Chapter Two
Deeta
We stare at her as she tosses the thick blonde strand over her shoulder as though she’s unaware of the stir she’s caused.
“What do you mean?” asks Jan.
Clare leans back a little in her chair.
“Janny darling, you may be young but you’re not stupid. In our world, to us girls, marriage is everything because none of us are deemed suitable for the outside world. We are…” She lifts one long leg and slides it slowly across the other, allowing her fringe to fall sultrily over one eye. “Much too soft.”
Somehow she manages to make it sound incredibly attractive.
“But if Keya is allowed to join, then there can be no objection to us joining up either,” she finishes.
“You don’t seem very worried about it?” observes Jan.
“You’re forgetting something: I’ve already hooked a man. There’s no reason for me to join up now.”
“If you ask me, he’s hooked you!”
Clare smiles, content to let us tease her. A knock falls on the door and she moves to open it, sending us a mock quelling glance. From where we are sitting we can’t see the door, but there’s nothing wrong with our hearing.
“Clare, put him down for goodness sake; you’ve only just eaten.”
Philip blushes rosy red as we crowd around the door.
“H-hello girls, h-how are you?” he asks.
I’ve often wondered how Philip managed to court my sister, let alone ask her to marry him. He’s a very shy person, and his stutter makes him silent most of the time. I’m pretty certain that if Jan hadn’t prodded him into action, Philip would still be admiring Clare from afar. Yet Jan is still dissatisfied: she’d wanted a detailed word and picture account of the proposal. However, all Clare would say was it had been very romantic.
When they leave the flat is very quiet. I generally go up to the Jepsjons’ after dinner and put the children to bed, but I don’t want to leave Jan by herself. I pull on a jumper, and fluff her hair as I walk past her seat.
“Coming Janny?”
“Sure!”
From her display of alacrity, I gather there is nothing she would like better.
-------
The children are listening to one of Uncle Jep’s stories as we enter the flat. It’s an idyllic picture. Tarri has again wrapped herself around Uncle Jep and, with her head on his shoulder, is staring sleepily into the fire. The rest of the children are huddled on the floor, the fire’s warm glow playing over their excited faces.
Of Tom there is no sign.
“Jan, my dear, so pleasant to see you. Come, you must sit by the fire.”
Ricky stands and offers her his seat to one side of the fire, but she motions for him to sit down. Instead she settles herself on to the floor, hugging an excited Carris to her as the girl endeavours to recite the story so far.
The professor heaves himself from his chair and offers us refreshment.
“I’ll do it, Uncle Jep, you’ve had a hard day.” I take the saucepan out into the hall and fill it with water from the tap. There is a communal tap on every floor that’s fed from the tanks on the roof. Usually there’s a restriction as to how much water we can use, but at this time of year the restriction is relaxed.
I had expected the professor to continue with his story, but as I enter the kitchen I find he has set out the cups for me and is awaiting my return. I place the pan on the range, watching him lean against the work surface. His intelligent eyes study my face for a log moment.
“Was it very bad, Deetina?”
I jump violently, and the teapot clatters as I put it down.
“Deetina, didn’t you think I knew? How many times have you run up here when your worries became too much for you?”
I feel a little put out that I have been so transparent, and we lapse into silence. I find myself wondering where Tom is.
“He took over guard duty from Jeff, he’ll be up on the roof all night.”
Knowing that the professor has detected the pattern of my thoughts yet again, I feel a hot blush mount my cheeks. Uncle Jep pats my shoulder realising he has startled me.
‘You must remember that I have known you since you were a very little girl, my dear.” He smiles at me and changes the subject. “Where is Clare?”
“She’s gone dancing with Philip.”
“Fortunate Philip. How come you did not go too, Deetina?”
“There isn’t much point.” I laugh. “It must be sour grapes I suppose; I don’t want to play gooseberry!”
I’m pouring steaming hot tea into mugs before he speaks again.
“You are still very young, Deeta — sometimes I forget how young.”
He takes the tray from my unresisting hands, and is at the door before he notices that I am not following him. I look up from the flask I am making for Tom to find his smile upon me.
“Make sure you wrap up well; it will be cold on the roof.”
-------
Uncle Jep is entirely right. As I step out on to the roof the wind hits me with bracing coldness. The night as black as pitch, and I slide on a patch of ice. For a moment I think of calling out to Tom, but discard the idea. He wouldn’t hear me above the roar of inclement weather. I walk slowly into the darkness, careful not to slip, but within a few moments I’ve lost my bearings.
“There’s not much of a view at this time of night, Deeta.”
Tom’s voice, deep and quiet, startles me. He is standing quite close to me, and I realise that I’m not surprised but I’ve been waiting for him to find me.
“Tom!”
My hand shoots out blindly in the darkness, and I feel his solid frame to the right of me.
“No need to hit me, Deeta.”
I take a firm grip on the lapel of his leather jacket.
