Scar Hill

by Alan Temperley

  ‘You’re sure your dad wouldn’t like to come down for a coffee?’

  ‘No, he’s wanting to get home.’ Peter invented a lie. ‘And I’ve got a bit of homework to do. Need a bath. Thanks all the same.’

  ‘Oh, well. Another time maybe.’

  ‘Yes.’ He turned back through the hall.

  ‘And you will tell him thank you so much for the fish.’ She opened the door.

  Peter nodded. The rain was heavier now, flashing through the circle of light. Beyond, all was dark, though Jim had driven down to the gate and turned. Peter zipped his jacket to the throat and tugged his woollen hat to his eyes. ‘Night.’

  ‘Goodnight, Peter.’

  He ran down the path and shut the gate behind him. Jim opened the passenger door and he ducked in quickly. Bunny waited in the lamplit doorway. Peter raised his hand at the window and she waved back. Then Jim drew away and the light was switched off.

  Peter reached for a tube of mints and passed one to his dad. They had been lucky with the weather. Now the wind was rising and rain battered on the roof. Small streams ran down the track and filled the already half-filled potholes to overflowing. The van dipped and lurched. Sheets of spray shot up. The creaking windscreen wipers did their best to cope.

  As they swung into the yard the dogs ran out and gave them a big welcome. It was good to get into the house and switch on the kettle.

  Dr Bryson had a cancelled appointment at two-thirty the next afternoon. Jim was pleased because it meant he could see the doctor, whose surgery was twelve miles away, and get back in time to watch Peter’s football practice after school.

  ‘Well, Jim.’ The doctor gestured to a chair and pulled Jim’s file towards him. ‘What can I do for you this afternoon?’

  Andy Bryson was a young man with a tangle of brown hair that fell over his forehead. He was popular with his patients, a member of the Scottish hockey squad and often seen out running on the moorland roads.

  ‘Not much, I expect.’ Jim knew the doctor well. ‘Just I had a couple of ropy turns last weekend and I promised the boy I’d look in.’

  Dr Bryson asked for details and rose. ‘Pull up your shirt and I’ll have a listen.’

  The stethoscope was cold.

  ‘Deep breath and hold it for a moment.’ The doctor listened. ‘Again.’

  Jim did as he was told.

  ‘Right, breathe normally.’

  Despite his casual attitude Jim was scared. He did not like visiting the doctor. ‘No change?’ he said hopefully, tucking in his shirt a couple of minutes later.

  ‘Tell me a bit more about these turns.’ Dr Bryson returned to his desk. ‘I mean the symptoms. Describe them to me exactly.’

  So Jim went over it again: the black depression, the drinking, the savage pain in his chest, the vomiting. Then the second attack, two days later, on the hill.

  The doctor took a deep breath and thought for a moment. ‘Well, a little fluid on your lungs. I’ll give you something for that. As for your heart – not in the best of shape but you know that. On the other hand, it seems no worse.’ He sat back. ‘You’ve been overdoing it again, of course. How often have I told you, plenty of rest and try to avoid stress. I mean, what possessed you to tell Peter you’d have lunch on the top of Blae Fell? He’s how old – twelve or thirteen? At that age he can climb hills from dawn till dusk and come back ready for a game of football. But you’re his dad, he knows you’re not as fit as he is, you don’t have to prove anything to him.’ He toyed with his pen. ‘And too much whisky doesn’t help either, if you don’t mind my saying. I was driving past the Cod and Kipper the other afternoon – Friday, was it? – and I saw you coming out.’

  Jim looked out of the window. He’d heard the lecture before.

  ‘Just as well I wasn’t the police is all I can say. I’ve told you, couple of glasses of wine, fine, do you good. But stay off the whisky. And don’t tell me you’d been on the beer, because you were carrying a couple of bottles – bottle and a half to be precise.’

  ‘You forgot the fags.’

  ‘Them too.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right.’ Jim shifted his legs. ‘Things get me down a bit sometimes, that’s all.’

  ‘I know, and it’s not your fault, no one’s blaming you for it. But you’ve got that boy of yours to think about as well.’

