It was a happy time. Christmas was special.
Not this year. As Peter saw his classmates rushing round with cards and talking excitedly about the presents they would be getting, he felt cut off from them, separated by a thick sheet of glass. Christmas was irrelevant, another world, somewhere he did not belong. In the last week, Peter felt, he had aged twenty years. Fifty years. Grown up.
He looked around the room. When the others found out what he had done, when the news reached Miss Berry and the other teachers, they wouldn’t believe it. They would be horrified. Look at him as if he were some sort of monster.
But when he thought about his dad who had loved him so much, and Ben, and their life at Scar Hill, he didn’t feel like a monster at all.
At lunchtime, with an effort, he managed to eat half his excellent mince and potatoes, and some of his sticky toffee pudding with hot custard. Afterwards, his nose streaming in a wind that blew the sea into crested waves, he took the short cut above the football pitch to the village shop. There he bought milk, bread, dog food, some ready-made meals, cough mixture, paper hankies and a few other things.
Mr McRobb, the shopkeeper, stood by the till. Over the years he had grown fleshier and freer with his opinions. He enjoyed his days at the hub of village gossip.
‘Not like your dad to make you do the family shopping.’ He totted up the bill and took the two ten-pound notes that Peter handed him.
‘He didn’t make me,’ Peter said, ‘I told him I would. He’s been having a bit of trouble with the van.’ He had prepared his excuses in advance. ‘The bus will drop me off at the gate. Dad’ll take us home on the tractor.’
Mr McRobb saw Jim Irwin as a village character. A bit of a chancer, a drunk. ‘Best not take it on the road too often eh?’ He winked conspiratorially.
There were others in the shop. Peter flushed. ‘Do you mean he hasn’t got it taxed?’ he said plainly.
Mr McRobb was taken aback.
‘He doesn’t need to tax it,’ Peter said hotly. This was none of Mr McRobb’s business. ‘He never takes it on the road, he only uses it round the house and on the hill.’
It was Mr McRobb’s turn to go red. He was not accustomed to being chastised by a thirteen-year-old. ‘Makes sense, I suppose.’ He handed Peter his change. ‘No point wasting money.’
Peter was outraged. His dad always doing his best and lying dead out there on the hill. He knew he should ignore what the shopkeeper said but couldn’t control his tongue. ‘How dare you say things like that about my dad.’ A coughing fit caught him unawares and he pulled toilet paper from his pocket.
Mr McRobb was a father himself. He checked an angry retort and looked at the white-faced boy across the counter. ‘You OK, son? You don’t look too hot.’
‘I’m fine.’ Peter wiped his lips. ‘Thank you.’
A lady held the door open. He went through and lugged his messages back to school. The bus stood at the end of the playground. It was unlocked and cooler than indoors. He left his messages on a seat.
In the afternoon they had French, Maths and History, but at half past two the choir was summoned to the hall to rehearse a couple of pieces they were to sing in church at the end-of-term service. Peter was in the choir and went with the rest. The music teacher was a thick-set, bearded man with hairy fingers that crashed down on the piano keyboard. He was famous among the children for his sudden explosions of rage. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, they liked him, and when the bell went an hour later he told them their singing was dreadful, the performance would be a complete disaster, but he hoped they would have a happy weekend anyway.
A cold wind blew round the corners. Mrs Harle stood with Miss Berry and watched the children troop out of school. Two seventeen-year-olds ran whooping past. A small girl dropped a drawing and scrambled to retrieve it. Peter was among them
‘How did he get on?’ Mrs Harle pulled up her collar. ‘He doesn’t look at all well.’
‘He isn’t,’ said Miss Berry. ‘I’m surprised his father let him come. But you know what they’re like up there at Scar Hill, a hardy pair. Didn’t want to miss out on the run-up to Christmas. He’ll be all right.’
‘So long as you haven’t caught anything yourself,’ said Mrs Harle. ‘If you took ill just now I don’t know how I’d cope.’
The teachers waved as the bus drew away. A score of hands waved back. Peter sat by himself. His tired fingers appeared at the bottom of the window.
