Scar Hill

by Alan Temperley

  39

  Reckitt’s Mines

  SHORTLY AFTER IT stopped raining a helicopter flew over.

  Peter heard it before he saw it. ‘Ben! Meg! Come here!’ He dragged them beneath the awning.

  The dogs were startled.

  ‘All right. Settle down. Sit! Stay there.’

  Crouching beneath the low roof, he scanned the sky. The helicopter, green with orange and white markings, appeared round the side of the hill. It was heading across the moors but changed direction to pass over the sheep pen. Peter ducked back out of sight. Nothing lay in the open to indicate his presence. The ashes of the fire were black. For what seemed a long time the helicopter hovered overhead then turned away. The noise of the rotors faded. Like a dragonfly it grew smaller against the clouds. He emerged and straightened his back.

  RAF and forestry helicopters flew over the moors occasionally but this, a lighter aircraft with different markings, suggested they might be searching for him. He had decided already that it was impossible to spend another night in the sheep pen. It was too exposed; the shelter was inadequate. As he lay in his sleeping bag with the rain battering overhead, he had puzzled his brain for a better hideout. There were plenty of barns around the village and down in Strath Teal but he decided against it. People with barns had dogs which would sniff them out and raise the alarm. Before daybreak he had come up with an idea.

  Six or seven miles away, half a day’s walk across the rolling moor, a tributary stream ran from the hills to join the River Teal. It had carved out a valley where two centuries earlier mine shafts had been driven horizontally into the rock to extract the rich minerals. For decades it had been a major industry, attracting workers from as far away as Ireland and the continent. Tremendous mounds of rubble were still to be seen, rusted rail tracks, and the ruins of buildings which had housed planners, wage offices and the ragged workforce, a dozen to a tiny room.

  It was known as Reckitt’s Mines. Peter had cycled there several times to explore the buildings and hunt for unusual pieces of rock. Ignoring the warning notices, he had ventured deep into the flooded mine shafts until fear and the stygian dark forced him to beat a retreat. On one occasion, like Theseus in the Labyrinth, he had tied the end of a big ball of string to a boulder and unwound it as he went in case he got lost. The mines intrigued him and he had written a project about them for school. He knew, for example, which minerals were extracted and what they were used for. He knew that the stream which carved out the valley was called the Milky Burn because when the mines were in operation the water ran white from the crushed stone – though now it ran crystal clear, unlike most of the moorland streams which were red with peat. It was, he realised, a place where people might come looking for him, but it was a long way from the village and at that moment he could think of nowhere better.

  It was impossible to remove every trace of his presence but he did his best and shortly before ten o’clock, having breakfasted on bread and butter, cold beans from the tin and water from the stream, he started out. Blue patches of sky had appeared, it promised to be a fine day. Meg and Ben loved the adventure, sniffing through the heather and rocks for whatever might be hiding there.

  Ben took off, yelping excitedly, after a small herd of deer.

  ‘Hey!’ Peter shouted. ‘Ben! Come here!’

  The big dog took no notice. Twenty minutes later he returned, his eyes shining and muzzle lathered with foam. Peter examined it for deer hairs – there were none.

  He felt very exposed, even though his jacket and rucksack merged into the colours of the moor. Constantly he scoured the land for signs of pursuit.

  Shortly before midday he heard the helicopter again. He called the dogs to his side and sank to the boggy ground. The icy water saturated his jeans. As long as he did not move, Peter knew, he was unlikely to be seen. ‘Stay there!’ he said angrily and hid his white face in his clothes. The helicopter – the same machine or one with the same markings – came from an unexpected direction and passed half a mile off.

  He rose, picking his wet jeans from his legs, and hugged the dogs to show he was not really angry. Briefly he wondered about changing and decided against it. His jeans would dry on him. When his dad got wet on manoeuvres he hadn’t stopped to change his trousers. If he hadn’t, Peter wouldn’t either.

