Scar Hill

by Alan Temperley

  Peter leaned over and looked beneath the bench. Meg and Ben seemed warm and settled. Their eyes shone like points of light. He put down a hand and told them about going home. They couldn’t understand, how could they, but in a way … Meg turned her head and licked his wrist.

  He lay back with a great rustling and watched the misshapen moon through the perspex. Not a single window was lit in the nearby houses.

  42

  Helicopter on the Hill

  A PERIOD OF high pressure had settled over the country and the frosty night was followed by a brilliantly clear morning.

  Peter stuffed the newspapers back into the bin, threw out the bracken and set off in the dark. By nine o’clock he had crossed the river, climbed from the valley and was high on the open moor. A cold wind blew in his face and the little lochs danced in the sunshine. A group of red deer hinds watched his approach and bounded away across the heather. Five miles to the north, the way he was heading, Blae Fell lifted its head above the wilderness.

  The dogs seemed unaffected by their night in the bus shelter but Peter’s back was stiff and his legs were weary. To add to the discomfort, his socks had not dried out and his blisters hurt, though the Doberman’s bite seemed to be healing. Head lowered, he trudged on. Scar Hill seemed a long way off.

  He had intended to walk all the way but when the helicopter appeared an hour later, he was relieved more than sorry. After a brief struggle with himself, he ran to the top of a rise and waved his arms. The pilot spotted him and altered course. With throbbing rotors the helicopter hovered and dropped to the moor as gently as a leaf.

  The blades freewheeled to a halt as Peter walked to meet it. The doors slid back. The pilot and another man jumped down.

  The pilot wore orange overalls and a helmet. He was young and blue-eyed with a pleasant, open face. His name was Davy.

  ‘Peter Irwin?’ he said.

  Peter nodded.

  ‘Thank God! Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Where the hell have you been? Everyone’s been worried to death about you.’

  Worried? Peter was surprised. Who could be worried? Angry, more like.

  ‘I was – ’ he gestured vaguely. ‘Spent a night at the sheep fanks. Then Reckitt’s Mines.’

  ‘Yes, we found your stuff.’ The pilot took in his dirty face and hands, his ripped jacket, the half-wild expression in his eyes. ‘You look as if you could do with a good hot meal and your bed.’ He rummaged in a breast pocket and produced a bar of chocolate. ‘Here.’

  Peter shook his head.

  ‘Don’t be daft, take it.’ The pilot pushed it into his hands and to Peter’s surprise put an arm round his shoulders.

  The other man said, ‘The whole village has been out looking for you – police, mountain rescue.’

  Peter recognised him. His name was Murdo Sutherland. He was a lean man with a craggy face. An old friend of his dad’s. Gamekeeper on an estate the far side of Strath Teal. It was Murdo who’d been bitten by the conger eel and nearly bled to death.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Peter said. ‘I didn’t mean to cause all this bother.’

  ‘Dinna worry yourself, son. You’ve had a rough ride. Just so long as you’re safe.’ He patted his knee to make friends with Ben and Meg. They liked his smell and came up with wagging tails. ‘What are their names?’

  Peter told him and looked round at the pilot. ‘Do you know if they picked up Buster?’

  ‘Don’t tell me, your ferret?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Yeah, he’s fine. Murdo there’s been looking after him.’

  Murdo looked up. ‘Great little fella. Put him in a run over at my place. Bring him back when you’re ready.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’ Peter hesitated. ‘Do you know anything about Daisy?’

  ‘Daisy?’

  ‘My sister’s little girl. Just a baby. I was looking after her, then she got sick.’ Now he’d stopped walking Peter began to feel cold. He gripped the neck of his jacket.

  ‘You’re freezing, boy. Here, I’ve got a couple of flasks in the chopper.’ The pilot swung aboard and returned with a small rucksack and red survival blanket. ‘Come on, get you warmed up, then we’ll head home.’

  ‘Home where?’

  ‘Scar Hill – that’s where you live, isn’t it?’

  A low cliff provided shelter from the wind. Peter draped the blanket round his shoulders. They made themselves comfortable on rocks.

  The tea was hot and sweet. Davy produced sandwiches and a slice of cake.

