Out Backward

by Ross Raisin

  We angled toward the pub, close enough we could hear them laughing inside. The Fleece. We hid usselves behind a four-by-four and minded the place through the car’s mucky windows. There was a sign jutting over the door with a black and white picture of a man straddled behind a ewe, a pair of clippers in his hand, and the both of them with mighty smiles, oh there’s nothing beats the shearing, we’re having a grand old time of it, so we are.

  Coo up, I shunted Sal and when I looked down I saw she’d pissed on the ground, trickling under the car. It made me laugh, that did, and I opened my flies and pissed up against the tyre next hers. We made a fair puddle between us, steaming up the underside of their vehicle. Darling, I think something’s leaking, there’s oil coming out of somewhere, oh, no, it isn’t, look, it’s wee–someone’s weed on the Range Rover!

  It was warm inside, that was the first thing I marked. The fire was going a belter, and a group of towns were sat aside it, playing at some game with a board on a table. We stood in the doorway a moment, framing the place up. The clink of cutlery, ramblers arfing and barfing about cuckoos and the like. Not a place Lankenstein was welcome, this. But in we went anyhow.

  The barman had clocked me already. He was leant forward with his hands set on the counter, his eyes flicking from me to Sal as we walked toward him.

  She’s well behaved, I hope, he said to me. He had yellowish skin, like he’d been part baked from standing too long in the heat.

  She is, I said. I’ll have a pint of Theakston’s.

  She was on her best behaviour, Sal, for there were a few other dogs in the place, but she wasn’t taking up. She kept close by my leg, and I could feel the warmth of her belly and the deep, slow press of her breathing through my damp kecks.

  I took my pint and found myself a big leather settle near the fire. Sal lay down between my boots and fell right off to sleep with her chin on the ground. She’d be thirsty soon enough, so I got up to fetch a bowl of water–they couldn’t likely deny me that, for the other dogs had them–and I spied Norman through the doorway to another room. He was supping with a town, the both of them sat there in Barbour jackets–so I saw these lovely jam jars in town the other day, proper gradely, they were, I’ll have to show you. My arse. When did Norman become the sort for buying jam jars, was what I wanted to know? Put a few things in order, mind–seeing him here–such as his shabby cows, and the broken tractor that’d sat in his field a month past. Father was right. Turning, he’d said. He’s turning, the old cloth-head.

  I didn’t want to walk past the doorway, so I took a big, clean ashtray and went otherways to the toilet and filled it up. I was on my way back, about to steady the ashtray on the floor, when a dice rolled over near my feet. A man got up from next the fire and came for it, creeping toward me, acting at tiptoes, all of them grinning behind.

  Sorry about that, he said, bending over for the dice. His face was niggled red with blood, blotching over his cheeks and his forehead. He picked it up and sat back down, laughing as he handed the dice to the man aside him. Sal opened her eyes a moment, then closed them when she saw nothing was doing. I took a drink, smoothing my thumb over the cool, round stone in my pocket.

  There were six of them round the table. Each time it seemed there was some quiet, the thrum of the pub settling, lulling about my ears, one of them’d sudden holler out and they’d all be craning over the board like it was a sheep at market. I didn’t know what they were so flowtered about. When we went on a trip to Scarborough once, me and Mum had spent most the weekend playing at some game like that, but only because it was sputtering rain against the window and there was sod-all else to do.

  I picked up a beer mat and fingered the frayed edges, tapping it on the rim of my glass. Win a holiday for two in Australia! it said. Champion, that–who was I going to go on holidays with? Mum? Father? Her? Not unless I fucking dreamt it.

  One of them was looking over. A big lad with rolled-up sleeves, butcher forearms and spindly black glasses. I glared him back but he took no notice, for it wasn’t me he was looking at, it was my pint, and the beer mat in my hand, tapping down. Ting. I’d gulleted near half a pint by now, so it sounded out nice and clear, and after another sup of beer it took a higher pitch. How was he supposed to concentrate on his game with me sat here making all this racket, poor sod? I could’ve laughed, the face he had on him, screwed into a scowl like the arse-end of a fencepost. Ting. The others were still at the game, jolly-jolly–they’d not marked this poor sod all twined up aside them, until he stood up and came toward me, my hand tightening around the beer mat as he stepped up.

