by Pam Weaver
‘I haven’t a clue, but if I see him I’ll tell him you were asking,’ Ben offered while shoving his valuables, papers, shaving kit and some clothes into his canvas bag. It was time to take a hike. ‘Be seeing you,’ he waved.
He strode out on the icy road from the village halt with the wind behind his back, pushing him forward. This would be his last jaunt in the hills before he embarked for a new life.
He’d been putting off this return for months, making one excuse to himself after another. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to face all that sadness again. Mirren had straightened herself out without his help but he knew how cunning she could be. Now she lived alone, taking in refugees, who knows what she was getting up to?
He just wanted to know she was OK before he left. There was so much anger at their last parting. She still might hate him but he wanted to know how she was surviving.
There was no mistaking the clouds were gathering into a purple bruise as the first flakes of snow fluttered down on his cheeks. He was glad of his old army coat, and pulled his cap down over his ears. The only way was forward. This wonderful snowy landscape would set him up for the long trek home.
It was good to be alone. ‘“Keep right on to the end of the road,”’ he sang to Harry Lauder’s tune.
The snow was speckled at first, the wind behind and to his side, not in his face. It didn’t slow his pace but as he rose above the first snowline, above the village, onto the Windebank road, higher up he saw that it had been snowing for hours on top of ice. Snowflakes were building up on his shoulders, clinging to his trouser legs.
This was stuff that could build up into towers of snow whipped around into ice-cream cones, freezing limbs in hours. Ben thought about turning back but the track behind him was obliterated in this grey-white swirling blizzard. For the first time he felt uncertain, lost in a once-known landscape. He would have to move forward pretty darn sharpish.
‘What a fine mess you’ve gotten into now,’ he smiled, trying to cheer himself up pretending it was a scene from a Laurel and Hardy film.
Sheep passed him like walking snowballs. They would make their way to shelter. He snatched at the hope that the stone walls would lead to some barn.
It was the patchwork of handmade walls that always fascinated him about the landscape on his first visit; each wall crisscrossing the dales over the tops. The barns were squat and square, and plenty of them, thank goodness!
Where there were sheep, surely there would be shepherds or farm buildings, but in the dwindling light there was nothing.
He plodded on over ever-deepening snow, lifting boots that felt like leaden weights. He worked his legs like machines, keep moving, following the sheep tracks onwards and downwards. They would know where to shelter.
The sheep were suspicious of a stranger in their midst. He hoped some of them knew his scent but it was so long since he was here. Don’t stop now, keep moving, he thought. His duffel bag was topped with snow. It was easier to drag it behind him to leave some trail of his presence.
His coat was frozen like a cardboard crinoline and the wind stuck his cords to his skin. A weariness was overtaking him. He was lost. He was doomed unless he found somewhere soon.
Now came the battle against the wind to stay upright. It felt like trekking through a dense jungle, pushing his limbs through snowdrifts, trying to feel for the stone walls, which were fast disappearing. His eyes were tired from squinting at the whiteness. His fingers ached with the cold. He had fingerless mitts. His leather gloves were in his case. His cap was useless but he tied his tie over the top to rope it to his head. He must not lose more heat.
There was not a soul to be seen. No one in their right mind would venture out in this wilderness. Everything must fend for itself in this icy blast. The urge to lie down and rest was getting stronger and he knew that he must fight the impulse.
What a crazy stupid fool he was to leave the comfort of a train for this endurance test. When would he ever learn? He had no power over the wild spirits of these hills. He was at their mercy. How frail was the human body against such an onslaught; how quickly the elements can ravage skin and bone.
How many sheep carcasses had he dug out, frozen into grotesque shapes, blackened by frost. It took them hours to hack away the earth for makeshift graves. He knew what frostbite could do to limbs and faces.
There was no one to blame but himself if he died out here, alone like a wounded animal. No one but the porter knew he was on the road. They would all be tucked up safe for the night. Was this to be his last resting place, stuck in some ditch in the drowsy slow sleep of death? Like hell it was! If only he could find the old bunker, the foxhole they’d built by World’s End, but it would be suicide to try to get up there. It was too high up.
