He can’t go down the way he came up because the lane leading to the farmhouse is flooded now, just as he knew it would be.
Maggie knows it, too. Knew it when they drove up to the barn this afternoon and saw the clouds massing in the distance. Knew it as well as he did.
In another time she might have canceled guests in this weather or offered them a night in the farmhouse for free, for safety, but they need the money. She speaks to him again. “We need the money, John.”
Is that what she says? He thinks so, but why they need the money is beyond him. The farm is doing well. They’ve spoken about expanding their flock. Maggie would like to take on some more specialist breeds.
He walks on. Stops. Things around him feel familiar. The trees, bent with the wind, the contours of the valleys, the texture of the stone, the grass, the earth, the sky. Even the feel of the rain slicking down his face is a link to something.
But to what?
Fear curls and grows inside him. He needs to decipher why he’s here. It’s getting late and his mother wants him home for dinner. That’s it. He calls for his dog, Meg. His father has given him a pup of his own to look after. She’s almost a year old. The first sheepdog of his own. It’s a big responsibility. He’s running her himself.
She doesn’t come. He looks around. He’s on a route he recognizes but he’s not sure where it leads.
But he needs to get home. To the farmhouse.
A tear slips down his cheek.
John looks at his hand resting on the handle of his stick, feels the carved thistle beneath his fingers. His father’s stick before his. John notes how cold his fingers look as an observer might, how raised the veins are, how calloused the skin beneath the slick of rain.
He turns, looking to each side of him, behind, feels as if he’sbeen swallowed up by a landscape that he is almost familiar with, but not entirely.
He wants to get home.
But he has no idea how.
The girls are holed up upstairs. Imogen stomped off in a huff, eyes gleaming with tears, and Jemma trailed after her, throwing me an apologetic smile over her shoulder that I didn’t buy into. It suggested that she and I were in cahoots. We’re most definitely not. I’ve had the measure of her since I caught her trying to persuade Imogen to steal glittery hairbands when I was supervising them on a playdate.
And somewhere, behind that smile, I’m pretty sure I caught a measure of scorn.
That playdate was a low point. Not fun to supervise. I had words with Jemma’s parents when they collected her. But it was only one bad fruit in a basket of wonderful experiences.
You see, Edie and Rob liked to have time together, without Imogen. They had her when they were so young, barely out of university. And all of us in the gang were happy to oblige by babysitting her when we were able to. We felt like uncles to her. She so resembled her mother it was like having a mini-Edie to play with and I know I’m not just speaking for myself when I say that. She was such a novelty. Such a miracle. So much fun! Between us, we would look after her for evenings, sometimes for weekends. It was normal for us to be in loco parentis whenever needed.
And it wasn’t just a “needs must” arrangement. We’d take her out because we enjoyed spending time with her. It wasn’t like we needed asking. She had a huge extended family in us. She kept toothbrushes in our homes the way girlfriends do. Each of us had a little box or drawer of toys for her. And Imogen wasn’t any bother. No tantrums, no side to her, just daisy chains and big, wide smiles.
It makes me happy to remember those days. Such a perfect little girl deserved all that love.
And isn’t it wonderful that I felt that way about her even before I understood that she was mine?
I drum my fingers on the kitchen surface, feel its hardness punishing my nail beds. Jemma has disrupted things, cranking my anxiety up a notch too far. She will not be a part of our future, that’s for sure.
I follow the girls upstairs. I feel self-conscious, overly aware of the sound of my footsteps on the treads as if I have elephant feet. I clod across the landing, feeling daunted by the prospect of knocking on Imogen’s door. Girls her age have so much power. Some don’t even know they have it, and only a few, like Edie, retain it as they age, but we men feel it as viscerally as the thump of our own hearts.
The only thing I can think of comparing it to is the contemplation of unwrapping something you’ve always wanted for the very first time.
Jemma understands her power. Imogen doesn’t. Not yet. But whatever their state of self-awareness, they need protecting from themselves, these girls.
I raise my hand to knock on the door and hear my name, followed by a burst of laughter.
My fingers unclench in stiff slow motion. I lower my arm. Clearly, they didn’t hear me come up; I must have imagined the terrible noise I was making.
I grab a small pile of laundry from my own bed and return to stand outside Imogen’s door. Carefully, silently, I press my ear to it.
Emily wipes condensation from the kitchen window. The sound of the hail pulled her there and now it’s passed. She peers out.
“The rain’s easing.”
