Peter never forgot those dark days: the smelly lift, playing on the cold graffiti-covered stairs, visits to the hospital, the big boys who pushed him over on the grass so that he became frightened to leave the house.
His mum and dad, the people who mattered most in his life, had blazing rows. For Sharon liked the good things in life: new clothes, twice-weekly visits to the hairdresser, taxis, dancing, holidays, nights out with girlfriends – and sometimes, when Jim was away on exercises or tours of duty overseas, nights out with boyfriends.
Valerie had been born just four months after they were married, when Sharon was seventeen and Jim two years older. For the first few weeks Sharon had rejoiced in her baby daughter, enjoyed the novelty, showed her around, liked dressing her up in frills and pretty hats like a dolly. But when Valerie cried at night it was Jim who got up to comfort her, change her nappy, give her a bottle, rock her in his arms until she fell asleep again. And all too soon Sharon, who was little more than a girl herself, came to resent the baby for her loss of freedom. Not only that, what little money they managed to scrape together – for at that time Jim was a young private – had to be spent on a cot and a pram, baby food, a playpen, locks for the windows, things for the bathroom, toys, shoes, a pushchair, Christmas, the list was endless. When she was teething she cried incessantly. She threw up her milk. She dirtied her clean nappies. She screamed until her face was scarlet. Nothing her mother could do would pacify her. Babies, as far as Sharon was concerned, were selfish, greedy, unappreciative monsters.
Despite Jim’s longing for a son as well as a daughter, she refused point-blank to suffer the discomfort and ruin her figure for the birth of a second child. Despite this, somehow, seven years after Valerie, Peter was born and now here they were, broke, sick, unemployed and living in a cockroach-infested flat. Sharon wasn’t prepared to put up with it. If her pathetic excuse for a husband – how could she have been so mad as to think he was fun – couldn’t give her the life she wanted, there were plenty who could.
Jim needed to get himself together. He had grown up on a farm in Northumberland, the outdoor life suited him. So when his great-uncle Sandy died – Uncle Sandy whom he could hardly remember – and left him this croft at Tarridale, in the north of Scotland, Jim saw it as a gift from heaven. It was the very thing they needed: a house to go with it, plenty of space for the children to run around, a stress-free life, and work in the open air which might help him to get his strength back. Not only that, there was enough money to pay off their debts and a bit over. It would be a new start for Sharon and himself. He showed her the map.
Sharon was appalled. ‘You’re not serious! If you think I’m going up there to live in some godforsaken wilderness, you must be off your head.’
But Jim was serious. And Sharon’s latest boyfriend, having tired of her empty head and expensive ways, had gone off with another girl, younger than Sharon, who had a well-paid job and her own flat. What else was she to do?
No one could say that Sharon lacked spirit. Looking on the bright side, it occurred to her that among those lumpish Scotch countrywomen with their weather-beaten faces and headscarves, she’d be the belle of the village. And there were bound to be men around; those sturdy-legged young soldiers in the Highland regiments she’d seen on parade in their kilts, some of them must come from up that way. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. In any case, she didn’t intend to stay married to boring, sick Jim Irwin for the rest of her life.
So early one morning in March, Peter was bundled into the smelly lift for the last time, strapped into his dad’s old blue Cortina, and off they set on the five hundred mile journey that would take them from the high-rise blocks and crowded streets of Manchester to the empty hills of the north.
4
The New Arrivals
FROM HIS FIRST glimpse of the moors and the sea, Jim loved it. He pulled up a few miles before Tarridale, which was to be their nearest village, stepped from the car and filled his lungs with the seaweed- and heather-impregnated air. Light-headed with happiness, he hitched four-year-old Peter into his arms and drew Valerie to his side. Jim felt he was coming home.
Peter always remembered that moment: his dad’s big hug, the unfamiliar smells, the sudden blast of light and space all around him. A cold wind blew his hair. He had never known anything like it. He was wearing a blue jacket and saw it was the same colour as the sky between clouds. If this was to be his new home, he liked it.
