The Shadow Year (18 page)

She doesn’t know what she is waiting for. Angry shouts? Gesticulations? The waving of a loaded shotgun? Whatever it is, it’s not the slow raising of the woman’s hand in a hesitant gesture of greeting. Kat swallows and then, before she can stop herself, lifts her own hand in a half wave. The woman stares at her a moment longer, then seems to give the slightest nod before taking a step backwards, then another, and another . . . until she has disappeared over the ridge, the labrador melting away at her side.

Kat stands rooted to the spot a moment longer then turns and runs towards the cottage.

Simon is up and nursing a mug of tea at the kitchen table when she bursts through the back door. ‘I made a pot,’ he says, barely looking up.

Kat struggles for breath. ‘I saw someone . . .’ she gasps, ‘outside . . . watching.’ She can’t get her words out.

‘Slow down. Who saw you? What are you talking about?’

‘A woman. She was just standing up there . . . watching me.’

Simon leaps up from the table and moves to the window. He peers out. ‘Where?’

‘Up on the ridge. She had a dog.’

He turns back to Kat. ‘What did she do? Did she say anything?’

‘No, she just sort of stood there and stared.’

‘Not a word?’

‘No.’ Kat pauses. ‘She waved.’

‘She waved?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I – I waved back.’

‘You waved back?’ Simon gapes at her. ‘What did she look like?’

Kat shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Middle-aged.’ She tries to think, remembers the woman’s long wax jacket and stout boots, the sensible shoulder-length hair. ‘She just looked . . . normal.’

Simon moves across the room and slumps back into his chair, then slams the table with his fist, sending Kat leaping backwards in alarm. ‘Damn it.’

Kat doesn’t know what to do. It feels as though it is all her fault. If only she hadn’t gone out to the lake . . .

‘What’s going on?’ asks Carla, appearing at the door with a yawn, wrapped in one of Ben’s misshapen sweaters and with her frizzy hair sticking up at startling angles from her head.

Simon ignores her and turns back to Kat. ‘Is she still out there?’

‘No. She disappeared back over the ridge.’

‘Go and wake the others,’ says Simon to Carla, throwing the words over his shoulder at her.

‘But what’s going o—’

‘Now,’ insists Simon.

Kat sees the irritation flash across Carla’s face, but she does as she’s told and shuffles off to rouse the others from their sleep. After she’s gone, silence fills the room. Kat waits, nervously chewing on a fingernail, willing Simon to say something reassuring; but he doesn’t and the silence stretches on endlessly.

Finally, Ben appears in striped pyjamas and a bobble hat, shivering in the chill air. ‘Christ, it’s cold,’ he says, hugging himself. ‘Is there any tea?’

Simon pushes the pot across the table towards him.

‘I can’t find Mac,’ says Carla re-entering the room, ‘but Freya’s coming down. Are you going to tell us what’s going on?’

‘Anyone know where Mac is?’ asks Simon as Freya shuffles into the room, wiping the sleep from her eyes like a child.

They all shake their heads.

Simon sighs. ‘OK. So here it is.’ He looks about at them all seriously. ‘It seems we’ve been discovered. Kat saw a woman up on the ridge, watching her.’ Simon relays the rest of the events to the group then sits back and waits for their reactions.

‘Why didn’t the woman say anything to you?’ asks Ben, turning to Kat.

‘I don’t know,’ shrugs Kat, ‘she was quite far away, I suppose.’ She knows it could have been any of them standing there at the lake’s edge but somehow, in Simon’s retelling, she still feels as though she is being blamed for something.

‘Bollocks,’ says Ben.

Simon nods. ‘Indeed.’

They are all silent as they contemplate the enormity of it. They have grown lax. They’ve begun to feel invisible, invincible. But nearly three months into their little experiment and reality has come knocking – or rather waving – over the crest of the hill and it suddenly feels as though their new life could come tumbling down around their ears. Kat feels like crying.

‘So what do we do?’ asks Carla, ‘Start packing?’

‘We’re just going to give up?’ asks Kat, panic-stricken.

‘Hang on a minute,’ says Simon, holding up his hands. ‘Who said anything about giving up? We don’t know who that woman was
or
what she wanted. She could have just been out for a stroll with her dog and stumbled upon us. She might have been a rambler, or a tourist, exploring the countryside. She doesn’t necessarily know that this place isn’t rightfully ours.’

Kat shakes her head. Somehow the woman hadn’t looked like a tourist.

