Scar Hill

by Alan Temperley

  Peter wondered if the engine would start; if the rear wheels with their deep tread would be powerful enough to cut a path to the road. When the snow was bad at Scar Hill, it was even worse on the open moor. And if he did manage to reach the road and had to continue to the village, would the county snowploughs have kept the road open? His dad had often dug them out but never at night, as far as he could remember.

  A few flakes drifted through the light. But what if there was more snow on the way, heavy snow? What if it arrived when he was midway and couldn’t turn back? What if he couldn’t follow the track and drove into a ditch? He shivered and returned to the living room.

  Valerie stood by the table. The contraction had passed and she was calm again. ‘They’re getting stronger,’ she said. ‘Ask me, the little bugger’s going to be born tonight.’

  ‘How soon?’ Peter said.

  ‘God, I don’t know.’

  ‘The snow’s stopped.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘I can try and cut a way through now if you like.’

  Valerie looked at him. ‘I need a doctor or a midwife or somebody. I don’t know anyone that’s given birth all by herself.’

  ‘Apart from those Indian women.’

  ‘Apart from them, yeah. And you read about people giving birth in taxis and stuff. Mind, I don’t want you going out there and getting stuck. There’d be no one at all then.’

  ‘I can give it a try. If it’s too deep or it starts to snow again I’ll just have to come back.’

  Valerie watched as he pulled on over-trousers and boots, parka, scarf, hat and gloves. He went into the kitchen and took the torch from the charger. As he came back she was struck by another contraction.

  ‘Oh! Ohh!’ Her brow furrowed, her eyes filled with pain. ‘Ohhh!’ With both hands she clutched the bump that was her baby. The contraction passed. Her face shone with perspiration. ‘That was a big one.’

  ‘Anything I can do before I go?’

  She shook her head. ‘Just make sure there’s a midwife handy when your own girlfriend’s having her baby.’

  There seemed no answer to this. ‘Sure you don’t want me to stay?’

  ‘Just go,’ she said. ‘Be as quick as you can. And come back safely.’

  The engine of the old Massey Ferguson was packed with snow. Peter scraped it out and went through the starting procedure. At the second attempt, in the hour of need, it clattered into boisterous life, sending clouds of exhaust into the bitter air. With a gloved hand he swept the snow from the seat and controls.

  The tractor stood nose to the shed door as they had left it. He backed round the yard, smashing through deep drifts, and lifted the snowplough on its hydraulic ram to thirty centimetres above ground level to avoid catching on the rough track. A covering of snow dimmed the headlamps and he jumped down to clear them. Valerie stood watching at the window. He raised a hand, opened the throttle and started round the end of the byre.

  The residue of grease made snow stick to the ploughshare. He returned to the shed for a piece of wood and a rag to scrape it away. After a while the bright blades stayed clean.

  He drove slowly, though fast would have been better, cleaving a path through the drifts like the prow of a ship. For Peter this was impossible because the track was hard to see, especially in darkness with the headlights casting shadows. Time and again, long snow wreaths and levelled-out hollows hid it completely.

  The night-white moors spread around him on every side, mile upon mile, vanishing into the dim distance. It was beautiful, wild and very lonely. Also, although this was a track he had travelled a thousand times, on that December night it was unfamiliar and scary. Only the tractor with its glowing dials and headlamps offered any sign of life in the frozen land. It was a countryside where living things went to sleep and did not wake up. The engine roared, but in the silence beyond there was an air of expectancy. Before long, Peter guessed, it was going to start snowing again.

  Perched high on the iron seat he was unprotected and very cold. The light breeze froze his cheeks. His stomach cramped. He could hardly feel his feet. Repeatedly he took a hand from the wheel and beat his thigh to warm his stiffening fingers.

  Despite this, he made good progress. Ahead lay the unbroken snow, behind him a tumbled wake imprinted with chevron-shaped tyre tracks. It was a pity, Peter thought, to spoil the perfection. For the twentieth time he twisted to look back. He chose a bad moment for just then, beneath its white mantle, the track swung left. The tractor lurched as the front wheel slithered sideways into a treacherous ditch. Peter clung to the steering wheel to avoid being dumped on the ground.

