Oh Hinckley said and then scrutinised the girl with renewed interest. One of Father’s girls is she?
Sister nodded. She ran her finger around her collar again.
And this stipend he said.
It’s a monthly payment – in cash. Modest but it’ll help with food and fuel. A false balance is an abomination to the Lord but a just weight is His delight.
Well then.
A hand was at the girl’s back again. Sister’s hand. It gave a push. The girl stepped forward. She was close to the man. She could smell cigarettes on him. Cigarettes and shaving. Behind him the house smelled of boiled onions and sweat. Milk on the turn.
You best come in then he said.
The girl hadn’t moved. Couldn’t move. He stepped aside. Sister shoved her forward. She stumbled and fell into the house. Sister slid her suitcase in behind her.
Hinckley closed the door.
THE DOG PICKED up the scent at the end of Hinckley‘s street and took them to the nearest mud track out of town. It was an obscure grassy rut that rose sharply up the hill that sat behind the town hall and which lead to the lower slopes of the Eastern fells.
The Priest let the animal take the lead. He noticed the Poacher dragging his foot.
After nearly two hours of walking the Poacher stopped and urinated where he stood.
They were high along the ridge of the valley.
We’re on the right track Father he said without turning round. Persey as good as says so. He’s pulled us along all the way. We’ll find this girl of yours in no time. Mark my words.
You’re limping said the Priest. Are you tired already?
Nope.
The Poacher shook himself off then reached into a pocket and pulled out a greaseproof parcel. The paper was soaked through with oil. He opened it and broke off a piece of flapjack. He wedged it into his cheek. Then as an afterthought he offered the open parcel to the Priest.
He shook his head.
Suit yourself.
The Poacher threw a scrap to the dog then folded the parcel away. He untied the rope from the dog’s neck and let it roam free. It wandered away and then squatted. It bent double – a crude question mark against the landscape. The Priest smelled its evacuation on the breeze.
What’ll you do when you find her said the Poacher.
I’ll return the child.
What about the girl?
The Priest shrugged.
I thought you said she belonged to you.
She belongs to God said the Priest. And I am an envoy of God. It’s His will. He’ll decide her fate.
How will you know?
How will I know what?
What that fate is said the Poacher.
Because that eventuality will reveal itself in time.
What if she’s harmed the bairn though.
It’s God’s judgement.
And you believe all that do you Father?
All that.
Fate and God’s will. All that stuff.
All that stuff is the foundation of my belief system and the core of my existence. Yes of course I believe that.
And you believe that God controls everything.
That’s a very simple way of seeing it said the Priest. But yes in a manner of speaking.
And He made all this. The mountains and valleys.
The Ice Age made the mountains and valleys.
So not God.
God froze the water to make the glaciers then God melted the glaciers that made the mountains and valleys.
And that’s in The Bible.
No it’s not in The Bible said the Priest.
So how do you know?
How do I know.
Yes.
How does one know anything said the Priest. I know because I believe in Him. I place my faith in Him and I know that His guidance is all I need. Every decision I make is with His hand on my shoulder. Jesus said if you have faith and don’t doubt then you can even say to a mountain may God lift you up and throw you into the sea and it will happen. We should carry on walking. Look – the dog is getting ahead of us.
Now that I’d like to see.
The Priest’s face was tight with impatience.
What? he said.
Can you lift mountains Father?
Don’t be idiotic.
Could Jesus?
Jesus was a humble man.
So it’s God who can throw mountains into the sea.
If you like.
The Poacher paused.
I’m not sure I believe that he said.
Have you ever seen a rock fall? A landslide?
No Father.
But you’ve seen evidence of them. You believe them to be true.
No reason not to.
And you’ve heard of earthquakes.
Not round these parts.
But you’ve heard of them.
Yes. In other lands.
And volcanoes. And great tidal waves.
Yes.
You’ve heard of Pompeii.
Don’t believe I have.
But you accept as fact that oak trees grow from acorns.
Everyone knows that.
Well then. That’s God’s capability.
The Poacher fell silent and they continued to climb. After a few minutes he spoke again.
Is it true what they say about you Father?
It depends who they are and what they say.
Around the town like.
How could I possibly know what they say.
That there’s more to you than meets the eye said the Poacher.
I hope so.
There are stories Father.
I’m sure there are.
Scandalous stuff. I’m sure it’s all lies. Hearsay like.
Well I can’t refute them if you don’t share them.
I’m not sure I could repeat them Father.
Well shut up and keep walking.
Some of the people said the Poacher with caution. They’re scared of you.
Then they can’t be believers. Because believers do not fear. The people in my congregation do not feel fear. Or if any do it is a fear of God weighing judgment on them for their secret sins. Nothing more. Mainly though they know only the love of Jesus Christ.
Is that right.
