One Crow Alone (19 page)

There was a gentle shuffling of clothes, she felt her boots being taken off and warm hands on her feet; the pulling over of blankets, the sound of the door being closed.

“Ivan—”

Half-parted curtains at a window. Snow battering outside them. A figure pulling them shut. The glow of a candle beside the bed, flickering in the draft.

“Ivan? Is it you?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“You fainted.”

He sat beside her, a weight on the edge of the mattress. The thump of boots hitting the floor. And he climbed into the bed; she could smell him, smoke on his hair, on his clothes. That other smell: his smell.

“Drink this.” He handed her a cup of something warm, and she drank.

“Where are we?”

“I don't know, some old people.”

“I think I killed him, Ivan.”

“What?”

“The boy. In the park.”

“Which boy?”

“The one who tried to—I hit him. His face was so still.”

She felt Ivan's hand in her hair and sucked the tenderness up like parched earth. His hand remained. Everything in her converged on the feel of his touch.

“Sleep, Magda. Sleep.”

“Are we safe?”

“Yes.” He took her cup and snuffed out the candle with his fingers. He lay there waiting for her to fall asleep, listening to the night sounds of the strange house. Alert as an owl.

*   *   *

Downstairs, Bran Mortimer scuffed across the floor in those ratty slippers with that old dog blustering at his side. He chided it good-naturedly, stopped to wind a plain-fronted grandfather clock, then opened a door into a small kitchen, with worn black and red tiles on the floor and a fug in the air from a pan of oats simmering on an Aga.

Bran scraped a chair back from under the table. His wife, Anwen, shuffled in from the back porch and threw a sturdy armful of split logs into the stove, a cloud of smoke puffing up into the room as the cast-iron hob plate rattled back into place. She took the oats off the boil and bent down to put the pan in the slow oven for the night. She riddled the Aga, then heaved herself up and settled herself opposite her husband in a creaking wooden chair.

Anwen Mortimer was a woman who had grown a little thickset with age. It was not that she was overfed or underworked, nor ever had been, but having spent most of her life halfway content she had grown stouter, not thinner, with age. And since she had not only climbed the stairs three times this night but also fetched blankets and warmed precious milk, removed boots and puzzled over foreign tongues whispering—and been so generally intrigued by the strange arrival of two frozen foreigners coming in from the wild night—she was now utterly out of breath. And full of questions.

“Do you think it's safe having them in the house?” she said to her husband. “We don't know who they are. Or where they're from.”

“We'll find out more in the morning.”

“Did you see the girl's feet when I took off her boots? Terrible.”

“I did.”

“Well, it's not normal.” She swiped at nonexistent crumbs on the well-wiped Formica. “Do you think they'll be all right up there with no fire?”

“They're young. I dare say it'll be warmer up there than it would have been if they were stuck outside tonight.”

“The boy sounded Russian, didn't he?”

“Perhaps,” said her husband. “Maybe they followed the army track from the road. Got lost.”

“But that's miles away,” Anwen said. She got up, snuffed out the lamp hanging from the ceiling, and took the candle from the table. “I must say, it's all very odd.”

“Well, there's nothing we can do about it now.”

Bran followed her down the passageway into the front room. He sat on the bed that was pushed into the corner and pulled off his socks. He let his wife's wittering wash over him like the snowflakes gusting against the panes:

Three more sheep lame. And no more diesel. Not a word from Bethan since her letter in November. And if ANPEC abandoned the Cefn Coch wind farm they wouldn't keep the track to the main road clear and they wouldn't have the army supply store in Dolgellau. Thank God for Callum Gourty lending a hand now and then. Thank God it was nearly spring. Thank God for that at least.

Anwen crept to the sofa. Under a bundle of blankets and rugs, a small child was sleeping, a hank of fine hair spilling over the pillow. The old lady peered down, stroked the child's hair and rearranged the bedding unnecessarily.

“Still fast asleep,” she whispered, smiling.

