Breakdown (9 page)

CHAPTER 8

B
reakfast was over when Chris came down the next morning. Grace cooked him eggs and toast in spite of his protests that he could get his own meal.

“Indulge an old lady who’s spent her whole life mothering,” Grace said with a chuckle. “Anyway, Pauline would scold me if I didn’t feed you properly.”

Pauline and Marie had gone into town, she told him, and wouldn’t be back until lunch. Chris washed up his dishes and went out in search of George.

“I’m supposed to tell you to rest,” George said.

“I’m good, fully rested.”

George scrutinized him with a critical eye. “If it weren’t for Michael’s letter, I’d have sent you packing. You’re not exactly the picture of health.”

Chris shrugged. “Short rations at the Distribution Center.”

George shook his head. “God, what we’ve sunk to,” he muttered. “Okay, I’ll show you around. But no lifting, no chopping wood, no shoveling muck, right? I’ve had bruised ribs before. I know what it’s like.”

“I can milk.”

“Oh? You’ve spent time on a farm?”

“Back in the States, yes. It’s been awhile.”

“Tomorrow, maybe, if you’re up early enough.”

“Get me up, then. Put me to work.”

“I’ll ask Pauline.”

“I know what I’m up to.”

George grinned. “Are you trying to avoid my sister? She’s the one supposed to be looking after you.”

“I don’t need looking after,” Chris said, annoyance making his shoulders tense.

George got serious. “No, you’ve got this far, come all the way across the ocean. Hell, I’m scared to go as far as Portsmouth. I wouldn’t think you need looking after. Except Michael said in his letter you’d work yourself to death, given the chance.”

“Different situation.” Chris stood a little straighter, tried to lose the defiance. “I’ve had two nights’ sleep, and most of a day. I’m—” The rest of what he was about to say was cut off by an insistent coughing fit. He ended up bent over, head down. “Shit.”

“Take the day off, for God’s sake,” George said, putting a hand on Chris’s shoulder. “Sit on your ass and enjoy it. Do that, and I’ll get you up tomorrow for milking.”

Chris found a bench against the wall of the barn. He leaned back, closed his eyes, felt the warmth of the sun on his face. He tried to relax and enjoy the thought of another day of complete rest, but he couldn’t shake the must-work-to-survive feeling.

“Who are you?” a small voice said.

Chris opened his eyes. A boy stood a couple of meters away, staring at him. It was hard to judge his age. He was small and thin. His right cheek sported a dirty smudge. His disheveled brown hair needed cutting. His clothes were a motley assortment of too-short trousers, worn shoes, a stained T-shirt, and a man’s flannel work shirt instead of a jacket.

“I’m Chris. Who are you?”

“I’m Wes.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Wes,” Chris said, and held out his hand.

“That’s not safe.”

“It is with me.” Chris left his hand out.

The boy thought about it, then came closer and shook it briefly.

“What are you doing here?” Wes asked next.

“I’m going to be working here.”

Wes’s expression darkened. “I work here. Are you going to take my job?”

“What do you do?” Chris asked.

“Whatever Pauline tells me to.”

“Well, I’ll be working with George. I expect there’s plenty of work for the both of us.”

The boy thought this over and apparently agreed. “All right. Where did you come from?”

“Portsmouth.”

Wes didn’t answer. Chris thought he probably didn’t know where that was.

“Where do you live?” Chris asked.

“In the town. I have my own house.” He puffed himself up as he said it.

“Really?”

“Yeah, so I have work there, too. But I come and work for Pauline some days. And I work for the butcher and the grocer.”

Chris found himself smiling. “You’re a hard worker, then?”

Wes stuck out his chin. “I’m stronger than I look.”

“I bet you are,” Chris said, trying to get a serious expression back.

“What are you doing today?”

“I’m not working today.”

“Why not?”

“Um, I hurt my ribs,” Chris explained. “I’m not supposed to work until they’re better.”

“I hurt my arm once,” Wes said.

“Yeah? So did I. And you know how it hurts if you try to work too soon, eh?”

Wes nodded, then turned around as George came out of the barn.

“Hey, Wes. No school today?”

