Out Backward

by Ross Raisin

  Shit, Sam, it’s beautiful.

  It is, I smiled. Muscle punched his tree.

  She took a seat with her back against the stone, and fumbled in her bag a moment, then pulled out a bottle of water and a couple of foil parcels, handing one of them to me as I sat down opposite. A picnic. We were proper ramblers now.

  When did you make these? I asked, grinning.

  Yesterday. Are they all right?

  Gradely, they’re gradely, I said, unwrapping mine.

  They were and all. Pork and apple sauce, there were even strips of crackling inside, which had gone something chewy but were tasty no matter. After a couple of mouthfuls, I took the crackling out to eat separate, and I saw she’d done the same, as it wasn’t easy biting through it. They must’ve had a joint yesterday, and this was the leavings. I pictured them up, sat in the kitchen, the dad carving up the meat yammering what a splendid beast she was, while Chickenhead ignored him and the kid slipped spuds under the table to Lionel, parked by his feet.

  They’ll likely be missing you by now, your parents, I said.

  She kept her gaze over the Moors.

  I don’t know if missing is the right word.

  What will they do? I said.

  Nothing much, I don’t imagine. They’ll probably assume I’ve sneaked out for a walk, to avoid another lecture.

  Right. Then what do you think they’ll do, later?

  She looked at me now.

  I don’t know. Argue. Complain how selfish I am. She smiled at me. Come on, let’s get going. Which way do you think? Let’s go towards the coast, shall we?

  We balled up the foil, putting it in my bag, and I led us forward. I didn’t understand why she didn’t rightly know where she wanted to go. She wasn’t fussed where she was headed–but it seemed, though, that she’d planned the escape. She’d even made sarnies. We’d need to plot it out more orderly before long, once they got our scent.

  Is this the right way for the coast, Sam? she said, for we were continuing south. I thought it was over that way. She pointed east.

  This is right, I told her, which was glibbing, a little. We weren’t on a direct path, she’d marked correct, we were moving deeper in, but I wasn’t ready for going to the coast, it was too parlous yet.

  We carried on over Glaisdale on to the next moor, Rosedale, and all we could see from there was nothing–flat, brown and similar-looking all around, so that a person who wasn’t familiar could turn themselves in a circle and lose all their bearings. On a sudden, she shook out of her rucksack and took off, running zigzags over the moor with her arms in the air. I didn’t know what she was at, I thought an instant as to running after, but I didn’t, I watched her, the heather shushing against her jeans as she went. Then, dump, she tripped and fell to the ground. I ran toward her. When I reached her she’d turned over on to her back, and she was all giggles. I knelt down aside her, smiling.

  You all right?

  I tripped over, she said, jiggling with laughter. There was a centipede on her leg by the ankle, not moving, trying to fathom why the ground had turned blue, until he decided it was safe enough and he sped toward her knee, a hundred legs light as eyelashes treading in perfect step so as it slid quick and smooth like a spill of gravy. She hadn’t marked it, she was too busy giggling, I followed its advance up the soft of her thigh, curving round and disappearing through her legs. I was looking to see where it had gone when I heard a voice not far away. Two voices. People, I said, and I ligged out on my belly aside her. She turned over. Where, she whispered. There, coming by that way, I pointed. I watched them, they were fifty yards off, going same direction as usselves, they’d pass fair close by, the line they were taking. Ramblers. They must’ve been able to see us already, the covering wasn’t deep enough to hide properly. I watched them through spriggets of heather, getting closer, until their voices took shape.

  …not too bad, really.

  Sure, sure. What, even without the kids?

  Oh, they’ll be off soon enough, anyway. Becks is seventeen now. She starts university next year.

  Two thin men with beards and rambling sticks. They were almost level now, not more than twenty steps away, but they’d not marked us.

  And they don’t, well, they’re fine with you now, are they, the kids? After your, you know, the relationship?

  They side with their mother, of course, but they’ve always done that.

  Sure, sure.

