Little Wing

by Joanne Horniman

  ‘Emily – hey!’

  She looked up, as though she hadn’t known that anyone was there. ‘Hello? . . . I, um, think I fell asleep.’ She gestured towards the living room. ‘Better be getting home.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll see you out. Actually . . . have you met Cat?’

  The two of them stood on either side of the kitchen, staring at him. Cat smooth and golden and definite, Emily fuzzy and freckled and astonished-looking.

  ‘Kind of,’ said Emily. ‘Well, not properly . . . I’d better be getting back. Charlotte . . . my godmother,’ she explained to Cat, ‘will be wondering where I am.’

  Martin went with her to the front door. ‘Does she mind?’ whispered Emily, as he opened it for her.

  ‘You being here? No – course not.’ He reached out and squeezed her arm.

  And then she was down the front steps and gone without looking back.

  When he got back to the kitchen, Cat said, ‘Why don’t you invite her to lunch one Saturday?’

  ‘Lunch . . .’ said Martin. ‘I don’t think “lunch” as such, in the way you mean, is the kind of thing she does.’

  ‘What – she doesn’t eat?’

  ‘Well, of course she does . . .’

  ‘It’s a bit odd, her coming round here all the time when I don’t even know her – don’t you think it’s reasonable that we should at least meet properly?’

  ‘Sure it is.’

  But he knew that a formal invitation might throw Emily; simply dropping in when she needed or wanted to was more her style.

  ‘I’ll ask her when I see her,’ he said.

  Later that night, after Pete was in bed, Martin sat in the kitchen playing his guitar while Cat wiped down the kitchen benches. She seemed stern and remote, far too preoccupied with the housework. He strummed softly, one ear on the music, and one on the music of his own heart, which suddenly, more than anything needed to take Cat out to the back yard and dance in the moonlight.

  ‘Dance with me, Cat?’

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘Out in the garden? There’s practically a full moon,’ he said.

  ‘Okay,’ said Cat lightly. ‘Just wait till I finish cleaning the sink.’

  ‘Oh, c’mon,’ he said.

  ‘Done.’ She threw the sponge down.

  Cat wasn’t the most romantic girl he’d ever met, but she would dance with him anywhere and any time. She had perfect rhythm, even without music, and she knew how to dance close and slow. That night there was a lot of moonlight to dance in, and a wonderful coldness to the air.

  ‘Do you know what?’ he said. ‘I’ve been thinking. I’d like to teach properly. Full-time. It’d be great to get to know a group of kids really well and see them progress.’

  ‘What about Pete?’

  ‘He’ll be at school next year. And if you wanted to, you could have another baby and stay home . . . we could swap for a while. How about it?’

  Cat didn’t say anything, but he could sense her considering it. ‘I don’t know that I’d want to give up my place at the hospital,’ she said after a while, without sounding totally convinced.

  There was very little sound to distract them while they danced – a car moving slowly down the street, a dog barking in someone’s yard – and Martin felt a great sense of rightness and peace. Everything was cool air and moonlight and the scent and softness of Cat’s skin. Then Martin saw a figure standing in the back doorway watching them, a small dark shape against the light from the house.

  He broke off. ‘Pete,’ he said. ‘What are you doing up?’

  ‘Getting a drink of water. What are you guys doing?’

  ‘Dancing,’ replied Cat. ‘You know we like dancing.’

  She took Pete inside and Martin heard her getting him some water and taking him back to bed. He thought with anxiety about Emily and what it might be like, all of them having lunch together (a weekday lunch with him was always a casual, scrappy affair, and often Emily didn’t feel like eating much at all).

  When Cat arrived back she took up her place in his arms, but the soundless music they’d been dancing to – the music that had made their movements fluid and effortless – had disappeared somehow. He began by treading on her toe (‘Sorry . . .’) and then when they tried to start dancing they were hopelessly out of step.

  Cat stopped. ‘Let’s start again.’

  But the mood was lost. Shrugging, Cat dropped his hand. ‘I think I can hear Pete again,’ she murmured, and went inside, leaving him alone in the dark garden.

