Jenni Fagan - The Sunlight Pilgrims

— What are you doing up here on your own?

— I just came out on my bike.

— I can see that.

— I’m going home now.

— You shouldn’t be up the mountain on your own in this weather — you’re asking for trouble.

— I’m fine.

— Get in.

— No, thanks.

The dogs are barking like crazy behind them both and he drives slowly, just looking at her for a minute, and she looks back at him the way she has seen her mother look at men to let them know she is not intimidated by them for even one tiny second. He nods briefly and begins to wind up his window.

— I was only going to give you a lift back down toward the motorway, he says.

— I’m fine.

— You’re not fine, you’re soaking; you’d better get home pronto. Are you Constance’s girl?

— Aye.

— Tell her I was asking for her. Bye.

His truck trundles down the road. His wife is the only woman in that farm all year round. There are men hired in summer time or for the hunting season to help out. Stella was up there a few springs back with her mum, sitting at their rough old wooden kitchen table, and there was clutter everywhere. Pieces of antler and bills with tea spilled on them; old oil lanterns and stacks of dog-food. The farmer sat smoking one of those clear pipe things and filled it up with oil three times while they were there. He drinks in the old boat club with the other locals from this part of the mountain. Constance says they drink so much in there it’s a miracle they keep the land going at all. She has driven past at seven in the morning a few times and seen the bar lights still on from the night before.

When the winter really kicks in, the farmhouse will be snowed in for months.

It gives her the creeps.

Nobody is laughing any more. The Thames has frozen over and they are holding fairs on it and she saw a picture of Trafalgar Square with all the water frozen around the sculptures and snow on all the grand buildings. It looked like fucking Moscow! The cold is down in her bones but there is something clean about it. Honest. Nobody is dead yet on their street, but two people froze on the way home in Edinburgh yesterday. This is the coldest day so far. Stella turns out into the field behind the caravan park and she can see her mum’s ambulance away in the distance. It looks like it is parked. It looks like she might have walked up to see Alistair. She remembers seeing them fight one time and her mum was so angry, Alistair goading and poking and pricking and sneaky and mean, really, really mean. Dylan, he would be the one to be there for her mum.

A truck races along the farm road.

It screeches to a stop in front of her. There are two men in the front and she steps onto the verge to let them by, but they pull up closer. There is a skinny one and an older one who has ragged hair and a lumberjack shirt. She can smell them both right away, like they don’t wash, like they sleep in a room with their dogs, like they drink beer for breakfast. Stella looks along the farm road to see if her mum is walking along there, but nobody else is out. The older one winds down his window.

— You seen a dog?

Stella shakes her head.

— S’been up the back fields worrying sheep, must be a big one — you’ve not see anything?

— No, I’ve not seen a dog loose. There’s just the ones penned up back at the farm.

— You the farmer’s girl?

Stella nods, hoping the idea of having a father with a gun will make them move on and stop looking at her like they can see through her clothes.

— You stay away if you see the dog. It’s a vicious one — it’s killed three sheep, it has. We’ve lost four along on the other side of Clachan Fells this morning. Going to sort it out when we find it!

He shifts the way he is sitting so she can see his shotgun.

Stella takes a step back.

If her mum would just appear right now. The men sit there a minute longer; they look her up and down, then the older one nods his head and starts the engine as the younger one leers. They drive away slowly. It’s good they thought she was the farmer’s girl. She wasn’t going to put them right on that. Her legs are shaky. They could put her in the back of that van. Who would know? She scans the fields for any sign of her mum but can’t see her. Constance will be out looking for her, though, and she’ll be pissed off. Stella is really beginning to freeze and her teeth chatter; she has to get inside and have a hot shower and get dry clothes on. She speeds down the hill. Snow has settled on her handlebars and it gathers in the spokes of her bike. She forces the bike over the lane, but the snow is deeper here and she has to push it harder again. Her muscles burn and her breath is tight and ragged as a knot in her chest. She throws her bike over the frozen burn where the sinking sand is, and she shouldn’t go this way because a boy died here doing exactly this ten years ago, but if she leaps after it and grabs a branch — just to be sure. She jumps and grabs onto the branches of a tree to pull herself over. The rough bark is slippy with snow and frost. She grips it harder, so it marks her skin. She shoves her bike through brambles and comes out behind the garages where the gorse bushes have long shed their yellow flowers and everything is frozen. And she looks back to where the sinking sand is and stands there, just for a minute, wondering if it would suck her in.