Yes.
So as a believer you’re not afraid of owt.
No said the Priest. Nothing.
Nothing?
Nothing.
Maybe it is true what they say then said the Poacher.
And that is?
I’m not sure I can say Father. Ungodly things.
Then stop talking and keep walking. We’re wasting time.
3.
THOUGH OF A similar colour the shape of the tent distinguished it from the landscape around it. It looked like a fallen kite or turf cut from the fell side; abstract yet man-made. Clean lines.
As she got closer the girl saw that it was a green canvas dwelling whose sagging sides were moving. They were being prodded from within. Before she could turn and walk the long way around first a hand and then a head appeared from the opening at the front. The hand was holding a small pan. The body of a man followed it and unfolded itself from the knees upwards then stretched and yawned.
There was nowhere for the girl to hide; no point in ducking. She froze. Held the bairn tight. The man looked around and saw her and waved.
The man turned to the flap at the front of the tent and said something.
Another head appeared. A woman this time. Prone and sleep-tousled. Middle aged.
She looked first left and then right to where the girl stood and who she now silently surveyed.
The women said something quietly to the man who also
considered the girl for a moment. He was short and bald and almost perfectly circular. He lifted his pan.
Libation?
The woman retracted into the tent as the man reached in and pulled out a water container and a metal device. A canister of some sort. He put the device on the ground and unfolded some metal spokes from it which locked into place then he turned a button near the bottom and fumbled for some matches. He lit one and a flame ignited. The flame was blue and unlike any the girl had ever seen.
He poured water into the pan and set it on the flame.
The world’s first soot-free stove.
He said this to the girl in a loud voice that seemed to carry right across the valley. He smiled.
Not literally the very first of course but certainly a rarity he continued. I bet you’ve never seen one before. Come and have a look if you like. It’s based on the same design principle as a blowtorch.
The man paused and studied the girl’s face for a response. When he spoke again it was even louder than before.
Only it blows upwards instead of outwards. Runs on kerosene – which can be a bugger to find out here.
The girl flinched at language that seemed peculiar when spoken in an accent that was crisp and clear and authoritative. It was a voice that had never known doubt or uncertainty. He was not from these valleys. She took some steps towards him. It was all the encouragement he needed to continue.
Upward instead of outwards he said again. It’s really very simple.
Stop shouting Donald said the woman from the tent. Unless she’s deaf she can hear you well enough without you shouting.
As you can see we have a brass fuel tank at the base the fat man continued without lowering his volume. The rising tube leads through the vapour nozzle to what we call a spirit cup. This sits beneath the reinforced steel top grill. The fuel sits in the spirit cup ready for ignition. As is evident three simple legs support it below. It measures eight and one half inches in height and seven inches in diameter. It weighs no more than two and one half pounds. Your child could carry it on its back if so inclined.
Don’t be ridiculous Donald said the voice from the tent again.
The girl saw that small bubbles were rising in the pan.
Design genius he said. It holds two pints of kerosene which when ignited can produce a continuous flame for four hours. That’s a lot of hot drinks.
The man squatted and examined the device.
Yes he continued. This pressurised hand-pump is what differentiates it from other less successful designs which have flooded the market of late. Because you see the hand-pump then forces the fuel through the entire mechanism to emit a light spray which mixes with the air to form what you can see here: a beautiful blue flame that burns without soot or smoke. When turned this tiny hand screw can even adjust the height of the flames. No wick. No oil. Amazing. Works in all weathers.
The water in the pan was roiling now and the man turned to reach into the tent for something but the woman blocked his path as she came out from under the canvas on her hands and knees with a green blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
Ignore him she said to the girl.
She did not seem happy.
Designed by a Swiss chap said the man.
We’ve barely any food said the woman. We can’t feed you if that’s what you’re after.
Call it a Primus.
The girl looked from the woman to the man to the stove. The woman stood. She was tall and thin and had eyes like spent matches and an inverted mouth that could never smile. She thought of the rear of a cat. The woman’s height made the man seem even shorter and rounder. Both were wearing stout boots and thick woollen trousers tucked into socks. Together they were a comically ill-matched coupling.
We’ve to go into the village to get supplies said the woman.
For the big trip said the man.
For my breakfast.
They both looked at the girl but when she didn’t respond the man said: Helvellyn you see. We’re walking over to Ullswater way. Could be ten or twenty miles yet. We’ll have a night on the shores at Glenridding and then shall head up the Grisedale valley to ascend the most celestial mountain in the whole of the Lakelands –
That’s what he thinks the woman sniffed.
– that great stone cathedral that inspired the bard of the north Mr William Wordsworth himself to write of – and I quote – an inmate of a mountain-dwelling thou hast climb aloft and gazed. From the watch-towers of Helvellyn; awed delighted and amazed.
