by Lewis, Gill
Iona snapped the locket shut and wiped the tears from her face. ‘No,’ she said. She shook her head. ‘She’s never coming back, for me.’
CHAPTER 16
I told Mum about Iona’s birthday and she insisted on making a cake. I’d told her not to fuss, but a week later we were sitting round the kitchen table singing Iona ‘Happy Birthday’ and watching her blow out the candles on her cake.
‘Did you make a wish?’ said Mum.
Iona nodded and cut the cake. The candles trailed their wisps of black smoke up into the air. ‘Can’t tell you what it is, or it won’t come true,’ she said. She held up the first piece of cake, ‘Who wants some?’
Hamish reached across the kitchen table. ‘I’ll have a piece,’ he said, ‘in exchange for this.’ He handed Iona a parcel wrapped in shiny paper.
‘For me?’ she said. She tore the wrapping open, her eyes shining. ‘Wow, a book on birds of prey, thanks, Hamish.’
‘And we’ve got you a little something,’ said Mum.
Dad lifted out a large parcel from under the table. ‘This is for you. We hope you like them.’
‘I’ve never had so many presents,’ said Iona. She unwrapped the parcel and opened the box inside. ‘Thanks!’
I looked inside the box and almost choked. Mum had bought Iona a pair of pink walking boots, with purple laces. ‘They’re really gross,’ I said.
But Iona held the boots up, a huge grin on her face. ‘I love them,’ she said. ‘I really love them.’
Mum passed Iona some socks. ‘These are for you, too. Try the boots on, see if they fit.’
Iona pulled the socks on and slid her feet into the boots. ‘They’re perfect,’ she said. ‘How did you know what size to get?’
Mum glanced at Dad and smiled. ‘It was his idea,’ she said. ‘He measured the footprints of your bare feet in the mud.’
Graham helped himself to a second piece of cake. ‘Sorry I didn’t get you anything, Iona. Tell you what! I’ll treat you to a rally drive round the farm on the back of the quad bike.’
‘No you won’t!’ snapped Mum.
Graham shoved the cake in his mouth and winked at Iona.
Mum poured cups of tea and put some more cakes on the table. ‘It’s a shame your grandad couldn’t come round as well.’
Iona nodded, prodding at the sticky crumbs on her plate with a finger. ‘He had things to do.’
I knew she didn’t want Mum asking questions. ‘Why don’t you try out your new boots?’ I said.
‘Can I?’ said Iona.
‘Go on,’ smiled Dad. ‘Why don’t you and Callum go on up the hill?’
I went to get my boots and followed Iona out into the yard. She was bouncing up and down on the spot, waiting for me.
‘You don’t really like them do you?’ I said. ‘They’re pink!’
Iona walked on, balancing on hardened ridges of mud. ‘Pink’s my favourite colour.’
I frowned at her. ‘You never said.’
She laughed. ‘You never asked.’
I gave her a shove into a sticky mud puddle and ran ahead.
‘Hey, watch it,’ she shouted. ‘I don’t want them getting dirty.’
We ran up the steepest part of the hill to the stone wall running along the top edge of the field. The sun was hot on our backs and we were out of breath when we reached the wall. Sheep were scattered across the ridge dividing our farm from the valley beyond with the loch and the ospreys.
Iona licked her finger and tried to rub mud off the front of one boot. ‘I wish it wasn’t school next week,’ she said.
‘Me too,’ I said. It would feel different back at school, I knew it would.
‘It’s only the middle of August,’ said Iona. ‘When I was in London, the schools didn’t go back until September.’
I picked up small stones and tried flinging them as far as I could down the hill. ‘That’s Scotland for you,’ I said.
‘You know what we should do before we go back to school?’ said Iona.
‘What?’ I turned to look at her. She had a huge grin on her face.
‘Stay a night in the tree-house.’
‘Mum would never let me,’ I said.
‘Don’t tell her,’ said Iona. ‘Grandad won’t notice me gone. We’ll both sneak out and meet there.’
I thought of sleeping in the tree-house, in the darkness with all the noises of the night around us, waking up and seeing the dawn. We’d talked about it before, but never seriously. Now it seemed like the best idea.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘This Saturday, you’re on.’