Was this his reward for an impulse to say goodbye to his family, an impulse to follow a crazy voice in his head?
Death would be peaceful, lying on a downy pillow, cushioned suddenly warm as the frostbite took hold. He had heard how men dropped down, convinced they were fine when they were dying. He could see the beauty even as he struggled against it, the wind whipping the drifts into ripples like the ridges of a Marcel wave on a silver head of hair.
He could hear the bleating of sheep gathering together, more afraid of him than the weather. There was an owl hooting. Where there were owls there must be trees, a copse, some shelter, perhaps? He strained to hear it again but there was only silence.
He knew these moors blindfold and he wasn’t going to peg out in a snowdrift. Get digging, Ben, make a shelter, keep your limbs moving, make an igloo, a cocoon, and wait for rescue. Pray yourself out of this mess. He was not ready to meet his Maker yet. He was too angry to pray and his anger was the only thing that might keep him alive. In his anger he would dig himself a snow house.
When it was done he sat upright, rigid, afraid to sleep or sink back into his bivouac beside a wall, numb fingers unable to open the cigarette case or burn the lighter fuel, resigned to his fate.
Then he remembered the whisky in his bag, a present for Uncle Tom. He had put it aside as a thank you. He managed to use all of his hands to fish in the canvas sack. The bottle was wrapped inside some socks. His fingers were too numb to open the top so he smashed the neck of the bottle against the stone wall and let the burning liquid trickle down his throat, reviving his spirits. At least he would pass out happy.
When your time came it came, he reasoned, but not here, on home ground with the safety of a bunker somewhere close by. It was too ridiculous for words. Yet he could sense death creeping towards him, black cowled with a stick, a light drawing ever closer. His eyelids were heavy, his arms useless. There was no more fight left in him.
Mirren couldn’t settle to her mending, prowling round the kitchen, biting on her chunk of toast, restless, opening the door to check the weather. The storm blowing in from the north was abating now. How could she settle when there were still sheep out on the moor, stragglers ravaged by a wet spring and autumn, poor hay and weak lambs that hadn’t thrived as they should? What if Florrie was caught halfway home in the storm like George Pye?
She sensed a gruff voice nagging her, tugging her away from the fireside. It was her father’s voice with a lilt. He always had an instinct for trouble when he was sober. He could read the wind and the skies better than any weatherglass. Surely Florrie wouldn’t be so daft as to walk up? Yet she was uneasy.
‘Damn and blast it! Come on, Jet. We’ll happen check down to the lane end before it’s overblown, just in case,’ she called, dragging the greatcoat from the pulley and pulling on a cap, fixing one of the sack hoods over her shoulders like a monk. She lit the storm lantern and faced the polar wilderness outside, holding a prodding stick.
‘I’m not afraid of you,’ she muttered to the sky, but her voice was trembling knowing she must beat a path through the storm. Snowfall might look like falling stars but it was treacherous, a fickle friend flattering, disguising the familiar.
Snow could stop armies in the
ir tracks, beggar a poor farmer overnight, and snow could torture and kill. One false move and you were done for.
The fields were smoking with white powder. Icy particles whipped up from the drifts stung her eyes. The sky was clear, frost clear as the wind dropped for a few minutes.
Only the loose snow danced in front of them. She knew the best bield for the sheep, the favourite walls where they would shelter out of the northeasterly, waiting bunched up for rescue, their fleeces sometimes frozen together.
Jet scampered ahead, drowning in the drifts. He was not the sharpest working dog, an average collie with sheep, but in snowdrifts he was a maestro. He could make mischief but he could nose out trouble with the best. He wasn’t a setter, sitting on his finding, waiting for instructions, like an obellient gundog. He would be in there scrambling and scratching to get at his discovery.
