Wilderness (6 page)

 

 

Her mother put the tray on the table. She took off her
coat and put it on the back of her chair. Then she sat
down. She smiled and looked away, then looked again
at Gráinne.

“Well,” she said.

Gráinne said nothing. What was she supposed to say?

She took a bite out of her Danish; she was starving.
But her mother started taking the things off the tray,
and Gráinne knew she'd started too early. She hated
this. She'd been rude, but she didn't know why.

She helped her mother. She took the milk jug off
the tray and held it up while her mother took the tray
away, and leaned it against one of the table legs. She
put the jug on her mother's side. She'd been going to
order coffee. It would have looked better than the
cardboard cup of Coke she had in front of her. Coke
for breakfast was childish and not the way Gráinne
wanted to be. But she'd thought that coffee might
make her feel sick.

She felt a bit sick already.

She was being like a kid. She was thinking like a kid.

Maybe that was what happened, when you were
with your mother. You felt like a kid. She didn't know.
She didn't like it. Her arms felt rubbery. She knew
she'd spill the Coke. She wanted to get up and leave.
She wanted to turn the table over, to get it done with.
To spill it all – all over her mother.

But she didn't. She didn't feel that way.

It was like a fight. A fight going on inside her.

“It's changed,” said her mother.

“What's changed?” said Gráinne.

She was pleased with the way she said it.

“Dublin,” said her mother.

“But you only got here,” said Gráinne.

She felt the anger; she swallowed it back. She
didn't want it to wreck the day – and everything. She
knew she couldn't stop being angry. But she wanted
to be in charge of it. And she didn't really feel angry
now.

“I know,” said her mother. “I'm being a bit stupid. It's just, I haven't been here all these years and –”

Gráinne resisted. She didn't say, “I know.”

“And,” said her mother. “It's just, it hits you
immediately. The changes.”

She stopped stirring the sugar into her coffee. She
tapped the saucer with the spoon, once, twice. Gráinne watched her pick up the coffee.

“Even this,” said her mother.

She held up the cup.

“You couldn't get a proper cup of coffee when I –”

She stopped.

“What?” said Gráinne. She didn't say, “Ran away,” or
“Deserted me”. She didn't exhale loudly.

“When I lived here,” said her mother.

She looked at Gráinne for a while, properly.

“Sorry,” she said.

She took a sip from her cup. She took the cup away.

“I suppose everything we say – or at least I say – will
be a bit of a minefield. Do you know what I mean?”

Gráinne nodded.

“But,” said her mother, “it's true. You couldn't get a
good cup of coffee. This is lovely.”

She said “lovely” the Irish way. Gráinne drank some
of her Coke. It calmed her down, the cold. It spread
through her.

Her mother was looking at her again.

“Tell me a bit about yourself, Gráinne,” she said.

“No,” said Gráinne.

Her mother looked shocked, and suddenly like a
mother.

“I don't want to,” said Gráinne. “That's just crap. It's
like a crap film.”

Her mother still looked shocked.

“I could say the same thing to you,” said Gráinne. “Tell me about yourself. It's horrible.”

“Well, you know,” said her mother. “You've actually
told me quite a lot about yourself, just there.”

Gráinne wanted to lean across and hit her. She
thought she was being clever. But Gráinne only
wanted to be honest. She wanted this woman to
listen, to what she was saying and what she was going
to say. Not what she
thought
Gráinne was saying.
She'd no right. She didn't know Gráinne.

Gráinne stopped herself.

She wanted to know this woman. She really did.
She had to stay calm. She tried to do it.

“You'll find out what I'm like,” she said.

She shrugged.

“You're right,” said her mother. “But do you mind if I tell you a bit about me?”

Gráinne shrugged again.

“If you like.”

“Well,” said her mother. “You know I live in New York.”

Gráinne nodded. But this was weird.

“Where?” she said.

“Where, what?”

“Where in New York?” said Gráinne.

“Manhattan,” said her mother. “The Upper West
Side.”

Gráinne nodded. She'd imagined herself there. All her
life she'd seen herself walking down one of the streets.
Or, since she'd found out where her mother lived.

