‘You’re taking Daisy home with you and the doctor’s coming. Isn’t that what’s happening?’
‘Yes, but I mean after that, for the next few days.’
‘I thought you said I’d have to …’ Peter’s voice trailed away.
‘But not right this minute. We’ll talk to Dr Bryson and while he’s there I’ll give Constable Taylor a ring. If I can get him I have no doubt he’ll be up straight away.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I think the best thing’s for you to come home with Daisy and me and I’ll get you settled into a bedroom at Three Pines. Maybe I can persuade Social Services to let the two of you stay with me until Valerie comes back. For the next few days anyway. Surely she’ll be home by then.’
Peter hesitated. He wasn’t used to getting help.
‘I mean, if you’d be happy with that,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
The possibility had never occurred to him. ‘Thanks very much,’ he said.
‘I don’t see why anyone should object. And if they do, well, I hope I’ve still got a bit of influence.’ She stood and straightened her clothes. ‘I know people up here think I’m a bit of an oddball, but when I lived down south – well, let’s just say I didn’t always drive a Land Rover with pictures on the side.’ She gathered up the breakfast dishes. ‘How if I wash up while you get a few things together. You won’t need much, just your pyjamas, toothbrush, change of clothes.’
‘OK.’ He started towards the hall. ‘What about the dogs?’
‘They’ll come with us, of course. Might have to keep Jasper and your Ben apart, but who knows, maybe they’ll be great pals. Oh,’ her voice pursued him up the stairs, ‘and we’ll need nappies and bottles and things.’
‘I’ll get them when I come down.’
There was a suitcase in the landing cupboard. Peter threw in underpants, T-shirts, a jersey. He remembered he had no clean pyjamas – maybe he could wash them at Bunny’s. He’d need his school clothes too. And his rucksack. And the book he had to finish reading for Monday.
He sat on the bed for a minute and began to think about what he was doing. Did he really want to go to Three Pines? Everyone asking him questions: Dr Bryson, Constable Taylor, the person from child welfare. Of course he wanted to go, he told himself, what else could he do? But not just yet. Not, as Bunny had said, right that minute. It was too sudden. He needed a little time. Time to get used to the idea. Time to say goodbye. He couldn’t simply walk out. The sheep hadn’t been fed for a start. And there was all the dirty washing in the machine, not just his pyjamas but his socks and spare jeans and Daisy’s clothes and the blankets she’d been sick on. And maybe if he had time, he could fork out the wet hay in the byre and cover the rest with a tarpaulin. Then there was …
He came halfway down the stairs. ‘Mrs Mason?’
She emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel.
‘I was wondering,’ he said. ‘Do you think maybe I could …?’
‘You’re not having second thoughts, Peter?’
‘No, of course not.’ As he tried to explain his cheeks grew hot. ‘The beds aren’t even made. If anyone comes to see the house, maybe I should tidy up a bit. I tried to keep it nice like dad, but with Valerie and Matt and the baby and everything …’
Bunny looked at him steadily.
‘It’s just a few little jobs, it won’t take long.’ He descended a few steps. ‘An hour, an hour and a half. Then I’ll drive over with the dogs – and Buster, he’s my ferret.’
‘You’ll never do all that in an hour.’
‘I can come back this afternoon.’
Peter was an unusual boy but all the same … ‘You’re not planning anything stupid are you?’ she said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, you’re not planning to run away, for example?’
‘Run away? Of course not,’ he said.
‘It’s not a good idea.’
‘I thought I was coming to you,’ he said. ‘Where could I go this time of year anyway? It’s freezing, I’d die on the hills.’
Bunny heard alarm bells. ‘Don’t say that,’ she said.
But Peter had no intention of dying on the hills, joining his dad out there. He knew exactly where he would go. It wasn’t the first time he had thought of running away to avoid the stares and questions and being packed off somewhere like a stray dog. A dozen times he had lain in bed, hands behind his head, staring into the darkness and making plans he never really expected to carry out.
Bunny wasn’t satisfied. ‘You are telling me the truth, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he said and didn’t feel guilty. ‘You’re being very kind.’
