The Girl, the Dog and the Writer in Rome

Aaw no! she thought. I loved that scarf . But still she did not budge.

The wind blustered and whooped. The scarf flapped and wriggled a little higher before waving cheekily and soaring away to explore the vast expanse of the Arctic tundra. Clementine, Freja’s mother, whispered at her side, ‘Never mind, my darling. I’ll knit you a new one for your tenth birthday. An even better scarf — with twice as many fringy bits — and a beanie to match.’ Freja’s smile flashed in the sunshine and her blue eyes sparkled, but she did not move. The wind howled. A lost puffin flew past. The sun drifted westward and low. Freja’s nose and ears turned numb with cold. The wind dropped. The mother came first, poking her pretty white face out between the rocks. She looked about. Her nose twitched. She blinked. Her long, black-tipped ears swivelled forward and to the side. Satisfied that the slope was free of predators, she lolloped slowly forth and was soon followed by her babies — five tiny grey leverets. Freja gasped. She could sense Clementine smiling at her side, but dared not turn her head to see. Her insides bubbling with joy, Freja watched the leverets And then, finally, they appeared. Arctic hares. An entire family.

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