The room stank of spirits. Peter pushed up the window and covered his father’s legs with a rug from the armchair. At the disturbance Jim coughed briefly, an arm fell towards the floor. He slept on. Peter lifted the arm across his chest and carried the debris into the kitchen.
He was a practical boy. Life with Jim had taught him to do most things. Cooking a meal, shearing a sheep, doing the family wash were commonplace tasks to twelve-year-old Peter. First thing he must do right now, while there was still light in the sky, was drag the van from the ditch and get it back to the house.
He wanted to show his dad the hare. Since he was asleep, Peter left it beside the sink in the kitchen and went upstairs to change into his working clothes.
The tractor stayed beneath a lean-to in the yard. Peter loved it, an old Massey Ferguson 35, rusty-red with no cab, a trusty workhorse. It would be years yet before he was allowed on the road, but it was perfectly legal for a boy of his age to drive up there on the moors. He had been driving down to the road and up into the hills since he was ten. Jim had lectured him sternly about safety, then taken the cushion off the cast-iron seat and made some adjustments so that he could reach the pedals.
The key was in the ignition. Rain had blown in. Peter scrubbed the seat dry and slung a coil of heavy rope over a bracket. As he reversed into the yard, Meg emerged from the barn to see what was happening and crossed to the door of the house. He climbed down, leaving the engine idling, and let her in to be near her sleeping master. Ben circled restlessly, eager to start, wherever they might be heading.
Peter set off down the potholed track. The steering wheel leaped in his hands, the big bucket seat bounced on its springs. A ragged skein of geese caught his eye, their cries inaudible above the roar of the engine.
It was less than a mile to the van. A broad moorland stream, splashing and full after the recent rain, ran parallel to the track. It was lucky his dad had swerved the other way, into the peaty ditch. The back of the van half blocked the track. Peter squeezed past on the tractor, big wheels clipping the bank of the stream, and stopped just beyond. He spread two plastic sacks on the churned ground and squirmed beneath the van to tie the rope to the chassis. Leaving a little slack, he attached the other end to the tow bar on the tractor.
In first gear he inched forward. The rope tightened and stretched. Peter watched over his shoulder and hoped it would not break. Slowly, with a suck and a lurch, the van skidded sideways. For a moment it nearly toppled over, then a wheel struck firm ground and it began to roll back to the track.
Soon it was up. He jumped down and crawled underneath to loosen the tow rope but the knot had jammed solid. His hands were filthy with grease and peat. He scrubbed off the worst with handfuls of moss and tackled the rope again but his fingers were just not strong enough. Reluctantly he pulled out his pocket knife and sliced the rope through.
There wasn’t room for the two vehicles to pass. The van was nearer home and facing in the right direction. The keys, as always out there on the moor, were in the ignition. Peter slid the seat forward and Ben scrambled through to the back. Then Peter drove home to Scar Hill and parked in the yard. The wheels and grille were clotted with black peat. It could wait till the morning, he’d hose it off then.
The last streaks of daylight faded and stars were appearing as he walked back with Ben to collect the tractor. The engine clattered into noisy life. Fumes puttered from the vertical exhaust pipe and were carried away by the wind. The best place to turn was half a mile further on where the track wound through a cluster of outcrops, little hills known locally as the Four Crowns. He switched on the headlights but discovered he could see better without them. A hunting owl, like a great white moth, flew past as he drove home with Ben loping alongside.
His dad was still asleep. The sacks had given Peter some protection but despite it he was filthy with peat. He cleaned the last of the grease from his hands with Swarfega and slung his clothes and his dad’s dirty trousers into the washing machine. Jeans and a red sweatshirt lay crumpled in the drying cupboard. He pulled them on and smoothed the words on his chest: OK, PUNK, MAKE MY DAY.
The dogs were hungry. He mixed their food – boiled dog meat and dog biscuit – added a handful of treats, and carried the two bowls out to the shed where they spent the night. He switched on the light. Two naked bulbs on long flexes illuminated the interior: spider-web covered beams, sacks of sheep nuts, sheep drench, oil drums, disused feeding troughs, hay beds for the dogs, planks, ladders and much else.
