Scar Hill

by Alan Temperley

  Valerie stared. She often dropped paper, spat chewing gum onto the pavement. Her mother took no notice.

  ‘Come on then.’ Sharon raked the change into her purse. ‘Thank you,’ she said coldly to Mr McRobb and turned to the door.

  Billy opened it for her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said again.

  ‘We’re all gentlemen here in Tarridale,’ he said. ‘See you up at the hotel maybe.’

  Sharon swept past, ignoring him, and turned down the road.

  Valerie, in her mother’s wake, looked back.

  He gave her a wink.

  She smiled.

  A red Mercedes two-seater stood opposite. Sharon was surprised. This year’s plates. Not the sort of car she expected to see in Tarridale at all. Whose was it, she wondered. It hadn’t been there when they went into the store. Surely it didn’t belong to Billy Josh with his stubble and dirty jeans.

  ‘Smart, eh?’ he called after her.

  For the car did belong to Billy who, contrary to appearances, was the best-paid man in the village. At the age of twenty-three he was part-owner and skipper of the Silver Darling, a successful trawler sailing out of Clashbay.

  Sharon’s heels click-clacked as she walked along the short stretch of pavement.

  He returned into the shop. Already the others were talking about her.

  ‘Doesn’t half fancy herself.’ A woman built like a bulldog struck a pose. ‘I’ll take the Bolly!’

  ‘Jacuzzi and everything in our last house,’ echoed another. ‘Who does she think she’s kidding, going out there to Scar Hill.’

  ‘Tasty bit of jail-bait though.’ Billy hitched up his jeans. ‘Could do with a bit of new blood round here. What d’you reckon?’

  ‘You behave yourself,’ said the woman in the anorak. ‘She’s hardly arrived. Got that lassie and nice wee lad. You’ve got enough girls dangling there to keep you going the next ten years.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ He raised his hands in protest. ‘I only asked. Anyway, it’s you and me really, isn’t it, Maggie.’ He slipped an arm round her waist. ‘Everyone knows that.’

  ‘It’ll be the day when you get me to join your harem,’ she said stoutly.

  He gave her a squeeze.

  ‘Oh, you!’ She slapped his shoulder.

  Mr McRobb sipped his coffee and ran a duster over the counter.

  As Sharon reached the corner the wind blew her sideways. It had started to rain, a grey squall that flattened the sea and hid the headlands. The drops hit her face like bullets. ‘Here, carry this.’ She thrust the champagne into her daughter’s hands. ‘Take care you don’t drop it – and don’t tell your father.’ She turned a shoulder into the blast for protection.

  ‘Bloody wilderness!’ she muttered. If Jim thought she was going to live in a freezing, storm-battered backwater like this, he had another think coming.

  Several metres behind her, Peter clutched his tube of Smarties and looked down at the windswept river and white sands. He didn’t like the rain which was cold and made his eyes blurry. Apart from that he thought Tarridale was lovely.

  6

  The Good Dad

  NO ONE WHO saw Jim and Peter would have taken them for father and son. Jim’s hair was dark, his skin weather-beaten by exposure to the sun and wind. This October, as he lay in the byre struggling with his demons, he was thirty-eight years old, young to have a nineteen-year-old daughter. With his lean physique and soldier’s bearing he would have been a handsome man, had not ill health hollowed his cheeks and robbed his eyes of their sparkle.

  Peter, in contrast, was unremarkable to look at, though life at Scar Hill had made him stronger than one might guess. His hair was light brown, his skin fair, his eyes blue-grey. In the class photo Peter was a pleasant-looking boy of average build who did not stand out.

  Except for a little scar through his right eyebrow, the result of a cut he had received at the age of six when an older boy stole a friend’s mouth organ. Peter had gone to get it back and the older boy threw a sharp stone which hit him in the face. Crying and covered in blood, Peter had attacked him with his fists. The older boy dropped the mouth organ and ran away. The event was still remembered in school where the other children regarded him as a bit of a tough guy.