  The engine stalled. Cross with himself, he swung down to inspect the damage. Nothing seemed to be broken but the tractor had come to rest at a steep angle. The snowplough had dug into the far bank, but the rear wheels seemed to be on reasonably firm ground. With luck, Peter thought, he should be able to back out.

  The engine started first turn of the key. He hoisted the snowplough and put the engine into reverse. The big wheels skidded, throwing up a spray of snow and dirt that hit him in the face. He tried a second time. The wheels spun then gripped for a moment, spun and gripped again. Slowly the tractor dragged its nose out of the ditch.

  Peter wiped his face. A mile and a half to go. A short distance ahead lay the Four Crowns, the cluster of small hills where he went ferreting. It was here the drifts were likely to be deepest. Wondering how Valerie was faring, he dropped the snowplough and set off again.

  He had become aware of a slight headache and a feeling in his guts as if he needed the lavatory. He’d had a fright. He was alone out there. If anything went wrong there was no one to help. There would be no one for days. And any number of things could go wrong: the engine might pack up; he could skid off the track and get stuck this time; the Sandy Brae, which was notorious for getting blocked, might be impassable; it was going to start snowing again soon, and until he was past the Four Crowns there was no place to turn. He had a choice: to drive on as planned and try to get the help Valerie needed, or abandon the tractor and start walking back to the house.

  He drove on, his eyes watering with the cold. The snow was treacherous, shadows played tricks with the light. The humps of the Four Crowns rose to meet him. As he followed the twisting track between them he was several metres off course. Tussocks of grass lay before him. One was not so innocent, for at the foot of the snowy plumes lay a large boulder. The snowplough skimmed the top but the front wheel struck it a jarring thump. The steering wheel leaped in Peter’s hands and the tractor veered violently to one side. Half-frozen and slow to react, he was pitched headlong to the ground. A drift broke his fall but as he tumbled his right boot caught behind the brake pedals. His weight wrenched it free.

  With the throttle open the tractor kept going. Peter saw the great back wheel bearing down upon him. He flung himself aside. It missed him by less than a centimetre, crunching past his head so close that the tyre brushed his hair.

  The tractor roared on, leaving him behind. For forty metres it continued, weaving as the wheels hit hidden bumps, then swung into a thicket of whins and buried its nose in a bank. For a few seconds the tyres churned then the engine stalled.

  Peter lay on his side, shaken by his fall and what had so nearly happened. Silence had returned to the moor, a silence that was total except for occasional creaks from the hot engine. He pulled himself into a sitting position, testing his limbs for damage. Apart from his right ankle he seemed to be whole – but the ankle was sore! Hot fires had started up deep inside and already it was swelling, pressing against the leather of his boot. He pulled off his gloves and probed inside his sock. What was normally sinew and bone felt puffy.

  He needed the torch to examine it, not that it made much difference. He had given his ankle a nasty sprain or maybe worse. The torch was on a shelf beneath the dashboard. With difficulty he stood, but the second he put any weight on his foot the pain made him cry out. He couldn’t walk. He could scarcely hobble. Even hopping made it hurt.<
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  The seriousness of the situation burst upon him. He was a good mile and a half from home. How was he to get back? It might not be too difficult, from what he could see, to reverse the tractor out of the thorns – at least, not if he could drive. But with a foot that couldn’t operate the brakes, driving was impossible.

  The headlights shone in the midst of the whin bushes. Hopping at first, then crawling on hands and knees, he followed the tractor’s tumbled track through the snow and pulled himself upright by the linkage system between the rear wheels. He squeezed round the side, trying to avoid the thorns. As he leaned forward, groping beneath the steering wheel for the torch, the first snowflakes drifted from the sky.

  27

  A Night to Remember

  PETER THOUGHT HE could go no further. Three hours had passed since he left the tractor, two since the torch battery ran out, and he was still half a mile from home.

