by Ross Raisin
There was still light left in the day when I got back to the farm, so I went for a sit on top my rock. They had a fire going again. I wasn’t mooded for looking that direction, mind. I looked otherways, and marked Father hadn’t took the sign down yet, though I didn’t much fancy gawping on that neither, so I hunched my knees into my belly and shut my lids. I could hear the sheep bleating down below, a couple of fields away, and Father bawling at Jess, Get by! Get by! I thought about the whelp that hadn’t been took away. Good luck, lad, I thought, some life you’ve got ahead–Father bawling himself ragged at you, until you die.
I fell asleep, but my brain was riddling with me, for the picture hadn’t changed. The valley was painted on the back my lids–the smoke slurping out the chimney, the sign jutted up next the road. There was no hiding from anything, not in my dreams or anyplace. I trailed up for the skyline, and that was more viewsome, a dark, clear line, it seemed all the world ended there. I rested my gaze on it, but it wouldn’t keep steady, it started fogging up, darkening, until I realized the whole skyline was turning red. A blood-coloured band was seeping over the top, moving down the valley side–it was like one of them films on Sundays where the villagers are working away building a wooden shack, all these women in loin cloths scrambling round after a chicken, until suddenly the barbarian army shadows over the hillside and they’re charging down to kill everyone and burn the village. These weren’t barbarians, mind. I could pick out the front ones before long–it was towns, in giant tomato coats.
Are you okay?
The tomato army reached the town, covering it until it disappeared in a sea of red, and they were still coming over the skyline, there must’ve been a million of them piling onward, filling the valley, moving toward me.
Hello, are you all right?
Her again. Mind, she made a gradlier dream than the giant tomatoes, so I looked her over. She wasn’t in her uniform this time, she had on jeans and wellingtons and a mighty green jumper. You were…you were…but she didn’t finish, she stood back, fiddling the ends of her sleeves. I looked down at the valley. The tomato army had gone, retreated back over the skyline. You probably think I’ve eyes in the back of my head and all, do you? I said. She looked at me queer. I was on a walk, but I saw you on the rock, and…She went quiet. She looked like she was going to set flight. Even in my dreams I couldn’t make her stay put. I tried to remember the next part my conversation, something about mushrooms, but I couldn’t find it, so I said, you’re walking, are you? Yeah, I–there’s a path on the other side of that wall. It’s okay, isn’t it, like with the sheep and everything? I thought you might be hurt or something. Me? No, I’m fine, just being yonderly, is all. I was rolled over on my side, my knees still hunched into my belly, looking like a babby, so I sat up. She said, it’s a good view from up here. The town looks funny–it looks like a toy town or something. She looked out at the valley, fiddling still with the sleeve-ends.
She had a hair clasp on the side her head–a big yellow sun with a smiley face and firebrands twirling off losing themselves in her hair. Talk to her, you doylem, the smiley face was saying. She’ll bugger off, if you don’t. And another thing. If this is a dream, how is it your side’s aching from lying on the rock, eh? Do you think you’d feel that in a dream? I stood up, brushed myself off. He was right, that hair clasp, it did seem real. There was no telling, though, not for certain. He might’ve been codding me. Just bleeding talk to her, he said, a grum look on him now, replacing the smile.
We’ve a puppy, if you want to see it, I said.
She smiled. Okay.
Well done, lad, the hair clasp said. That’s more like it.
I was fair nervous, walking her to the farm, no matter I wasn’t certain yet she was real or not, I still had the collywobbles. I thought she’d be all talk about the puppy–how old is it? Why’s there only one?–and the rest, but she kept her peace. All you could hear was my breathing. I took her on the path round the fields toward the back the farm, as I didn’t want getting spotted. Mum was in the kitchen, and she’d certain come waddling out with a face on her, what’s our Sam up to, then? Hello, love, do you want a fatty cake?
Is that your dad down there in the tractor? she said.
It is. Sour-faced bastard. I meant it funny, but she didn’t laugh. She hadn’t remembered. We quieted again.
