She stops at the base of a tree to examine several balls of puffy white fungus growing from the ground. She wonders whether she should pick them but decides against it. They could be poisonous and look suspiciously as if they might disintegrate at her touch. Instead she makes a mental note so that she can describe them to the others; she’s learning quickly that sometimes the most surprising things around them are edible.
On through the woods and she comes across an old hazel tree, its bows laden with nuts encased in soft, downy leaves. She reaches up and shakes a low-hanging branch, sending a few scattering like raindrops at her feet, then stoops to gather them, shoving them deep into her pockets. She’ll have to bring Ben here – he’s the best climber among them – they could gather quite a stash if they claim them quickly, before the squirrels move in.
Further away she hears the sound of splashing out on the lake. Curious, she moves down closer to the water’s edge and sees two mallards dabbling among the reeds. She watches them for a moment, imagines the look on Simon’s face if she were to return to the cottage with two plump ducks and wishes she had a way to hunt them. As the ducks drift further away, Kat’s attention is drawn by a tall, woody plant growing at the water’s edge. Its stalks are thick and grooved like celery with tiny clusters of white flowers growing on top of spindly umbrella stems. She moves closer and pulls a stalk from the earth, wondering what it might be. Roots, thick and white, point like muddy fingers down towards the ground. To Kat they resemble pale carrots, or perhaps turnips; they definitely look edible. Encouraged by her discovery, she begins to pull handfuls of the plant from the ground, wholly absorbed in her task until from somewhere behind comes the snapping sound of twigs and a loud chuk-chuk-chuk as a pheasant flaps from the undergrowth.
Startled, Kat spins. Higher up on the wooded slope she sees the silhouette of a man, about ten yards away. She gasps and puts her hand to her chest. ‘Mac, you made me jump. What are you doing sneaking up on me like that?’
He lifts his arm and shows her the three limp rabbits slung across his shoulder. ‘Just checking the snares. They came good last night.’ He nods towards the plant in her hand. ‘What have you got there?’
‘I’m not sure. It might just be cow parsley, but look at the roots.’ She holds the plant up to him for inspection. ‘They look like carrots, don’t they? Turnips, perhaps? We could try them and see.’ She beams proudly at him as he moves down the wooded slope towards her, the lifeless rabbits banging against his chest in time with his loping steps.
He peers more closely at the plant in her hand then rears away. ‘Throw it back,’ he says. ‘It’s water hemlock. Nasty stuff. Feed us that and you’ll kill us all.’
She gives a half-laugh. ‘Yeah, right.’
‘I’m serious.’ Mac shakes his head. ‘Eat that and there’s a good chance you won’t wake up tomorrow. The leaves are poisonous but the roots are the worst. We had a cow eat some once. She was dead within the hour.’
Kat gapes at him, trying to read his eyes, obscured as they are beneath his straggly hair. ‘Are you serious?’ She stares down at the innocuous-looking plant in her hand. A thin, milky substance oozes from the wound of one woody stem where she has snapped it off. She gazes at it, both amazed and horrified that such a seemingly innocent landscape could harvest something so dangerous, then blushes at her stupidity. ‘I’m not very good at this, am I? Perhaps I’d better stick to the laundry and the cleaning after all.’
Mac adjusts the rabbits over his shoulder and Kat sees a dark red stain on the denim of his jacket where the animals have bled. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘if you really want to forage I’ve got something to show you. Follow me.’
He leads her through the trees and down a steep wooded gully, jumping over rocks and bushy ferns until they arrive at a cluster of stumpy trees. ‘Look.’ He points towards their deep green foliage and as Kat draws closer, she sees clusters of blue-black berries nestled amongst the branches.
‘What are they?’ she asks, reaching out to touch their dusky skin with her fingertip.
‘Sloes. We should pick them after the first frost.’
She looks at him, a little unsure. ‘Do you eat them?’
He shakes his head. ‘Ever tried sloe gin?’
‘No.’
He gives her a crooked smile. ‘You wait. It’ll blow your socks off.’