  Jim’s lips tightened. ‘Think I’m not aware of that?’ he said bitterly. ‘Best lad ever walked on two legs, and that’s official.’

  Dr Bryson nodded. ‘My sister’s got a girl in the same class.’ He looked at the screen beside him and pressed a few keys. ‘Talks about him a lot, I’m told. Winnie this, Winnie that. Got a bit of a crush on him, I think.’

  ‘That right?’ Jim smiled. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Becky Marshall.’

  ‘He never said anything.’

  ‘Well, boys don’t, do they. Probably doesn’t even realise.’ Dr Bryson pulled the prescription from his computer. ‘Come on through.’

  The surgery was in the doctor’s house, it went with the job. He led the way into a vestibule and unlocked the sturdy door of a room opposite. A small notice read Dispensary. In rural areas like Tarridale where the nearest pharmacist might be as much as fifty miles away, doctors kept a stock of the more commonly prescribed drugs on hand. The door was split horizontally like a stable door. Dr Bryson went through and shut the bottom half behind him. It was topped by a wooden shelf.

  Jim stood in the hallway, jacket over his arm. ‘Our Peter starting out with the girls, eh? Hope he doesn’t give me the trouble his sister did.’ He grinned. ‘Come to think, he told me a bit of an iffy joke when we were out yesterday.’

  ‘Out?’

  ‘We went fishing. It’s not bad actually, going the rounds in the school. Doctor and a trapeze artist.’

  But Dr Bryson was concentrating on the prescription.

  Shelves and cupboards were filled with jars, bottles and packets of medicine. A strong metal cabinet contained drugs that people might steal. The doctor screwed the top off a plastic container and tipped pills into a counting tray. ‘Grow up fast these days.’

  ‘Thirteen next month.’ Jim made a wry face. ‘Way things have worked out he’s had to grow up faster than most.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Dr Bryson funnelled the pills into a little brown bottle, labelled it, then counted out a week’s course of antibiotics. ‘I’ll give you these. There might be a bit of infection there. Anything else you’re needing?’

  Before he set out, Jim had checked the cocktail of pills he had to take each morning. ‘No, I’ve got enough for the next couple of weeks. Rattling with the bloody things. I’ll give you a ring nearer the time.’

  Dr Bryson tidied the dispensary and switched off the light.

  Jim dropped the pills into his pocket and shook the doctor’s hand. ‘Thanks, Andy. Look after yourself – who takes care of the physician, eh?’

  ‘My wife,’ said Dr Bryson and could have kicked himself. He liked Jim Irwin and knew how Sharon had gone off and left him with the children. In a village like Tarridale everybody knew. ‘But it’s not me we’re talking about. Don’t push yourself so hard.’ He looked Jim in the eye. ‘And keep off the demon drink.’

  ‘Try my best.’

  ‘I’m telling you. One day at a time.’

  ‘What do you mean? I’m not an alkie, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I know you’re not, but the AA know what they’re talking about. And you’ve got to look after that heart. We’re not playing games here.’

  Things were getting heavy. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’ Jim turned to go then looked back with a twinkle. ‘Hey, d’you want to hear Pete’s joke about the doctor and the trapeze artist?’

  Doctor Bryson smiled. ‘Don’t you take anything seriously?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. But listen, there was this trapeze artist. She had to be skinny, right, so her partner could catch her. But her boobs kept getting bigger. Dolly Parton wasn’t in it. So she went to
the doctor and he said …’

  12

  Good Fair to Treasure Island

  IT WAS A happy time of year in Tarridale. Everyone was busy. As the days shortened, one event crowded upon another in quick succession.

  First there was the Goose Fair, a big autumn fête started by a couple who had moved north from Nottingham. Stalls for crafts, baking, toys, knitwear, vegetables, books and bric-a-brac were set up in the village hall. Awnings were erected for the sale of hens, guinea fowl, eggs, small livestock, and even one or two geese to be fattened for Christmas. Riders tethered their horses. Children showed their pets. There were games, competitions, raffles and lucky dips. In the late afternoon the tables were cleared for teas and in the evening there was dancing with a live band.

  Peter played in a football match in the morning. In the afternoon he watched the men’s game with friends then went to the Goose Fair and spent every last penny on games, sweets and an adventure story for his dad.