  They went past and the conversation faded off. They hadn’t spotted us. Or, if they had, they’d not paid any notice. Likely thought we were birdwatching. We kept low, watching them traipse off prodding their sticks at the ground. Slowly, they disappeared from sight, shrivelling into the moor. I didn’t know what it was they needed them sticks for, they could walk well enough without. They only had them so they could screw great glishy badges on to show all the places they’d bogtrotted over. Turnbull used to have one in his kitchen, next the fire, that he used as a poker. There were all manner of badges on it–Snowdonia, Dartmoor, Cotswolds…there was one I remembered with a drunk-looking eel, eyes all askew, wrapped round a beer tankard, that was the Norfolk Broads, and another near the bottom that was probably the Lake District, but it was all sooted up from the fire and it might’ve been the Peak District. I didn’t know where Turnbull had got it from. He’d certain never been to all these places. He must’ve stole it off a rambler, who’d rested the stick up against his gate a moment to admire the scenery.

  We got up from our hiding place.

  Like a couple of convicts, aren’t we? she said.

  We are, that, I said. They’ll have us guilty for everything now. Murders, robberies, the lot. No turning back now.

  I looked round and she was smiling.

  Ee, I’ll tell thee what, one of my gnomes went missing the other day–it was Delton, she had her down perfect, I near bust my sides it was that good–I’ll bet that was them, ooh yes, it was them all right.

  We were having a fine time of it, as we carried on south, I told her any story that came in my head about the humdingers I’d had with Delton. It was the funniest thing she’d ever heard–I told her about the time I knocked into her car with the tractor and the times she’d accused me of shooting her cats. I told her about all that, then I told her about rambling sticks, and she thought that was funny and all, Turnbull using one for a poker. She wanted to know more about Turnbull too, and what his farm was like before they moved in. I’d been daft, before, thinking she’d listen to anything Delton told her, she knew Delton was a liar. Devilry? Shut up, devilry, you don’t think she’s going to believe you now, do you?

  It was middle of the afternoon when we got other side of Rosedale Moor. We both had gleamings of sweat over our foreheads and I had a fair hunger on. If I’d planned it better, I’d have brought my shotgun with us, that way I could’ve caught us a feed–a rabbit or a grouse or something–but I never thought about that and it was left in the storehouse propped up aside Father’s. Mind, even then, we’d still have to cook, somehow. I couldn’t likely serve her up a raw, fleshy rabbit–there you are, lass, get your chops round that.

  The land lowered just ahead, there was a small valley running across, a crease in the ground lined with trees, before the Moors rose up again. As we walked down into it, a railway track showed itself through the tree-gaps.

  That’s random, she said.

  Used to be for taking coal. It’s for tourists now.

  What, they still use it?

  Aye, it’s proper postcard. There’s a restaurant on it and all.

  She was quiet a minute, looking down at the track, wondering if she believed me, or if I was at the jokes again.

  Do you know where it stops? she said.

  Nearest’s Newton Dale, probably, I said, pointing down the track. It goes to Goathland.

  Come on, she said, smiling. You hungry?

  We shuffle-footed down the banking and started along the gravel sides of the track, the coal dust turning our shoes black before we�
�d even gone twenty yards. It took near an hour until we got to the station, though that wasn’t rightly the correct word for it, as it was just a small wood platform in the shade of an oak tree. There was a gate leading on to a narrow road curling past, but there wasn’t any traffic to be heard, the day was perfect still and untroubled. She walked over to the timetable pinned to a board on the tree. There was one quite soon, if it was right, she told me, and we sat waiting under the tree. I didn’t ask her what she’d got plotted, or if we were going to disguise usselves to throw them off the scent, I was minded just to follow what she wanted.

  The train pulled round the corner with a hoot and a puff of dirty black smoke. There was an old boy cocked out the front cabin, he hopped on to the platform as the train eased up. Newton Dale!–sod knows who he was shouting to, there was no one else there, and he’d not even heeded us, sidling out from behind the tree as he walked down the platform, stepping into the first car while he still had his back turned. It was dark inside, it took a moment for my eyes to tune in. It wasn’t busy–the only folk as I followed her down the aisle were an old couple both asleep with their arms folded, and a family with two small girls stood on a seat jumping up and down banging their hands on the headrest. The parents were too occupied trying to quiet them to notice us going by. One of the girls gawped at me, though, yoghurt or something sluthered round her chin and cheeks. I bent my head down as I passed, the face she had on her, she looked like she might start into the Bogeyman dance if we didn’t get by quick.