“Tom, for goodness sake don’t leave me: I was lost!”
“Lost?” His voice is blankly incomprehensive. “You’re the only person I know that could get lost on the roof of their own building.”
He takes my hand, and leads me through the darkness to the shelter. It’s such a relief to escape from the chill wind. I don’t mind Tom’s amusement, which is just as well because he’s always thought me a little nutty.
I take the flask from my bag and pour him a cup of tea. Tom commands great respect when it comes to tea drinking. I’ve never known anyone who could drink as much. He folds his hands around the mug and blows into it, sending a billowing cloud of steam into his face. The smell of hot tea on the cold night air takes me back to the many other times that I have sat, just like this, with Tom. Both of us relax, gazing out into what I could almost believe to be empty blackness. It’s as if the shelter is the only thing for miles around.
Gunshots erupt in a burst of sound and I jump, knocking Tom’s arm. Tea spills from his mug, and in the ensuing silence I can hear it dripping from the cup. Four drips, the length of time between each one a little longer than the last, until they stop altogether.
“It came from the south — over there,” says Tom after a while. “About a mile, maybe a mile and a half, away.”
The knowledge that there is a considerable distance between us and those sounds is comforting and I relax back into the shelter. How Tom knows how far away those gunshots were I have no idea, but somehow I know that he’s right.
We sit silently for some time, it’s only after I pour Tom his second cup of tea that he speaks.
“So?”
Tom usually starts conversations in this monosyllabic way, but generally I know what he’s trying to convey. This utterance, however, has me stumped.
“So… what?”
“What happened?”
“About what?”
“You’re up here.”
“I usually come up here when you’re on duty.”
Tom nods, and blows into his cup again.
“The thing is; I’m not on duty."
I must look at him as though he’s out of his mind because h
e grins, and shakes his head.
“Jeff asked me to take his watch. The only way that you could know that is if you had seen Uncle Jep after I left, and Jeff didn’t ask me to take his watch until after you’d gone downstairs.”
It occurs to me that I should be embarrassed, considering the topic of conversation around our dinner table. Swiftly I decide to furnish him with an edited version of events.
“Keya’s joining up.”
“You knew that before you left.”
“I did, mother didn’t.”
Tom nods, and looks at the ground. It’s almost as though he hasn’t heard me, but I feel reassured by his silence. It’s comforting because he knows: he understands. There is nothing more that I could say to him that he hasn’t already guessed.
I think back to our dinnertime conversation. I’d been so positive that with Clare as good as married our mother would slow down a little, at least for a while. However, she seems to have got worse and I’m next in line.
I don’t want to get married.
No, that’s not quite true. It isn’t that I don’t want to marry, I do one day. I just can’t visualise it happening. I mean, who would it be for starters? Our choice is pretty limited as the Clarks don’t really fraternise. I know that some tribes are close enough to cross marry, but we’re too insular for that. My only choice is from those within the tribe. Thank goodness that, apart from that mad moment with Nella, Jamie has never looked at anyone but Keya. I can’t imagine anything more unpleasant than marrying him.
Ralph?
I guess worse things have happened, but I don’t relish the idea of marrying someone I love like a brother. It’s kinda sick.
“She’s not so bad you know, Deeta.”
“Who isn’t?”
“Your mother.”
“Oh, I know that. It’s just she’s so intent on getting rid of us. I know she’s thinking of us, but I don’t want to marry anyone and she keeps pushing.” I shove him playfully. “It’s alright for you; no one would dare push you to do something you didn’t want to.”
Tom’s expression is curiously fixed, almost as though I’d slapped him. He bends his head, and begins to sharpen his knife — again.
I suddenly realise that in mother I am fortunate. For all her pushing I have never once doubted that she loves me. Even this obsession with getting us settled is proof of how much she cares for us. She knows what happens to unmarried women with no protector. They occupy the lowest position in the tribe, relying on the charity of the Elders to survive. All in all their lot is pretty grim.
I’m not used to that sort of hardship. My father is Leader of the Hunt; that means that we have the best of anything the hunt brings back to the compound. The soldiers and their families were on the social rung bellow us. Their primary objective is to scavenge anything that might be useful, and trade with the other tribes in the City.
As much as I wish my mother wouldn’t keep pushing me at every available man, I know I’m lucky to have her.
Tom doesn’t have a mother.
I sit pondering this fact in something approaching shock; I can’t believe I’ve never really considered it before. Tom has never spoken about either of his parents — at least, not to me. Tom rarely starts an idle conversation, and he never voluntarily talks about himself or anything to do with his life before he joined our tribe.
I guess because one of my earliest memories is Tom and Uncle Jep's arrival, I’ve never really thought that he was somewhere else first. To me Uncle Jep has always been his father, but he was somewhere else first and he was there for thirteen years.
I look at Tom again.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a void has opened up. Thirteen years, only three years less than the time I have known him. That’s almost half of his life that I know nothing about.
