Page 91 of The Two of Us at the End of the World

I would, she said. But miracles don’t happen.

They must have happened once or twice, I said. Or people wouldn’t have known what they were.

They don’t, she said.

But sometimes they do. In fact, sooner than sometimes: two days later, exactly.

My first thought when Digger went rigid beneath my hand as I was sitting in the sun absentmindedly stroking her back – and thinking how nice it was that it had stopped itching and throbbing and really was healing – was that it was the Russians were moving towards us through the copse at the top of the hill.

As soon as I felt the dog tense and start vibrating with anticipation, I realised I had heard something on the very edge of my hearing but not paid it enough attention. It was the clink of metal on metal coming from the top of the hill where no one should be, since Cat had walked off on her own to check the fish traps, the one bit of good news to that point being that her ankle had healed and her limp was gone, while Storm and Freya were with the babies in the shade behind me.

I rode the urge to leap to my feet and instead moved very slowly and kept low, which is the best way not to catch the eye of anyone else in the landscape who might not have noticed you. I turned to raise a warning finger to Storm and Freya but when I saw their faces I realised they were already frozen in worry by the unusual slow deliberation of my movements.

Storm mouthed, What? Freya just stared white-faced at the slope behind me. I made a “be calm, stay still” signal with my hand and slowly turned back to the direction of the metallic clinking, just in time to see several figures moving towards us through the dappled shadows in among the hazels. I again heard that chink of what I took to be a bridle chain and cursed myself for not having my bow and arrows nearby. And by the time I’d stopped trying to work out how to get to them without breaking what little cover might still be hiding us from the approaching Russians it hit me that there was no point, because I couldn’t work my bow any more as my hand was still swaddled in bandages. It was too late.

They came out of the trees one behind the other.

Shit, said Storm from just behind my shoulder. I mean really, nearly, I almost shit myself!

I could hear the smile without looking round. The truth is I was too busy trying to believe what my eyes were telling me was approaching.

Yeah, I said slowly. That must be one of those miracles that just don’t happen, happening, right?

I told you I put it on, she said. It must have broken.

The clinking noise was the chain of the hobble, or rather the broken hobble that was still fixed round the goat’s back leg. Because there were no Russians. Just goats. Goats, plural. Goats who seemed way more unimpressed by all this than we were. Three new goats tagging along behind our old goat, Devil.

I don’t believe it, Storm said.

Goats, said Freya.

And then, and only then, did she start crying.

Cat, when she arrived, couldn’t believe it either.

Well, she said. I suppose it makes sense. Devil is our goat. This is his home. It’s all he’s ever known. And he brought friends. Lady friends.

Milk, I said. He brought milk. Yes, said Cat looking at the girls. Maybe this will change things for the better. Freya looks almost happy.

Actually catching the new goats was trickier, and took the rest of the day. But by sunset we had them all properly hobbled and in the big field eating a welcoming dinner of early windfall apples. And so we had the rare experience of going to bed happier and more optimistic than when we had woken up. And for the next week even Cat allowed herself to relax as she saw how attentively Storm and Freya looked after the goats and milked them and made sure the babies got used to the new feeding regime.

Then one morning I found Freya crying very quietly, the bottle still in her hand, both babies happily asleep in her lap. And she didn’t bite my head off for finding her like that. That should have been a warning sign.

It’s OK, she said smiling through the wetness on her face. It’s OK. It’s not having to be a milking machine day and night. I’m just relieved.

At the time I believed her.

You’ve done a great job, I said. Look at how healthy they are. How happy.

And then before she could reply, just as she was opening her mouth I carried on.

I know every time I say something nice to you, you bite my head off, but you’ve done great, I said. Really. You’ve definitely kept your word. Freya, see how well they look.

I did, didn’t I? she said and then she turned her head away from the sleeping babies and looked me in the eye.

You’re still soft, Mouse, she said. But that’s OK. Being soft with them is OK. They’re so little, and there’ll be enough time for hardening up when they’re bigger.

I remembered that later too. But it was, at the time, as unexpected as her earlier collapse into lifeless passiveness. It was another mood swing, I suppose. But a benign one. And Freya did, in that moment, have the sunshine in her smile that Storm had told me about. So that’s a good memory too.