He was up in the corner as usual, scrabbling about as Mirren felt for the horns of the sheep and yanked its face into the air pulling it free, releasing the reluctant beast from its icy grave.
‘Good lad!’ she smiled. It was hard lifting them out of danger, but satisfying. Jet was in his element. He liked praise and she was glad of his company. If this was a serious blow-in it would mean foddering three times a day with the sledge into the fields, making sure her food and fuel lasted until supplies could be delivered again. She could last a week, two, three at most, but the thought of no help at hand was daunting. Surely the snow diggers would cut open the roads at daybreak?
‘When the snow falls dry it means to lie’ went the old saying, and this was powder fine on top of ice. She could not rid herself of an uneasy feeling and turned back on their footings towards the safety of the house.
The scene looked as beautiful as a Christmas card, complete with glitter, but it hid a coldness and cruelty. She would be living alone in a snow house like the Snow Queen with icicles in her heart, fast in, cut off at the mercy of the weather. She would just have to stomach it.
She whistled for Jet but he didn’t come. She whistled and cursed the disobellient mutt. In the brightness of the snow she could just make him out scrabbling in another drift. He was only doing his duty and the sheep would need all the help they could get to survive this spell.
She stumbled across the drifts, numb with cold, aching to go back to the warmth of her peat fire and mug of Bovril. This ‘Miriam of the Dale’ stuff was a bit too much and she was tiring. The dog was still scrabbling away, tail wagging with excitement.
‘Let’s be having you!’ she muttered under her breath, burying her hands to fish for more horns. She could feel something rough but soft to her touch, but it wasn’t fleece. She parted the snow and shone the lantern into the snow. In her hand was a piece of khaki woollen cloth. In her hand was the hem of a coat.
There was no time to lose. Her heart lurched as more of the fabric came into view. She scrabbled alongside the black and white collie, sick with the knowledge that this was how Farmer Pye was found, frozen in the ditch without any signs of life.
‘Not again.’ She urged her hands to brush aside the cocoon in which the body was trapped. How long had the poor soul been stuck fast? How was she going to drag a dead weight back into the farm? How was she going to wake the dead? This was not fair, this terrible reminder of her own journey as a child. She had to do something.
At least this man had had sense enough to shelter by a wall and make some bield for himself. His face was wrapped up in a scarf, in a pocket of air. He’d done his best to stay alive but it must be too late now. Then she saw the whisky bottle and smelled the liquor. The aroma hit her like a blow, taking her back to those terrible scenes in her head and the shame. The bottle was empty, thank God!
Not another drunken sot? Not another capurtled fool wandering over hill and dale out of his wits? When do we ever learn?
She was used to tramps and bog trotters on the moors, calling at all farmhouse doors for handouts. Sometimes when it was harsh she would let them kip down in the hay barn for the night but not before she searched their pockets for matches just in case.
There were good tramps and rogues, war-scarred veterans and lazy deserters. This one looked fresh-faced, with no matted beard and foul-smelling clothes, younger than most of her visitors.
‘What am I going to do with him? I can’t have him in the house. I don’t think I could drag him there. He’s a big man. What’s he doing stuck out here at this time of night?’
She often talked to herself. It was Paddy Gilchrist’s nagging spirit that had brought her out here with the dog. His prompting might yet save this man’s life.
The tramp’s sandy hair was matted with ice. There was something about him she recognised. The face was clean shaven, the bit she could see was handsome enough and he was still breathing. She bent close to check his breath as his eyes flickered for a second, blue eyes fringed with frosted sandy lashes. He muttered something incoherent in what she took to be a foreign language so she bent down closer, smelling the whisky on his frozen lips. There was no time to judge his stupidity. She must treat him like a frozen beast and revive him as best she could.
She rubbed his arms with vigour to get warmth into them, but straw, hot water and blankets were what were needed now, with sweet tea and hot-water bottles. She had to get him on his feet before his limbs froze for ever, but how?
‘Oh, give me strength to lift him, to rouse him from his stupor. He has to help himself or he is lost.