‘Well, I’m just telling you,’ she said. ‘Don’t.’
Peter wandered the house collecting baby wipes and teats and sterilised bottles and tubes of cream and everything else Daisy might need.
‘I really can’t stay any longer just now,’ she said. ‘When I got your call I came straight over. Some of the animals haven’t been let out yet, and I think I left the front door open. If the goats get in the house they’ll eat everything in sight, turn the place into a midden.’ She suddenly remembered: ‘Oh, my goodness! And I’ve left the illustrations for my new book spread out on the table. I really must run.’ She picked up the carrycot. ‘And you’ll be along in an hour. No later than eleven because the doctor’s coming and you’ve got to be there.’
He nodded.
‘Promise?’
‘I said so, didn’t I?’
‘And we’ll come back this afternoon to finish tidying up. Make sure everything’s the way you want to leave it.’
The way you want to leave it? How long was she thinking about?
‘I’ll have to come back to feed the sheep – every day, I mean.’
‘I realise that, Peter, but you don’t have to do everything yourself, you know. Maybe I can help with the sheep.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘Don’t worry, that’s the main thing.’
Don’t worry? How could he help worrying, Peter thought. Important matters were being decided, matters that could affect his whole life.
He followed Bunny into the yard. A gust of cold wind hit him in the face. Daisy sneezed, emitting a fresh flood from her nose.
Peter caught hold of the carrycot and wiped it away. Leaning over, he gave his tiny niece a kiss on the cheek.
Daisy stared back, her eyes wide and blue and serious, then her face puckered and she began to wail.
Peter wanted to pick her up, comfort her, hold her, say goodbye. Instead he stood back, fearing Bunny might become suspicious.
‘We’ll fit the car seat later,’ she said, stowing the carrycot on the rear seat. ‘It’s just along the track. I’ll drive slowly.’
She shut the door. The crying was muted. Peter looked in through the window.
Bunny zipped her anorak and swung into the driving seat. ‘Eleven o’clock, remember. Don’t be late.’
He raised his hand and followed the Land Rover as it turned out of the yard.
Soon it was hidden behind a swelling of the moor. He felt the pang of separation and stood listening as the note of the engine faded.
But there was no time to be lost. He ran back to the house.
38
The Sheep Pen
PETER CHECKED HIS watch: half past nine. An hour and a half before they came looking for him. It was barely enough.
The sheep could not be left hungry. Luckily he had prepared the hay and nuts the night before. He heaved them into the van and drove fast up the track, bucking like a rally car as the wheels met rocks and flooded potholes. Normally the animals stood waiting at the gate but today, because he came early, they were scattered across the meadow and came bouncing and baaing at the sound of the engine. Roughly he pushed through them to fill the troughs and hay racks. By now their unborn lambs were heavy and they were permanently hungry. Feeding time was the high moment of their day. Eagerly they pressed round the troughs. Peter left them to it and sped ba
ck to the house. At once, lest he should forget, he scribbled a note about feeding them the next day and left it on the table.
His school rucksack was not big enough but Jim had held on to his army rucksack, a reminder of the days when he was a strong young soldier. For years it had been crushed into the back of a cupboard. Peter dragged it out and began filling it with what seemed the bare essentials: sleeping bag, a sheet of plastic, lightweight food, dry dog food, tinned meat for Buster, ferret nets, fishing line, spare clothes and waterproofs, mess-tins, firelighters, matches in a plastic bag. Jim, who at one time had dreamed of joining the SAS, liked to talk about living off the country, and Peter often caught fish and rabbits, so he was not wholly unprepared. He collected the tobacco tin which contained his hidden hoard of money and buckled it into a pocket. Buster went on the front seat of the van in his carrying box, the dogs and rucksack went in the back.
In thirty minutes Peter was ready. He checked all the doors and windows were fastened and hid the house keys in the byre. After a last look round the yard, he drew a deep breath and set off in the direction of the main road.
It was a time for action not regrets but how long, Peter wondered, would it be before he returned to Scar Hill? Had he slept there for the last time? He looked from the window and was just in time to glimpse a gable as the house vanished behind a rise. The swollen river surged alongside the track. He blinked hard and settled himself in the driving seat.
