p style="text-align: center;"strongIV. Contact/strong/p
p dir="ltr"The summer of 1976 was unusually warm, and the grass was a little brown. Margaret set her daughters to poetry—John Donne, Shakespeare, Marlowe—and taught them French and German. Julie spent her off time smoking and sitting around with Ian Forester, the latest in a series Amy liked to call Julie's Boy of the Summer. The smoking was a secret—her mother was, like most mothers, not really a fan of recreational drug use—so she spent a great deal of time with Ian, trying to stay out of her own house./p
p dir="ltr"Technically they could have taken the bus into Inverness proper, but it was a fifteen-minute walk followed by a half-hour ride, and more often than not they were too lazy./p
p dir="ltr"It was an odd summer. Not for the first time, Julie realized that her mother was keeping secrets. Amy was more irritable than usual, and she spent an unusual amount of time in her room. And Julie, of course, was more often than not out late at night, going to parties, sometimes, or just sitting with Ian and his mates having a beer, blowing smoke into the night air, talking about punk rock or Scottish independence. The three Frasers were growing apart, splintering into separated silence, and often they would only see each other all together at meals./p
p dir="ltr"One day in the middle of August Julie and Ian were lying on their backs in the grass. Across the road the two Aiken boys were messing around with their brand-new BB guns, shooting at sparrows and missing, alternately laughing and swearing. Ian turned his head to look at her. He had very dark blue eyes and freckles, and he always had a very earnest expression on his face, which was both endearing and sometimes a bit frustrating./p
p dir="ltr""When are you going away?"/p
p dir="ltr"Julie didn't answer for a bit, concentrating on the cigarette in her hand, the swirl of the smoke that was hardly visible against the bright sky. Finally, seeing no way to avoid it, she said, "August thirtieth."/p
p dir="ltr""I still don't understand why I can't write you," he said quietly./p
p dir="ltr""Told you, the school isn't registered with the post office. Anyway—what are you worrying about this for? We've three weeks!" She sat up and stubbed the cigarette out against the ground, frowning./p
p dir="ltr"Ian sighed. "You know, Julie, sometimes I think—"/p
p dir="ltr"emBANG./em/p
p dir="ltr"A gunshot cut him off, followed by a horrible screeching noise. Andrew Aiken had hit something, and it wasn't a sparrow./p
p dir="ltr"Julie sprang to her feet and took off running. Ian spluttered and scrambled to his feet, but she was already vaulting over the low stone wall and dashing across the road./p
p dir="ltr""What the hell d'you think you're doing? Bloody morons—don't touch it—don't touch it!" The boys jumped back in alarm and Julie stumbled to her knees, out of breath. She had guessed right. It was an owl the boys had shot down, and now it was struggling on the ground. By pure luck the bird had been hit right in its chest, and luridly bright blood was pumping out./p
p dir="ltr""Get away, go away, you stupid idiots!" Julie muttered, carefully slipping her trembling hands under the soft, feathery body and praying the boys hadn't noticed the small scroll tied to the bird's leg./p
p dir="ltr""That's our bird!" said Robbie angrily./p
p dir="ltr"Julie looked murderously at him, and he cowered away./p
p dir="ltr""Shooting an owl is emillegal/em. It's the queen's bird!" She was too sure of herself for them to argue. Bird in hands, frighteningly limp, she turned and bumped into Ian./p
p dir="ltr""Did you just say owls are the queen's bird?" he asked, a bit out of breath. "I'm pretty sure that's swans."/p
p dir="ltr"She huffed and walked around him. "Not now, for god's sake."/p
p dir="ltr"He started to say something else but then she fairly ran, cradling the bird to her chest at the same time as she maneuvered the scroll off its talon. Ian could wait, and he would wait; he was that kind of boy./p
p dir="ltr""Mum? Mum!"/p
p dir="ltr"The door clattered shut behind her. Margaret walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron./p
p dir="ltr""What?"/p
p dir="ltr"Mutely Julie held out the owl. It was still now, no more than a warm bundle of feathers, and it left a shockingly bright red stain across the front of her t-shirt. Margaret didn't waste a single word. She went into the kitchen, her daughter following, and spread out a clean dishtowel on the table. Julie set the bird down gently on the cloth and stood back while her mother went to work. She washed her hands well and then pulled a pair of tweezers out from a drawer. She lit the stove and passed the tweezers through the flame, sterilizing them. Then she sat down in front of the bird and, with a surprising gentleness, began to run her fingers through the feathers. Julie looked on in slight horror as her mother plucked out the small pellet that had caused all the trouble. It was dripping with blood, and Margaret's fingers were red as well. She could feel bile rising in her throat, and she forced herself to look away./p
p dir="ltr"It was with some surprise that she looked down and realized she still had the little scroll in her hand. It had been smashed in her hand, and when she unrolled it the spidery, angular script was a bit smeared./p
p dir="ltr"em—Meggie,/em/p
