Samphire Song (11 page)

The full moon is bathing the whole field in cool, clear light. Rabbits are skittering about in the far corner, nibbling blades of grass and sitting upright in turn. The three other horses nearby are all standing still, like Samphire, facing the light as if it’s pulling them towards it, drawing them in. They seem caught in a moon-spell, watching, listening, alert.

‘Bedtime, Sam,’ I tell him, stroking his ear, which is tensed forwards, straining for any sounds. I slip my hand under the cheekstrap of his halter and ease his head towards me. He resists at first. Maybe he and all the night-time creatures are waiting for a message from the universe.

Maybe there’s a special magic, a portal to dreams, and the animals see it. Just in case, I make a wish, for Ed and Mum and me, and I blow it softly from the palm of my hand, up into the blackness, to London, to space. To Dad, whose breath and laughter and words are out there somewhere.

‘Ouch, geroff my foot, you oaf!’ I command Samphire, who is protesting and causing me acute pain at the same time. A grumble travels from his throat and comes in snatches through his opening and closing lips. It’s a strange conversation, but the meaning is clear. He’s telling me off.

‘I hear you, stroppy. But you’re going back to your stable, no argument.’ This time, he walks with me
without hesitation and without me leading him. He stays close, almost in step and he waits for me to open and then close the gate before continuing down the concrete path to the yard.

I prepared his stable earlier, so when I close the door and run the bolt across, I expect him to put his nose in his bucket as usual. But he turns and faces me, neck arched and proud, his eyes full of moonlight. Again, the grumble from his throat, the snatches of horse-speak, more quietly this time.

‘What is it?’ I ask him, stroking his neck.

‘He’s telling you everything’s going to be OK,’ says Rachel, who is waiting patiently, my overnight bag, stuffed with schoolbooks and PE kit, on her shoulder.

Chapter Twenty-one

There’s a high-pitched squeal, the clash of metal on metal. Then comes a jolt, which makes my body lurch and we’re thrust from the darkness of the tunnel into the gloomy light of late morning. Through the smeary window, my eyes follow rows of terraced houses, so close to the track they seem to be breathing on it; billboards with white-toothed, smiling families; blocks of flats with lines of washing hanging on narrow balconies; the legs of pedestrians under umbrellas; cars bumper to bumper parked in long lines, street after street after street.

I’m coming, Ed. I’m on my way
.

Soon, to my right, there is a disused power station – an ugly, brown castle of bricks with broken windows. The train has slowed and is snaking between office
blocks and the backs of superstores. The curve of the London Eye rises high into the sky, ever watchful. As we near the River Thames, the buildings shine with polished glass and chrome opulence.

The people here live like hamsters, stacked in cages. The idea of it makes me shudder.

We’re approaching Waterloo Station. Mum is meeting me there and taking me to St Saviour’s to be with Ed. Everything she told me last night is swirling in my brain. It’s hard to take it in.

Ed is very sick. His right kidney is packing up and his left one isn’t strong enough to do the job of both. He needs a transplant urgently. The kidney team is trying to find a match.

I feel bug-eyed through lack of sleep. I was counting the hours and minutes until Rachel’s mum was able to take me to the station and see me on to the train. My stomach is complaining too. Someone further down the carriage is eating a burger; the smell makes me feel nauseous and hungry at the same time. I only had a bite
of toast with butter earlier – I couldn’t force myself to eat any more.

I thought, until yesterday, that our family had had its share of bad luck and sadness. But now we’re back on our life raft, paddling for survival.

Ed’s situation is complicated. He has a rare tissue type, which is why Mum and I were discounted as donors when he was first diagnosed. The doctors said it would be like ‘looking for a needle in a haystack’ if the time came to find a matching organ. In my book, that means very difficult, but not impossible. You just need to search very thoroughly.

But there’s an even greater problem in this case. Our enemy isn’t really Ed’s bad kidney, or the immune system that has suddenly failed him. The doctors have said it’s something you can’t touch, see or taste. Time. Why do people say it’s ‘running out’, when it has no legs?

We are in a ‘race against time’, according to the consultant. That’s why I’m here. To help Ed win.

Mum is waiting on the platform as the train pulls in.
I have to queue to get out of the carriage behind a granny with a wheelie suitcase, a kid in a pushchair, two women in saris and a man with a cello in a case. But soon enough, Mum’s wrapping her arms round me and holding me tight. Something goes crunch. I look down and there’s a paper bag full of freshly made cookies between us.

‘Caramel and milk choc chip,’ she tells me. ‘How was the journey?’

‘Fine,’ I answer, tucking into a cookie. Mum has her hands on my shoulders and her eyes are a bit watery.

‘They’ve found a kidney for Ed,’ she says softly. ‘In the Irish Republic.’

‘That’s so brilliant!’ I exclaim, crumbs showering on to the platform.

‘Yes. It’s amazing really. It’s all happened so fast, it’s hard to take in,’ continues Mum, her face taut with anxiety and tiredness. I don’t suppose she’s been sleeping well in the ward.

She’s guiding me across the concourse. Buses,
cars, people cross my line of vision, a blur of action and noise. We’re swept along in the grey tide of business suits and overcoats. The air is biting cold. My face and hands are numb. Mum isn’t saying a lot and her expression is starting to make me very nervous.

She hails a taxi and in moments we’re sitting in the back of a black cab, edging through traffic, still south of the Thames. The windscreen wipers squeak and judder. Puddles splash over pedestrians’ feet on the kerbside as we pass through a hostile, unfamiliar landscape. This is the city where there is an act of violence every few minutes, I remember my geography teacher telling us. Many of them are knife crimes.

I feel like there’s a blade in my belly, turning very slowly.

