by Ross Raisin
Do you think they’ll tell your mum? I said.
Of course they will.
It was only as we were walking back a short while later, my feet jipping from the bastard shoes, that it came to me maybe that was the reason she’d wanted to go there in the first place, because she’d wanted to get spotted.
♦
I glegged another look at my watch. It was past one in the morning. The barn was peaceable – only the dim wheeze of fat, tired ewes and sometimes the rustle of a babby too full of dander to sleep. She wasn’t coming. I stood up for an inspection tour of the barn, limping some because my toes had blistered from the night before. No matter of that, mind, I was fain pleased the way it had passed off, never mind we only stayed for one drink, or that she’d been quiet walking back, or that Chickenhead would likely be banging the door before long. I kept thinking about the joke with the strawberries. There’d have been more of that, certain, if them two hadn’t shoved in.
Toward the end the barn I marked one of the sheep ligged out between the wall and the back of her pen. She was on her side, breathing fast and heavy into the straw. Each few breaths the whole her body would jerk as she tried to right herself, but she was proper rigwelted and she couldn’t get up. I knelt down by her and touched her head with the pat of my hand. She was shivering, no matter she was hot as coals, and I knew right off it was pneumonia and she hadn’t much wick left. I fetched a blanket and covered her over, then I sat aside and made sure she didn’t throw it off with jerking too violent – she was too far gone for me to do much else besides fettling her comfortable now.
I was sat there with her, when I marked a pair of eyes watching us. Half-hid in the dark of the pen, her babby was looking on, too boggled of me to come out any further. Poor little bugger wasn’t more than a few days old, didn’t understand anything of the world except for where milk comes from, but it knew right well its mother was ailing. Even so stupid an animal as a sheep has a nous for death, and danger, from the day it drops. I went over to scoop it up, and it struggled some against my chest as I carried it to a free pen other side the barn – there wasn’t sense in letting it watch the mother die, and anyhow, it’d need fixing on to another ewe soon enough.
Just as I was carrying the lamb through the barn, the door slid open and she stepped in.
You’re here late, I said.
She came up to me without speaking.
Here. I offered the babby toward her. You fancy holding it?
She took the wriggling lamb and pressed it tight into her. Hello, little man, she said, quiet. There were red patches round her eyes, I marked, owing to the hour.
Sorry, it’s late, I know, she said, talking fast, like she’d spied my thought. Just I saw the light was on and I knew you’d be here and…I don’t have to stay long, obviously, just tell me when you need me to go.
It’s fine, I said, I’m here while six. Stay until you want.
I went to close the door. As I started sliding it shut I noticed there was a blue rucksack just outside, she must’ve brought with her. I set it indoors by the wall and went back and showed her where the pen was, to put the lamb. Then she followed me over to the mother.
She got flowtered when she saw it, and flinched back.
What’s wrong with it?
Pneumonia, I said. I went in closer, and I saw that the ewe had passed off. That was her lamb, you were just holding, but it’ll need a new mother now – this one’s dead.
She walked away. I’d been too rough about it, she hadn’t the habit of seeing death so close up. I came after her. Sorry, I said, but she didn’t seem she was listening. She was at the lamb’s pen, picking it up, then she went to sit on a bale with the babby on her lap. I stood watching her stroke on top the lamb’s head as it bleated and bassocked at her to let go. They have a fair nous for death, sheep do, but they’ve even more nous for not liking being held. I left her at it while I heaved the dead ewe out the barn and lay her in the field, covered with an upshelled wheelbarrow weighted down by an old tyre, making certain it was secure. Father would deal with the body in the morning – probably he wouldn’t want to pay for taking it down the knacker’s, so he’d burn it on the Moors. That was another item I didn’t need to tell her. The stink of scorched flesh seeping into the air, catching on the draft, until the place reeked of death for miles round, turning your innards each time you went outdoors.