  Trying to ignore the discomfort, he walked on. He found himself thinking about school friends. At that moment they would probably be at home. Soon they would be sitting down to Sunday lunch. Maybe in the afternoon they would watch TV. On Wednesday they would be going back to school. Football practice on Thursday and a match next Saturday. He pictured them: Gerry, Magnus, Cameron, Charlie. When, he wondered, would he see them again?

  Reckitt’s Mines, as he approached through a wilderness of stones, was a collection of a dozen grey buildings, some no more than an outline of walls, others with part of their roofs remaining. The windows were smashed. Beams lay rotting among the debris.

  Four mine shafts had been driven into the hillsides. Two had collapsed, their entrances blocked, but the others, he remembered, led far underground. The roofs were so low that even a boy aged eleven, as Peter had been the last time he was there, had to walk stooped. Much of the way they were flooded, ice-cold water swirling to his knees. The roofs dripped. Crystals, the beginning of stalactites, glittered in the beam of his torch.

  But that February afternoon the mine shafts were of little interest. He was looking for a spot among the ruins where he could lay his sleeping bag and be protected from the rain. Luck had stayed with him throughout the day, for the clouds which were opening as he left the sheep pen had gathered again until they hung purple and threatening above the moor. From the look of it there was going to be a downpour.

  The buildings stood on both sides of the stream but those on the near bank were mostly rubble. Peter crossed over. As he wandered from ruin to ruin, the first peal of thunder grumbled about the valleys and a few fat raindrops hit him on the shoulders.

  The shelter he chose was a two-storey building which might once have been a refectory or offices. The decaying walls were topped with ferns and self-seeded trees. Some had grown too large and been blown down in gales, ripping off sections of the wall as they fell. Much of the roof was gone and half the upper floor had collapsed, but adjoining the gable wall at ground level, a worm-eaten patch of floorboards had survived. It was dry and Peter saw that it would not take long to brush off the crumbling mortar, twigs and bird droppings that had accumulated over the years. Even better, there was a fireplace and a chimney with daylight at the top.

  He dropped his rucksack and pulled it open. It was all very well trying to emulate his father but the insides of his legs were chafed raw. He peeled off his jeans and was just stepping into a dirty pair he had rescued from the washing machine when a flash of lightning lit the valley. It wasn’t close but the crash of thunder that followed had a vicious, splitting sound, followed by a rumble that echoed around the sky for many seconds.

  Meg was frightened by thunderstorms. She whined and crept to Peter’s side, tail between her legs.

  He fastened his jeans and put an arm round her. ‘It’s all right. There’s a good girl.’

  She wasn’t comforted and pulled away. Restlessly she roamed the house, looking for a place to hide. She found it in a gap that led down to the foundations and slipped from sight. Ben was untroubled and stood looking from the doorway at the sheets of grey rain that came sweeping down the valley.

  Peter joined him.

  The afternoon was dim. A flash of forked lightning split into branches and fizzed to the ground somewhere on the moor. Peter counted under his breath: one, and … two, and … three, and … At five the ripping thunder, like a sheet of torn tin, split the silence, followed by the long belly rumble.

  Another terrific flash lit the buildings that stood like skeletons in the deserted valley. On its heels came a second flash, crossing the sky horizontally. For a dazzling split-second Peter saw the black entrance to
a mine, the wilderness of stones, the bushes growing high above the ground. A standing wall was illuminated from behind, windows like blazing eyes and a door like a mouth. Gloom returned, still darker after the flash. The afternoon was rent by thunder. Then the hiss and drumming of torrential rain.

  There were ghost stories about Reckitt’s Mines. Peter had written them in his project: the spectres of a group of men who had suffocated underground; a manager found dead in the snow with a pickaxe through his brains; a Polish miner who had gone mad and strangled his friend. His dad had told him there were no such things as ghosts. Peter had no problem with that on a sunny day, but he was alone in that haunted place. It was not hard, as he looked out on the chaotic flashes and darkness, to imagine the mad miner picking his way through the ruins.

  The storm passed overhead. The static made his scalp prickle and the little hairs on his body stand on end. Lightning struck the rim of the valley and the very building where he stood – or so it seemed, for the air turned blue for a moment and there was a smell of ozone. With a cry he sprang back from the doorway.