  5

  The door was open but Emily knocked, the day she came to lunch. Martin had been listening for her, and walked down the hallway to greet her with a feeling of apprehension. She stood in a short red dress with a mauve cardigan over the top even though the day was warm. Her legs were bare. She carried a huge bunch of roses and ferns which almost obscured her face, so he couldn’t read how she was feeling.

  ‘From Charlotte’s garden,’ she said, thrusting them at him, but he ushered her through to the kitchen so she could give them to Cat herself. Once divested of them she seemed unsure what to do with her hands. He gave her a glass of apple juice, but when he passed it over she didn’t grasp it properly and it tipped, sending juice splattering all over the floor.

  ‘Oh . . . I’m sorry. So sorry.’

  Cat wiped up the juice. ‘It’s good to meet you properly at last, Emily . . .’ she said, but what she was about to say next was interrupted by Pete. He burst in from where he’d been playing in the backyard, lurched towards Emily and kissed her on her bare knee before catapulting away again, up the hallway to his room. Emily stood helplessly, looking as though she wanted to follow him.

  ‘You can go up to Pete’s room if you like,’ Martin told her, and she gave him a grateful glance. When he followed a bit later to call them for lunch, she was lying on her back on the floor with her arm shielding her eyes. Pete played with his Lego next to her and talked. He was saying, ‘Do you ever think that you might be dreaming or imagining you’re alive?’ This was Pete’s latest thing.

  Emily replied slowly, ‘All the time, Pete, all the time.’

  ‘Are you two ready for lunch?’ said Martin.

  Out in the kitchen Martin steered Emily to her seat. She seemed so dreamy that she needed to be guided. Sinking onto the chair, Emily knocked a fork onto the floor; she and Martin both bent to pick it up, and she smiled at him as though he was a stranger, a bright, empty, polite smile.

  ‘So, you’re from the north coast, Emily?’ said Cat, putting down a basket of garlic bread.

  ‘Yes, I am.’ Emily pushed her hair behind her ears and looked at Cat earnestly, like someone having a job interview.

  ‘It’s lovely up there,’ said Cat. ‘Before I met Martin, a girlfriend and I went to Byron Bay on the train, and slept on the beach under the stars.’

  Emily smiled politely, tucked her elbows in as though she was remembering her best manners, and dug her fork into the slice of quiche that Martin had put on her plate. ‘I did that once,’ she said. ‘The parents of one of the girls at school had a beach house there. We went to the New Year’s Eve parade and got really ripped – almost passed out. Slept the night on the beach instead of going back to the house.’ Her voice was soft and dull and matter-of-fact, as though there was no emotion attached to that event. She sipped a glass of juice, and Martin saw that she’d mashed her quiche into crumbs and not eaten a bit. He looked at Cat and she shrugged, and everyone continued to eat in silence. Pete looked at them all and took it all in with big eyes. ‘I hate eggs,’ he said, pushing away his plate. ‘Did you know they come out of chooks’ bums?’

  Lunch took very little time, and as Martin started to stack plates, Pete tugged Emily to her feet and dragged her away to his room.

  ‘What on earth do you ever find to talk to her about?’ said Cat.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is she always like that?’ said Cat.

  ‘Not quite.’


  ‘Quite?’ said Cat. ‘You mean, just a little bit?’

  ‘Well, sometimes. She can be funny and charming.’

  Cat gave him an Oh really look. ‘She needs help. Can’t you see there’s something not quite right with her?’

  ‘I know. She’s unhappy. But she’s dealing with it in her own way . . .’

  ‘I worry about Pete with her. He told me the other day they walked to the shop and bought lollies. Martin . . . how can you trust her with Pete crossing roads? – she seems so . . . out of it!’

  Martin found himself bristling, but he bit his tongue. ‘I’ll go and tell them dessert’s almost ready,’ he said, as Cat took a chocolate cake from under its cover and reached into the fridge for chocolate and cream.

  He saw that Emily was lying on Pete’s floor again. ‘Do you need a sleep, Emmy, do you?’ said Pete, solicitously, putting his face close to hers and staring with unblinking eyes.

