The End of Men(22)
Theodore is in the hallway with me, patting my hair the way I soothe him when he is upset. Tears are streaming down my face and dripping off my nose as I look my gorgeous boy in the eyes. His face is a picture of a concern. I wipe my nose. I need to keep him safe and that means keeping him away from me. In my life now, it seems, my love must express itself at a distance. I sigh and shoo Theodore into the living room. Now, all I can do is wait.
MORVEN
A small farm next to the Cairngorms National Park, the Independent Republic of Scotland
Day 63
Jamie pants as he runs up next to me, having dashed across the garden from the house. “Mum, it’s the phone for you.”
“Who is it, love?” He shrugs and I resist the urge to nag him about taking a message, or at least asking who’s calling. He runs off, skinny as a string bean, to go find his dad, who’s somewhere in the fields. I trudge back to the house, delighting in the quiet. After years of running a hostel, I had thought I was used to the low-level chaos that came with guests, bags and travel, but I wasn’t. The silence and safety of my blissfully empty house is an ongoing source of joy. We have battened down the hatches, we have crops, water and medicine. I have my husband and my son, safe and sound. All will be well.
“Morven Macnaughton?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“My name is Oscar. I work in the civil service. I’m phoning regarding the Highland Evacuation Program.”
“The what?”
Oscar’s voice is impatient. He sounds exhausted and explains in a rush, “The Highland Evacuation Program. We’re evacuating teenage boys from urban areas to remote areas of the Highlands with good food and water supplies.” Oh God, they’re going to take Jamie. They’re going to take my boy away. “Your family has been assigned as a host family in the program and due to the space in your hostel, you have been assigned a more significant number of boys than most families. Can you please confirm you are no longer taking hostel guests?”
I’m spluttering, making odd guttural noises and the concept of turning a sound into a word feels impossible. This can’t be happening. We’re safe here.
“No,” I finally get out. “No guests and no. No, we won’t take them. I won’t do that. My son is safe here. No.”
“That’s not an option, Mrs. Macnaughton. It’s a criminal offense to fail to abide by the requirements of the program.”
“Since when?”
“Since yesterday, when the legislation was passed in Holyrood. The boys should arrive in one to two hours’ time. More information will be provided to you when they arrive.” He hangs up and I scream in frustration. No, no, no, no, no, no. I want to put my head in my hands and weep at the unfairness of it all. We have it all planned, we would escape relatively unscathed, or so we thought. We would wait it out, eat the vegetables we grow in the patch, eat the chickens’ eggs, drink the milk from four cows, eat meat as it became available. We have a stash of antibiotics and plenty of first aid equipment. Everything was going to be fine.
The government of the Independent Republic of Scotland has other ideas.
I don’t have long. Jamie. I need to keep Jamie safe. I run out to the fields screaming Jamie’s and Cameron’s names until I’m hoarse. Within minutes they’re running toward me, terrified, chorusing What’s wrong? What is it?
“The government is evacuating teenage boys. They’re sending them here, to us.” Cameron’s face falls like a stone through water while Jamie’s twists into a frown.
“They can’t do that, we’re safe here,” he says, outrage tinging every syllable with scorn.
“But they are. We have to keep you safe.”
“The hut,” Cameron says. “It’s right by the stream, it’s far away enough.” Yes, it’s perfect. It’s secure enough to survive however many months that Jamie must be away from us. We can deliver food a hundred meters away and never touch him. My heart lurches. Never touch Jamie, no hug, no ruffling his hair. No, I don’t have time for this. The grief can be felt later.
We race around the house packing together everything we can think of. Sleeping bag, blankets, cooking equipment, books, magazines, walkie-talkie, medicine. Everything someone could need to survive alone.
An hour and a half later we hear the rumble of a coach on the gravel in the driveway. “You have to go now, son,” Cameron says. Jamie has a huge pack on his back; it must weigh almost as much as he does. One of us has to stay here to deal with the arrivals.
“You go,” I say to Cameron. “Go, get him settled.” I grab Jamie and hug him so hard Cameron has to wrench me away again. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Mum.” He waves as he heads off to be alone and wait this awful disease out. His shoulders are set with determination and this attempt to be adult in the midst of fear cracks my heart open.
I walk up to the side of the house, swiping away treacherous tears. Teenage boys are starting to make their way off a coach. They all look terrified, cold and very young.
“Hello, I’m Morven,” I call out. It’s not these boys’ fault that they’ve been sent here, away from their homes and families.
One of the boys hands me an envelope in shaking, cold hands.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Macnaughton,