Chapter 13

‘Did you have a good day?’

As Jay got into the car and she set off towards home, Marilyn wondered if her voice betrayed the fact that she’d missed him. It was Friday afternoon and, with the barn’s concrete floor laid and hardening, she’d spent the best part of the day at the craft centre workshop while Jay had returned to the marketplace. He leaned over and gave her a quick hello kiss and she realised how much having him around had come to mean to her. It was just under a week since he’d appeared, even then getting on with his digging as if he’d always belonged there, but it seemed more like a month. They’d achieved a lot; Alan still couldn’t tell her when he’d be ready to turn his attention to her barn, and she was seriously beginning to wonder if she needed or wanted him to. She liked having Jay around.

‘Mike Greene was pleased to see me – I honestly wondered if he’d remember me. You know, I think I saw one or two shoppers from last week and I’d swear even they remembered me.’

He sounded boyish in his pleasure at the recognition.

‘That’s great. You’re already claiming that territory as your own.’

The silence surprised her like something tangible. She gave him a moment then glanced at him. ‘Jay? I said—’

‘Yeah, I could be a regular. That’d be good.’ He stared at the road ahead. ‘Anyway, I can get to know the bus routes, go a bit further afield.’

‘You don’t want people getting too familiar with your stories, do you?’ she said, trying to understand his sudden change in mood.

‘I’ve got quite a repertoire, and I’m always putting new stuff together.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean—’

‘I know you didn’t. It’s me.’

‘What? Was there something wrong in Holdwick?’

‘No, it was good. I like it round here.’

‘So what’s bothering you?’ she insisted.

‘What the–?’

A car overtook them in a ridiculously tight spot as another appeared round a bend. Marilyn had to brake hard, as did the approaching car. Jay swore at the receding tailgate of the overtaker then grinned at Marilyn in relief. The previous moment had gone and, as her pulse slowed from the adrenalin of the incident, she realised she was glad she’d been saved from pushing it with him. There was no point; he’d told her little more about his life before they met than she’d learned in the first couple of days – there were fleeting moments when he seemed to want to, but he always backed off, covering his momentary weakness with flippancy. It was probably for the best; she was enjoying their growing intimacy but was wary of getting too attached. He would leave, sooner or later. It was bound to happen and she would handle that when the time came.

‘Nice one,’ he was saying. ‘You handled that well. Good job, too – I don’t want anything happening to my gracious employer.’

She smiled. His teasing reassured her – that lighthearted banter that kept it all at arm’s length. A working partnership, a friendship. Sex. She had even become used to his occasional brief mood changes. They never lasted and certainly never implied any blame of her.

‘I don’t want to feel I’m tying you down,’ she found herself saying later, over dinner. ‘I could manage. You know…if ever you felt you needed to get away for a while.’

‘What makes you say that? I’ve got a job to finish.’

‘I was just wondering,’ she ventured. ‘I know how much you love the freedom of life on the road. Something I said earlier, about establishing yourself a pitch…it seemed to get at you. I’d hate you to think I’m trying to commit you to anything you don’t want. I’m not.’

He finished his mouthful and grinned.

‘I don’t even know myself what got into me. If anything did.’

‘I mean it. I really appreciate the work you’re doing, and…I like having you around, but, you know, I don’t want either of us to feel any ties.’

He reached over and helped himself to another potato. ‘Sounds serious. Is this a kind way of trying to tell me something? Young Matt changed his tune, suggested a reconciliation?’

‘No!’ It was out before she noticed his hint of a smile and mischievous eyes. She tried to rescue herself. ‘Carry on like that, though, and I might.’

She watched him eat, wondering if, despite her best efforts, she was allowing herself to get too attached.

‘Are you going back tomorrow?’ she asked, to stop herself thinking. ‘To Holdwick market?’

‘See? There you are trying to get rid of me and I’ve only been under your feet for a week.’ This time she saw the gleam in his eye and smiled without rising to the bait. He shrugged. ‘Why not? I think Mike would like me to. I know the bus times now.’