Sharon felt differently. Long before they shut the door of the detested Manchester flat she’d had misgivings. And now, as she saw how Jim stood gazing ecstatically at the wild headlands and windswept moors, she felt in her bones that the venture was destined to failure. The closer they got to Tarridale the stronger grew her conviction. And when they turned off the road – a single tarmacked lane bordered by heather – on to the potholed track that led to Scar Hill, she knew it for certain. For Sharon, a girl from the city, the move to the Highlands was a disaster.
Peter was like Jim but Valerie was her mother’s daughter. At the age of eleven the chief interests in her life were clothes, magazines, pop music, experimenting with make-up, comfort eating and older boys. Listening to all Sharon had said in the weeks before their departure, and seeing her mother’s tight face as she looked out at the landscape, Valerie decided she felt the same. It was all right to hate their new life in Scotland. ‘What are we going to do here?’ she complained even before they had arrived. ‘There’s nothing but hills. It’s boring.’
Uncle Sandy, a bachelor, had not lived on the croft for several years. At the age of seventy-three he had changed his lifestyle. A passion for Rangers Football Club, noisy pubs and a lively widow eight years younger, drew him down to Glasgow. There he had lived happily until his widow died, and shortly afterwards a surge of supporters outside a Rangers–Celtic match knocked him to the ground and left him so badly trampled that he died the following day in hospital.
In his absence the fields and hill grazing had been let to a crofter from the village, and the house rented to a succession of workmen. The last, a forestry worker barely out of his teens, had left the house a midden. It had been a meeting place for pals. Out there on the moor, safe from interruption, they had consumed crates of Export, watched videos, shouted at referees, fought, and slept in chairs. Bedding trailed on the floor, the carpets were filthy and chewed by mice, two windows were boarded over. The yard was a sea of mud.
Even Jim, when he saw the cottage that first afternoon, was shaken. Sharon refused to get out of the car. ‘My God!’ she said. ‘You would bring us to a place like this? It’s even worse than I expected. I’ve seen better caves. If you imagine in your wildest dreams, Jim Irwin, that I am going to live in that – that – filthy, sodden dump, you’re off your head. I mean, look at it!’
It had come on to rain.
‘I’m hungry, mum,’ Valerie whined. ‘I want the bathroom.’
‘You hear?’ With trembling fingers Sharon lit a cigarette. ‘For God’s sake let’s get out of here and find this place we’re going to stay. Though what that’s going to be like I shudder to think.’
‘There’ll be a bathroom in the house, love,’ Jim opened the door for his daughter. ‘Come on, we’ll find it together.’
‘No.’ She huddled back in a corner. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘We’ll just take a look anyway,’ Jim said. ‘Come on, Shar.’
Tight-lipped, she looked away and drew on her cigarette.
‘Just you and me then, Peter.’
Happily Peter scrambled down and chased some jackdaws at the end of the yard. The house was dirty and in a mess but he liked it. From the upstairs windows he could see across the moor. In one direction, a mile below them, there was a shining silver loch. In the other direction, far away, a range of snow-capped hills.
‘This will be your room,’ Jim said. ‘We’ll give it a nice coat of paint and get you a new bed.’ Peter looked all round. The ceiling sloped, the small-paned windows faced the yard. He t
hought it was lovely.
Peter was right, for despite the years of neglect, Scar Hill was a good house, the structure was sound. Jim spoke to Mr Fraser, of Simpson, Fraser and Cherriwick, the solicitors who handled Uncle Sandy’s affairs. Grants were available, he was told, certainly for a young family like his, to improve the drainage, renew the wiring, replace rotted window frames, rip out the worm-eaten timbers, even have the damp walls dried out and replastered.
Teams of workmen arrived from the village. For weeks the air was loud with voices and the noise of hammering. Jim himself, with an unexpected surge of energy, decorated the rooms and painted the outside woodwork. With Sharon and the children he drove into Clashbay, the nearest town, to spend some of Uncle Sandy’s money on carpets and curtains.
Peter loved those days, fetching for the workmen, stamping about the echoing rooms and listening to their funny accent. ‘Funny accent,’ they said as they sat around with cups of tea. ‘You’re a one to talk. What sort of accent’s that you’ve got then?’
