It was just starting to get dark now and our surroundings took on a dusty, moonlike glow. We were at the opposite end of town now, as far away from my house as I’d been, and almost back in open countryside. The road turned from tarmac to gravel and we crunched our way on. Eventually, through the fading light, I saw a large dark building ahead. And I knew that was our destination. Jon was walking straight towards it, head down, in silence.
Brick windows
The house stood square and defiant. Front door in the middle, three rows of windows on either side. Big and ugly. It was large and detached, surrounded by trees and shrubs and with fields all around. ‘Georgian,’ Jon said as we trudged closer. The nearer we got the less impressive the house revealed itself to be. Paint was peeling and moss and weeds grew out of the brickwork. It had a functional, institutional look, like it was kept standing on the minimal possible budget. I noticed that some of the windows were bricked up and pointed them out to Jon and he said that would have been done years ago. He said that there was a window tax, introduced by William III and the more windows you had the more tax you paid, so people just blocked them up. There were bars on the windows of the ground floor and security cameras over the front door. I wondered if they were to stop people breaking in or escaping or both.
We stopped at a low fence, where the track continued through a gateway to the house and Jon said we’d better not go any further. He pointed to a large sign that stood just behind the fence. I had to squint to read it in the grey gloom: ‘St Liam’s Crisis and Respite Unit’. The local children’s home. He was showing me how things could be worse. I took a deep breath and tried not to be too down on the place; it could be brilliant for all I knew. I shrugged, ‘It might be all right.’ Jon pulled two newspaper cuttings out of his pocket, probably taken from his grandparents’ collection, and handed them to me. One was old, yellow and brittle and the other one was more recent, jet-black ink not yet faded. The older article had the headline: ‘Local Care Home: Den of Abuse’. It was from five years ago and according to the article the people involved had been jailed after a full investigation and the care home was under new management. Still, I looked up at the building and a goose walked across my grave. I shivered it off. The more recent piece was from the point of view of local residents from the estates we had just passed. The Duerdale Advertiser said the home had started a new scheme and as well as local children St Liam’s took in ‘troubled and violent adolescents, recently released from secure accommodation’. There were complaints of gangs congregating, vandalism and residents feeling threatened. Running battles between the estate kids and the kids from St Liam’s were reported. One resident, who wanted to remain anonymous, was quoted as saying, ‘We daren’t come out at night. There are marauding gangs, smashing cars and windows and fighting each other. They’re all on drink and drugs. We didn’t have any trouble before they shipped this lot here. The council should close it down and send them somewhere else; this is the wrong place for them. We don’t have the resources to deal with them here.’ The article said that one youth had been taken back to a young offenders’ institution after he’d stabbed another resident in a fight. I handed the cuttings back to Jon.
‘This is where they’d put me,’ he said. We looked at each other and then back to the building. Neither of us spoke. After a few seconds Jon turned around and started walking back towards a quickly darkening Duerdale. I hurried to follow, not wanting to be left behind.
All carved up
The carving was taking shape. It was huge. And muscular. The body was massive; my head only came to the top of the legs. I expected the muscles to ripple and sweat at any moment. Me and Jon didn’t really help much at all; it was clearly my dad’s project and he didn’t need any help and we let him get on with it. He worked regularly and with intent and didn’t really need us.
I could see it was working; it was obvious. It’s the same with a painting. Sometimes it comes together and other times it just doesn’t happen, no matter how hard you try. You can plan the painting, decide on the colours, shapes and style and see the finished work in your head. But you don’t get close. Something doesn’t spark. The moon was in the wrong orbit or the stars weren’t aligned. Other times, it’s as easy as opening a door. I could tell, looking at Dad’s carving, at the flared nostrils, the big oval eyes and the kicking legs, that it would be the best thing he’d ever done. He had to work in the evenings; the days were taken up with making the usual toys and the weekends were used to sell them at markets around the county. He was working hard and that was good. He was focused. It didn’t stop the drinking though. The bottle was never too far away, but at least now he was doing something whilst he drank.
The carving dominated the workroom. It stood in the middle with all the other work pushed to the sides. When you walked into the room the horse reared over you, with a fierce expression and high kicking legs. Jon seemed almost afraid of it; he would hurry past, duck around it, like he was afraid his presence might jolt it into life. He was also mesmerised by it. Once he was in the room and at a safe distance, he would stare intently, walk a few steps to the left or right and stare again.
I could see small changes in my dad when he was working. Not in his appearance or anything he said, but in the way he moved. For months he’d been dragging his body around reluctantly with him, like it was a weight to carry, even though he looked only half his own size. But when he was working on the carving he was different. He was still as silent but he moved with an energy that hadn’t been there for a long time. He was absorbed and purposeful and I could see that he wasn’t brooding, that he was concentrating and planning and creating. It made me relax, made me a little less fearful. It was good to see.