  The clocks went back and then it was Hallowe’en. After an early tea, Peter dressed in black rags and a papier-mâché mask of a dog’s head which he had made in the art class at school. Its eyes were wild, its teeth were savage, blood dripped from its jowls. Sharpened ice-lolly sticks, strapped to his fingers and painted red, made scary claws. A notice announced that he was The Monster from the Moors.

  As a black night settled over the land, Jim drove him to the house of a friend in the village. The boys were joining some others to go guising. Jim had written a poem about worms and skeletons that Peter had learned by heart. Carrying a turnip lantern, he recited it from house to house. Steadily his trick-or-treat bag grew heavier.

  Next, it was Guy Fawkes Day. Usually it rained, but this year the sky was starlit and cold. As Peter helped his dad after school, mist thickened above the moorland pools. A yellow moon hung over the islands, casting a track across the sea.

  There was to be a firework display followed by a bonfire above the village. At half past six they locked the dogs in the shed, scraped the ice from the windscreen and set off.

  Halfway down the Sandy Brae the headlights picked out a figure walking briskly. It was a young woman in jeans and a light-coloured parka.

  ‘It’s that girl staying with Bunny Mason, isn’t it?’ Jim said.

  ‘Her daughter,’ Peter said. ‘Penny.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’

  ‘I met her when I was waiting for the bus.’

  Jim flashed his lights and drew up ahead.

  Peter called back: ‘Penny, it’s me, Peter Irwin. Me and dad.’

  She stopped alongside. Jim leaned across: ‘Can we offer you a lift?’

  ‘We’re going to the bonfire,’ Peter said.

  ‘Me too.’ She pulled up her scarf. ‘Mummy’s coming along later. I fancied the walk – never saw so many stars.’

  ‘Mebbe see the northern lights later on. Good night for it.’

  ‘I hope so. Don’t get skies like this in London.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Jim said. ‘Oh, well, enjoy your walk. Mebbe see you up at the fire.’ He sat back.

  ‘No, hang on.’ She looked through Peter’s window. ‘Matter of fact I wouldn’t mind a lift, it’s further than I thought. Sure you’ve got room?’

  Peter pushed the door wide and bunked across beside his dad.

  ‘Thanks.’

  It was a squeeze. Jim pushed Peter’s leg off the gear lever. Penny’s perfume mingled with the smells of oil and sheep drench.

  ‘Nice and warm in here.’ She pulled off her mittens and rubbed her hands. ‘Beautiful out there but gosh, it’s cold.’

  ‘Great night for the bonfire.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a companionable silence until they reached the bottom of the hill. Peter wasn’t used to the proximity of women, certainly not one as pretty as Penny.

  ‘Staying a few days with your mother, Pete tells me,’ Jim said.

  ‘Longer than that, two or three weeks.’ She saw their faces illuminated by the dials. ‘Need a bit of a break. Get some fresh air.’

  ‘Plenty of that up here.’

  ‘Recharge the batteries.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind some time off myself. Pete’s always on at me.’ He swept round a corner and braked hard as a tractor emerged from a field. ‘Don’t fancy London though. Had enough of cities one time we stayed in Manchester.’

  ‘Some of us have to.’

  ‘Yeah? What do you do in London then?’

  ‘I’m a lawyer.’

  ‘Lawyer, nice girl like you?’ Jim didn’t like lawyers. ‘What kind of lawyer – solicitor?’

  ‘No, I’m in chambers.’

  ‘Barrister, no less.’ Jim was impressed. ‘Bit young for that, I’d have thought.’

  ‘Ah, but it’s dark in here, you can’t see the wrinkles.’ She laughed.

  The tractor chugged up the hill to the village. There was no way past.

  ‘Peter and me, we’ve been here – eight or nine years it must be.’

  ‘Nice place to live. Mummy likes it anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, I love it.’ Jim glanced at his son. ‘We both do, I think.’

  The tractor swung off the road. Jim sped past and a few moments later turned into the car park of the Tarridale Arms, the smart Highland hotel that stood above the village. The van rocked as they got out. Peter collected his box of fireworks. He was meeting friends in the high field where the huge bonfire, topped by a Guy, was silhouetted against the stars.

