Scar Hill

by Alan Temperley

  For the hundredth time he looked towards the road and listened for the sound of an engine. The track remained empty. ‘Rotten bloody bastards!’ he shouted above the gale.

  In the mid-evening, after another slice of pizza, he felt so low he opened a can of lager. Far from cheering him up, it upset his stomach and gave him a headache.

  At ten he went to bed and was woken an hour later by Daisy. She had been rubbing her face and her cheeks were shiny with snot. She had been sick, and when he changed her nappy he discovered she had diarrhoea as well.

  No sooner had he set her down than he had to change her again. Her forehead and tummy felt hot.

  It was a wild night. A northerly storm roared round the house. Rain battered the windows. The corrugated iron on the byre roof had broken free and clattered up and down. He carried the baby into Valerie’s room where it was quieter. While he cuddled her he read some pages about baby ailments in Baby’s First Six Months. Daisy had a cold, that much was plain, and with sickness and diarrhoea it might be flu. To his horror, he read that the early symptoms of meningitis are similar to a cold – though at bath time there had been no sign of any rash, nor did she seem floppy or troubled by the light. All the same, the book advised parents to consult a doctor. Anxiously Peter rocked her, ensuring she was not too hot, and after a long time, worn out with crying, she fell asleep. He fetched the carrycot and covered her with a soft towel because her last blanket was dirty. Following instructions, he propped the head a little higher than the foot.

  Sleep in his own room was impossible. He was debating whether to crawl into Valerie and Matt’s bed which smelled of sleep and cigarettes, when there was a loud crash from outside. He ran to the window. Nothing was to be seen but raindrops lashing the glass. He hurried downstairs, tightening the cord of his dressing gown, and switched on the outside light. As he opened the door, the roaring of the storm filled his ears. Icy rain hit him in the face. It took a moment to realise what had happened. A huge sheet of corrugated iron had been torn from the byre roof and blown across the yard. Rusty and buckled, it stuck up like the wing of some enormous bird. A silver object lay on the concrete. The corrugated iron had hit the van and torn off a wing mirror.

  He retreated indoors and looked from the window. Torrential rain lashed the puddles and poured through the hole in the byre roof. Directly beneath lay their store of hay. Wet hay went mouldy. When the weather improved he’d have to spread it out to dry, as much as he could anyway. There was no way he could repair the roof. When Matt came back he’d have to give him a hand.

  More immediately, should he try to secure the sheet of tin? It was doing no harm where it lay but if the gale flipped it back across the yard the van was vulnerable. So were the windows of the house. He pulled on boots, a baseball cap and a long coat of his dad’s and ran out through the rain.

  Soon he had manoeuvred the van to a safer spot. As he emerged, the wind plucked the cap from his head and whirled it away, high over the roofs. He never saw it again. The rain blurred his eyes, the coat flapped round him as he crossed to the sheet of corrugated iron. He grasped a rusty edge, taking care not to cut himself, and gave a tentative pull. It scarcely moved. He set his legs and heaved. The corrugated iron was heavy, difficult to shift in the best of conditions, impossible in the storm.

  Peter left it and ran back to the house, relieved to be spared the struggle. His hair was plastered flat and the ice-cold pyjamas clung to his legs. He pulled them off. His other pyjama trousers were waiting to be washed. He rummaged in the drying cupboard and found a pair of Jim’s with a hole in the knee. They trailed on the carpet. He hitched them high and rolled up the waist.

  He was scrubbing his hair with the kitchen towel when the living-room clock struck the half hour. Half past what? Half past two. He hated going to bed with wet hair. A cup of tea by the electric fire would give it time to dry. Besides, he was chilled to the bone and shivering. He filled the kettle so there would be enough for a hot water bottle.

  As he carried them to the settee his eyes were closing and before the tea was half drunk Peter was overcome by sleep. The hot water bottle grew cold. He did not hear the clock strike three and four. And Daisy in the bedroom above him had been crying for a full half hour before the sound woke him. Blearily he struggled to his feet and made his way upstairs.