Clumsy creatures at dawn
The three of us visited the site he had chosen for the carving to stand. We went early on a Sunday morning, just as dawn was breaking, and grabbed Jon from the end of his lane on the way. Dad wanted to see what the site would look like first thing and he needed to get off to a local market to try and sell some toys later. The valley was still lying in thick mist when we set off but we were above it all on top of the fell, looking down onto the white valley. Only the two cement chimneys, a church spire and the tops of the tallest trees popped out through the top and Duerdale looked like an ancient town given up to the sea.
I knew there was a car park at the town side of the forest and I thought we were headed there. It was sign-posted from the town centre and had public toilets and a big board mapped with different walks. It seemed the obvious place to start but Dad drove straight past and kept going. We drove for a few miles and I was struck by how vast the forest was. The road got narrower and the trees loomed over us. We rose and fell on sharp, steep, little climbs and as the road carried us on my sleepy mind wandered and I began thinking about who had built these roads and when. All those men must be dead now, surely? Had they all lived locally or did teams of road builders travel around the country, laying their route out in front of them and never stopping? Who decided where you built the roads and who paid their wages? These half-thoughts skimmed the surface of my brain as the car carried us on, ducking and twisting beneath the trees. We didn’t see another car or any walkers or anyone. We were alone, the only people awake and travelling through this ancient place. I wondered about the ages of the trees and realised that they would, more than likely, still be stood in the same place, under the same patch of sky long after me, Dad and Jon were dead.
Eventually Dad pulled over. We were at the back of the forest and miles away from town and miles away from the public entrance to the forest. We all climbed out and shook life back into our car-tired legs. We were stood in front of a rusty green gate. There was no wall or fence on either side, just two crumbling concrete gateposts holding it in place. It looked ridiculous, sat by itself on the edge of a forest in the middle of nowhere. Dad said it looked like an album cover from years ago. He asked if we were ready and we both nodded and followed him through the falling-down gat
eposts and into the forest.
The trees swallowed the light and we stood still, adjusting to the darkness. There was an absolute silence, a heavy calm and a feeling that if you had to speak you should speak in a whisper. The floor was carpeted with brown pine needles and green moss and was springy under foot and the air smelt of dry tree and cold mornings. After a few seconds considering, Dad moved slowly forward, squinting at his sketched map and looking up to check he was moving in the right direction. There didn’t appear to be any track he was following as he weaved through the trees and it was uneven ground and the tree roots snaked across the forest floor and me and Jon kept our eyes on the ground. It was tough going. It felt like the roots were trying to grab us and pull us to the floor. Dad was more used to it and he had to stop and wait for us to catch up every few minutes.
Eventually I got surer on my feet and looked up to see what was overhead. It was a trick I learned from my mum. She said that every now and again, walking your usual route through town or to school, you should look up as you travelled instead of straight ahead, that you would see things you hadn’t seen before. And she was right. The first time I walked through our old town and lifted my head up I saw things I’d never noticed in a town I’d lived in all my life. In the forest the trees stretched high and higher into the sky, disappearing out of sight and there was only the odd glimpse of sky poking through the canopy. It felt like we were indoors; it reminded me of the church on the day of my mum’s funeral: ancient and powerful.
It took Jon a bit longer to get steady on his feet but eventually he settled into some kind of rhythm and started telling us about trees and their history. How, from the story of Adam and Eve up to today, trees were held in special regard because they start underneath the ground, push up into this world and appear to be stretching up towards heaven. He said that for some groups of people they were a symbol of the next life in this world. I told him I didn’t believe in heaven and hell and the next life and we fell silent again and carried on, pushing through the trees.
We stirred the forest into life. There were birds singing a warning to each other: look out for the three clumsy creatures, sliding and crashing across the forest floor. I was sure I heard sounds of bigger animals amongst the trees but whenever I looked in the direction of the rustle there was nothing there, just a feeling that the second before I turned my head there had been.
I was worried about Jon. His coughing had got worse over the last few weeks and I could see he was starting to struggle. There were beads of sweat popping on his forehead but when I gave him my hand to help him up a steep climb his grip was cold and clammy. I didn’t draw Dad’s attention to it. He’d been a bit unsure about letting us come and I had to nag him. Thankfully he stopped for a break and leant against a tree and passed a bottle of water around. Jon sat down, grateful for the rest. I took a gulp of the water and asked, ‘How are you going to get the carving all the way out here?’ Dad laughed. ‘Determination.’ I passed the bottle to Jon who took a big swig. Dad told us, ‘Not much further now and I have my own story about trees anyway.’ He took a glance at his map, folded it back up and pushed forward.
Bannister
‘When I was at school there was a cross-country race every year. It was for the oldest lads, those about to finish school, and it was always held at the end of the final term, just before the summer holidays. It was hard, about six miles long and tough terrain, up to the top of Lendep Hill and back down through Drumsford Wood. A killer. I doubt they could get away with it these days but it was a school tradition, seen as a final test before leaving the school, a graduation I suppose.’
He turned to see if we were listening, and I nodded at him to carry on, and we tried to keep up with his long strides.
