“Even older. Thirty-five. All hope is lost.”
We cross the wooden footbridge marking the entrance to the reserve. Our footsteps are high-pitched, hollow against the boardwalk. Shadows lengthen the spines of the trees, their darkened arms reaching out to greet us in the gloom.
“Dot’s always telling me to... Oh, what’s the phrase?”
“Grab life by the—”
“Exactly. She wants me to kickbox and water-ski.”
“Is that what you want?”
Callie smiles. The hair not covered by her hat is beginning to glisten, damp with tiny droplets of night air. “Put it this way, I’ve held out so far.”
“Maybe you’re just different.”
She’s quiet for a moment, like she’s giving this some thought. “Maybe.”
We head farther into the reserve, the boardwalk a winding artery through its sensory system. The fireworks become distant aftershocks. We are steeped in the sounds of nature at night: the lone hoot of a tawny owl, the rustle of lumbering mammals. From deep in the woods drifts the occasionalchurrof a creature stirring.
“Just so you know,” I say, “I have no idea where we are right now.” The dark’s disorienting, screwing with my sense of direction.
Her laugh ripples. “Don’t worry. I’ve come here at night often enough.”
“Light sleeper?”
“Sometimes,” she admits.
•••
We swap the boardwalk for a churned-up channel of footpath running along a narrow dike. Eventually, where the tree line parts like a curtain,Callie stops. She moves her head closer to mine. I catch the scent of her shampoo, a sharp twist of citrus, feel it climb inside me.
“This is one of my favorite views,” she whispers.
The footpath looks over a wide sweep of marsh. It’s plump with rush, adorned with the jewelry of silvery wading pools. Roosting wildfowl scatter the earth’s wet surface. Following Callie’s outstretched finger, I make out a group of grazing deer. Their dainty forms are slender and sculptural, washed over by moonlight.
We squat down on the footpath to watch. The wet-wool scent of the undergrowth rises to meet us.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” she whispers, transfixed.
I nod, because who wouldn’t find this beautiful?
There’s a gently rolling undercurrent of sound—waves of crepuscular whistling, sweet swells of companionable gargling. I ask Callie where it’s coming from.
“That’s the widgeon and teal, noisy lot.”
My eyes rest again on the deer. “They’re like a work of art.”
“I love seeing them like this. They’re nervy, and they’ve got a real talent for hiding. Apparently they can smell people up to a hundred meters away.”
We watch a while longer, curious as camouflaged mammals in our little nest of undergrowth. Then Callie smiles at me, a silent signal for us to move on.
17.
Callie
We keep talking, hardly pausing for breath, walking side by side as the path broadens out, then sweeps round to hug the river.
I tell Joel about my parents and their work—Mum’s dressmaking business and Dad’s job as an oncologist. He asks how long I’ve been into nature, and I say basically my whole life. It was Dad who first brought me to Waterfen, who created a little space in his vegetable patch just for me. He’d smile when I freaked Mum out by adopting invertebrates from the garden, would talk me down from the inevitable tears when I was parted from them. He taught me to tell apart frogs and toads, pointed out the difference between buzzards and sparrow hawks, high in the sky. Early on summer mornings we would sit in the garden together, where he’d narrate the dawn chorus for me, from first bird to last. We made bug hotels and houses for hedgehogs, pressed flowers and pond-dipped, mixed up compost for the worms and woodlice.