  That’s a lovely dog, he said. Can I stroke her?

  I nodded, something taken back.

  He squatted down by my feet. He’s got a beautiful coat.

  She.

  Oh, sorry. Well, it’s in beautiful condition, whatever the gender.

  He kept looking at her, stroking. Is she a sheepdog?

  She’s training up.

  I see. She’s very well behaved, aren’t you girl? He stroked her head again.

  Sal took no bother of him. She was flopped out, head brewing dog dreams, not mindful of this town touching on top her head and talking about her gender.

  He said, are you a farmer?

  A rapist. I’m an ugly-bugger rapist whose only chance with a female is when I’ve got her pinned on a schooldesk. I looked down at him. I am, aye, I said. His eyes widened like barn doors when I told him that, he thought he’d found some rare breed–it was almost as good as a cuckoo, this. They all came clambering round then–slow, quiet, for I was a rare breed and they didn’t want to frighten me off. I could’ve laughed my arse off, but I let them blather on while I sucked my pint, all thoughtful, well now, gather round, gather round, and I’ll tell thee t’ tale.

  Is it hard work being a farmer? Do you farm sheep or cows? Do you think sheepdogs are more intelligent than other dogs? I had to laugh at that.

  Only one of them didn’t join round. The blood-blotched one stayed in his seat by the fire, fiddling the dice in his hand, staring out over the board and the plastic cars and houses left lined up round it because they’d all come to talk to me.

  We should let you get back to your pint, anyway, him with the glasses said.

  Yes, sorry, went another, you were enjoying your drink before we barged in. He shifted in his seat and bent down for a stroke of Sal.

  You been walking? I asked.

  Yes, we thought we’d get out of town for the day, before the kids break up next week. We’re from York, most of us. We come here quite a lot, though.

  We don’t see many farmers in here, normally. It was the blotchy one. I hadn’t marked he’d come over.

  One of the females said, no, they didn’t, and he said, not really a farmer sort of pub, is it?

  But I said nothing.

  Another group of ramblers had come in, they were tantling round the fireside table, muttering at each other, are they sitting there? I think it’s free.

  Sorry, it’s taken, one of these said, and two of them went to sit back at the table.

  Where do you normally go for a drink? said Blotchy. Farmers, I mean.

  Different places.

  Him with the glasses got up then, said he was going to the toilet, it had been nice talking to me. Blotchy got in closer, sat down where the other had shifted off, next to Sal. She was still sleeping. He started rubbing his finger down her snout, wrongways to how the hair grows.

  I don’t imagine you very much like us hill-walkers, do you? he said. Tramping over your land, leaving gates open.

  She doesn’t like that, I told him, and he stopped.

  She’s got a very wet nose. That’s a good sign, so they say.

  But he’d not listened. He waggled his finger behind her ear, no matter any bugger knows you don’t touch a dog rough round its ears as they’re gentle there, so course she woke up and snapped at him.

  And he hit her.

  He belted her round the mouth hard enough a gob of d
rool splattered on the floor. I leant forward, some of them were still at the game, the big lad with the glasses was moving his car round the board, hopping it square to square until he landed on one with red houses all round it, oh would you believe it! He didn’t see Blotchy wiping his hand on his kecks, gawping at me with big eyes, he knew he shouldn’t have done it, but it was too late for that, my hand was already out the pocket. I heard his nose crunch, a daffled look in his eyes, he didn’t know what was happening, it was all too quick. I just stood there a moment, looking at the stone, a film of red glimmering on it like it’d been painted, and a noise swelling up all around–chairs scraping, the clatter of plates, folk shouting–then I bent down to clout him another, but someone pulled me off before I could get a swing and I stumbled against the chair.