They can hear talking and laughter in the kitchen as they draw closer to the cottage. Kat stamps her feet, loosening clumps of mud from her boots, then slides sock-footed through the back door, leaving Mac to deal with the rabbits outside. She’s expecting a barrage of questions about where she’s been, a little gentle ribbing about how everyone else has had to cover her jobs for her, but when she sees the scene in the kitchen anything she’d planned to say in her defence vanishes into thin air.
‘You have a visitor,’ says Simon. He is smiling broadly but she hears the edge in his voice.
‘Surprise!’
Kat gapes at Freya. Her sister sits at the head of the table, flanked on one side by Simon and on the other by Carla. She beams up at her then turns to address the others. ‘See,’ she laughs, ‘I told you her face would be a picture.’
Carla grins. ‘You weren’t wrong.’
Freya stands and moves towards Kat, pulling her into a hug. Kat breathes in the fresh, floral scent of her, feels the sweep of her long, blond hair brush against her face, but all the while they embrace her eyes never leave Simon’s face. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asks finally, stepping back to hold her sister at arm’s length. ‘And how on earth did you find us?’ The moment the question has left her mouth she regrets it.
‘Your letter, of course.’
From the corner of her eye Kat sees Simon’s eyebrows shoot skyward.
‘I knew as soon as I read about this place that I just had to come and see it for myself,’ she continues, then seeing Kat’s face asks, ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Course not,’ says Kat, finding her smile at last. She takes a step back and regards Freya carefully. She is taller than she remembers and thinner too, dressed in a colourful patterned silk dress that floats about her legs, knitted stockings and incongruous black boots. Her fair hair hangs down her back, a tangle of loose plaits threaded through here and there. Most striking of all though, is her skin; it’s as pale as marble and sets off the blue of her eyes so that they shine like sapphires. As Kat studies her, she is reminded of the porcelain china dolls their foster mother Margaret had kept lined up on her bed – the ones they were allowed to look at but never touch. She smiles, understanding for the first time that her sister is a woman now, a very beautiful woman.
‘Look at you,’ she says, pulling her back into a hug, embracing her properly for the first time, ‘you look great. But I still don’t understand,’ she adds warily, finally releasing her, ‘how did you find us? I never told you where this place was.’
Freya taps her forehead with a finger. ‘Not just a pretty face,’ she grins. ‘It really wasn’t that hard. There was the postmark on your letter for one. And you mentioned a small lake, surrounded by hills, nothing around for miles. It didn’t take long. The geography section in the college library is very well stocked with maps. Look,’ she says, holding out a packet of chocolate digestives, ‘I come bearing gifts. Your favourite, right?’
Kat nods, but she doesn’t take one; she can still feel Simon’s scrutinising gaze from across the room. She knows she’s screwed up and silently kicks herself for not telling him about the letter.
‘Freya was just telling us how she got here,’ says Ben. ‘Sounds a bit hairy.’
Kat turns back to her sister. ‘Oh yes?’
‘Yep,’ says Freya, a hint of pride in her voice. ‘I hitched a lift from London . . . at least as far as I could. Spent last night on a bench at a service station then ended up on the back of a tractor. I walked the last couple of miles. I’m bloody glad I guessed right. It would have been a long way to come for nothing.’
�
�You didn’t tell anyone we were here, did you?’ asks Simon, looking appalled.
‘God no, just said I was out hiking. Probably seemed a bit odd, just me on my own with this bag,’ she kicks her large holdall still lying on the floor, ‘but no one asked too many questions.’
‘You were lucky,’ admonishes Kat. ‘You could have been picked up by anyone . . . a rapist . . . an axe murderer. They still haven’t caught the Yorkshire Ripper you know . . .’
Freya turns to the others with a grin. ‘See, I told you she was the protective big sister.’
Kat refuses to be put off. ‘But what are you doing here? What about college? Surely you start back any day now?’
‘Well, about that,’ says Freya, suddenly shifty. ‘There was a bit of a kerfuffle at the end of last term. The head of my department thought it might be best if I deferred for a year.’
‘A “kerfuffle”?’
‘One of my lecturers—’
‘You slept with him?’
‘No! Course not. He’s a randy old lech. I reported him for harassment. But somehow the story got out and the college seems to think it best I stay away for a few months while the whole thing blows over.’ Freya reaches into the biscuit packet, pulls out a digestive and takes a bite.