But carpets, curtains and a house of her own did not make Sharon happy. A house – even that house it appeared – could be fixed. The location could not. It was impossible! As she leaned on a fence, warming her hands round a mug of coffee and waiting for the van to deliver their first furniture, she had never imagined a place so lonely. Mile upon mile of empty moor, not a single cottage in sight, let alone the village or a shop. Even the bus stop was the best part of three miles down the track. One bus a day to Clashbay, a fishing port and the nearest town, thirty miles along the coast, and one to Tarridale, three miles in the opposite direction. To catch either, for Sharon did not drive, she needed Jim to take her to the road and pick her up on her return. Once they moved in and Jim was working, she would be a prisoner.
‘We’ll get rid of the old Cortina,’ Jim offered. ‘I need a tractor and we’ll look for a little car so you can get about. I’ll teach you to drive.’
Sharon grunted. She did not want a little car. She did not want to drive along a muddy, stony track to reach a deserted road three miles from a godforsaken village. What Sharon wanted was a big car, with a rich, sexy man beside her and a large vodka and tonic at the end of the journey.
For six weeks, while the house was being done up, they stayed with Mrs McKendrick, the widow of an offshore oil worker, who ran a bed and breakfast at the end of the village. Peter, interested in everything and happy to help, became a great favourite. Mrs McKendrick had a fifteen-year-old daughter named Mairi, a senior pupil at Tarridale High School. She and Peter – though not Valerie, who clung to her mother – soon became the best of friends. She took him paddling on the big white beaches and fished with worms in the River Teal which ran past the village. In the evenings she read him stories from books she borrowed from the infant class at school. Mairi had wiry blonde hair and blue eyes. Peter thought she was lovely.
5
The Village Shop
ON THE FIRST morning, while Jim drove into Clashbay to see the solicitor, Sharon dressed smartly to create an impression, made herself up carefully and set out for the village store. It was a walk of half a mile. Valerie held her mother’s hand. Peter, who had wanted to stay with Mrs McKendrick and sweep the yard, trailed behind in his new jeans and anorak.
A strong wind from the north, straight from the Arctic, tumbled the sea into crested waves. Even though she pulled up her hood, Sharon’s hair escaped and flapped in her eyes. The smoke from her cigarette whirled in every direction. By the time she arrived she was chilled to the bone. Valerie was whining.
The door bell jangled. A number of local women turned from their chat to survey the newcomer who had come among them. Word had gone round, they knew who she was. No detail was missed by their sharp eyes: her bleached hair, big earrings, pearl eye shadow, mascara, bangles and rings, false nails, and beneath the pink quilted parka her short tight skirt, plump knees and flimsy sling-backs.
For long moments nobody spoke, then a friendly middle-aged woman in an anorak and warm trousers took pity on her. ‘Good morning, love. You look frozen. Come on over here by the stove.’ She made room.
Sharon eased off her hood. ‘No thanks.’ She tucked back a lock of candy-floss hair and smiled. ‘I’m fine.’
It was a rejection. But the woman was nosy. ‘What about the lass then? Come on, sweetheart, you stand over here where it’s warm while your mum does the shopping.’
Valerie drew back against her mother. At the age of eleven she showed little sign of the pretty teenager she was to become. Her cheeks were chubby, her knees fat. But she was learning about style. Her hair, a mousy brown, was streaked auburn and blonde. She wore lipstick and a trace of blue eye shadow. Enamelled pendants swung from her ears. Beneath a cream-coloured costume with fake fur collar she wore a bra. Her clumpy shoes were in all the magazines.
‘What’s your name?’ the woman said. When Valerie failed to answer she went on, ‘Valerie is it? Just moving into the old house up Scar Hill?’
Valerie rolled round to the far side of her mother.
Sharon answered for her. ‘That’s right. Irwin’s the name. Staying down the road with Mrs McKendrick till we get the house done up. We want it nice. Last place down in Manchester was ever so smart, wasn’t it, Valerie. Jacuzzi and everything.’
Valerie whispered, ‘I’m cold, Mum.’
Sharon pushed her off. ‘We’ll be home in a bit, you can have a hot drink then. Stand up now and try to make a good impression.’
She looked around for Peter who had wandered off and stood examining some toy tractors and delivery vans. ‘Peter,’ she said sharply. ‘Come over here. And don’t be touching any of them mind.’
