So it was mainly me and Dad and our irritation and anxiety. One afternoon he must have got fed up with my fixed face of misery and he told me to run to the other side of the fell or something. And although I don’t think he actually meant it, I did run to the other side of the fell. And then down to the bottom. And then I got lost.
I’m not supposed to like sport. I’m a painter, an artist, and the two shouldn’t really mix. And I don’t like it much really; I can’t stand games like football where someone on your own team shouts at you if you don’t tackle hard enough. Or they get moody if you don’t score when it’s an easy chance. I’m exactly the kind of person who won’t tackle hard enough or score when it’s an easy chance. Running though is different. Unlike my dad I can’t claim to be any good; I’m as bad at it as I am at every other sport, but I didn’t mind the two times a year when we didn’t play football and got sent on a cross-country run. Everyone else hated it, grumbled and moaned and pleaded with Mr Chisholm. I didn’t care. At least nobody was going to kick me or shout at me.
I saw that it was pouring but I wasn’t too bothered. I thought that might help with the stuffiness, it might help wash it away. I hunted down my sports kit and found it in the corner of my school bag. It hadn’t been washed since the last time we’d had games and the green top and black shorts were melded together with dry mud that turned to dust when I tore them apart. I pulled them on anyway. They felt itchy and damp but it didn’t matter. I would be as wet as a river in seconds anyway. I know the value in warming up and stretching, we get told every week at school, but I thought that running up and down the fell would warm me up well enough. And I was losing my spark of enthusiasm for the idea, so I did about three and a half star jumps, pushed open the back door and ran head first into the cold rain.
After about five minutes I nearly turned around and ran straight back. The wind was walloping sheets of rain into my face and I could hardly open my eyes to see. It was an icy-cold wind and it whipped blasts at my thighs and face. My face was numb and I couldn’t feel the snot that flooded from my nose and over my lips. My hands were too cold to pull into fists and they were red raw and useless and struggled to open gates. The first part of the climb was too steep to run up properly and for the most part I scrambled up the fell, my hands touching the ground almost as much as my feet – a mountain goat without the sure-footedness. Finally I was on top of the fell and the ground flattened out. I passed the cairn, picked up speed and was actually running for the first time. I almost started to enjoy myself. The wind came in gusts from different directions, sometimes pushing me too fast ahead, my legs windmilling to keep up, sometimes a blast from the side and I wouldn’t be running along the track any more but jumping through the heather and bracken, trying not to twist an ankle, trying to get back on course. I got a stitch just below my left ribcage. Sharp and hard, stabbing, like a needle was stuck inside. I didn’t stop though. I ran at the pain. Head down, legs pumping. It was impossible to get any wetter or dirtier and I was heaving breaths in through my mouth, trying to get as much air as possible into my raw lungs. Snot was running down my face now as fast as I could wipe it away and I must have looked a mess. I wasn’t feeling stuffy any more though. Sick, aching, numb and shattered, but not stuffy. And I discovered something that helped me focus, helped me keep going when I thought I might have to stop. I pictured a black rectangle with a red circle in the centre. And what I did was to concentrate on the red circle and poured all the pain and tiredness and breathlessness into it. Everything thrown at me: the wind, the rain, the almost vertical climbs, the loose rocks and the twisted ankles all went into the red circle. And I kept going. In half an hour I was at the far end of the fell, further than I’d ever been, and looking down onto towns and villages that I could only guess the names of. I allowed myself to stop and tried to grab some deep breaths of air from the wind. Even that wasn’t easy. The wind dangled fresh air in front of my nose for a second before another gust stole it away, leaving me gasping in a vacuum. I rested my hands on my knees, tried to blow my nose clear and tried to recover. If I’d been feeling less frustrated and fed up I would have turned round and started making my way back home; darkness was edging itself into the corners of sky. But after a five-minute rest, I looked down at the sharp descent, let the muscles in my legs loosen, and legged it down the far side of the fell. I was enjoying the struggle.
Iron and fire
I discovered that it falls very dark very quickly on a fell in winter. By the time I got to the bottom of the other side it was dusk. Trees in the field ahead looked smudged and inky. Five minutes later everything was black. I didn’t want to risk making the climb back up the fell in the dark so I would have to try and find a way around. I had vague memories of Jon talking about this side of the fell and I thought if I headed left I would eventually come to a small road that would lead me back to the main road and finally our house. It would take for ever, but it would be safer. I never did find a road though. After twenty minutes of running and falling through black fields I gave up. I considered my situation. I was on the wrong side of the fell, in the pitch black, in the rain, in my shorts. I started to shiver. I turned full circle on the spot and saw my only option. Twinkling lights three fields away. I hoped it was a farmhouse. I hoped they had a phone. I headed for the lights as quickly as I could on my cold and wobbly legs.
