Scar Hill

by Alan Temperley

  ‘Come by.’ Peter’s high, cracked voice rang across the moor.

  Meg cut in to the left, separating a group of a dozen or so animals which included the two Jim wanted to examine. The other sheep scampered away, leaving the small flock isolated in the heather. One sheep bounded off in panic. Immediately Meg went after it, driving it back to the others.

  ‘Good lass,’ Peter called. Jim handed him the whistle and he blew it twice. ‘Walk on.’

  The sheep pen stood in a cleft of the hill, ten minutes beyond where they were standing. It was a circular, dry-stone structure with a rickety grey gate, a metal storage bin for sacks of sheep nuts, and an open lean-to with a rusty corrugated-iron roof where Jim sometimes stored bales of hay.

  Meg was an intelligent dog and kept the sheep together, fifty metres ahead as they crossed the hillside. She understood where they were heading and needed no words of command. Soon the sheep pen came in sight, a little below them on the far side of the gully.

  A stream splashed down from the moors. The sheep leaped across and in a couple of minutes they were there. Jim dragged the gate wide and ushered the sheep towards it as Peter and Meg walked them down.

  Three times the flock escaped round the side; three times Meg fetched them back at Peter’s command. The fourth time, hemmed in by the man at one side, the boy with his big grey dog at the other and the swift black sheepdog behind, they filed through the entrance. At once Jim heaved the gate shut and dropped the locking bar in place.

  ‘Well done,’ he said and rubbed his son’s thick hair. Peter flushed with pleasure.

  Tongue lolling, Meg flopped beside them.

  Jim didn’t feel too good, his energy had deserted him. Although he had taken one of the little white pills when they started climbing, his heart was playing up. Turning from Peter, he grimaced at a little spasm of pain.

  ‘Which one first?’ Peter took the crook.

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘What d’you want to do first, maggots or footrot?’

  Jim shrugged. ‘Whichever you like.’

  The lame sheep was nearer. Peter ran after it, snatching with the crook. Twice he missed then hooked it round a leg and next moment his fingers were knotted in the wool. But Peter was not strong enough to wrestle the animal off its feet and got dragged to his knees on the nibbled grass, scattered with droppings. His dad came to help and expertly threw the sheep over on to its back.

  Briefly it struggled and looked round with rolling eyes.

  Jim drew a breath to steady his bumping heart and examined the two front feet. ‘Aye, footrot,’ he said.

  Peter had seen it often enough. The horny part of both feet was deformed and rotten-looking. As Jim took it in his hands, a mattery discharge welled out and the sheep baaed with pain.

  ‘Got to cut it away, old girl.’ He pulled out his pocket knife and flicked up the sharp blade. Carefully he pared away the diseased tissue and tipped it into a paper to burn when they got home.

  ‘It stinks!’ Peter grimaced.

  ‘How would you like that to happen to your feet?’ Jim bowed over his work, cutting and scraping until the foot was as clean as he could make it. ‘Must hurt like hell. Let’s have the purple spray.’

  Peter opened the rucksack and took out the can. Jim gave it a good shake and sprayed the foot from point-blank range. ‘Kill the bacteria. Give it a chance to heal.’

  He turned to the other foot and repeated the operation. Some fluid sprayed past and dyed the wool purple.

  The front feet were finished. Jim checked the hind feet. They were not infected but he gave them a spray anyway. ‘There you go.’ He rolled the helpless ewe on to its side and slapped its flank.

  The sheep scrambled to its feet. Limping on the raw wounds and baaing loudly, it ran to join the others which stood watching with alarm. ‘See how she’s doing when we bring them down for dipping,’ he said. ‘Put them through a couple of footbaths. Winter’s tough enough with the cold and carrying a lamb, never mind having to cope with footrot as well.’

  Then Jim caught hold of the ragged sheep. This time he kept the animal on its feet. It was strong and struggled while Peter pulled off the hanging tags of wool and clipped away the dirt round its bottom.

  Jim was white. Peter saw he was sweating. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me.’ He belched again. ‘Just need my lunch.’ He leaned past Peter to examine the infestation on the sheep’s hindquarters. ‘Ugh, will you look at that! Give me the willies.’

