So it seemed wrong at eleven forty-five to be washing his face, dressing in his best trousers and jersey, and setting off with Valerie in the van.
‘There is no way,’ she had said a few days earlier, ‘when I’m lugging this brat around inside me, I am going to flog myself to death in a hot kitchen making Christmas dinner. You can forget that. I’ve booked a table at the Bridge Inn for one o’clock. I tried to get the Stag but they were booked solid. The Bridge will be fine.’ She misinterpreted his surprise. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll love it. At least you’d better love it, the amount it’s costing.’
So they went to the Bridge in Fortness, a pretty village a dozen miles away, and although it wasn’t Christmas dinner like at home, Peter enjoyed it enormously: the sparkling table, the big tree, the crooked beams hung with decorations, the choice of dishes, second helpings, Christmas music, mulled wine, the festive atmosphere. As they left the table to have coffee and mince pies in the lounge, a fat woman who had drunk more than her fill called out to Valerie:
‘By gum, lass, what’s that, triplets? I hope you make it home in time.’ As she roared with laughter her eyes fell on Peter. ‘Ee, your ’usband’s a bit on the young side in’t he?’
‘Not a bit,’ Valerie said coolly. ‘Got two more at home, haven’t we, Pete.’ She let him pass ahead of her. ‘Come on, big boy.’
They were back at four. The waiter had given Peter a huge doggy bag. Ben and Meg – it was their Christmas too – wolfed down the turkey bits and sausage-meat stuffing he fed them with his fingers.
Valerie went to bed for a couple of hours, leaving Peter to enjoy his presents. The best was a red ‘Hardrock’ mountain bike with knobbly tyres. Jim had taken him to buy it in Clashbay at the beginning of December. It was the biggest present he’d ever been given and very expensive, but his dad felt Peter needed something sturdy and reliable to get about and visit his friends. Now he spent an hour racing along the track, getting used to the gears and practising wheelies. It was brilliant.
When Valerie came down they made tea and cut the Christmas cake.
A while later she said, ‘You won’t mind if I go out for a bit will you, Pete?’
‘Course not.’ It was disappointing but there was no way he was going to complain. ‘Where you going, as if I didn’t know?’
‘Well, there’ll be some of the crowd there,’ she said. ‘Have a laugh. If you were a bit older we could go together, have a few beers.’
A few beers at the pub, Peter thought, were what you had on a Saturday not Christmas night. ‘Cold weather’s coming back,’ he said. ‘Better watch the roads, they’ll be like a bottle.’
‘Gritters will be out I expect.’ She smiled. ‘Promise I’ll be careful.’
‘Heavy snow too. Coming in from Europe.’
‘You old fusspot.’ She pulled on her coat. ‘Stop worrying.’
‘I’m not worrying, I’m just telling you.’ He took a chocolate. ‘It was on the telly ’cept you didn’t see it ’cause you were in your pit.’
‘I hope that’s not a criticism.’ She headed for the door. ‘Size I am, it’s a miracle I’m ever out of it these days. Anyway, have a nice time. Ring round some of your friends, see what they got for Christmas. Don’t expect I’ll be late. Bye.’
She was gone. Peter pulled the door open in her wake. A hand fluttered as she drove away.
The clock struck eight. He was just in time to catch the start of a Star Wars movie he had been looking forward to for weeks. Juice at his feet, walnuts at his side, he sank back on the settee. But something was wrong. No sooner had the credits faded and the adventure started than he didn’t want to watch any more. The joys of Christmas and the exploits of Luke Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi were swamped by a sudden flood of loneliness. He tried to concentrate but it was no use, the film meant nothing to him, less than nothing. Switching off the sound, he wandered into the kitchen then upstairs to his bedroom, sat on his bed for a while, came down again and stood in the doorway looking out on the yard. The wind had fallen. The sky was clear. As if to cheer him up, the stars sparkled and the northern lights had returned. He switched off the lights and went outside. Green curtains shifted and gleamed, searchlights shone high overhead. It was a fine display. Beyond them he picked out the Great Bear, pointing one way to the Pole Star, the other way to Arcturus, a much brighter star, although at this time of year it was hidden below the horizon. He turned and looked south at Orion, the great hunter, with his belt and sword, blazing against the backdrop of a million smaller stars. They weren’t really smaller, Peter knew, just smaller to him looking from the Earth. Some, like Betelgeuse at Orion’s right shoulder, were supergiants, eight hundred times the diameter and fifty thousand times brighter than our sun. Others weren’t individual stars at all but nebulae and distant galaxies like our own Milky Way.