  There was a sign for the Pullman Restaurant, further down the train, this is the way, she said, and she took hold my hand. She was leading me through the next car, there was an ancient fire extinguisher hung on a wall, probably didn’t work any more, and she was giggling again, there was no stopping her these days. A husband and wife, both in glasses, glegged up an instant from their crossword puzzle. Look, it’s them, the Moors convicts, I’ve heard they can’t be caught, you know. We came to a door with a curtain in the window so you couldn’t see in, except for a snicket where it wasn’t drawn fully. She was peering through, her breath misting up the glass. I felt something nervous about going in, but she was set on it and I wasn’t hardly going to leave her now, I’d have followed her into a miners’ piss-hole if she’d asked.

  The door clunked shut and she let go of my hand. A fug of food wrapped round us–a Sunday smell of gravy, spuds roasting, and thick, gloopy stew bubbling away all the day. She parked herself in one of the booths, and I slid in opposite.

  It’s like a museum, isn’t it, she said.

  She was right, it was, all these tassled lamps and faded photographs of the train in old times, pulling containers of mighty coal heaps, blackened miners sat on top grinning for the camera.

  It is. There’s a couple of antiques sat just there, I said, quiet, nodding at an old pair in the booth across the aisle. She laughed at that. They were a proper Darby and Joan, dressed up smart in brown wool jackets, they must’ve been mafted, but you wouldn’t guess to look on them, staring blank-faced at the empty table, the old lad’s foot shaking underneath, his trouser-leg halfway up to the knee. We were still laughing about it when a sweating man with flabby jowls came up the aisle and stood over us.

  Can I see your tickets, please? he said. He had on a blue apron with umpteen pens hooked in the pocket.

  I waited for the signal–we’d have to make a run for it now he’d asked that, I watched her face for when she’d throw me the look. I was tensed ready to run, but she turned to him and gave a mighty sweet smile.

  Mum has the tickets. She’s down the train in another carriage. We’ll pay separately, thank you.

  He studied us over. He was thinking, hmm, is she glibbing to me? Maybe I should make them fetch the tickets. The girl’s bonny enough, but that lanky article sat there, that’s her brother, is it? Hmm. He turned it over a while, then he said, are you ready to order?

  I could see he wasn’t too sure still, glegging an eye at me over the top his pad as he scratched down the order. Steak and ale pie for me, roast chicken for her.

  We’ll have to be careful of him, I said, as he walked off.

  I wouldn’t worry. What’s he going to do? She stood up and pushed open the panel at the top the window, shunting it stiffly along, her stomach skin stretched taut under her shirt as she leant over.

  The waiter arrived again, pushing a cart down the aisle, the old pair’s dinner on it. They came alive then, knife and fork clenched ready, you’d think they’d not ate for days, the amount of food they had racked on the cart, maybe they were a pair of convicts themselves, had to cram up when they got the chance. He placed two walloping beef dinners in front of them and arranged bowls of spuds, carrots, cheesy cauliflower and a basket of thick, buttered bread around the table. I started getting a proper hunger on, looking at that lot. He’d not even trudged away with his cart and they were tucking in, chewing away gummily with the next forkful hovered at their lips, lining up the next dribbling slab of meat.

  Do you think that’ll be us? She was leaning over the table, whispering at me.

  What’s that?

  Those two, do you think we’ll be like that when we’re old, getting all dressed up and going on day trips?

  I got flowtered then, I didn’t know what to say to that. I’d not thought about day trips and what we’d do when we were old, I’d not studied any of that properly yet, all I’d thought was we needed to hide out until they stopped looking for us. Right, maybe, was all I said and she must’ve got flowtered too, for she went red and said she needed the toilet.