‘Best you stay away? They can’t do that, surely?’ Kat is indignant.
‘I know,’ says Freya airily, munching on the biscuit, ‘I was going to fight it but when I got your letter I suddenly realised I didn’t have to. It was the perfect opportunity to come and visit you up here instead.’ She smiles sweetly at Kat, her eyes catching the light from the window and shining as blue as the placid lake outside. There are biscuit crumbs on her top lip and looking at her, Kat is suddenly reminded of Freya’s uncanny ability of talking her way into or out of anything: a trip to the park, a packet of sweets, an extended curfew or a borrowed top. ‘Simon’s just been telling me all about this place. It sounds amazing,’ she beams. ‘I really love what you’re all trying to do.’ She hesitates then reaches down into her bag and pulls out a brightly-coloured object, which she throws at Kat. ‘Here, I brought this for you too.’
Kat stares at the strange cube in her hands.
‘It’s a puzzle,’ Freya explains. ‘I nicked it from that old goat’s office . . . figured he owed me.’ She grins. ‘It’s the latest thing, apparently.’
‘Cool,’ says Ben, plucking the object from Kat’s outstretched hands. ‘A Rubik’s cube. I’ve heard about these.’ He gives it a few perfunctory twists but any further conversation is interrupted by the sound of boots stamping outside followed by the slam of the back door. Mac sidles into the room but stops dead when he sees Freya standing there in the middle of the group.
‘Hello,’ she says, stretching out a hand in greeting. ‘I’m Freya, Kat’s sister. You must be Mac?’
Mac shakes his hair from his eyes and reaches for her hand.
‘Oh,’ she exclaims, taking a step backwards.
Kat cranes her neck and sees the smears of blood on Mac’s hands and wrists. Embarrassed, he pulls his hand back again.
‘Well that’s no way to greet a lady,’ smirks Simon. ‘You’ll have to forgive our country boy, he’s not very good with girls.’
‘Sorry,’ Mac mumbles, blushing bright red, ‘I’ve been seeing to the rabbits. I should wash my hands.’
Freya swallows. ‘I didn’t . . . it wasn’t . . .’ She smiles uncertainly. ‘Sorry, it’s nice to meet you.’
Mac nods and moves across to the sink.
Kat still has half an eye on Simon and she watches how his gaze roves over Freya. She can see he is sizing her up, regarding her in that careful way he has, assessing, testing and she feels torn in two. On the one hand she feels protective; she wants to shelter Freya from Simon’s judgemental gaze which she feels sure will be harsh; he will think her too naive, too girlish and fragile for this environment. Scared of a little rabbit’s blood, he’ll think. And yet at the same time she desperately wants him to like her sister – and for Freya to like Simon, too. They are the two most important people in her world but as she watches them talk, she realises that she has no idea what they will make of each other.
‘What are you studying?’ asks Simon.
Freya smiles winningly. ‘Fashion and textiles. I’ve been learning about screen-printing techniques, designing my own fabrics. I’d like to get into fashion, one day.’
‘An artist.’ He nods and Kat can tell he approves. ‘We’ve got a writer, a musician, a social worker, an environmentalist and a lawyer . . . but no artists . . . yet.’ His face breaks into a broad grin. ‘Well, I don’t know about the others but I think you should stay. I don’t think we’re in a position to turn down an extra pair of hands at the moment.’
‘Of course,’ says Carla, reaching over to give Freya’s arm a little squeeze. ‘It will be fun having another girl around the place. We’ve been outnumbered by the lads for far too long, haven’t we, Kat?’
Kat lets out a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding and smiles. ‘It’ll be a squash,’ she warns. ‘You’ll have to share my room.’
‘I don’t mind,’ grins Freya. ‘It’ll be fun. Like old times.’
‘Yes,’ she agrees and ruffles Freya’s hair, ‘just like old times.’
‘Damn. This is hard,’ groans Ben, looking up in exasperation from the Rubik’s cube in his hands. ‘Don’t expect any dinner tonight, guys, not until I’ve solved this.’