‘Take the car if you like.’

‘Thanks, but I don’t like to think of you stranded, with the phone still off and all.’

‘Don’t remind me. But I’m not going anywhere tomorrow. You know what I’ve got on.’

She’d made a start at tackling the piles of boxes in the spare room. The clutter had seemed to multiply and the landing was now almost impassable. Letters, souvenirs and photos kept surfacing, demanding her attention and surrounding her with nostalgia, before a decision had to be made between ruthlessness or putting back in a box for posterity. She’d hoped that with an objective helper, one who clearly wasn’t used to being surrounded with cupboards and shelves for hoarding, she might end up with more space in her house. But although Jay had seemed interested enough in sharing her memories, he insisted that saying goodbye to a phase of her life and starting a new one was something she had to do for herself.

‘That settles it. I’ll clear off tomorrow, and in my absence you’ll have that room emptied and ready to paint, with all your equipment ready to set up in the barn the minute we get it finished.’

‘You make it sound easy.’

‘Isn’t it?’ He got up, cleared their plates and took them to the sink. ‘It’s surprisingly easy,’ he said over the sound of running water.

They spent the early evening making a further attempt on the landing and clearing more space in the spare room. Jay had moved into her room and spent every night there since the previous Tuesday, but he was a restless sleeper. He said he wanted that small space of his own so he could leave her bed to avoid disturbing her – although the couple of times he had she’d sensed him go.

‘Do you honestly only have what you carry around with you?’ she asked him as she shook open another black bin bag.

‘More or less.’

‘Nothing in that house of yours?’

‘It’s let unfurnished. Walls and a roof. I do have a small store in one of those lock-and-go places nearby, though it’s hardly worth the rent for the few bits I keep there.’

‘What kind of bits?’

‘Papers, photos, a couple of old favourite toys.’ He shrugged, waved an arm towards the room. ‘Like that lot of yours only less of it.’

‘A lock-up store. Don’t you feel…rootless?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘You sound like you think that’s a good thing. I can’t imagine the reality of it. Scary.’

He laughed. ‘Totally scary – imagine the size of rucksack you’d need to cart all that clutter of yours around. Seriously, though,’ he looked over at her with a smile and she knew what was coming. ‘It reminds me of a story.’

‘That’s tonight’s entertainment sorted out, then.’

‘Once, an acorn got carried out of a forest onto the edge of a great plain. It took the sapling a little longer than its contemporaries to flourish without shelter from the winds, the frosts, the harsh sun. And the thinner soil of the plains, without the rich leaf mould of the forest floor, meant it had to send its roots out further to look for nourishment. But that made it strong, and once it began to grow there was no need to compete with its brothers, sisters and cousins in the forest for food and light. It grew, knowing one day it would raise a host of little saplings and spread the forest out over the plain. Trees don’t have feet but they understand time; they don’t think in days or miles but in generations.

‘For now, the beautiful oak was proud to be different, content in its solitary magnificence. And in the shade of its boughs in summer, a young man and woman courted and fell in love. Their clan was nomadic, wandering the plains with the seasons and settling for a while wherever they found food and water. Now the two lovers sat in the shade of the mighty oak and listened to the whispering of the leaves.

‘“I don’t want to leave this wonderful tree,” said the girl. “I’m tired of always roaming from place to place. We can stay and make ourselves a home in the shade of this beautiful oak.”

‘She claimed it was the tree who gave her the idea, though I suspect she chose to think that because she was a little scared of her own thoughts.

‘The girl got her way and when the clan moved on a small group stayed behind. And so a little village grew up around the tree. The people flourished over the years. They had plenty of food, they traded with the nomads; when they were threatened they were able to defend themselves on the raised hillock beyond the edge of the forest. And they had time. No longer did they have to roam the plains, hunting and foraging, but they stayed in one place and grew what they needed, with more time to devote to the arts, sciences and love – the good things in life.