  I watched her walking off. Day trips. That was a good one. Course, we’d need to steal Sal back, she’d be partial to a day trip–great long walks, new rabbit kingdoms to explore. Us two old codgers bumbling after, where d’you fancy going today, love? How about Lindisfarne, eh, we could get the boat out, go see the puffin islands and the crumbling abbeys a thousand year old, looted and tumbled by the Vikings. Another badge for the stick. I looked over at the old pair, troughing their dinner. One thing I did know–we’d not last so long as them, not last a day, if we went back. They’d not let us together again. Chickenhead would have her away right off, someplace she’d not escape from or get in trouble, London, probably, she’d not cause any bother there, with Muscle looking after her, showing her the sights. I gave a look through the snicket in the curtain to the closed toilet door.

  The other end the car there was a pair of Chinese in shorts, drinking tea. Tourists. They were the only other table except for them across the way, polishing off half a cow. I didn’t understand it, why they wanted to come here, arse-side of the world from home, to sit drinking tea on a train to Goathland. Wasn’t there else better in between, or had they seen it all already? Mind, it might’ve been they lived somewhere nearer. There was a Chinese family in Addleston, owned the takeaway. I didn’t much understand that, neither–travelling a million miles to serve up foil cartons to a herd of nimrods spewing out the pub at closing. I peered through the snicket, but the door was still closed.

  It’d be a while before we could start with the day trips, I’d probably need to explain her that. She was too full of dander, sometimes–when she had it in her head to do something she’d just get doing it, but we’d be found out if we didn’t act steady a while. It wasn’t sensible, truly speaking, that we were on the train now, even. We’d be lucky if someone didn’t tell the authorities, probably this jowly bastard rattling his cart up the aisle.

  The pie, he said, setting it down before me with a crafty look on him–gone to see Mum, has she? Or has she escaped you?

  She’d been gone a fair while. I waited until he fucked off, then I got up. I was at the end the car when I saw her through the curtain, coming out the toilet, and I hurried back to my seat. The old lass was eyeing over at our dinner. Bugger, he’s back, look, we weren’t quick enough.

  It was a champion feed, great hunks of meat soft enough they pulled apart with a fork, and a slow, thick gravy I wiped up th
e last of with bread and butter. She lotched hers down and all, a pile of chicken, she had, she was finishing up the last of it as the train pulled into Goathland.

  Come on, she said. Let’s go.

  I wasn’t minded to argue with her, I got up, collecting my bag with a look round to see if the waiter was about. He was in the kitchen or someplace, so we walked out the car, bold as brass, the old lass looking up at us–what, you’re not having pudding? We clicked the door shut behind us. The old boy in the cap was stood on the platform. Goathland! There were plenty for him to shout at this time, though, a fair crowd out for the afternoon, getting an eyeful of Heartbeat country. He nodded at us as we went past. He hadn’t a clue he was looking at a couple of crooks. Folk didn’t expect that kind of thing, not on a steam train. We walked past him and I pictured him coming in his house, folding his cap up, well dear, he says to the wife, rotting in an armchair, you’ll never guess what happened today. A pair of young ’uns got off without paying their Heartbeat Pullman. The buck of it, can you believe the like? I was so busy thinking about the old boy, I didn’t heed the waiter shouting at us from the far end the train. Excuse me! I turned, unthinking, and he was on the platform next the car. They’ve not paid, Andrew, they’ve not paid. He started coming toward us. We stepped on, faster. The old boy stood there, betwaddled. I clutched her hand and started a jog, tugging some at her arm a moment until she was running too, our hands gripping together.

  He’s chasing us, look, she said, the muscles in her neck tightening as she looked behind. He was clodding after, his jowls bouncing saggily under the chin, he’d only gone ten yards, but he was spent. We turned through an open gateway at the end the platform, and down a snickleway between a house and the back the station, past a fat ginger cat licking its paws on a doorstep. He wasn’t going to catch us now, but we kept running, no matter, still holding the other’s hand, coming out on to a bigger road thronged with bodies. Goggle-eyed tourists tottering about the place with mighty great cameras dangled off their necks. Searching for Greengrass. We were clattering along the road through Goathland now, cars, minibuses, coaches strung down the one side, and tourists gawking through the windows of the post office and the empty police station. I was laughing by then. He’d be proud, himself, at the trick we’d just pulled, old Greengrass. He’d be filling his boots at that one.