Free A Single Swallow by Horatio Clare

Rundu.’
    â€˜I’m going there. Jump in.’
    â€˜Yes – but I have a goat.’
    â€˜Bring your goat!’
    Danny is not a very big boy. He takes the forelegs and I the hind; both sets are tied together. The goat is beautiful, chocolate-brown with cream and dark eye makeup. It cries out pitifully as we manoeuvre it into the boot. I am used to sheep in the backs of cars but my only dealing with goats was a white, long-haired young brute called Shenkin, mascot of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, which I was sent to interview as Work Experience for the
Western Mail
in Cardiff – Shenkin and the band of the Fusiliers being part of the pageant of Match Day. I questioned Shenkin via his handler and then took a breather, aware that lighting up on the hallowed turf of the old Arms Park was about as fat a payment as Work Experience could offer. When next I considered Shenkin he had my notebook in his mouth.
    â€˜This is going to be a good meal, isn’t it?’
    â€˜No, this is a female. She is going to have kids.’
    She is much better behaved or more fatalistic than a sheep. Once we have shut the boot, plunging her into darkness, the heartbreaking cries fall silent and there is no banging.
    â€˜Where are you going with her?’
    â€˜I am taking her home . . .’
    â€˜You just bought her?’
    â€˜Yes, today.’
    â€˜How much was she?’
    â€˜Four hundred dollars.’
    (About £25.) ‘Is that a good price?’
    â€˜Yes . . .’
    I thought Danny was reticent because he was so young and shy, and because I was asking questions too curiously. He had a rare, slightly strained smile.
    â€˜My father has died. We are having the funeral.’
    â€˜Oh God, I’m – sorry. Did he die recently?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Do you have brothers and sisters?’
    â€˜Yes but my brothers are away.’
    â€˜So you are the head of the family now?’
    â€˜Yes . . .’
    He is not yet thirteen, I guess.
    â€˜How did your father die?’
    â€˜He had a pain in his stomach.’
    â€˜Did he go to hospital?’
    â€˜Yes, but he died.’
    â€˜I am very sorry, Danny.’
    The boy ducked his head, smiled faintly and continued to look out of the window on his side. We passed another shebeen. They are small cubes with dark interiors in which beer is sold, not much bigger than the table football you can sometimes see through the door.
    â€˜Are you a tourist?’ he asked me.
    â€˜Yes . . . sort of. I am a writer. I am following swallows.’
    â€˜Following what?’
    â€˜Swallows – little birds, they come in the rainy season? You know, little blue and white birds, they fly very fast, like this [zig, zag] . . . if I could see them I would show you them, if we keep an eye out we mightsee some . . . they spend your winter in Britain, my home, then they come here for your summer.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    After a while I said, ‘Your English is very good. Do you go to school?’
    â€˜Yes, thank you. I learned it.’
    â€˜At school?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜And do you still go?’
    â€˜To school?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Not really.’
    â€˜Because you are very busy at home.’
    â€˜Yes, very busy . . . my home is here, by the big mopane tree.’
    â€˜Right! Stop up there then?’
    â€˜Yes please.’
    We turned under the mopane and stopped. We lifted the goat out of the trunk. I was amazed, almost disappointed, to see that she had not soiled it; any ewe would certainly have left some tokens but all that remained of the goat were a few fine brown and white hairs. There were some huts set back from the road about 50 yards.
    â€˜Is that your house?’
    â€˜Yes, they are having the funeral there.’
    â€˜Do you want me to help you carry the goat?’
    â€˜No . . . someone will come.’
    â€˜OK then.’
    We both hovered for a moment.
    â€˜Danny,’ I