Normally I would hesitate at knocking on a stranger’s door and asking for favours but I was in no position to be to embarrassed or shy. I banged my frozen fist against the door as hard as the pain would let me. My teeth started to chatter. A white-haired man pulled the door open wide and stood tall and solid in front of me, unfazed by the wind that ruffled his beard and shot past us both and into his house. I explained, as best I could through the shivering, that I was lost and asked if I could use his phone. He stood aside and let me in. He didn’t seem surprised that a bedraggled boy in his dirty and wet school sports kit had just knocked on his door in the middle of nowhere half an hour after dusk. He told me to sit by the fire first, to get warmed up, and went to get me a towel. I sat on the edge of a dark leathery chair with a towel wrapped round my shoulders and held my hands out towards the orange and red coals. When my mouth calmed down enough for me to speak I told the white-haired man that my name was Luke Redridge, that I lived over the other side of Bowland Fell. He said, ‘Pleased to meet you, Luke Redridge’, and carried on reading his newspaper. When he could see I’d warmed up enough he took me through to his phone and I attempted to dial. It was an ancient phone. You had to put your finger in a little hole above the number and pull the dial as far as it would go to the right. Then you had to wait for the dial to spin back to where it started from before you could start with the next number. It took about twenty minutes to get to the end of our number. Finally it started ringing and thank God Dad was home. I asked if he could pick me up and he asked where I was. I put my hand over the receiver and asked the man where we were. He took the phone from me and gave Dad directions. Two cups of tea later I heard the Volvo pull up outside. I took a last swig and thanked the man for everything. He told me any time and didn’t get up. I found my way back out of the house, walked out to the car and climbed in. As I pulled my seatbelt over, Dad asked if I felt better now. I nodded and said I definitely did. I told him I felt pretty good. He asked if I’d learnt anything and I said I had. If you have freezing-cold fingers, so cold you can’t feel them any more, don’t shove them in front of a burning-hot fire. It feels like your bones have turned to iron and are trying to tear their way out from underneath your skin.
Scattering ashes
It was the Thursday of the hearing and bloody early when Dad dragged me out of bed. He’d told me what job we had to do and I wouldn’t say I was looking forward to it exactly but I was pleased it was finally being done. We were off to the coast with Mum’s ashes and we were going out in a boat to scatter them at sea. Dad said it was important that we said goodbye to her in our own way, on our own terms, not in a courtro
om with a bunch of strangers.
We picked Jon up in the middle of town. It might seem a strange trip to take him on but it was agreed that he must come when I told him what we had planned and he said that he’d never seen the sea before. I thought about some of the facts he’d told me over the last few months – that the Pacific Ocean occupies a third of the world’s surface and covers more space than all the land put together. He told me that if you dropped Mount Everest into the Marianas Trench (the deepest part of the sea) its tip would still be covered by a mile of water. I thought about how awed he was by the idea of the sea and I hoped he wasn’t going to be disappointed with a few square miles of the grey Irish Sea on an unremarkable winter’s day.
Dad had spoken to people at various markets and made a few calls and eventually found a retired fisherman called Norman Hindle. Norman lived in Oakholme, a small coast town about an hour to the north and west of us. He said he would be happy to take us out a mile or two in his boat. When Dad explained the purpose of our trip Norman refused to take any payment so Dad asked around and found out he had young grandkids and loaded the boot with wooden toys.
Dad was in a strange mood on the journey. When we got out of the town and the rush-hour traffic disappeared he asked if we wanted some music for the drive. He turned the radio on before either of us answered him. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had music in the car. His shoulders were relaxed and his arms hung loosely from the steering wheel and he tapped along when a familiar song played. I thought I’d seen it all when he glanced over his right shoulder, dropped the Volvo down a gear and flew past two trucks and one car on the dual carriageway.
We arrived at Oakholme just after ten o’clock and followed the directions Norman had given. We pulled into a parking space overlooking the small harbour. As we came to a stop we could see a yellow boat, moored to the harbour wall. A grey-haired man was bustling around on the deck. We all clambered out of the car and as our doors slammed shut the grey-haired man looked up and waved a greeting to us. We all waved back at Norman.
The urn had been sat next to Dad on the front seat for the journey. It was a cheap-looking wooden box, made from balsa wood, the type of wood my dad sneered at and could hardly bring himself to touch. I had no idea how we’d ended up with it. Was Dad given a catalogue to choose from? Was there a choice of colours and materials? I never remember it being discussed. Dad carried the urn carefully in a green shoulder bag, his right hand holding it against his side like he was carrying a bomb. It was a strange walk down to the boat. Dad with Mum’s ashes held against his side, me and Jon behind and only the sound of the sea gently wallowing into the harbour wall and the odd screech from a local gull.
Norman was brilliant. He acted like he did this kind of trip every day, like it was nothing unusual and there was nothing awkward about the whole thing. He welcomed us on board, gave us a quick safety chat and handed out life jackets. He told us how far out we would sail, in what direction and how long it would take. When we stopped he would ask if we were happy with the spot. He told us the conditions were favour-able. The sea was, and should remain, calm. He said he understood that it was a difficult trip for us and he was pleased to be able to help in any way he could. He made a few last-minute checks and we were ready to go.