The old couple undressed, pulling thick sleeping gowns over their vests and undergarments, and they lay close and still in the narrow bed, waiting for the cold sheets to warm beneath them.

The child murmured in its sleep.

“We should get down to Dolgellau, as soon as the weather clears—try and call Bethan,” whispered Anwen. “Let her know Alice is well at least.”

In the hallway, the dog raised its head. Looked toward the front door.

Something had fluttered and stirred.

But it was only an ill wind creeping over the threshold and the sound of snow gusting against windows and falling heavy on every roof.

 

25

The springs in the mattress creaked as Magda lifted herself up from the pillow.

An early light slanted across the floorboards, brightening the faded color on some ancient threadbare rug and spilling up onto the thick quilt that lay heavy across her body.

There was the sound of a child somewhere downstairs, the running of feet and a door closing.

A child? Here?

She pulled back the bedclothes and looked down at her blistered feet, slid down, padded across the cold floor, and looked out the window.

What time is it? And where is Ivan?

She rubbed at the frozen condensation on the pane. Outside, the sky was clear, casting green-blue shadows on a newborn landscape that stretched away as far as she could see. The woods surrounding the house were still and bare, a patchwork of white fields and tree-covered foothills in the distance.

And from the woodland a man emerged, leading a pony with an old woman seated on its back. The figures made their way toward the house, kicking up a trail in the new snow. As he came through the gate, the man caught sight of Magda at the window. He smiled up and raised a hand as if he knew her, then realized that he did not, and looked away.

Magda stepped back behind the curtain.

There was a knock on the bedroom door.

“Are you up yet?” The handle turned and the old lady appeared. “I've got you some fresh clothes. And hot water.” She pushed the door open with her elbow, huffing breathlessly, and struggled in with a bowl of steaming water. Magda took it from her hands, and the old lady dipped back out of the door, only to reappear moments later with a jug, some soap, a towel, and a bundle of clothes.

“You'll feel better after a wash.” She plumped the clothes down on the bed and sat down to catch her breath. “I don't know what would have happened if you'd been out in the weather last night.”

“Where is my … my friend?” said Magda.

“He's gone to cut some firewood with my husband. They'll be back later. Your boots are drying in the kitchen. When you're ready, come down.”

“It is very kind of you to let us stay here—”

“Oh, don't worry about that.” The old woman got up from the chair. “And I'm Anwen.” She looked a little embarrassed. “I thought you might start talking a lot of gibberish like your friend.”

“His name is Ivan; I am Magda.” Magda smiled. “From Poland. He doesn't speak English really.”

“Poland, is it. Poland, eh. Should have guessed.” She patted the pile of clothes. “They're my daughter Bethan's clothes. This is her room.”

“She is not here?”

“No. Her little girl Alice lives with us though. You'll meet her when you come down.”

Magda stood awkwardly on the thin rug.

“Well, I'll let you be.” Anwen gave a quick smile and went out, closing the door gently behind her.

Magda listened to her heavy tread descending the stair. Stuck to the back of the door was a poster of three slick-haired boys—
The Razors
. The daughter's bedroom. The ceilings were low and the floors were dusty—every corner laced with last year's cobwebs. She could feel grit on the rug. Aside from the high bed, there was a narrow chest for clothes and a small iron fireplace, which had been boarded up.

She locked the door and knelt down. Took off her shirt and splashed steaming water onto her face. She hung her long hair into the bowl, and using the soap she raised a lather, pouring the last water from the jug to rinse. Afterward, with the water gray and scummy, she washed the dry blood from her feet, rubbed herself down with the towel, and with splayed fingers combed through the tangles in her hair.

Her old clothes lay in a pile on the floor, gray and worn and dirty. The new clothes folded on the bed smelled of camphor: a pair of pants, thick woolen socks that only needed a little darning at the heel, a vest, a shirt and sweater, a pair of trousers, and even shoes. She put the new things on, which felt very good, gathered her own dirty clothes under one arm, and went out onto the landing. She found her way down the dim staircase, following the sound of voices to the kitchen.