p dir="ltr"emYou should/em/p
p dir="ltr"She only read three words before Margaret's hand covered the rest. She had her eyebrows raised in silent disapproval, and Julie grimaced and let the note go. Margaret frowned as she read the paper, and then she crumpled it up into a ball and dropped it into the trash without a second glance./p
p dir="ltr""She doesn't know what she's talking about," she muttered, turning, going back to the owl. Outside, the short spell of sun was ending. The sky was growing gray and hazy. In the distance, the gunshots had started again./p
hr /
p dir="ltr"Another day, the phone rang. Julie and Amy were sitting in the kitchen, eating marmalade sandwiches, and Margaret was upstairs. "Julie, can you get that?" Margaret yelled. "I'm expecting a call from Fiona." Fiona was a pleasant, middle-aged woman, Margaret's friend—of a sort. They were civil to each other, anyway, and traded clippings from their gardens./p
p dir="ltr"Julie slid off her stool, licking her fingers clean and wiping them on her jeans. She lifted the phone off the wall./p
p dir="ltr""Hello?"/p
p dir="ltr""I'm calling for Margaret Fraser."/p
p dir="ltr"Julie frowned. It wasn't Fiona. First, it was a man, and second, he clearly wasn't local—he spoke with a crisp southern English accent, which immediately put him under suspicion./p
p dir="ltr""Yeah, who's this?" asked Julie, about as politely as you can say something like that./p
p dir="ltr""This is Alexander Potter."/p
p dir="ltr"Julie's eyebrows shot up. "Alexander what now?"/p
p dir="ltr"There was an audible sigh on the other end of the line. "Alexander Potter...you probably know my son."/p
p dir="ltr""Right."/p
p dir="ltr"Julie set down the phone. "Mum!" she called. "James Potter's emdad/em is calling for you!"/p
p dir="ltr"Margaret came downstairs, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, and took the phone. Julie sat back down at the counter and went back to her sandwich, listening very hard and trying to appear as if she wasn't./p
p dir="ltr"Margaret turned away from the girls and started to speak./p
p dir="ltr""Hello? Yes, this is she...sorry about that...I see...No, that wasn't my plan...Of course. No, I understood the risks...exactly...thank you very much, Alec. No, you don't. I'll be in touch. All right...fine. I'll call you...goodbye."/p
p dir="ltr"She slammed the phone into the receiver, her mouth set in a straight line. "Bloody fool doesn't know his own business," she said, and without another word she went back upstairs. Julie and Amy sat still as the sound of footsteps retreated. Then they stood up and put their plates in the sink./p
p dir="ltr"Julie went outside and lit a cigarette. Long, deep breaths. Then she went off to find Ian./p
p dir="ltr"The summer of 1976 was unusually warm, and the grass was a little brown. Margaret set her daughters to poetry—John Donne, Shakespeare, Marlowe—and taught them French and German. Julie spent her off time smoking and sitting around with Ian Forester, the latest in a series Amy liked to call Julie's Boy of the Summer. The smoking was a secret—her mother was, like most mothers, not really a fan of recreational drug use—so she spent a great deal of time with Ian, trying to stay out of her own house./p
p dir="ltr"Technically they could have taken the bus into Inverness proper, but it was a fifteen-minute walk followed by a half-hour ride, and more often than not they were too lazy./p
p dir="ltr"It was an odd summer. Not for the first time, Julie realized that her mother was keeping secrets. Amy was more irritable than usual, and she spent an unusual amount of time in her room. And Julie, of course, was more often than not out late at night, going to parties, sometimes, or just sitting with Ian and his mates having a beer, blowing smoke into the night air, talking about punk rock or Scottish independence. The three Frasers were growing apart, splintering into separated silence, and often they would only see each other all together at meals./p
p dir="ltr"One day in the middle of August Julie and Ian were lying on their backs in the grass. Across the road the two Aiken boys were messing around with their brand-new BB guns, shooting at sparrows and missing, alternately laughing and swearing. Ian turned his head to look at her. He had very dark blue eyes and freckles, and he always had a very earnest expression on his face, which was both endearing and sometimes a bit frustrating./p
p dir="ltr""When are you going away?"/p
p dir="ltr"Julie didn't answer for a bit, concentrating on the cigarette in her hand, the swirl of the smoke that was hardly visible against the bright sky. Finally, seeing no way to avoid it, she said, "August thirtieth."/p
p dir="ltr""I still don't understand why I can't write you," he said quietly./p
p dir="ltr""Told you, the school isn't registered with the post office. Anyway—what are you worrying about this for? We've three weeks!" She sat up and stubbed the cigarette out against the ground, frowning./p
p dir="ltr"Ian sighed. "You know, Julie, sometimes I think—"/p
p dir="ltr"emBANG./em/p
p dir="ltr"A gunshot cut him off, followed by a horrible screeching noise. Andrew Aiken had hit something, and it wasn't a sparrow./p
p dir="ltr"Julie sprang to her feet and took off running. Ian spluttered and scrambled to his feet, but she was already vaulting over the low stone wall and dashing across the road./p
