Into the Trees

by Robert Williams

  ‘Was it always your decision to move on?’

  Keith nodded firmly. ‘I was always keen to try something else. But like I said, I’m after something more permanent now.’

  Kerry Pearson didn’t say anything. Keith could feel the sweat surging through his skin like a fever. Should he say more? Had he said enough? Were silences like this usual in this type of interview?

  Finally she spoke.

  ‘It’s quite an investment for any company to take on and train a new employee. Here we send you on health and safety and first aid courses. We have experienced members of staff take time out from their duties to train new staff. Looking at what’s in front of me I’m concerned it wouldn’t be worth it. The longest you’ve stayed in a job is just under a year and that was a long time ago.’

  Keith shifted in his seat. Had she not been listening to him? He wanted to joke about having sown his oats and looking to settle down now, but he didn’t think the woman in front of him would laugh, or even smile, at a comment like that.

  ‘There are also many gaps here,’ she said.

  The sweat had worked through to the surface of Keith’s skin and he had to wipe his arm across his brow to stop it running into his eyes. He ached. He felt exhausted. The librarian had mentioned the gaps on the CV, saying that employers preferred unbroken employment, but Keith didn’t know how to rectify that without making it all up. He’d either walked out, been sacked or was in prison, and he couldn’t put any of that down. ‘I was looking for work,’ he said. ‘And looking after the kids. A modern man you see.’ Keith smiled but his voice sounded weak and humourless.

  ‘Some of the breaks are for a year or more. There is a section on our application form where it asks if you have a criminal record, if you’ve ever been convicted of any criminal activity. In my experience it is best to answer this question honestly, Mr Sullivan.’

  ‘No,’ Keith said faintly, ‘I’m clean.’ He didn’t know what the matter was. He was normally wonderful at lying.

  ‘Nothing?’ she asked. ‘Because we go into people’s homes. We have to have trustworthy staff.’

  Keith shook his head.

  ‘Your last period of employment was at Etherton Cement. Why did you leave there? That’s stable work, isn’t it? Good money too.’

  Keith raised himself in his seat and tried to pull himself together. He looked at the stern young woman across from him and prayed that she would see the man he was trying to become. ‘I felt I’d learnt all I could in that position and thought it was time to seek out new opportunities.’

  ‘You parted on good terms?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If we contacted them, they’d be happy to offer us a reference?’

  Keith could see his future narrow to a thin slit in front of him. He felt drained of everything. He allowed his vision to become blurred and then closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep. He was so tired.

  ‘Mr Sullivan?’ Kerry Pearson said.

  With his eyes still closed he asked, ‘Why did you ask me to come for an interview? Why did you even bother to have me here?’

  ‘Some of our best workers sent in awful CVs. The men we need here don’t always come across well on paper, and, when I can, I like to give people a chance.’

  Keith opened his eyes and said, ‘But you aren’t going to give me a chance, are you?’

  Kerry Pearson looked at him and shook her head.

  In the pub that night, five pints into a session, Keith remembered who his interviewer had reminded him of. It wasn’t only her height – it was the manner of her. Superior, dismissive, controlled and arrogant. He felt the fury inside ramp itself up and then, pop, it was gone. He laughed. He’d had an idea. He finished his pint and ordered another one.

  Seven

  Raymond lay in his caravan. His meal was going cold on the table in the farmhouse but he wasn’t hungry. He was thinking back to a Friday afternoon at school years before. The teacher had asked everyone in the class what they wanted to be when they were older. It was supposed to be a fun way to pass the last half hour of the school week, but like many things that happened at school, it filled Raymond with panic. He knew that if he didn’t choose carefully the other boys, and some of the girls, would use his choice to mock him. He was hoping he could steal someone else’s dream job, but as the teacher went from child to child he realised their choices were all too grand for him. He couldn’t say he wanted to be a footballer, soldier, actor or rock star, his classmates would be offended that thick-lipped Raymond had the arrogance to think he was just the same as the rest of them. When it was eventually his turn to speak all heads turned to face him, waiting for him to claim his future. A few faces were smiling already, primed to laugh, others were glaring, just the sight of him enough to upset some of his classmates. But he still hadn’t managed to think of a job that wouldn’t draw mockery or anger. He shook his head at the teacher.