19
Lights in the Window
BEN WAS WAITING at the five-bar gate, bouncing on his front paws and jumping up to lick Peter’s face. They made their way to the van, hidden in its usual spot in the quarry. Peter let Ben in ahead of him, dumped his shopping on the passenger seat and drove home.
He failed to see Bunny in an old tweed coat, standing on a crest above Three Pines. Her iron-grey hair tossed in the wind. An impatient nanny goat tugged at the carrot in her hand. Absently Bunny tightened her grip. She had often seen Peter driving, usually the tractor. Now it was the van and he was doing the shopping. And from the way his shoulders drooped he wasn’t at all well. What was up, she wondered. Was his father going through one of his drunken spells? Poor boy. Poor man. What a rotten thing to have to contend with.
‘Ow!’ She pulled back her hand. Frustrated at being denied the rest of the carrot, the goat had given her a nip. Bunny examined her finger. ‘Bad girl, Lucy. That was sore. No, you can’t have the carrot, you’ll have to wait.’ She pushed off her yellow-eyed companion and watched the departing van. It rocked on the rough ground. Water sprayed from a pothole. A bend in the track took it from sight.
Thoughtfully she walked down the hill to her cottage. The goat trotted alongside, butting her legs in a not altogether friendly manner. ‘Stop it, Lucy. Stop it or you’ll make me fall.’ She relinquished the half carrot. ‘How would I get on out here with a broken leg? Who’d look after you then?’
Lucy gambolled ahead with her prize.
With blue eyes sharp as a camera – snap! snap! snap! – Bunny watched the goat’s victorious run and filed it away for reference.
Her kitchen was littered with books and papers. The house needed tidying. She made a mug of coffee and carried it to her rocking chair beside the stove. Throwing over the pages of her current sketch book, she picked through the charcoal in a filthy saucer and began to draw.
There was no fire at Scar Hill. The house was cold and gathering dust. Peter shovelled yesterday’s ashes into a bucket and went to the peat stack. A couple of firelighters, a match, a few broken bits, and soon the smoky flames were licking up the chimney. The dogs had been on their own all day. He gave them a handful of treats as he put the shopping away then carried a mug of tea – his dad’s mug with a leaping salmon on the side – to the hearth and waited for the fire to generate heat.
Somehow he had got through the day and now that he was home, now there was food in the house, now he didn’t have to talk to people and pretend everything was all right, he felt able to relax.
That evening, after half a quiche with peas and a slice of strawberry cheesecake for dinner, Peter went to bed at nine and fell at once into a deep and, as far as he could remember, dreamless sleep which lasted until the dogs woke him twelve hours later. It was the rest his body had been craving. A rough wind buffeted the house and flung rain at the windows but he felt better, still weak but on the mend.
It was Saturday. Peter hardly left the house, even though by mid-afternoon the storm had passed and the clouds were opening to a washed blue sky. Instead he sat by the fire and read, watched TV, did a little cleaning, and put his wet clothes and towels which had lain for days and were starting to smell, into the washing machine.
Sunday broke clear and bright. In the late morning Peter drove up into the moors. A mile beyond the sheep fanks where he parked going to the hill, the track came to an end. He swung in a semi-circle and stepped from the van. It was a wild and pretty spot, deep in heather and stunted bushes, where the stre
am came tumbling down a series of waterfalls. The pools weren’t big enough to swim in but sometimes on a hot summer’s day he bathed there.
The December sunshine struck warm on his cheek. A broad grassy hillside was dotted with sheep, well over a hundred. This was the lower pasture, south-facing and sheltered from the north and east winds, where they brought the lambing ewes to be cared for during the winter. Already Jim had started feeding them hay and sheep nuts but it was not strictly necessary. For the present there was still plenty of grass and in the summer he had planted a few acres of swedes adjacent to the pasture which the sheep could nibble well into February.
Peter leaned on the gate and surveyed the flock. They looked well enough, none were dead, none limping, none attacked, none scouring, none escaped on to the nearby hillsides, all grazing or lying contentedly. It was a relief, for in the week since his dad died they had been totally neglected.