“What number street?” she said.

“One hundred and sixteenth,” said her mother. “And Amsterdam.”

She lived near the corner of one hundred and
sixteenth Street and Amsterdam Avenue. Streets
across, avenues up and down. Gráinne had seen maps
of New York on the internet. She'd printed one out. It
was on her bedroom wall.

“Do you live in an apartment?” she asked.

“Yes,” said her mother. “They don't have houses like
here.”

Gráinne nodded.

“On your own?” she said.

It was out. It was like the table had fallen away and
there was nothing to lean on.

“I'm sorry?” said her mother.

“Do you, like – do you live on your own?”

“No,” said her mother. “No, I don't.”

She was blushing.

“I was going to tell you other things first,” she said.

“The good news, then the bad news,” said Gráinne.

“No,” said her mother. “Just – God.”

She clutched her collar. She let go of it.

“Maybe I shouldn't have come,” she said. “This isn't
what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” said Gráinne.

“I don't know,” said her mother.

“You thought it would be easy.”

“No,” said her mother. “Not really. But, yes.”

“Me too,” said Gráinne. “I thought it wouldn't
matter what you said, or anything.”

Her mother nodded.

“I thought we'd have to just see each other,” said
Gráinne. “I've always thought that.”

“How long?”

“Always,” said Gráinne.

She watched her mother cry. She watched her wipe
her eyes.

“I don't like the way you talk,” said Gráinne.

She watched her mother.

“I don't think you're honest,” said Gráinne. “I
thought it would be different.”

She gulped back. She knew she wouldn't cry.

“I thought it would make sense. When I saw you.”

Her mother nodded. She wiped her eyes again.

“Will we start again?” she said.

“That's not honest either,” said Gráinne. “It's just crap.”

She stood up. She took her bag off the floor. She
walked out.

She walked down the street. She didn't look back. She didn't hear anything. She walked to the bus stop. She waited. It was cold. Her mother hadn't followed her.

She got on the bus. She went home.

Her dad was at work. She went up to her room. She
shut the door. She put on her headphones.

She wouldn't hear the bell. She wouldn't hear
the phone.

 

 

It was dark now. It seemed like ages since they'd left,
even a different day. But it hadn't been very long. It
just felt like that. The boys were tired, even though
they'd done nothing. The fresh air did it; that was
what their mother said. They'd been gulping down the
freshest air they'd ever tasted. They couldn't stop
yawning.

They went along the tracks they'd made that
morning. The tracks were hardened, and icy. It was
getting even colder.

The dogs hadn't slowed a bit. They were still flying,
little steps. Ears up, and tails in the air. One of the
dogs had pooed while he ran. His bum was near the
ground but he kept moving his legs, as if he had
trousers that were down around his ankles. They
laughed and nudged each other for ages after that. It
was the funniest thing they'd ever seen, even funnier
than the time their dad had leaned against the car door, and the door opened, and he fell out. The car
was parked; he fell on to the grass.

They were glad to see the lights, and the hotel
behind the lights. They were hungry. Tom thought, for
the first time in his life,
I want hot food
. It had to be
hot. He touched his nose. He couldn't really feel it.

He yawned again.

And Johnny yawned.

And Tom yawned.

The dogs brought them through the gate. The ice
and snow were thinner here. The sled was
shuddering. The runners screeched across the ice.

“Agon-ee,” said Johnny.

Tom yawned.

Kalle didn't shout or make any kind of noise, but
the dogs all stopped together. It was suddenly very
quiet. The wind sound was gone, and the branches,
and the dogs' feet on the snow, and their breath.

It was like an end. The day was over.

But it wasn't.

Kalle pulled them out of the sled. They were in the
air and laughing before they really knew it. He put
them down.

“Look – after – dogs,” he said.

Tom loved the way he said that. They were in
charge; they'd know what to do. He wasn't tired now.
The boys released the dogs from their straps. Tom
could feel the energy and life under their fur. And the energy seemed to run through his hands and arms. He
took off his gloves. He loved the feel of the dogs. He
could hear Aki's snowmobile. He could hear the other
dogs. He looked, and saw their mother. She waved,
and he got back to work. Holding the dogs, feeling
their heartbeats and breath – Tom wasn't tired at all.
He couldn't wait until the next day.

