Into the Trees
ROBERT WILLIAMS
For Mum and Dad and Heather
Abbeystead, 1990
They came through the trees on a Sunday evening. Four men in petrol-blue overalls, balaclavas covering their heads. They stepped out from the forest and onto the narrow road in front of them. The house they approached was a barn conversion in a secluded corner of Bleasdale Forest, a large detached building of thick stone and wood deep in the Abbeystead countryside. The men crossed the road, strode up the short drive and knocked on the door as politely as a visiting friend.
Harriet was lying on the floor reading a book, which was quickly boring her, when the knock came. She leapt up and ran to the door as if she was in a race: fists pumping, face determined, knees high. She was eight years old, it was a rare treat to have a visitor, and she was intent on getting there before anyone else. She dragged the door open with force. ‘Hello,’ she said, a little breathless, before looking up at the boiler suits and covered heads gathered in front of her. Harriet didn’t know to scream. There was a second’s pause before the man who’d knocked, the leader, took Harriet’s hand and walked into the quiet house with her at his side. Harriet went easily, the other men followed.
‘Who is it, love?’ Thomas called over the top of his paper.
The group followed the sound of his voice.
Part One
One
Maltham, 1982
Like all babies Harriet Norton cried, but when Harriet cried it was different. It was a sound to make animals turn and run, a noise to terrify parents. And it would last for hours. Ann and Thomas Norton tried everything, but nothing calmed her, nothing soothed her, there was no special knack. They rocked, rubbed and massaged Harriet, they changed her whether or not she needed to be changed, fed her even if she’d just been fed, sang for her until they ran out of songs to sing. Thomas would put her in the car and drive out of town, up over hills, down into dark neighbouring valleys, even as far as one of the three big cities, hoping that the travel, the movement, would calm her. He was pulled over by the police once, in the bleak early hours, as he drove slowly, dozily, Harriet twisting and roaring behind him. He was quickly told to drive on when the noise hit the police officer, who slapped the roof of the car in sympathy as he turned away, thinking he’d forgotten how loud babies could cry, not missing his own nights of broken sleep one bit. Thomas tried the radio hoping the shipping forecast, the news, or middle-of-the-road middle-of-the-night music would hold the key, but nothing did.
The Nortons bought new washing powder, they changed Harriet’s bedding and sheets, they tried different nappies, fed her new milk formula, washed her in a different brand of soap, and when that made no difference, washed her in water only. Still nothing worked. Their doctor showed little concern. Babies cry and Harriet was a healthy little girl with strong lungs, she said. After four months of suffering, when they were exhausted and tearful, hardly able to string a sentence together any more, they took Harriet to see a doctor at a different practice – a favour arranged by a receptionist friend. The friend explained the problem to the doctor before the Nortons’ appointment.
‘But you told him we’re not anxious parents?’ Ann asked the friend. ‘You told him this isn’t normal crying?’
Dr Standish examined Harriet, asking questions about feeding and sleeping patterns as he did. He smiled at her, held her up in the air and dropped her down to his face, smiled again and danced her in his lap. He passed a gurgling and happy Harriet back to Ann and the Nortons braced themselves for his diagnosis. He looked at the exhausted parents opposite him and spoke the words they were dreading to hear:
‘Babies cry, it’s the only a thing a doctor can be certain of. You have a healthy daughter.’
But they were prepared to fight their corner this time – they’d discussed a counterattack.
‘Babies don’t cry like this,’ Ann said, sitting up in her chair, pushing herself forward, trying to sound calm and sane but feeling hectic and disturbed. ‘Daniel didn’t cry like this, he cried, but not like this. You’ve never heard crying like it. Something isn’t right, I’m sure of it.’ She sat back. ‘And we can’t go on like this.’
Thomas took his wife’s hand in his own and spoke before the doctor had a chance to respond. ‘Ann is right. The crying, it’s like nothing we’ve heard before, and it goes on and on until it sounds like she’s hurting herself.’
But Dr Standish was resolute. ‘Every baby is different,’ he said. ‘Some babies cry for hours, some sleep through the night from the first few weeks. I’m sure this is upsetting, and maybe you were lucky with your first child, but be reassured that there is nothing wrong with your daughter. It’s natural and normal for babies to cry.’
He smiled at the Nortons and they knew they were defeated. And they knew that Harriet’s crying wasn’t natural or normal, but in the bright surgery, in the middle of the morning, with Harriet silent and sweet-smelling, as perfect as an apple, it was impossible to make their case. They stood up and left without thanking the doctor, behaviour that would have seemed impossible to them only weeks before. They drove home feeling trapped and hopeless.
