The Wild Way Home Page 2

  Then, from somewhere else, somewhere outside, I hear that low gravelly voice again. Cholliemurrum, almost like it’s saying my name.

  I freeze, staring out of the window into the stillness of the garden and the dim of Mandel Forest beyond.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I squeak.

  But nobody answers.

  Of course not.

  I am just imagining stuff.

  The summer breeze swishes the leaves. It’s only the wind. Only the wind.

  ‘Charlieeee!’

  My heart lurches but it’s just Dad calling up the stairs. I laugh at myself then.

  ‘Charlie Merriam! Stop reading and turn that light out – it’s late and you’ve got a big day tomorrow!’

  ‘OK, Dad!’ I slip the deertooth back into my shorts pocket, pack my collection away and start to get ready for bed. Tomorrow will be here soon, and tomorrow’s my twelfth birthday!

  BIRTHDAYS

  ‘Charlie,’ whispers Dad, ‘Charlie, wake up.’

  I roll over and open my eyes. It’s still dark. Dad’s crouched down by my bed; his face looks pale in the moonlight. My clock says 03.03. Not even morning! I close my eyes again.

  ‘Charlie!’ This time I hear the urgency in his voice. ‘Charlie Merriam!’

  Something’s wrong. I sit straight up.

  ‘Is Mum OK? Is the baby coming?’

  ‘The baby’s here, Charlie! We had to dash off to hospital in the night; we didn’t want to wake you up so Margot from next door came over.’ Dad grins the biggest, cheesiest grin. ‘Charlie, you’ve got a little brother!’

  I smile back. A baby! A baby brother!

  Then I stop smiling and go all cold inside.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Don’t worry, love, Mum’s fine. Women have been having babies since the beginning of time. She’s just very tired and a bit … surprised – the baby came much faster than you did when you were born.’ Dad reaches out and strokes my hair.

  I smile again and at the same time my eyes fill up with tears.

  ‘Why’re you crying, you big banana?’ Dad cuddles me. His chin is prickly and his breath smells of coffee, but I cuddle him back.

  ‘I’m not crying.’ I sniff.

  Dad kisses the top of my head.

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ He gets up and darts out of my room. I hear him galloping down the stairs.

  I can’t believe the baby’s been born.

  Today.

  I kneel on my bed and look through the open window at the full moon; it’s all blurry because of the tears. I rub my eyes and take a deep breath of cool night air.

  Today is my birthday.

  Just thinking it makes my eyes well up again. Why am I even crying? It’s my birthday! And I’ve got … a brother … the one thing I’ve always wished for. That’s way more important than having a birthday all to yourself.

  ‘You’re a nutball, Charlie Merriam,’ I say to myself through my stupid tears.

  Outside a blackbird starts to sing. Another bird joins in and another and another until the whole dark garden and the whole dark forest beyond are alive with birdsong. I try to stop myself from crying by thinking about birds, not babies.

  Birds don’t have birthdays. They only live for a few years and then they die.

  Then I’m thinking about dead birds, and that doesn’t exactly cheer me up.

  The photo in the silver frame by my bed catches my eye. It’s the one of Mum and Dad and me from when I was just born. Twelve years ago today. I lift the photo into the moonlight so that I can see us properly. Mum and Dad look kind of the same, just a bit less old and a bit less chubby. But it’s hard to believe that I was that baby; that baby is actually me.

  But now there’s another baby. A new one. The hot tears rise again.

  I hear Dad galumphing back upstairs.

  ‘Happy birthday to you.’ He comes round my door, singing, his face lit up with candlelight. ‘Happy birthday to you.’

  In one hand Dad is holding one of Mum’s scented candles from the mantelpiece so the air smells of waxy jasmine blossom; on his other hand he’s balancing a Mr Kipling French Fancy. He’s kind of got it all wrong and kind of got it all right at the same time. I giggle and wipe my eyes on the corner of my covers.

  ‘Happy birthday, dear Charlieeeeeee.’ He smiles so wide when he sings the end of my name. ‘Happy birthday to yoooooooooo!’ he hoots.

  My lips make the blowing shape and I shut my eyes to make the same secret wish I’ve always wished. But then I have to open them again because I can’t wish my old wish any more. For as long as I can remember, I’ve wished that I could stop being an only child. And now …

  I grin at Dad. ‘A brother!’ I say. ‘My brother!’ The words feel all new and strange in my mouth.