  ‘Pete, just leave it,’ she said, pushing him away and rolling onto her side.

  ‘Sometimes I hate you,’ he said. ‘I think you’re a pooey bum.’ He upended a box full of plastic blocks onto the floor with a crash.

  ‘Chocolate cake!’ announced Martin. ‘Anyone want any?’

  Pete ran out of the room at once, and Martin squatted down beside Emily. ‘How’re you going?’ he said.

  ‘Okay,’ she said in a little voice. He smiled, and squeezed her shoulder. She closed her eyes again.

  ‘Come out soon,’ he said.

  In the kitchen, Cat gave him a bowl of cream to whip and started grating a block of dark chocolate.

  ‘You didn’t answer me,’ she said. ‘Do you think it’s okay for her to take Pete out on the roads?’

  Martin paused. Pete had gone to play in the garden and seemed to be out of earshot.

  ‘Someone has to give her a chance sometime,’ he said, knowing that it sounded feeble.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Cat, sarcastically. ‘But with our child?’

  Martin beat the cream so fiercely it turned as stiff as butter. ‘Okay,’ he conceded. ‘I won’t let her take him out to the shops again.’

  He thought he heard a sound near the doorway that led into the hall, but he went on. ‘Don’t you remember being that age?’ he said, his face incredulous. ‘Because I do. Didn’t you ever stuff up?’

  He slathered cream over the top of the cake.

  ‘Shit!’ said Cat.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve grated my knuckles along with this damn chocolate.’ Martin heard the sound at the doorway again and he turned as if to go out. But he went to Cat and took her hand to see what she’d done.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, shaking him away. ‘I’m a nurse, remember?’

  When Pete ran in clamouring for cake, Martin went to get Emily, but Pete’s room was empty. At the front door step he found a scrap of paper with a flower from the garden on top of it.

  In crayon was written:

  Thanks for inviting me.

  It was a lovely lunch.

  i have to go.

  Emily.

  That night, as he found himself thinking about Emily, Cat rolled over to turn off the light and put her arm round him. She said, ‘Just remember that we’re your family, Martin. Us, me and Pete.’

  6

  She didn’t come round again after the day of the lunch.

  One day it was so hot that Pete wanted to go to the pool. ‘Can we take Emmy?’ he asked, pushing his swimming things into a bag. So they went to see if she was home.

  It was early afternoon, and Emily, who answered the door, was ruffled and frowsy as though they’d woken her from sleep.

  ‘Emily, hi.’ Martin was shy, unsure of what sort of mood she’d be in, or even if he and Pete would be welcome. ‘We were on our way to the pool. Would you like to come?’

  ‘I – I don’t have any togs,’ Emily said.

  Charlotte came up behind her. ‘I have some bathers that Ruby left here.’ She disappeared to the back of the house and came out dangling a red swimming costume by its straps. ‘My granddaughter’s,’ she told Martin. ‘She’s only twelve, but Emily’s so tiny . . .’

  Emily took the costume and went to change. She came out looking hot and flustered. If she had the swimming costume on it didn’t show, because she was dressed in a tracksuit, top and bottom, far too warm for the hot weather.

  At the pool she lay in the shade fully dressed, and it was only when Pete urged her to come into the water that she pulled off the tracksuit quickly, revealing the red costume underneath. She ran to the edge of the pool and dived in.

  Afterwards, they all lay like lizards on the warm concrete surrounding the pool, not speaking, basking in the warmth. And then they all went into the water again, staying until Pete started to shiver. His mouth turned blue. So Martin pulled him from the water and wrapped him in a towel, and took him to the kiosk to buy iceblocks. They lay on the hot concrete again, Pete still swathed in the towel like a cocoon.

  ‘Dad?’ said Pete. ‘Where was I before I was born?’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ said Martin. ‘In Cat’s tummy.’

  ‘I know that! I mean . . . where was I before that?’

  ‘You’ve got me there,’ said Martin. ‘That’s a really big question, Pete. I don’t know.’