  I knelt up, there were hands on me, I tried to get hold of Sal. He’s nuts. He’s nuts. She’d slithered under the chair, and when I went to touch her she slunk back further–thought she’d done wrong, too young to know it wasn’t her fault. Even clever dogs needed learning sometimes. Someone get somebody. I hooked her collar and pulled her toward me. Good girl, I shushed, good girl. I turned round and the barman was stood over me, Blotchy on the floor with his hands covering his face, floundering about like he’d gone under a tractor, the towns all stooping round him. Get somebody, someone get somebody. The barman had his hand on my shoulder so I stood up and threw it off. Now, please, he said. Now, what? I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, I closed up on him and walked him back with my face edged to his, and I could tell he was bricking it from his eyes and him not marking Blotchy on the floor behind, he tripped and fell backward over the table, flooring glasses and upskittling the board game. One more under the tractor! A crowd of folk were having a gleg in from the other room–what’s going on? Can’t see any tractors here, can I get back to my dinner now?

  Sal was barking now at the hubbleshoo all round.

  Rabbits, I hissed.

  She cocked her head on the side, the ears pricked.

  Rabbits.

  Stop this, stop it. She yelped at a chair, scratching underside of it, she took no bother of the other dogs yapping themselves daft. Rabbits, Sal, rabbits. He’s psychotic, they both are. There were rabbits jumping about all over the shop now, she didn’t know where to look, there were so many, so I pointed her behind the bar, for I could see one hiding behind the counter, but he ran off soon as I did. Get him, Sal, rabbits, go get the rabbit, and she chased him other side the room where he picked up a chair and held it up jutting the legs at her like he was being attacked by a crocodile–all these rare breeds, they must have had a bust-in at the zoo. Sal was frothed up now, so I whistled her and she came straight to heel, the tongue flapping out, and I’d have left right then if it hadn’t been for Norman stood at the door.

  What you playin’ at, lad? He was looking at me, angry. I could hear a female sobbing someplace. And what’re you playing at, Norm, mixing with these? That was what I should’ve asked him.

  Yer father’ll bray you if he hears on it.

  He will, I said, and walked out, Sal towing after.

  I knew I was in for one if he found out, but I didn’t stew on it, treading back to the farm. My brain was cleared of thinking for the time. Sal seemed the same way, as she followed quiet by my heel through the car park and up to the hilltop, where we rested usselves a moment.

  Come here, lass, let’s have a look at you. I sat myself on some tufty ground by a rock, and pulled her close, using my thumbs to ease the sides of her mouth up over the gums. It was smarting some, clear enough, for she gave a simper when I did that. There was some bleeding, showing bright where it had run on to the teeth, so I damped my sleeve with spittle and padded it off. It was just a nick, she’d be right enough.

  Back on our own side the valley, we swerved a mile or so west of the farm, to a part of the moor boundary I didn’t much come to. Sal ran off on to the Moors and I traipsed after. Before long, the land sunk to a wide spread of rough marsh. The grass was long enough I lost sight of her for a while, until she panted back up to me from nowhere, the hair on her belly draggling with bog. Off to one side of the marsh was forest, a great swaddle of it, river-bottom green. On the other side, the direction of the farm, a mass of moor dipped and swelled, all colours, depending how the weather had got at it. This boggy land was yellow and life-lacking, poked with thistles, but further on the land turned russet, where it had been beat with wind and wet and all else as lambasts a piece of open moor. We trod about a couple of hours before we got hungry and set back for tea, and I didn’t look down at the house so I didn’t know if he was still there or not.

  11

  There was a bike outside the house. Its frame glinted in the morning sun. All else was normal–the vehicles gone from the drive, the air still and quiet, the curtain shut. Only this bike, rested up against the back the house, and an expedition of ducks waddling out the coop, off down the beck.

  I sat in the kitchen while Mum shuffled about baking parkin. She was yammering about Father’s ailment.

  He’s riled he can’t shake it. It’s that has got him i’ this state.

  She spooned a large dollop of treacle into a bowl filled with oatmeal and whirled it round.

  Janet thinks it’s bronchitis, but course your father won’t go to t’ doctor’s–he’s behind enough already wi’out wasting his time at the bleedin’ quack’s. She lifted the spoon out the bowl, twiddling it round to catch a dangling gloop of treacle, then put it in her mouth and sucked loudly. She was making the Christmas parkin–I didn’t know why she bothered still, it was only for Deltons. Tradition. They swapped tins a fortnight before Christmas, wary, like two crooks doing a deal. Course Delton didn’t make parkin, she made fatty cakes. Best fatty cakes I’d ever ate and all, she’d not have made better if she was baking them for the mayor, just so as she could get one over on Mum. I watched as she poured the mixture into a tray.