Iona smiled. ‘Don’t come up till then,’ she said, ‘I have to get something ready for then, a surprise.’
‘What?’ I said.
She laughed. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’
I turned to head down the hill, but Iona called me back.
‘Callum,’ she said.
I looked at her.
‘Today,’ she said. ‘All of it. It’s been the best.’
I grinned at her. ‘Come on,’ I yelled. ‘Race you.’
CHAPTER 17
That Saturday I packed my rucksack with two sleeping bags, a couple of torches, one of Mum’s fruit cakes and some crisps I’d raided from the kitchen. I planned to meet Iona at the tree-house, go home for tea, and then slip out after dark.
‘Planning on running away?’ said Mum.
Did she know? I looked at her but she was smiling.
‘You look like you’re going away for a week,’ she said.
I slipped round the other side of the kitchen table. ‘It’s just stuff for the tree-house,’ I said.
‘Aye, well don’t be long,’ she said. ‘There’s rain coming. This hot weather’s going to break soon.’
‘I’ll be back for tea,’
I said. I walked out of the cool kitchen into the wall of thick summer heat. The air was still with it. The farm dogs, Kip and Elsie, lay panting in the shelter of their kennels. I turned on the hose and they chomped on the sparkling stream of water as it splashed into their bowls. Sheep were pressed into the shade of the stone wall along the top fields. The grass was brown and dry and small insects buzzed above the grass flower heads.
I was glad to reach the shade of the trees along the path by the loch.
I’d been thinking about the surprise Iona said she’d have for me. Was she waiting for me? Watching me?
I looked up to the trapdoor into the tree-house. It was shut. ‘Iona?’ I called.
No answer. I climbed the rope ladder and pushed open the trapdoor, half expecting to see her face grinning at me. ‘Iona, it’s me,’ I called again.
I hauled my rucksack up into the tree-house and looked around. Iona wasn’t there, but on the wooden wall opposite the window was Iona’s surprise. It was a huge painting of an osprey catching a fish. It was painted onto the wood itself. It was so detailed down to every feather. There were drips of spilled paint along the floor below it. It must’ve taken her ages to do.
I pulled the cake and crisps from my rucksack and put them on the table, and rolled the sleeping bags out across the floor.
‘Iona?’ I lifted up the bench store to see if she was hiding, but she wasn’t anywhere. I leaned out of the window to look back along the footpath. There was no sign of her.
The clouds had turned purple and grey, like a dark bruise spreading across the sky. To the south, thunder rumbled over the mountains. If Iona didn’t get here soon, she’d be soaked. Maybe she’d forgotten, but it wasn’t like her.
I scrambled down the rope ladder and set off along the path hoping to meet Iona on the way. I followed the track by the river to join the old mineral tracks going down to the village. In the crook of a dried-up puddle lay a long feather caked in dirt. I crouched down to pick it up and clean it on my sleeve. It was creamy white with thick stripes of dark brown, an osprey feather.
I tucked it in the combat pocket of my shorts. Large, single drops of rain hit the ground by my feet sendin
g little puffs of dust into the air. I glanced up at the sky. A great cloud was looming up over the ridge, its shadow dark against the hillside. The thunder sounded again, closer this time. I began to run. The sky was darkening, and as I reached the road into the village even the streetlights lit up.
I could see Iona’s house on the edge of the village. It was a small squat cottage, painted in whitewash that had turned grey over the years. An old crofter’s cottage lay derelict beside it. Maybe I’d missed Iona on the way here. Maybe she was at the tree-house already. But I was sure I hadn’t missed her. I knew she’d take this path, I just knew it.
I jogged along the road to the house and slowed to a walk near the open gate. The front garden was a mass of weeds and tall grasses. An old bed frame lay in the corner strangled in bindweed, its rusty springs and tattered cover decorated by the white trumpet-shaped flowers.
A dim light came from within the house. I’d never been inside before. Rob and I used to dare each other to knock on the door and run away. We’d hide in the bushes and watch Mad Old McNair shake his sticks wildly in the air from his doorway.
What if Iona wasn’t there?