He took a toffee from his pocket. Ben looked up with interest. ‘Not for you,’ Peter said and stroked his bony head.
‘Good gracious.’ Miss Berry looked up from her desk. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here today, Peter.’
‘I’m better, Miss, thanks,’ he said.
‘The way you looked on Friday, I wondered if you’d be back this term.’
He smiled.
‘A tough lot, you Irwins,’ she said. ‘What’s the secret?’
‘I don’t know, Miss.’
‘I hope you’ve not passed it on to your dad.’
‘No, he’s fine,’ Peter said.
‘Well, that’s good news. So you’ll be here for the party after all. And the play, of course.’
The children enjoyed acting and Miss Berry always put on a short Christmas play with her form class, just for the school. It had become a small tradition. This year it was to be A Christmas Carol. Following his success as Israel Hands, Peter had been given the rôle of the Ghost of Christmas Past.
‘I’m afraid I’ve had to give your part to Charlie,’ she said apologetically. ‘Mrs Harle said you sounded so poorly we didn’t know if you’d be back in time. I’m sure we’ll be able to find you something though.’
Normally it would have been a big disappointment but now it came as a relief. ‘That’s all right, Miss. Charlie’ll be good.’
Peter headed for his desk. It was good to be back among friends and he enjoyed the rest of the day, at least enjoyed it as much as any boy could who carried such a burden of guilty secrets and wasn’t fully recovered from illness.
As always, Ben was waiting at the gate. Peter hugged him round the neck. ‘Come on then.’ He let him into the van and started homeward along the track.
But as Scar Hill came into view across the darkening moor, Peter’s heart gave a jump. He jammed the foot brake to the floor. The van bounced off the verge and skidded to a halt. There were lights in the windows. He was sure he had not left them on. Smoke blew from the chimney. He switched off the headlights.
There was somebody in the house.
19
Bottle Blonde
PETER DROVE ON and drew up behind a patch of whins nearer the house. He got out of the van and peered round the spiky branches. The curtains were open. Nothing moved. Only the lighted windows and a trail of smoke told him the house was not empty.
‘Stay by me,’ he told Ben firmly and started walking.
‘Who could it be, he wondered. Someone looking for his dad? A lost hillwalker? A tramp? Anyone opening the door would see the house was occupied; the family might return any minute. Yet the intruder had not only gone in but lit the fire. For a gruesome moment he imagined it might be his dad, not dead at all and returned from the moor.
Peter was glad he had Ben with him. As they entered the yard, Ben moved a step ahead. A ridge of hair rose on his neck. His lip lifted in a silent snarl. Peter crept to the living-room window.
A woman sat facing the fire. She was reading a magazine. Her hair, bottle blonde, straggled over the back of the settee.
Peter saw her from the back. Who was she? No one he recognised. His stomach turned over; maybe it was his mother, come back from America after all these years. She turned a page. He saw friendship bracelets and a couple of chunky silver rings.
Ben jumped up, his big forepaws on the windowsill. Meg, who lay by the fire, scrambled to her feet. Alertly she stared towards the window.
The woman swung round. It wasn’t his mother, she was too young, not much more than a girl. There was something about her that Peter recognised. Next second she also was on her feet, gripping the arm of the settee because she was very fat.
‘Pete!’ Her eyes lit up. With a waddling gait she ran into the hall.
At that moment he recognised her. ‘Val!’ Silently his mouth formed the word.
He was still standing there as she appeared in the doorway.
‘Hello, Pete.’ She looked around fearfully. ‘Is dad with you?’
He shook his head.
‘Thank God for that anyway.’
Ben stood between them. Grrr! Rowf! Rowf! His bark was savage, warning off, protecting Peter. He snarled, long wolfhound teeth, right to the gum.
Valerie drew back. ‘What bloody dog’s that you’ve got with you?’
‘That’s Ben. He’s mine.’ Peter crouched to pacify the friend he loved best in the world. ‘All right. That’s a good boy. She won’t harm you. Ssshhh!’
But Ben wasn’t ready to be pacified. His muscles were rigid.
‘He only bloody bit me when I first come.’ She pulled up a trouser leg and showed him the marks. A puncture had been bleeding. A dry trickle ran down to her pink and white sock.