  Her eyes were gummed. The mucus streaming from her nose had turned thick and dirty yellow. She had vomited again and had diarrhoea. She was very hot.

  Daisy was a sick baby.

  36

  Could You Come Over?

  BUNNY WAS IN her dressing gown. In winter she liked to get up early and sit by the stove with a mug of fresh coffee and a good library book. When the phone rang shortly after seven she was surprised and a little alarmed. Who could be ringing at that hour? Was it bad news? Was one of the family ill?

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is that you, Mrs Mason?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is Peter Irwin.’

  ‘Oh, hello, Peter. I thought I recognised your voice.’

  He searched for the right words.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ she said.

  ‘Could you come over?’

  For a moment she was silent. ‘But of course. Is there something wrong? Is it your dad?’

  ‘No.’ He gripped the receiver. ‘If you could just come over.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

  ‘Is it an emergency?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Is there anything you need this second, I mean over the phone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’ The line went dead.

  Peter returned to the living room. When Daisy was ill he had no option, she had to see a doctor. It was as simple as that. His own problems no longer counted. The only question had been who he should ring: Dr Bryson himself? Constable Taylor? Mrs Harle, his head teacher? Billy Josh? Gerry’s parents? In the end, the person he thought would be easiest to talk to was Bunny Mason. She had already offered to help and was right there at the end of the track.

  Daisy lay sleeping. He wiped the runs from her nose with a handful of toilet paper. She gave a whimper and tossed a little but didn’t wake up. Peter looked around and tidied the room, opened the curtains. When visitors came, he knew, they should be offered tea or coffee. He went into the kitchen and set out mugs and a packet of biscuits. Abruptly he realised he was still in pyjamas. Quickly he went upstairs and got dressed. He was buckling the belt of his jeans when he heard the Land Rover. Carrying his jersey, he hurried down and opened the door.

  The worst of the storm had passed but the wind still gusted round the outbuildings and blew his hair.

  The dogs ran past him to inspect the intruder. They knew Jasper, who always travelled in the passenger seat, and trotted alongside looking up.

  Bunny swung in a circle and drew up outside. She spotted Peter and summoned a smile. The boy was alone. Where, she wondered, was his father? And his sister? Had she not returned yet? ‘Stay there,’ she told Jasper and stepped down into the yard.

  ‘Hello, Peter. A wild night.’ She eyed the sheet of corrugated iron in the corner. ‘A bit of damage, I see.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said and led the way indoors. ‘Daisy’s not well.’

  In the two years, or nearly two years, since she moved north, Bunny had visited Scar Hill only once. She liked Jim Irwin and liked his house too, a bit rough-and-ready but clean and comfortable. There had been a deterioration. This time she saw dust on the stairs, dog hairs on the carpet, stains on the settee. In the middle of the settee, in a carrycot with dirty handles, lay Valerie’s baby. Bunny remembered her as a sturdy and pretty little girl. Now she was fevered and suffering from some baby ailment.

  She looked around. ‘Where’s your dad?’

  Peter knew he would have to confess everything but not right at that moment. ‘He had to go to the sheep,’ he said. ‘There’s been some dogs worrying them.�
��

  Bunny was not happy about it. Why had it not been Jim who phoned her? Something was wrong. ‘What about your sister?’

  He shrugged. ‘She hasn’t come back yet.’

  ‘So it’s just you and the baby?’

  He nodded. ‘I tried to give her a bottle but she didn’t want it.’

  Bunny looked him in the eye then sat on the settee and felt Daisy’s forehead. The mother of three children and grandmother of two, she had seen most illnesses and knew what was serious and what was not. The baby was very hot. A sudden sneeze and discharge of greeny-yellow snot told her that most likely Daisy was suffering from a feverish cold, maybe flu. She lifted the towel that covered her and saw the little girl was dressed in a clean top and leggings. Her nappy was clean too. She set the towel aside to let some of the heat escape.

  Peter stood beside her, his face tight and anxious. Bunny looked up and smiled. ‘Nothing too serious. She’s got a cold and a bit of a temperature, that’s all. Babies are like that. Get some little bug and you think they’re going to die. At least you do when it’s the first one. All the same, better get Dr Bryson to give her the once-over.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Catch him before he sets off on his rounds. Do you want to ring him or shall I do it?’

