Flyaway, Page 3

  The hospital show switches to an operation scene and I turn away from it. Instead I remember playing in Jack's football game; how Crowy, Jack's friend, passed the ball across to me. It felt like I could run with it for ever. All the way down the pitch with Saskia cheering on the side. All the way to the moon. That's what I feel like doing now, running. My mind is full of images of the dead swans. Running helps with getting rid of images, somehow. The faster you run, the harder it is for thoughts to stay in your head.

  Dad starts telling Jack about how the swans hit the wires. Jack wants to know every detail . . . the smell, what bones were broken, how cold the water was. It makes me feel sick, hearing them talk about it. I try not to hear what Dad's saying by pressing my ear more firmly against the material of his pyjamas.

  Then the phone rings. I feel Dad's leg tense when Mum answers.

  ‘I'm sorry to hear that, Martin,’ I hear Mum say. ‘I'll let them know now.’

  She waits a second or two before she comes into the living room. I know already what she's going to say. I see the frown on Mum's face as she tries to work out how to tell us.

  ‘It's the swan, isn't it?’ I ask.

  She just nods. I hear Dad sighing behind me, thumping his head back onto the couch.

  ‘Should have taken it to a proper vet,’ he murmurs.

  CHAPTER 6

  The rain lashes against the car as Mum drives Jack and me to school. Mum's talking quietly about Dad, telling us he needs to get tests done this week.

  ‘They think it might be his heart,’ Mum murmurs.

  I can't hear the rest of what she says above the sound of the rain.

  I look down Saskia's road as we pass it, or the road that used to be her road. The ‘For Sale’ sign is still in front of her house. I hated helping her pack up her room last week; taking down all the silly photos of us she'd stuck to the wall. Hated watching her family drive away. I press my forehead to the cold window glass, wonder what school will be like without Saskia. She'll be up in Glasgow by now, already starting at a new school. Making new friends. Fitting in. Forgetting me. I don't want to think about it. Instead, I scan the sky. I'm looking for the swan flock, though I know they won't be flying so close to the city. We drive past the corner shop where Saskia and I buy gummi bears. I glance back to the sky. Saskia's migrating too, sort of. Though I don't know when she'll be coming back.

  Mum stops near the bus stop and Jack's out of the car really quickly. He runs to catch up with Crowy and Rav who are already at the school gates. I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of Crowy but he's got his back to me and I can only see his school jumper and longish hair. Mum turns around in her seat, waits for my kiss on her cheek.

  ‘You'll be all right without Sas,’ she says. ‘You'll make new friends, you'll see.’

  But I'm not so sure.

  Art is first and there's an empty seat next to me where Saskia would have sat. Usually I love Art because it's the only lesson I'm actually pretty good at, but without Saskia here it's different somehow. The boys at the back stare at me when I come in, and Mrs Diver gives me a small, sympathetic smile. I stretch out my stuff and sketchpad over the table so no one else will sit next to me.

  ‘We're going to keep focusing on our all-important observation skills,’ Mrs Diver says.

  She places bits of fruit on everyone's desk, and we all groan. We already did Still Life last year.

  ‘These skills will help us when it comes to your major projects for the term,’ she continues, ‘which will be to do with movement and flying.’

  I glance up at her then, and she places a wrinkly-looking apple on my desk.

  ‘What's an apple got to do with flying?’ I murmur.

  ‘Remember, a solid base in observation always helps you in design.’ She winks at me, then goes back to the pencil-sketched picture of Leonardo da Vinci that's always hanging up behind her desk. ‘Remember Leo?’ she says. ‘The greatest artist that ever lived? He did thousands of 2D designs before he ever attempted to make models. We'll find out about some of these sketches in our next lesson.’ She looks fondly at his old, wrinkly face, as if she were looking at a poster of her dad rather than someone she'd never met.

  I go back to my apple. It has a soft, brown bruise and a hole where a worm's eaten into it. It smells sweet and rotten, and it's the last thing I want to look at for the rest of the lesson. I sketch it out really quickly.