‘He was only doing his job,’ Peter said defensively. ‘He doesn’t know you. He was guarding the house.’
‘My God, it could only be here,’ she said. ‘He ought to be put down. He will be, too, if I report him. Savage brute.’
‘He’s all right.’ Peter looked up, his arm round Ben’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you dare say anything.’
Ben permitted himself to be held but all his attention was on the intruder. Peter took him by the collar. ‘Come and say hello,’ he said to Valerie.
‘Not on your life. He’s stronger than you are, he’ll go for me again.’
‘No he won’t. Come on. You didn’t used to be that soft.’ Holding tight, he led Ben forward.
Tentatively Valerie reached down. Ben didn’t like her. Again that warning growl, the teeth, the hair on his neck.
‘He’s not normally like this,’ Peter said. ‘I’ll put him in the shed. He’ll come round.’ He dragged Ben away. ‘Silly sausage,’ he said. ‘That’s Valerie.’
Ben resisted, twisting to look behind. He did not like being led away. Peter, whom he tried to protect, had abandoned him in favour of this stranger. Peter shut the shed door. Deep barks and the sound of raking claws followed him across the yard.
Meg, who had known Valerie in the past, left the house and communed with Ben through a crack in the boards.
Now the coast was clear, Valerie ran to meet him in her stocking feet. ‘God, give him a chance and he’d have my throat out.’ She wrapped Peter in a tight, sisterly embrace. She needed a bath. He smelled sweat and sickly perfume. Her belly pressed hard against him.
‘Where’s the old man?’ She broke free and looked along the track.
Peter hesitated. ‘I expect he’s out with the sheep.’
‘Ask a silly question.’ She made a face. ‘He got my letter, yeah?’
‘Letter?’
‘I wrote to him.’
‘You never write to him.’
‘Well I did this time. Gave him the news. Told him I’d be coming home.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Bit over a week. Gave him my address and everything but he never replied. Don’t tell me he never got the letter.’
Peter hadn’t looked in the mail box. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Oh, bloody hell! That means I’ve got to tell him to his face. Just what I need.
’ She sighed. ‘Oh well! What’s he like these days anyway? Still hitting the bottle?’
Peter nodded. ‘Sometimes.’
‘Surprised he’s lasted this long, the way he was carrying on.’
‘He was sick.’ Peter slipped into the past tense.
‘If you say so.’ Valerie didn’t notice. ‘Bad-tempered old sod the best of times.’
The clouds were shot with crimson.
‘He can’t be much longer, it’ll be dark soon.’ A thought struck her. ‘You just back from school?’
‘Where d’you think I’ve been?’
‘Only asking. Whose class are you in now, Mr Macleod’s?’
‘That was primary. I’m in secondary now.’
‘Secondary! Blimey, you were just a little kid when I left. How old are you now, twelve?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘Thirteen? My little brother? Give me a break. You’ll be six foot tall next and chasing after the girls.’
Peter shrugged.
‘Who’s your class teacher then?’
‘Miss Berry.’
‘The old Goose? She still on the go? God, I thought she’d be pushing up the daisies by this time. I couldn’t stand her.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘How’d you get home by this time anyway? Saw your bike in the shed, thought the old man must’ve taken you.’
‘No, I, er – ’ She caught him unprepared. ‘Well – ’
‘What’s the mystery?’ She let it pass and stood back to look at him properly. ‘Our Peter! You’ve grown but I recognised you straight away.’ She smiled and put her head on one side. ‘Not bad actually. Know who you look like? You look like our mum. You’ve got her hair an’ the same eyes.’
He was taken aback. It had never occurred to him. If Valerie spotted it, his dad must have seen it too. He’d never said.
‘’Cept you’re a bloke, o’ course.’ She twined her fingers in his and started back to the house.
‘You’ve changed.’ Peter took in her bleached hair, smudged make-up and big hoop earrings. She had let herself go. Her shoulders and chin were turning to fat. He glanced beneath and saw her heavy breasts and enormous stomach beneath a patterned nylon jumper.
Scar Hill Page 13