  ‘You,’ Peter said.

  They went into the hall. ‘Hello? Dr Bryson? ... It’s Bunny Mason here. Sorry to disturb you on a Saturday. Look, I’m up at Jim Irwin’s place … Not as far as I know. Peter tells me he’s out with the sheep. It’s his daughter’s baby I’m ringing about … that’s right, Valerie … Well, she’s not here at the minute and they asked me to come over and look at the wee one. Nothing serious, I think, just one of those baby things … That’s right, a bit scary when you’ve never seen it before … You too?’ Bunny laughed. ‘What’s that? … Running a temperature? Yes, she is, that’s why I’d like your professional opinion … A thermometer?’ She raised her eyes and Peter shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so … I see. Well, we could take her along to my house if that would be any easier.’ She looked up again and Peter nodded. ‘What time would that be? … Three o’clock? I don’t suppose you could make it any earlier? … Eleven? That would be perfect … What’s that? … Well, Jim’s not here right now, as I said, but I’ll leave him a message … That’s splendid. See you then … Bye.’

  She put the phone down and turned to Peter. ‘You got most of that? We’ll leave a note for your dad and take her along to my house. Doctor says he’ll look in around eleven. Oh, and he wants your dad to arrange an appointment for himself. He hasn’t seen him for some time, apparently. Hasn’t been picking up his prescription.’

  They returned to the living room.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about you,’ she said, ‘but I could do with a cup of tea. Have you had your breakfast?’

  Peter had not.

  ‘Well look,’ she said. ‘If you don’t think it’s a bit cheeky of me, why don’t I rustle something up while you put on the fire?’ She rubbed her hands. ‘A bit chilly for the baby.’

  As he cleared away the ashes and brought in fresh peats, Peter thought that perhaps the time had come. The firelighters were kept in the cupboard beneath the sink. Bunny was busy at the stove. He rose, holding the packet in a dirty hand, and drew a shaky breath.

  ‘Mrs Mason?’

  She turned. ‘Yes, Peter.’

  He said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

  37

  Breakfasty Fingers

  BUNNY GAZED AT Peter and didn’t know what to say.

  Breakfast was over and they sat at the table with empty mugs and their plates pushed back. He had told her everything: how his dad was sick because of the war and had to take pills for his heart; how he had found him dead on the hillside and buried him in the peat; how this was to give himself time because he didn’t want to be sent away and was frightened for the dogs; how he had looked after the sheep; how Valerie had lived in Bristol, come home pregnant and given birth during the blizzard; how he had gone for help on the tractor and hurt his ankle; how they had lived on his dad’s Social Security money; how Valerie had gone off with Matt and left him to look after Daisy; how they were two days overdue and he had no way of getting in touch; how he knew he was in serious trouble but now Daisy was ill it didn’t matter.

  ‘I don’t know how you managed to keep going.’ Bunny shook her head. ‘How old are you now – thirteen? Second year in the high school and all this piling up on your shoulders? It should never have happened.’ She tried to take his hand but Peter drew it away. ‘One thing I can tell you,’ she said, ‘and I know what I’m talking about because in my life down south I was a magistrate for over ten years. You are not in any trouble. Believe me.’

  Peter looked at her. A magistrate, yeah, right. In old joggers and an anorak. Surrounded by goats at the end of the track. She was trying to be kind but it just wasn’t true. How could he conceal his dad’s death and bury his body without being in trouble? All that money they’d taken, that was theft, it had to be. All the lies he had told. And never mind himself, what would happen to Daisy now? Would she be taken into care because Valerie had left her at Scar Hill with her young brother and not come back? A picture he’d seen on TV of a baby dragged from its screaming mother and carried off by a policewoman had given him nightmares.

  ‘There’ll be a lot of questions,’ Bunny said. ‘Can’t be avoided, I’m afraid. But there’s nothing to be frightened about.’

