It was unfathomable. The place was barely even recognisable as a village. Another few months and there would be virtually no sign left that anyone had ever passed this way let alone lived here. No chickens. No dogs. No stubborn old people who’d refused to move still eking out an existence somehow, which is what –in the back of my mind – I know I’d been wildly hoping for.
Definitely no Amma.
I’d sat on the jagged edge of a broken wall and watched the landmine operatives carefully staking out the edge of one of the paddy fields and the entire thing felt surreal. The home that Sunny was so longing to return to - his house with the bright red front door, his mother’s washing blowing like a row of celebration flags over their plot where a small pig ran about, the parade of banana trees like tall green soldiers lining up out front - that place existed only in his memory now, only in his heart. I got a bad feeling, sitting there yesterday afternoon, that all the people he had painted for me, they might exist only in his memory, too. They might be all gone, all his family, crushed by their own houses and buried in the deep earth under the creepers and he would never see any of them again.
So, no, I’m pretty darn sure that Sunny hasn’t got anyone who’ll be able to help him now.
I stand up abruptly as I hear the nurse calling my name. Mr Lazarev and his Registrar are both waiting for me when I pop my head round the tent flap and he beckons me back in.
‘You see now here you have given me a problem,’ I can hear a smile in his faint Russian accent and I get the impression that - somehow - I might just have set the cat amongst the pigeons.
His Registrar is looking stiff and taut-faced. ‘If there is nowhere the patient can go to recover, it would be
negligent
not proceeding with the operation as planned,’ he mutters under his breath.
Mr Lazarev looks at me as if I might have had a chance to think up a plan in the five minutes while they’ve been having their conference. I haven’t though. I swallow nervously. I haven’t, but I may yet.
‘Sir,’ I spread open my arms. ‘If you could delay the operation by just … one hour …’ my thoughts are jumping so fast I can barely stop my words getting tangled up, ‘by one hour,’ I repeat, ‘then I may be able to find the antiseptic conditions you require for recovery.’
The Registrar opens his mouth to protest
‘Aid Abroad’s last scheduled flight out of here is New Year’s Eve,’ he points out - a week away. ‘And granted, a space
might
open up on the flight
,
’ he stutters, ‘though it’s unlikely. But that is beside the point. There are dozens of forms to fill in, people to be informed, before someone can be accepted onto the scheme.’
‘One hour,’ I plead, avoiding his eye contact and appealing instead to Lazerev, ‘Just one hour.’
‘He’d need a sponsor,’ the registrar says tightly.
‘I’ll find one.’
‘There are protocols to follow,’ he protests. ‘The process takes weeks – even months, which you do not have, so you see, delaying the operation only…’
‘I’ll
find
someone. I promise you.’ The words are out of my mouth before I can process what I’m saying. I’d never even heard of Aid Abroad up to a few minutes ago. I have no idea what it would entail. What am I saying?
‘The sponsor needs to have been in the EU country in question for a period of at least two years to be eligible …’
‘I’ll find someone then. Let me try. Let me make it happen.’
How the hell am I going to do that? I don’t have anyone in the UK anymore who I could call upon to help at such short notice. I’ve let all my friends and contacts go there, severed all ties…
‘All right.
’
Even the Russian is looking at his watch now. ‘This boy is pre-gangrenous, you understand,’ he silences us both. ‘Blood poisoning is a risk, and we’ve already delayed twenty-four hours. Okay,’ he says briskly, suddenly making up his mind. ‘You have until this afternoon, Mr Macrae. If you haven’t located any suitable recovery conditions for him by then, I’m afraid we’ll have to proceed as planned.’
The Registrar bristles a bit because he thinks this is all an unnecessary delay. I can tell that underneath he’s certain he’ll yet be proved right.
‘Go to tent 249, East camp,’ he tells me. ‘Ask for the Aid Abroad co-ordinator, a man named Michel Lestat, but I warn you
…’
‘Thanks. Thanks so much …’ I scribble the details down.
‘Next op will be at 2pm,’ he says pointedly.
‘Got that.’
I went out to Katkulam yesterday to see what might be salvageable from the remains of what used to be Sunny’s life. What might be resurrected. The answer is; not much. I wanted to bring him some good news. That’s why I have to pull this off. What better news than the possibility that we can salvage his foot? I’m going to have to catch my line manager Dougie and pray that he’s in a charitable mood, that he’ll be willing to stick his neck out and somehow help me get Sunny on that last flight out.
The Registrar leafs through his notes ‘So we’ll need to hear from you before twelve-thirty?’