‘Mr Franks the PE teacher used to stay at the back, to make sure that everyone did the whole route so there wouldn’t be anyone hiding near the school and then running back when they thought they’d waited long enough. There was another teacher at the top of the hill, marking everyone off as they passed and checking that everyone was still alive. As you can imagine some lads loved it and some hated it. I was looking forward to it; I found running easy and it would be good to get out of the classroom and away from all the teachers and the crowded corridors.
‘When it was my turn it was a hot summer, broke records apparently. It was a roasting Thursday in the middle of July and we were told to take it steady, but there was no way they were going to cancel it. This year, at the top of the hill, as well as having someone checking us off, they had another teacher handing out water to stop us getting dehydrated.
‘We set off to a cheer from the rest of the school and we all ran too fast across the playing fields before settling down to a sensible pace. The slow ones must have been halfway up Lendep Hill and the fast ones already descending when Doug Bannister finally turned up. He’d been at an interview for a job at a local business for when he finished with school, but he knew he would still have to do the run. Of course there was no one behind him. Mr Franks had set off with the rest of the year and he was barking at the slow ones to get a move on and pick their feet up and put some bloody effort in. Bannister was on the football and swimming teams so he was quite fit and apparently he set off at a good pace.
‘I was doing well. I wasn’t winning. A lad called Chris Lockton won every race; he was a member of a local club and trained three times a week. I was in second place though and feeling pretty good. There was a nice breeze at the top of the hill and I could see the school in the distance, some of the younger kids still on the school fields watching us run to our freedom. The second half was tougher than I expected with the steep descent and then through the winding woods but I stayed in second place and got some cheers when I finished.
‘More and more people started finishing and we all sat together on the field, feeling tired but happy. Some of the younger kids brought out buckets of cold water and we got them to throw them over us to cool us down. We’d heard that Bannister had set off after everyone else and we thought about him still climbing the steep slope of Lendep Hill in the hot sun as we lay on the grass, dripping in cold water and recovering. Eventually we heard Mr Franks’s fog-horn voice shouting at the last few lads to sprint to the finish, where he finally got his glory and went flying past them all to boos and cheers from all of us.
‘There wouldn’t be any more lessons that day; it was considered enough that we had finished the run. We were all laughing and chatting, nearly finished with school and feeling grown up, just waiting for Bannister to finish. It got to a time when we expected him back but there was no sign. We waited another fifteen minutes and somebody said he was probably taking it easy; there was no point in him killing himself. And then Mrs Crawford and Mr Hunter turned up. They’d been at the top of the hill, handing out the water and marking people off as they passed. They asked what we were all doing still at the finish line, so we told them, mucking about, waiting for Bannister. They looked at each other and Mrs Crawford said that Doug had passed them ages ago, taken his water and seemed fine. They’d slowly walked back to the school after collecting all the empty plastic cups in bin bags. Even Mr Franks looked concerned and he was never bothered about anyone. He said that if Bannister had fallen it was most likely in the wood or on the descent so Chris and me should go back and check Drumsford Wood, he would miss out the wood and head straight to the bottom of Lendep Hill.
‘The sun was at its hottest now, sending down hard heat. We took two flasks of water, one for us and one for Bannister, and set off fast across the school playing fields again. Mr Franks shouted at us to slow down, that he didn’t want any more casualties. He was running twice as fast us in the other direction, straight to the foot of Lendep.’
Dad paused and turned to check we were still keeping up. He’d slowed down now he was telling a story and Jon had taken the chance to recover a little. He saw we were right with him, took a deep breath and continued.
‘It was an adventure and we were excited. We d
idn’t think anything really bad had happened to Doug, just a sprained ankle or cramp or something. I could tell Chris wanted to find him too. I think we both hoped he was in the wood and we would rescue him and take him back to school as heroes. A Hollywood graduation. We slowed down when we reached the wood; it was hard to keep the same pace on the rough tracks and it was nice to be in the shade. We took more care to look left and right; he may have tripped and fallen to one side of the path and the undergrowth was thick on both sides. I knew Chris was right behind me; I occasionally felt his hand on my shoulder as I had to slow and turn a sudden left or right. The tight track eventually opened up and began to arch left, a long gradual sweep, and we sped up again. I had just begun to lengthen my stride and looked up, plotting our course, when I saw him. Face down on the floor, arms spread out ahead of him, like he’d fallen whilst halting traffic. He was so still that I think I knew he was dead straight away. I stopped running in a step and Chris crashed into the back of me. He was about to complain when he looked up and saw Doug. We both stood still and stared. Doug’s left leg splayed out to the side and it looked painful. I was sure he would have moved it if he could. We slowly walked up to him and I knelt down next to him and touched his shoulder and said, ‘Doug … can you hear me?’ There was no movement, no response. I touched his cheek and it was already turning a little cold. I didn’t want to but I knew I had to so I turned his head towards us, and it was then I knew he was dead. His eyes stared right over my shoulder, not focusing, not moving. I heard Chris, a few steps behind me. He made a strange noise, a mixture of a groan and a yelp …’
Luke and Jon Page 6
