Dad stopped walking and me and Jon came to a halt behind him. We stood waiting, watching his back … Eventually Jon spoke. He asked the question I wanted to ask: ‘How did he die?’
Dad turned and looked from Jon to me and back to Jon again.
‘He had tripped on a tree root and fallen onto the stump of a young birch tree. The stump punctured his heart and killed him. We didn’t know that at the time though. We just knew there was a lot of blood and he was dead. Chris said he would go and get help. He told me to wait with Doug. I remember thinking two things simultaneously: why do I have to wait here and how are they going to help? But then I saw the look on Chris’s face. He was terrified, and already backing away. I could see his legs were wet and he followed my eyes down and saw what’d happened. He looked ashamed. I told him not to be daft. He took his T-shirt off, rubbed his legs dry, threw it away and ran off, nearly falling over as he set off. I didn’t know what to do. I sat down away from Doug with my back against a tree but that seemed disrespectful somehow, so I moved closer and sat cross-legged next to him but that felt strange, I was too close so … I stood up … and waited for them to come.’
The clearing
We walked on in silence for a few minutes. My dad noticed the quiet, he cleared his throat and laughed. ‘So think on, no running in heavily wooded areas, watch your step.’ We nodded and kept our eyes fixed on the forest floor, stepping carefully over roots and searching out any tree stumps. Five minutes later he came to a stop and nodded ahead. We could see a clearing through the trees, straight ahead. The forest had been tightly packed all the time we’d been walking. If one of us had run off in any direction we would have disappeared from sight within a few seconds. This was the first bit of open space we had come across. It was a find. We walked forward, out of the gloom and into the bright light of the open space. It was almost perfectly round, like someone had drawn around a giant glass rim and cut out all the trees. The mist had cleared and we were suddenly underneath a big, bright September sky. Jon walked to the middle of the clearing, looked around at the surrounding trees and leant back till he almost fell over. He looked up at the sky and said, ‘Perfect.’
‘It is,’ my dad agreed, ‘but logistically … a bloody nightmare.’
He sat down with his back to a tree and passed the water around again. He explained how he thought it would work. He would make the carving in pieces, assemble it together at the house and make sure everything fitted. He would then take it apart and bring the pieces here one by one. He would keep them under tarpaulin and, when they were all delivered, put them back together in the clearing. ‘I reckon I’ve got a few weeks of good weather left.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘An Indian summer they say.’
I asked if people would ever find it here and he told me that didn’t really matter. ‘We’ll know it’s here and every now and again someone will stumble across it. I’m not sure they’ll ever be able to find it again though. I had to makes notes after I found this place and even then, at one point I thought I’d never see it again. I struggled the first couple of times I came back. But that’s the beauty. They may even begin to doubt it was ever here. You know, a couple of people see it, tell their friends, they never find it, it could become an urban myth … in a forest …’ He laughed and asked if we were ready to head home. He consulted his notes for a few seconds and then we stepped back into the dark forest and stumbled and slipped our way back to the car. We drove back through Duerdale and a lazy Sunday morning with people walking dogs and picking up newspapers. We dropped Jon off at the end of his track and were back at the house by mid-morning. Just the time I would normally be getting up on a Sunday. Shattered, I crawled into bed and quickly fell asleep.
New trainers
It was the next Saturday afternoon and I was sat in the kitchen with Jon. We were talking about Doug Bannister and what a horrible way it was to die, puncturing your heart on a tree stump alone in a wood. We wondered if he would have died instantly or if he slowly bled to death shouting out for help. I wondered if there was a moment when he realised that was it: he really was dying and he’d lived all the life he was going to live. I tried to imagine how that would feel but it’s impossible. How can you know how you will feel seconds before you die? You hear that a peace descends and there is a light at the end of a tunnel and heavenly music playing and crap like that. I think that’s a trick. A lie spread to keep people calm. Like when the doctor says it won’t hurt, so you relax, and then he jams the massive needle into your arm and you aren’t struggling because the pain takes you by surprise. I think watching death coming to get you must be the most terrifying thing in the world. You are about to come to a stop and everything else around you is going to carry on. And let’s be honest, all these people who talk about the beautiful experience and the twinkling lights, well they don’t actually die in the end do they, so why would anyone listen to them? Give me a dead man’s account and then I’ll start to take notice. I thought of my mum, one second singing along to the radio and the next gone. If it did happen like that, in a split second, like they said at the inquest, then that was a good thing. No terror, no pain, just driving along and then nothing. Blam. It should just have been a split second sixty years later that’s all.
