Wilderness by Roddy Doyle Page A

photograph. She looked
    nice here too.
    â€œI like your bag,” said her mother.
    Gráinne looked at her bag. It was just a bag. Plain
    and black, like a sack.
    She shrugged.
    â€œIt’s a bit like mine,” said her mother.
    But she didn’t have a bag. She’d cases and stuff
    piled on a trolley. It was hard to tell if she’d come
    home for good, or just for a visit. Gráinne couldn’t see
    a shoulderbag.
    â€œI mean,” said her mother. “I have one a bit like yours.”
    â€œOh,” said Gráinne. “Cool.”
    â€œIt’s in the mess, somewhere,” said her mother.
    She smiled again.
    â€œIt’s quite crowded here,” she said. “Will we go
    somewhere?”
    â€œAre you not staying with Granny?”
    â€œYes,” said her mother. “I mean, before that. We
    could go somewhere, for breakfast. Just the two of
    us.”
    â€œOK,” said Gráinne.
    â€œWhere?” said her mother. “It’s been years. I don’t
    remember anywhere nice in Dublin.”
    Gráinne didn’t like choosing. She was no good at it. She didn’t know nice places.
    â€œI know,” said her mother. “We’ll take a cab to your
    granny’s, and I’ll leave the bags there. And then we
     can go somewhere. For breakfast. Sound good?”
    She sounded American. Just a little bit. Sound
    good? Gráinne liked it – and she didn’t. It made her
    mother even more foreign.
    â€œOK,” said Gráinne.
    â€œGrand,” said her mother. And that sounded Irish.
    She started to push her trolley. Then she stopped.
    â€œDo you want to call me Rosemary?” she said. “You
    probably don’t want to call me –”
    She laughed again, that nervous laugh.
    â€œWhat did I call you?” said Gráinne.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhat did I call you?” said Gráinne. “I don’t
     remember.”
    She watched her mother try to smile. She watched
    the smile turn crooked and break up. She saw her
    close her eyes. She heard her.
    â€œI’m – sorry.”
    They looked at each other.
    â€œMama,” said her mother. “That’s what you called
    me.”

 
CHAPTER FIVE
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    It was a white path. It was long and straight, and it
disappeared as they went over it. The sleds were going
faster than a car – that was what it felt like. And they
were nearer the ground; they could feel it right under
them. They could hear the runners, the blades,
beneath them. They could hear them scratch and
    glide over the ice.
    They looked straight ahead. At the dogs.
    The dogs didn’t gallop. They didn’t lift their legs and
    throw them back, the way horses seemed to, pushing
    themselves forward. The dogs trotted, little steps, like
    they weren’t in that big a hurry. The boys had seen dogs
    on Dollymount beach, charging across the sand, tongues
    out, heads down to the level of their backs. But these
    dogs weren’t like that. They couldn’t be; they were tied
    to the sled. But Tom and Johnny knew: if they had been
    ordinary dogs, they’d have been pulling too fast, bashing
    into each other, getting themselves caught in the straps.
    They were coming to a hill.
    These weren’t ordinary dogs. They were working
    together. They had to save their energy, so they didn’t
    dash. They pulled and charged a bit at the start, to get
    the sled moving. But then they calmed down. Rock,
    the leader, didn’t look at them or howl. But he slowed
    down, and so did they.
    But that was the thing. They didn’t slow down.
    They were going like crazy. When Johnny looked to
    the side it was a white blur, and a bit scary. Then he
    looked straight ahead again, and the dogs were just
    trotting away, their breath steaming out. They were
    much, much stronger than their size. Their tails were
    up, and their breath was like laughter.
    The hill was nearer. It