  Peter never felt particularly tough. What he felt that Friday evening as he sprawled in his armchair, was worried about his dad and dog-tired. All he wanted to do was climb upstairs and fall into bed, but before he could do that there was the hare to clean. With a sigh he went through to the kitchen and took the big cook’s knife from the drawer, its blade worn concave with years of whetting. It was a job he had done many times, though usually to rabbits he had netted with his ferret. As the knife slit open the hare’s belly, the rank smell of entrails filtered through to the living room. It brought Ben to the doorway, slopping his jaws with a wet tongue.

  The job didn’t take long. First Peter pulled out the guts and dumped them on newspaper. Then he cut off the paws, setting one aside for luck. Starting at the rear end, he tore off the skin the length of its blue-pink body. Finally he sliced off the head and dropped it, still attached to the skin, on top of the guts. The liver, lights and heart appeared to be healthy. With red fingers he plucked them from the stomach cavity and chopped them up, setting two pieces aside for Meg and Buster. The rest he fed to Ben. Eagerly the big dog wolfed them down. Then Peter rinsed the carcass under the cold tap and jointed it – two back legs, two front legs, four sections of muscular back – and set them in a bowl of salt water. Finally he scrubbed the cutting board, washed his hands and carried the bloody newspaper out to the bin.

  The clouds had rolled back. The crescent moon sailed higher, bright enough to throw shadows. Perhaps there would be a frost. He looked towards the open doorway of the byre and hesitated a moment, then returned into the house, making sure the door remained unlocked.

  Normally Ben slept in the barn with Meg but this night Peter left him on his day bed in the living room. The water was gurgling in the hot tank, heated by the fire. He went upstairs to take a bath. Their water, peat-brown but pure, came from a filter a hundred metres up the stream. As he turned on the tap it spat and steamed, close to boiling. He ran in the cold. It was four days since he had taken a shower at school. Sometimes he went barefoot and his feet were dirty. His armpits smelled sweaty too. He reached for the shampoo and soap.

  Ten minutes later, leaving the scummy water draining away and the wet bath mat crumpled on the floor, he padded along the landing to his bedroom and pulled on his pyjamas. It had been a long day. Almost before the duvet settled across his shoulders, Peter was asleep.

  The minibus was picking him up at ten. He had twenty-five minutes to get to the road. Shovelling down a bowl of cereal, Peter crossed the yard. The sun shone slantingly into the byre where his dad lay sleeping. His legs were sprawled, his cheeks dark with stubble. Softly he snored through his nose. Meg looked up. Her tail stirred in greeting.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said softly. ‘You keep him company, right?’

  The tail wagged harder. Peter put down what was left of the cereal. Meg angled her black and white head and began to lap the milk. He stroked her ears. Briefly she licked his fingers then returned to the bowl.

  His bike was kept in the shed and had a puncture; the track was hard on tyres. No time to fix it this morning. He returned into the house and collected his football kit from the drying cupboard. Jim would have given him pocket money. He took five pounds from his dad’s wallet and left a note:

  9.40. Hope your feeling better. I have taken a fiverand the tractor. I’ll leave it at the quarry. Back around 4 or 5. Bike’s got a puncture.

  Love, Pete

  Both dogs could be trusted near the sheep. Dogs that worried sheep were shot. He put out their breakfast and left them free to roam, then set off on the tractor.

  The wind blew back his hair. There had been a brief deluge during the night and the giant wheels sprayed water from the potholes. The tractor did
n’t go fast, only thirty on the tarmacked road, on the track no more than fifteen or twenty.

  In ten minutes he reached the abandoned quarry a hundred metres before the road and swung in beneath the rock face and scrubby vegetation. To ensure he didn’t lose the key, he hid it beneath his usual flat stone. To protect the seat from the rain, he pulled a plastic sack over the top and tied it with a length of twine.

  Rucksack slung over one shoulder, he let himself through the five-barred gate and stood at the roadside to wait for the bus.

  It was a great day. They were playing against a school beyond Clashbay and won 5–3. Peter wasn’t a particularly good player or mad about football like some of the boys, but he ran hard, tackled bravely, and this Saturday was rewarded by a fluky but spectacular goal, right into the top corner of the net.

  Muddy from the wet pitch, they were taken to a rugby club for hot showers and lunch. In the afternoon the teacher who was driving the minibus let the boys loose for an hour to enjoy an autumn fair on the seafront at Clashbay – dodgems, rifle stalls, octopus, hot-dog stand – before driving back to Tarridale.

