“Only nice things, I hope,” said Mum.
“I’m sure that’s right,” said Dad. “Look at her face. Sweet and still, nearly smiling. Little angel. I know. We could call her Angela. But no, too long.”
“It was the strangest thing,” said Mum.
She stopped and shook her head.
“What was?” said Dad.
She crinkled her face up, like she was embarrassed.
“Well,” she said. “I was lying here last night, tossing and turning. Kept getting up to look at her. Kept dropping off to sleep. And the strangest of dreams …”
“And …?” said Dad.
“And I saw this man, that’s all. Another dream, though I was sure I was wide awake. He was standing over the baby. He was filthy. All in black, an ancient dusty suit. A great hunch on his back. Hair all matted and tangled. I was terrified. I wanted to reach out to him. I wanted to push him away. I wanted to scream, Get away from our baby! I wanted to shout for the nurses and the doctors. But I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, and I was sure he was going to take her away. But then he turned and looked at me. His face as white and dry as chalk. And there was such tenderness in his eyes. And for some reason I knew he hadn’t come to harm her. I knew it would be all right …”
She stopped again and shook her head.
“And …?” said Dad.
“And then he reached right down with both hands and lifted her up. She was wide awake. They stared and stared into each other’s eyes. He started slowly to turn around …”
“Like they were dancing,” I said.
“That’s right, like they were dancing. And then the strangest thing of all …”
She laughed at us, and shrugged.
“And the strangest thing of all was, there were wings on the baby’s back. Not solid wings. Transparent, ghostly, hardly visible, but there they were. Little feathery things. It looked so funny. The strange tall man and the little baby and the wings. And that was it. He put her back down, he turned and looked at me again, and it was over. I slept like a log the rest of the night. When I woke up they were already getting her ready for the operation. But I wasn’t worried anymore. I kissed her and whispered to her how much we all loved her and they took her away. I knew it was going to be all right.”
“And it is,” said Dad.
“And it is.”
She poked me in the ribs.
“Must have been thinking about what you asked me. What are shoulder blades for? Eh?”
I smiled and nodded.
“Yes. Yes.”
The baby’s eyes kept moving, seeing the things she imagined in her sleep.
“Funny little chick,” said Dad. “What can she be seeing?”
“Skellig,” I whispered to myself. “Skellig.”
“It isn’t over,” said Mum. “You know that, don’t you? We’ll have to protect her always, especially at first.”
“I know,” I said. “We’ll love her and love her and love her.”
We left soon afterward. In the corridor I saw Dr. MacNabola coming out of the elevator with a clutch of students in white coats around him. I told Dad just to wait a minute. I ran to Dr. MacNabola. He looked down at me.
“Doctor,” I said. “I told you about my friend. Remember? The one with arthritis.”
He puffed his chest out and drew his shoulders up.
“Aha,” he said. “So is he ready for my needles and my saw?”
“No,” I said. “He seems to be getting better.”
“Splendid,” he said. “Cod-liver oil and a dose of positive thinking, eh? Maybe he’ll escape me yet.”
The students giggled.
“Can love help a person to get better?” I asked.
He raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips, tapped his chin. One of the students took a notebook and pencil from her pocket.
“Love,” said the doctor. “Hmmm. What can we doctors know about love, eh?” He winked at the student with the notebook and she blushed. “ ‘Love is the child that breathes our breath/Love is the child that scatters death.’ ”
“William Blake?” I said.
He laughed.
“We have an educated man before us,” he said.
He smiled properly for the first time.
“Tell your friend that I hope he and I never have to meet.”
Then he winked at me, turned, and led the students away.
“What was that about?” said Dad when I hurried back to him.
“Nothing,” I said. “Somebody I met soon after the baby came in.”
He laughed.
“Mystery man, that’s who you are.”
In the car on the way home we wound the windows down and he sang “The Black Hills of Dakota” at the top of his voice. I put my hands together and hooted and hooted like an owl.
“That’s good,” he said. “I like that. That’s really good. You’ll have to show me how to do that one. Not while I’m driving, though, eh?”
We smiled as we drove through the busy city streets.
“She’s not out of danger yet,” he said. “You do understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes. But she will be, won’t she?”
“Yes!” he yelled. “Yes, she blinking will!”
And he sang again.
“Have to get on with that blinking house now, eh?” he said. “I know! We can have 27 and 53 tonight, eh?”
“27 and 53,” I said. “Sweetest of nectars!”
“Sweetest of nectars! I like that. Sweetest of blinking nectars!”
Chapter 42
IT WAS LONG AFTER DUSK WHEN Mina and I went out with the remnants of 27 and 53 and a bottle of brown ale in a paper bag. The lights were on in the streets, the air was cold, and the sky was glittering with stars. Our breath curled in long white plumes around us. I told Mina about Mum’s dream as we walked.
“Extraordinary,” she whispered.
She smiled and said it showed that he’d always be there, whenever we might need him. But we knew we wanted to see him and touch him again.
In the lane, we found Whisper at our heels.
“Bad boy,” she said, leaning down to stroke him.
She laughed.
“All day long the fledglings got stronger and braver. They fluttered up into the middle of the hedge where they couldn’t be caught. All day long they were getting worms, worms, worms, and when we let him out, this one just sat grumpy and frustrated on the step beside us.”
She stroked him again.
