Wyld Dreamers

the house. Mum is dead, Dad! We can’t wake her!’
It is as though this is the first time her father has heard the news. His face, purpled with grief, collapses like the bones are being sucked inward.
Amy feels her sympathy shift, watches herself coolly assess this weeping man; his scaly skin, his chin patchy with stubble, his tears which patter on the plastic table cloth. He leaves no space for her grief, he’s consuming all the oxygen.
Her father stands up suddenly, swings around to reach into the cupboard for something he cannot need and a squeal slips from his lips.
‘I’ve read your diary, you know’ he said, his back to her. ‘And I know what you’ve been up to with that boy David.’
He spits the words at the rose-patterned side plates and tea cups. The crockery rattles with his rage.
She imagines using her fist to smash it into the back of his head, how the rows of china would jangle. Perhaps a cup would tip and break, pink and white fragments shattering like confetti. She is briefly horrified that she does not find this idea appalling. She leaves the room. She must to grieve for her mother. But she can only do this alone.
People huddle like crows in the church. She and her father walk up the aisle arm-in-arm as though they are on the way to the altar. From the corner of her eye there are faces she recognises; a neighbour, a school friend, the owner of the bookshop and others she does not. She avoids eye contact, takes her place in the front pew, dressed in her mother’s black coat, the lamb’s wool collar tight against her tightening throat. In the pocket her fingers curl around a tissue. Some parts of it are soft, others lumpy. Little of the service or the hymns or the short tribute her father gives penetrates her consciousness. He had asked her if she would read an excerpt from the Bible. When she shook her head, he did not ask again. Her head is thickened by sorrow. She thinks only about the tissue, how her palm cradles her mother’s dried tears.
The wake is held in a local hotel. Sandwiches and tea and condolences are offered in equal part. Amy and her father walk about the room, sometimes together, sometimes separately, accepting the murmured comments of support. She knows that she moves gracefully. People stop their conversations as she approaches, fashion their mouths into mournful shapes to say how sorry they are for her loss. The men hold glasses of whisky, the women suck mints; both smell terrible.
A woman she does not know pats her hand; it is all she can do not to snatch her hand away.
‘A brain haemorrhage?’ The woman’s lips contort into a grimace. ‘What a terrible shock it’s been for us all. Strange in a woman so young. Do they know why?’
The funeral service was horrible enough but at least she had not been expected to say or do anything beyond standing or sitting at the appropriate time. The wake is excruciating. Accepting condolences, smiling with gratitude when she felt none: she has to hold herself back from shouting at them all to go away.
Amy cannot sleep. Her body is rigid though her feelings swirl. She wants to cry but the tears are locked in a part of her she cannot access and with a key she cannot find.

8
With relief she spots the Land Rover in the station car park. David is usually late. But there he is in the driver’s seat, his face wreathed in smoke. Her heart skips. She’s longing to burrow her head right under his chin and wrap his hair around her face so she can pretend she’s stepping inside him. Skipping over to the vehicle, she spots Simon in the passenger seat, head nodding rhythmically. There must be music playing. She runs back into the station and collapses on a bench.
‘Amy, there you are. Why are you hiding?’ David finds her a few minutes later. He pulls her to her feet. Wrapping his arms around her, he speaks into her hair. ‘What are you doing here? It’s good to see you.’
He manoeuvres her onto his lap and offers her a lighted cigarette. ‘How was it at home? How’s your Dad?’
‘I had to get away. I felt terrible leaving but I think he’s going mad, David. He can’t accept that Mum’s died. And he’s going on and on about what I’m up to and everything. Wants me to start that secretarial course. Says I should do it in ‘honour’ of Mum.’
‘Ames, he’s bound to be freaked out. Hey, where’s my smiling together lady? You’re with me now. Come on, beautiful, let’s get going. Simon’s here. Let’s go.’
He takes her suitcase and leads her to the Land Rover. Its dented misshapen body and mud-splattered wheels make her feel relieved. The passenger door opens. Simon slides down off the seat.
‘Sorry about your m-m-mother,’ he mutters sympathetically at the ground.
‘Thanks,’ she replies and climbs into the cab.
Over the noise of the engine, David has to shout. ‘Work’s begun on the cottage, Ames. Soon there’ll be no more leaking roof.’
On the phone, he’d mentioned a local builder and his girlfriend who came after meeting Seymour in a pub. ‘Bob’s a laugh, likes to party too. We’re having a blast, aren’t we, Simon?’
‘We are, y-y-yes,’ Simon calls back, nodding at Amy.
‘Who else is …?’ she replies but David has switched on the radio. The voice of Aretha Franklin fills the vehicle as they set off for Wyld Farm.
‘The moment I wake up, Before I put on my makeup, I say a little prayer for you…’
She’s missed her friends. She hadn’t realised just how much until they were splashing along the puddled track towards the farmhouse. Over the hedge, the trench by the front door of Bramble Cottage is now an area of fresh-raked soil. Like a grave, she shivers.
She can’t help feeling disappointed to see a car and