  ‘Yep.’ Dad grins back. He looks all dazed, like he doesn’t quite believe it either.

  So I close my eyes and blow out my candle.

  Dad bows grandly and presents me with the yellow French Fancy.

  ‘Thanks.’ I take it and bite off the creamy top bit. ‘The lemon ones are my favourites.’

  ‘I know. Mine too.’ Dad produces another, slightly dented, French Fancy from his jacket pocket. ‘Cheers!’ We clink our French Fancies together and Dad sits down on my bed.

  We munch and listen to the skyful of birdsong. It’s just starting to get light.

  ‘Your brother wasn’t born today, you know,’ says Dad, staring out of the window. ‘Eleven thirty-two last night in fact.’ Dad puts his arm around me. ‘So you can have your birthday back.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I look up at him and he gives my shoulder a squeeze; Dad looks tired and happy and crumby. The little balloon of happiness in my chest starts to puff back up again. ‘What’s the baby called?’

  ‘Dara.’

  ‘Dara.’ My new brother’s name sounds soft and wispy when I say it; I try it again, this time in a strong voice. ‘Dara!’ Now he sounds like a warrior. ‘Dara. OK.’

  I lean into Dad’s hug even though I’m twelve now and probably getting too old for so much soppy cuddling. Then Dad starts to hum quietly; I recognise the tune right away and I sigh: it’s the first song I ever knew – the silly song Dad always used to sing to me at bedtime when I was little. I know what’s coming, but for some reason I don’t tell Dad to be quiet. Sure enough, Dad starts to sway gently, then soft-as-soft he sings:

  ‘Row, row, row your boat

  Off into the night

  And if you meet a tiger

  Don’t give him a fright …

  … Raaaaaaaaa!’ Dad growls in my ear, trying to make me jump.

  I just giggle. I remember how he always used to change the animal every bedtime so I never quite knew which one we’d meet. I shake my head at him, still laughing. ‘You’re such a nutball, Dad!’

  Dad pretends to be offended. ‘Don’t know what you think is so funny, Charlie Merriam. It’s a very serious life lesson; ah well, you’ll thank me one day … should you ever find yourself in tiger country, that is …’

  ‘Oh, Dad!’ I say, and I snuggle in. Just for a moment I let myself feel little again, little and loved and safe.

  We sit together and listen to the singing of the birds in the wide-awake forest. Dad yawns a big long yawn. I gaze out of my window; in the last of the bluey dark a tiny moth flutters up, up and is gone. She’s heading for the moon.

  BABY

  ‘Dad,’ I whisper, ‘Dad! Wake up!’

  Midsummer sunshine is pouring through my window. We must’ve both fallen asleep. I can hear Dad’s phone vibrating like an angry hornet.

  I wriggle out from under Dad’s sleep-heavy arm and give him a good shake.

  ‘Dad! Come on! Where’s your phone? It’s probably Mum!’

  ‘Mum?!’ he says, sitting suddenly upright, like someone has just pressed his on switch. ‘Where’s Mum?’

  ‘Where do you think she is?’ I say, rolling my eyes at him. ‘In hospital with Dara maybe?’

  The phone (wherever it is)
stops buzzing.

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Dad, sinking back again, a big dozy grin on his face. ‘Dara Merriam, I almost forgot about that one.’

  His phone starts vibrating again.

  ‘Where have you put your stupid phone, Dad?’

  ‘In my shoe,’ says Dad as if that is the most obvious answer in the world; as if that’s where every sensible adult keeps their phone. I raise an eyebrow at him and reach under my bed, grabbing the shoe, which I hand to Dad.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, and pretends that the shoe itself is the phone. ‘Hello?’

  I can’t help laughing even though he is being totally ridiculous. He finally answers it properly.

  ‘Hello, love,’ he says to Mum. ‘Sorry. Couldn’t find my phone.’

  I shake my head at him. Over at the hospital, I imagine, Mum is probably shaking her head at him too.

  ‘I know. Sorry. How are you? How’s Dara? … Great, that’s great … Charlie? Yeah, Charlie’s grand.’ Dad winks at me. ‘No, of course I didn’t forget; we had birthday cake at three in the morning! Yes … with candles.’