  ‘Go on,’ he insisted when Peter tried to refuse. ‘I had a fry-up for breakfast, what did you eat?’ He pulled off his helmet, revealing a tangle of fair hair.

  Peter squinted into the sun. Warmth began to radiate from his stomach.

  ‘What about Daisy?’ he said again. ‘Have you heard anything?’

  ‘Yeah, I saw her this morning as a matter of fact. Lady Crompton’s looking after her. Said she’d been sick but it was only a forty-eight hour thing. Fine again now. Chuckling away there in her carrycot.’

  ‘Lady Crompton?’ Peter was puzzled.

  ‘Lives the end of your road. Said she knew you. Didn’t you phone her to tell her the baby was ill? She’s the one found you were missing, got all this started.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I rang Bunny Mason. She’s the one lives at the end of our road.’

  ‘That’s right, Lady Crompton. Used to be married to that man started all the supermarkets. You know, Crompton’s: the Shopper’s Friend. There’s one in Clashbay.’

  Peter was confused. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow you. D’you mean she’s got her sister staying or something?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. I’ve been to the house a few times and I’ve never seen anyone else. Lives there by herself, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Are you telling me she’s the same person?’

  ‘Well, yeah.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. If she’s Bunny Mason, how can she be Lady Crompton?’

  ‘No great mystery, she got divorced. You’ve seen her husband in the papers often enough. You know, fat little Billy Crompton with a big cigar and a bimbo on each arm. Sir Billy Crompton, I should say. Knighted for his services to industry.’

  Peter shook his head.

  ‘Prob’ly have done, just not been interested.’

  The moors spread before them, mile upon mile. Meg rested her head on Murdo’s knee.

  ‘It’s quite a story,’ Davy went on. ‘I don’t know all the details but from what I can make out, Billy’s wife – that’s Lady Crompton – she had no taste for the high life. Not after the first few years anyway. Dinners and cocktail parties, having to play the charming hostess, everyone talking money and takeovers, knocking back the champers. Then her husband fooling around with these slappers half his age and getting into the gossip columns. Couldn’t stand it. So she started putting all her energy into good works: you know, charities and fund-raising, that sort of thing. Travelled all over the place. But in the end she’d had enough. The children were grown up and she wanted out. So she gets a divorce and goes back to her maiden name, Bunny Mason. Comes up here for a bit of peace and quiet. Wants to try her hand at writing children’s books – had one published too. Since the papers got hold of the story they’ve been having a field day.’

  It took a while to digest. ‘So it was true, what she told me, about being a magistrate and all that?’

  ‘Don’t know about magistrate, but yeah, if she said so. None of the people up here knew anything about it. But then you went AWOL and she was worried to death. So she used her influence and, well, here we are.’

  A pair of chaffinches landed on a nearby rock. Peter threw a crust towards them. They were not used to being fed out there on the moor and flew away.

  After a while Peter said, ‘If she’s still looking after Daisy, does that mean our Valerie never turned up?’

  ‘Who’s Valerie again?’

  ‘My sister. Daisy’s mother
.’

  ‘’Fraid not, son,’ Murdo said. ‘Not for want of looking neither. Seems she’s just disappeared. Her and that boyfriend of hers. Took the lorry back to Glasgow, right enough, but the boss give him his cards. Can’t say he didn’t deserve it. After that,’ he shrugged, ‘just vanished into thin air. Not a word.’

  ‘Something must have happened,’ Peter said.

  Murdo hesitated. ‘Gave your dad a bit of a run around, didn’t she? Took off before.’

  ‘But she wouldn’t leave the baby,’ he said. ‘She’d never go off and leave Daisy behind.’

  ‘No one’s heard anything.’

  ‘Could she be looking for a place to stay?’ Davy said. ‘A little flat maybe. Then come back and take the baby down with her.’

  ‘Yeah, but she’d give me a ring wouldn’t she. Far as she knows, I’m still there looking after Daisy by myself. I’d have to go and get food. They’d be asking about me at school. She knows that, she’s not stupid.’

  ‘Let’s just hope we hear from her soon.’ Davy looked round at his helicopter. The long blades drooped. ‘First thing we’ve got to do is get you home. I’ll give them a buzz, put everyone’s mind at rest. ‘’Specially Lady Crompton, she’s been very upset.’