  ‘Try and make your picture come alive, as 3D as you can . . .’ Mrs Diver is waffling on and on, waving her arms about like she does when she gets excited.

  I turn towards the window. The rain is still so heavy, and the sky is grey as concrete. I wonder where the swans go in weather like this. I think of them huddling together, heads tucked back into their feathers. I wonder if the rain's been too heavy for Dad to drive to the surgery.

  I hear the boys at the back laughing as they talk to the new girl, Sophie. I think they're teasing her about her accent, saying something about didgeridoos and Neighbours. I suppose I should invite her to sit next to me and give her a break from them. But I don't. I don't want anyone to sit there, not yet. No one apart from Saskia. It seems wrong to have a new girl in our class already, someone to replace her. I fold my arms on the table and rest my head down onto them, and listen to the pattering of the rain against the windows. It sounds a bit like swans taking off from a lake, their webbed feet smacking against the water.

  CHAPTER 7

  Dad's in and out of the doctor's surgery for most of the week, getting tests done and finding out what's wrong. He pulls me aside on Saturday morning, right after I've stuck bread in the toaster.

  But instead of telling me if he's sick, he says, ‘Let's go to the reserve today. Find the swans, and take some photographs.’

  ‘Why photographs?’

  He flashes a piece of paper at me which I have to grab from him to read. It's some official-looking letter he's typed out.

  ‘I've written to the council,’ he explains. ‘Told them what happened with the swans and the power lines. Now we just need photos: evidence!’ He's grinning excitedly.

  ‘But are you OK now?’ I ask. ‘With the tests and everything . . . ?’

  Dad rolls his eyes. ‘I don't look sick, do I?’

  I shake my head slowly. Because he doesn't. Not right now when he's jumping around the kitchen, thinking up plans.

  ‘But Mum said . . .’

  Dad shrugs. ‘Until the doctors know what's wrong, I'm not getting worried about anything. It's probably all just a false alarm anyway.’

  He can see I'm still reluctant. He sighs as he leans back against the counter.

  ‘What about if I take you to get your hair cut, after the reserve?’ Dad crosses his arms and waits for my answer.

  He has been listening then. All those times when I've pleaded with Mum to take me to the hairdresser.

  ‘Mum would kill you,’ I say, starting to laugh at him.

  Dad frowns as he thinks about it. ‘I'll say you wanted me to take you before I go into hospital?’

  ‘Hospital?’ There's a soft clunk from the toaster. But I ignore the toast and keep looking at Dad. ‘What do you mean, hospital?’

  Dad reaches across to pick the toast out. He flings it quickly onto the bench as it burns his hands.

  ‘It's nothing serious,’ he says quickly. ‘They just want to stick a tube thing into my heart, see what's going on in there.’

  ‘That sounds serious.’

  ‘I'm only in for a day, a couple of hours really.’ He smiles at me then leans forward to touch my hair. ‘So . . . reserve first, then haircut?’

  He curls a strand of hair around his finger and then lets it bounce back into place. I study his face.

  ‘What if something happens at the reserve?’ Like last time, I want to add.

  ‘What can happen?’ he says. ‘Anyway, don't you want to find the swans?’

  I nod. ‘Course, but . . .’

  ‘Settled then.’

  He picks the toa
st up from the bench and flings it at me. I catch the two pieces, just. I dig in the fridge for the butter. I use Jack's dirty plate, avoiding the Marmite stains as I cut the toast into four. Dad reaches over my shoulder and grabs a quarter.

  ‘Hey!’ I slap his hand, but he moves away before I can grab the toast back.

  He grins, only a little apologetic. ‘We're going to find that flock today,’ he says. ‘I can just feel it. We'll look at the reserve. But there are other lakes around we can try. I'm pretty sure there's one by the hospital for a start.’

  He crunches down loudly on the toast and I move the plate before he can get another piece. Dad does seem better today. Back to his usual self. Maybe he is right when he says it's all just a false alarm.