We’d been sat quietly for a few minutes when Jon broke the silence. He pointed at the open shoebox sat in the middle of the table and said, ‘New trainers.’ My dad had bought me them in town that morning and they were in their box, on the kitchen table. They were a bright white with green soles and green trims. They looked good. I wasn’t sure if he could really afford them but he’d got the idea into his head that he wanted to buy me something and he’d almost dragged me into town and made me choose. ‘Anything you want, what do you need? Music? Paint? Clothes?’ I didn’t need anything but he seemed excited to be treating me and we were stood outside the sports shop so trainers seemed the obvious solution. I tried to find a cheap pair but he kept steering me towards the new ranges. He asked which I would choose if money were no object, if we’d won the lottery. So I thought sod it and was honest and pointed to the white and green trainers sat in the middle of the display in the window. They were too expensive but he made me try them on anyway, squeezed my big toes to check they fitted, and told the shop assistant we would take them.
Jon reached across and took one of the shoes from the box and passed it from hand to hand. ‘Light, aren’t they?’ he said. He brought it up to his nose and inhaled. ‘Smells good.’ He tucked it back in the box carefully. I told him to try them on. He shook his head. He didn’t want to, he said; they were brand new. I shrugged and told him that I wasn’t bothered. After a bit more persuading he pulled off his old, battered, brown shoes and slipped his feet into the trainers, carefully threaded the laces and tied them up. He tied each foot firmly, straightened the tongues and looked up at me, unsure what to do next. I told him to give them a run around. He stood up and walked a few stiff steps towards the kitchen door. He stopped, turned around, looked at me and said, ‘It’s like wearing moon boots!’ He walked around the kitchen table a couple of times, getting used to the feel of the trainers on his feet. They were two sizes too big for him but it didn’t matter. He broke into big, bounding strides, like he was jumping from dry land to dry land. Then he hopped on his left foot in a clockwise direction around the table, and swapped to his right and came back the other way. He looked at me with a wide grin and said, ‘These are brilliant!’
At that moment the neurons fizzed and popped in my brain and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. I told Jon to follow me upstairs. I rummaged through my wardrobe, chucking jeans, T-shirts, shirts and jumpers onto the bed. I even found a pair of trainers and put them on the pile. Everything was in pretty good condition; I’d had a growth spurt shortly after me and Mum had bought most of this stuff and none of it had been worn much at all. Jon sat on the bed, mainly ignoring me, his focus still on the green and white trainers on his feet. When I found everything I thought was too smal
l for me but not too big for Jon I pushed the pile over to him and told him he could have them, that they were no good to me any more. He looked at me like I was insane and shook his head and said no, he couldn’t have them. I told him that it wasn’t a big deal, that it was just old clothes. It took a while to convince him that I was sure, and no, my dad really wouldn’t mind, that he wouldn’t even notice. And then Jon began to relax. He spent the rest of the afternoon trying the clothes on in different combinations and grinning at himself in the mirror.
Lithium
My mum finally got properly diagnosed after the apples-and-oranges incident. She was told she suffered from bipolar disorder and was prescribed lithium to help control her manic episodes. She said the lithium helped; it kept her stable and stopped her getting ahead of herself. Dad had taken her to the doctor a few times before, but she always went reluctantly and we later found out she never told the doctor the full extent of her symptoms. She was only ever diagnosed with stress and panic attacks and given a booklet on relaxation techniques and some beta-blockers.