Two
Harriet’s crying was usually worse at night, when she was under covers in her cot. If it started as soon as she was put down it was a bad sign, an indication that it would go on for hours. There would sometimes be a silence mid-marathon, for twenty short minutes, and this interlude initially gave the Nortons hope, but they quickly learnt to recognise it for what it was – a brief break before the noise kicked back in at the same ridiculous volume. The crying and sleeplessness affected every aspect of their lives. They were too tired to see friends and discouraged visitors. Thomas felt useless and ineffective at work and occasionally fell asleep at his desk. Ann worried that they were neglecting Daniel, their two-year-old, because they were so exhausted they had no energy for games and playing. When they communicated it was only to pass along essential information relating to the care of the children and the running of the house. Their next-door neighbours, a friendly couple with no children of their own, put their house on the market without mentioning it to the Nortons. When Ann finally did notice the sign in the adjoining garden, she knew they must be moving because of Harriet and the all-night wailing and briefly wondered if she should feel any guilt, but her exhaustion was so complete it was a thought that disappeared as soon as it entered her head.
After the visit to the out-of-town doctor, at Ann’s insistence, Thomas began to spend a night every week at Redgate Guest House – a cheap bed-and-breakfast in a small town fifteen miles away. He was reluctant to leave Ann with the children, but he needed some sleep to be able to perform his job at the bank, and he relented. The guesthouse was a tired, worn-out place, overlooking the edge of an industrial estate, somewhere he was unlikely to bump into anyone he knew, unlikely to have to provide awkward explanations. The rooms were clean enough, and importantly, quiet. Thomas would arrive at seven thirty, be in bed by eight and sleep a deathly sleep until he was woken by the alarm clock at six thirty the next morning. He didn’t stay for breakfast and would be back home before seven to help Ann with the children, after which he would shower and change and set off to work with a slightly clearer head.
At first Ann refused the guesthouse. Running away was the sign of a failed mother, surely, but after four months of suffering Harriet’s dreadful all-night screaming, she surrendered and left for a Friday night, almost too tired to feel any guilt. These occasional nights afforded Thomas and Ann a shot of relief, but they didn’t come close to making up for the endless sleeplessness they were both enduring at home. What neither Thomas or Ann confessed to each other was that Harriet, on terrible crying nights, when the partner was at the gues
thouse, spent a couple of hours in her car seat in the cupboard under the stairs. There her screaming, whilst audible, wasn’t murderous, and the left-alone parent wasn’t scared of doing something they could never be forgiven for.
Eventually, in desperation, they took Harriet to a paediatrician at a private hospital.
‘Everything you can think of please, every test there is for babies,’ Ann said.
The results came back to confirm that Harriet was a perfect little girl, healthy in every way. After the specialist delivered Harriet’s clean bill of health he looked at Thomas and Ann and prepared to speak. Don’t say it, Ann pleaded silently. Please don’t say it’s our fault.
‘Babies are very sensitive to mood, Mr and Mrs Norton,’ the specialist said. ‘They can sense stress and tension. They react to the atmosphere around them.’
He allowed time for his words to be absorbed before he continued.
‘The best thing you can both do is to try and relax and enjoy your beautiful little girl.’
Ann had stopped listening after his first sentence. Her face was a twisted grip. She saw the road to insanity in front of her. She was a hundred grenades and if someone so much as caught her elbow it would trigger an explosion that would kill everyone in distance. Thomas felt utter defeat.
Three
Two weeks after the verdict from the specialist Thomas took Harriet out in the car at night. He’d spent the previous night fast asleep at the guesthouse and wanted Ann to have a couple of peaceful hours. It was an evening in the middle of July and the street was still layered with the smells of summer. It had been a hot day and even close to midnight the air was warm and only just starting to lose its weight and stickiness. Thomas buckled a screaming Harriet into her car seat and set off. He drove north out of the town, on one of the small roads, and headed for the country. After a few miles he passed through a village called Shipton and then a hamlet he didn’t know the name of. He reached a junction where if he turned right he would eventually loop back in the direction of Maltham and home. Harriet showed no sign of easing up, so instead he turned left and drove six miles to the summit of Liverstock Fell. He stopped the car at the top of the climb and looked down onto the valley below him. It was a deep gathering of darkness and shadow. He could just make out the fells marking the far side of the valley, low-slung smudges edging into the sky, and four miles below him, in the northwest corner of the valley, a fist of lights, a village tucked away down there. He considered turning back and heading for home, he’d come further than he’d intended and tiredness had crept up on him again, but Harriet let out a brutal and sustained scream, so Thomas eased the car into gear and began the descent into the Trough of Abbeystead.
He was only twelve miles from Maltham but already on the kind of unknown roads that didn’t get many travellers at any time of year. He’d avoided these roads and this area all winter, his arms steering him away from tight rural roads, too remote to be gritted, but since spring he’d been heading this way more often, and sometimes, despite his tiredness and Harriet’s crying, he enjoyed himself. He discovered that you could drive for miles on these country roads, hardly ever take the same route, and within twenty minutes of leaving Liverstock Fell you would be on the top of the hills at the opposite side of the valley, looking down onto the next valley in the chain. And sometimes, occasionally, Harriet would stop crying for a few minutes and Thomas, driving along ancient roads, past thick-bricked farmhouses and endless fields, in complete exhaustion, would feel serene.