  CHAPTER 8

  A few hours later, I lean back against the seat and watch the streets blur past. The Saturday shoppers trudge around in thick coats. I lean over and turn the car's heating up a notch. I can hear Dad's stomach rumbling so I dig into my pocket and find an old barley sugar, left over from a previous trip, and hand it to him.

  ‘How do you want your hair?’ Dad asks, rolling the sweet around his mouth and clinking it against his teeth. ‘You should get it all short and spiky. You'll be like a proper bird then, Bird!’

  That's exactly how I want it, spiky like a cartoon character. Something different.

  ‘I'll call you tufted duck!’ Dad laughs. ‘Only you won't dye it white in the middle, will you?’

  I take my mobile from my pocket and text Saskia to ask what she thinks. Dad turns into the car park and switches the engine off. He reaches round to grab the camera from the back seat.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘If you are.’

  There are five other cars here. There'll be people around if Dad looks sick again.

  We keep silent as we go up the lane, both listening for the swans. Dad watches the sky, one hand already on his binoculars. I look up, too, watching for that grey youngster we saw last time. I'm watching Dad also. But if he feels sick, he doesn't show it. I shut my eyes for the last few seconds before we turn the corner and see the water.

  The swans aren't there. The lake is empty apart from a couple of coots, dipping in and out. Dad sighs.

  ‘It was worth a try,’ he says. ‘We'll check the rest of the reserve as well.’ He half smiles, trying to hide his disappointment.

  We follow the main path around, past the river and towards the corner where the power station is, aiming for the wires that the swans flew into. I remember how the birds looked as they flew towards us. Unstoppable for a second.

  The reeds are still flattened from where they fell. Dad goes straight up to the water's edge and starts taking photographs. I hang back. I can already see feathers on the path. A fox must have got to the bodies before us, dragged them away to eat.

  ‘There's a wing still here,’ Dad calls back to me, his voice raised a little. ‘You can see the burn marks. The council will have to put markers on once they get these photos.’

  Dad leans over the water, pulls back some of the reeds to make a gap. I catch a glimpse of a mound of feathers. I turn away. I wish the fox could have just eaten the wing, too. Dad points the camera towards it. Then the wind changes, and I get a waft of dead swan right in my nostrils. Dad starts coughing. I go back to checking the sky for the lone grey whooper.

  Dad's quiet as we go back a different way, following the longer trail.

  ‘We'll keep looking for them,’ he says. ‘Maybe next weekend, after I've been in hospital, we can try looking somewhere else?’

  ‘If you're feeling better.’

  ‘I'll be fine.’

  I follow him to the small wooded section of the reserve. Dad leans against one of the trunks to catch his breath, and I wonder if his face has gone paler than before. I lean against the next tree and turn my cheek against the bark to watch him. Dad tilts his head up to look between the branches, searching for smaller birds.

  ‘Anything?’

  Dad shakes his head. ‘All quiet.’ He grins at me. ‘No swans up there at least.’

  We stand there for a bit, just listening to each other breathe. I watch the way Dad's breath lingers in the air like mist and then starts to fade, disappearing like it was never there. His breathing doesn't seem heavy, not like last time.

  ‘Are you worried about going into hospital?’ I ask.

  ‘It's only for a day,’ he says. The trunk turns my cheek cold and damp as I wait for him to say more. Dad just pushes himself away from his tree then stands back to look at me.

  ‘Stop worrying,’ he says. ‘You're as bad as Mum.’

  I keep myself pressed against the bark, watching his chest, thinking about his heart inside not working properly. I hate that Dad's not telling me what's wrong with him. It makes me feel like I'm hanging in the air like Dad's breath, waiting for something. It makes me want to take him right back to the house and wait for Mum and Jack to get home. Suddenly I don't want to be out here with Dad, all by myself.

  ‘Let's leave the haircut for today,’ I say. ‘Mum won't like it much anyway.’

  CHAPTER 9

  We're driving home when they appear out of nowhere, flying in a huge arrow across the sky. Dad spots them immediately.

  ‘Whoopers,’ he breathes. ‘Let's follow them.’