  ‘Because of me?’ Peter said. ‘It wasn’t her fault.’

  ‘It’s not a question of whose fault.’ Davy stood up and stretched. ‘You ran away and she’s upset. Think about it.’

  He collected the flasks and crossed to the helicopter. Peter followed, still shawled in the red blanket. As he left the shelter of the rocks the cold wind hit him in the face.

  Davy took a mike from the control panel: ‘Hello? ZX1 to base. ZX1 to base.’

  After a few moments a woman’s voice crackled back.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘That you, Skip? … Yes, Davy here. Look, great news, we’ve got the boy … Flagged us down up here on the moor … ‘Bout a mile, mile and a half near side of Strath Teal … No, he seems to be fine. Bit tired, looks like he needs a good meal and his bed. I’ve given him a hot drink and a sandwich … Say again?... Well, if you want the doc to look him over. I’ll take him back to Scar Hill then, that’s his place … Yeah, right. Murdo and I can knock up a bit of nosh while he has a bath.’ He glanced at Peter and turned aside. ‘Listen, I’ll get him to show us where his dad’s buried – if he’s agreeable, that is. Save taking him out again later. What do you think?… OK, will do.’ He turned back and saw Peter watching. ‘Yeah, give you a call then ... Blue sky, couldn’t be better … Right, bye … ZX1 to base, over and out.’

  He replaced the handset. ‘I don’t know if you caught that, Peter. What do you say? Fly you back home and you can show us where your dad’s buried on the way.’

  Where your dad’s buried – just like that. Peter hadn’t dared to ask. He liked Davy – but if he knew, did that mean everyone else did? His friends? His teachers? The whole village?

  He gave a small nod.

  Murdo said, ‘Nothing to feel bad about, son.’ He rested a gnarled hand on Peter’s shoulder.

  ‘I didn’t know what else – ’

  ‘Your dad thought the world of you. I’ll tell you one thing: when my time comes, if they’d bury me out there on the slopes of Blae Fell, I’d die a happy man.’

  ‘We’d best be getting along.’ Davy climbed aboard and passed Peter a spare helmet. ‘You sit up front here beside me. Murdo can go in the back with the dogs. Be OK in the chopper, will they?’

  ‘Yeah, they’ll be fine,’ he said.

  ‘Have to tie them up close to the bulkhead, stop them falling around.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ He pulled off the blanket and called Ben. ‘Come on then. Good boy. Up we go.’ He clicked his tongue. Obediently the big dog, who would have died for Peter, jumped up and followed him to the rear of the aircraft. Davy handed him a rope and he tied Ben’s collar to a strut.

  Ben smelled of disinfectant. Peter hadn’t finished washing out the blood and his breast was still matted. The bite was a thick scab.

  ‘What happened to his neck?’ Murdo said.

  ‘Got in a fight but it’s healing now.’

  ‘Aye, I had a look. He’ll be all right. Take him to the vet and get a jab, just to be on the safe side.’

  Ben knew they were talking about him and looked up. Peter rubbed his ears.

  Meg was reluctant, she did not like the helicopter. After a lot of coaxing Peter lifted her aboard. She was heavier than he expected. ‘Hey, you’re getting fat.’ He set her on the deck and was struck by a sudden fear. She couldn’t be … He ran a hand under her belly and felt the swollen teats. ‘Ah, no!’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me. That’s all we need, pups. Come on, Meg, give me a break.’

  When had she been in heat? With all that was happening he hadn’t noticed. There was only one dog could be the father. Ben stood watching as if whatever was happening had nothing to do with him.

  Peter tied her to an adjacent strut. ‘All right, it’s not your fault.’ He cuddled her because she was frightened and thought she was in trouble. ‘Good girl, yes! Good boy!’ He gave them some little dog biscuits that Murdo carried in the pocket of his field jacket.

  Davy showed him how to fasten the helmet and strap himself in. He slid the door shut. With a roar the engine started up. The rotor blades revolved – faster and faster until they were a blur.

  ‘Ready?’ Davy looked across.

  ‘Yeah.’

  The engine note picked up. At a speed that forced Peter down into his seat and made his head spin, they whirled up into the sky.