  The blizzard had not ceased, closing his world to a circle of whirling flakes. Only the splashing black stream and broken snow of his outward journey, rapidly disappearing beneath the fresh snowfall, kept him on the right path. Only a few features that he knew well – a three-metre boulder, a bridge, a small ravine – recorded his progress.

  At the start there had been a whiff of adventure – almost fun – about his journey, despite its serious purpose. A rock beneath the snow had changed all that. The only thing that mattered now was getting home – surviving even. At first he had tried limping and hopping but the snow was too deep, the pain too great and he kept falling. Then he tried crawling on his hands and knees, and for most of the way had continued in that manner. The driving snow whirled about him. For a while he had sheltered beneath a thorn bush, but the snow filtered through and the wind chilled him so much that he was forced to move on.

  He had never imagined being so tired. Every muscle cried out for him to lie down in the snow, close his stinging eyes and go to sleep. It would have been the easiest thing in the world. But anyone who did that, as he well knew, would not wake up again, and Peter had no intention of dying that night, not while one raw knee could crawl in front of the other. The next few metres, from what he could see, appeared a little easier. He tugged the snow-caked gloves up his wrists and shuffled forward.

  No one in trouble should look to nature for help: good things may happen, bad things may happen, that is all. In Peter’s case it was a good thing. His reserves of strength were fast running out when, raising his head, he realised that the snow was easing. The flakes were smaller. He could see ten metres. Then fifty. Within a few minutes the snow had stopped altogether. And there, just come into sight beyond a ridge of the dim white moor, were the lights of Scar Hill. He sank to his elbows, head on his wrist. Something like a sob came into the rasping breaths in his throat.

  There was no sound but a whisper of wind in the grasses.

  ‘Help! Val!’ He stood to shout. ‘He-e-elp!’

  From far away there came a scatter of barks. The dogs had heard him but from the house there was no response. No curtain moved. No fresh light appeared. He examined his watch, holding it to what luminescence came from the snow, and could just distinguish the hands: ten past one. Four hours since he had set off from home. Now he could see the buildings Peter knew that he was going to be safe. But it was a long way on hands and knees and by the time he reached the familiar byre, the hands of his watch had crept past two o’clock.

  ‘Val!’ he called for the twentieth time. ‘Va-a-lerie! It’s me! Peter!’

  Surely she must have heard but there was still no movement within the house. Then there came an answering cry, almost a scream. It was a cry of pain, a long drawn out, ‘Aa-hhh!’ And then a moment later, ‘Aaa-hhhh!’

  Peter was shocked. ‘Valerie? Val? What is it?’ He tried to limp across the yard but even that short distance was too much. Falling to his hands and knees, he crawled through the deep snow. The door was plastered to half its height. Peter groped for the handle. Amid a white avalanche, he fell into the hall.

  The fire had burned out but coming in from the night a rush of warmth hit him in the face. ‘Val! I’m home!’ he called and threw the door shut. Compacted snow stopped it from closing and it bounced back. He scraped the snow away and shut it again.

  The welcoming walls closed around him. He sank to the floor, legs buckled beneath him.

  A voice called from upstairs. ‘Yeah,’ he replied, beyond caring what it said. The words were repeated.

  He did not respond.

  Valerie, whose state was as bad or even worse than his own, came to the landing. She wore Jim’s towelling dressing gown. Her brother was slumped at the bottom of the stairs. Thick snow covered his clothes. He looked half dead.

  ‘Pete?’ Her voice was anxious.

  He did not move.

  Her body was gripped by another contraction – they were coming more frequently now, every five or ten minutes. She squatted to ease the pain and clenched her teeth, trying not to cry out. Deep breathing was supposed to help but despite her best efforts she could not suppress a sob.

  The contraction passed. Clutching the stair rail, she descended laboriously to the hall.

  ‘Pete?’

  ‘Hi.’ He looked up and gave a wan smile. ‘Couldn’t get to a phone. Sorry.’

  He had pulled off his gloves. Valerie saw that his palms and knuckles were bleeding.

  ‘You’re home now,’ she said. ‘You’ll be all right.’