  Peter loved thunderstorms. Sometimes at Scar Hill he had run out in his shirt, exulting in the thunder and lightning, lifting his face to the rain until he was soaked to the skin. The chance of being struck, he knew, was millions to one but this at Reckitt’s Mines was too close for comfort. Thunder cracked on the heels of the flash, too fast to count the seconds. Water ran between the houses, washing drifts of pebbles downhill. For fifteen minutes he stood watching and was sorry when the storm moved away down the valley. The air, already pure, had a fresh smell, tingling to his nostrils. The clouds brightened and a scrap of blue sky appeared – big enough, as Jim had been fond of saying, to patch a pair of sailor’s britches. Meg emerged from her place of hiding.

  To his delight, the boards where he was planning to sleep had remained dry. If they could withstand that downpour, Peter thought, they could withstand anything – provided the roof did not collapse on his head.

  In the daylight that remained he hung up his sleeping bag to air, explored the buildings and collected enough wood to keep the fire burning all night.

  By an excellent piece of good luck he spotted the grate for the fireplace protruding from a pile of rubble. It was swollen with rust but enough to raise the bed of the fire and provide a good draught. As Peter lit it with firelighters and small pieces of wood, the sparks whirled away up the chimney. He zipped his jacket to the throat and sat close, holding his hands to the warmth. The dogs joined him, blinking in the firelight.

  The Milky Burn, swollen by the rain, filled the air with an incessant roar.

  For four days and three long nights Peter remained in his hideout. Upstream the valley was prettier, carpeted with moss, ferns and heather. Downstream, where it levelled and joined Strath Teal, the vegetation was bushy and lusher.

  Prompted by boredom as much as the need for food, he carried Buster to a bank where there was a big warren. In no time a couple of fat rabbits were struggling in the ferret nets. He killed them with swift blows and carried them back to his shelter. It didn’t take long to gut and skin them. Sharp-eyed crows had perched nearby and when he threw out the offal and heads, they fought to carry the treasures away. Buster, buckled into his harness and line, was given a liver and dragged it away to a hole he had made his own. The dogs had to wait until dark and stood drooling in the firelight as Peter boiled the gamey meat and mixed it with their dry food in the mess-tins. For his own meal, he cut the boiled meat into thin slices and fried it in fat. It took a lot of chewing but tasted not too bad with a sprinkling of salt and some ends of fried bread – a bit like chicken.

  Nights began early. At dusk, when daylight had faded enough to hide the smoke, he lit the fire and cooked his dinner. By eight, even though he dawdled over his food, it was finished. And by nine, for there was nothing to do except talk to the dogs and keep the fire burning, he crawled into his sleeping bag and rested his head upon the rucksack. Mostly he faced the flames but sometimes he turned the other way where, beyond the fallen end of the building, the winter stars wheeled above the moor. Later in the night the moon, which was nearly full, swung into sight above the shattered valley. He loved those clear skies, but with the absence of cloud came the frost which nipped his nose so that he rolled back to the warmth of the fire and threw on more wood.

  He slept long hours but his sleep was broken, not just by the creeping cold but by his troubled thoughts, to which was added the outcome of his running away. With helicopters out searching he could only be in more serious trouble. How long, he wondered, could he stay free? Would they catch him or should he give himself up? As he snuggled into his sleeping bag and listened to the tumbling water, he felt he didn’t want to – ever.

  Peter had brought with him a coil of fishing line and a small tin box of hooks. Downstream, where the peat gave way to soil, there were worms. A crooked branch served as a rod. The flood had subsided and in a couple of hours on the third day, which was Tuesday, he caught three small trout. A little further on, where the Milky Burn meandered between grassy banks, there was watercress. As far as food was concerned, he might have remained at the mines for weeks.

  But people were looking for him.