STELLA FORGOT he had her private e-mail. Vito and Stella. Stella and Vito. He is going to college in a few years’ time to study architecture. There is a light on in the corner to show that he is typing. You should come to Italy, when you are older! He types again and a thumbs-up emoticon appears, then a dancing heart, then hands clapping. She unwinds the towel from around her head and combs her hair out. She had to stand in the shower for twenty minutes before she felt warm. Snow lies six feet up the caravan outside. If it keeps going, they will have to dig to keep the windows clear. On the telly there are abandoned cars covered in snow on motorways across the country. A girl had to be rescued when she fell asleep outside and she is still in a coma now. People are being found frozen up and down the country. There is footage where troops of people are going into community halls to live because their homes have no heat or electricity, or the pipes are frozen. They wave little home-made flags on the telly and raise cups of hot soup.

That has already happened at Clachan Fells. Stella went past the community hall a few days ago and there were about thirty people using camp-beds already. Stella comes out of her private e-mail and logs back onto the website. Thankfully it lets her. It must not delete an account for a month or so. There is half an hour before she has to be at the doctor’s. She goes straight to the chat forum and posts a new topic: How to get hormone-blockers from your doctor? The boy from Italy is there. He types in LOL . Then a thumbs up. He is so cute. He is sixteen. She looks at his picture. He doesn’t look like he ever transitioned at all. He has a beard and a moustache and he’s posing on someone’s boat in front of a beautiful little bay. If they had babies he, as her husband, would have to carry them, if he can even still do that. The cursor flashes at the bottom of the screen. Over at Barnacle’s front door he is making his way slowly up his steps, stooped over further into his C than ever, and he closes his door and then his light goes on inside even though it isn’t dark yet. What’s the weather like there? Are you scared it’s an Ice Age? Stella finishes combing her hair while she thinks about it. She types a reply. More scared about how to go through transition, don’t know how to do it. I don’t want any operations, either, not even when I’m older. She gets up to pour herself a cup of hot tea and think about how odd these conversations seem to her at times, but how much easier it is to explain it to a stranger like Vito than anyone else. You don’t have to have any operations. He types this and she tries to imagine him sitting in his house; people, noise, stuff. I guess I don’t know how to do this. LOL, thanks for chatting Vito. He sends a smiley emoticon, then a surprised one, then one dancing around. There is not any one right way. She is glad now that she came on here. I just don’t want hair on my face. Vito and Stella. You are so young. Kissing up a tree. You can get help. The bride was barefoot and happy. The hormone-blockers will stop all of that happening. Get them. Don’t take no for an answer, be tough! They would live in Italy. Her mum could send postcards of Clachan Fells all covered in snow and she would send her presents of little coloured bowls. O ur Prime Minister said recently it was better to be a fascist than a homosexual or trans. It is very macho here, they accept men dressed as women but only if they are magical, like in the stories. They tell lottery numbers or predict things, but if they do it just to be a man, or boy, as I do, or just to be a woman working in an office and having a boyfriend, they don’t like that, they think it is awful. It is changing, but so slowly. Stella buttons up her warmest cardigan and pulls on thick socks. The news is now showing entire areas of Europe lit up in red. Extreme Alert. Lots of parts of the US, Africa; the snowstorm is spreading and they have given her a name: Cecilia. I like you, Vito. He flashes up a bowing heart. I like you too, little Stella, but you are young and like my little sister. I am happy to chat to you if you like to, any day. She grins. He is a nice boy. Far more handsome than Lewis Brown. Is it snowing where you are right now, Stella? She looks out of the window, where snow is falling heavily again already. Clachan Fells might become a huge blanket of white snow and ice and they will all go to sleep one night like Pompeii, but frozen instead, with teddies curled up in her arms or her mum with a book by her side. She sends him a nodding emoticon. Stay warm , he says and logs off, she turns the television up and pulls a blanket around herself. Stella does not want to add an extra log to the fire, now they are on rations, so she is wearing more and more layers. Her fingers are still pink and her skin blotchy from being outside in the cold for so long. She should not have tried to go up the mountain.