It was his plan, dreamed up long ago, to hide the van behind bushes at the Four Crowns and double back into the moors the way he had come. Whoever came looking for him would find the van quite quickly and assume he had taken the obvious route, down the long slope into Strath Teal where there were woods and barns and shelter. No one, he thought, would expect him to be heading in the opposite direction, up into the hills.
He drove faster than was safe, frightened Dr Bryson would arrive early and Bunny would return to fetch him. All went well. With fifteen minutes in hand, he reached the Four Crowns and turned up a grassy bank between two mounds. The wheels skidded, leaving deep scars, then gripped enough to climb twenty metres and turn behind an outcrop of rocks and whin bushes.
Peter left the keys in the ignition. Ben and Meg scrambled out to explore while he adjusted the straps of the heavy rucksack and hoisted it to his back.
He listened but there was no sound of pursuit, just the roar of a distant lorry on the road. All he needed was an hour to vanish into the moors. He looked down the grassy bank and was pleased at the tyre tracks. The torn black earth would soon lead his pursuers to the van. With luck it would start them on a wild goose chase down the long hillside into the glen. He buckled the waist strap of the rucksack and hung Buster’s box over his shoulder. Then, dropping out of sight of the track, he headed back towards Scar Hill and the high moors that lay beyond.
It was hard walking but the life of a shepherd kept Peter fit. His stout boots gripped the earth and kept his feet dry as he tramped through bogs. But though the morning was fine, raindrops clung to the heather and soon his jeans were sodden. It was nothing new. He had dropped a handful of biscuits into his pocket and munched them as he tramped along.
At twenty to twelve a vehicle drove up the track, disturbing the birdsong and splash of hidden streams. Peter’s route was parallel, quarter of a mile to one side. He stopped to listen. Who was it? The driver couldn’t see him but he couldn’t see the vehicle either. He wondered what was happening.
At that moment he was as close to Scar Hill as his route would take him, although the house was hidden behind a ridge. Quickly he hid the rucksack among some rocks and ran across.
‘Ben! Meg!’ He called the dogs to his side. ‘Lie down. Lie down! Good dogs. Now stay. Stay!’
Cautiously he crept to the heathery summit.
The house was about two hundred metres away. Bunny’s Land Rover swung round the byre and drew up in the yard. She got out, accompanied by Dr Bryson.
Who was caring for Daisy, Peter wondered.
He heard voices but from that distance could not make out the words. They would see the van was gone but apparently had not spotted the tyre tracks at the Four Crowns. Bunny went to the door and found it locked. She rapped loudly, several times, and peered through the windows.
‘Peter? Are you there?’ Her words reached him. She said something to Dr Bryson. Then called again, ‘Peter!’
They searched the outbuildings. Scar Hill was deserted. Together they scanned the surrounding moors. Dr Bryson pointed up the track towards the pasture where the sheep were fed, and beyond it the waterfalls and rough hillside where the track came to an end. Beyond lay the high moors and Blae Fell, the way Peter was heading. It didn’t trouble him because they would find no van. Obviously, it would appear, he had not gone that way.
He watched the Land Rover draw away. Bunny had been so kind, he felt bad at letting her down. At the same time, he had no regrets. He needed to be alone for a while.
Far off he could see the peat-brown gash of the falls, and the tiny specks of sheep gathered round the feeding troughs. He ducked back behind the ridge and continued his journey.
The rucksack was heavy but Peter had only a few miles to go. After an hour he pulled out the sheet of plastic and sat by some rocks on the slope of Blae Fell. The clean, cool wind blew round him. He imagined how his dad, who was buried on the far side of the hill, would have loved it there. What would he have said about Peter running away? Peter thought about it and came up with no answers – except for one thing. He would have understood.
The sky grew threatening and it looked as though he was in for a spell of heavy rain, then the clouds began to break up. By mid-afternoon, when he came in sight of his destination, the moors were dappled with sunshine as far as the eye could see.