Wes scowled and scuffed at the ground with his shoe. “Not today.”

George shook his head. “Why don’t you go clean up the chicken house?”

The boy went off at a trot.

“He’s an orphan?” Chris had come across enough of them over the years to recognize the signs.

“Yes. He’s quite a character. We all try to look out for him, but he’s fiercely independent. He’s been on his own since the Bad Winter.”

“How old is he?” Chris didn’t think he could be more than ten.

“Oh, he’s thirteen, at least.”

“Really?”

“Yes, he’s small, isn’t he? He’s a good boy.” George watched Wes unlatch the gate to the little yard of the henhouse. “Won’t let anyone take care of him.” He shot a look at Chris, and one corner of his mouth turned up. Chris let it pass.

“He hasn’t any relatives in town?”

“No, he’s not from here. He showed up in the spring, after it happened. We’re not quite sure how he fetched up here, but he settled right in to stay.”

“He says he has his own house?”

George nodded. “A little place near the post office that’d been empty for years. I think Pauline would take him in if he’d let her. But she’d make him wash regularly and go to school. If not for that, I think he’d take her up on it. He adores her.”

“Huh,” Chris said.

“She’s always had a soft spot for strays,” George went on, sliding his eyes over at Chris. “Michael knows that.” He grinned and went back into the barn.

Chris stayed on his bench for as long as he could. Forced idleness gave his mind too much time to wander, he’d found, and he didn’t like the “why didn’t you” and “you should have” and “what if” scenarios that crept out of the corners of his brain, making his head hurt. He found George and shadowed him for a couple of hours as he did various chores around the farm.

The bell rang for lunch. Wes was washing his hands at the pump. Chris and George took their turns and went in to eat.

“If you’re feeling up to it, I could take you into town to register,” Pauline said to Chris as she passed him bread.

“Okay,” Chris said. “George made sure I didn’t overdo.”

Pauline smiled and turned her face to Wes. “You can walk with us, Wes.”

The boy furrowed his brow and tried not to look at Chris. “Nar. I’m going ’round by the bridge.”

“Suit yourself,” Pauline said.

Wes bolted his food, mumbled a brief thanks to Grace, and took off before the rest of them were finished.

“It’s not like him to miss a chance to walk with you,” Marie said to Pauline.

After lunch, Chris made sure he had his blood-test card in his pocket and a little bit of money in case there was a fee to register. He waited in the yard for Pauline. She came out, smiled, and led him out through the front garden, the way she had led him in.

“We don’t get many visitors,” she said as they started down the road. “The town, I mean. So, don’t be surprised if, well...word’s out.”

Chris wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but she went on before he had a chance to ask, as if to change the subject.

“Michael said in his letter that you’re planning to go on to Bath, to look up your family.”

“That’s the plan.”

“He said you’ve been out of the country?”

“I lived in New York for quite a while.”

“Why did you go to New York?”

“I moved there for my job.”

“Oh, what did you do?”

Chris decided there was no point in avoiding it. “I was a musician.”

She turned to him with a little smile while they walked. “Musician? Like a rock star?” she said, pleased with her joke. He took a moment before he answered.

“Yes, actually.”

She stopped, mouth open. Chris walked on a couple of steps before he turned back to her.

“Seriously?”

He met her gaze. “Seriously.”

“Like, songs on the radio,
Top of the Pops
, and all that?”

“All that.”

“What songs?”

He mentioned the two songs that had first made him and Brian famous, songs found on “big hits” compilation CDs, songs people had still sung along to years after they were hits. Songs that, like all of them, hadn’t been heard by anyone in more than five years. “‘Good Match’ and ‘What Did Milla Say?’”

“I know those songs!” she exclaimed. “You were famous!”

“For a few years. Doesn’t matter now.” Chris began walking again.

She followed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Sometimes it wasn’t all that great.”

“But you must miss it,” she said, coming up even with him.

He looked at her quickly, then away. “It’s the least of what I miss.” He saw her shake her head out of the corner of his eye.

“God, I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it.” He tried to lighten his tone. “At least I’ll never be a ‘has-been’...Although,” he continued with mock consternation, “I suppose I already am.”

“Well, that’s not your fault.”