  That was all very well to say. It terrified him. Sitting at a table to be questioned by strangers. Men in suits and women who’d pry into everything personal and private. People who’d strip his feelings bare. People who’d tell him he couldn’t possibly stay on at Scar Hill and would have to be sent away.

  ‘Who?’ he said.

  ‘Who what? Who’ll want to talk to you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘A social worker, I expect. And the police. Maybe someone from the children’s panel.’

  Peter thought about it. Like a boy at school who had been breaking into houses and smashing car windows.

  ‘They’re not going to be hostile, Peter, it’s not some sort of inquisition. They’re here to help. It’s their job. They want what’s best for you.’

  ‘Like what?’ he said. ‘Send me off to live with foster parents? Some boys’ home in Glasgow? Or Manchester?’

  ‘Where did you get all that from? Why should they send you to Glasgow or Manchester? You’re not listening to me, Peter. These are kind people, they’ve got children of their own. They’re going to be horrified. They don’t want you to be miserable, they want you to be happy and secure.’

  ‘I’m happy and secure here,’ he mumbled.

  ‘No you’re not. And you know you can’t live here by yourself. Anyway, there’s Daisy to consider. And Valerie.’ She thought for a moment. ‘You’re absolutely sure you don’t know where she’s gone?’

  Moodily Peter picked up a smear of marmalade on the tip of his finger. ‘Like I said, I don’t think I ever heard his second name. She said they were going back to his depot in Glasgow.’ He shrugged. ‘Left in the middle of the night. I’ve got no idea.’

  ‘I’m not sure anything can really be decided until she comes back. Obviously some arrangement has to be made about Daisy.’

  ‘You mean right now?’

  ‘Well yes, and for the future. See what the Social Services have to say. It’s up to Valerie to persuade them she’s a fit mother and nothing like this will ever happen again. Maybe she’ll decide to stay on here. You could live with her. That would be all right, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘She’s my only relative,’ he said. ‘Apart from my mother but you can forget her. I’d like it if Daisy stayed.’

  ‘But not Valerie?’

  After a long time he said, ‘She hates it up here, she’ll never stay on. At least, I don’t think so. She’s different from me. She likes the city and shops and hairdressers and things.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that.’ Bunny
sighed.

  ‘But living here’s the only thing I want to do.’

  ‘I realise that as well.’

  ‘If they do send me away,’ Peter said, ‘I won’t be able to take Ben, will I – or Meg?’

  ‘It depends where you go.’

  ‘But it’s not likely is it? I mean, if they send me to a children’s home or people in the town, they’ll never let me keep a big dog like Ben, will they?’

  Ben knew he was being talked about and crossed to the table.

  ‘And if I can’t, he’ll get sent to a dogs’ home, won’t he? They both will.’

  ‘I suppose they might.’

  ‘Do you think they’d get put down?’

  ‘Put down?’ Bunny was startled. ‘Why would they get put down?’

  ‘That’s what happens to dogs when nobody wants them.’

  ‘I know that, but who wouldn’t want two beautiful dogs like Meg and Ben?’

  ‘I don’t want them to go there. I don’t want them to go anywhere. They’re my dogs, I want them to stay with me.’

  Ben smelled his breakfasty fingers and licked them. Peter rubbed his rough grey head. The tall dog rested his chin on the table, on the lookout for a titbit. Peter gave him a left-over corner of toast.

  Daisy still lay on the settee in her carrycot. She gave a snotty sneeze. He took the paper towel he had been using as a napkin and wiped her clean. ‘There, is that better?’ He smiled and returned to the table.

  ‘I don’t want Daisy to go away either,’ he said. ‘I want us to stay together. I want to be there while she grows up, see she’s OK.’

  Bunny considered him across the table. ‘She’s lucky to have you for – well, I almost said a big brother but you’re her uncle, of course. And when you talk to the social worker and whoever it is, I’m sure all these things will be taken into account.’ She sat up and became more businesslike. ‘But so far you and I are the only people who know anything about it – apart from Valerie and her boyfriend, of course. So maybe if we make a few plans here and now we’ll have a better chance to influence what happens next.’