I went in the storehouse, where we’d hung up the hides of the dead lambs – four, so far, which wasn’t such a bad loss as other years. I picked the biggest – 14, wrote on it in red pen – and found a pair of scissors. She was still on the bale when I got back, the lamb rested something quieter in her lap now. I sat a distance off from her, for I was worried she’d think it ugly, watching me snip leg-holes in the dead hide, but she was so lost with herself she didn’t even mark what I was doing until a few minutes later. When she did notice I was at something queer she looked over, half-curious, without remarking on it.
It’ll need to wear this now, I said, holding up the skin. Jacketing. It’s to foster the orphans on ewes who’ve lost their own.
She wasn’t much impressed.
It’s best, I said. Sheep are daft articles, you know – the ewe’ll think it’s her own from the smell. And that lamb would die if it wasn’t fostered.
She let me take the lamb from her and I returned to my place, wrapping the jacket over it to measure the other leg-holes. It was a size bigger, the live one, so I had to cut them right in the corners. I pushed the left legs through their holes and clung the hide round tight, stretching until I could slot in the right side legs. It was a snug fit. I let the lamb down and it skiffled about in the straw – what the bugger’s this, then? Haven’t you anything bonnier, a Barbour or something?
The barn was well sorted into rows of pens all numbered up, so it was easy enough to find number 14 and set the lamb aside it. After a while of the lamb bleating outside the door, the ewe poked her head out and they looked on each other. I glegged round to see if she was watching, but it was hard to tell, she was on the bale still and I couldn’t heed where her eyes were focused. The ewe nosed up to the strange creature outside its pen and sniffed at the jacket, while the lamb stood stone-still like a criminal under investigation. I thought for a moment they might not couple, the ewe would cop she was being tricked, but I shouldn’t have worried for next thing she was licking it all over, my babby, my babby, you’re alive, where’ve you been this week past? The lamb seemed happy enough and all, finally getting some attention, it’s grand you’re well again, Mum, and you’ve done with the jerking, but just let me at the teats would you, I’m starved.
They were taken to each other, certain, and as I returned to the bale I thought she’d be pleased but when I got closer I marked she was bluthering. The patches round her eyes had reddened, and the lip was going.
They’re happy, I said. I promise. They don’t know any different.
I know, she said.
Come see – they’re like Darby and Joan over there.
She smiled, she thought I was a proper nimrod – Darby and Joan, who the fuck’s that? She got up though, half-smiling, half-sobbing, mooded like a rainbow.
See, I said, as we both looked down on the ewe feeding its new lamb, but the sight of it made her fill up again and she was soon wiping the tears off her cheek.
I had a big argument with Mum, she said.
That pair told your parents, then?
She nodded. She’d so kill me if she knew I was here now. She thinks I’m on drugs or something. She just doesn’t have a clue about anything.
I hadn’t much of a clue, myself, but I kept that lipped up. She looked me in the face. The hair in front her ears was clagged to her cheeks.
You think I’m such an idiot, she said.
I thought she was a picture, never mind her hair was messed and her skin was damp and red, all I wanted was to touch her. I didn’t need to worry about that, though, for my wish was met soon enough, she was moving
toward me, her hands touching my back, hugging me. There was a damp spot on my neck I realised was her nose, she was breathing in great lungfuls of muck and sweat, but I didn’t care much, I had my own nose pressed on top her head taking in the smell of her hair, I could’ve held her there all night if it wasn’t for my bloody stalk stiffening up down below. I shifted my crotch back so she wouldn’t mark it, putting a hand on her waist, gentle, and even through the coat I could feel how soft the flesh was underneath. She was sobbing into my neck, I patted her on the back with my free hand, then I moved it other side her waist so as I had a grip on her and I could hold her off my loins. I was stiff as a pole by then, else I’d have pulled her in close, don’t worry about Chickenhead, she’s a sour-faced cow, what’s she got to do with us? Nothing, that’s what.
Sam. She pulled off and stood facing me. I’m leaving. I want you to come with me.
A tear dripped off her chin and splashed on the lamb, suckling milk next the edge the pen. It stopped feeding a moment – eh up, it raining, is it? Just as well I’ve this new jacket on, I suppose, then it started up again at the teats.