I could feel my heart thumping in my chest.
I walked up the path and stopped at the door. The pale blue paint was peeled and flaking.
I knocked on the door and waited.
It opened just a crack.
I could see Iona’s grandad, the white bristles on his face, a reddened eye and the sleeve of his dressing gown.
‘What d’you want?’ His breath stank of whisky.
I wanted to run. ‘Is Iona in?’
He squinted at me through the door. ‘Callum McGregor, is it?’
‘It is, Mr McNair.’
He opened the door a bit wider. ‘Come in, if you like. You cannae stay long. Iona’s not well. Summer flu it is. Had it meself back along.’
I followed him into the front room. I had to squeeze past piles and piles of boxes and old newspapers. The room smelt damp and musty, like spoiled grain. Thin brown curtains were drawn across the window and a television flickered silently in the corner. Iona was curled up in an armchair under some blankets. She looked cold despite the heat of the day. A mug of tea with a scum of cold milk and a plate of uneaten toast were on the floor beside her.
Iona’s grandad glared at me from under his thick eyebrows. ‘Don’t be long now.’ He picked up a half empty bottle of whisky and shuffled past. ‘I’m away to bed, Iona. Call me if you need me.’
I sat down on a pile of old newspapers next to her.
‘Hi, Iona,’ I said. ‘You OK?’
‘I woke up with flu this morning,’ she said. She wiped her nose across a scrunched up tissue on the armchair.
I passed her a box of clean tissues from the floor.
‘Thanks,’ she said. She lay back and pinched her fingers on her forehead.
‘Feels like my head’s about to explode. I just couldn’t make it to the tree-house. Sorry.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘Another time.’
Iona screwed her eyes tight shut. I could tell she was trying not to cry. I knew she must be feeling pretty rough, because I didn’t think she’d miss out on sleeping in the tree-house for anything.
‘The painting’s really good,’ I said, ‘of the osprey.’
‘You like it?’
I nodded. I took the feather from my pocket. ‘I found this for you,’ I said.
‘Osprey feather,’ she murmured. ‘Where did you find it?’
I started telling Iona, but I could tell she wasn’t really listening. Her eyes were closing and she was drifting into sleep. I sat there watching the silent people on the TV. Iona’s breaths were short and shallow. I heard the creak of floorboards and the dull thump of Iona’s grandad climbing into bed in the room above.
I tucked the feather into the crook of her hand and got up to leave.
‘Bye, Iona,’ I whispered.
‘Callum?’
‘Yes?’ I said.
‘Look after Iris. Keep her safe.’
‘You can check on her yourself tomorrow,’ I said.
‘Promise me.’ Iona looked at me through tired eyes.
‘Yes, Iona,’ I said. ‘Of course, I promise.’
I pulled the blankets up around her and left after that.
Outside the weather broke. Rain hammered the hot cement. Sheet lightning flashed neon yellow.
I walked home through the monsoon rain.
I never saw Iona again.
CHAPTER 18
I woke to rain pattering on my bedroom window. I glanced at my clock; it was nine already. I’d slept late. I pulled on my clothes and peered out of the window. It had rained in the night, hard and heavy. Deep puddles pooled across the yard. Kip and Elsie were barking in their kennel. I looked at the clock again and thought it was strange because Dad usually let them out by now.
I went down to the kitchen and Mum turned to me as I opened the door. Dad, Graham, and Hamish were there too. Graham slammed his cup down and stormed out. Dad and Hamish wouldn’t look at me. Were they cross? Did they know about the plan to sleep in the tree-house?
‘Sit down, Callum,’ said Mum.
‘What have I done?’
Mum put her arms round me. ‘It’s Iona,’ she said. Mum held me so tight. ‘She died … last night.’
I pushed Mum away. ‘No. But I saw her. I saw her last night.’
Dad came over to me. ‘I’m sorry … ’
‘It’s not true,’ I yelled. ‘She was OK. She’s got summer flu, that’s all, just flu.’ I looked at Hamish. He looked pale, deathly white.
‘I’ve just come from her house,’ he said. ‘The ambulance was there.’