‘Over centuries, the people came to revere the tree as their true founder. It stood, the magnificent centrepiece of a spacious garden before the palace of what had become a sizeable town. They left plenty of room for the rain to soak its roots and for the ground to provide nourishment. They developed special food, which they poured around it. As a result the grass there was richer and greener than any other grass; the flowers that grew there were rare and more colourful than any other flowers.

‘The people had a special ceremony every autumn, to thank the tree. In the prime of its life, when its magnificence matched the power and influence of the city, the tree produced an acorn for every man, woman and child. The acorns were gathered and distributed, and the people would keep them in special shrines in their houses for protection until the next autumn.

‘But trees get old like any living thing. Over the years the oak produced fewer acorns. At first they stopped giving them to children; to receive your autumn acorn became a sign of coming-of-age. Eventually the ageing tree produced so few acorns that the people held annual games, and competitions of the arts, beneath its branches to find the most worthy to receive the talismans. They believed this was the tree’s way of telling them they had to be strong and wise.

‘As time went by, and the tree grew older, there were only enough acorns for the strongest, no longer the wise, to receive one. Competition became so fierce that they would fight to the death. The blood that was shed beneath the tree appeared to revive it, and the people took to feeding it with human blood all year round. They used the blood of their enemies but in time, as the tree aged further, that was not enough. They began to make human sacrifices. And because they’d come to set greater store by strength than by wisdom, they believed that the whispering of the leaves on the few remaining living boughs told them this was the right thing to do.

‘But Arno, the gardener’s assistant, a small boy who would never be strong enough to be a warrior and win an acorn, knew that a tree could not want blood. He helped his master to give the tree its gory food. He cleared away the fallen leaves so that the bright green grass and beautiful flowers could flourish and remind the people that despite the tree’s ageing appearance, it remained the protector of their city. The boy would pause in his work and listen to the breeze in the leaves. He didn’t hear words but he understood that the oak knew it would not live forever, despite being fed blood, despite all the nurture the people of the city heaped on it. A tree should produce saplings to carry on its life. And there were no saplings because the acorns were all given away as annual prizes to the greatest warriors.

‘As autumn drew near, the boy would peer up into the remaining living branches, foreboding creeping over him. He hated autumn. It was his job to climb the tree before the games to gather the acorns. If so much as a twig snapped while he was climbing, it would be an omen and he would be taken as the next human sacrifice. But year on year the tree had protected him, keeping its remaining twigs and branches intact to save the boy’s life. This year, his last before he came of age, before he became too big to climb the tree, was especially terrifying. There were only two acorns on the tree, growing along the most fragile-looking branch. These were to be given to the king and queen; they in turn would give bountiful prizes to the winners of the games as the losers shed their blood to feed the oak’s roots.

‘Arno understood the rustling of the leaves, and knew it pained the tree to see all this being done in its name. A few nights before his ceremonial climb, he crept past the tree’s guards, who had become complacent – no one, not the greatest warrior, not even the smallest squirrel, would dare approach the tree in those days. He began to climb. His affinity with the tree, and the tree’s desire to help him in his purpose, meant he could keep the rustling of his climb quieter than the whispering of the withering autumn leaves and the creaking of the ancient branches. He plucked the two acorns, hid them in his pocket and scrambled down. He slipped past the sleeping guards and ran.

‘He escaped deep, deep into the woods, taking his acorns with him. He found a clearing in the densest part of the forest where no one would find him, and planted the acorns where there was enough light and mulch for them to grow, but where the trees gave them shelter and hid them from discovery. He was too afraid to go back; he stayed to nurture his saplings and live the life of a hermit.

‘News eventually reached the hermit from the kingdom which had once had a magic tree. He heard how the tree’s last two acorns had been lost, and the king and queen had retreated to their private stronghold to cocoon themselves against the disaster that would surely befall them. When all was still well the following autumn, but the tree had produced no acorns at all, they emerged, declaring that the oak had outlived its usefulness. They cut it down and used the wood to make a beautiful carved panel that would adorn the great hall of the palace forever. That autumn there were no vicious games, there was no bloodshed, but a great bonfire marked the ultimate sacrifice – the stump of the tree itself.