  ‘Because I must have always been here, somewhere.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Emily, ‘you were in the same place you’ll be after you die.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said grudgingly, finishing her iceblock and lying back down on her stomach on the concrete. ‘It depends on what you believe.’

  Pete shucked off his towel and headed back into the water. ‘Stay where I can watch you,’ Martin called to him.

  ‘Hey,’ he said to Emily. ‘I’m sorry that lunch the other week wasn’t so great for you.’

  She shrugged and didn’t look at him.

  Martin had never before seen Emily with her arms uncovered. Even on the day she’d come to lunch in the red dress, she’d worn a thin knitted cardigan over the top. Now she lay fully stretched out in the sun. The skin of her inner arms was soft and pale like a fish’s belly. And it was covered with a network of fine, pale scars.

  Martin reached over and ran his finger over them. ‘Emily,’ he asked softly, ‘what are these?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said defensively, twitching away.

  ‘Emily, you can tell me . . .’

  ‘It’s none of your business!’ she said, reaching for the tracksuit top. She put it on and sat on the concrete with her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped tight like a straitjacket.

  Martin got up and went to call Pete. If that was the way she wanted it . . .

  ‘Pete, come on,’ he called. ‘It’s time to go home.’

  ‘Oh, Da – ad!’

  ‘Come on, you’ve had enough – and I want to get home to do stuff.

  ‘See you, Emily,’ he said, but with less warmth than usual. He could feel it in his voice.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said.

  She half turned as he walked away and gave a sort of gesture of farewell.

  7

  The trouble with Emily was . . . (he found himself starting a lot of his thoughts with The trouble with Emily) . . . was that he never quite knew when she’d turn up, and when she did, it wasn’t always convenient.

  The next time she arrived, the place was full of little boys dressed in super-hero cloaks, jumping off chairs they’d dragged into the back yard, or racing toy cars up and down the hallway.

  ‘I’m a success at last!’ said Martin, trying to be upbeat in the face of the woebegone expression on her face (Not another bad day!). ‘Guess who was the lucky person chosen to look after all these kids while their mothers go off and have a girls’ lunch?’

  Emily stood there unresponsive, and when he next saw her she was lying on Pete’s bed staring at the ceiling.

  The children were always hungry. They clamoured for chocola
te biscuits. ‘Guys, guys!’ Martin stood at the clothesline, folding up towels. ‘Just hang on a bit and I’ll make you some proper lunch.’ He went to where Emily still lay on Pete’s bed and said, trying to keep the impatience from his voice, ‘Do you think you could show the kids how to make some sandwiches?’

  To his surprise, she got up and made her way to the kitchen, and actually organised them all with piles of sandwich ingredients. When they’d all eaten, she went back to the bed.

  But after the children had finally been picked up (all at the same time, swept away by their mothers in a whirlwind of noise and confusion) he remembered her. She had actually been asleep in the midst of all that, but now she was awake, standing at the door of the living room looking as though she didn’t know where she was.

  Martin was slumped in a chair. ‘Hey,’ Pete bounced in. ‘Remember that thing we got for Emmy?’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘Oh, I know, the present.’

  Pete ran into Martin’s room and emerged with something wrapped in Christmas paper. He stopped, and threw it at Emily. ‘Catch!’

  ‘A present?’

  ‘For Christmas!’ yelled Pete.

  ‘Pete . . . slow down.’

  ‘Christmas?’ said Emily. ‘It isn’t Christmas yet.’

  ‘But we’re going away,’ said Martin. ‘I told you. I’m sure I did. We’re going to the coast to camp.’

  ‘When are you going?’

  ‘In about a week.’

  ‘We’re going to swim and surf, and . . . swim, and collect shells and it’s going to be fun!’ chanted Pete.

  ‘Pete, not so loud.’

  Pete ran over and started to pull the wrapping from Emily’s present. It was a crocheted hat, like the one of Cat’s that Emily used to wear, but purple, with a yellow flower on the side. Emily picked it up and held it. Not looking at the hat she said, panic-stricken, ‘But I don’t want you to go.’