  Jim examined his watch in the light from a window. ‘Quarter to seven,’ he said. ‘Firework display at half past – that gives us forty-five minutes.’ He turned to Penny. ‘I was going for a beer. Fancy coming, keep out the cold?’

  ‘I didn’t expect to be here this soon.’ She hesitated. ‘Yes, a half of lager would be nice. Thanks.’

  ‘Be in the lounge bar, Pete,’ Jim said. ‘See you up by the fire, OK?’

  It was a side of his dad Peter had never seen, taking an attractive young woman for a drink.

  ‘No throwing those bangers mind.’

  ‘I know, you told me.’

  ‘As if you would.’ Jim laughed. ‘What’s the fun having your own fireworks if your dad sets them off?’ he said to Penny.

  Peter watched as they vanished into the lobby with its little-paned windows that looked towards the sea. Briefly he stood, a solitary figure in the car park, then ran off up the lane to join his friends by the waiting bonfire.

  The northern lights came early and from the high field, away from the streetlights of the village, they had a clear view, not the multicoloured display of the Arctic but green curtains flickering across the sky, and shifting searchlights from just above the sea to right overhead.

  The fireworks stunned the night with explosions and filled the sky with cascading stars but the bonfire was even better. Peter tugged his hat to his eyes and pulled up his collar to protect his face from the roaring heat. The flames flashed up. Sparks whirled thirty metres overhead. He singed his eyebrows running close to throw back branches. And when the fire died down he cooked sausages on bits of fence wire and buried potatoes in the ash.

  The good times continued. Jim shaved carefully, put on his best jacket and took Penny to the Tarridale Arms a second time. They went a third time too, but it was as friends, not a couple. He told Peter this, told him that Penny had a boyfriend already, was as good as engaged, but Peter was not convinced. He liked to see his dad dressing smartly and going out with a stylish girl like Penny.

  Then the boyfriend turned up, a balding young man called Marcus who worked in a bank and drove a Lotus. He was nice enough but not nearly as good looking as his dad. Jim took them out to the islands, and all five – Jim and Peter, Bunny, Penny and Marcus – went for a meal one evening. Marcus booked the best table in the Stag Restaurant at the Tarridale: crisp white linen spread with silver and three kinds of glasses, napkins folded like water-lilies, a wine-cooler, fresh flowers and candles. Peter wore his best trousers with
a freshly-ironed shirt and tie. He enjoyed the evening very much.

  Next morning, sadly, Penny and Marcus packed their suitcases into the boot of the Lotus and set off back to London.

  On the twentieth of November Peter was thirteen. Sitting on his plate when he came down for breakfast he found a Game Boy, chocolates and a new pocket-knife with a brass-inlaid handle and two strong blades.

  At school he was handed cards by two of his friends – and found three in his desk from girls, all drenched in the same perfume. At lunchtime a message appeared in coloured chalks on the blackboard: Gillian Wood wants Winnie to kiss her. Which Peter didn’t.

  And when he got home at four, Jock the postie had delivered two more cards. One, which contained a ten-pound note, was from his dad. The other, with a picture of a footballer on it, was from Valerie. It read:

  To Peter,

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY

  I have been thinking alot about

  you. Hope you have a nice time and

  are keeping well.

  Lot’s of love,

  Val xxxxx

  It was the first he had heard in two years.

  ‘Lots of love, eh?’ Jim handed the card back. ‘What’s the postmark this time?’

  Peter examined the envelope. The ink was smudged. ‘C – something.’ He turned it round. ‘Cand – lik?’ His brow furrowed. ‘No – Cardiff.’

  ‘What the hell’s she doing in Cardiff?’ Jim said. ‘What the hell’s she doing anywhere, come to that?” He poured Peter a cup of tea and pushed a packet of biscuits towards him. ‘I’ve booked the table for six o’clock. We’ll leave about five, OK? Nothing for you to do, I’ve fed the ferret. We’ll give the dogs something before we go.’ Meg crossed the room and rested her head on his knee. ‘Aye, you know when you’re being talked about, don’t you, girl.’