The two descend the other side of the hill. To Evie’s left, a church tower pokes above the trees.
They leave the field over another stile and step down into a road. Apart from the weaving tracks left by cartwheels, the snow lies deep and undisturbed.
They walk fifty yards between the high hedges before these give way to a triangular stretch of common sloping down to a pond rimmed by frozen reeds. Rows of terraced cottages line two of the three sides. By the edge of the road, a boy builds a snowman. He has created the body and has inserted sticks for arms. This is the first child she has seen since they were ambushed on the canal. It’s still hard to get her head around the notion that with the decline in fertility from all the horrible poison in the food supply, small children are something of a rarity.
‘The shop’s just here,’ Daniels says, indicating the corner building. ‘I’ll go in alone to save you a load of unnecessary questions.’
She stands outside, listening to him buy milk and bread. He makes a point of explaining that he is renting their cottage. The fact that it is being used after all these years will not long go unnoticed. People are suspicious of strangers and it is better to provide answers up front.
The boy struggles to lift the head onto his snowman. He is small, probably seven or eight at most, and the head he has made is too ambitious. He raises it six inches and drops it. It is hot work and he pulls off his cap, freeing his hair. Reluctantly he starts to chip away at the ball of snow with his heel. She wonders about offering to help but before she can, he sees her watching, abandons his efforts and backs away, keeping his eyes on her warily until he is out of sight around the nearest house.
She turns again to the shop, the familiar empty feeling, the one they could never have meant to give her, gnawing away.
The window is filled with notices, including an advertisement for the Hawking Museum of Science. It grabs her attention because she remembers the name from the conversation between Matthew and Daniels the day the police came. It had been the first time she’d realised that she is possibly one of only two of her kind, at least in this country.
‘Morning, dear,’ an elderly lady says. ‘Enjoying the nice weather?’
She was thinking so hard how to persuade Daniels to take her there, to this museum, she is caught off guard by the woman’s approach. ‘Yes?’ she says, not sure what the question was and whether she has given the right answer.
The woman has a small dog and she takes its lead and wraps it around a post. ‘The poor thing is not allowed inside,’ she says. ‘Might run amok, they think.’
The dog is straining towards Evie, perhaps being merely friendly or perhaps confused by her lack of a natural scent. It reaches up and licks the inside of her wrist and she hastily withdraws her hand.
‘Oh,’ the woman says, ‘you needn’t worry, dear, he doesn’t bite. His name is Toby.’
Evie nervously touches the tiny dog’s head, which again uninvited licks at her hand, quickly retracting its tongue and snorting in what could have been disgust. It’s as if they have both managed now to insult the other.
‘You’re not from around here, dear, are you?’ the woman says.
‘We’re renting a cottage over the hill,’ Evie says cautiously, trying to be consistent with what Daniels is telling people.
‘Oh, the old gatekeeper’s place. We saw the smoke last night and I said to Toby, it’s nice to see it occupied again. Are you on holiday?’
‘Holiday?’ Despite her nerves, Evie can’t help smiling. The association of the word with sand, sea and sunshine is too strongly ingrained from her picture books. ‘Yes, I think we are.’
‘I see you were looking at the attractions in the window display, were you thinking of visiting anything in particular?
‘Is the Hawking Museum near?’ she asks.
‘The Hawking Museum, why yes, it’s just in the town, on the river. I’ve never been but people say it’s interesting.’ She doesn’t sound convinced.
‘How would we get there?’
‘Oh, that’s easy, there’s a bus that’ll take you right there, the stop is in the lane opposite the church. You buy your ticket from the driver. How long are you staying?’
‘A while, I hope,’ she says. ‘To be honest we’re not sure.’
‘Well if you’re going to be around, we should introduce ourselves. I’m Mrs Cooper and this is Toby and your name, dear, is?’
‘Evie,’ she replies, so carried away with thoughts of the museum and what she might find there that she is really not thinking of anything else. Her heart, which for a few minutes has been flying, plummets like a shot pheasant as she remembers that she’d agreed with Daniels not to give out her real name.
That was clever, Simon mutters. Idiot!
I was distracted, I wasn’t thinking, my defences were down.
‘Evie,’ the woman repeats, ‘Such a lovely name – rarely hear it these days – but it suits a pretty girl like you. Reminds me of someone I once knew. A long time ago. Oh, who was it? She used to come and visit with her young man. My silly old memory is not what it was!’
‘Who was that?’ Daniels asks, as they make their way back along the lane.
‘Just an old lady,’ Evie replies cautiously, unwilling to admit her slip.
She’ll have forgotten what I said by the time she gets home, she murmurs inwardly, hoping to forestall further criticism, before Simon can get started. It won’t matter a bit.
You really think so? A busybody like that?
I found her nice.
Of course you did. You’d find anyone nice. Anyway, nice or otherwise it makes no odds. She’s going to tell everyone about Evie, about how sweet and pretty she is and exactly where she’s staying.
Daniels makes himself lunch and, after rebuilding the fire, lies on the sofa, feet stretched towards the flames, and falls asleep.
Evie listens to his snores and then, reaching across, takes his newsplastic from under the flap of the pack. It is odd that he hasn’t used it since they arrived, and unease from not knowing whether there is anything reported about them is becoming unbearable. She stares at the folded sheet, weighing the pros and cons of opening it.
What should I do?
Don’t ask me, Simon says. He is as nervous as she is, but also, she senses, as curious too.
She climbs to her room, sticking close to the wall to avoid the squeakiest stairs. She pauses at the turn to take a last look at Daniels noisily asleep below.
She closes her door and climbs onto her bed and sits with her back against the headboard.
In its folded state, the newsplastic is a modest A5, but after unfolding it four times, it opens into a sheet sixteen times its original size. She holds it out in front but it remains obstinately blank. She had assumed it would automatically activate. Yet again she knows nothing.
What do I do? she asks.
Don’t expect me to advise you, Simon replies, this is all your idea.
She twists it around, holding it vertically and then sideways again and ends up glaring at it. Having overcome her reservations and got this far, she doesn’t want to not succeed.
There’s an illuminated circle in the corner, Simon says with perfect weariness, on the back.