That gives me - I glance at the time - four hours from now. It’s more than I asked for.
‘Gotcha.’ He thinks I won’t do it, smug bastard. He thinks - he probably
knows
- I’ve got no chance in hell.
I feel sick.
‘Anything for me?’ I’ve made a point of coming down the stairs slowly, one at a time. When I get to the little round porthole window in the bend of the stairs I even stop to watch the postman on his way. I tell myself I’m trying to figure out if he’s cute but the truth is I’m just staving off the evil moment when I finally learn whether my letter has arrived or not…
‘There’s
one
for you,’ our home-help Mrs P is standing in the hall holding up two letters at arm’s length. ‘This one feels like a card.’
Stop feeling my letters
, I think, panicking that she’s going to sweep away my last little bit of hope before I even get to the bottom of the stairs. ‘And this one’s for…’ she screws up her eyes and balances her glasses right on the end of her nose. ‘Oh. He’s made a mistake with this one. This should have gone to the Macrae Farm.’
Damn it.
Is there really only a card for us, then?
‘Let me have a look…’
I jump the last two stairs and virtually tear the letter out of her hand. She’s right; it feels way too much like a card for my liking. It
is
a card. With a cheque for fifty pounds attached;
‘From Uncle Ty, Auntie Carlotta and Samantha. Buy yourselves a little something from us
.’
I swallow.
It is over and the prickling at the back of my eyes warns me that I’m about to break down in front of her. There is no Uni offer for me. They don’t want me anymore and I’ve missed the boat. After
losing my chance this year
and having to re-take the interview, they don’t want me. I don’t have any offers from other Universities to fall back on. It was always Downing College - my longest shot - or nothing.
I turn away from her, pretending to read the card over again but for a long, wooden moment I just stand there, trying to take it all in, feeling as if I’m not quite steady on my feet, as if I’m swaying. It’s a horrible feeling; a feeling that I’m plummeting down a long, empty chasm and there’s this sinking dread that any minute now I’m going to hit the bottom.
‘Rose?’
I swallow; shove the cheque back into the envelope, aware of her watchful gaze.
‘Are you sure that other one’s not for us? Let me see.’ That one’s in a large white envelope. It looks official. Oh, let her have misread the name on it,
please, please.
‘This one’s got Rob Macrae’s name on it. I’m sorry, Rose.’ Underneath her measured tone I detect a trace of sympathy. She knows as well as Dad does what I’ve been holding out for.
‘Look - why don’t you see if you can catch the postman and get him to run it over to the Macraes - it’s his mistake.’
Catch the postman? I look at her blankly. Why on earth would I want to do that?
It takes a few moments for the hard truth to sink in.
‘You might as well,’ she reasons. ‘We can’t keep it. And it’s better not to harbour any grudges over the Season of Goodwill and all that …’
What is she on about? I don’t care about the Macraes and whether or not they get
their
letter! Doesn’t she get it?
But right now I have to get away from here and do
something, anything
other than just stand here enduring that look of pity in her eyes... When I haul open the front door the cold air hits me like a slap in the face.
‘Hey, postman!’ My voice sinks like a stone in the cold noon air whereas he - unburdened of the heavy load of the last two letters
at
what must be the end of his shift - has a new spring in his step, he’s nearly at the lane.
‘
Wait up!’
I run after him and all the tension and the pain and the hope-against-hope waiting of the last couple of weeks which comes out in my strangled voice is enough to stop him dead in his tracks.
‘You put this through the wrong door.’ My voice comes out a mere croak but I wave the letter at him. ‘It’s for the next farm up.’
‘You’re kidding me?’ The disappointment on his face almost matches mine. It
should
have been for me. My offer letter. My sign that there’s still a door open somewhere for me…
‘I’m not kidding you.’ I wish I was. He squints at the address as I hold it up for him to see.
Bollocks
, he mutters under his breath. Second that, I think. But now my throat has started feeling horribly sore. I need to go back upstairs and get into my bedroom so I can cry in peace.
‘You couldn’t … take it over for me, could you?’ His plea as I turn to get back inside stops me in my tracks.
What?
‘It’s just that I should’ve finished this shift two hours ago. I kinda got lost. Hand it to your neighbours when you see ‘em, could you?’
‘Our
neighbours
are a mile and a half up the road,’ I remind him. Hell, it’s cold! Standing here in my slippers I can feel the heat draining away from my toes as we speak. A speck on snow lands on my nose now and another on my eyelids. He’s got a nerve to ask. He must know they’re not just next door. Besides; he’s not our usual postman - a festive season recruit I’m guessing - so he won’t know that the last people on earth I’d ever want to go out of my way to help would be the Macraes.