‘Come on,’ says Kat, ‘why don’t I show you around? You’re going to have to pull your weight, you know. This isn’t a holiday camp.’
Freya’s smile is bright enough to light up the entire kitchen.
Her sister’s arrival is like a breath of fresh air wafting through the cottage. As she shows her around, Kat sees things as if for the first time again and she is surprised to realise just how much they have achieved in a few short weeks. There are freshly laid eggs nestled in a bowl on the table and jars of blackberry jam lined up on the shelf above the range, rows of pale grey mushrooms drying on trays in the larder and clean clothes flapping on the washing line they have strung-up between two trees out the back. Even the sunlight sparkling off the once-grimy windows gives Kat a sense of pride. All around them are signs of progress, signs that they are turning the cottage and its surrounds into a home and as she looks about at it all, she is filled with a deep feeling of satisfaction.
Freya, in turn, proves to be more than happy to muck in. She weeds the garden with Carla, or helps Ben in the kitchen by peeling vegetables, or laying fires or busying herself with washing-up or laundry. She starts a composting system for their scraps and very quickly makes herself indispensable by taking on the least popular jobs.
‘You don’t have to do all this stuff, you know,’ says Kat, coming upon her in the kitchen, up to her elbows in greasy water as she scrubs at a burned pan. ‘You don’t have to play Cinderella.’
Freya shrugs. ‘I like doing it. It feels a bit like playing house, doesn’t it?’
‘I guess,’ says Kat.
‘I can see why you like it here.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yeah.’ Freya smiles. ‘You . . . your friends . . . everyone here together . . . it’s kind of like the family we never had, don’t you think?’
Kat nods. ‘I suppose so.’
Freya turns back to the sink. ‘I thought I might try and make some new curtains for the front room,’ she says. ‘Maybe for our bedroom as well? What do you think?’
‘Where will you get the fabric from?’
‘I’ve got an old dress I could use. It’s pretty . . . cream with gorgeous pink roses.’
Kat shrugs. ‘I shouldn’t bother.’ Flowery curtains seems a little frivolous, even to her, and she can’t help wondering what Simon would make of it. ‘It would probably just be a waste of a perfectly good dress.’
‘But the ones here are horrible – just old scraps of grey cloth that are practically disintegrating. It’s such a little thing but it
really would really make a difference.’
Kat shakes her head. ‘Don’t waste your time.’
But Freya isn’t to be dissuaded. The following day Kat comes upon her sitting on one of the beanbags in the front room, surrounded by strips of cream fabric covered in cheery blooms of fuchsia-pink roses. She watches as Freya places two pieces back to back and then tacks them together along one edge, noting the neat, darting movements of her sister’s slender hands as she pulls a needle and thread through the fabric. ‘I never could do that,’ says Kat enviously. ‘I’m all fingers and thumbs.’
‘It just takes practice,’ says Freya.
‘No, you’ve always been good at stuff like that. You’ve always been creative. Remember those clothes you used to make for that doll you loved? Painstakingly stitched, every one of them.’
Freya smiles. ‘Well, you’ve always been the more practical one. You used glue and staples for yours and finished in half the time.’
Kat laughs. ‘Just think, if you could take the best bits of both of us we’d virtually be Wonder Woman.’
Freya glances up at her. ‘I already think you are Wonder Woman, Kat.’
‘Oh don’t be so ridiculous,’ chides Kat, but she has to turn her face away from her to hide her blushes.
Later that evening, as they sit in front of the fire, sprawled across beanbags, sampling the first glasses of Ben’s pungent homebrew, Kat looks about at Freya’s handiwork. The new curtains have been hung and drawn, a jug of purple thistles placed on the window sill before them. She’s even found a few candles and placed them into the necks of empty glass bottles, dotting them across the mantelpiece. Kat watches as a trail of molten wax drips down the side of one and forms a cloudy puddle on the stone surface. Freya was right, she thinks, it has made a difference. The room has taken on a cosier atmosphere, and she’s not the only one who seems to think so.
‘Something’s different,’ says Ben, looking up from the Rubik’s cube still firmly attached to his hands. ‘What is it?’
The Shadow Year Page 11