‘Stay by, Jet. Stay.’ She ordered the dog to sit across his body, tearing off her sacking to cover them both, leaping in panic back over their footings. She must go to bring the sled and harness the cart horse but then she remembered the barn door was fast with snow. The muffled man would die of cold long before she reached him.
There was nothing for it but to drag him to his feet. He had to get his own limbs going, get the circulation back into his frozen body. He had to help himself.
Every second seemed to be in slow motion as she tugged and tugged at his frozen coat to release him from the snowdrift.
‘Get up! Get up. You are not far from the house,’ she cajoled him out of his stupor. ‘Come on, last lap. Wakey, wakey! You’ve got to help me. I can’t drag you. You’ve got to work your legs!’ she shouted in his ear.
He opened his eyes through the slit in his frozen scarf like a drunken man, not taking in her words and yet searching her face with his eyes, unable to form words with his lips. She was rubbing his hands. It was going to hurt like hell once his numbness wore off. She had to get him into the kitchen to thaw out.
From somewhere outside of herself she felt the strength flooding into her tired body, sap rising up in a spurt of energy to get him sitting upright, pulling him on his feet, but his legs were rigid and he was going to fall.
He groaned and cried out in protest but she felt angry with frustration as to why this drunken stranger had to stray onto her land, interrupting her peaceful evening and demanding such attention.
‘Lean on me,’ she ordered gruffly, thinking about a sack of coal stuck on her back. At least her shoulders were used to heaving burdens. She would drag him behind her, bent double with the effort, but they would get to that fixed point where she placed the storm lantern to light their path home. She would rest and put the lantern ahead again, and drag him to the next fixed point until the outline of the whitened farmhouse came into view.
Slowly they edged ever closer to the farmyard, but there was a gate to open; a gate blown over with snowdrifts. The snow was beginning to fall again and soon there would be another blow-in. The last yards would be the worst if he didn’t help himself. She could feel the cold seeping into her body.
Then she remembered the cripple hole, the gap in the stone wall where the sheep could run from one field to another. If she could only drag him through the wall, but it would be blocked by now. The gate would never open. The wind was rising and whipping the snow. She could see only six feet in front of her but nothing was going to distract her from one last effort
. Her shoulders were on fire with the effort.
‘What do I do now?’ she cried into the wind. To be so near and yet so far from safety…Suddenly the wind dropped and the clouds parted for a few seconds. The moon shone down, torching a path. The snow was piled so high by the farm gate that it was right over the stone wall, built up, freezing hard, a ready-made slope for her to cross over and down into the farmyard.
There was no time for gratitude, only to seize the moment; one last dragging, pushing effort. She crawled up herself and then dragged him like a sledge down the slope, laying him with relief on the snow.
‘Come on, nearly there,’ she shouted yanking his arm.
He made one supreme effort to stagger to his feet, his arms clinging across her chest. Together they staggered to the door already covered with thick snow, but after all she had been through kicking a path into the kitchen was nothing at all.
The warmth and light of the room hit them both. She had never been so glad in all her life to see the flag floors and kitchen fire. She smelled the peaty smoke with relish.
‘We’ve made it,’ she cried, but now the real rescue job would begin in earnest.
He was already prostrate on the floor, exhausted, disorientated and fevered. She was going to have her work cut out to save his hands and feet from permanent damage. Stripping off his greatcoat and army jacket, she found underneath a woollen shirt and thick vest. These layers must have saved his life.
They were not the clothes of a vagrant unless they were stolen from a washing line. There was a mixture of tweeds. Around his neck and face was the frozen scarf masking his face. She would have to peel it off with care or it would rip off his skin.
She was curious now. She examined him like a carcass. He was well muscled and well fed but on the thin side and very tall. Everything that was dry and warm must be piled on top of him. He needed thawing out by the range like a frozen sheep. She smiled to herself, thinking of the tune from Messiah, ‘All we like sheep have gone astray,’ and thought of Sylvie’s birth in the vestry when she was young and full of hope.