  Peter snipped off the fleece round a raw patch the size of his hand. It was seething with blowfly maggots, big ones on top, so fat they seemed on the point of bursting, little ones underneath, like white seeds burrowed into the flesh.

  ‘Why don’t you do it.’ Jim tightened his grip. ‘I’ll hold her.’

  Peter swallowed. They disgusted him too. ‘If you like.’

  He took a white can from the rucksack and sprayed the moving mass. Instantly they convulsed. A few dropped off. He sprayed again and brushed away the maggots with the back of his fingernails. Twisting and writhing, they rattled to the turf.

  Ben came to sniff. ‘Get away.’ Peter pushed him back with his boot and stamped the maggots into a paste.

  The wound was clean, weeping red flesh, but the tiny maggots, from eggs laid later, were too deeply embedded to remove, and clusters of blowfly eggs, still unhatched, clung to the roots of the wool. Peter sprayed it again, a long burst. Unlike the foot spray, this was a clear fluid, a strong antiseptic, fly repellent and insecticide that would kill off the last of the infestation and give the skin a chance to heal. It burned like fire in the raw wound. The sheep baaed and struggled.

  This patch was close to the sheep’s bottom. There was another above its tail. Peter treated it the same way then Jim let the ewe go and she ran off, still ragged but looking better.

  ‘Hope she’s the only one,’ he said.

  Peter looked round the remaining animals. ‘None here. Didn’t see any others.’

  ‘Bloody things.’ Jim wiped a hand on his trousers and rubbed the sweat from his face. ‘What’s she doing with maggots in October? Climate’s changing, that’s what I reckon. Global warming.’

  Peter opened the gate and the ewes ran out. Soon they would wander back and join the rest of the flock.

  Part of the wall had fallen and been repaired with barbed wire. Jim sat on one of the stones and rolled a cigarette. Sheltered within the enclosure, the sun was warm. Peter lifted his face to the dazzle.

  After a brief rest they climbed out of the gully and walked through the rest of the flock.

  Jim looked at his watch. ‘What say we have lunch?’

  He hid his sickness so well that Peter said, ‘Let’s have it on the top.’ He looked up at the crown of rocks and trig point that marked the summit of Blae Fell. ‘Not that far. You be OK?’

  ‘Why not?’ If he’d been by himself, Jim would have lain back out of the wind and waited for the weakness to pass. With Peter watching, so young and enthusiastic, he did not like to give in. ‘Away you go. Find a spot to eat – somewhere with a good view.’

  ‘I’ll take the rucksack,’ Peter said. ‘You’ve been carrying it all morning.’

  Half angrily Jim pulled it back. ‘Think I can’t carry a bloody rucksack? Go on now, I’ll be right behind you.’

  It was no good arguing. After a brief hesitation Peter started straight up the hillside, pushing himself to see how fast he could go. He loved it, feeling the strength in his legs, the muscles in his back, the way his boots gripped the treacherous ground. Soon he was panting, his collar wet with sweat. A series of little cliffs rose before him. He climbed one and skirted round another.

  Abruptly he came upon a big adder. It lay by a sun-warmed rock. If he had not spotted the creature he might have trodden on it. The snake felt his footsteps and raised its head with a warning hiss. Peter was fascinated and stepped closer, keeping just out of striking range. He had seen adders before, there were many
out there in the wilderness. He liked them but they were scary and he was frightened that sometime Ben or Meg might get bitten, though it was unlikely to kill them. This snake was a female, light brown with a vivid zigzag pattern down its back. He pulled a stem of heather and tickled the back of its head. The adder reared higher and hissed again, then struck like lightning. Peter jumped back. Its mouth stayed wide, threatening. He saw the pink mouth-lining, two erect fangs.

  ‘Dad.’

  The snake sank to the ground and began to slither away. It didn’t want trouble. Its flickering tongue smelled the air.

  ‘Dad!’ Peter looked back down the hill.

  In a moment every thought of the adder was swept from his mind. His dad was slumped against a boulder. His head hung low, his knees were buckled. Clumsily he groped in his jacket pocket.

  Peter ran back down the hillside, skidding on the peat, risking his ankles on stones. By the time he reached him, Jim had found the little brown bottle he was seeking and unscrewed the top. The blood had drained from his face. With shaking hands he tipped a scatter of small white pills into his palm and put one between his lips. It disappeared under his tongue. Carefully, like a drunk man, he poured the others back into the bottle and returned it to his pocket.

