Her room had been tidied and the bed had been made. In spite of this she could still smell him, that earthy, woodland scent that caused her heart to stutter in her chest. She remembered how he'd sat there, next to her bed, waiting for her to wake. She could feel the touch of his arms around her, holding her, protecting her. Would it always be like this? Would there be an end to it one day?
“No,” she said to the empty room, unbuckling her belt and stripping out of her riding clothes. “I won't let you in again. I won't.”
She returned to the living room in her soft homespun trousers and baggy sweater, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders before settling into her favourite chair with the tea.
“Better?” asked her father.
“I will be,” she replied. Then she noticed Meggy's drawing over the mantelpiece and he was there again, sitting where her Papa now sat and Moll was on the hearth rug, delighting in the warmth.
“How are your ribs?” he asked her.
“Sore. Very sore.”
The atmosphere thickened like soup, stirred by the emotions she was feeling inside. She sipped her tea and burned her mouth on it but even that didn't distract her from the memories. They were like restless spirits, haunting her, unable to find peace. Vapours. Mists from a different past.
“Any news?” he asked. She shook her head. “How's Sidney?”
“Fine.”
He sighed. Then he got up and took the tea from her hands, emptying the mugs into the sink and filling them again with the alcohol. He passed hers back and sat in his seat.
“Better?” he asked. Outside the rain thundered down even harder, rattling the windowpanes. Even the crackling of the fire couldn't beat the noise but it did at least soften her torment.
“Oh Papa,” she said, wiping her nose with the corner of the blanket. “He left the horse for us. Alan. He left it there, just like he said he would.”
“Are you surprised?”
“No,” she said. “Just hurt.”
“Hurt that he didn't come and visit?” She nodded. “Did you honestly believe that he would?”
“I...” She sniffled and stifled a sob that was building up inside her like a pressure valve. “I... I'm sorry, Papa. I'm sorry that I said those things to him, sorry that I...” She took a long, deep breath but it didn't help. The pain was worse than the beating from Calderbank and even her ribs couldn't compete with it. “Why?” she cried. “Why do I do this? Why do I always drive them away?”
Her father said nothing. It wasn't a time for words and she loved him for knowing that. He'd known it all those years ago when they'd come home from the funeral and she'd collapsed on the floor. When he'd held her and been there for her and never once offered a pointless word or a clichéd phrase. It was the difference between being her father and being her Papa.
She sobbed into her hands and when the tears subsided and the pain settled back down into those dark corners of her soul, he was there with a handkerchief and a sympathetic smile.
“Dry your eyes, my dear,” he whispered.
She laughed at herself and wiped away the tears as he sat back down. Then she took a gulp of the spirits and did her best not to shudder as it went down.
“Look at me,” she said. “What a mess. Over what? A man and his dog.”
“It's not just that though, is it?”
“No, Papa. You're right. It isn't. It's everything. It's Meggy, it's Alan, it's Calderbank. It's all of it. One big emotional weight that I can't seem to shake off. It follows me around and life just keeps adding to it, making it heavier and heavier until I worry that one day I won't be able to get up in the morning. Does that make sense?”
“You know it does,” he said, staring into his mug.
“I miss Momma too. I miss her so much, like when the sun comes out and there's a patch of it shining on her chair outside. I still see her sat there, knitting those ridiculous sweaters. I miss them all, Papa. I miss them and I hate this world for taking them from us.”
“And where is Alan in all this?” he asked.
“He's right in the bloody middle of it,” she cried. “I thought I was okay, I thought I was doing fine until he came along and smashed it all to pieces.”
“How?”
“He was so nice. He understood. I could see it in his face, his eyes, I just knew he felt the same way I did and I knew he'd understand.”
“And?”
“And he knew.”
“Knew what?”
“He knew straight away about Meggy. It's like he looked into my heart and saw her there and instead of keeping his mouth shut he... he...”
This time the sobs racked her body and, leaving her father no choice, he came over to her and wrapped his arms around her. She wept bitterly into his shoulder and squeezed as hard as she could.
“Oh Papa I miss her so much,” she wailed. “It hurts and it hurts and it won't stop.”
“I know, my love, I know. I miss her too.”
She slept badly that night. She managed half of the bottle before she stumbled into her room and collapsed on the bed. She remembered him tucking her under the blankets just like he used to do when she was young, when life wasn't so complicated. Then the dreams had come. Horrible memories mixed in with twisted thoughts and feelings of terror. She was dragged from her horse again, kicked and beaten, thrown into dark dungeons never to see daylight again. Meggy, always Meggy watching it happen, the only witness to every crime committed against her. Piggy dangled from her little hands by one of its knitted arms. The stitching was starting to come away from the pink shoulder. Her expression was always the same - pleading and the unanswered question on her lips. Where are you, Momma?
In the morning she felt awful. The sunlight was barely able to penetrate the gloomy clouds and her room had lost the springtime atmosphere she'd come home to the previous day. It felt cold and lifeless and lacking anything to give her warmth in spite of the hot coals in the hearth.