  ‘Come on, Raymond,’ Mr Tilton said. ‘There must be something you want to do. You won’t be able to sit daydreaming for the rest of your life.’

  Raymond glanced out of the window, looking for inspiration, and it came. Just at that moment a tractor passed on the road, heading out of town, shifting faster than you imagined a tractor could move.

  ‘Farmer,’ Raymond said immediately.

  Someone laughed, someone else groaned but Raymond felt the tension in the room dissipate and the heads turned away in disappointment. A farmer was perfect. He’d given them nothing to work with; nobody else wanted the job, he wasn’t treading on anyone’s dream and it was a mundane enough option not to draw ridicule, lowly enough to be accepted as his destiny. The teacher said, ‘That will mean long hours and lots of hard work, Raymond. I hope you’re prepared.’

  And then it was time for the weekend and the class was released. One of Raymond’s main aggressors passed him in the corridor and said, ‘A farmer, Raymond? You already smell of shit, it should suit you that.’ Raymond carried on walking, comments like that hardly registered with him any more.

  After that afternoon Raymond had forgotten about the idea of being a farmer until he was sat in Etherton job centre years later, when the man behind the desk spotted his large hands and asked if he’d considered farm work. That was the moment which had led to Raymond sitting on top of Marshaw Fell looking down on Abbeystead, his legs aching from pedalling up the long climb, Etherton miles behind him, not even visible any more. Down below him, the fields and trees, the space, almost empty of people, the land which would become his refuge for years. Lying in his caravan years later Raymond couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Abbeystead. He didn’t think it would be possible. He didn’t think his legs would allow him to walk away.

  Eight

  Thomas paused the tape and made an entry in his notebook. 15.14, a red Ford Escort, a C reg. The car appeared to slow as it approached the house. Five minutes later the car returned from the opposite direction, but that wasn’t unusual, many drivers realised the small road was probably not taking them anywhere in particular and headed back the way they’d come. Thomas stared at the screen, screwing up his eyes and focusing as much as he could, but he couldn’t see the driver clearly. He noted that the camera could do with a wipe. He allowed the tape to run on, loosened his tie, undid his collar and stretched. The room was warm, the white flickers of static on the screen rose and fell like slow-leaping digital sheep. He finished his glass of whisky and pushed back in his chair. A minute later his head rocked back, his body went slack and his throat opened, the snores so loud Ann could hear him in the kitchen. He woke half an hour later with a start. He leant forward and stared at the screen. The static flickered, the road behind it as empty as usual. Thomas stopped the video and put his notebooks away. He straightened the items on his desk, turned off the light and closed the door behind him. He’d been fast asleep when the red Ford Escort returned for a third time and crawled past the house, a pale face inside the car staring intently at the front door.

  Nine

&nbs
p; Five of them were in the Land Rover, travelling along the Keasden road, heading to the foot of Liverstock Fell. Thomas and Raymond sat in the front, Ann, Daniel and Harriet bumping along together in the back. The walk and the picnic were Ann’s idea. A few days before, Raymond had turned up at the house and Thomas had taken him through to the back garden to talk and drink as they usually did. After half an hour Thomas came in to use the toilet and Ann stepped outside to say hello to Raymond. He was sat in one of the garden chairs, his head down, his chin pointing to his massive chest. When Ann approached he looked up. Tears were pouring down his cheeks.

  ‘Raymond, what’s the matter?’ she asked, crouching down beside him.

  Raymond shook his head fiercely and looked away to the bottom of the garden and the trees.

  ‘Sorry,’ Ann said, ‘I’ll leave you,’ and walked away, back into the house, hoping Thomas would hurry back and comfort his friend.

  ‘The farm is being sold and he’s losing his job,’ Thomas told her later.

  ‘Where will he go?’

  ‘Back to the house in Etherton,’ said Thomas. ‘He won’t be homeless.’

  ‘You said that he hates Etherton. He hates the town and his house.’

  ‘He does. That’s why he’s so upset.’

