CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

‘What have you been doing today, Mia?’

‘We did drawings and Mrs Harrison read us a story.’

‘What did you draw, love?’

‘We all did a bird, we had to choose one from the book and we’re going to stick them up on the wall.’

‘And what bird did you choose?’

‘A house martin.’

‘Why did you choose that?’

‘Because I liked the colours. Blue and green. It had to be a bird that goes away and comes back.’

‘A migrating bird.’

‘Yes.’

‘I can show you the house martins that come back to the barn each year. They come back to the same nests where they were born. We can walk up there together one evening.’

‘Will Mum come too?’

‘You know she won’t, Mia. She’s not going to be here like that any more.’

‘She’s not going to come back, is she, Daddy?’

‘No, sweetheart. Well, she’ll visit us sometimes maybe. But not back to stay.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, Mia, not again. Please.’

‘How do the house martins know where to come back?’

‘I don’t know, sweetheart. A sort of homing instinct. Back to the same place where they were born.’

‘But what if they get lost?’

‘Well, maybe some do. Things happen. But most of them come back.’

The bus rumbled on. Mia drifted in and out of memories, thoughts, dreams, half asleep, lulled by the movement, the backcloth of voices as people greeted one another getting on and off. The bus travelled through small villages, back lanes, farms. Once she glimpsed the canal – a shining silver strip between willow trees.

The fields had changed into tarmacked streets, new estates, then the edges of a town. A load of schoolchildren got on, filled the seats at the back of the bus around Mia. Fragments of conversation floated in and out of Mia’s head. ‘Homework… Mr Briggs… did you see?’

The bus emptied out again, re-filled. Then they were in another town. Time to change buses. Three quarters of an hour to wait.

More roads, houses, fields, the river: nearly at Ashton, at last. The bridge. Mia peered through the steamed-up window. That was where she’d first seen Lainey. She hoped she was somewhere warmer, safer, than the precarious parapet or the lonely streets this cold night.

She’d missed the last bus to Whitecross: she’d have to get one as far as Stonegate and walk from there. Lights on in the bus. A ribbon of road stretching ahead. Sky getting darker, too early for sunset. Grey clouds like a blanket. A flock of seagulls flying in from the sea, settling on the dark ploughed fields. Raw cold. Wind hissing in the edges of the window flaps. Condensation misting the glass.

‘Cold enough for snow,’ someone said.

Mia rubbed a hole with her sleeve to see through. A circle of field, hedge, stone wall. As it got darker outside, the people on the bus seemed to pull closer together. There was more chatter, laughter. No one Mia recognized: the Whitecross people would have got the bus that went straight through, all the way.

The thought of the walk ahead made her feel tired, even though she’d slept most of the journey. Dad might be home, she could ring him. But no, she didn’t want her homecoming to be like that. She’d imagined it already: walking up the lane, into the garden. The lights would be on, but the curtains still undrawn so she’d see into the kitchen, and Dad at the table, probably, with a mug of tea. And she’d ring the bell, even though she had a key, and he would open the door and hold out his arms.

She tried another version. He stands there at the door, barring her way in. Too late. You ran off, you make your own way. You’re not my daughter any more.

And another. Through the lit window she sees Miss Blackman holding hands with Dad across the kitchen table. They lean forward, kiss. The window is open. She hears their voices. So glad it’s just us two. It couldn’t have worked with Mia around. She needed to go. It was all for the best. Now we have each other –

‘Everybody off! End of the road!’ The bus driver enjoyed turning them out on to the darkening street. There weren’t many houses in Stonegate; just a cluster of older stone buildings near the pub and the church and a sprawl of newer bungalows along the main road. Everyone getting off the bus was old, Mia noticed. Except her.

‘Where are you heading, dear?’ A woman in a headscarf turned towards Mia.

‘Whitecross.’

‘It’s a bit of a walk, dear. Nearly two miles.’

‘I know. I’m OK.’

‘Well, if you’re sure. It’s getting dark.’

‘I’m fine. Really.’

She could feel their eyes following her as she humped her bag on to her shoulder and began to walk along the main road. Imagined the gossip. What a state to get in… Did you see how dirty?… Youth… drugs… not in our day… somebody’s daughter –

The pavement went as far as the end bungalow, then petered out. There weren’t many cars, but they went too fast, whizzing past and swerving out at the last minute as they caught sight of her in the headlights. She hadn’t realized it would get dark so early. The cold lump of fear in her belly grew bigger, more leaden. Too easy for someone not to see, to hit her, not even stop.

The wind was bitter. She crossed the main road and went down a small lane that seemed to be roughly the right direction, towards where the sea must be. Then she could go along the strip of beach that ran the whole way. She wouldn’t have to go into Whitecross at all. It took her towards a farm, and then there was a footpath sign. At last. She could hear the scrape and suck of waves on shingle. The path opened out; there was the beach. It was lighter here, away from any trees; the sea reflected back the strange grey light from the clouds. Icy cold.

Mia headed into the wind and crunched along the pebbles in the direction of home. She could see the lights of Whitecross village ahead, tiny pinpricks a very long way off. She had to keep stopping to shift the weight of her bag, and to wipe her eyes where the wind stung them into tears. She hadn’t eaten anything for hours. Keep going. Head down. No choice now. No giving up. Her and little bean, going home.

Nearly there. Up the lane. Through the open gate. First few scurries of snow driven on the wind. Mia lifted her head. Flakes, like soft white feathers, drifting down.

The house was in darkness.