As she sat up she realised that the sheets were soaked in her sweat and she was about to drag them off for washing when there was a light knock on the door. The sound, though gentle, reverberated through her aching brain and made her want to lie back down.
“Yes?” she managed to mumble, pulling the sheets back over her. They were cold now and damp.
The door opened and her Papa entered with the tea tray in his hands. It was loaded down with scrambled eggs, toast, jam and a cup of hot coffee. She groaned when she saw it and pulled the blanket over her head.
“Eggs are nature's hangover cure,” he laughed. “You'd better eat up.”
“I don't want to,” she said. “I'll be sick.”
“No you won't now sit up.”
She did, commanded by the voice of the same Papa who'd been doing it for the thirty-something years of her life. When she was upright, he set the tray down in front of her and dragged the chair up alongside the bed, just like Alan had done.
“I wouldn't normally say that drinking is the answer,” he began. “But I can't say I blame you. But as your father I'd have to say that it won't fix anything. It won't make the pain go away forever.”
“I know,” she replied, taking up the fork. Maybe if she tackled it one step at a time...
“Meggy's death...” he said. “Well, I don't expect you to ever move on. I'd never ask you to. When your Momma died I thought my world was ending. I thought that was it, that it was time to just finish up this life and join her.”
“Papa I-”
“Let me finish. It was you, Sarah, that kept me here. In spite of the messed up world we're in, in spite of the pain your Momma's death inflicted on me, seeing you as a little girl who needed me has kept me going these long years. Then Meggy came and you and Mark seemed so right together and I thought my job was done, that I could move on and trust you into his care.
“I never thought I could love someone as much as I've loved you, but Meggy changed that. Her little smile, her tiny fingers holding mine, she was a blessing, Sarah. A re
al blessing.
“Then... When she got ill...” Here he welled up and she grabbed his hand on the top of her blankets, squeezing hard as they cried together. “I was there again, wanting to join them, be with them, together.”
“I felt the same, Papa,” she said.
“But I knew it wasn't meant to be. Not for us. Not yet. Me and you nearly drank Sidney out of his business, but we had each other, we kept going and to this day I still don't know why. But maybe I do now.”
“What's changed?”
“Alan Harding.”
Even the very mention of his name sent a thrill down her back to settle in her stomach. She found herself smiling at the thought of him being in her life again, a conflict that raged inside her for supremacy over the grief of losing her baby girl.
“How, Papa?” she asked. “Why is he so important to us?”
“He's not,” he said with a smile that was etched by the tracks his tears left behind. “Because I realised that we don't need him as much as he needs us.”
“You're not making any sense,” she said.
“He need us, Sarah. He's a broken man with a hundred years of loneliness inside him and he needs to be here, with us. Even if it's only for a short time, he needs to know that-”
“That what?”
“That he's loved. That what he's doing matters to someone. That it's okay to feel pain and loss and... I don't know,” he said. “It's a feeling I can't shake. I know what I'm trying to say but...”
“Go on,” she said with a smile. “I think I understand.”
“You weren't there in those early days when I was young. You didn't see the effect he had on people who'd lost everything, and I mean everything, Sarah. They had nothing left to hold on to and he gave them hope again. He had a smile for every day we suffered. He had a joke or a story to share with people who needed one. When I saw him again at Hooper's market it all made sense. I was happy to believe he couldn't be killed because he was...”
“What, Papa? He was what?”
“Sent. By who or what I don't want to speculate, but you know yourself that history has always had a way of sending someone just when things seemed lost, when everything was going wrong and it looked like there was no way out.”
“And?”
“And he can't do it alone. He's a man, he's been hurt and he needs a home. He needs us, Sarah. Maybe he doesn't know it yet but he needs us and one day he'll realise why.”
They sat there in silence while her Papa's revelation sunk in. It was true. She couldn't argue anymore and deep down she knew there and then that she wanted it to be true. She'd driven him away because she understood that he was so close to reaching her heart behind its walls and barricades and her only defence against him was anger and wrath. She'd struck him where he was weakest - his loneliness. She'd banished him and, in pain, he'd fled. But could she reverse that? Could she even begin to say sorry to him?
“I promised to share his pain,” she muttered to herself as much as her Papa. “But I didn't share mine with him.”
“Maybe that's where we start then,” he said, standing up to leave. “By giving him what he's already given us.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When Monday came around, Sarah felt less than ready for the journey to deliver the package for Michael Nibbs. Her sides didn't feel much better and she began to wonder if they ever would. Riding for longer than an hour turned into a grueling exercise in agony but there was no way she was going to let him down. She'd promised to deliver the package but it was clear that after explaining it to her father, he was nervous about her going.
“I've heard the worst kind of news coming from there,” he said. “Slavers moving along the coast. Settlements pillaged. I'm not happy about you going.”
“I'll be fine, Papa,” she replied. “With any luck I might even hear where Alan has gone and rope him into helping me. Who knows?”
“We survived the panic way-back-when. We made it through the long dark and the rad-cloud and when the Scavengers tried to pick our bodies clean, we made it through that too. But now we're facing a strong, well-armed bunch of evil bastards who want to enslave us. I don't want you getting caught up in the conflict that's coming, that's all I'm saying.”
