sofa and looked through it at Ute’s enormous head as she played the piano and sang “O Tannenbaum” until her voice went croaky. She said we had to stop because the branches on the Christmas tree were sagging and it might go up with a whoosh at any moment. As we blew out the candles I saw her eyes had filled with tears. They didn’t fall but collected between her lashes until her eyes sucked them back in.
The memory made me suddenly, desperately homesick—a physical sickness, as if I had eaten something bad. More than anything, I wanted to be in my bedroom, lying on my bed, picking at the piece of wallpaper that was coming loose behind the headboard. I wanted to hear the piano in the sitting room below me. I wanted to be at the kitchen table, swinging my legs, eating toast and strawberry jam. I wanted Ute to push my long hair out of my eyes and tut. And then I remembered that Ute wasn’t even at home but was playing someone else’s stupid piano in Germany.
I forgot Christmas and shivered at the idea that no human being had ever walked this way before. My father had said this was a path made by deer, and so I walked like a deer—lifting my knees and tiptoeing without snapping even a twig with my cloven feet. But a deer wouldn’t have had to carry a rucksack overstuffed with the anorak my father had bought for me, even though it was far too hot for coats. I slowed and my father, who carried on walking at the same pace, became a figure I could hold between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand. Every now and again he turned to look at me and his mouth puffed into the shape of a sigh, so that even from a distance I could see that his eyes were screwed into a hurry-up frown. Then he would turn back and carry on walking. I wondered what would happen if I stepped off the path into the trees. Imagine how his face would change when he looked around and I was no longer behind him? He would drop his rucksack and run back in panic, shouting, “Peggy, Peggy!” I liked that thought, but when I glanced sideways into the forest the trees were denser than those in the cemetery at the end of our garden. From the path, the daylight was just two or three trees deep; after that there were no chinks of light, just trunk after trunk, fading into black. “We could get lost forever in there,” Phyllis whispered from my rucksack.
Up ahead, beyond my father, was bright sunlight, and forgetting the forest and the deer and Christmas, I ran to catch up. He was standing at the very edge of the trees. Rolled out before us was a meadow of bright grass, falling away to a deep valley. So deep, we couldn’t see the bottom. After that, the land rose up again to more dark pines and meadows. The monster hills that had been there before had disappeared. I took a step forward into the light, soaking up the sunshine. I stretched out my arms and imagined rolling over and over down the hill and back up the other side. I would roll forever. I was a cold-blooded lizard and the sun gave me energy. I went to run, but my father caught me by the shoulder.
“No!”
He pulled me back into the shadows.
“Look.” My father, still squeezing my shoulder, pointed to the left, along the edge of the forest. It was as if we actually had become deer and were standing at the very limit of our territory, deciding whether a taste of fresh grass in the open was worth the risk. At the side of the meadow were six haystacks, tall and pointed, like shaggy wigwams. They were green with age, as though they had been there for years, left behind from a harvest long ago.
“If there are haystacks, there are people,” hissed my father. I didn’t understand why this was a problem. Wehad met lots of people on our trek through Europe: the French lady who gave me boiled sweets on the ferry across the Channel, the man behind the desk in the car-hire office who tweaked my cheek, overalled men in petrol stations, grubby boys who collected our money at campsites, and foreign
The memory made me suddenly, desperately homesick—a physical sickness, as if I had eaten something bad. More than anything, I wanted to be in my bedroom, lying on my bed, picking at the piece of wallpaper that was coming loose behind the headboard. I wanted to hear the piano in the sitting room below me. I wanted to be at the kitchen table, swinging my legs, eating toast and strawberry jam. I wanted Ute to push my long hair out of my eyes and tut. And then I remembered that Ute wasn’t even at home but was playing someone else’s stupid piano in Germany.
I forgot Christmas and shivered at the idea that no human being had ever walked this way before. My father had said this was a path made by deer, and so I walked like a deer—lifting my knees and tiptoeing without snapping even a twig with my cloven feet. But a deer wouldn’t have had to carry a rucksack overstuffed with the anorak my father had bought for me, even though it was far too hot for coats. I slowed and my father, who carried on walking at the same pace, became a figure I could hold between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand. Every now and again he turned to look at me and his mouth puffed into the shape of a sigh, so that even from a distance I could see that his eyes were screwed into a hurry-up frown. Then he would turn back and carry on walking. I wondered what would happen if I stepped off the path into the trees. Imagine how his face would change when he looked around and I was no longer behind him? He would drop his rucksack and run back in panic, shouting, “Peggy, Peggy!” I liked that thought, but when I glanced sideways into the forest the trees were denser than those in the cemetery at the end of our garden. From the path, the daylight was just two or three trees deep; after that there were no chinks of light, just trunk after trunk, fading into black. “We could get lost forever in there,” Phyllis whispered from my rucksack.
Up ahead, beyond my father, was bright sunlight, and forgetting the forest and the deer and Christmas, I ran to catch up. He was standing at the very edge of the trees. Rolled out before us was a meadow of bright grass, falling away to a deep valley. So deep, we couldn’t see the bottom. After that, the land rose up again to more dark pines and meadows. The monster hills that had been there before had disappeared. I took a step forward into the light, soaking up the sunshine. I stretched out my arms and imagined rolling over and over down the hill and back up the other side. I would roll forever. I was a cold-blooded lizard and the sun gave me energy. I went to run, but my father caught me by the shoulder.
“No!”
He pulled me back into the shadows.
“Look.” My father, still squeezing my shoulder, pointed to the left, along the edge of the forest. It was as if we actually had become deer and were standing at the very limit of our territory, deciding whether a taste of fresh grass in the open was worth the risk. At the side of the meadow were six haystacks, tall and pointed, like shaggy wigwams. They were green with age, as though they had been there for years, left behind from a harvest long ago.
“If there are haystacks, there are people,” hissed my father. I didn’t understand why this was a problem. Wehad met lots of people on our trek through Europe: the French lady who gave me boiled sweets on the ferry across the Channel, the man behind the desk in the car-hire office who tweaked my cheek, overalled men in petrol stations, grubby boys who collected our money at campsites, and foreign
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