It was quieter now. Aki had turned off the engine.
Very few people were talking. The dogs were getting
raw meat for dinner, but Tom and Johnny didn't have
to touch it. They were in charge of the water. The
smell of the meat was disgusting. They could smell it
in the dogs' breath when they bent down to pick up
the water bowls. But it was funny. They pretended
they were going to be sick.

“Are you coming, lads?” said their mother.

She was passing them, on her way back to the hotel
with the other adults. They were all walking slowly
and stiffly, like giant toddlers with full nappies. They
held their backs; they rubbed their hands. But there
was excitement in their eyes. They felt the same way
Johnny did. They'd had one of the most brilliant days
of their lives.

“In a minute,” Johnny shouted to his mother.

“OK.”

She followed the other adults. The man and woman
from Belgium waited for her.

They heard her call back to them.

“Come in when Aki and Kalle tell you to.”

They heard her again.

“OK?”

“OK,” they shouted back.

Johnny didn't want to give up yet. He was hungry
and very thirsty. He was kind of soggy and cold, but he
wanted to stay with the dogs for a bit longer. They
were better than any dogs he'd known. He'd never
known dogs that were so friendly and so beautiful, so
near to talking back to them.

Tom went to every dog, and every dog gave him the
paw. Johnny was right behind him, and the dogs gave
him the paw. They went around again; they laughed
and ran. They nearly fell in frozen and not-so-frozen
poo. They started whacking each other on the back.
The big thumps filled the air around them. The dogs
were getting excited. They began to jump at Johnny
and Tom as they ran past.

Then Kalle's voice swallowed all other sound.

“Stop!”

They stopped.

And the dogs stopped.

And everything else stopped. Aki stopped walking.
The other dog handlers stopped dropping raw meat
into the dogs' dishes.

Kalle stared at Johnny and Tom.

“Sorry,” said Tom.

“Husky – dogs – must – rest,” said Kalle.

“OK,” said Johnny.

They could hear the dogs panting, like they were
agreeing with Kalle.

Kalle pointed at a bowl.

“Water.”

“OK,” said Tom.

“OK,” said Johnny.

They brought the bowls to a big barrel full of water. The bowls were wooden, so the dogs' tongues
wouldn't get stuck to the sides. They saw the ice on
top of the water. They dipped the bowls in, and
carried them back to each kennel. They filled every
bowl. Tom's hands were freezing, but he didn't care.
He brought the bowls to the dogs. Their names were
on the kennels, above the entrances. Rock, the lead
dog, Bruno, Hupö, Pomp. He patted every dog. The
dogs looked up at him with their amazing eyes. Johnny
gathered all the harnesses and hung them where Kalle
showed him to. He straightened out the straps and
halters.

They worked with Kalle for at least another hour.
Their hands were sore, even with their gloves back on.
They didn't care. They were nearly crying, their hands
were so cold, and stiff. But, really, they didn't care.
They loved the dogs. They didn't want to leave them.

But they did leave. There was nothing left to do.
The dogs needed rest. Kalle was going home. They
wondered what Kalle's house was like.

“Like Hagrid's,” said Johnny. “In
Harry Potter
.”

“Yeah,” said Tom. “And full of dog stuff.”

“Yeah,” said Johnny. “And skulls – wolf skulls, and
bear skulls, and dog skulls, and little bird ones on the
mantelpiece.”

“And all skins and stuff on the wall,” said Tom.

“Yeah,” said Johnny.

They walked across to the hotel. They crunched
through some really good snow, but they never
thought of stopping and making snowballs.

Johnny was hungry. He was tired. And there was
something else. He felt different. He felt bigger. He'd
been working, and he felt like a man.

“Wonder what's for dinner,” said Tom.

“Yeah,” said Johnny. “I hope there's chips.”

“Yeah,” said Tom.

He pushed the door. He felt the heat whack his
face. He took off his gloves. He took off his hat.

They took off their boots. Their socks were still dry. They walked slowly to their room.