Wilderness by Roddy Doyle

Yes?”
    â€œYes,” said Johnny.
    â€œYes,” said Tom.
    â€œYes,” said Kalle.
    His face rose over them. They could see the trees
    again, and they heard people move and cough. Kalle
    was standing up again. He held a blanket as thick as a
    rug. He flapped it, and it dropped gently on to Johnny
    and Tom. Kalle was bending again as he tucked the blanket around the boys. They didn’t want it – they
    weren’t in a hospital or something – but they didn’t say
    anything.
    â€œThanks,” said Johnny when Kalle was finished.
    Kalle didn’t answer.
    â€œSO,” said Aki. “We go.”
    Suddenly, Johnny and Tom were moving, fast. They
    started laughing. They were gliding over the snow,
    behind eight dogs. The dogs went straight for the gate.
    Out the gate, and they saw more snow than they’d
    ever seen before. More snow than they’d even
    imagined.
    Johnny had to do it; he couldn’t stop. He had to
    shout – it was so exciting.
    â€œWilderness!”
    And Tom joined in, like an echo.
    â€œWil-der-ness!!”

 
The Airport
    Â 
    Â 
    People were pouring out now. She saw women and
men shake hands, or hug. A woman stopped in front
of her. She looked uncertain, and unhappy. She took a
piece of paper from her pocket. She looked at it. She
looked around, at the faces all around her. She moved
a bit; she dragged the luggage trolley with her. She looked round again. She began to look angry.
    It wasn’t her mother.
    Too young – she looked.
    Too angry.
    Gráinne was scared she’d miss her, that she’d
    missed her already, that she’d gone past Gráinne while
    Gráinne was looking the wrong way. She looked behind her. There were more people waiting. Most of
    them were like her, waiting for someone off a plane.
    But there were others leaning on trolleys, sitting on bags, standing, waiting to be met or recognised. They
     were talking into mobile phones, and texting. They were tired and pale, and some of them were nearly
     crying.
    She turned and saw more people pour into the
    arrivals hall. A man and woman in wheelchairs were
    met and quickly surrounded by a gang of people. They
    laughed and shouted. They annoyed her; they got in
    the way. They were too happy, and she couldn’t see
    around them, or over their heads. She was afraid she’d
    miss her mother. There were too many people to stare
    at; they wouldn’t move slowly. It was too confusing.
    â€œGráinne?”
    Gráinne stood there.
    â€œIs it Gráinne?”
    â€œYes,” said Gráinne.
    â€œHello.”
    The woman who stood there was her mother. She
    was the woman in the photograph – her eyes, and the
    way her hair was on her forehead. She was the same.
    Gráinne didn’t know what to do.
    She’d expected to feel suddenly full, lost time
    charging back into her – she didn’t know. She’d
    expected it to feel right. But, now, she felt nothing. It
    was like there was a wall in the way. Waiting had been
    much easier.
    She wanted to run away. She didn’t – she did. She just didn’t know.
    She didn’t run.
    â€œHi,” she said.
    â€œIt’s – gosh,” said the woman. “It’s so great to see
     you. And thanks for meeting me.”
    What did she mean? Why wouldn’t Gráinne have
    met her?
    Maybe her mother saw the questions race over
    Gráinne’s face.
    â€œHere,” she explained. “Thanks for meeting me here . The first person I meet when I come home. You. It’s –”
    She laughed. But it wasn’t a real laugh.
    â€œIt’s perfect,” she said.
    She smiled. Her eyes were wet.
    â€œSorry,” she said. “I’ll shut up. I told myself not to
    talk too much.”
    She’d never heard this woman’s voice before. It
    wasn’t in Gráinne’s memory. Nothing clicked, or came
    back. She’d looked nice in the