  ‘So what did you say to him?’

  ‘What could I say? I don’t have a farm, I can’t offer him a job.’

  The next day Ann decided on the picnic. The best thing to do when something was upsetting you, she believed, was to do anything to keep the mind from dwelling. It was old-fashioned thinking, she knew, but she trusted it. Once the mind was snagged on something, once it got its claws in, it was hard to free it. Ann had seen that with Thomas. And it would do them all good, she decided, to do something together, outside in the fresh air. Harriet had been delighted with the idea, Daniel had moaned, as he moaned about anything that took him away from his computer games, Thomas accepted the plan easily enough and Raymond didn’t know how to refuse an invite from Ann, even if he’d wanted to. So there he was, his huge legs taking up all the space in front of him in the Land Rover. Thomas turned on to Demdike Lane and after half a mile pulled into a small, rough car park at the foot of Liverstock Fell. The five of them set off walking up the lower rises of the hill, the gentle climbs before the gradient kicked in. Daniel ran ahead, seemingly not unhappy any more, Harriet skipped around Raymond, and Thomas and Ann brought up the rear. After twenty minutes they reached the foot of the path that ran sharply and diagonally to the top of the fell. The track was steep and narrow and they had to walk in single file and stop regularly for Harriet to catch up. Each time they rested they would turn and look out at the valley spreading below them. Thomas pointed out the gap in the trees of Bleasdale Forest, miles away in the distance, where their house sat, and Raymond pointed out the farmhouse, which could just about be seen. Then he gestured west and told them, ‘Sometimes you can see the sea. On a less hazy day there’s a shimmer on the horizon and you know it’s the sea.’

  ‘What a place,’ Thomas said, his hands on his hips, gazing out at Abbeystead.

  ‘It is,’ Raymond said.

  Ann realised then what she was doing. She was bringing a man who was soon to be exiled from Abbeystead, taking him to the top of the highest point and showing him all of what he was losing. On a beautiful summer’s day she was rubbing his nose in it.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, briskly, ‘let’s keep moving.’

  They were at the top in an hour. Thomas walked over to a patch of flat grass and said, ‘A good spot?’

  ‘Shall we move on a bit?’ Ann suggested. She was hoping to pull Raymond away from the view, maybe find somewhere further on which wasn’t quite so panoramic.

  ‘I like it here,’ Harriet said.

  ‘That settles it then.’ Thomas swung the rucksack off his back.

  They laid the blanket down on the springy grass, put the flasks and sandwiches in the middle and sat in a line, facing the view.

  ‘It’s a lucky dip,’ Ann said, pointing to the foil parcels. ‘There are tuna, ham, and cheese and pickle. Nobody gets any cake until a whole sandwich is gone.’

  They unwrapped their sandwiches, peered inside, agreed swaps and began to eat. For a few minutes it was quiet as they sat and chewed and gazed down below them. Harriet nuzzled into Thomas and pointed out a range of round-topped hills at the other side of the valley. She yawned and said, ‘What are those hills called, Daddy?’

  ‘The pointier one on the left is Parlick, but the others, I get them mixed up. Raymond?’

  ‘Parlick on the left, then Fairsnape, then Saddle Fell and that over there is Clougha Pike,’ Raymond said, pointing as he went.

  ‘There are supposed to be witches over there, they told us at school,’ Harriet said.

  Thomas and Ann laughed, but Raymond said, ‘Back in the seventeenth century. They were tried in court for it, about ten women.’

  ‘But they weren’t really witches, were they?’ Ann asked.

  Raymond shrugged. ‘Some said they were. Some say it’s because they were Catholic. I don’t know too much about it, but Sheila was telling me one night, she says she’s related to those who were on trial.’

  Thomas put his arm around Harriet. ‘Maybe, when it’s dark, Harriet, we could walk up into those hills, see if we can see ourselves a witch?’

  ‘No way,’ Harriet said, shuddering and pushing herself even closer to her dad. ‘Not in the dark.’

  ‘You weren’t scared of the dark when you were little, not at all.’

