Deep Water, Thin Ice (13 page)

‘But he’s hurt?’

‘Mm. Looks as though he’s been hit by a car. Where did you find him?’

‘Over towards the trees at the other side of the park. Near the road. But he’d never have got there himself. He couldn’t move.’

‘No, but the fox might have found it injured by the side of the road and taken advantage. Looks like you disturbed him just before his hearty breakfast. It’s young. I don’t think he’s quite fully grown. One of this year’s leverets I imagine.’

‘What can we do?’

It was the second time she’d said ‘we’, and he turned to look at her quizzically.

‘Should I have rung a vet?’ she asked.

‘He’d probably have put him down.’

‘Oh no. That would be an awful thing to do.’

‘Not really. The poor thing’s suffering and terrified. His chances of survival are slim. It would be a kindness. Sentiment has no place in the care of wildlife.’

‘Is that why you spend so much time caring for it yourself?’

He stared at her again, eyes narrowed.

‘Do you ever go anywhere without those bloody sunglasses on?’ he said inconsequentially. When she didn’t answer he looked back down at the hare who was staring unfocussed at the wall, his eyes opaque and dry.

‘I can’t feel any broken bones though I can’t be sure,’ he went on. ‘But he’s had a nasty knock so he’s badly bruised at the least, maybe the joint’s badly sprained too and he’s lost a bit of flesh here. Plus the fox’s teeth have punctured him here and here. If we clean him up, fix him up a comfortable bed and try to keep him warm….well, that’s the best we can do. If he’d eat anything that would be a bonus but I doubt it. He’s too shocked. If he were younger we’d maybe have got him to suckle milk from a bottle but…’ He shrugged as his speech petered out and turned to look at her. He wasn’t a tall man and they were almost face to face. She could clearly see the deep furrows in his heavily weathered skin where he’d regularly screwed his eyes up against the sun. ‘He’s unlikely to make it through the first night,’ he added. ‘You do realise that?’

‘But we should still try.’

‘All right.’ He didn’t sound convinced. ‘I’ve got some things here which I keep for emergencies but it won’t be what a vet would have.’

‘No, but, as you said, a vet would put it to sleep.’

‘That’s right. A vet’d have more sense than to try. Get that bottle over there and the bowl from that shelf. There are gauze swabs in that food container. I’ll go and wash my hands.’

Three quarters of an hour later, with the hare cleaned up, Mick placed him gently onto a bed of straw in what remained of the box. At his instruction Alex had cut the front of it down and they put a dish of water and some freshly pulled grass shoots and dandelion leaves within easy reach.

‘We should leave him to rest. He’ll be safe in here, quiet and dark.’

He flicked the light switch and they stepped outside. The sun was well on the rise; it was a clear day and the light seemed very bright. They stood in silence.

‘Thank you,’ said Alex, and then stretched out her hand. ‘I didn’t know where else to go.’

Mick looked down at her hand in surprise, took it and gave it a brief shake. ‘Thank me if he survives.’ He let go of her as if she might stick to him. ‘Did anyone see you bringing the hare here?’

‘I don’t know. Why?’

‘Think about it.’

Alex had managed to park at the back of the square. She reran her movements in her mind. ‘No. It was still early so it was quiet. A couple of people going for newspapers but they’d gone by the time I got the box out of the car.’

‘Good. I don’t want people to think they can just come and go here.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t like to be disturbed. Neither do the birds.’

‘I really don’t think people will be flooding here with injured animals.’

‘Even so, don’t tell anyone.’

Alex said nothing.

‘Promise,’ Mick insisted.

‘OK, I shan’t tell anyone,’ she said impatiently. She hesitated. ‘But I will walk down tomorrow to see how he is.’ She nodded in the direction of the shed.

She waited for Mick to answer but he just turned, walked away and disappeared up the steps into the carriage.

*

Alex rose early the next day and was down in the clearing by eight thirty, unable to wait. Susie’s welcoming bark brought Mick immediately round from the direction of the sheds.

‘Is he still alive?’ she immediately asked, careless of the courtesies.

‘Sort of,’ he said, and she followed him back to the shed where the injured hare appeared to be oblivious to their presence. The rise and fall of its chest was just visible with each shallow breath.

‘Has he eaten anything?’

Mick shook his head.

‘Don’t think so.’

‘I’m sure there are less dandelion leaves there.’

‘You want to think so. Anyway, I thought I’d try to get him out onto some grass. It’d be more natural for him and less intimidating. He might graze a little.’

‘Will he do that?’

Mick shrugged. ‘I doubt it. He’s very weak, very shocked. We can try. If he lives till night, I’ll put him back in the shed for safety.’

‘You think he’s going to die?’

Mick looked down at the hare again and then back at Alex.

‘Don’t you?’

‘You’re very callous,’ she said. ‘How do you manage not to care?’

‘Practice.’

Alex blinked, unsure how to take him. ‘Can I help?’

‘If you want.’

Mick carried the box through to the empty grass pen next to the hens and took it in while Alex held the wooden gate open. He left the box in the far corner of the pen and came out, bolting the gate behind him.

‘Aren’t you going to get him out?’

‘He’ll get out if he wants to enough. Let him get used to the place first.’ He squinted at her as if she were a species of bird he’d heard of but never seen before. He appeared to be trying to come to a decision. ‘Do you want tea or coffee or something?’ The question seemed to cost him. ‘I was about to have breakfast.’

Alex hesitated, aware of the dryness of her mouth; she’d swallowed half a mug of tea before coming out.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Tea…thanks.’