*   *   *

There was another woman at the kitchen table. She stopped talking as Magda opened the door.

“Magda. Come and sit by the Aga. Dry your hair,” said Anwen, standing at a sink, peeling turnips. “This,” she said, waving a hand toward the woman at the table, “is Mrs. Gourty, our neighbor.” She turned to Mrs. Gourty. “Magda and her friend Ivan turned up in the night.”

“In the night? What on earth were they doing wandering about in this weather?” said Mrs. Gourty.

There was a small girl scrubbing at a scrap of paper with an orange crayon. Shoulder-length brown hair fell over her face as she worked. She looked up and gave Magda a glance. “
Dydy hi'n andros o denau, Nain
—”
1

“Shh, Alice!” said Anwen, with her hand on the little girl's shoulder, the hardened knuckles like Babula's. “This is my granddaughter. Alice.”

“Hello,” said Magda.

The little girl stared. “You sound funny.” She continued her scrubbing.

“Here, give me those.” Anwen took the bundle of dirty clothes from Magda's arms. She turned to Mrs. Gourty. “She's from Poland, Fiona.”

“Poland! What on earth are you doing here then?” said Mrs. Gourty.

With a stamping of boots, the back door opened and her son Callum came into the kitchen.

“Here are the things you wanted from Dolgellau, Anwen,” he said, putting a bag on the table.

Anwen riffled about in the bag and took out a packet of tea.

Callum pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

“I'll fetch you something,” said Anwen, going to the Aga. She filled the kettle with water from a jug and put it to boil.

“Who's this?” Callum waved his hand at Magda.

“Her name's Magda. Found her out on the step last night. From Poland.”

“Mmm. And that boy in the log shed with Bran—him too?”

“Yes. They're friends.” Anwen brought a bowl of porridge to the table. Callum Gourty put his hat down and pushed his coat off onto the back of his chair. He looked at Magda. “You speak English?”

“I learn in school.”

“Long way from Poland.”

“I came to find my mother.”

“Here?” he said.

“No, London.”

“I take it you didn't.”

“No.”

“Why here then?”

“We have car, but a man steal it and leave us on the road. We are trying to go to Liverpool.”

“Liverpool? Boat doesn't run in winter.”

“Boat? I do not know of a boat,” said Magda. “But we have a friend there who will help us go home.”

“You came here from London then?”

Magda hesitated, then nodded.

“No place for city people out here. But I guess you've already found that out.” He took a spoonful of porridge. Eyes steady as a sniper, watching her across the table like a hawk.

“I am not from city,” said Magda. “I come from village—we have horses and cows and sheep, and Bogdan Stopko had tractor and two fields.”

Callum laughed. “Did he now.”

“We have much snow on mountain, like here in England.”

“And you left Poland to find your mother.”

“She had a job in London. My grandmother die and the people from my village were taken away by soldiers. I hide in cellar so they cannot find me, but I ride across the hill and find another village and I go in the trucks to Krakow. With my friend. Ivan.”

Callum put his spoon down.

“Why did they take you away from your village?”

“Weather very bad in Poland,” Magda said. “They take villagers to the city. I hear president on radio. He say it is Emergency.”

“State of Emergency.” Mrs. Gourty nodded. “Heard that on the radio. Here too as well.”

Callum leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow at Anwen. “Met some soldiers this morning, on the Dolgellau road. Asked if I'd seen two Polish kids. Said they'd probably be pilfering someone's bins.”

“Soldiers say they will take us to police—” blurted Magda.

“Why?”

“We have no papers.”

Anwen and Mrs. Gourty exchanged a
look
.

Magda saw it. “We hurt no one. We only want to go home. We have a friend. In Liverpool—”

“Well, you're in Wales now, girl. And you won't be getting up to Liverpool for a bit. Does that boy come from your village too?”

“No. He comes from Ukraine. It is long way.”

“The Ukraine!” exclaimed Anwen.

“So you're both stuck,” Callum said.