Page 38 of The Two of Us at the End of the World

And I can see Freya was, in her own way, doing a good job with a really bad thing.

I can certainly see we were all too young, though at the time Cat and I thought we weren’t but they definitely were, while we felt big and experienced enough to make all the plans for everyone.

I can also see that Cat must have spent time talking to Freya while Storm and I went hunting with Digger, or exchanged reading and riding lessons.

And when I get very low and angry with myself, I do sometimes wonder if Cat minded that I began to make friends with Storm. I don’t think she did, but maybe she felt it. Maybe she minded that I was making new memories with Storm that she knew nothing about unless I told her, because until the girls came everything I had ever done was with Cat and she knew all about it, and if I did do or see something when I was alone and didn’t tell her she might not have known about it, but then neither did anyone else. I don’t think she thought it was a real kind of betrayal, even a small one, because her mind didn’t work like that, but I might be wrong. She might have watched a sort of friendship beginning to get its feet under itself and found it uncomfortable. I know she didn’t have a friendship kind of relationship with Freya. I know from the moments I overheard or walked in on that Cat talked to her more like a guide, maybe the way a teacher or a doctor back in the days when there were such things might talk. She was always calmly explaining, or cajoling, or asking how she could help. My help wasn’t asked for or ever acknowledged, not by Freya. I’m a man. Back then I was just a boy really. But either way I don’t think I could really understand the deep dragging weight of everything that we were expecting Freya to carry but I know that Cat somehow did, and that was why she was like she was with her. It wasn’t just because Cat was a young woman. It was because she might have seemed itchy-twitchy at times, she might have made quick decisions and moved fast, but she was also a good thinker who also happened to be as kind as she was clever, and of course she was – above all – the one who saved people.

Still is.

Even at the worst of times and the darkest of days it’s still Cat who gets me through to tomorrow.

One reason I think she might have resented my friendship with Storm is because it was me telling her about a conversation we’d had that led to one of the few arguments we ever had. I was explaining something Storm had told me while we were keeping the horses amused by my attempts to ride them. We’d taken a break, and she had haltingly begun to explain that they didn’t like being landlocked like this. It felt claustrophobic being hemmed in by so much greenery. They wanted to travel back to their home by the sea. They felt safer by the sea, she’d said, because the boat gave them an extra chance of escape. Sailing a boat was another thing they could do which Cat and I could not. I’d said we’d see once the baby had come, that maybe we’d all go and it’d be safer. I’d half meant it, but mainly I wanted to make them feel more comfortable by keeping the option open.

Later, when we’d all gone to bed, Cat just shook her head when I told her.

We don’t go to the sea, she whispered. Death comes from the sea. We know that. After what happened to their mother, they must know that too.

The Russian didn’t come from the sea, I said. He came by horse.

But they were living by the sea, Cat said, as if that made sense.

They want to find their boat, I said. They need to. It’s what’s left of their mother.

No, she said. You know this, Mouse: We don’t go to the sea.

Well, they’re going to go one day, I said. Once the baby’s out. So which is more important? Us being people who don’t go to the sea, or us being people who don’t let kids wander off by themselves?

They’re not—she said, and then bit off whatever she was going to say and shook her head.

Not what? I said. Not kids?

Not our responsibility, she said. Not for ever.

There was a bitter edge to her voice as she said it, like she was already hating herself before the words came out. But Cat is stubborn, so she said it anyway.

You remember why you carried me away from the coughing? I said.

She sniffed and looked away.

No, she said, the twist in her voice proving you can tell the biggest lie with the smallest word.

You said it was because of what our parents always said, I said. You said it was because the bigger ones always look after the smaller ones.

That was different, she said.

It isn’t, I said. Not really.

We just don’t go to the sea, she said. Here is fine. Here is safe.

We can’t stay here for ever, I said. Doing nothing.

We’re not doing nothing, Cat said fiercely, turning to look at me. We’re surviving.

I know, I said.

We stared at each other. I wondered if my eyes looked as red-rimmed and hot as hers did.

But why? I said.