Buster, Peter’s polecat ferret, appeared at the door of his run. It was his feeding time too. Peter lifted him out and pressed his mouth to the soft fur, whispering endearments, letting Buster climb about his shoulders. But Buster was more interested in the smell of meat on Peter’s fingers. He gave him a piece of raw heart and returned him to his run. Buster carried it off to a favourite corner, his eyes wild and teeth locked in the bloody prize.
It didn’t take long to clear the dining table, clatter the dishes into the kitchen sink, put on the kettle, slap some rashers of bacon into the frying pan and empty a can of beans into a saucepan. The mouth-watering aromas of toast and bacon fat drove the whisky fumes from the window. Thursday’s ash was shovelled into a bucket, and by the time his dinner was ready, peat flames were leaping up the chimney. Peter carried his plate into the living room and switched on the TV.
His dad stirred, rolled his head on the arm of the settee and swallowed. With bleary eyes he looked round the room.
‘Make my day, punk,’ he muttered. ‘Suits me, chief.’ He put a finger between his eyes. ‘Right there. Any time you like.’
Peter munched a mouthful of fried bread and egg. ‘Rough day?’
‘You could say.’ His dad shut his eyes again and covered them with the back of his hand.
Peter surfed the channels, one to four and back again. There was nothing worth watching. He slotted a smeary Bugs Bunny cassette into the video.
Jim bit back his anger. The volume was low but the screams and music cut into his hangover like a buzz saw. ‘For God’s sake, Pete! Have we got to have that on?’
Peter pressed the mute button but the damage was done. Heavily his dad sat up. The room spun. Vivid colours flashed across the TV screen, every one a stab at his eyeballs. He looked away. Night pressed against the windows.
Yesterday’s Guardian lay on the table. It was the paper Jim liked best. Idly Peter pulled it towards him and packed his fork with bacon and beans.
Jim watched him, the son he loved so deeply it sometimes hurt, at times like this the only thing in his life worth living for. The whisky burned in his stomach, sharp as acid. Perhaps he had an ulcer in addition to everything else. It wouldn’t be surprising. He pushed back the rug and saw that his legs were bare. Where were his trousers? He didn’t remember. Making the effort, he swung his feet to the floor and sat up. The warmth of the fire hit him in the face. He hadn’t lit that, he was sure, it must have been Peter. And he had cleared the table and cooked his own meal. A tidal wave of guilt engulfed him. He rose, steadying himself against the arm of the settee, and crossed to plant a hard kiss on top of his son’s head.
‘There was something …’ He struggled to remember. ‘Oh, yes. I put the van off the road. We’ll have to go along in the morning and …’
Peter swallowed a half-chewed mouthful. ‘It’s OK, I did it.’
‘Did what?’
‘Pulled it out.’ He mopped up some yolk.
‘With the tractor?’
‘Well I didn’t use my teeth. Van’s in the yard.’
His dad stared at him. His eyes, heavy with whisky, filled with tears and he stumbled into the kitchen. The cooking smells were strong. And the boy had got a hare. It lay beside the sink, eyes dulled, waiting to be gutted.
Jim’s heart gave a lurch. He was not a strong man – or more precisely, was not a fit man. Something had happened to him in the army. He panted for breath. A spasm of pain hit him in the chest. He leaned against the drainin
g board. The pain grew worse, like a fist tightening within his rib-cage. Grimacing, he pulled open a drawer and groped for his tablets. A little brown plastic bottle. Where was it? It should be here! He scattered the contents and found it. The bottle had a white safety cap. It didn’t open. Click – click – click, the top spun round. He pressed harder, close to desperation. It opened. Tablets spilled across the table. Jim placed one beneath his tongue. For a minute, leaning on both hands, he stared into space. Slowly the pain eased, the room swam back into focus. He saw the cooker, the calendar, the black hairs on the back of his hands.
Peter stood in the doorway.