  ‘Wasn’t I?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘When you were a baby you would cry at night, all night sometimes. You would scream and scream so I would put you in the car and drive around, to see if I could get you off to sleep. That was how we ended up living here, that was how I found the barn. On some nights I would park the car and walk into the forest with you in the middle of the night. You never cried in the forest. I would walk through the trees with you, sit down against a tree and hold you, wondering what it was about the forest that soothed you.’ Thomas stroked Harriet’s hair. ‘And look at you now. You hardly cry at anything.’

  Raymond’s jaw had frozen mid chew. All those years and he’d never realised. That night in the forest, the only people he’d ever seen on his midnight walks and it had been Thomas and Harriet. Of course it had been Thomas and Harriet. Sat with the Nortons on top of Liverstock Fell, with a sandwich in one hand, a plastic cup of coffee in the other, Abbeystead below, Raymond was flummoxed. He’d never been happier or sadder in his life.

  Ten

  Two weeks after the walk Thomas was sitting in the pale green room at the back of Maltham health centre. Opposite him was Dr Barbour.

  ‘How are the children?’ she asked.

  ‘They are fine, thank you, I think.’

  ‘And how is Ann?’

  Ann. She must have made notes after they’d left. He wondered what she’d written about him.

  ‘She’s fine too.’ Thomas scratched his head. ‘Well, she is fine but she’s annoyed with me.’

  ‘Why is she annoyed with you, Thomas?’

  Thomas paused. At home, with the trees surrounding the house and the knowledge that the nearest human being who could offer help was at least two miles away, his behaviour, his worry, seemed perfectly sensible, common sense in fact. Here, he wasn’t so sure. He didn’t want to tell this woman he made notes from security cameras about every passing car. He didn’t want to say he set traps in the trees and checked them daily for human disturbance. When he thought about those things spoken out loud he pictured a mad man with a beard, long greasy hair and dirty fingernails.

  ‘I’ve not been myself,’ he said. ‘I’m not sleeping well, I might be drinking too much. I’m anxious a lot of the time. I snap at the kids, and Ann. I find it hard to get up, to start the day.’

  ‘How long have you been like this?’

  ‘Ever since it happened. Well, as soon as the shock disappeared and the reality of it
set in.’

  ‘It’s been months, what spurred you to come and see me now?’

  ‘It will sound stupid,’ Thomas said.

  Dr Barbour shook her head. ‘Nothing you say in this room is considered stupid, Thomas.’

  ‘We went for a walk and I felt better.’ Thomas shrugged. ‘For a bit, for a few hours anyway. We went for a picnic the other day, with a friend, and for the first time in a long time I wasn’t thinking about what had happened and whether the men would come back. Even on the drive home I wasn’t wondering if the men would be waiting. It didn’t last all day, just when we were walking and an hour or so afterwards. But I remembered what it felt like to feel normal again. I’ve been lost to that feeling.’

  He stopped talking.

  ‘And you want to feel like that more of the time?’

  ‘I don’t know if I can. But it was almost better when I didn’t realise how bad I had been feeling. Then it seemed impossible to feel anything else; it was just how it was. But I felt normal for a few hours, or for moments within those hours, and . . .’ Thomas ran out of steam. ‘Well, yes, I want to feel like that more of the time.’

  ‘Have you seen your doctor?’ Dr Barbour asked.

  Thomas shook his head.

  ‘So you aren’t on any medication?’

  ‘No,’ Thomas said, ‘nothing.’

  ‘How would you feel about that? Something to help with anxiety and depression? We will try other techniques alongside, but it can help to kick-start things.’

  ‘I’m not depressed,’ Thomas said.

  ‘Perhaps not. We will see. It’s my job to diagnose you.’

  Thomas shook his head. He was sure he wasn’t depressed. It wasn’t fair or accurate to call what he was going through depression. He didn’t have any say in what had happened to him, the position he now found himself in. He didn’t wake up one morning and suddenly see the world as dark and inhospitable. This had been thrust on him. And he wasn’t sure about medication. He didn’t want to be a man who took pills for his nerves. It sounded like something that would happen to a friend of his mother’s, something she would whisper about conspiratorially over Sunday lunch.