The sky was getting dark, clouds clenching together further down the valley, deciding which way to go. Hmm, shall we druft off over the tops there, or shall we go to Marsdyke’s and piss it down? I sped up some. I was itching for a gleg across at her, to get a look at her face, but we were too close so I looked down at her feet instead, bugger knows why, they were only feet. We were stepping together, I marked. Our legs moving forward same time, like we hadn’t four legs but two between us.
It’s going to rain, isn’t it?
It is, yes. Best be quick about it, I said, as I unsnecked the back gate and shunted it open, following behind her after she’d gone through. Her backside was hid underneath the jumper. There were splatters of mud up the back of her jeans.
He’s through this way, I said, and I took her into the yard, keeping clear of the kitchen. There were marbles of sheep shite everywhere.
In here.
There was only one bulb in the stable, hung over the door, and I couldn’t see where the pup was through the dingy light. We stood a moment, still as stones, until he poked his nose out the straw, here I am, Marsdyke, selling me too are you?
She picked him up. Hello, little man, hello there. He looked like a bagpipe, with his belly bulging through her hands and his legs all angles.
What’s his name?
Not got one. He’s the runt.
She didn’t like me saying that, I could tell. She moved off, other side the stable with him, to where a weak shaft of light jabbed through two bricks missing out the wall, bouncing him up and down, babbling into his big sock ears. You’re not the runt, are you, baby? No, you aren’t, are you? And he wasn’t and all, the runt had gone first, I didn’t know why I told her that.
You can name him, if you like, I said. But I couldn’t have said it loud enough, for she didn’t answer, else she was blanking me. I watched as she moved next the hole and the light showed her face, pale, soft, the hair pulled back, tucked behind her ear. The clasp had shut up now, minding his own business, smiling away.
She looked toward me. Is he for sale? I saw the sign.
No, he’s not, I said. Father should’ve took it down by now. The others are sold already. Outdoors, it was shuttering down, I didn’t know how long since, I’d not marked the start. He’s not the best of them anyhow, I said. There was another I’d named, was bonnier than this.
She set the pup down. Why did you sell it, then?
The pup bounded over to me and went at biting my boots–great lumping articles with balloon toecaps, like a pair of clown’s shoes.
I didn’t. Father sold her.
You should’ve told him you wanted to keep her, she said, staring right at me.
I did.
I looked away, out the door, at the fields misting up with rain. He was still out there, Father. I couldn’t hear him, but I knew he was there, clagging wet. Rain! Fuck rain. We made of sugar, eh? He’d be out there until the sheep were penned before he came indoors, not bothering to change his clothes, and sit down by the fire, steaming like a plate of spuds.
You don’t like your dad, do you?
That froze me up. I didn’t know what she was saying that for–I’d never talked about Father or anything like that before, not to anyone, except for doctors. I made like I’d not heard her, the words drenched out by the rain. I just gawped out the door.
We had to sell her, I said after a while. I turned and looked at her. She was knelt stroking the pup, a patch of light in her hair. You don’t know how a farm works.
Smart, that was. I hadn’t meant to say it, but it was out now, the words spinning toward her, into her head, there was no getting them back. She stood up,
and I thought she was going to walk off into the rain, but she kept still and looked at me. Who did you sell her to?
New people, I said, for I didn’t want to tell her it was towns, and nettle her even more. From the city, in these red, puffed up coats. I thought she’d say, oh, which was it, was it Jim and Jilly? or something like.
Snobs, she said instead, making a study of her feet.
The pup had scurried back into the straw to hide himself, a scratching, rustling sound coming from underneath, and one portion of the bedding quivering from his movements.
I know what you’re thinking, she said.
That wasn’t so likely. I hoped not anyhow. I was thinking what a queer, bonny article she was.
You’re thinking, I’m a snob too. And I am, I guess, but the people round here, they…She stopped there, so I didn’t know what she meant, all I knew was I’d stoked her up and now I hadn’t a clue what she was saying all this for.
We could get her back, you know, she said.
Eh?
Your dog. Steal her.