  I laugh. Holding up my index finger, I mouth the words, ‘One candle!’

  ‘Yep. Right beside me. Yep, ’course you can. Here’s Charlie.’

  I take the phone. ‘Hi, Mum.’

  Mum sings ‘Happy Birthday to You’ very quietly, like it’s a big secret. I imagine she doesn’t want to wake the baby.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I say. ‘How’re you?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, Charlie. Here, listen, your brother wants to say something to you.’

  I listen to the shuffling sound as Mum puts the phone next to Dara. Then nothing. Or maybe the tiniest whisper of his breath.

  Then Mum’s voice comes back on. ‘Did you catch that?’ she asks softly. ‘He just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’ I smile. ‘Tell him happy birthday from me too.’

  Mum laughs. Even her laugh sounds smaller and quieter than usual. ‘Love you, Charlie. Can’t wait to see you in a bit.’

  ‘Love you too, Mum. See you later. Bye.’ I pass the phone back to Dad.

  ‘Hello again, so when are they releasing you from captivity? … Right.’ Dad gets up and wanders out of my room. ‘When will that be?’

  I lean my elbows on the window sill and look outside. It’s a beautiful day; the air tastes warm and full of promise. I love it that our house is right on the edge of Mandel Forest; you just open the gate at the bottom of our garden and you’re there – in the oldest wood in the whole country. I can smell the sweet scent of honeysuckle and the sharp stink of elderflower; the leaves of the birch trees at the forest’s edge flicker silver in the sunlight. I stand up on the window sill; over the hill on the other side of the forest I can just see the glinting metal roof of the hospital tower – that’s where Mum is. I smile to myself. And Dara. In one of the neighbours’ gardens a lawnmower engine hums; somewhere else little kids are playing. I can hear them squealing and squeaking like kittens. I lean out a bit so I can see into Lamont’s garden, just in case he’s there. But there’s only Nero, snoozing in the morning sun.

  ‘Lamont!’ I yell. ‘Hey, Lamont!’

  I hear the clunk and slide of his bedroom window opening, then his tousled head appears.

  ‘Hi, Charlie.’ Lamont yawns. ‘Happy birthday!’

  That takes me by surprise a bit because I’d almost forgotten. I can’t believe I’d almost forgotten my own birthday!

  ‘Thanks.’ I say. ‘Guess what?’

  ‘You got a phone?’

  ‘Nope. Not yet anyway. I got a brother!’

  Lamont’s eyes widen like he’s suddenly awake and he grins a huge grin. ‘Wooooohooooo!’ he yells. ‘That’s brilliant, Charlie! A brother! I’m jealous!’

  Lamont has one sister, Marie. She’s fourteen and she’s only interested in horses and boyfriends.

  ‘A brother!’ he says again. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Dara,’ I say. The word feels very new when I say it.

  ‘Nice,’ says Lamont.

  ‘Nice,’ I say back, and we grin at each other out of our bedroom windows.

  I hear Lamont’s mum calling him from inside the house.

  ‘Gotta go,’ he says, and his head disappears back through his window. Then pops straight back out, like a cuckoo in a cuckoo clock.

  ‘Brilliant!’ he says, and he gives me a big thumbs up before he vanishes inside again.

  I smile proudly to myself, all tingly and warm inside, because Lamont’s right, it is brilliant to have a brother at last. ‘I’m the eldest,’ I say to myself, practising. I look at my tatty old playhouse, abandoned for years at the bottom of the garden. I’ll paint it up again really nicely, blue and white. I’ll fill my old sandpit with new sand too and Dara can play in it when he’s bigger. I imagine taking Dara paddling in the river for the first time, when he can walk of course. Then I imagine holding his hand as he toddles along the high street and, in my head, Mrs Rodriguez, my old primary school teacher, comes out of the Co-op and sees us.

  Who’s this then, Charlie? she asks in my daydream.

  ‘This is my little brother, Dara,’ I say out loud, bringing myself back to where I actually am.

  I hear a real-life miaow. It’s Howard Carter, my cat, who’s in the kitchen, still waiting for his breakfast. Poor old Howard Carter! Usually Mum feeds him first thing, or Dad. Maybe looking after Howard Carter will end up being my job now that Dara’s here. I head downstairs to feed him.