“No, it’s no one’s fault. It just happened. I hardly even think about it anymore, really.” He kept his gaze forward but could tell she was watching him. “I don’t usually tell people about it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s all pointless now. None of it matters. It’s not who I am anymore.”

She inclined her head. “Okay. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you tell Michael?”

“No, it never came up.” Chris tried to think of a way to turn the conversation away from himself. “Is that his house down the road from yours?”

“Yes. It’s a lovely house. Well, it was. It’s a shame he doesn’t keep it up. We do what we can to keep it from going to ruin, but we haven’t the time for two places.”

“He has no family here?”

“No family at all, except us. He didn’t tell you?”

Chris shook his head. “Never came up.”

“They all died in a car crash, in—let’s see—’94, I guess it was.”

“Oh. So, not in an outbreak?”

“No, we’ve hardly had any of that around here. We’ve been very lucky. Only a bit at the start. Nothing in the last few years.”

Chris was quiet. He suddenly understood her hospital comment on the day he arrived.
She’s never seen anyone die of the plague.

Pauline went on with the story about Michael. “They’d been up to London to visit him, his mum and dad and brother. His brother was a good deal younger. He was a love. Michael was going to come back with them for a few days, that was the plan, but he changed his mind at the last minute. They were all killed on the way home. Michael would have been, too. It was dreadful, horrible. He didn’t take it very well, of course.”

“Huh.”

“That was the first time he disappeared, just after the funeral. We were all worried out of our minds. We thought he’d done something drastic. He showed up eventually, took care of all the paperwork, all that stuff, you know. He let the farm after that. It gave him a little income. Nice people, but they didn’t stay, when all the chaos started. We don’t know what happened to them. It’s odd, really. It would have been safer for them to stay, I’m sure.”

“Likely they went looking for family,” Chris said.

“Yes, I suppose. Michael’s never been back, to stay. He’s visited, but never for long. We’re his second family. He leaned on Dad a lot, back then. It was another blow to him when Dad died.”

“He puts on quite an act, doesn’t he?” Chris asked, wondering if he did it with them.

She nodded. “Yes, he does. Did you know it was an act, in Portsmouth?”

“I didn’t really think about it.”

She was looking at him, and he braced himself.

“You don’t let yourself get close to anyone, do you?”

He inhaled. “Not anymore. It’s safer.”

She didn’t reply, and he exhaled in relief.

They turned left at the crossroads where the lorry had dropped him, cutting through an abandoned petrol station. The village began in earnest soon after, with a row of stone houses on each side of the street. Not too far along were another crossroads and the square. Chris saw the pub, post office, grocer, and butcher, with a few empty shops among them. Some houses were well kept, some obviously abandoned. Two old men sat on benches near a dry fountain. They watched Pauline and Chris, but Pauline turned into the door of the post office before they were close enough to have to greet the men.

Three young women were already in the place and turned expectantly as Chris and Pauline entered. They smiled brightly.

“Hey, Pauline,” one of them said. “Is this your hired help?”

Pauline made an exasperated noise. “I told you I’d be bringing him to register. And I asked you to stay out of it.”

The women ignored her.

“I’m Diana,” said the one who’d already spoken. “This is Claire, and Janice.”

Diana had loose blond hair that bounced on her shoulders. She wore a tight blue jumper with a low neckline. Claire kept her dark hair shorter. Her figure was less curvy, more muscular, but Chris thought her face prettier than Diana’s. Janice had tied up her brown hair with a ribbon and had selected an impractical pink blouse and skirt set for her trip to the post office. She’d left one button too many undone, showing modest cleavage.

“Nice to meet you.” Chris tried to be polite without being friendly. Their attitudes bordered on desperate as they tried to outsmile each other.

“And you’re Chris, right?” Diana said, licking her lips and tossing her hair a bit. She moved to stand in front of Claire, who slid her eyes briefly at her rival and sidestepped to remain in full view.

“I told you his name earlier,” Pauline said. “Clear off, ladies. He has to register.”

“Just trying to be friendly to the new man in town,” Claire said. She directed another smile at Chris. “We’ll get a chance to talk at the pub sometime, right?”