Authors: Lucy Christopher
Flyaway
From the Chicken House
I've always been deeply moved when watching swans fly away to a new home. There's so much more to our relationship with animals than we understand, connections that we strive to make with their beauty and power.
In FLYAWAY, Lucy Christopher takes us on an incredible flight of family life and love, against the haunting background of a swan's own journey. You'll cry and laugh aplenty â and, who knows, you might even feel the air beneath your wings!
Barry Cunningham
Publisher
For all of my âflock', but especially my grandparents
Contents
THE BEGINNING
E
very year, Dad waits for them. He says it means the start of winter, when they arrive . . . the start of Christmas. The start of everything brilliant.
When he was a boy, he would sit with Nan and Granddad in a field near the lake behind their house . . . and wait. It was usually cold, and dark, and he says they even sat through a snowstorm once. Even then, Granddad knew when they'd arrive. Dad used to think Granddad was magical for knowing that. I can remember waiting beside that lake too, but the memory is more like a dream than something real.
The last time we all waited there together was six years ago: the winter before Nan died. The last winter the wild swans ever went to Granddad's lake.
All of us were huddled by the edge of the water, and the blankets wrapped around my shoulders smelt like dusty
drawers. Nan pushed a cheese sandwich into my hand and Granddad passed around mugs of hot chocolate. I was sleepy and still, but I kept my eyes open.
And then they came, appearing like something from a fairy tale. It was as if they'd sprung from the clouds themselves. The dawn light glinted on them . . . made them seem so white. Silver almost. Their wings made the air hum.
I still remember Dad's face as he watched them. His wide eyes. The way he bit the edge of his lip, as though he was anxious the birds might not make it. When they began to circle down to the lake, Dad leant forward a little as if he was imagining doing the landing himself.
I loved them, even then. Just like Dad. But they scared me too. The way they arrived out of nowhere, and so many of them. It was as if we'd dreamt them. As if they'd come from another world.
And this year it starts like that again. With Dad excited and rapping on my door. With the swans arriving . . . and everything changing.
CHAPTER 1
E
arly morning. It's too cold to get out of bed, but already Dad's at my door. His fingertips drumming like rain.
âIsla?' he whispers. âComing? They're here, up at the reserve. I'm sure of it.'
I force my eyes to focus on the shadows around my bed . . . desk, chair heaped with school clothes, jeans and jumper in a pile on the carpet. I hold my breath as I swing my legs out from under the duvet. Sit up. Rub my hands over my arms. Dad knocks again.
âYes, OK, I'm up,' I hiss.
I pull on the jeans and jumper. Find the thickest socks in my drawer. Hold my breath until I'm warmer. The heating hasn't gone on yet. It's too early, still dark outside. Dad creaks open the door, just a crack, but it's enough to see the
wide grin on his face.
âWhat you doing in here? Anyone would think you're still half asleep.'
âI am.'
I step towards him, touching my hair to see that it's not too tangled.
âDon't worry, you're beautiful,' he whispers, already turning to go. âThe birds won't care.'
I go back to grab a hair band, then follow Dad down the stairs, still rubbing sleep from my eyes. We both avoid the middle step that creaks. Neither of us wants to wake up Mum or Jack. This is our time: mine and Dad's. Jack comes sometimes, when he's not playing football, but mostly it's just me and Dad watching them. Since that winter six years ago, the whooper swans have been arriving at a new lake on the wetlands reserve. Sometimes I hope they'll come back to Granddad's lake, but Dad says they never will. He says it's too built up and overgrown there now.
We pass the bathroom, and I think about stopping to brush my teeth but I can feel Dad's excitement, almost as if he is fizzing beside me. He's always like this. As soon as he's up, he just wants to move. The only thing he'll ever stay still for is the birds. He grabs the flask of coffee that's on the kitchen counter. I take a slice of bread from the bread bag, then go back and grab the whole bag in case Dad's hungry too.
As Dad locks the house, I stamp my feet and breathe warmth onto my hands. Our front garden has turned white
overnight. Frost makes the grass shimmer and turns our concrete path slick as an ice-cube. I cling onto Dad's arm to get to the car. No one in our street is up yet. The place feels heavy and sleepy. Even the pub on the corner is quiet. We're the only ones awake in the whole world. Us and the birds.
I turn the car heating up full. Half grin at Dad to show I'm waking up. And we're on our way.
âIt's not normally this cold when they arrive,' I say.
âColdest snap for twenty years. Some people said they wouldn't come at all. But they have. They've been up north for days now.'
âHow do you know they'll arrive here today?'
Dad shrugs. âIt just feels right.'
He watches the road. I shut my eyes and try to grasp another quick moment of sleep, but I can hear Dad's fingers tapping on the steering wheel. I open my eyes again. Dad's chewing on his lip, as usual. However sure he seems, he's still nervous every year that they won't turn up. There are dark circles under his eyes today, making him look more tired than usual. Mum says Dad's not well at the moment: she was worried when he got sent home from work early last week. But I don't know. He just looks tired to me.
He pulls onto the ring road. We pass a long Tesco delivery truck with its fog lights on, then that's it. No other vehicles. The sky's getting lighter, though; already it's shifted from black to purple to grey. The hedgerows are coming into focus. I take a piece of bread from the bag at my feet and chew on it. Pass a piece to Dad. He switches off his
headlights. Neither of us turns on the radio. It would ruin something, somehow. It never feels like winter until Dad and I have done this, until we've driven down these roads on this cold early morning. The car ride to the reserve always means the beginning.