p dir="ltr""What the hell d'you think you're doing? Bloody morons—don't touch it—don't touch it!" The boys jumped back in alarm and Julie stumbled to her knees, out of breath. She had guessed right. It was an owl the boys had shot down, and now it was struggling on the ground. By pure luck the bird had been hit right in its chest, and luridly bright blood was pumping out./p
p dir="ltr""Get away, go away, you stupid idiots!" Julie muttered, carefully slipping her trembling hands under the soft, feathery body and praying the boys hadn't noticed the small scroll tied to the bird's leg./p
p dir="ltr""That's our bird!" said Robbie angrily./p
p dir="ltr"Julie looked murderously at him, and he cowered away./p
p dir="ltr""Shooting an owl is emillegal/em. It's the queen's bird!" She was too sure of herself for them to argue. Bird in hands, frighteningly limp, she turned and bumped into Ian./p
p dir="ltr""Did you just say owls are the queen's bird?" he asked, a bit out of breath. "I'm pretty sure that's swans."/p
p dir="ltr"She huffed and walked around him. "Not now, for god's sake."/p
p dir="ltr"He started to say something else but then she fairly ran, cradling the bird to her chest at the same time as she maneuvered the scroll off its talon. Ian could wait, and he would wait; he was that kind of boy./p
p dir="ltr""Mum? Mum!"/p
p dir="ltr"The door clattered shut behind her. Margaret walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron./p
p dir="ltr""What?"/p
p dir="ltr"Mutely Julie held out the owl. It was still now, no more than a warm bundle of feathers, and it left a shockingly bright red stain across the front of her t-shirt. Margaret didn't waste a single word. She went into the kitchen, her daughter following, and spread out a clean dishtowel on the table. Julie set the bird down gently on the cloth and stood back while her mother went to work. She washed her hands well and then pulled a pair of tweezers out from a drawer. She lit the stove and passed the tweezers through the flame, sterilizing them. Then she sat down in front of the bird and, with a surprising gentleness, began to run her fingers through the feathers. Julie looked on in slight horror as her mother plucked out the small pellet that had caused all the trouble. It was dripping with blood, and Margaret's fingers were red as well. She could feel bile rising in her throat, and she forced herself to look away./p
p dir="ltr"It was with some surprise that she looked down and realized she still had the little scroll in her hand. It had been smashed in her hand, and when she unrolled it the spidery, angular script was a bit smeared./p
p dir="ltr"em—Meggie,/em/p
p dir="ltr"emYou should/em/p
p dir="ltr"She only read three words before Margaret's hand covered the rest. She had her eyebrows raised in silent disapproval, and Julie grimaced and let the note go. Margaret frowned as she read the paper, and then she crumpled it up into a ball and dropped it into the trash without a second glance./p
p dir="ltr""She doesn't know what she's talking about," she muttered, turning, going back to the owl. Outside, the short spell of sun was ending. The sky was growing gray and hazy. In the distance, the gunshots had started again./p
hr /
p dir="ltr"Another day, the phone rang. Julie and Amy were sitting in the kitchen, eating marmalade sandwiches, and Margaret was upstairs. "Julie, can you get that?" Margaret yelled. "I'm expecting a call from Fiona." Fiona was a pleasant, middle-aged woman, Margaret's friend—of a sort. They were civil to each other, anyway, and traded clippings from their gardens./p
p dir="ltr"Julie slid off her stool, licking her fingers clean and wiping them on her jeans. She lifted the phone off the wall./p
p dir="ltr""Hello?"/p
p dir="ltr""I'm calling for Margaret Fraser."/p
p dir="ltr"Julie frowned. It wasn't Fiona. First, it was a man, and second, he clearly wasn't local—he spoke with a crisp southern English accent, which immediately put him under suspicion./p
p dir="ltr""Yeah, who's this?" asked Julie, about as politely as you can say something like that./p
p dir="ltr""This is Alexander Potter."/p
p dir="ltr"Julie's eyebrows shot up. "Alexander what now?"/p
p dir="ltr"There was an audible sigh on the other end of the line. "Alexander Potter...you probably know my son."/p
p dir="ltr""Right."/p
p dir="ltr"Julie set down the phone. "Mum!" she called. "James Potter's emdad/em is calling for you!"/p
p dir="ltr"Margaret came downstairs, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, and took the phone. Julie sat back down at the counter and went back to her sandwich, listening very hard and trying to appear as if she wasn't./p
p dir="ltr"Margaret turned away from the girls and started to speak./p
p dir="ltr""Hello? Yes, this is she...sorry about that...I see...No, that wasn't my plan...Of course. No, I understood the risks...exactly...thank you very much, Alec. No, you don't. I'll be in touch. All right...fine. I'll call you...goodbye."/p
p dir="ltr"She slammed the phone into the receiver, her mouth set in a straight line. "Bloody fool doesn't know his own business," she said, and without another word she went back upstairs. Julie and Amy sat still as the sound of footsteps retreated. Then they stood up and put their plates in the sink./p
p dir="ltr"Julie went outside and lit a cigarette. Long, deep breaths. Then she went off to find Ian./p