Ignoring her, he drifted on to a stand of magazines.
Valerie, needing something else to lean against, turned to the display cabinet by the till. Within lay chocolate, sweets and ice cream. She ran her fingers over the glass, smeary fingers with bitten nails and chipped red varnish. ‘Can I have a KitKat – one of them big ones?’
‘Not if you don’t buck your ideas up.’ Her mother poked her in the back. ‘Come on, now.’
Valerie hit her on the arm. Sulkily she stared back at the women who were watching.
‘Good morning.’ The shopkeeper, a thickset, churchgoing man, came to serve them. His name was Mr McRobb.
‘Have you got any Rothman 100?’ Sharon asked.
‘No call for them.’ He looked at the cigarette shelf. ‘Just the ordinary ones.’
Her lips showed irritation. ‘I’ll take sixty. And one of them lighters.’
He set them before her and jotted some figures on a bag.
‘And a packet of biscuits. Them Belgian ones.’ She scanned the shelves and spotted a small display of wine bottles. ‘Got any champagne?’
The shop had two brands: Cava, which local people bought for a celebration, and a single bottle of Bollinger which had been ordered by a visitor who never returned to collect it.
‘I’ll take the Bolly,’ Sharon said.
‘Twenty-nine pound fifty,’ the shopkeeper warned her.
Trailing a copy of the Beano, Peter emerged from the magazine stand and stood watching.
‘That’s all right,’ Sharon said airily, observing the women from the corner of her eye and wondering what Jim would say if he found out.
Mr McRobb mounted the steps to fetch it.
She took out a small wad of notes and fluttered two twenties on the counter. ‘No, that’ll not be enough.’ As if money were no object, she dropped a third.
The bell jangled and a man came into the shop. He was young and scruffy, in stained jeans and a torn sweater. Peter thought he looked nice.
The women greeted the newcomer.
‘Hello, Billy. My God, you look a mess.’
‘When did you get back?’
He ran fingers through a tangle of hair. ‘Last night.’
‘How’s Angela?’
‘Angela?’ He seemed puzzled. ‘Who’s Angela? Never heard of her.’
> The women laughed. ‘Oh, you’re wicked!’
‘You want to watch yourself, Billy Josh. One of these days you’ll get caught.’
He grinned, white teeth and three days’ stubble. ‘Aye, it happens to the best of us. But not just yet, eh.’
He wasn’t Sharon’s type. All the same, from the brief glance she allowed herself, he was certainly good-looking. And the way he was looking at her – cheeky beggar.
‘Mum!’ Valerie tugged her sleeve.
‘Oh, yes,’ Sharon said, ‘and a KitKat. One of them long ones.’ She looked round. ‘What do you want, our Peter?’
But Peter wasn’t listening. He was fascinated by a streak of fish scales, thick as paint, down the leg of Billy’s jeans.
Billy saw him looking. ‘Hello there, boy. And who are you?’
Peter looked up, shy at being addressed by this big stranger. ‘Peter Irwin,’ he whispered.
‘His dad’s just taken over Scar Hill,’ one of the women told him.
‘Sandy’s nephew?’ Billy said. ‘That soldier he used to tell us about?’ He looked back at Peter. ‘Dad a soldier then, is he?’
Peter nodded.
‘Must be quite a man to have a braw lad like you.’
Peter blushed with pleasure.
‘Hey.’ Billy glanced at Sharon. ‘Your mum was asking if you want any sweeties. Best go and tell her. Soldiers’ sons need their sweeties, eh?’
He ran across the shop. Sharon bought him the Beano and a tube of Smarties.
While the shopkeeper pressed keys on his old-fashioned till, she tucked the bulky cigarettes into her bag. Valerie tore open the KitKat and dropped the paper on the floor.
‘Hey!’ The shopkeeper saw her. ‘Pick that up.’
It was a voice that allowed no argument. Valerie was startled.
‘There’s a bin over there.’
She did as she was told and returned to her mother.
Sharon was furious at being shown up. She shook her daughter by the shoulder: ‘You know not to throw things down like that. How often have I told you.’
Scar Hill Page 3