Everything changed when Dad got a phone call from the police saying that they had Mum down at the station. She hadn’t been arrested but it was important that he came in for a chat with them. He bundled me into the car and drove faster than I’d seen him drive. He flung the car to a stop right outside the police station and told me to wait where I was. He strode up the steps and banged through the doors. I sat in the cold car, watching my breath mist up the windows and wondered what was going on inside.
I found out later that the police had been called to the High Street where they’d found Mum handing out apples and oranges to passers-by. She’d bought cases of them from a local organic dealer and was stopping people as they passed and lecturing them on the nutrients and vitamins contained in fruit and how important it was to feed the body and brain with the right kind of food. She was preaching about how supermarkets fly in apples from America even though we have wonderful apples in our own orchards. ‘Think about your carbon footprint,’ she told them and took a big bite from a red apple. She was quite insistent, trying to push the fruit in people’s pockets if they just walked past and it was obvious that something was wrong. One of the local shopkeepers had tried to calm her, made her a cup of tea and told her to come in and sit down. When she brushed him away and carried on as frantically as before he rang the police. The police told my dad that she had scared some people, that her manner had been intense. They said she needed to see a doctor. Dad knew that; he’d been trying to get her help for ages. This time, Mum agreed.
As usual, the next day she was the opposite of how she had been only a few hours before. She looked exhausted as Dad helped her into the car. She was dressed in a big jumper and jeans and looked as slow and frail as an old woman. Dad went in with her to see the doctor. The doctor asked Mum what the problem was and she told him everything. It took twenty minutes. The doctor nodded a lot and made little scribbles on his pad. When Mum had finished and sunk low into the chair Dr Hanson told her that she displayed all the symptoms of bipolar disorder. He said he would like to send her to a special clinic that deals with the illness but there was a waiting list of eighteen months. So he sent her back to us with a suitcase of drugs and strict instructions to rest. He made sure that Mum went back to see him every two weeks though, to monitor how she was feeling and to see if they needed to change the prescription.
Word had got out and travelled around the school and by the next day everyone was talking about the mental apples-and-oranges woman. Nobody mentioned it to me, but I heard conversations fall suddenly quiet as I walked past and I got a lot more looks than usual and my friend Ian got in a fight at lunch but wouldn’t tell me why. Dad sat me down that night and told me he was sorry if Mum’s behaviour had caused me any problems or embarrassment at school but it was just something we would have to deal with. I told him not to worry, that if anyone said anything I’d tell them to fuck off. He laughed and told me that I had the right idea.
Things did get gradually better but the lithium was no magic cure. It was no magic pill that solved all Mum’s problems. The dose was too high at first and she was almost sedated; she was like a zombie. She found it hard to keep track of conversation and her sentences would trail off before they were finished. The doctor reduced the prescription and in the end it did work. She was calmer and more balanced but sometimes she seemed sad. I asked her once what the lithium was like and she said it was a necessary evil. She said that it made her feel like she’d been driven to a spectacular view on top of a cliff but told she must stay in the car so she couldn’t feel the wind and couldn’t smell the sea. And it made her mouth taste metallic and she had been sick in public a couple of times, which was embarrassing, but it did stop her speeding up and spinning out of control.
She told me, ‘I do miss the thrill though, the excitement and the feelings I had before. It really did feel like anything was possible and now everything just seems a little flat.’ She gave me a hug and said, ‘Still it’s better than being the mental fruit lady, isn’t it?’
A wonderful artist/Slack Jaw
The last few days of the holidays sped past faster than I thought possible and I tried to prepare myself for school. I realised, though, that it isn’t something you can prepare for and I just spent the time nervous and irritable and not hungry. And when the first school day dawned the weather matched my mood. The town was cowering under black clouds that lagged so low they almost rested on rooftops. The wind swung into the surrounding hills and bounced back into town with more energy than before, like a fly in a war with a window. The gusts brought the cold hill rain back down from the fells and into the narrow streets and water shot at random angles, striking people in their faces and shooting up their sleeves.