‘Arno the hermit was glad to hear the games had ceased, but sad at the news of his friend, the oak. He sat for a while beneath his two burgeoning trees, listening to the whisper of the breeze in their spring-green leaves and remembering their venerable father. He knew they would never be as mighty or as magnificent as the great oak, living as they did among the other trees of the forest. But they would be beautiful and they would pass on a part of the great tree in their acorns and saplings and that was how it should be.’

The glowing wood on the fire settled into itself noisily as it burned away. Marilyn felt almost guilty as she broke the moment and moved forward to feed the flames with another log. She sat cross-legged on the hearthrug and he came to sit beside her.

‘What is it you’re trying to tell me?’ she asked eventually.

He shrugged. ‘You said you thought the idea of rootlessness was scary. Look what happens when people become attached to places and things. When they start giving them symbols.’

‘Being attached doesn’t need to mean blood sacrifices.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ he said.

‘You’re saying it’s wrong to want to belong?’

‘Not wrong. Just that…it scares me.’

He fell silent. She sensed he was willing her to ask more.

‘Scares you why?’

He shrugged. ‘I respect those who feel it, that attachment to a particular place, and so I sympathise with them. And I’ve supported some. People feel the need to defend their territory, and who am I to argue just because I’ve never truly felt it myself, deep down? It’s real, that need – but, like religious faith, I can’t say I genuinely understand it. Though believe me, I’ve tried. Even convinced myself for a while.’

He looked away, running a hand through his hair, before meeting her eyes again. ‘If any one set of people had a God-given right – well, as I don’t believe in God, let’s say an inherent, indisputable right – to a particular place, then why would others feel they have that right, too, and claim the same space? Who’s right and who’s wrong? At the end of the day people just want to get on with their lives. What does it matter what the environment they do that in is called?’

‘It matters if those “others” are trying to impose a different way of life, especially one that leaves people worse off.’

He shrugged. ‘Of course. I love the richness of different cultures and I’d like to think I respect the ones I encounter. I just wish they didn’t so often seem to be mutually exclusive. You know, I’m not talking about simply being meek and mild and letting anything happen. If you believe in something enough you should defend it. But a lot of the time it doesn’t really appear to be about that. It becomes a great mass identity that can blind people and drown out personal responsibility. And that’s when it becomes dangerous, especially if some madman comes along, takes it and feeds on it to gain power. The identity becomes the cause and people lose sight of individuals – themselves or anyone else.’

‘Are you referring to any cause in particular?’

He smiled and looked away again, shaking his head slightly.

‘I’m generalising as much as any extreme nationalist, aren’t I? Just being naïve and idealistic. Too much time spent on my own.’

He put an arm round her shoulder and drew her close.

‘I can’t explain. Some stories have answers. Others… others are just there to think about.’

The truck screeches to a sudden halt and he is aware of the crackle and roar of gunfire ahead. He steadies himself and releases his grip on the side of the flatbed. Lifting his rifle he glances warily into the trees, looks ahead to the abandoned house beyond where the other lorry is stopped. As he looks wildly around, he hears the word ‘ambush’ several times. Zasjeda. He is amazed by the kind of vocabulary he has learned in their language, then by how he can think such a banal thought at a time like this.

‘Keep down!’

He ducks his head below the side, putting out a hand to steady himself as the truck is thrown into reverse. There is angry shouting and it stops. The other truck is stuck somehow and they cannot abandon their comrades. A storm of noise and the whining hiss of bullets surrounds him. The focus of the attack is on the truck in front, but it is terrifying enough from where they are. He is fairly certain they have not yet reached their destination. He is not even sure which side of the self-declared border they are on, though they have stormed their way through a number of roadblocks. But whoever is in that cover, they are hostile, and this, this is not training, it is real.