  He nodded. ‘What about you?’

  She had been counting on Peter getting help. The thought of being alone as the pain got worse and maybe something went wrong terrified her. But selfish, irresponsible Valerie had a tough streak. What could be gained by frightening her young brother who had apparently nearly killed himself trying to help her? ‘I’ll be OK.’ She smiled back. ‘Bloody agony though. In a hospital they’d be giving me something for it.’

  ‘Not if you were one of them Chinese women.’

  ‘I suppose not. Or some poor kid on the street who daren’t tell her family.’

  Peter straightened his legs. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Not much, darling. Get yourself warmed up and into some dry clothes. Just be there if I need you. Might want you to fetch me something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Towels, scissors, cotton wool, that sort of thing. Stuff I’ve bought’s in a bag in my bedroom. Make sure everything’s really clean. Boil the kettle and a few saucepans – least that’s what they always do in the films.’ She tugged the dressing gown, trying to keep herself covered. ‘What happened to you then?’

  So Peter told her about the accident and pulled up the leg of his over-trousers and jeans. For nearly four hours he had dragged his trailing foot through the snow. His knee was raw but that would soon scab over. More importantly, his ankle was badly swollen and purple as a grape. Shortly after he set off from the tractor he had slackened his bootlace to ease the pressure. The knot had jammed. Valerie fetched a knife and cut the lace. Peter gasped as she began to ease off his boot.

  ‘No, leave it. Leave it!’ He pushed her hands away. ‘I’ll do it.’

  The pain was excruciating but a minute later his foot was free. He peeled off his sock. The ankle did not seem to be broken although the bruising extended almost to his toes and up the lower part of his leg. Cautiously he flexed his foot up and down and from side to side. It hurt but there was no agony of grating bones and nothing seemed to be out of place.

  ‘A nasty sprain,’ pronounced Valerie who was addicted to hospital dramas and had learned more about childbirth from TV Than at her ante-natal classes. ‘Needs a cold compress. Soak it in iced water.’

  ‘Iced water! You’ve got to be joking. I’m freezing!’

  Valerie was seized by another contraction. ‘Oh, no! Ah! Aahh!’ She squatted again and tried to bear the terrible pressure that was forcing her baby to be born.

  Her muscles relaxed. The pain passed. Glistening with sweat, she looked up with desperate eyes. ‘Oh,
bugger!’ she said. ‘Sorry, Pete, but it’s sore! If you bloody men had to put up with it maybe you’d take a bit …’ She began to haul herself back up the stairs.

  Peter called, ‘Hey, it’s got nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Not yet,’ she said and disappeared into the bedroom.

  He sat a while longer then rose and began to strip off his clothes. Too tired to care, he left them in a melting heap on the floor. Reduced to underpants, he hopped and crawled upstairs to the bathroom. The water in the tank was boiling. He ran a deep bath, poured in a capful of Valerie’s hibiscus-scented bath oil and subsided into the steam.

  His hands and knees burned like fire in the hot water. The pain subsided to a tingle and he rinsed them gently with the tips of his fingers. His ankle was soothed until the throb was no more than a pulse.

  Slowly the ice melted from his bones. After his struggle in the snow the peace would have been perfect had not Valerie, in the adjoining room, suffered two more contractions and sworn loudly at the mounting pain.

  Some time after three, when he had dressed and bound his ankle with an old elastic bandage, Peter went to her room. Valerie lay in the big bed, propped up on pillows. She looked dreadful, her hair tangled, face greasy and eyes full of pain. He stayed by the door, trying not to look at her fat knees, wide-spread and protruding from the crumpled duvet.

  ‘I just wondered if there was, you know, anything you wanted.’

  ‘I could murder a cup of coffee, thanks. And if you’d pass me that box of skin fresheners on the dressing table. I feel like hell. Oh, and my hairbrush. And maybe a dab of Miss Dior.’

  Somehow he carried the coffee upstairs without spilling it. Thick snow whirled beyond the window. An electric fire blazed by the wardrobe. The room smelled of sweat, cigarettes and a spring-like perfume.