  Peter faced him awkwardly. ‘Is it bad?’

  Jim looked at him with sick eyes and didn’t reply.

  After a while he sat on a rock. ‘I’d rather have a night out with Sexy Sadie,’ he said as the pill worked its magic.

  Peter grinned with relief. ‘Or a night in.’

  ‘Yeah, or a night in.’ His dad’s colour was improving. ‘Hey, you’re only twelve years old. What do you know about these things?’

  But Peter was serious. ‘You should go to the doctor again.’

  ‘I’m fed up going to the doctor,’ Jim said. ‘And the hospitals. They can’t do anything.’

  ‘You always say that but you haven’t been for months.’

  ‘Don’t nag,’ his father said. ‘It was just a wee turn. I’m fine.’

  ‘No you’re not. You’ve told me, Dr Bryson said that –’

  ‘All right, all right. If you want me to go to the doctor, I’ll go to the doctor. Don’t keep on about it.’ Jim leaned forward and covered his eyes with a hand. ‘It just won’t do any good.’

  ‘How can you know that if you never go?’

  Jim didn’t reply. Peter rested a hand on his dad’s knee.

  After a while he took two scraps of plastic sheet from the rucksack and spread them on the grass out of the wind. Jim joined him and Peter unpacked the sandwiches. He was hungry.

  Jim could eat nothing but had a terrific thirst. By the time Peter had taken a couple of sips from his cup, the flask was empty.

  8

  The Hidden Photo

  PETER BROUGHT BUSTER into the kitchen for a run around while he made the dinner. Jim had said he would do it, but when they got home he went to lie down for ten minutes and fell fast asleep. Peter didn’t mind, he enjoyed cooking. Once you knew how to do a few basic things it was easy – for what he and his dad liked anyway.

  There was too much meat on the hare to fit into the casserole dish so he gave Buster a front leg and put the excess into the deep freeze. What they needed for dinner he cut a bit smaller, rolled it in seasoned flour, browned it in the big frying pan and tipped it into the well-used dish. Next he fried the onions, sliced the carrots and added them to the meat, sprinkled on a little salt and pepper, just covered the mixture with boiling water, stirred in some gravy browning and put on the lid. The oven was hot. He set the dish on the middle shelf and shut the door. It would take an hour and a half, maybe two hours. In the meantime he scrubbed the potatoes and put them ready in the saucepan, then cored two big cooking apples for pudding and filled the middles with brown sugar and nutmeg. For good measure he studded the skins with cloves.

  Living out there at Scar Hill, even though he was only twelve, Peter had learned how to do most things. Jim was determined to give his son a good start in life: plain food and plenty of exercise to make him strong, a good education, and the confidence to tackle whatever might come his way.

  Buster had dragged his treasure into a corner. Peter picked him up, needle teeth clamped on the bone, and carried him back to the shed.

  Jim appeared at six, hair tousled and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He looked better.

  ‘Sorry, don’t know what came over me.’ He sniffed appreciatively. ‘That smells good.’

  ‘Will you be able to eat some?’

  ‘Lead me to it. Had nothing since breakfast.’

  ‘I’ll put the tatties on.’ Peter poured in boiling water. ‘Baked apple for pud.’

  Jim gave him one of his rough hugs and retreated to the living room. ‘What about your homework?’

  ‘Done it.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Bit of maths and some geography. Had to read a chapter.’

  ‘What’s the book?’

  ‘The Midwich Cuckoos. Finished it last week.’

  ‘You read that a couple of years ago, it’s on your shelf.’

  ‘I know but now it’s the class reader so I’ve read it again.’ He added salt to the potatoes. ‘It’s good.’

  Jim opened a beer and poured some for Peter. He reached for the chess set. In the dark evenings they often had a game.

  ‘And you are going to the doctor, yeah?’ Peter held out his fists, white pawn in one, black pawn in the other. ‘That’s twice this weekend.’

  ‘Twice what?’

  ‘You took a bad turn.’

  ‘Ach, I told you, I’m sick of doctors.’ Jim chose white and they set out the pieces. ‘They’ve done all they can. I’ll be OK, just have to take it easy for a bit.’ He pushed up his king’s pawn to start the game.