We sailed out from the coast for about twenty minutes. Me, Dad and Jon wandered around the boat, stared back at the coast and further out across the water. We looked down at the cold grey sea and watched the gulls above, shadowing our progress, expecting easy pickings. I wondered what was happening in a courtroom miles away. When Norman was happy we’d gone far enough he killed the engine and asked, ‘Any good?’ Dad looked to the empty horizon and back to the coast, towards Oakholme and the wooded hills and the little white houses that stood in line along the harbour and said, ‘Yes, I think so. Luke?’ I agreed that it seemed as good a spot as any. Norman told us that objects in the Irish Sea had been carried by tides as far north as Greenland and south to the tip of South Africa and that seemed to settle it.
Dad took the urn out of his bag and pulled the lid off. He kissed the box once on its side, held it out over the edge of the boat and gently poured some of the dust into the sea. He stood still for a few seconds, watching, and then passed the box to me. I copied him, kissed the box, and tipped until it was empty. It needed a hard shake at the end, just to get the last few flecks out from the corners. For a few seconds the ash in the water clung together like bubbles in a bubble bath then a wave broke it into two different groups and already now they were slowly drifting in different directions. Norman had retreated and was stood by the cabin of the boat. Jon was standing behind us, and me and Dad were leaning over the edge, watching the sea and ash sway below us.
And then it happened. It came out of the silence and calm as definitely as an aeroplane crossing an empty sky. The first thing I noticed was a shift in Norman’s posture. His body tensed and he straightened his back. He was suddenly alert, nose in the air, like a dog catching a scent on the wind. The noise followed almost immediately. It was an immense, deep, terrifying roar. Like an army charging. The noise rushed in on us and I was suddenly aware of one half of the boat being higher than the other and then the other half rising quickly to catch up. In a second we were high and flat, on top of a huge wave, heads in the sky, above all the other water in the sea. For that second it felt like we were on top of a mountain with our heads touching pure air. Everything in the world seemed to hang in the balance. We fell as quickly as we had risen and crashed back to normal sea level. Dropping like a car off a cliff. The little boat rocked hard as we landed. It pitched left then right and only gradually calmed itself, eventually settling. We all stood with bodies braced and watched the wave roll away, further out into the sea.
The sound of silence
Nobody spoke. We stared at each other with hearts pumping blood fast through veins. All senses turned to ten. Each of us alert. Each of us massively alive. Norman gathered himself and took charge. He checked the boat. He asked if everyone was OK. We all nodded that we were. I think he was the most shocked out of all of us. He started the engine and turned us round to face Oakholme. He was keen to get us back to land. Jon asked him if that had been a Draupner-type wave. Norman said no, if it had been a Draupner-type wave we would all be at the bottom of the sea now. Still, he said, it was bloody big for the Irish Sea. Bloody big. As he sailed us back to shore, every few seconds he shook his head vigorously, shaking himself back to sense. All I could think about was how powerful the wave was that had pushed us up into the sky. And how helpless we were when it was happening. Part of me wanted me to rush back to land and cling to it and never let go. Part of me wanted to get straight back out to sea and sit and wait for ever for another wave like that.
It was only when Dad took Norman to the boot of our car and gave him the collection of wooden toys that conversation finally sparked into life again. Norman told Dad that he shouldn’t have, that it was too much, and Dad replied that he wanted to, and it wasn’t. And you could tell Norman was delighted. He held the toys up to the light, and opened and closed doors and spun wheels and said his grandkids would love them. Norman got ready to go then and we all said thank you and shook his hand and said our goodbyes. As he left he told Dad that if he ever wanted to go out again, to the same spot, or just for a sail, to give him another ring and to keep in touch. Dad said he would and part of me even believed him this time. It seemed like just the kind of thing Dad would enjoy – being on a small boat under an empty sky, miles from anywhere. And I could tell he liked Norman. He always liked people who made their point quickly and knew when to shut up.
We ate our sandwiches and crisps on a bench on the harbour and then Dad collected our rubbish and said we should be getting back. That news would no doubt be waiting. And it was. Just as we were settling ourselves into the car and readying ourselves for the return trip the phone in our freshly painted hallway was ringing out, startling an empty house. Half a minute later the red light start
ed flashing, telling us we had a message. But we were still an hour and a half away from finding out that it was Mr McGrath at Duerdale Social Services. He was pleased to let us know that Mr Redridge had been approved as Jon Mansfield’s foster carer. Could he call when he got chance to arrange to sign the papers?
Local artist, Gerald Redridge
Of course people found the horse. And they loved it. And as much as Dad said its origins would remain a secret, of course they didn’t. It may have been a remote part of the forest, but people will notice a man dragging lumps of carved wood along. Particularly if it’s happening regularly and the man is sweating and swearing and falling over and occasionally kicking a tree in frustration. There was even the dreaded article in the local paper although Dad drew the line at having his photo taken with the horse. The photographer kept saying, ‘Come on, Mr Redridge, it’s local interest, people will want to put a name to a face.’ And Dad said, ‘Exactly’, and hid behind a tree. The photos looked brilliant though, they really did. And Dad didn’t throw away that edition of the Duerdale Advertiser with the rest. He kept it hidden underneath some plans in his workroom.
Luke and Jon Page 14