‘She might be heading back to her car right now, driving far, far away and not giving us another moment’s thought,’ continues Simon.

Kat wants to believe him. His words and his confidence are soothing. She feels her heartbeat begin to slow in her chest.

‘I vote we just hang out here and see what happens,’ he continues. ‘She may come back. She may bring others with her. And yes, perhaps we will be thrown out of the cottage. But let’s wait to be asked, and then go peacefully. We’ve hardly trashed the place, have we?’

Ben nods. ‘It’s actually in better nick than when we first arrived. Who knows, the owner might be grateful,’ he tries with a hopeful smile.

Simon looks around at them one by one. ‘What do you say?’

Freya looks to Kat and shrugs.

Kat knows her answer. She’s not ready to say goodbye to any of it just yet. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘we stay until we’re asked to leave . . . or until we
want
to leave . . . whichever comes soonest.’

They’re still gathered around the kitchen table an hour later when Mac returns, stumbling through the back door with rosy cheeks and mud-spattered jeans, the collar of his jacket turned up against the cold. ‘Why so serious?’ he asks, shaking his hair from his eyes. ‘What have I missed?’

But no one answers. They are all far too interested in the wriggling and snuffling sounds coming from beneath Mac’s denim jacket.

‘What on earth?’ asks Carla, looking at him with a mixture of fascination and horror.

Mac grins and reaches down to unbutton his jacket, revealing a pale pink snout and two chocolate-brown eyes.

‘Oh my God,’ whispers Freya, moving across to where Mac stands, ‘she’s divine.’ She reaches out to undo his buttons further, revealing downy pink fur and four tiny trotters.

‘She’s a
he
,’ says Mac, lifting the tiny piglet out from the warmth of his jacket and holding him up for them all to see. The pig gives a gentle snort.

‘Can I hold him?’ begs Freya. ‘Is he hungry? What does he eat?’ She looks at Mac, suddenly worried. ‘We
are
keeping him, aren’t we?’

‘Yes,’ says Mac, ‘we are.’

Freya rewards him with one of her most dazzling smiles and Kat smirks to see Mac’s cheeks flush even pinker.

‘Where’d you get it?’ Simon asks.

Mac turns to Simon. ‘I took the runt. Doubt the old farmer will even notice he’s gone.’

‘You stole him?’ says Carla in admonishment.

‘I like to think I offered him a better life,’ says Mac with a crooked smile.

Freya swoops up the snuffling piglet and cuddles him like a doll. Kat watches and is reminded of the Freya from her childhood, never happier than when playing house or dress-up with her dolls.

‘He likes you,’ says Mac, watching Freya with the piglet.

‘He’s pretty skinny . . . but I guess he might be good for a bacon sandwich or two.’

‘Simon!’ cries Freya, ‘we’re
not
eating him.’ She turns to the pig. ‘We’re not eating you, don’t worry. You can be our house mascot. Wilbur, that’s what we’ll call you. They didn’t eat the pig in
Charlotte’s Web
, did they?’

‘“Our house mascot”?’ asks Simon. ‘That’s assuming we still have a house to live in.’

Mac throws him a look. ‘Have I missed something?’ he asks, sensing for the first time the tension still lingering in the room.

Simon turns to Kat. ‘Do you want to tell him or shall I?’

Although they’ve decided to brazen it out at the cottage, the morning passes in a state of uneasy limbo, each of them nervous and jumpy. None of them dare give voice to their fears but Kat knows they are all imagining a crowd of angry villagers rushing with pitchforks over the hillside towards them.

‘I can’t stand this,’ says Ben, eventually, putting down his guitar. ‘Let’s do something.’

Mac nods. ‘How about we go pick those sloes in the woods? There was a ground frost this morning. Now is a good time.’

Ben nods. ‘Anyone else want to come?’

Carla and Simon agree to accompany them while Kat offers to stay back. ‘You know,’ she says, ‘just in case.’ No one seems to need any further explanation.

‘I’ll stay too,’ says Freya, snuggling the piglet.

‘I think somebody’s in love,’ laughs Ben.

‘Don’t get too fond of him,’ warns Kat. ‘We may have to eat him yet.’

Freya draws herself up. ‘
No one
is eating Wilbur.’

Simon glances between Kat and Freya, shakes his head in amusement.

‘What?’ asks Kat, catching his look.

‘For sisters, you two are
very
different.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asks.

‘Well you, Kat, you’re tough . . . practical and rational.’

Kat nods, pleased.