He wore no jacket. The night air fingered through his clothes, icy against his warm skin. He shivered and welcomed it. Reluctant to go back indoors he stood a while longer, arms wrapped across his chest, then returned to the house and switched on the kettle. Perhaps, he thought, his spirits lifted by the wonders he had seen outside, he would give Star Wars another shot.
The snow didn’t come that night but when it did, drifting from a mantle of cloud at eleven o’clock next morning, the ground was frozen to receive it. By the time Valerie rose from her big bed, the yard was three centimetres deep; the piebald remains of the last snowfall merged into the whitening moors. By one o’clock it was building up in gateways. Sculptured drifts were gathering at corners. By three it was falling more thickly then ever, clinging to posts and cables, obliterating the lower half of the windows. A severe weather warning on TV informed viewers that blizzard conditions were affecting roads across the country. Snowploughs were out on the motorways. Minor roads in the north were becoming impassable.
‘So where does that leave us?’ Valerie warmed her hands round her coffee mug. ‘If dad was here he’d have the snowplough on the tractor by this time, keep the track open.’
‘I can do it,’ Peter said. ‘At least I can try. It’s not as if you need to be strong to drive the tractor.’
‘You?’ Valerie said.
‘Well what do you want to do, drive it yourself? I’m happy to stay here as long as it lasts. You’re the one always needs to get into the village.’ He rubbed the condensation from the window. ‘There’s no way you’d get through now, look at it.’
The snow swept past, blanketing the wall of the barn.
‘Our little Pete,’ Valerie said after a while. ‘Do you really think you can? Fit the snowplough, I mean, keep the track open?’
‘I’ve no idea. Who else are you going to ask?’
‘I don’t want you to take any chances.’
‘You mean just wait till the thaw comes? Let the sheep go hungry?’
‘I’d rather they starved to death than you came to any harm.’
‘I’ll be careful. It’ll be an adventure.’
He pulled on wellies and his wet-weather parka, tightening the cord round his face until all that could be seen was a pair of eyes. As he opened the door a drift fell into the hall. The second he walked outside the blizzard had him in its grip. It was one thing to plan, quite another to put that plan into action. The tractor was covered. He brushed off the snow and scratched the ice from the bucket seat and the controls. In such bitter conditions the diesel needed warming. He turned the key halfway to activate the glowplug. After thirty seconds or so it gave a little pop, indicating it was ready. Peter turned the key the rest of the way. The engine coughed but did not start. He turned it again, and then again, hammering the frozen machinery until at last it clattered and shuddered into life. Smoke belched from the overhead exhaust and was torn away by the gale. Gradually the faithful old engine settled down. As he put it into gear the wheels and brakes broke free. He circled the yard and drew up with the nose of the tractor close to the shed door.
The snowplough lay in a corner. It was a discarded plo
ugh from the county lorries which Jim had adapted to bolt to the front frame and power-lift of his tractor. Peter dragged aside some sacks and drums. The curved ploughshare was smeared with grease. He scrubbed it with an old meal sack, revealing the silky-smooth blades beneath. The frame to which it was welded was red with rust. He grasped a projecting arm. It was heavy. Exerting all his strength he dragged it a couple of metres. Struts dug into the crumbling concrete floor. He pulled from a different angle. Half a metre at a time, the snowplough skidded forward.
Movement in the doorway made him look up. Valerie had come to see how he was getting along.
‘Here, let me give you a hand.’
‘No, not in your state. I’ll manage.’
‘Don’t be stupid, I’m not made of china. You’ll strain your back. Here, give us a hold of that thingy over there.’
Peter wiped his brow.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘I’ll be careful. I’m not suddenly going to give birth on the floor of the shed here.’
Peter giggled. ‘Like a pea-shooter.’