I didn’t rightly know what she meant at first–Sal was gone now, there was no finding her, she was off with the giant tomatoes someplace, carrying slippers.
Look, I should get home. Mum’ll think I’ve drowned. I’m not kidding, though. You should think about it.
We walked through the far side of the yard, and I opened the gate for her.
See you later, she said, and ran off down the field with her jumper pulled over the back of her head, slipping once further down and almost falling over, then carrying on at a jog until I lost her in the mist. Groups of sheep were clotted together against the inside of the pen, piss-wet through. I wasn’t worrying about them, mind, they weren’t made of sugar neither, and I had better things to think over. I turned for home, a great daft smile on my chops. I’d not dreamt all that up, I could be sure. I didn’t need my old charver the hair clasp to tell me that was real.
8
The mud lasted out the week. Our fields, which had a cold, dry crunch previous the rain, were turned to soft, slimy blutherment, keeping the sheep to their pen and Father to the yard, stalking round kicking at a bucket. After a couple of days, and more rain, he said the weather had beat him, and he made me help get the barn fettled up with a bedding of straw and troughs of water and feed. He was riled, having to do that. He usually waited a while yet before housing them up, until it was biting cold and every final patch of grass was grazed up. It’d cost him, he said, housing this early, before tupping week had even come. That was why I kept other side the barn from him, and why the yard bucket didn’t sit straight on its arse any more without keeling over.
It was lucky that next time I saw her, Father wasn’t about. It was lucky, too, I wasn’t curled up on the rock like a babby–I was in the tractor, off down the track to fetch the sign. She was on one of her walks. She asked me if I’d thought more about getting Sal back. I thought she’d have forgot about that, but I told her I had, I’d give it a try, no matter I couldn’t see we had chance of doing it. Don’t worry. Leave it with me. Let’s meet here at four o’clock tomorrow. Then she had to be getting off, like always.
I went up to the stable after I’d got the sign. Well, little feller, you ready to be a snob, are you? I said quiet to the pup. He was pressed into a snug he’d made in the straw, tearing at a plastic bone with sharp, new teeth. A champion slipper-carrier, I thought, laughing, even though I had something of an ill feeling about the affair. Not much, just a griming, though it clung over the hubbleshoo I felt for getting Sal back, and stealing from towns, and seeing her again.
The sky was glistening like a mighty slab of steel as I watched her coming up the track, bright enough the ramblers needed their sunglasses.
All right? I said, when she got nearer and I could see her smiling. Fine day, eh? She didn’t hear me, I said it too early.
Hi, Sam, she said as she got to a few steps away.
All right? Fine day.
She stooped to where the pup was laying between my boots, and fussed him up some, ruffling his coat so as it stood all ends and he play-growled back at her through his fangs.
Are you ready? She looked up at me.
Yes, I am, I said, stepping back.
The way she had it planned out, you’d think she was military, not a schoolgirl–this is who they are, this is where they live, this is when they’ll be out. It wasn’t even her dog. She said her dad had known right away when she’d asked who it was that wears the matching Puffa jackets. Emily and Ian Rea. Sounded like an ailment, to me. More on, it wasn’t careful, asking her dad, as he’d certain snout us out if the tomatoes started investigating, but I didn’t say that to her.
We set off toward the far side of town, for that was where they lived. We’d be there by five, she said, which would give us an hourish to find a hidey-hole and suss the house out.
How do you know when they’ll go out, I asked, all curled eyebrows like Watson with Mr Holmes.
It’s Friday night, she said, early doors in the Fleece. All the snobs go there tonight. Even Mum and Dad have been a couple of times.
The Fleece. Ramblers’ pub other side of Felton Top, I should’ve known that was where all these new towns met up. The type of pub with brass pots hung off the ceiling and foxes’ heads growing out the walls–my stars, that looks like a tasty dinner you’ve got down there, I’d be after a bite of that, if they hadn’t nailed my head on the wall and stuck a fish tank round it.