  As I pass Mum and Dad’s bedroom I hear Dad’s voice from behind the closed door.

  ‘Are you sure?’ He sounds serious.

  I stop to listen.

  ‘Are you sure you’re sure? Did you mention it to the doctor?’

  My heart starts to thud.

  ‘OK. OK, love. Calm down. We’ll be in to see you later. It’s all right … It’s all right.’

  Is something wrong with Mum? With the baby?

  ‘No, no, of course I won’t say anything to Charlie … Yep. Yep. Will do. Give Dara a kiss from me too. Love you. Bye.’

  Dad opens the door and nearly bowls me over.

  ‘Oh,’ he says.

  ‘What exactly won’t you say to Charlie?’

  ‘Oh,’ he says again.

  ‘What’s wrong? Is Mum sick? Is Dara all right?’

  ‘No. Mum’s not sick, Charlie. She’s just a bit tired and upset because it’s been a long day and a long night. She wants to come home, with Dara, so we can all be together.’

  ‘Well, why can’t they come home?’

  ‘They will. The doctors just need to check them both over and say it’s OK first.’

  ‘Then why’s Mum so worried?’

  Dad hesitates. ‘She’s not worried.’

  My dad is a really bad liar. I stare at him until his eyes meet mine.

  ‘Charlie.’ He sighs again. ‘We don’t want you to worry …’

  ‘Dad!’ I sigh back at him. ‘I’m already worried! And I’d rather know what to worry about, otherwise I’ll just worry anyway. I’ll worry about stuff that isn’t even actually happening.’

  Dad thinks about that for a minute and finally nods.

  ‘And I’m twelve now anyway. I can handle it.’

  Dad smiles; his eyes crinkle up at the edges.

  ‘Mum’s a bit worried about Dara. The doctors did some tests. They listened to Dara’s heart and it doesn’t sound quite right. So they’re doing some scans and things, to check that everything’s fine. That’s all. It’s probably nothing. Nothing to worry about.’ Dad smiles at me but this time it doesn’t reach his eyes.

  I nod and give Dad a little smile back.

  ‘OK,’ I say. Behind my back I cross my fingers so tight it hurts, as my head whirls with thoughts about my new baby brother and his tiny not-right heart.

  DARA

  I see Mum through the glass door before she sees me. She’s sitting up in the hospital bed with the covers over her legs, staring out of
the big window. Usually Mum ties her hair back but today it’s big and frizzy and wild.

  We open the door. Mum turns to face us. She smiles and stretches out her hand to me.

  ‘Charlie!’ she says. ‘Happy birthday!’

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  Mum takes my hand and squeezes it. ‘It’s great to see you, Charlie.’

  Her hand feels too hot. I squeeze it back, then I shove my hand into my pocket.

  ‘Great to see you too.’

  I don’t want to meet Mum’s eyes, in case I see a sadness there that I don’t want to be true.

  I look around the room: a metal bed with Mum in it; a red chair with Dad on it; a folded-away TV screen; a small white cupboard; dangly medical stuff attached to the wall.

  ‘Where’s the baby?’ I ask quietly. My neck prickles with a horrible cold, worried feeling.

  ‘Dara’s …’ Mum starts to answer, but then the door opens and a nurse bustles in backwards pulling a squeaky trolley, with a transparent baby bed on top, a bit like a fish tank.

  ‘Here’s little one!’ says the nurse brightly.

  I stand back to let the nurse park the trolley next to Mum’s bed.

  ‘Beautiful little brother you’ve got there, love,’ she says to me with a smile.

  She writes something on a clipboard and goes out again.

  ‘Come here, Charlie,’ says Dad. But he’s not looking at me, he’s gazing into the baby bed and his eyes have gone all melty. Mum’s staring dreamily at the baby too.

  A little pang of jealousy wriggles in my tummy. Trying to smile, I squish the pang away, step closer to the baby bed and peer in.

  Dara.

  My brother.

  Maybe it sounds daft, but I’d thought I’d kind of recognise him, just see immediately that he’s my brother, but … he looks not like I expected at all. I think of all those wriggly, giggly babies you see in nappy adverts and I swallow. Dara doesn’t look like that.

  I stare down at him: