Evie Wyld - All the Birds, Singing

Lloyd clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously. ‘Right,’ he said loudly, ‘shall we go to the pub then?’

I’d been to the Blacksmith’s Arms a couple of years ago. It hadn’t worked out. Sitting at the bar with a pint of something warm and treacly, I’d tried a rocky conversation with the barman.

‘The wind always this fierce?’ He’d looked at me with an unreadable face.

‘Sometimes.’

And then a drunk farmer had brushed against me and I’d barked at him. I’d left without drinking even a third of the pint.

When Lloyd went to the bar, I watched how easy it was for him, how the barman volunteered conversation without hesitating. It was warm, the light was low, and rain beat on the windows. Lloyd brought us over whiskies. He’d put too much ice in mine, and I hooked out two cubes and put them in an empty glass. Lloyd watched me but didn’t comment. The next one came with just one cube.

‘I never come here,’ I said after a while.

‘Why not? It seems nice. Nice ambiance.’

I looked at him a while before replying.

‘They don’t like me.’

‘Ha!’ said Lloyd. I frowned. ‘They’re just interested in you.’

‘Interested?’

‘Christ, I’ve been here half an hour and two people have already asked how I know you and what sheep you’re breeding.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said I don’t, and they’re white ones.’

I glanced up at the barman, who was looking, and shifted in my seat. Lloyd didn’t seem bothered.

‘What will you do?’ he asked. ‘About the boy?’

I shrugged. ‘I’ll speak to Don in the morning.’

‘You think he could be the one — hurting your sheep?’

I turned my glass around on the table a few times. I didn’t. Watching him out there against the dark, I’d felt something strange wind its way up around my heart, like I recognised him, like we’d known each other once. Those spittle-grey eyes and desperate mouth.

‘I don’t know. He seemed mad.’ I stole a look at Lloyd and then downed my drink. ‘I’m not that sure it’s kids any more. I saw a fox this morning.’

‘Does he count as a kid?’

I shrugged. ‘He just seemed batshit.’

‘Right,’ said Lloyd.

We watched a teenager try to get served. In his hand he held some keys which I supposed he was hoping looked like the keys to his people carrier or his family townhouse. He wore a badly fitted jacket that on him looked like a school blazer.

‘Pint of cider, thanks,’ he said and the barman didn’t move to get the drink, just stared the boy down, resting his hands on the bar in front of him like he was bracing against it. The boy cleared his throat and nodded to the pump. ‘Cider, pint of, please.’ He looked like he had considered saying my good man at the end, but had rightly decided against it. The barman still did not move, just fixed the boy with a strong look. Then he slowly raised his arm and pointed, without looking, at the sticker underneath the spirits that had an 18 with a red line through it. He didn’t say a word, but the boy’s ears turned pink. He opened his mouth and closed it and then tried for a leisurely retreat, which he almost carried off, swinging his arms and keeping his knees soft and neck loose. But he stubbed his foot on the rug and it wasn’t much of an obstacle, he barely stumbled, but it took the ease out of his departure and the whole face went red and he sped out the door. The barman remained looking at the same spot in front of him like the boy was still there.

‘Terrible age,’ said Lloyd. ‘Can’t do anything with yourself.’ He drained his drink. ‘I don’t think they had a drinking age when I was a kid. What about you? I bet you got served.’

‘Why?’ I said, sharper than I had meant to.

‘I mean, you’re tall,’ he said and looked at his empty glass.

‘Drinking laws the same in Australia?’ he asked, looking like he’d just thought of a really interesting question, and I realised I’d embarrassed him.

‘I guess so,’ I said. I drained my glass too and went to the bar. The barman looked at me for a moment before coming over.

‘Same again?’ he asked and I nodded and focused on the bottles on the wall behind him. The transaction took place in silence.

When I got back, Lloyd had found a book on the pub bookshelf called Teach Yourself: Sheepdog Training . The photo on the front showed a farmer with thick grey sideburns and his obedient dog sitting at his feet. In the background some Welsh Mountain sheep were penned neatly and cleanly, all looking at the camera.

‘It says here,’ said Lloyd, ‘that it’s possible to teach a collie at any age, the basics of sheep control.’ I put my glass in front of my mouth so that I wouldn’t be expected to comment. ‘Worth a go isn’t it?’ he asked. I didn’t move my glass.

By the time the pub closed, I was too drunk to drive, but Lloyd’s eyes were sleepy-looking and he stopped mid-sentence, saying, ‘Look look look, we can’t drive, why don’t we—’ and either couldn’t think of what to say next or forgot he was speaking.

We got in the truck and Dog turned his back on us, disgusted at being left in the car park and at the state we came out of the pub in. I gripped the steering wheel as we left the street lights, and drove deeper into the dark.

‘My father told me,’ said Lloyd in a thick voice, ‘when I passed my driving test, he said, “Son, if you’re coming home in the car, half-cut, wind down the window and just rest your head on the frame and keep your eyes on the white line at the side of the road. Can’t go wrong.’’’

I glanced at Lloyd, who had shut his eyes and leant his head back against the headrest. ‘Can’t go wrong,’ he said again to himself. He was asleep in three minutes, which was good, because I had to concentrate. He snored softly and it made me smile. It was a relief to be heading back with him, that he would be there, downstairs during the night. I hadn’t even brought up the idea of driving him into town — it seemed pointless when his bed was already made. There had been a moment not long before closing when he’d got up to get another round and steadied himself on my shoulder as he stood, just for balance. Even though a jolt went through me, like I should stand up and push him over, I hadn’t. I’d sat there and while he was at the bar I felt the ghost of his hand on my shoulder and it made me count back to the last time someone had touched me just for balance, just out of absent-minded laziness. I glanced over again at his sleeping profile, the strong bone of his nose, and the truck wobbled a little, so I put my eyes back on the road and squinted into the dark. The headlights lit up a lot of insects for that time of year, white in the beams, large-winged flakes like ash. It took me a while to understand that they weren’t insects, that it was snow. I lifted my foot off the accelerator and coasted through the dark watching it fall. I thought to wake Lloyd and show him, but I got the feeling it was performing something just for me. In the headlights a large fox or a deer, but looking nothing like either of those things, ran a split hair in front of the truck and I braked so that Lloyd flew forward and hit his head on the dashboard; there was a squeak from Dog as he rolled off the back seat. ‘Fuck!’ shouted Lloyd.

‘Did you see it?’ I hissed, yanking on the handbrake and opening the door, forgetting to take off my seatbelt and struggling in the doorway, my breath coming out white.

‘See what? I’m bleeding! Jesus Christ. I said we were too drunk to drive.’

I stood at the edge of the woods looking hard into the silence, with the snow falling and my heart beating and the engine running. It had looked at me, looked right at me before it disappeared and it was large and dark and its eyes were yellow.