We walked down the hillside toward the town, and once we got there we sided round it, past the back the store, where there wasn’t anything save for a few old beer cans and an army of brown thistles busting out the tarmac. We didn’t talk much, we just carried on, all business, taking turns carrying the pup, then letting him down to scuttle ahead when he got too heavy.
Your dad friendly with them, is he? I said, after we’d not spoke for a time.
What? No, well, he knows them. They all know each other, of course. They’re like, proper ex-pats round here, aren’t they?
They are that, I said, turning to look at the hills so she couldn’t see by my face I’d not understood.
She bent to pick up the whelp.
You must really hate us, mustn’t you?
No, I said, flowtered, I don’t hate you. She was silent. I don’t hate you, I should’ve said, but I’d missed it now, she wasn’t answering, and we carried on walking. We were on a lane, minding boggy pools left over from the rain, and we trod upward as the hill bent steeper up the other side the valley.
Further on, there were two old cottages to one side, both of them mighty postcard, with red tiled roofs and iron lattice criss-crossed over the windows. Indoors they were empty and dark. I could see from the bare grate in one of them that no fire had been lit recent. They were second homes, these, the owners still in London or York or wherever, jam jar shopping. They’d sit empty most the year, except for a couple of months in the summer, and Christmas, when the whole area started teeming with towns, bumping into each other in the store buying firelighters, yammering two hours about swallows’ nests, without marking the shopkeeper chuntering to some old cloth-head at the counter, glowering over at them.
I think it’s awful the Fat Betty’s closed down, she said.
It final, is it? I’d not heard. I followed her over a stile. They’d be riled in town, then, proper upshelled, for at least as long as it took until the new place opened.
I put my name on the petition, she said, and I made Mum and Dad sign it. It’s stupid, anyway. They think they’re moving with the times, but they’ve got it wrong, because the snobs won’t go there. Those bars are so for the Pinot Grigio crowd.
Right.
It’s killing the local culture. I think it’s awful.
I kept shut. I couldn’t likely tell her I didn’t give a stuff about the Betty, or that these new towns weren’t any worse than the tosspots that lived here in the first place. They could all get leathered together for all I cared. She let th
e pup down, and we walked on in quiet.
The house was set a way off from any other, in a knobble of small hills. I’d not seen it before, but this wasn’t my side the valley, mind. We put usselves down behind the top of one of the hills, bellied on the grass with the pup ligged out between, powfagged and sleepy-eyed from the walk, not knowing what we were about to do to him. We had a decent view of the house from there, and the valley past it–the mirror of my own view from the rock–with the fringe of moor up top in the distance. I had a spy for the farm, but I couldn’t see it, owing to the glower of dark getting in.
This house had been a barn once, but now it was all roof-windows and a curved glass outhouse stuck on the side. There were lights on in most the upstairs windows, but nobody in sight.
I bet they’re getting changed, she said, hushed.
What for? They’re off down the pub.
She laughed, for I’d said something daft, but it gave me chance to snatch a look at the soft lump of her backside.
Look, quick. She pointed at the house. The female walked past a window. She hadn’t the coat on, but it was her, certain.
That’s them, I said, and we kept still, waiting, near on ten minutes probably, until the little feller between us woke up from his dog dream with a yap and scuttled forward toward the house. We dived for him, same time, and I caught hold his leg, dragging him back. I propped my elbows and snugged him under my chest, stroking the top his head until he quieted. I wondered if maybe he’d seen Sal.
I don’t think they heard, she said, as we scanned the windows, halfways expecting one of them to appear with a pair of binoculars, but nobody showing. She was closer now, it felt like she was whispering in my ear. We might have to wait here the night, Sam, at this rate, do you mind if we cosy up? That wasn’t what she said, what she said was–brr, it’s chilly–and I was fain glad, for she’d flinch off if she cosied up to me, unless she liked umpteen bones jutting at her, it’d be like cuddling a sack of firewood, holding my body. She was closer, though, certain. I could feel the warmth off her, muddling my sides and my legs so as I hadn’t the knowing of my borders and I wasn’t sure if we were touching or not. I had a bell-ringer of a stalk on and all.
