The research station was an underground bunker. It was clear that the wolves spent their time on top of and around it—the area was littered with bones, lumps of fur, and trodden-down patches of grass. But it was deserted now. The land sloped down to the entrance of the bunker, and I lifted away a wooden slat that secured a big set of double doors. There was no lock. We stepped into a short tunnel, wide but barely higher than my head, that led into a cave-like room. Two horizontal windows at head height gave a wolf-level view of the surroundings. There was nothing in the room beyond the dirt floor, just a couple of benches that the kids could stand on to peer out. A single door opened to the outside of the enclosure: that would placate Woody. Even though I’d given him the plum job of vandalizing the drinks machine in the hope of getting him on my side, he still behaved like a mistreated dog in a shelter; he tolerated me giving him food, but snapped if I got too close.
Jack arrived with a few more boys. After all the activity, they sat down on a bench, rendered awkwardly idle. Jack bustled about with our few belongings, but soon ran out of things to do and stood with his hands on his hips. His hair just brushed the roof.
“This is ideal, really.” He sounded disappointed.
“It’s underground, but dry. Even better than a cave,” I said.
“Hmm.”
“What do you want, Center Parcs?”
He still looked glum.
“Too posh for Center Parcs, okay. Club Med?”
He almost smiled.
“I can’t stretch to the Four Seasons, I’m afraid. Not for all seventeen of us.”
He finally laughed, but still shook his head. “When it said ‘Research Station,’ I thought there might be equipment here. You know, like a radio.”
“Ah, but we do have a radio.” I held out the car keys. “Do you want to fetch the truck?”
He grabbed the keys with a muted “yes!” and jogged along the tunnel into the light.
“Did you learn how to reverse in your one lesson?” I yelled after him, but he just waved the keys in the air and kept going. He won’t crash it, I told myself. It’s not very far, he can’t possibly crash it. I turned to my kids. Charlie sat on a bench, unpacking the contents of his backpack in a neat line. Maggie was struggling to lift Billy up so he could see out the window. He pressed his face against the glass.
“Oooh,” he said, in wonder at the outside world where he’d been only moments ago.
“I don’t know why you’re saying that because there’s nothing even there,” Maggie said, dropping him unceremoniously back down.
They were all being so perfectly themselves that it made me smile.
“Sit with me,” I said, and pushed my bum between them onto the bench. Billy planted himself on my lap; Maggie and Charlie snuggled up on either side. The Lost Boy squeezed next to Maggie. “I feel like I haven’t spoken to you in days.”
“You run in and you’re there,” said Billy, “and then you run out and you’re not there.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You must be frightened. I should be with you more.”
“It’s okay, Mummy,” said Charlie. “We know you’re trying your hardest.”
I closed my eyes. A lump of emotion appeared in my throat, and I fought to keep it down. Life seemed so complicated and, of course, it took a kid to see how simple it really was. A bubble full of pitiful gratitude burst inside me. No one else ever noticed that I was just trying my hardest. Not Julian, of course, who had seemed to think I was driven to work hard just to annoy him; and not the school or the other mums or the Daily Mail, who implied that being the breadwinner was somehow selfish; and not even me, my own hardest mommy-shaming critic, whose long finger of guilt damned me if I did and damned me if I didn’t. Charlie squeezed my hand three times, and my eyes fizzled as tears fought their way out. I cried for Marlene Greene, who never managed to have it all despite trying her hardest. I cried for Charlie and Maggie and Billy, whose mother was adding to their fear by crying in front of them. I cried for Peter and Lennon, who had the great fortune to survive the virus only to end up saddled with me. I cried for Horatio, who came back for me. And I cried for Joni, who loved so hard but still lost. I cried, and my kids wrapped themselves around me like vines until I was squeezed dry.
Maggie stood up on the bench. She took my face in both her hands and turned it up to her own. She smiled and clumsily wiped my cheeks with her hands.
“Don’t worry, Mummy,” she said. “You can go back to work soon. For a rest.”
I laughed out loud at my own snide joke echoing through my daughter. I gathered all the children into a hug that contained too many knees and elbows to be comfortable, and only let them go when we saw the pickup truck arrive outside with music blaring and kids hanging off the back like the world’s least threatening gang of child soldiers.
I took the wheel and reversed the truck into the tunnel of the research station, folding in the wing mirrors because it was a “honeymoon fit,” as my father would have said. As dusk slid down the hills into the valley, the rest of the kids came home to roost. I’d brought the hay bales with the intention of parking the pickup outside and covering it over, but once we saw that the conspicuous vehicle would fit inside, we burst the hay open and made a soft bed on one side of the room. Joni and her helpers brought the food down in a wheelbarrow, and there was plenty. Woody’s gang doled out cans and crisps. After a head count to make sure everyone was inside, I stood for a moment in the entrance and listened to the night. Like a traveler in a foreign land, I had grown accustomed to the strange soundtrack without ever needing to understand it. I was just reassured by its constancy. Not a part of it, but not threatened, either. And there were no howling wolves. I slid the wooden plank into place to seal the doors and closed our hideout into near darkness.
Inside, I accepted a plate of beans and mini sausages with a can of Tizer. I sat down in a circle with our kids and Jack. Joni sat close to us, but up on a bench. She had gone quiet again after her burst of activity. I let her be.
“But it’s not much use having the car radio if we can’t understand the Morse code,” said Lola.
“What is Morse code?” asked Charlie.
“It’s a way of sending messages without speaking. You use dots and dashes instead of letters.”
“Why don’t you just speak?”
“Maybe you can’t speak. Or you’re trying to be secret. Like when we squeeze hands.” I grabbed his wrist and did I love you: three squeezes. “Or I could signal by flashing a torch—dot, dot, dash, dash, dash—like that. It’s very useful.”
“But I don’t understand what the dots and dashes are,” he said.
“Well—” I struggled to find a better way to explain.