Page 9 of The Heart and the Hawthorn

Hamish drew in a gasp.

Antony’s face relaxed. ‘Oh, well . . .’

She was already decanting her coffee into her special Kiss the Keeper travel mug. ‘Don’t finish that sentence, Antony.’

His mouth snapped shut.

She was furiously typing her reply to Cliff, and although it was only 7:30, and they still had half an hour before their shifts would start, the idea of taking a personal day, and enforced alone-time with her thoughts, was just too awful. Not when Lucky was waiting for her.

A few minutes later her plate was washed, and her coat was over one shoulder. She jiggled from foot to foot, looking despairingly between Hamish and Antony’s unfinished breakfasts and the door. Hamish rolled their eyes.

‘Go, love. We’ll lock up.’

Frida gave a squeal. Racing back to kiss them both on the cheeks, she almost tripped over the carpet in her hurry. ‘Thanks for the beans!’

She just heard Antony’s heavy sigh as the door slammed, and she was down the front steps and hurrying across Liberty Park before anyone could stop her.

Jeff and Maisy, the elderly hippy couple who held vigil daily on the pavement, waved at her as she passed. They were two of the most regular protestors who haunted the LEZ, sitting in strategically positioned deckchairs with placards, tins of homemade scones, and knitted unicorn-horn hats. They were just settling down to chant some liberation-themed limericks.

‘Scone, dear?’ Maisy offered, holding out the tin.

Frida, still in a panic, took one out of reflex, thanking her politely. Usually, she’d happily engage in one of their furious debates. Her soul might have agreed with their placards – Put the Wild Back in the Wild! Extraordinary Creatures Don’t Belong in Cages! – but it wasn’t the LEZ’s fault. Go campaign outside the headquarters of an oil company, or the gas company currently threatening to destroy the last habitat of the yellow-footed squirrel. Today, she didn’t even have the energy for their latest conspiracy theory about a high-profile centaur conservation scheme being a front for neoliberal neo-Nazi cultists. They seemed disappointed.

Nibbling on what was – she had to admit – a top-notch scone, she headed for Ground Control. Cliff had told her to find him in his office. When she arrived, he was snoring over a stack of papers. He startled awake as she entered, staring at her blearily.

‘I’m really fine, Cliff,’ she insisted before he could object. ‘I want to work.’

He rubbed his face tiredly. ‘Are you sure? A day in bed sounds pretty good to me.’

She tried to look composed, but she could feel the threads of herself unravelling, a fresh headache pounding behind her eyes. All she wanted was to de-scale the manticore’s tail, give Raziel the technicolour ghost-lynx an anti-worming treatment, or polish the limestone in the stone giants’ enclosure. Was that too much to ask?

‘I’m so sorry about last night.’

‘You know,’ he said gently. ‘If you ever want to talk, you know where I am. And if you don’t want to talk to me, I can always make you an appointment with—’

‘No, no, that’s ok!’ Frida exclaimed, turning puce. She was going to kill Antony. ‘I’m fine.’ What the fuck was wrong with everyone? A while ago, Management had forced her to go and see the LEZ therapist. The Necromancer, Hamish dubbed him. But no kind-eyed man with a sweater vest was going to make her feel ok that she’d never get to hug her mum again, thanks very much. God, she couldn’t get out of Cliff’s office fast enough. Her eyes stung as she gritted her teeth, and repeated firmly, ‘I just want to get back to work.’

He gazed at her for a few seconds more, before he sighed. ‘Of course.’ Then, his eyes crinkled like tissue paper. ‘Raziel’s purr is the best therapy really, isn’t it?’

Relief flooded her. ‘It really is,’ she whispered. The idea that Cliff didn’t get it was almost too much to bear.

‘Plus, we are short-staffed today,’ he admitted. ‘It was a real head scratcher to find cover for you. The root lizards are overdue their sunburn treatment, I’ve got no one to feed Raz, the slippery-nosed hangferns need their daily braiding at 11:00 . . .’

She almost jumped for joy. ‘Cliff, honestly. Thank you. I can help with anything. But the idea of not seeing Lucky today truly . . .’ She trailed off however the moment she saw his guilty expression. Her heart sunk. ‘I’m not seeing him today, am I?’

He rubbed at his two-day stubble. ‘Look, I’ll do my best, but everyone who wasn’t there last night has been clamouring to get on the list. I – I’m really sorry.’

Frida nodded. She tried, but it was hard to keep the devastation off her face.

‘But honestly,’ he burst out. ‘It won’t matter if it’s today, tomorrow, or next week. The feeling of seeing him for the first time will be a memory you’ll treasure forever. I wish I could get to see him for the first time all over again!’

She gave a soft laugh. Even if she didn’t really believe him, she appreciated the effort. ‘I understand,’ she said, straightening her shoulders. ‘I’ll head over and feed Raziel now.’

He beamed sleepily at her, putting his head back down on the table and adjusting the papers to make them more comfortable. His fulsome snores already reverberating as she slipped out of the door, trying to swallow the heavy stone of disappointment in her heart.

Chapter Eight

Frida set off at a trot through the Saturday morning crowds, thinking to cheer herself up with some brisk exercise and fresh air. Cliff was right. The first time she saw Lucky would be earth shattering. It didn’t matter when it happened. She was just telling herself this for the hundredth time when she was waylaid by Sora, Cliff’s no. 2. The older, brown-skinned, hawk-eyed keeper from Camden was rushing in the opposite direction with a giant feedbag over one shoulder. Her greying hair was uncharacteristically dishevelled.