‘That was a bad one.’ Jim tried to belch but the wind wouldn’t come. He forced a smile. ‘Still, takes more than a little twinge to get a good …’ He tried to belch again. The panting returned. Sweat stood on his brow. ‘Sorry, Pete. Better go outside, eh?’
Before Peter could move, his dad spun round and vomited into the sink. He hadn’t eaten all day. There was a horrid, retching sound. A sour smell filled the kitchen.
Peter hesitated, torn between disgust and the feeling that he should do something to help. He had been sick himself, seen other children sick, but other people had always looked after it. And somehow a grown-up was worse. He turned away, leaving the rest of his dinner on the table, and went out into the yard.
Light spilled from the living-room window. A crescent moon was rising above the moors. He snorted the cold air to rid his nostrils of the smell.
Something touched his hand and made him jump. It was Ben, come from the shed. Peter rubbed his bony head. The tall dog stood close, keeping him company.
3
The Soldier
PETER LEANED ON the van roof. The crescent moon lay on its back with the dark side visible against the night sky. It reminded him of an old ballad they’d read recently in English:
I saw the new moon late yestr’een
Wi’ the auld moon in her arm …
Something like that. He liked poetry.
A drain gurgled. He turned to face the house. It was the outflow from the sink and went on for some time. Silence returned – the silence of the moor with a whisper of wind in the fences.
It was broken by a crash of china. His dad, he guessed, had knocked a plate to the floor. Then there was another crash – a tinkle – a loud smash. What was he doing? A shiver ran up Peter’s back.
He waited a minute then started towards the house. Before he reached it his dad appeared in the doorway. A bin bag hung from one hand. In the other he carried the whisky bottle. He crossed to the wheelie bin. Rattle! Smash! In went the bag.
As he turned away he saw Peter in the darkness. ‘Sorry, Pete.’ He truly meant it. ‘I’ve cleared up in the kitchen.’
Peter was shaken. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Me? Yeah, never better.’ Jim started towards the byre then stopped. ‘No, as a matter of fact I’m not, if you really want to know. I feel bloody awful.’ He pushed back his hair. ‘Nothing you can do about it though. Nothing anyone can do. So don’t worry yourself. Be all right in the morning.’ He set off again, a bit unsteadily. ‘Think I’ll just have a lie-down in …’ he gestured with the bottle. ‘Leave you with the telly. So’s we’ll not get in each other’s hair. All right, son?’
‘Yeah, OK.’
‘Sleep well.’
‘You too, Dad.’
Jim continued to the old stone byre that faced the house across the yard. Though Jim only farmed sheep, crofters in the past had run a few cattle as well. The entrance swallowed him up.
Peter’s heart was thudding. The byre was his dad’s escape route. He liked it out there, lying in the straw of an old cattle stall with the door open to the night moors. Mostly he just slept and sipped from the bottle, reliving old memories, but sometimes he sang snatches of hymns and old songs, soldiers’ songs, and talked to himself. If it was summer and the swallows were nesting, he talked to them and they listened, looking down from the rafters. When Meg joined him, as she would in a few minutes, he talked to her. In the shed the demons which tormented him were less threatening, the memories less painful. The snakes slackened their coils. The peace was soothing, as were the creak of timbers in the wind and rattle of rain on the rusty roof. Away from the confines of the house he felt freer. And there in the darkness, with field mice and an occasional rat rustling about the walls, he would at last drink himself into oblivion.
He had spoken the truth. There was nothing Peter or anyone else could do about it. For years, aged eight, nine and ten, Peter had tried. To no avail. All he could do, he had discovered, was to trust his dad, leave him alone, and when he felt able to face the world again, to be there.
He made his way indoors. The living room was as he had left it, though the TV had been switched off and the fire banked high with fresh peats. The kitchen, however, all in a couple of minutes, was transformed. The sink gleamed and smelled strongly of bleach. The side tables and draining board had been cleared of dirty dishes and wiped clean. The unwashed pots on the cooker were gone.
He took the lamp which stood on the freezer and went out to the wheelie bin. It was half full. The black bin bag lay on top. He heaved it out and looked inside. There, in a mess of beans, grease and soggy cereals, lay the pans and broken crockery. In a sudden, drunken desire to help, Jim had rinsed away his sick and slung everything out.