She wasn’t crying any more, mind. She had a serious face on her, waiting for what I’d say, though I didn’t rightly know what she meant, come with her, she’d left here before when it was this dark, and she hadn’t needed guiding back then.
I’m going across the Moors, she said.
I remembered the rucksack, propped by the door. You’re running away? I said.
Yes. I need you to help me.
♦
The house was mighty quiet, only the muffled sound of Father snoring. I was sure the budgerigars would start chattering and give me up as I snuck upstairs to gather my clothes. They were asleep, though, perched at the top the cage rested against each other, they didn’t even wake when I clicked the kitchen door shut behind me. The queer thing was, it didn’t feel anything strange. It was like we were off on one of our walks, me guiding us along, thinking for something to say, and her keeping silent alongside, lost with herself. The only thing different was the darkness and not being able to see the paths through the heather once we were on the moorland. Unseen scratches and prickles cut at our ankles as we scraffled through, it was like we’d intruded on The Night Assembly of the Hedgehogs. I asked her where she wanted to go to, but she said she didn’t know, and that was all we spoke, so I just led us south, straight across the Moors. It was a champion moon at least, he was something helpful, looking down, guiding us on. I could see all the marks on his face, lit up gradely. You do know you’ll half freeze to death, once you go to sleep, he was saying. But I didn’t even know if she wanted to sleep at all, she might’ve wanted to keep going all night, make some ground before Chickenhead discovered she’d gone. Hmm, well, I recommend you head for some shelter nonetheless, rather than walking all the night – I hear tell from the cows that we’re in for blashy weather tomorrow. They’re never wrong, you know. I just winked up at him. Don’t you worry, Mr Moon, I’ll keep us right, there’s nobody knows the Moors well as I do, but he was ignoring me now, he’d spoke his turn.
She wasn’t mooded to walk through to morning, though, we walked an hour, then she said she was tired, we needed a place to lie down. We carried on until we came to something of a slack in the ground, it wasn’t much shelter, but it was the best we were going to get, and we settled down near each other, covered over with coats and jumpers. I laid awake looking at her back, trying to tell if she was asleep or not, and thinking about the dead sheep under the wheelbarrow, and Chickenhead coming into her room in the morning, seeing the bedsheets all knotted into an escape rope dangling out the window – she’s gone! He’s taken her, it’s that boy, he’s taken her.
∨ Gods Own Country ∧
18
When I woke up, my body felt as if it’d taken the bastard of all brayings. My neck, back and legs were all jipping from stones and heather tangles that’d dug in where I’d laid, and I had an itch on my forehead where I’d rested on my rucksack. I rubbed my finger over the skin-grooves pressed in by the plastic emblem on the front the bag. FORAGER was branded on my head now. I smiled at that. Seemed about right and all – two foragers escaping across the Moors, Chickenhead and Father and the tomato army on us tails, getting closer and closer, until they think they’ve caught us but when they pull back the covering of gorse it’s not us after all, it’s a Trilby with his gun – do be quiet would you, there’s a beauty of a grouse over there and you’ve probably scared her off now, dammit. I sat up and felt the blood flow back into each the aching corners of my body. Forager. I liked that. It could’ve said worse. Bogeyman. Lankenstein. Rapist.
She was still asleep. From the looks of her, it seemed she was laid comfortable, her face was that restful, she might as well have been in her bed slumbered on a great plump pillow with all her teddy bears round her. I stood up and looked back where we’d come. It was a fair distance, considering. Some three miles to the dark horizon at the start the Moors, and a mighty thickness of heather and bracken and jutting rocks we’d stumbled through in the dark. Father would be up by now. He’d not mark I was gone yet, he’d not learn that until midday, when I wouldn’t come into the barn to start my shift, and he’d fetch Mum to go wake me up. She’d knock before she came in, so as not to gleg anything foul I might’ve been doing inside. Then she’d open up and see I wasn’t there, and she’d tidy up the room some before she had to go back down and tell him. Likely she’d think I was on a walk, firstly, until it got to tea and I still wasn’t back and she’d know something was aslew. And the puffy-eyed days would start all over again. Steering clear of Delton, never leaving the house. I’m not to blame meself. It’s not my fault. He came out backward. Best get on with this washing, then.