  We drive underneath them on the ring road to find out where they're going. We lose them for a bit as they fly across fields we can't go over. Dad curses.

  ‘We'll catch up with them on the other side,’ he mutters.

  He spins into a U-turn, races back in the other direction. He's way above the speed limit when we pass the hospital.

  ‘Be careful, Dad,’ I say. But he goes even faster, his eyes darting to the side to watch them. He takes a quick left into a rough farm track. ‘They're landing on that field,’ he shouts.

  I crane my neck to look up through the windscreen. The birds are circling, starting to drop down. ‘Is there even a lake over there?’

  ‘No idea!’

  There's nothing pale about Dad's face now. He's almost shining with excitement. My body starts to jolt as we hit the dirt track. Dad doesn't slow down.

  ‘We've found the flock, Isla,’ he says. ‘Perhaps this is their new wintering ground.’

  I risk a slight grin at him, laugh at his eagerness. ‘You're crazy, Dad.’

  The car bounces and judders over a track until we reach a driveway to a house. Dad stops the car by the fence. There's a stile with a footpath sign on it pointing across the field to where the swans are. Dad's out of the car before I've even taken my seatbelt off.

  ‘Come on,’ he yells, grabbing the camera and shoving it in his pocket.

  He's clasping the binoculars as he leaps the stile. I bumble over it, my foot getting caught on something, then run after Dad across the field. He's way ahead of me so I start sprinting. The wind seems to push me from behind. Like Dad, I want to get closer to the swans. I can't see any water where they're landing; maybe this is just a field where they like to feed. I leap over a cowpat. Stretch my legs to go faster. But Dad's quick as lightning when he gets going. I can't catch him. There's a moment where I feel brilliant, running after Dad with the sun low in the sky, watching the swans descend.

  Then it happens.

  Dad falls down. Straight in front of me. At first I think he's just tripped in a rabbit hole or something, but he doesn't get up. He stays there, just out of sight below a small ridge, silent.

  ‘Dad!’ I scream. ‘Dad!’

  He doesn't even raise his hand. I really start pelting then. I trip over tussocks of grass and almost fall. My trainers slip on a patch of mud. But I get to him. He's on his side, clutching his chest. His breathing's funny. And his face looks damp.

  ‘What is it? What's happened?’

  I reach for him, feel his forehead. See how wide his eyes are. He shakes his head a little, opens his mouth. He can't speak. He just gapes air at me. It's like someone is stepping on his lungs.

  I grab his han
d. His fingers are so cold, and bluish at the tips. They tighten around mine. I move my other hand towards his chest.

  ‘Is it here?’ I ask, touching him. ‘Is it your heart?’

  I feel the tears in my eyes welling up, blurring my vision. I don't know what to do. I imagine his heart just below my fingers, beating too quickly. Beating right through his ribs and skin, fast enough to explode.

  ‘What's wrong?’

  Dad's head moves a little. He opens his mouth again, his eyes bulging with the effort. I feel his pockets for his phone, but only find the camera. I remember seeing it now, on the dashboard next to mine. I stare back at his face. Try to think logically. What do you do when someone's ill like this? I pull my jumper over my head and cover his chest with it.

  ‘I need to get help,’ I say.

  Dad moves his head again. His face winces with the effort.

  ‘Will you be OK if I leave you?’

  His breath is heavy and rattling in his throat. I try to push him back against the grass, try to make him relax. He's still straining to look up at the sky.

  ‘Just forget about the swans.’ I almost shout it at him.

  Then I run. I race across the field, the wind in my face this time. It makes my eyes stream and I stumble over a clump of grass. I leap over a log, dodge puddles. I'm running faster than I've ever run before, but it's still not fast enough.

  Then I'm at the fence. I half tumble over the stile and land on my knees in the dirt. Something twinges in my leg as I get up. There's a pumping sound in my ears, a fast heartbeat in my head. I fall against the car, pull open the door. Grab the phone. Dial. My fingers can't get the right numbers. I try again. This time it works. I hear a click before the emergency services answer.

  ‘Please,’ I say, breathless now. ‘It's my dad.’