“I know,” she said. “But we all have to play our part, I guess, and it was you who put me in this position to begin with.”
“How was it?”
“By making me the postman.”
“What choice did you give me?” he cried. “You would've gone exploring the world if I hadn't given you a job to do.”
“And that's exactly what I'm going to do - my job. I'll be as safe as I can be and like I said, maybe Alan will cross paths with me and we can go there together.”
“I hope he does. I'd feel much better knowing he was by your side.”
She kissed him then and, still wrapped up against the cold, climbed onto Ziggy and said goodbye.
It promised to be a long journey. Her sides gave her no respite and the jarring roads she had to use didn't help at all. Sometimes she'd walk, other times she'd stop for a while and stand there, drinking some of the coffee she'd brought with her. On one occasion she passed a family coming the other way, heading south to Walker's Farm to spend a few days with the old man who was obsessed with chickens. They hailed her and she took the chance to climb down off the horse and say hello.
“Good morning, Sarah,” said Jacob, the father of the three little ones who rode on the back of a cart. “Glad to see you out and about.”
“Likewise,” she said. “How's things?”
“Excellent. We're just off to visit my cousin and his infernal chickens. He claims to have bred the biggest bird you've ever seen. Says it'll feed dozens. I don't believe him.”
She looked behind him at all the luggage piled up on the back of the cart and the bags that Leanne, his wife, was carrying.
“That's a lot of clothing for just a couple of days,” said Sarah.
“Well, we erm...” Jacob scratched the back of his head and looked away. “We thought that maybe we should leave Pine Lodge for a little while, have a holiday so to speak.”
“A holiday? You mean you're worried about the Slavers.”
“Well, kind of. Yes. I guess we are. I've got these three little ones to think of, you know. That was some pretty serious business last year and we've been hearing things. On the grapevine, so to speak. You know how it is.”
Sarah always wondered why people were so quick to look for allies when they felt guilty. On the other hand, she couldn't blame them for worrying. Even Diane, the stable hand who helped Lou was looking nervous of late. She'd been seen with a glass of wine in the pub the other day and for her, a single glass was more than enough to put her on the floor.
“How's your father? Is he well?”
“Yes, he's good, thank you. I'll let you get on.”
With that she watched them continue down the road until they were out of sight. Then, painfully scaling the fence on her right, she heaved herself back into the saddle and set off again.
When she arrived at Mickey's place he was just about to sit down to his dinner and he offered her some. She politely declined; it was a thick, chunky vegetable soup and she'd already bought a chicken sandwich from the street vendor nearby, only to be reminded of Farmer Walker's obsession with poultry. Mickey sat at his desk, dipping chunks of day-old bread into it while reading a hard backed book. Without taking his eyes off it, he said “You've c-c-come to see M-M-Michael then?”
“Yes,” she replied, browsing the shelves again. “Do you know him well?”
“He k-k-kindly gave me some i-i-interesting works. Family heirl-l-l-looms he says.”
“He's asked me to deliver a package to his Uncle in the northeast. I might see if there's anything for you there while I'm at it.”
She saw him grin but it still didn't tear him away from his book. Most of the time the soggy piece of bread he was eating hung in the air, dripping back into the bowl while he d
igested a particularly tasty sentence instead.
Walking up and down the aisles she came across an enormous leather-bound dictionary and a sudden flash of memory crisscrossed her mind. She tried to recall the name the old man had called Alan. Medved or something? She opened the book and began searching through the dusty pages near 'M' until she was quite certain that either the word wasn't there or it was from a different language.
“Mickey,” she called.
“Yes?”
“Have you ever heard the word 'Medved'?”
“C-c-can't say that I h-h-have. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“How w-w-was it pr-pr-pronounced?”
“Kind of like 'mee-yed-vet' I think.”
“Sounds Russian. T-t-try the Russian t-t-o English dictionary.”
She had to explore some of the darker shelves to find one but in the end she saw it hidden behind a stack of magazines about old automobiles. Blowing the dust off it, Sarah carried it into the light and began thumbing through the pages. When she came to the 'M' section she frowned.
“I can't understand the letters,” she said. “They're different.”
“B-b-b-ring it here.”
She carried it over to him and he pushed his hardback aside, making room for the large tome in front of his half-finished soup. Then he began running a finger down the columns, smiling as he went.
“My G-g-grandfather was Russian,” he said. “Hardly s-s-spoke a wor-wor-word of English. He came o-o-over with the NSU when th-th-they installed the solar c-c-collectors.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Here you are.” He turned the book around and pointed to the word 'Medved' in its Anglicized spelling. “It m-m-means-”
“Bear,” she said. “He must have called him Bear. But why?”
At that point they both turned as the door opened behind them and there, stood in the pale light, was Michael Nibbs carrying a large leather bundle in both arms. He stumbled inside, kicking the door shut behind him and set the package down on the floor.
“Good evening,” he said in his awkward way. “So glad you made it.”
Beyond Hope (Tales from the Brink Book 3) Page 13