  Peter countered. ‘But you don’t take it easy, do you?’

  ‘Don’t worry your head about it,’ Jim said. ‘You’ve got enough to contend with. We’ll be fine, you’ll see.’

  They interrupted the game for dinner. The hare, smothered in rich gravy, was delicious. They ate the baked apples with ice cream. Afterwards, with mugs of coffee, they played to the finish. Jim won.

  There were three rooms upstairs. At the top of the steep stairs, immediately on the right, was the bathroom. Next to it was Jim’s bedroom. And to the left, at the end of the short landing, was Peter’s room.

  It was the room he had been given the day they arrived, with a dormer window, sloping ceiling and view across the yard. Black beams crossed the white ceiling. The walls were wooden, tongue-and-groove painted a soft green. In contrast, the duvet cover he had on at the moment was jazzy spaceships and planets, and the curtains, heavy material to keep out the winter cold and bright summer nights, were burnt orange with a pattern of leaves.

  Peter brushed his teeth, changed into pyjamas and jumped into his cold bed. He usually read before going to sleep but this night he could not concentrate. After a time he swung his feet to the floor and padded to his chest of drawers. His socks and underclothes were in the second drawer down. He pushed them aside and pulled out a photo, about fifteen centimetres by ten, from under the lining paper. It was a picture of his mother, taken at a Sergeants’ Mess party when his dad was in the army. She looked very pretty, he thought, in a sparkly off-the-shoulder dress with her hair piled high and a red silk rose above her ear. He went back to bed and propped the photo on his stomach.

  Peter had only been four when she ran off so there wasn’t much to remember, but a few images stood out from the fog of those early years: the rooms in Manchester with black mould on the walls and the doctor coming; his mum’s lovely fat squashy hugs and smell of perfume; a hot day by the river where they had a picnic and he got sunburned; and that terrible fight when his dad knocked his mum to the floor and Peter ran away screaming, fell down the concrete stairs and had to be taken to hospital.

  Apart from these and a scatter of half-memories, all he had to go on was what he had been told by V
alerie. Jim, who had never criticised their mother, said little. Valerie, on the other hand, who adored her mother and hated her father, had filled in the blanks so thoroughly that sometimes Peter wasn’t sure what he remembered and what he had been told. The scenes she described were as real to him now as what he had seen himself: lovely Christmases, parties, shopping trips, holidays and much more. It was Valerie who had told him, for example, how their mum was the toast of the mess and a sergeant had drunk vodka out of her shoe. And Valerie who had told him about jaunts in friends’ cars, lovely cars with leather seats, when their dad was away on manoeuvres.

  Peter himself remembered how his mother, looking pretty in a pale blue suit, had taken him to a café where they had tea with Uncle Tony. Peter didn’t like Uncle Tony although he was jolly and bought him a cream doughnut. He didn’t like the way Uncle Tony held his mummy’s hand. He didn’t tell his mummy this but just before they left the café and Uncle Tony had gone to the bathroom, she told him that his daddy didn’t like him either because Uncle Tony owned a big garage and had lots of money so he wasn’t to tell. When Peter asked what was wrong with owning a big garage and having lots of money, she yanked his arm and told him not to ask so many questions.

  ‘She enjoyed life, she was fun,’ Valerie had said one day when she was fourteen and Peter was seven. ‘Mind you, even a dead sheep’s fun compared with that miserable sick old bastard,’ as she called their father. ‘Always banging on about money and spoiling things. Taking us to that place in Manchester, and now this bloody awful house in the middle of the sodding moors. I don’t blame her running off. Give us half a chance an’ I’ll be off myself.’

  Sharon hadn’t run off with Billy Josh, the handsome young trawler owner with the gorgeous red Merc, although it wasn’t for want of trying because she had pursued him in her war-paint to dance and bar and quayside. But Billy, though tempted, had met Jim and Peter whom he liked. After a brief flirtation he sent her packing. So Sharon had to look elsewhere, and when she made her break for freedom it wasn’t with Billy, or any of the other good-looking men from the village, but Morris Sinclair of all people, the chinless and ginger-haired brother of her hairdresser that everyone thought was gay.