Mick didn’t move for a minute; his face expressed surprise. Then he led her back round to the Pullman, left Susie in her kennel and took Alex up the farther run of steps. He awkwardly ushered her through a tiny kitchen with some home made units and a small gas stove, then down two steps through an arched opening into the living room. To her right stood a narrow wood-burning stove, its flue rising up through the roof, and an old armchair positioned close by. Home-made bookshelves and cupboards lined the walls and, by the front wall stood a wooden table with a bench each side. A barely-started carving was wedged in a vice clamped to the table-top, a chisel and a pile of wood shavings lay alongside. There were open books, abandoned post and old newspapers everywhere; a pile of tools had been dumped on the floor. A thin film of wood dust covered every surface. But for the pile of dirty clothes dumped on the floor near a far door, it was more like a workshop than a living space. It smelt of wood and varnish and dog.

Mick unscrewed the vice off the table and put it on the floor out of the way before brushing ineffectually at the surface of the table with his hand. He waved an arm vaguely at the bench seats and returned to the kitchen to make breakfast. While she waited Alex moved along the bookshelves, reading the spines. There were novels: thrillers, mysteries, classics, and books on steam trains, but the vast majority were books on wildlife. On another line of shelving was an old radio/compact disc player and a quantity of discs. On an open magazine on the floor was the finished carving of an oyster catcher, the legs and beak stained to be darker than the light wood of its belly.

‘Is the finished carving destined for the gallery?’ Alex called through.

There was no reply.

‘I’ve seen those carvings in the window of the gallery,’ she continued in a raised voice as Mick clattered the metal rack under the grill. ‘They’re wonderful.’

Mick ignored her, pulled the rack out, tossed six pieces of hot toast onto a plate and brought them to the table. He went back to get more plates, knives, butter and marmalade and dumped them on the table too.

‘Help yourself,’ he said shortly and went back to make the tea.

Alex glanced at the dusty bench, tried to brush the dust off it, and then sat down with a wince. She gingerly pulled a plate over, took a piece of toast, buttered it and spread a thick coat of marmalade over the top. She’d already eaten half of it by the time Mick returned with two mugs of tea and a carton of milk which he dumped on the table.

‘Hungry?’ he said and his grizzled face stretched into the suggestion of an amused smile.

He sat opposite her, helped himself to toast and they ate in silence. Alex finished eating and pulled her mug closer. She picked up the carton of milk and smelt it before tipping a little into the tea. As she put it down she realised Mick’s dark eyes were watching her.

‘Someone else must visit here,’ she said. ‘The postman obviously calls.’ She gestured at the opened envelopes and letters scattered around.

‘I collect it.’

‘Ah.’ She hesitated. ‘So what was that bird I heard just now? That sort of coarse clicking followed by a…what would you say…trill?’

He shrugged, still chewing toast. ‘Could have been anything.’

Alex fixed her eyes on a point across the room, listening. Mick had left the door open and a whole symphony of different birdsongs drifted in. ‘That,’ she said a few minutes later. ‘That…then. I saw a little bird on one of the reeds the first time I came here. I think that was what it sounded like.’

‘A sedge warbler.’

‘A sedge warbler,’ she repeated. ‘Never heard of it. What does it look like?’

Mick put the last wedge of toast in his mouth, stood up and walked across to one of the racks of books. He pulled out a large one, flicked through the pages until he’d found what he wanted, and then brought it back and laid it on the table in front of her. He jabbed the page with one brown index finger.

Alex read the entry and nodded. ‘Yes, that could be it. But I didn’t get a close look. It flew off when I looked at it.’

‘You’re better off staying out of sight to watch them,’ he remarked dryly. ‘They tend to be scared of humans.’

‘I dare say. But how on earth can you do that?’

‘I’ve got a hide here. You can see all sorts of things from there…if you stay still and quiet.’

‘Really?’ She considered him a moment. ‘Where is it? Could I use it sometime?’

‘It takes a lot of patience.’

‘I can do patience.’

He looked at her with raised eyebrows as if the idea was a novelty.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she said crossly. ‘You don’t know me well enough to judge what I can and can’t do.’ She took the dark glasses off and stared at him directly. ‘Well?’ she prompted.

He stared into her eyes a moment and then picked up his mug of tea.

‘You’d certainly see the birds better without those on,’ he remarked casually.

‘Does that mean yes?’

‘I suppose so. If you don’t get in the way.’

She smiled, and for a moment Mick looked as if he would too. Then he looked away.

The brown hare died. It didn’t last the second night and when Alex returned the following morning Mick had already dug a grave for it behind the pen and covered it over. Alex said nothing but her distress was palpable. Mick had expected tears but her stony retraction inside herself was worse. In an effort to distract her, and cover his own discomfort, he showed her the hide - a small wooden shed with shallow glassless windows along one side and a wooden bench to perch on in front of them – and then left her to it. Masked on two sides by shrubs, the hide looked out over a shrubby bank to one side, a triangular stretch of open water in front and the beginnings of a wide expanse of reed bed.

He left her to it, sitting in the draughty hide, surrounded by the piping calls of birds, their twitters and squeaks and warbles and the constant whisper of the wind through the reeds. He was sure she had no idea what she was looking for or at, but she stuck it out for over an hour. The next day she returned, wearing thick jeans and armed with an extra sweater. He was surprised and thought it displayed a genuine interest. Mid-morning he joined her in the hide, his old battered binoculars hanging round his neck, and perched beside her on the bench, explaining what to look for and pointing things out. Alex’s ignorance was complete so he started from the beginning.

‘This is fresh water,’ he explained. ‘That’s the difference between the Grenloe and the Kella. The bar stops the sea water from getting in. There’s a little bit of brackish stuff down at the bottom where the high tides sometimes wash or seep some salt in – those stones reinforcing the bar are only one course thick. Essentially the water in here comes down from deep water springs on higher ground and from rainwater run off. And that dictates partly the sort of wildlife that comes here.’