She stuck a finger in her mouth: POP!
They rolled about laughing.
‘Vulgar child,’ Valerie recovered first. ‘I wish it was that easy. Here, you take hold of that bit with a hole in it. Right, on three: one, two – pull!’
The snowplough slid a metre forward, screeching on the concrete.
‘Again,’ she said, settling her strong legs. ‘One, two and – ’
Soon they had dragged it to the door and out into the snow. The shed gave them protection from the worst of the blizzard but their heads and shoulders were soon covered. With difficulty they manoeuvred the snowplough into position and Peter lowered the hydraulic arms to twenty centimetres. Fitting the bolts was the most difficult part and took all his strength. He heaved the ploughshare a centimetre this way, a centimetre that, all the while keeping it square to the tractor and supporting the struts at the right height. Abruptly it skidded and the heavy frame toppled on to his foot.
‘Ah! Ah!’ He hopped in agony until the pain went away.
Valerie said, ‘Here, give it to me.’ A snowy lock of hair flopped in her eyes. ‘You grab that bit at the end and get ready to drop in the bolt. Now – lift!’ With a little grunt of effort she straightened her legs.
The snowplough angled from the ground. The metal arms slid together. For a second the holes were lined up. Peter thrust in the bolt. Momentarily it jammed. He banged it with the heel of his hand.
‘Oh!’ Valerie gave a little cry and straightened, hands on her belly.
Peter stared. ‘You OK?’
She bit her lip uncertainly. The stab of pain had gone away. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Better not try that again though.’
She had no need. Now the first bolt was in place the second went in more easily. So did the third and the fourth. Covered like snowmen, they retreated into the shed.
Peter loosened his hood. His cheeks were aflame. ‘I can manage the rest. Just got to tighten the nuts. Sure you’re all right?’
‘Don’t know what it was. Gave me a turn there for a moment. Yeah, no problem.’ She gave a happy smile. She had enjoyed working with her brother. ‘Us Irwins are a tough lot.’
‘That’s what the Goose said.’ He smiled in return. ‘Listen, you go on back to the house. I’ve just got to get the shifting spanner. Be there in ten minutes.’
Valerie beat the snow from her clothes. ‘I’ll put on the kettle. Cup of tea and a slice of Christmas cake.’
‘Lovely,’ he said.
She disappeared across the yard.
Reception wasn’t good. The driving snow clung to the aerial and made the picture flicker. Valerie liked the film better than Peter, so shortly before six he went through to the kitchen and made a big fry-up for dinner with microwaved treacle pudding and custard to follow.
‘That was great!’ Valerie wiped her lips on the paper towel that served for a napkin. ‘After the snow, perfect.’
Peter rose to clear away.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You made it, I’ll clear up.’
‘OK.’ He piled peats on the fire, fell into an armchair and flicked through the TV guide. Nothing worth watching for an hour. He threw it aside and propped his stocking feet in the hearth.
Valerie was clattering dishes in the kitchen. He heard her fill the kettle. For a moment there was silence then a small startled cry: ‘Oh! Ohh!’
Peter sat up. ‘What is it?’
There was no reply.
‘Val?’
Still silence.
He ran to the kitchen door.
Valerie stood by the table. With one hand she gripped the back of a chair. Her knuckles were white.
‘Val, what is it?’
Then Peter saw that a wet patch, not a spill from the washing-up, was spreading down her legs. He stared then looked up into her face.
‘What is it?’ he said again. ‘What’s happened? Have you wet yourself?’
‘I wish.’ She gave a gasping laugh. ‘No, my waters have broken.’
‘What?’ It sounded terrible. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘It’s all right, there’s nothing wrong.’ But Valerie was frightened. ‘It’s just the first thing that happens.’
‘Happens?’
‘Oh, God!’
The wet patch was almost to her knee, creeping down and down.
‘Happens when?’
‘When d’you think, you bloody fool?’ she said. ‘I’m having a baby, aren’t I?’
A fierce gust made the window rattle.
26
Headlights on the Snow
‘PHONE THE DOCTOR,’ she said. ‘No, make it the hospital.’
Peter had never in his life phoned either. ‘Tell them what?’ he said.