I didn’t know what would happen once they understood I was gone. All I knew was we had most the day to crack on, and get a start on all of them following us.
We should’ve got going right off, truly, but I didn’t want to wake her, she looked so peaceable, so I just sat looking over the Moors instead and it must’ve been a rabbit running about up ahead, set me off thinking about Sal. I couldn’t have brought her with us, course, there wasn’t question of that, she was too young yet. I wouldn’t have been able to feed her proper and she’d make it easier for them to spot us. It still jarped at me, mind. It was daft but I started worrying she’d think I’d forgot to take her, as if a dog might be pissed at you for something like that, even a sheepdog. Father would likely work her too hard now, because he’d be grum about having to do all the tending of the new flock and not getting time to clad the roof as he’d wanted, she’d probably be an empty sack of an animal like her mother when I got back.
Course, I didn’t know when that would be. Or if she planned coming back, even. She certain didn’t much seem to like what she’d left behind, there was no doubting that. But however long she wanted to hide out on the Moors, that was fine by me, for I knew them well as anyone, a fair portion anyhow, I knew the holes and the forests, the streams, the burial sites, military installations, the lot. They could search all they liked, they’d not find us. We could hide out long enough they forgot about us, or thought we were dead, and then, when it was safe, we could go to the coast and settle usselves – another chip there, dear? Oh, go on, don’t mind if I do – or we could go south to the other end the Moors. To London. To Muswell Hill, sat looking down on the world. Is that Muscle down there, punching that tree? Oh, don’t worry about him, he’s just jealous.
The first I knew about her waking, she was laughing to herself. She was lying there still, but her eyes were open, staring straight up at the sky.
Shit, we really did it, then? she said. Then she started laughing again. Where are we? Do you know?
Glaisdale Moor, I told her. Next one on from Danby. I knew that was where we were because I recognised the tumulus stone up ahead. We’ve come a decent stretch. Three miles, I’d say.
She sat up and scanned round.
What now, do you re
ckon? she said. She had a griming of muck over the side her leg.
Don’t know. Go to London?
She laughed.
Well, I definitely don’t want to turn back, that’s for sure. Let’s just keep going, I say.
♦
I directed us south over Glaisdale, deeper into the Moors. The cows had it wrongways – it was a proper gradely day, not even a smudge of rain cloud off east to the coast. We made some good distance, our rucksacks propped behind us, a person could’ve took us for a pair of ramblers, we were in such spirits, nattering what a fine day it was and spotting for rabbits and grouse skittering through the heather. There were no people about, though, to think that about us, for we were getting too far in.
We kept on, an hour or so, getting slowly higher as the Moors sloped upward, mounting until the tumulus that marked Glaisdale’s highpoint, Flat Howe. We stopped there, and took a viewing round. Further south, as we’d been walking, the vast of pink-brown carried on endless, steeping and slacking, darkening, for twenty miles, but off eastward the land dipped, furrowing into Glaisdale valley and a small beck glinting, dribbling away to the sea.
Shit, Sam, it’s beautiful.
It is, I smiled. Muscle punched his tree.
She took a seat with her back against the stone, and fumbled in her bag a moment, then pulled out a bottle of water and a couple of foil parcels, handing one of them to me as I sat down opposite. A picnic. We were proper ramblers now.
When did you make these? I asked, grinning.
Yesterday. Are they all right?
Gradely, they’re gradely, I said, unwrapping mine.
They were and all. Pork and apple sauce, there were even strips of crackling inside, which had gone something chewy but were tasty no matter. After a couple of mouthfuls, I took the crackling out to eat separate, and I saw she’d done the same, as it wasn’t easy biting through it. They must’ve had a joint yesterday, and this was the leavings. I pictured them up, sat in the kitchen, the dad carving up the meat yammering what a splendid beast she was, while Chickenhead ignored him and the kid slipped spuds under the table to Lionel, parked by his feet.