Dad drove me down into town and stopped a sensible distance from the school despite the weather. We’d agreed that he would drive me to school in the mornings and I would get the bus back at the end of the day. That way he would be back at the house before nine o’clock and would be able to work right through until the evening. I was surprised to find that there was a bus that ran out past our house but Jon said that the council had to provide it for children who lived in rural areas. He said that it was called the sheepshaggers’ express and that he’d always been the last person on the bus, but now that would be me.
Dad wished me luck and I climbed out of the car in my horribly new uniform and braced myself against the weather. I walked towards the school gates as kids shot past me as fast as the rain, shouting and squealing, running to get indoors, to get out of the weather, excited to be back at school. I did as the letter instructed and found my way to the school office and reported my presence. The lady behind the glass screen cocked her head and smiled and told me that I was the only new starter in my year and they were pleased to have me. She took my letter and told me to go and wait in reception and my form teacher would come and collect me. She told me that I had Mr Hartley and I shouldn’t worry because he was lovely. I wanted to tell her that I didn’t give a toss how lovely Mr Hartley was but she was too nice to upset so I tried to smile and look less like a thunderstorm. I pushed my way back to the reception through throngs of kids pouring through the corridors. I was aware of eyes on me. From head to toe. Assessing. Calculating. Considering. But I couldn’t blame them. There’s something obvious about a new kid that you can spot a mile off and you just have to look. Everything about them gives them away and there are so many clues. The shiny new uniform, itchy and unworn. The tie, knotted like kids did at your old school but not how it’s done here. The walk, trying to convey confidence and calm and ending up nowhere near either. It probably would be easier to give all new kids a siren that you strap on your head for the first day and get it over with.
I was only waiting a couple of minutes before Mr Hartley swept into reception and dragged me off. He walked quickly down corridors and up and down stairs and spent the time telling me how refreshing it was to have a new pupil to work wit
h, how he hoped I would enjoy my time at Duerdale High and make the most of all the opportunities presented to me. He swept around one last corner and we arrived: Room 19, turquoise blue door. He paused for dramatic effect, did a mock-horror face and then swung the door open and wheeled me to the front of the classroom. He shouted for quiet and when the noise eventually tapered into silence he rested his hands on my shoulders.
‘This is our new pupil, a Mr Luke Redridge.’
Thirty-two faces stared at me.
‘And I hear on the grapevine that he is, and I quote, a wonderful artist, so let’s make him feel very welcome!’
My heart sank and right on cue one of the boys at the back of the class coughed out ‘Ponce!’ which raised a few laughs and I forced a smile to try and show that I didn’t take myself too seriously. I was shown my seat and given my timetable and saw that I had to survive Science, English, French and Geography before I was released for the day. The bell rang and Mr Hartley told Leanne Cunliffe to make sure I knew where I was going and then strode out of the room. Leanne Cunliffe looked at me, picked up her bag and walked off. I followed, five steps behind, hoping that she was on her way to the Science lab too. For the rest of the morning the other teachers barely seemed to notice that they had a new pupil. They hunted out textbooks and exercise books, told me to find a seat and tried to hide the fact they were miserable to be back at work.
I was in the same year as Jon but not the same classes and I spent most of the first day on the lookout for him. We couldn’t even meet at lunch because I got sent to the office to fill in a bunch of forms about next of kin, emergency contacts, school trips and allergies. It was strange to only write Dad’s name on each sheet and when I handed the forms back they seemed only half finished and incomplete and I thought I might get told to do them again. I didn’t see Jon at all until just before the last lesson. I was walking down the main school corridor, along with loads of other kids, and I could see, further ahead, the back of a familiar head bobbing along. I tried to catch up with him but it was hard work trying to push past the groups of kids flooding my way and I never did get to him. But I did see what happened. And it explained his silences. As he passed one group of older kids, a stray leg kicked out and got him on the shin. When he passed the next group he got an elbow in his side, and just before he disappeared around the corner and out of sight he got a quick slap to the back of his head. And it only took a few minutes into my next lesson to learn the name Jon was commonly known as. A big, greasy-skinned kid called Kieran Judd leant across my desk and asked me, ‘Do you live on the fell with that weird kid, that spastic kid? Slack Jaw Jon?’
Luke and Jon Page 7