He sees a figure weaving towards them through the trees, then fall as he is shot down. Ivan raises a triumphant fist and Lek claps him on the shoulder like a proud father. It is moments like this that Šojka feels like the foreigner he is. Lek sees him watching, glares at him with his usual contempt. He returns the older man’s stare unflinching before turning away and firing at a movement in the trees. This is not what he came to live here for, but doubtless none of them actually wants it like this. He will do his share.

The attack becomes more intermittent until the air is blissfully silent. No one trusts their enemy to have gone, but when the truck manoeuvres to turn round, Lek leans forward to the cab and shouts angrily at the driver to stay where they are. The vehicle ahead remains motionless, smoke drifting up from the engine. They roll nervously towards it. Several of the men are injured. Amazingly, no one in his own party is seriously hurt. They hurry to fetch the wounded, in a frenzy of activity so they can get away before the enemy return. He helps lift, support, carry, sickened by the blood, torn flesh and the sounds of agony. One of them does not move at all.

They set off on the overcrowded truck, pressed together like the crowds at the matches his father used to take him to when he was a boy. It is less claustrophobic at the back, but the raised tailgate presses painfully into his side and he hopes it is securely latched. He feels exposed. The moans of the wounded are almost worse than the sounds of battle, making him feel guilty for even noticing his discomfort. He wonders how the injured men will manage on the crowded truck during the half-hour journey back, and allows himself to admit relief that he is separated from the huddle of those tending them and won’t have to face putting his first-aid training into practice. He concentrates on keeping watch from the back of the truck. Ivan is doing the same from the side, and gives him the thumbs-up sign. His friend’s grin seems incongruous but he echoes the gesture.

A burst of acceleration shoves him against the unforgiving tailgate and he hears the chatter of gunfire above his own cursing. He looks up and on the scrubby hillside sees a small makeshift emplacement. Only two of them. He gets them in his sights as well as he can. Despite the bouncing of the truck he has the sensation of seeing them unnaturally clearly. There are more than two now. The nearest is aiming straight back at him. He tries to compensate for the movement of the truck; it is impossible but he fires anyway, telling himself that it’s them or him. In a moment of panicked confusion the kickback seems ridiculously exaggerated. This notion is shoved aside by the awareness of an overwhelming pain in his side. He is no longer bracing himself against the tailgate but borne up by the men next to him. Momentarily immobilised, he thinks please don’t let me fall out before succumbing and finding himself on the bed of the truck peering, bewildered, at the jumble of legs around him.

His body has curled around the pain and he is vaguely aware of being moved. His overwhelming feeling is shame that he has been taken in his first real sortie. As the commotion – he is not sure if it is the world or inside his own head – dies down, he hears the whimpering of a wounded man. He rolls his head and sees a man cowering, his face unrecognisable beneath blood from a head wound. Overcome by a surge of pain, Šojka shouts out, then tries to suppress it, tries to appear stoical as he realises they are examining and binding the wound in his side. Someone passes him a water bottle. He reaches clumsily but can’t grasp it; Ivan holds it to his lips. It hurts to drink but he gulps greedily. He pushes the bottle towards the man at his side, but it is snatched away.

‘One of them. We need to conserve it. We can deal with him when we get back.’ Ivan looks almost apologetic. ‘But you; are you—’

‘We can’t just leave him to suffer,’ he tries to say.

‘Our men are suffering.’ Ivan waves a hand over their own wounded men. ‘You are.’

His friend shrugs and he can’t argue as all his energy is consumed by the pain. Ivan tells him his wound isn’t so bad, he’ll survive, and it seems as if his friend believes it, that he’s not just muttering empty reassurance. But he knows what it is like to wish you were dead, as half an hour more of this nightmare journey stretches before him and every second is intolerable. He notices the way some of the others are looking at the prisoner and thinks he, too, would be better off dead. Ivan holds a different bottle to his lips. He thinks even the rakija can’t touch this, but gulps greedily. He imagines it leaking out of the wound and wishes he could stop his mind from working.

Ivan grins and asks couldn’t he have thought of an easier way to get out of the fighting. The last thing he remembers is trying to make himself smile back.