I’m hungry Donald said the woman.
She adjusted the blanket around her shoulders.
A record of commotion the man gasped lost in his recital. Which a thousand ridges yield. Ridge and gulf and distant ocean. Gleaming like a silver shield.
I’m not going another day eating nothing but your damned dried berry simnel cake said his companion. I told you: get your house in order or I’m turning back today. You’re forever drunk on these damned heroic notions of yours; always out to prove your shrinking sense of manhood. Climbing some windy bluff in a godforsaken backwater is not my idea of a holiday. This is the last time Donald. The very last time.
The girl shrank inside herself waiting for the inevitable explosion of violence from the man at this but it never came. Not so much as a slap or a pinch. No hair-dragging or flesh twisting. The man offered nothing in the way of punishment. It was as if they were equal. No – it was as if her words held some sort of power over him.
Instead he ignored the woman and spoke with an increasing sense of theatricality. His arms rose up in front of him and then opened out as if he were addressing the entire fell:
How glorious it is to pitch one’s temporary dwelling exactly where one pleases he said. Yes – maiden! Now take flight – inherit. Alps or Andes – they are thine. With the morning’s roseate spirits sweep their length of snowy line.
The girl looked at the woman looking at her husband with contempt. She spoke through her thin lips.
Not this again. You’re not on Shaftesbury Avenue now.
The woman turned to partly address the girl but they both knew it was to her husband that she was really speaking.
He’s dreaming of a standing ovation she muttered. That would be a first. There’s a joke that circulates about him: never a dry eye in the house when this one takes the stage. Because they’re all shut. Asleep. Dreaming of better places.
Still in a reverie of sorts the man ignored the criticism and addressed the girl.
We hope to see the spot where that great symbol of Romanticism poor Charles Gough perished on the mountain he continued oblivious. Fell off the arête known as Striding Edge during a solo climb over to Grasmere. He should have employed a guide of course but that just wasn’t his way. Not old Goughy. A distant relative of mine you know.
The water is boiling said the woman but the man pressed on with his soliloquy.
Yes my father had one of his paintings hanging in the Southwold house. And do you know the most remarkable thing is they say his loyal dog Foxie watched over his body for three whole months until they found him. Amazing. Of this heroic pairing of man and beast it was Scott who wrote: faithful in death – his mute favourite attended – the much-loved remains of her master defended.
What the silly Scotsman neglected to mention was that his loyal dog Foxie ate the flesh right off his bones the woman said dismissively. Come spring they found nothing but his skeleton and his broken spectacles. At least the dog was a practical thinker where his master surely was not.
Foxie had a pup up there though said the man.
Which died she snapped. The water’s boiling Donald for heaven’s sake.
And it was. The stove was working and the water was bubbling up to the rim and then it was curling over the edge but the man was lost in his thoughts of heroic Charles Gough prone and perishing on the shale sho
re of Red Tarn. Then the water was hissing into the flame and extinguishing it and the hiss of the gas and the sizzle of the evaporating water blended into one and only then did the short bald man break from his Romantic trance and turn back to the object of his affection – his new soot-free stove.
Blast it he said. He crouched to lift the pan off but the handle was hot and it seared his hand. The girl heard it imprint a line across his palm. He leapt backwards and dropped it then shook his hand as if it were on fire.
Oh blast it just...blast it.
Idiot said his wife. You literally cannot even boil a pan of water.
The woman began to beat the man about the head with her hand.
Unnoticed the girl left the couple bickering on the hillside in their wool knitwear as a breeze took up and lifted the flap of their canvas dwelling.
SHE STUDIED THE sky and saw that although it was cloudy the nebulous trails were low and scudding across at speed as if it were the sky that was turning and not the earth.
If there was to be rain it wouldn’t stay fixed. The rain would move and so would she.
All this activity overhead bolstered the girl’s energy and she dug in determining a fresh resolve to put as much space between herself and the farmer as possible. Soon he might notice the missing meat and the spoon and the sheet or worse – he might report her. A lass with a bairn and something not right.
Walking was easier. She moved quickly and began to feel a warmth in her clothes as her back dampened with sweat beneath the baby. She pictured a beach and beyond the beach water and then beyond the horizon an island with apple trees and pear trees and chickens and pigs and no people.
Once they reached the water they would cross it. Or maybe it would part for them. Probably this would happen. The test would be to get to the sea and then He would do the rest for doesn’t He say lift up your staff and stretch out your hand over the sea and divide it that the people of Israel may go through the sea on dry ground.
There they would walk on over dry rocks and amongst flapping sea creatures until they reached the island that looked most like the one in her head and they would make it theirs. And so the waters would close behind them. And so they would be free. It seemed so real she knew it must be out there. With His guidance.
Beastings Page 4