Tom has finished sharpening his knife, and stands looking out into the darkness.
“Are you coming, Deeta? I’ve got to do the rounds.”
I nod and get to my feet. The wind isn’t so fierce now, but still it’s very cold. We aren’t allowed to show a light in the darkness, and so we are walking blind. At least I’m walking blind: Tom can see in the dark, I think.
“Did you eat your carrots as a boy, Tom?”
“Come again?”
“Did you eat your carrots when you were younger? I’m not a great fan of carrots, unless they’re raw, or mashed with swede and butter. I did eat them, though, so I don’t think it’s fair… did you?”
Tom laughs, and shakes his head.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Deeta. Even for you that was pretty rambling.”
“Carrots are good for your eyesight.”
“What a very edifying piece of information; your conversation is always so enlightening.”
“You what?” It’s my turn to lose track of the conversation.
“Yes, Deeta; I did.”
“I thought you must have, you know it’s funny but — oops!”
I trip over something in the darkness, and land with a bump on my right hip. Tom’s rumbling chuckle sounds out in the gloom, and I scowl.
“Are you alright?”
“Your concern for my welfare is truly heart warming.” I reply with dignity. Or at least, that’s what I was aiming for. The thing is it’s very difficult to be dignified when you’re sitting on an icy cold floor with a dead leg. Tom lifts me easily, and sets me on my feet.
“Poor, Deeta; would you like me to rub it better for you?” he asks, leaving me in no doubt that there is a huge grin on his face.
“Take a running jump, Tom.”
My fist goes out to punch him playfully, but he catches it and presses it against his sleeve.
“You’d best hold on, or next time you might break your neck.”
We finish the rounds, and thankfully sit back in the shelter. I’ll have to get going soon as it’s probably late. I don’t know how Tom and Nella can stay up here for such lonely stretches of time. I couldn’t, but then I wouldn’t have to; one or the other of them would come and keep me company.
I pour Tom another tea, the last in the flask, and munch on one of the biscuits I brought. Carris helped me to bake them today.
“When does your shift end?”
“Some time after dawn.”
I stretch, and start to pack away the flask. Tom watches me in silence.
“Do you want me to leave the bickies?”
He nods, and I leave them on the small table.
“I’ve got to get going, Tom, or I’ll fall asleep right here.”
As I stand Tom also gets to his feet.
“Do you want me to take you to the door?” He grins. “You wouldn’t want to get lost again, would you?”
The door is only a few yards away, but it would probably have taken me ages to find. I say goodnight, and make my way back to our floor.
My father is reading as I enter.
“How was Tom?” he asks, looking up at me an smiling.
“Cold, but three teas thawed him out a little.”
I bend to kiss him goodnight. As I reach my bedroom door his voice calls softly over the distance that separates us.
“Remember you have greenhouse duties tomorrow.”
“Alright, Dad. Goodnight.”
-------
I’m dreaming, watching in a strange disembodiment as my dream takes its course. Tom and I are standing on opposite sides of a chasm. It’s widening with every second and Tom is calling to me to jump, promising faithfully that he will catch me.
Scared, I hesitate on the edge.
I know, in that strange way that you always do in dreams, that if I don’t jump I’ll never see Tom again. Still I delay, hovering uncertainly at the edge. Tom stops calling to me, and lifts his hand in a friendly gesture of goodbye. It spurs me into action, and I take a running leap.
I don’t make it to the other side, but fall and keep on falling down the endless cliff face until the sky is just a memo
ry above me.
“Deet, wake up!” Jan is shaking me gently, her voice softly pleading. “It was just a dream, please don’t cry.”
I realise belatedly that my cheeks, and a vast amount of my pillow, are wet. Still confused and groggy from sleep I pat her hand absently.
“I’m okay, Jan, really. I don’t know why I’m crying.”
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
“I’m fine.”
Seeing that Jan is fast overcoming the concern she felt at first, and that her curiosity is beginning to take a strong hold on her, I snuggle back down into my covers and bid her a sleepy goodnight. I can tell by the way she hovers beside my bed that she is still weighing up the possibility of finding out what distressed me so much as I slept. Finally she withdraws, and I hear the metallic creak of her bed and the rustle of covers as she settles herself for sleep.
I wait for a few minutes before turning over to face the wall. My father says that dreams mean something; like the ones where your teeth fall out telling you you’ve said, or are going to say, something wrong.
As I lay in the darkness I try to work out what my dream is trying to tell me. Usually when I have difficulty fathoming them out I tell Dad. He seems to understand them instantly.
I can’t tell him about this one though; the content is a little too suggestive and could be construed in an entirely embarrassing way. I don’t want Dad to think I’ve got a crush on Tom. My head is aching, and I decide that maybe I’ll understand what my dream is telling me when and as it happens.
My last thought as I fall asleep is that I left my gloves in the shelter with Tom.