The sheep pen stood in a fold of the hill. It was the spot where, in the autumn, Peter and Jim had driven a small flock of sheep to treat a scraggy ewe infested with maggots and another with footrot. At that moment it stood in a patch of sunshine, stone walls yellow with lichen and bracken broken to a ragged red carpet by the storms of winter. He tucked his thumbs under the straps of his rucksack and strode down the final stretch of hillside.
It stood exactly as they had left it, a centuries-old circle of stone, chest-high and above twelve metres across. Peter hitched open the broken gate and crossed to the lean-to which was to be his shelter. It was smaller than he remembered, a rust-red roof of corrugated iron supported by worm-eaten timbers. Half a bale of hay and another of mouldy straw were heaped against the back wall. A mat of ancient sheep droppings was covered by dead weeds and grass. He swung his rucksack to the ground.
The hay and straw would make a good base for his plastic sheet and sleeping bag. Not surprisingly it was damp. He dug it out in armfuls and slung it over the wall to dry. As he did so his hand struck something soft and furry. ‘Aahh!’ He jumped back. A huge rat, squeaking with fright, fled from the ruins of its home. Instantly Ben and Meg were in pursuit but the rat was too fast and disappeared into a gap between the stones. For a long time they searched, snuffling and scraping but the rat had gone to ground. Buster scratched eagerly at the wire of his box. Peter thought of loosing him. Buster would have pursued the rat right into its rocky labyrinth. He decided against it. What harm was the rat doing? Leaving the dogs to their excitement, he began unpacking the rucksack.
Purple shadow spread across the moors. Sunlight retreated up the fell. The puffy clouds turned flamingo and salmon, then grey.
As daylight faded the air grew damp and colder. Mist gathered in the hollows. Peter descended to the stream and filled a mess-tin and plastic bottle with water. He broke scraps of wood for a fire and prepared a base out of the wind and close to a wall where the flames were least likely to be spotted. Stones and straw provided him with a seat. He shivered and pulled his sleeping bag round his shoulders but dared not light the fire until the telltale column of smoke would be hidden by darkness.
Shortly before seven he set
two firelighters in the middle of his rough hearth, surrounded them with a wigwam of twigs and struck a match. Soon he sat before a warming blaze with a mug of tea and a biscuit. The dogs lay nearby, well fed and blinking contentedly at the flickering flames. Buster, in a leather harness, roamed the sheep pen at the end of a cord. If the circumstances had been different, Peter would have been blissfully happy.
The evening passed slowly. After a while he fried three rashers of bacon in the larger of the mess-tins, mopped up the fat on slices of bread and made a sandwich. It was delicious but he was still hungry. Warming his hands round a second mug of tea, he leaned back against the wall. The stars were brilliant. An owl flew past on silent wings. Later he heard it, or a different owl, as it screeched on the hill. There were other sounds too: the far-off bellowing of a stag, the dry bark of a fox, a hundred rustlings from the little creatures that lived in the grass.
The rotten fence posts and other scraps of timber dry enough to burn were soon gone. He kicked a couple of slats off the gate and broke them by jumping on them. As the fire sank, the February cold fingered through his clothes. Long before he would have gone to bed at home, Peter spread his sleeping bag beneath the awning. Sleep was slow in coming. The setting was strange. He was uncomfortable. The night breeze fanned his face. No matter how he pulled his head down, it found a way through. After a time he gave up trying to sleep and lay watching the last glow of the embers and tiny spurts of flame that lit the walls.
A hundred thoughts came and went and returned to plague him: Daisy, his dad, Valerie, Bunny, Scar Hill, school, tomorrow. Not to mention his freezing feet and the big rat which might be watching nearby.
The dogs, too, were restless. They were not used to spending a night in the open air. Ben curled up against his legs. Peter pulled a hand from the sleeping bag and rubbed his ears.
He must have slept for a while because when he examined his watch again it was after eleven. But it was long past midnight and the stars had crossed the sky before he sank into a restless slumber that continued until six in the morning when he was wakened by the hammering of rain on the tin roof an arm’s length above his head.
Scar Hill Page 25