  ‘Great goal, Winnie. See y’on Monday.’ Friendly hands patted his arm as they stopped at the end of the track.

  Daylight was fading. Roosting jackdaws had gathered on the walls of the quarry. As Peter walked to the tractor they took off with cries of alarm, crossing the sky like scraps of burned paper. He pulled the sack from the seat and jammed it between two struts. Bouncing on the springs as the tyres hit stones and potholes, he drove home.

  Lights were on in the house. Smoke blew from the chimney. Ben and Meg heard the engine and ran to meet him in the yard. Wondering what he would find, Peter followed them into the house.

  Jim was sobering up. He looked pale and haggard, but he had shaved and bathed and changed into clean clothes. A packet of paracetamol and a small glass containing the dregs of some white medicine stood on the table.

  ‘Hello, Pete.’ He blinked wearily and smiled. ‘Got your message. Have a good day?’

  He had made an effort. The room was tidy. The hearth was swept. A clean cloth covered the table.

  ‘Yeah, it was great. I scored a goal.’ Peter dropped his bag on the floor.

  ‘Good for you. I like you to get out. Here, give me your things.’ Jim rose unsteadily. ‘I’ve left room in the washing machine. Then how about a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’ll make it.’

  ‘No you’ll not. You do more than your share. Give them here.’

  Peter pulled out his muddy strip.

  ‘What about your boots?’

  They were in a poly bag, filthy and sodden.

  ‘Go outside and scrape off the thick then I’ll scrub them under the tap. Let them dry by the hearth. Give them a good oiling.’ Jim belched and put a hand over his eyes.

  ‘Look, I’ll – ’

  ‘No you’ll not, I’ve told you. Just don’t argue. Give me the boots when you’ve done and sit down by the fire. I’m your father, for God’s sake. I’ll make the tea.’

  ‘What about the sheep?’

  ‘The sheep are all right. You went up yesterday, didn’t you?’

  Peter shook his head.

  ‘I thought you did. Well you did something.’

  ‘I fetched back the van.’

  ‘The van?’

  ‘You’d gone into the ditch.’

  ‘What ditch?’ Jim remembered. ‘Oh, yeah.’

  ‘I thought about the sheep, just going up for a quick look, but there wasn’t time.’

  His dad was silent then drew a deep breath. ‘Well, we can’t do anything now. We’ll go in the morning, how about that? Take some sandwiches. Go up on to the hill.’

  Peter loved these outings. ‘Yeah, right,’ he said and wondered if his dad would be fit enough by then.

  A while later Jim made dinner: fish pie, chips and peas. It was excellent. Peter scooped up the last smears of sauce with a finger and picked chips from the plate his dad left almost untouched. For pudding he had banoffee tart with ice cream, while Jim made himself a coffee and foaming Alka-Seltzer.

  By nine he was feeling a little better and turned the TV to a grisly murder mystery. It was good, Peter enjoyed it, but as the bodies began to mount up his dad fell fast asleep on the settee and began to snore. Rather than wake him, Peter switched off the set, made himself a hot chocolate and took a book up to bed.

  When he woke next morning, Jim was already up and about. Ashamed of the past forty-eight hours, he had bacon and eggs ready to go in the frying pan, bread standing by the toaster and porridge plopping in the pot. A little colour had crept back into his cheeks. Purposefully he busied himself about the kitchen.

  ‘One egg or two?’ he said as Peter, still in pyjamas, appeared in the doorway.

  Peter was surprised. He had come down to put on the kettle.

  ‘Better make it two,’ his dad said, ‘if we’re going out on the hill.’ He dropped bacon into the sizzling fat. ‘Just as well you rescued the frying pan.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Peter yawned and rubbed his hair. The floor was cold, he stood with one foot on top of the other. ‘Want a hand?’

  ‘No, I don’t want a hand,’ Jim said. ‘I can manage bacon and eggs for God’s sake. What I want is for you to go upstairs and get dressed, then come down and eat your porridge.’

  ‘OK.’ Peter blew his nose on a kitchen towel. ‘What about the dogs?’

  ‘The dogs are fine.’

  ‘Tractor’s low on diesel.’

  ‘Give me a break! There’s a full drum in the shed. Now away and get some clothes on.’

  ‘I’m not cold.’