‘They’re not friendly neighbours,’ I tell him slowly. He doesn’t need to hear the whole story. ‘And they’ve got dogs.’ Four dogs, to be precise. Two Rotties and two Pitbulls last I counted.
‘I already made their acquaintance,’ he does a little twirl to show me and I see that his trousers and his jacket have huge great muddy paw prints down the back.
‘They went for you?’
He nods and I give a resigned sigh. Didn’t anyone warn him?
‘Bill - our usual postman - he normally leaves their letters in the box on the other side of the fence.’ My nose is starting to drip. I want to go back inside but he carries on talking.
‘He told me about that but I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t see any dogs either so I went in. It’s kinda the real reason why I’m so late, actually. And why I made a mistake with the letters.’
‘I’m not taking it down there for you, I’m sorry.’
His phone goes off now - beep-beep - and he puts me on hold for a minute while he reads the text he’s been sent. Whatever he’s just read, he doesn’t look too happy about that, either. He’s not much older than me, really. He looks cold and tired and my heart goes out to him because I know how he feels. If it were anybody else in the world other than the Macraes involved …
‘Here,’ I hand him back the white letter firmly. ‘You’ll have to leave it in the box outside like Bill does.’
‘It’s just that …’ he hesitates and I sense there’s something else coming. ‘If you took it to them then you could pick your own one up while you were down there.’
My heart skips a beat. There’s another letter?
‘Say again?’ I get out.
‘Well, I only had three letters left to deliver. There were definitely two for Clare Farm, so if you’ve got the one that should have gone to Macrae …’
He bends over to open up his post bag and I think for one wonderful moment he might be about to look to see if my letter could still be stuck in there. But he only brings out his gloves and puts them on.
‘You’re saying you must have put our other letter through Macrae’s door? You... you’re not very good at this, are you?’
‘It’s not a vocation,’ he admits, then he stops, seeing my face. ‘I’m sorry. I thought those dogs were going to gnaw my shins off. I must have panicked. I’m
really
sorry …’ He’s sorry
. He’s sorry…
it’s what he’s prepared to do about it now that really counts. I take in a deep breath and ask the question.
‘Who was the other letter for, I don’t suppose you saw?’
‘Two were addressed to Rose Clare. One was for R. Macrae,’ he looks at me apologetically. ‘Only now that I’ve posted it through their door, I’m pretty sure I’m not allowed to ask for it back.’
You’re not?
‘It was for me?
Rose Clare
?’ My voice goes high-pitched as I grab hold of his arm and he looks a bit startled. ‘You’re sure about that?’
‘I am sure. I noticed because Rose is my granny’s name. I thought you’d be a little old lady like her.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re anything but, though …’ He smiles and when he does his teeth show, all even and white and I realise he really
is
rather cute.
And more importantly, he’s told me something that’s just rekindled my hope.
‘Flattery’s not going to get you out of this mess,’ I’m saying but right now it’s difficult not to smile back, it’s difficult to stop my heart from thudding in a sudden whoosh of excitement because if he’s right and there is another letter for me then … it would be the best Christmas present in the whole world, ever.
If it’s true.
‘I don’t suppose you noticed where it was post-marked?’
‘Sorry. Only thing I did notice …’ he screws up his eyes now, recollecting something, ‘Was that a reply seemed to be indicated - whoever sent it had hand-written something along the top.
Please reply by
… That sort of thing.’
‘By when?’ My heart has started racing again.
Could
it be from the lecturer who interviewed me? She’d hinted at the time she might need a quick response. Something about the fact that I was a re-interviewee, that I’d already been made an offer last year …
‘I … I couldn’t say now. I’m sorry. You really need to get hold of it, don’t you? I realise it’s started snowing.’ He glances up and the sky above us has become dull and leaden looking. ‘If you’ve got someone who could run you
up
there … your dad?’ he offers helplessly.
I blink. My dad was the victim of a random attack five years ago that left him with an inoperable embolism deep within his brain. He doesn’t drive. He doesn’t go out of the house anymore. He can’t stand for very long and he rarely even leaves his room. Mrs P and her husband who drives her about wouldn’t want to go up there either, I know that.
There isn’t anyone. I shake my head at him.
‘So …?’ I’d go and leave him to it, but I need an absolute assurance from him now that he’s going to get my letter back.