  I’ll take them down to her if you like, Mum.

  She fixed me a look, shaking the last drops on to the tray.

  Why’s that, then?

  Don’t know. Might as well.

  She was flummoxed, clear, but I could tell what she was thinking–that she’d not have to go herself.

  All right. They’ll be ready tonight. I’ll put ’em in ’ tin and you can take ’em down in the morning. And you can take a tin for them down the hill and all, get ’em right side o’ us. No mawks in parkin, eh?

  There was a griming of snow over the fields as I set foot for Deltons’. Too cold to snow a big dump, they’d be saying in town, whatever the bugger that meant. Too cold?–you didn’t see a mighty load of snow in summer, did you? It was there again. Same place, but leant up slacker against the wall, like he’d been in too much of a hurry to get inside for fettling it up proper. I carried on to Deltons’, kicking at frozen humps of molehills, explosions of soil scuttering on to the snow. She’d have a turn when she saw me at her door, old Delton. Good morning, Mrs Delton, Mum asked me to send you her best–here, she baked you some parkin, you crozzled old trull.

  I got to the top of Deltons’ land, and I laughed out, but there was no one to hear me, not even Sal, as I’d left her behind dozing in the stable. I opened the lid of the tin to sneak out a piece of parkin, but Mum had layered it neat as a crop field and I didn’t want to spoil it up.

  I snecked open the gate to her garden. I could tell somehow just from the sound of my feet on the snow-cleared path, my sort wasn’t welcome there. Even the gnomes were pissed to see me. Would the lady of the house be at home? I asked them gnomes, but they weren’t going to answer me, they had a munk on because I’d scared all the fish away, they just looked down at their rods drooping into the snow.

  But she was ready for me. The door opened and she was stood there with a cake tin snugged under her breasts.

  Morning, Sam.

  Mrs Delton.

  It was the same tin as always–a square, red article with a gold edge and a pict
ure of a robin pecking at a nut.

  Your mother sent you down, then. She’s keeping well? I hear your father’s taken bad.

  He has the flu. He’ll be ’right.

  A cat slipped round her ankle and sat looking at me from next her foot. You aren’t coming in here, Marsdyke. I’d get gone if I were you, I don’t know what you were thinking coming here in the first place.

  You’ll send our best, will you?

  Yes. Here. I offered the tin toward her and as we swapped them over I glegged indoors of the kitchen. There was a newspaper on the table with a pair of glasses weighted on top. She was hoarding up her gossip for the day. Bogeyman buggers ramblers’ board game in pub. She’d glut on that for weeks, if she found out, but it must’ve been they’d not called the police, and Norman hadn’t told, neither, for Father hadn’t been near me since.

  They’re a decent sort, the family moved into Turnbull’s, aren’t they? Delton said then.

  I’ve not seen much of them, I said, but that was daft because she knew it was a lie, and the gnarly smile came out soon as I said it.

  Oh, they are, too, lovely family. Daughter’s a pearl. She turned to go in. Give your mother my best. Parkin, is it? Tell her thanks. The cat slithered in through her legs and she shut the door.

  She knew about the boy, she’d seen the bike come past, that was why she said it. Daughter’s a pearl. She knew I’d made a gawby of myself over her, it wasn’t hard to find that out, she didn’t need to read it in The Blatherskites’ News to learn it. I fucked off for home with the fatty cakes, readying up for my second delivery.

  There was a damp patch on my arse where I was sat, owing to the snow melting away, past couple of days. The tops had a covering still, other side the valley, and there were dollops of white along the wall bottoms, but most the land below was smeared with grey, half-thawed slush. It was clagging his wheels up, that was why he was going so slow. Most the week he’d raced along the tyre tracks Chickenhead and the dad had ploughed leaving the house, but he wasn’t mooded for that today–he didn’t want slush spraying up his backside.