I backed away from them to the door, shoved my boots on and started running. Running and running. My lungs burned and my chest ached but I didn’t stop until I reached the tree-house.
I pulled up on the rope ladder. My hands stung with cold and my feet slipped on the wet wooden rungs. I flung open the trapdoor above me and hauled myself in. Rain had seeped into every part of the tree-house. Water dripped from the sleeping bags and the cake on the table was soggy and turned to mush. The colours in Iona’s osprey painting had bled onto the floor. All the tiny details were lost. It was a ghost osprey now.
I kicked a box of biscuits out through the trapdoor and watched it clatter against the tree roots. I wanted to scream and shout. I wanted to cry. But the tears just couldn’t come.
I flung open the shutters and the north wind slammed them against the wooden sides. I leaned out of the window.
‘Iona’s dead,’ I shouted, ‘dead.’
Iris turned to look in my direction. She was hunkered down on the sheltered side of her nesting tree. The mottled brown of her wings merged into the peeling bark of the branch. Her mate was in the eyrie. I couldn’t see the fledgling chick, but knew it must be huddled in there somewhere trying to keep dry.
I leaned right out of the window so half of me was over the drop below. ‘She’s dead,’ I shouted, ‘dead! But what do you know? You’re only a stupid bird.’
Iris ruffled her feathers, her bright eyes watching me. Her alarm call rang out through the driving rain. ‘Kee, kee, kee.’
I clapped my hands together and Iris launched into the air. ‘You’re only a stupid, dumb bird.’
I slammed the shutter against the wooden sides of the tree-house and the noise echoed across the loch. Iris wheeled away over the wooded hillside behind me, the underside of her body pale against the iron sky.
I sat there staring out over the loch, just staring. Broken sunlight filtered through the clouds. Iris didn’t return to the nest. Iona had said she would leave for her wintering grounds in Africa by the end of the week. Maybe she had already gone. I had promised Iona I’d look after Iris, and now I’d scared her away.
I was half asleep when a soft rush of feathers whistled over my head followed by a dull thump. Iris landed on a branch beside the tree-house. I could hardly brea
the. She was so close. I could see the vane of every feather and the metallic curve of each talon. She ruffled her feathers and scanned the southern horizon.
‘You’re going, aren’t you?’ I whispered.
She turned her head, and fixed me with her brilliant yellow eyes. She looked right into me. And suddenly I knew then, in that one moment, I was as much part of her world as she was of mine. I couldn’t help thinking that maybe, just maybe, deep in her bird soul, she knew the promise I had given to Iona.
15TH AUGUST
16.10 GMT
NEST SITE,
HIGHLAND SCOTLAND
Iris flew up, through the broken sunlight into the cold clear air. She circled the nest one last time. Her mate was preening his feathers, oiling them after the heavy rains. She banked away from the eyrie they had built from sticks and grasses, and away from the insistent calls of the full-grown chick they had reared that summer.
The pull south was too great now. The need to fly was strong. It pulsed inside, hard-wired deep into every nerve and muscle and cell. Each day, the sun did not rise so high. Each day its arc across the sky lowered towards the pale blue curve of the southern horizon.
Iris soared on the updraught of the cold north wind. It rippled under her feathers and carried her up, through the drifting threads of cloud. This was her world, of vast skies and reflected waters. She flew high into the fast-winds, leaving behind the ancient landscape of mountain peaks, glittering lochs, and wide river valleys.
CHAPTER 19
The church was cool inside. I sat in silence between Rob and Euan while they talked across me, and watched golden specks of dust drift in the sunbeams from the high windows.
‘Have you taken your antibiotics?’ said Rob.
‘Taste horrible, don’t they?’ whispered Euan. ‘Mum’s terrified I’m going to drop dead from meningitis too. She won’t leave me alone.’
Rob nodded. ‘My mum’s the same, keeps taking my temperature every five minutes. I can’t believe we’ve had nearly the first two weeks off school.’
It was a memorial service for Iona. Mum and Dad sat behind me and I could see Hamish sitting near the front. Teachers, children, and parents from school filled the little church. Feet scraped on the stone floor and voices rose up into the eaves. I dug my nails into my hands and waited.