  ‘Peter!’

  ‘All right. Just trying to help.’

  ‘I know you are.’ Jim pushed back the frying pan. ‘Come here.’

  Jim gave his son a hard hug, trying to make up for the days of neglect. Peter hugged him back, feeling how bony his ribs and shoulder blades had become. He was getting thinner.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘What do you mean? Course I am.’ Jim returned to the stove. ‘Come on, let’s have breakfast and away out.’

  Anxiously Peter went upstairs and pulled his jeans from the back of a chair.

  7

  Blae Fell

  THE STONY TRACK from the road reached Scar Hill and continued up into the moors. Jim took the tractor, Peter and the dogs bouncing on a trailer behind. After two miles they reached a turning place, not the end of the track but a patch of rough ground bounded by heather, rocks and battered wooden sheep pens. Jim drew up alongside a rusty iron field gate. He hung his binoculars round his neck, picked up a small rucksack and jumped to the ground.

  The gate screeched open. Beyond lay a broad marshy hollow. Preceded by the dogs, they splashed across and soon were on rising ground. After days of rain the clouds had blown away and the sky was blue with a few high wisps of cirrus. The air was so clear you could see for ever.

  Blae Fell, five miles from home, stood on the edge of a great wilderness. Though not a mountain, it was a fine hill over four hundred metres in height. South and east, the rolling moors spread to the horizon. To the west the land descended into the broad glen of the River Teal, then rolled on to distant mountains where the snow clung to gullies right through the summer. To the north, beyond Scar Hill, lay the road, Tarridale village and the deep blue sea.

  For most of the year Jim’s sheep grazed on the southern slopes of Blae Fell. Every spring he burned off patches of gorse and heather to give them fresh green shoots. There were red deer on the hills as well, and grouse, and salmon in the river far below.

  Half an hour after setting out they were high above the surrounding moor. A burn rushed past, beer-brown and foaming. Peter spotted a big toad and crouched to catch it among the mossy roots. Jim waited, leaning on his shepherd’s crook, while Peter examined it and set it on a stone in a pool. The toad sat still for several seconds, sides bulging, then crawled into the water and swam from sight beneath some overhanging ferns.
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br />   Ben, never happier than when he was out on the hill, came to see what was happening, decided it was of no interest, and bounded away through the long heather. Meg, well trained and eager to work, sat close to Jim and waited until they set off again.

  There were two hundred ewes scattered across the hillside, white and long-legged from shearing. Rather than cut his flock’s ears to distinguish them, Jim marked them on the shoulder with ruddle. The lambs had been separated two months earlier, taken down to the pens and herded aboard a sheep lorry for market.

  Peter called Ben to heel and they walked among them. As they came close the sheep scampered away, tails swirling, then turned to stare at the dogs. One, which had been kneeling to eat, was lame in the forelegs.

  ‘Footrot,’ Jim said briefly. ‘All this bloody wet weather. Wonder where she’s been.’

  Peter pointed to another which had escaped clipping. It was a scraggy creature. Half its fleece had dropped out, revealing the new wool underneath. What was left hung in rags. It had fled with the rest but there was something wrong for it stood twitching its dirty tail and turning to bite at its hindquarters. Abruptly it darted away in a skittering, zigzag run.

  ‘Maggots?’ he said.

  ‘Bit late in the year.’ Jim raised his binoculars and saw the patch of damp, discoloured wool on its rump. ‘Looks like it though.’

  ‘What we going to do?’ Peter said. ‘Drive them down?’

  ‘Nah, it’s only a couple of weeks till dipping.’ Jim blew his nose. ‘Let’s take them round to the fank [pen] and have a look-see.’

  He glanced down at Meg who stared fixedly at the sheep and then up into his face, eager for the word of command.

  ‘Can I, Dad?’ Peter said.

  ‘You want to?’ Jim said. ‘OK.’

  Peter had worked the sheep many times under his father’s guidance, occasionally by himself. He walked a few paces off. ‘Come on then, Meg.’

  She was puzzled for a moment then shifted her gaze from father to son.

  ‘Away, lass,’ Peter said.

  Meg tensed and hesitated, unsure if she was meant to respond to the son’s command, then raced off to the right, fast and neat, circling the sheep anti-clockwise.