‘But Freya here,’ he continues, ‘am I right in thinking you’re probably a little more impulsive, a little freer with your emotions?’

Freya shrugs her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. I guess.’

Simon shakes his head again. ‘The proverbial chalk and cheese.’

Kat looks across at Freya. Her sister smiles and rolls her eyes, but Kat’s own smile, when it comes, feels as tight as a mask. Practical is OK, she thinks. Rational is good.

‘Don’t you ever get bored here?’ Freya asks, after the others have gone. She is slouched at the end of the sofa, picking at her split ends.

‘No,’ says Kat, glancing up from her notebook. ‘Not really. Why,’ she asks, ‘are you bored?’

‘No,’ says Freya. ‘But it
is
very quiet.’

Kat nods. ‘I like that it’s quiet. This place is supposed to be about getting back to a simpler way of life. We’re forming a deeper connection with our environment and the landscape. Making time for the things that really matter.’

Freya looks up from her hair and eyes Kat.

‘What?’

She hides her smile. ‘Nothing.’

‘What?’ insists Kat, but Freya won’t answer. ‘It’s not a load of waffle. It’s true. Simon’s right; we’re so conditioned by society we’ve forgotten to appreciate our connection with the
real
world – where our food comes from, how to fill our days with honest, meaningful work. And when the work is done, there’s more time for the fun stuff: reading and thinking, writing, engaging with each other. But you know,’ she adds with a slight edge to her voice, seeing the smile still playing on her sister’s lips, ‘if you don’t like it you don’t
have
to stay. No one’s forcing you.’

‘I know that. I don’t want to go . . . not yet. I like it here, honest. It’s fun spending time with you again.’

Kat regards her for a moment and softens. ‘How long do you think you’ll stay?’

‘A little while longer?’ She hesitates. ‘Maybe until Christmas . . . if that’s OK with you? It’s not as if I have anywhere else to go.’

‘Sure,’ agrees Kat. She turns back to the notepad in her lap and silence falls over them. She chews the end of her pen and scribbles a few more lines before she feels Freya’s expectant gaze fall on her once more. She looks up with a sigh. ‘What now?’

Freya shrugs. ‘There was this girl at college, really pretty, amazing cheekbones – just like yours. I cut her hair for her, you know, short like a pixie. I reckon you’d look good with short hair.’

‘Really?’ Kat puts a hand up to her neck and feels where her hair hangs in a thick clump about her shoulders. It’s greasy and could really do with a wash but bathing in the cottage is a laborious task now that the lake is too cold for swimming. She’s not sure she can be bothered to heat the water and fill the old tin bath.

Freya waits for a moment. ‘I could cut it for you, if you like?’

‘You could cut my hair?’ Kat stares at Freya a moment.

‘Sure, but only if you wanted me to.’

Kat studies her through narrowed eyes. ‘How short are we talking?’

‘Short.’

‘Like a boy?’

‘Yeah, but it would look good, honest.’

Kat shakes her head. She’s always worn it long.

‘It would really suit you.’

Kat sighs and puts her notebook down on the arm of the chair. ‘I’m not even sure we have any scissors.’

‘I have some in my sewing kit.’

Kat considers Freya’s offer. In her head she hears the echo of Simon’s words:
so practical, so rational
. ‘And you promise it will look good?’

‘I promise.’

Kat thinks on it a moment longer. ‘Come on then,’ she says, ‘it’s only hair, after all.’

The piglet watches on as Freya dampens Kat’s hair at the kitchen sink and then trots behind them as they head upstairs to the bedroom. Freya positions Kat in front of the cracked mirror and begins to hack. As she works she hums the tune to a favourite song and the pig snorts his encouragement from the corner of the room.

‘Not too short,’ says Kat, suddenly, seeing a long tuft of dark brown hair drift to the ground beside them.

‘You can’t say that now,’ exclaims Freya. ‘I’ve already cut one side. Trust me, it’s all about short, asymmetrical cuts right now. Long hair is out, punk and new wave is in.’

‘Why haven’t you cut your own hair then?’ asks Kat. ‘You know, if it’s so cool?’

‘I don’t have the right shape face for it, but you do. It’s going to look great.’

Guided by her sister’s hands, Kat tilts her head to one side and shivers as the cold metal of the scissors presses against her neck. ‘It’d better.’

Freya cuts and cuts and clumps of dark hair drift down and settle like feathers at Kat’s feet. ‘
Love will tear us apart
,’ she sings, over and over.