  43

  Return to Scar Hill

  PETER LOOKED DOWN from the cockpit. At fifteen hundred feet the moor had flattened out. Mile upon mile, the land was brown and russet and green with outcrops of grey rock and patches of black peat. Little lochs, edged with ice, reflected the sky like mirrors. It was a land untouched by man. A dinosaur plodding beneath them, pausing to tear up bunches of vegetation, would not have seemed out of place.

  Any other time Peter would have exulted in the ride but now, as he spied the shoulders of Blae Fell and tried to work out just where, on its lower slopes, his dad was buried, his heart was anxious.

  Davy looked sideways. ‘When all this has blown over we’ll have to take you a trip somewhere,’ he said. ‘Where d’you fancy? Out to the islands? Down the country for a good nosh-up?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Peter smiled back.

  But he thought, When all this has blown over. Yeah, neat. Come and look me up.

  Davy said no more and Peter returned to searching the hillsides.

  ‘Down there.’ He pointed. ‘A bit below them rocks.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘I think so. Looks different from up here.’

  The helicopter dropped below the summit. Rabbits dashed for cover. Sheep bounded off with swirling tails.

  ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ Peter said. ‘I recognise that little cliff.

  Davy needed a flat spot. With a gentle bump the helicopter touched down, rocked and came to rest. He switched off the engine. The rotor blades freewheeled to a halt.

  Peter got out first and pulled off his helmet. The silence of the moor, broken only by the whine of wind in the metal spars, clapped about his ears. He remembered the spot well, even though the grave was nowhere to be seen. He aligned the scatter of boulders with the cliff higher up the slope and started to climb. Soon he saw it, a rough black rectangle, well over to one side.

  Snow had weakened his simple cross, the late winter gales had knocked it to the ground. It lay on its back, half-hidden by the heather. The wood was sodden but his dad’s name, James Allan Irwin, and the years of his birth and death, were as fresh as the day he had painted them. In the five or six weeks since his last visit, the peat had settled. Little plumes of grass and weed had established themselves round the stark black edges of the scar.

  Davy and Murdo joined him. They tried not to intrude but Peter didn’t want them there, he wanted to be alone. Davy moved away
but Murdo took off his cap, revealing a bald brown dome. He was looking down but his thoughts were elsewhere. Jim had been a drinking pal.

  Peter tried to conjure up his dad’s memory but only fragments would come. He said a silent sorry and gazed blankly at the grave. Like yesterday he remembered digging it, sweating in the icy wind, toppling in his dad’s body, the spadefuls of peat thudding down, battering in the cross with his spade. It was a nightmare. And now, instead of picturing his dad as he had been in the past, all he could wonder was whether his body was being preserved, like the man in Denmark, or was starting to rot. He didn’t want to think about it and moved away.

  Davy produced a can of marker paint and sprayed a huge orange cross in the heather. ‘Won’t be me that comes back,’ he explained. ‘Probably a police chopper.’

  ‘What’ll they do?’ Peter asked.

  Davy hesitated: ‘Dig him up and take him back.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Clashbay Infirmary, I should think. Or maybe down to Inverness.’

  ‘In a body bag?’

  ‘You don’t want to be thinking about these things,’ Murdo said. ‘Try to remember your dad as he was.’

  But Peter wanted to know. ‘They’ll have to carry out a post-mortem won’t they?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘Like on TV, on a slab and everything?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen a post-mortem.’

  ‘I can tell them before they start,’ Peter said. ‘It was his heart. Doctor Bryson’s been treating him. He was trying to reach his pills when he died. They were scattered all over the place.’ The memory brought a lump into his chest. ‘What about after? Will he have a funeral or will they just bury him?’

  ‘For goodness sake, boy, what questions. Of course he’ll have a funeral. He was your dad.’ He glanced at Davy then back at the tense, scruffy boy who stood before them. ‘Look, we don’t want to be talking about all this here. Let’s get you back home and into the warmth.’

  They returned to the helicopter and Peter directed them to Scar Hill. The orange cross spun away beneath them, the moors fled past and in no time at all, it seemed, there was the track, there were the sheep, there was the rocky outcrop that gave the house its name. Davy hovered above the buildings and selected a spot for landing. Birds flew off in alarm and the heather tossed wildly in the down-draught. The helicopter touched down and came to rest.