Mum’s mobile starts to ring. She reaches into her bag and answers it with a curt ‘Yes?’ instead of her usual friendly ‘Hello’. She listens, says, ‘Thank you for letting me know,’ and ends the call.

‘It’s on its way. Ed can have surgery later today.’ Mum squeezes my hand. ‘Everything will be all right,’ she tries to reassure me.

Chapter Twenty-two

‘Heyyyy, Sticko,’ says Ed, giving me a small wave, his hand only just raised from the side of the bed.

‘Hey, little brother,’ I reply, giving his fingers a gentle tug.

Ed, who looks smaller and more fragile than I remember, has been sleeping all afternoon. Any minute now, he’s going down to theatre for surgery. His new kidney, which has been transported by air ambulance to London, is approaching the helipad on top of the hospital.

‘Cool. What kind of helicopter is it?’ he asks, when Mum tells him what’s happening.

‘A very fast one,’ I reply. He gives me this look that tells me I’m an idiot for not knowing the model and type. Then his eyes droop a bit. That must be
the injection he had a little while ago.

‘Spitfire needs . . . handset can’t be . . . not outside . . .’ Ed is mumbling, agitated.

‘We’ll take care of your plane, darling. Just think about how well you’ll feel after this operation. How fast you’ll be able to run. All the sport you’ll be able to do – soccer, swimming . . .’ Mum soothes, her voice quiet and calm.

‘Riding,’ I add.

‘No way,’ Ed smiles, before fading into a deep, medicated sleep.

When Mum and I look up, two nursing orderlies are waiting to wheel his bed to the operating theatre. Mum gives Ed a kiss and we both walk with him until the lift. When the doors close, I grab Mum’s hand. She looks a bit shell-shocked.

‘It’ll be OK, Mum,’ I tell her. ‘The doctors do this all the time – more than fifteen hundred every year in the UK.’ I’m repeating back to her the facts she told me a little while ago. ‘Ed’s going to be eating and drinking
tomorrow and could be back to school in a couple of months.’

‘I know,’ she replies. I notice that the bottom half of her face is smiling at me, but her eyes are fixed and fearful. ‘I wish Dad was here,’ she adds, softly. I don’t know what to say, so I squeeze her hand. ‘It’s going to be a very long two hours,’ she sighs.

‘Why don’t you get your mum a nice cuppa, Jodie?’ suggests Lizzie, the staff nurse in charge of the surgical ward, gently leading us towards the family room. ‘There are bikkies and magazines and stuff, so you can stretch out and relax a bit. And if you need anything or want to ask any questions, I’m here.’

‘Thank you,’ says Mum. And moments later we’re alone in the cream-painted room with low red sofas, a payphone, a kitchen area, a TV, a playpen full of toys and a white tinsel Christmas tree with a star on the top.

‘Let’s get the kettle on,’ suggests Mum and I start to make tea as I need something to do. When I hand her a steaming mug, I can see she’s been crying.

‘Sorry, Jodie,’ she says, blowing her nose. ‘It’s just, one minute, everything seems great and fine and dandy, and the next . . . It all goes down, like a pack of cards.’

‘It won’t, Mum,’ I say, giving her a hug. She looks at me and there is such pain in her face. My heart is beating so loudly I can hear its thud in my ears. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’

Mum’s eyes are filling up again. I take her hand and she puts her other one on top of mine.

‘I had a call from Rupert. The magazine has to make cuts so I’ve lost my two days a week.’

‘That sucks,’ I say, holding her hand. It feels weird that Mum is talking to me like an adult. ‘You’ll be able to get other work, though.’

‘I won’t be able to earn anything like the same amount from freelance features. And I can’t look for another contract until Ed is completely better,’ explains Mum.

‘I’ll get another job,’ I suggest. Mum shakes her head.

‘I’ll get my head round it,’ she says, wiping her eyes.

‘We’ll manage. We always do.’ Somehow, those words are sounding a bit hollow.

‘Yes,’ she agrees. ‘We’ll have to make some changes, though.’ Mum isn’t meeting my gaze.

And suddenly, my brain feels as if it is vibrating to a rhythm, an insistent drumming sound. I close my eyes and all I can see is Samphire, galloping towards me. He’s trying to reach me, but the space between us is widening. He’s whinnying his song, urgently, with panic in his eyes. I’m shouting his name, but no sound comes out of my mouth. As I watch, he becomes smaller, more distant. He’s disappearing behind plumes of dust.

I open my eyes with a start. In the last few minutes, I have felt my world shift to a new, dark place. There’s an idea stalking my thoughts like a shadow. I try to focus on Ed, but it is lurking, waiting for a moment to jump into my consciousness.

Mum and I sit in silence. She leafs through a magazine with celebrities on the front, all big smiles,
boobs and white teeth. We watch the minutes tick by on the white clock above the door. Five minutes. Ten minutes. I want to fast-forward everything to the point where we take Ed home and life is normal again and the money situation is miraculously sorted.

We watch a quiz show on the TV, not responding to the questions at all, sitting like dumb stuffed dolls. The canned audience laughter sounds too loud, like the frenzied cry of seagulls.

We jump when some metal trays fall from a passing trolley in the corridor outside and freeze when a kid of about six runs into the family room, laughing and pulling a wooden dog on a rope behind her. Her mass of red curls tumbles over her navy coat.

‘This is Geoffrey,’ she tells us, proudly.

‘He’s very nice,’ answers Mum.

‘He does tricks, watch,’ she instructs us. ‘Sit, Geoffrey. Good dog. See?’ She’s suspending the rope so that the dog’s bottom is resting on the carpet. ‘Do you want to give him a bisset?’

‘Yes please,’ says Mum, offering him a custard cream from the plate. The girl snatches it and runs towards the door, with Geoffrey bumping along behind.