  Peter had no way of knowing that the helicopter which hovered over the sheep pen that first morning, had flown on to Reckitt’s Mines and landed just a hundred metres from where he was now living. Two men, the pilot and a volunteer, had searched the buildings from end to end and even ventured up the flooded mine shafts with torches. They were bound to return sometime and on the fourth afternoon, as Peter wandered downstream with his crooked fishing rod, he heard the throb of the rotor blades. It was hard to make out what direction the sound was coming from but at once he called the dogs and scrambled down into a watery gully overhung by branches. His foot slipped and landed in the burn with a splash. As he struggled to keep his balance his second foot slipped also. Calf-deep he stood in the icy water. The dogs were alarmed. Hastily Peter clambered out and joined them on a rocky ledge.

  The helicopter came into view, whirling up Strath Teal and turning up the Milky Burn towards the mines. It passed overhead, only fifty metres above the ground. The noise was deafening. The down-thrust tossed the branches wildly. It was there, it was gone. The walls of the gully prevented him from seeing. Cautiously Peter clambered out. From the grassy brink he could see the roofs of the mine buildings half a mile further up the valley. The helicopter was hovering. Slowly it sank from sight. The roaring ceased. Men’s voices, faint as gnats, reached his ears.

  He thought swiftly. There was no way he could return. A score of things advertised his presence: the swept boards, the trampled weeds, his sleeping bag, the rucksack, Buster’s carrying box. They were bound to be seen.

  What was he to do now?

  He threw his rod into the water, called the dogs and set off running downstream.

  40

  Owl Cottage

  PETER APPROACHED THE barn with caution.

  Daylight was fading. An orange moon, rising and full, hung above the farm roofs. Already there was a touch of frost in the air.

  Fortunately the barn was a distance from the house. Unfortunately the farmer, a fat, florid man named McKim, had not locked his dogs up for the night before eating his dinner. Peter kept Ben and Meg close beside him but something – the scratch of his jacket on a thorn, a snapped twig, a smell – alerted the farm dogs. Barking ferociously, they came racing from the yard.

  There were two, a Doberman and a lean collie. With an answering snarl Ben bounded to meet them. In an instant the dusk was alive with twisting, snapping, savage bodies. First one had the upper hand, then another. Meg, perhaps sensing that Ben was outnumbered, joined in. The air was loud with snarls and yelps and barks. Peter waded in, shouting, trying to break it up. He grabbed Ben’s collar and dragged him back. At the same moment he felt a fierce pain in his thigh. The Doberman had bitten him. He kicked out furiously and felt his boot thud into the animal�
��s side. It yowled and backed away. Ben broke free, leaping back into the fray. Meg had the other collie by the skin of its neck and wouldn’t let go. Peter grabbed Ben again and hauled him off. The Doberman lunged and shredded the sleeve of his jacket. Ben whirled round and made a slashing bite at its face. Teeth clashed. They drew back bristling.

  Floodlights came on at the farm. Mr McKim began shouting:

  ‘What the hell’s going on down there?’

  Peter responded. ‘Your dogs have attacked us.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Peter shouted back. ‘Call them off. Murderous bloody animals. You should keep them tied up.’

  The Doberman was kept as a guard dog, but hearing the boy’s voice the farmer realised he might be in trouble. ‘Max!’ he called angrily. ‘Bracken! Lay off! Come back here. Come ’ere, you brutes!’

  He was a harsh man. Reluctantly the dogs ran off.

  Peter had had a fright. Roughly he clapped his companions but they were too worked up to take notice. ‘Come on.’ He set off running the way they had come. ‘Come on!’ Unwillingly, with many backward looks, they followed.

  ‘Who is it?’ Mr McKim called again. ‘Come here. Show yourself.’

  Peter’s fingers were slippery. He smelled them, touched them with his tongue and thought it was blood. Was it his own?

  The muddy farm track crossed the river, broad and black and glinting in the moonlight. A hundred metres brought him to the road, single-track with passing places, that ran the length of Strath Teal. He turned towards the coast and Tarridale, ten miles to the north. More lights came on at the farm. Through the wintry trees that lined the river he saw Mr McKim making his rounds, ensuring the intruder had gone.