A Quiet Kind of Thunder(76)

I look into this woman’s wary face, open my mouth and . . . nothing comes out. My words have gone. No. No, Steffi, not now.

I let out a choking, grunting gasp of frustration and the woman’s eyes widen in alarm. She takes a step back.

No, wait, I sign automatically. Sorry. Please don’t go.

As she watches my hands, realization dawns on her face, just as it had done with the coach driver back in London, followed by an expression I recognize: panic.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Oh, I . . . I’m afraid I don’t speak . . .’

‘That’s fine,’ I blurt out. My voice! My awful, shaky voice! There it is! ‘I can hear. I need help. My boyfriend needs help – he fell and he needs help.’ I realize I’m still signing as I talk, but it doesn’t matter.

The woman’s expression gets even more panicked. ‘Oh,’ she says again. ‘Oh dear. Where is he?’

For some reason, the fact that she seems as worried as me eases my anxiety a little. This is a situation where it is normal to be anxious.

‘Over here,’ I say, then turn and go, hoping she’ll follow.

‘Loki!’ the woman calls, and I glance back in confusion to see a Border collie racing up the grass towards us. The woman has a dog! A dog called Loki! A little bit more of my anxiety dissipates. ‘My name is Connie,’ she says as she catches up with me.

‘I’m Steffi,’ I say. ‘Hello, Loki.’ The dog has raced in front of us and is prancing happily in odd little semicircles on the grass. When I speak, he darts towards me and barks. I lift my voice, encouraging and excited, ‘Go find Rhys!’

‘He’s not really –’ Connie begins, but stops as Loki bounds away from us, still barking, and disappears over the incline, where Rhys is. ‘Oh.’ She lets out a small, embarrassed laugh. ‘He’s usually a bit dim, for a Border collie.’

I don’t know how to answer this so I pick up my pace and she follows my lead. Rhys is sitting up more now, leaning his weight on his uninjured thigh, his working hand rubbing tentatively on Loki’s head. Loki is sitting beside him, panting proudly. When Connie and I appear, he barks.

‘Good boy,’ I say.

‘Yes, good boy,’ Connie echoes.

I kneel on the ground beside Rhys and smile at him. ‘This is Connie,’ I say, gesturing. ‘She’s going to help.’

Rhys grimaces, sort of like what a smile would look like if you ran over it with a Zamboni. I love you, I sign. It will be fine.

‘I think he’s hurt his ankle and his arm,’ I say to Connie. I’m still signing as I talk, and I don’t look directly at her. Both these things make it easier to speak.

‘Can’t he tell you?’ Connie asks.

‘He’s deaf,’ I say to Loki. ‘He can’t sign because of his bad arm. And I think he’s in too much pain to talk. Usually, he can talk if he needs to.’

‘Hello,’ Connie says, squatting down beside us both. ‘I’m Connie.’

This is Connie, I sign.

‘Hi,’ Rhys manages, and I have to stop myself throwing my arms around him.

‘His name is Rhys,’ I add.

‘Did you see what happened?’ Connie asks me, and I shake my head. She swallows and smiles uncertainly at Rhys. ‘Well, we’ll need to get him down to ground level,’ she says to me. ‘I don’t think an air ambulance will come for a broken ankle. Between the two of us, do you think we could help him down?’

I look at Rhys and then at her. Another jolt of panic, which I try to squash as far down as it will go. I nod, because my voice has deserted me again.

‘We can go straight to my car,’ Connie continues. I’m not sure who out of the three of us she’s talking to. It seems to be mostly herself. ‘And I’ll drive you both to A&E. Is that . . .’ she hesitates, then looks at me. ‘Does that sound right?’

I nod again, because it’s not like I have any better ideas.

‘Right,’ Connie says briskly. ‘Rhys,’ she begins, her voice suddenly much louder. ‘I’m going to help you up now. Do you think you can manage?’

Rhys looks at me, his face twisted in pain and frustration. When he says my name, it is a hoarse breath, barely a whisper. ‘Steffi.’

We’re going to help you, I sign. It’ll be fine. I make myself smile encouragingly.

He moves his uninjured hand to his chest and circles his fist around his heart. Sorry.

You don’t need to be sorry. Get ready, OK? This might hurt.

It’s awkward not only because a total stranger is helping me lift up my eleven-stone boyfriend, but also on a practical level: Rhys’s left leg and right arm are hurt, which means it is not as simple as acting like a crutch.

We struggle for about three minutes before Connie stops, shaking her head. ‘This isn’t going to work,’ she says, panting slightly. ‘We need someone else.’

Before I can say anything in response she is jogging off towards a person further down the path. I spin round to face Rhys and look carefully at him, scanning his face, trying to read him. He manages a smile, and I smile back, lean up and kiss him on the cheek.

Connie comes back with a man who must be around my dad’s age. ‘He’s a GP!’ she tells me, almost glowing with relief.