‘Martians have landed – what do you think? Tell them what I told you. My waters have broken, the baby’s started. Ask them what we do now. Find out when the midwife can come.’
‘The midwife!’ Peter glanced at the snowed-up window. ‘How’s she going to get here?’
‘How would I know? Maybe she’ll follow a snowplough. Come in a helicopter. Just give them the bloody message.’
The phone was in the hall. He hunted in the battered address book but the hospital wasn’t there. He couldn’t find it in the directory either.
Valerie pushed past clutching a towel and climbed the stairs. ‘No, hang on.’ Her voice came from the bathroom. ‘They give me a special number. God knows where I put it. Have a look on the dresser.’
Ten minutes later, swathed in Jim’s dressing gown, she came down holding a blue leaflet. ‘It was in my bag. Tells us what to do.’ She sat on the hall chair and scanned the pages. ‘Here we are, Important Numbers.’
Peter stood by the banisters as she punched in the number and pressed the receiver to her ear. There was no dialling tone. She rattled the rest and listened intently. The phone was dead. ‘Oh, God! Don’t tell me!’ A look of panic came into her eyes. She held the rest down firmly, let it go and tried again.
Silence.
Her fear passed to Peter.
‘What is it?’ he said.
‘The lines are down.’ She clattered the handpiece into its cradle. ‘Wouldn’t you know it. Wouldn’t you bloody just know it! What am I doing here? I must have been mad. How can anyone live in this godforsaken dump?’
He didn’t reply.
‘Baby on its way and just the two of us. Talk about a nightmare. If it wasn’t so scary it would be almost funny.’ She gripped the hall table and stood up. ‘How’d you get on in your midwife classes?’
Peter stared.
‘All right, just a joke.’ She waddled into the living room. ‘For God’s sake get me a drink. A whisky, good strong one. Then we’ll try and work out what to do.’
The blizzard continued.
‘Does it hurt?’ Peter said much later.
‘Not too bad, just can’t get comfortable.’ She had tried half a dozen positions: lying
on her side, kneeling, flat on her back. The right position at that particular moment was sitting on the rug with her legs straight out and her back against the settee.
They had talked about Peter cutting a path to the road when the snow eased off and phoning from Bunny’s. Or if her line was down as well, heading on into the village.
‘How long’s it going to be?’ he said.
‘Till the baby comes?’ Valerie shrugged her fat shoulders. ‘You tell me. Four hours? Forty? Sooner the better, far as I’m concerned.’
‘Are you going to be OK?’
‘I sincerely hope so. Assuming nothing goes wrong. Assuming I don’t die.’ She hitched herself to one side. ‘All right, don’t look so scared, it’s not going to happen. They said I’m a strong, healthy young woman. Sounds a bit like a cow.’ She smiled wryly. ‘Anyway, women in China and India have their babies without doctors all the time. Pop off under a hedge for an hour, have the kid, wrap it up in a shawl and back to work.’
‘Is that right?’
‘God knows but I read about it a couple of times. If they can, why not me?’
But Valerie wasn’t feeling so confident.
‘’Sides, if I do pop my clogs,’ she tried to make a joke of it, ‘you’re the chap knows what to do, aren’t you? Quick trip out to the moors, couple of holes an’ Bob’s your uncle.’
‘Shut up,’ Peter said. ‘Stop it.’
Snow on the aerial had made it impossible to watch television. Abruptly he realised a silence had fallen on the room. The wind had ceased its rushing and whining. He rubbed the steamed-up window. It had stopped snowing.
‘Just going to look outside,’ he said.
Valerie didn’t reply. Her contractions were coming more frequently, every fifteen minutes or so. They weren’t painful yet, at least not really painful, but as Peter spoke the spasm had her in its grip.
He went through the hall and switched on the outside light. As he opened the door, a fresh avalanche tumbled into the house. After nine hours of blizzard the yard was deeply covered – thirty centimetres at least. Walls and posts were plastered. Big cornices hung from the roofs. Around corners and gateways the swirling wind had piled the snow into elegant drifts, some waist-deep. One side of the van was buried. So were the snowplough and front wheels of the tractor.
Scar Hill Page 17
