lake again.'

He smiles at that. The sunlight seeps into the room, making everything bright . . . the bedside table, the bed, the chair.
The whole room is so filled with light. Harry's leaning back into his pillows, his eyes already starting to close.

Quietly, I get up to leave. When I turn to say goodbye, he's asleep. The wings spread out behind him, glowing. If I squint my eyes, they look as though they're attached to him. He's like a huge, bright angel, soaking in the sunlight to make him strong.

CHAPTER 73

S
omething is whooping in my dreams. The swans are coming. They're flying quick and high, and there are so many of them. It's their long flight: their migration home. They're flying towards the moon. I'm standing outside, on the cold, damp grass, and I'm watching them.

There's a strange swan at the back. It's got wings, but it doesn't have a long neck. It's bigger than the others. But it's flying fast and confidently, as if it knows where it's going. There's a patch of green covering the bird's head. Granddad's hat! And then I realise, this bird isn't a bird at all. It's Harry. He's migrating with the swans, flying in their flock.

The swans start to disappear, fading into stars. They whoop again. And then, gently, their noises turn into a song. A swan song. It's beautiful. As they fly into the darkness, their voices become faint. Only a low rumbling hiss remains. A sighing
sound, like a person's last breath. But one voice is still clear. One small squawk of joy fills the sky.

And it startles me awake.

CHAPTER 74

T
here are tears on my face. I lie still for a moment, just breathing. In . . . out . . . in . . . out. I wait for the shadowy shapes in the room to make sense. There's a breeze shaking my bedroom window, rattling the pane like a bag of bones. I roll over and hold my knees to my chest.

‘Harry,' I whisper.

His transplant was today. I still haven't heard anything.

I sit up. There's a flapping noise, coming from the garden. I go to the window, pull back the curtains and look out. I don't know what I'm expecting. Perhaps the swan from the lake. Or Harry, fallen from flight . . . fallen right out of my dream. But there's no one. Only the shed. The oak tree. The washing line. I watch a sheet move backwards and forwards with the wind, turning and flapping as if it's alive.

I lean my elbows on the sill. The night sky is clear as water. I scan my eyes across it, my head still full of my dream. There are no swans there, no Harry. Just stars. For once I can see them through the fog of city lights. I sigh into my hands and press my nose up to the glass. It had felt so real, it had felt as if Harry was migrating. Leaving me.