Peter needed both hands and switched on the outside light. With the tips of his fingers he rescued the frying pan, saucepans, cutlery and those plates and cups that were not broken or too badly chipped.
‘Let the bloody things be.’ His dad’s voice came from the byre. ‘We’ll get some new ones. Stop working, for God’s sake. Finish your dinner. Watch the telly.’
‘Right.’ Peter returned the ruined china to the bin and gathered what was worth saving into two heaps. Grimacing at the slop on his fingers, he carried them indoors.
What was left of his dinner at the living room table had congealed on the plate. He scraped it into a newspaper.
Washing up didn’t take long. The water was hot and soon the pots were back in the cupboard and the chipped china stacked on the shelves. To make a proper job of it, he mopped the floor and shook the mats in the yard.
He waited for a shout from the shed: ‘Cor, make some lucky person a good wife, that’s what you’ll do.’ But whether his dad heard or not, he passed no comment and Peter carried the mats indoors.
He hadn’t stopped since he got off the bus. He opened a can of Irn-Bru and took a packet of biscuits to the fire. The peats glowed, flames licked up the chimney. He kicked off his shoes.
Ben lay on his crumpled day bed in the corner and crunched a handful of dog biscuits. Having snuffled up every last crumb, he came looking for more but no more were on offer. Idly Peter scratched the top of his head. Ben flopped on the rug and stretched his legs to the fire. He was so big there was no space left for Peter’s feet. He trailed them over the dog’s chest.
For half an hour they lay. Bart Simpson caused chaos on the screen but Peter scarcely saw him. His thoughts were out in the byre with his dad. He had seen him drunk many times but never sick like that. Never so desperate for that little white pill. It wasn’t the effect of the whisky, he knew that, or not wholly the whisky. His dad’s drinking was the result of what troubled him, not the cause. In a way the whisky was his medicine, not one recommended by the doctor but a medicine all the same. Peter wished he didn’t drink but he didn’t blame his dad for it. His dad was ill – and it wasn’t his fault. Peter knew all about it.
When his dad was in the army and Peter was a little boy, so long ago he did not remember, he had been sent out to fight in the desert. At that time the army was frightened that the allied forces might be attacked by chemical or biological weapons, things like plague and anthrax, nerve gas or even uranium dust. For protection they were given pills and a series of injections before they set out, a very strong cocktail of drugs. In the event they were not attacked that way, but when the war wa
s over, thousands of soldiers, British and American, complained of after-effects. Some, like Jim, who had seen his best friend killed when a tank went up in flames, had bad memories to contend with as well. Before Desert Storm, as the assault was called, these had been strong and healthy men. Now they suffered from a whole variety of illnesses: headaches and lack of energy, depression, sleeplessness, panic attacks, bad chests, forgetfulness, painful joints. And Peter’s dad, along with others, developed a bad heart. Was it the result of those injections and the war? There was no proof. The army medics said it was not. The British government declared that Gulf War Syndrome, as it was called, did not exist; those who were ill would have been ill anyway.
Whatever the truth, the effect upon Jim Irwin and his family was catastrophic. Because of his lack of fitness and unpredictable mood swings he had to leave the army; and because the army claimed his illness had nothing to do with them, he did not receive a disability allowance. To make matters even worse, they had to leave the army house that was their home. All at once Sergeant Irwin, who was a career soldier and loved the army, found himself homeless, unemployed and, because his wife, Sharon, was an extravagant woman, three thousand pounds in debt. The television, washing machine, new three-piece suite and bedroom furniture were repossessed.
What were they to do: Jim, Sharon, their ten-year-old daughter Valerie, and three-year-old son Peter?
After a succession of shabby bedsits, they were housed by the social services. Home became a horrible damp flat in a decaying high-rise on the Salford side of Manchester. The toilet leaked, there was mould in the kitchen. Peter developed a cough which would not clear up. Valerie became bad-tempered and quarrelsome. Everyone hated it.
Scar Hill Page 2