Evie Wyld - All the Birds, Singing

‘At worst,’ the doctor said, ‘it’s a light concussion. Don’t drink, get plenty of rest and you’ll be fine.’

Lloyd laughed and the doctor looked at him.

‘And you shouldn’t be alone,’ he said. ‘Make sure your husband takes good care of you.’ He passed a glance around the place, the empty bottles and unwashed dishes.

The silence left after the doctor had gone was heavy. I sat up off the sofa and held my head in my hands. It throbbed but it didn’t hurt.

‘So what happened? Did you just lose your balance or was it a cry for help? Honestly, when I first came in I thought you’d done yourself in. Imagine how that would look! Strange man shows up and lures unsuspecting spinster to her death.’

‘Something was in the house.’

Lloyd looked at me, smiling.

‘Something?’

‘It was the thing that’s being doing the stuff.’

Lloyd frowned. ‘The thing that’s been doing the stuff?’

I pointed out the window. ‘I heard it, it came into the house, up the stairs, it jumped on my bed. I thought it was you but it wasn’t.’

‘Well, I had Dog with me.’

‘It wasn’t a dog. It wasn’t human.’

‘Neither is a dog.’

‘I think it was not from… around here.’ Lloyd’s eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth and closed it.

‘Look — you’ve got a concussion.’

‘Things have been happening here,’ I said, and there was a wobble in my throat.

‘I understand that — I imagine this is a stressful season for a farmer—’

‘I’m not a hysterical woman.’

‘No, but it doesn’t help anyone if you start deciding there are monsters in the woods. This is a wild place, there could be all sorts of animals you don’t know about—’

‘I know about all of the animals.’ My face was red and hot and suddenly I was very embarrassed. Lloyd had his back to me, and the room was tense.

‘You saw me naked,’ I said, to break the atmosphere. ‘How was that?’

Lloyd looked at me and I waited. ‘Like all my nightmares come at once. You’re not supposed to drink,’ he said, pouring me a glass of whisky.

‘And I’m supposed to rest.’

He handed me the glass. ‘You’re not leaving me alone with those sheep.’

I stood, testing my balance and touching the bandage that was wrapped around the top of my head. ‘I feel fine.’

‘You look mad,’ Lloyd said and drained his drink.

Lloyd limed the empty pens while I tubed paste into the new lambs.

‘What’s next?’ he asked; the visible parts of his face between his hat and his beard were flushed.

‘We just keep watching,’ I said.

‘How long before they go to market?’

‘Shhh,’ I said and turned away. ‘When they’re ready.’ There was a long silence, just the noises of Lloyd raking out the pens and the occasional bleat from an occupied stall.

One ewe with triplets was not interested in the smallest one. It struggled to get close to her and got squashed out by the other two. After a while it settled itself down on its own and cried. I picked her up and she didn’t struggle, wrapped her in a blanket and gave her to Lloyd to hold while I made a bottle ready. ‘Not sure she’ll make it,’ I told him.

‘Why is this all so sad?’ he asked. He stroked the bony head and the lamb nuzzled against his jumper looking for a teat.

Back at the house, we wrapped the lamb in a blanket and put it in front of the stove on Dog’s bed, and locked Dog in Lloyd’s room. I set the timer on the stove so we’d wake to feed her, and Lloyd went into the sitting room and made a fire. We sat on the sofa watching the flames.

There was just the hollow ticking of the kitchen clock. My head itched underneath the bandage, but there was no energy left in my arm to scratch it.

A knock at the door.

Don stood behind Samson, who had had a wash since I last saw him. Then Marcie stepped out of the dark, holding her arms around herself and looking embarrassed.

‘Caught these two out by the woolshed,’ Don said.

‘Doing what?’

‘Pissing about.’ Don’s face was hard. He gave Samson a small shove in the back and Samson stumbled over the threshold. Marcie followed and Don closed the door behind them.

‘What were you doing?’ I said turning to Samson. He looked at the floor.

‘We were just looking at the lambs, that’s all,’ Marcie said.

‘Did you hurt any of them?’

‘No!’ She sounded upset, but Samson was just quiet.

‘He had firelighters on him and matches,’ said Don. There was a slight swelling on Samson’s face, a redness about his eye like he’d been hit.

‘We were just—’

Don interrupted Marcie. ‘Shut your trap, I don’t want to hear it.’

‘Please don’t tell my dad,’ she said quietly and started to cry. Samson moved his hand across to her and held on to her little finger. All of us watched that.

‘Samson,’ I said quietly, ‘what were you doing up there — what were you going to do with those firelighters?’

He looked up and I saw suddenly Don’s old face in his, and I felt sad.

‘We were just up there to watch over them. That’s all. Was going to make a fire — outside — to sit around, and just watch them. Keep them safe.’

‘Safe from what?’ asked Lloyd, but Samson didn’t reply, just chewed his lips and looked at me, held my gaze until Don chafed him on the back of the head.

‘Well, answer him,’ he muttered.

‘It’s okay, Don,’ I said. Marcie sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Mascara muddied the whites of her eyes. ‘No harm done.’

Once they’d gone, Don marching them out, telling Marcie she was getting driven back home and a word in the ear of her parents, Samson all the while gripping on to her little finger, we sat down at the table.

‘God almighty, what do you think they were going to do?’ Lloyd said.

‘I think they were going to start a small fire to keep warm and sit around it and watch over my sheep. I think they might have smoked cigarettes and drunk beer and had a pash.’

‘You’ve changed your tune. What happened to the kids chopping up your sheep?’

‘I think Samson’s seen it.’

‘Seen what?’

‘The thing out there that’s getting the sheep.’

‘The fox?’

‘It’s not a fox.’

There was a long silence.

‘I get the feeling,’ said Lloyd, ‘that you’re very tired.’

The buzzer on the stove sounded.

Flora Carter’s memorial service is attended by everyone in the town other than her father. We fill up the jetty, and I imagine it creaking and then collapsing, throwing all of us into the water. Hay Carter stands alone, with space around her, and all I can think is that I’ve never seen her in black before. Only cut-offs and white singlets with the bra straps showing. Today nothing shows, she is swallowed by the black dress, bodyless, just her feet poke out the bottom, heels that she will struggle to walk back down the jetty in, that will stick in the cracks of the soft sun-bleached wood.

People say different things about Flora. Someone sings the song from the Titanic movie. The triplets fidget next to me, whisper to each other and then Iris smacks one of them on the back of the head and they are quiet again. I don’t hear any words, but I do hear the splash of the wreath as it’s thrown into the water. I see Denver’s mother is watching from the edge of the trees. I think we look each other in the eye. She takes three slow steps backwards into the shrub and she stands still. The human eye senses movement before all else .

Back home, Mum pours a glass of wine, does nothing about making lunch for the triplets who bang through the cupboards, looking for food. Iris is already upstairs, out of the way of us all. I perch at the kitchen table with Mum, and Dad opens a beer and stands with his back to us.