Ann and Thomas hadn’t spoken about Harriet’s crying since the visit to the specialist. If there really was nothing wrong with her, no cause for her searing howling, then there was no cure to be found and nothing they could do. The only thing they’d learnt, at the cost of all that money, was their reaction to the crying could be making it worse. The unspoken hope was that as Harriet grew older, surely it would stop. A child can’t cry forever, Thomas reasoned. He was wondering if they could survive another eighteen months when he turned onto a small lane that appeared at his left, a road he hadn’t noticed before. The road twisted tightly between low trees and thick bushes for a couple of miles before it opened up and ran straight. Thomas relaxed, took his eyes from the road and looked up. He saw what appeared to be a huge black patch sewn into the horizon, but as he drove closer he could see it was a forest ahead of him, dark and densely packed. At that moment Thomas could think of nothing more thrilling than driving into a black forest in the middle of the night. The road led straight to the trees and although it widened as he entered the forest, the trees edged in on either side and the opposite felt true; Thomas increased his grip on the steering wheel. After following the road for five minutes Thomas saw a creature ahead, stood in the centre of the road. He slowed the car to a stop and peered into the dark. It was a deer, staring back at him. After a few seconds she turned her head away, stalked into the trees with robotic grace and was gone. It was then Thomas noticed the silence. He turned to check on Harriet. She was awake, looking back at him with wide-open eyes. Thomas knew she’d been screaming when he dropped down into the trough, and as they twisted along the tiny road, but he couldn’t remember when it had stopped. He became aware of the smell then. The window was open and the rich scent of trees was strong in the air. Thomas steered the car to the side of the road and climbed out. He looked around him. The deer, the silence and the smell of the forest combined to wake him up. Here he was in the middle of the night, tiny under these huge trees, with his beautiful little girl. For the first time since he’d held Harriet in the minutes after she was born, happiness shocked him. He unbuckled Harriet, pulled her to his chest and carried her into the trees. He walked for twenty silent, happy minutes before fatigue struck and Thomas realised he was deep in a forest in the middle of the night, fifteen miles from home, his baby daughter warm and heavy in his arms. He found his way back to the car and set off for home, dreading how tired he would feel at work the next day.
Three nights later Thomas headed to the Trough of Abbeystead again, Harriet buckled in behind him. Harriet maintained her crying from cot to car and showed no sign of easing up during the journey. After three wrong turns he eventually found the road that crept under the low trees and then to the forest. Thomas opened the windows fully and drove towards the army of trees on the horizon. Then he was out of the car and walking, clutching Harriet close, and within five minutes she was quiet. It could be the smell of the trees, he thought, as he watched the ground, making sure his feet didn't catch on any roots. He walked for half an hour before sitting down against a tree trunk to rest. Harriet fell asleep quickly and after ten minutes Thomas rose and began the walk back to the car. Harriet remained silent throughout. In the car he sat for another few minutes with Harriet in his arms, flanked by giant trees, both of them quiet. When a sleep-kick jerked Thomas awake he put Harriet in her seat, turned the car around and headed for home.
Thomas made the trip once more with the same results. As he drove back home that night he wondered what he could possibly say to Ann, but he decided not to explain, it would only sound ridiculous, and he planned to show her instead. He arranged for Ann’s parents to have Daniel for the night and made sure that Ann spent the previous night at the guesthouse, so she would be less exhausted and more likely to embark on the trip with him. He was nervous when he broached the subject.
‘I think I may have found something which stops Harriet’s crying,’ he said, ‘but if I explained it to you, you would think I was mad, so I want to show you instead. It will take a couple of hours, that’s all.’
‘I’ll try anything,’ Ann said.
Harriet was fed, washed and changed and put down at the usual time. Five minutes later the wailing began. Ann and Thomas tried all the tricks they knew wouldn’t work and then left her upstairs, a tiny, livid ball of flesh, screaming at the ceiling. At eleven Thomas carried her to the car and they set off. Thomas hadn’t said a word to Ann about the destination; it seemed too silly to say out loud, and as they d
rove he worried that maybe he’d imagined the previous silences, that perhaps he’d been so tired his ears had shut down and the silent wanderings through the trees hadn’t been silent at all, and he’d been a sleep-deprived man carrying a bellowing baby through a forest. Twenty-five minutes after leaving the house they turned on to the forest road, and it was then, with the sight of the distant trees in front of him, that the last drop of belief Thomas held deserted him. Harriet was behind him, screaming relentlessly, Ann was next to her, tense and exhausted, and Thomas wondered what he was doing. He slowed the car for the last mile as he approached the forest, to give Harriet time to settle, but she battled on regardless. They entered under the line of trees and Thomas drove on for a few minutes before pulling to a stop. He looked to Ann, put his hand on the car door and, without any confidence, said, ‘Let’s see.’
Thomas, Harriet and Ann walked into the trees.
Harriet fell quiet.
They walked for ten minutes, neither of them saying a word and then Thomas stopped, turned to Ann and said, ‘This is the fourth time now.’
Ann took Harriet from Thomas and sat down, Thomas crouched opposite. They stayed there for an hour before heading back to the car. The next night Thomas stayed at home with Daniel while Ann drove Harriet to the forest. She returned an hour later, hugged her husband in bed, and whispered, ‘It works.’
Harriet screamed away in the next room.
Into the Trees Page 1
