Woodhill Wood

by David Harris Wilson

  He had to try and telephone with an excuse for not going - "my Mum's keeping me in" was not what someone who had just been belted should say - but the mother would be waiting. The way he had left her sitting there would only have frustrated her. She would be pacing around, reciting her lines, intent on keeping Matthew away from the telephone while she talked into the night. If the parents left early in the morning, Gurde might be able to telephone Bairdy before he left for the dam. The triumph would soon be forgotten by the people at the back of the bus. Gurde had to seize the chance.

  Gurde slipped and skidded back down over the wet grass towards the trees at the bottom of the slope then swung through the wire fence and dropped on to the wet road. He marched with determination, keeping his eyes fixed on the white lines that stretched into the distance.

  The speed-limit signs shone through the night at the bottom of the slope. Gurde picked up a jagged rock from the side of the road and hurled it at one of the bright circles. The deafening clang lingered as he pounded on up past the church towards the house.

  He reached the bottom of the drive and stopped to peer up, trying to see if anyone was moving about near the back door. But it was too dark to tell, so he continued along the pavement to the front gates. Gurde thought about opening them, but instead decided to climb over the garden wall from the field. From there he could check whether it was quiet.

  The grass in the field whipped against his hands as he sprinted past the plum branches to where there was a foothold in the wall. He reached the crack, put his hands against the stone and quickly planned a route up over the moss-covered dampness. The heartbeat made him feel like a burglar, afraid of the eyes that might be staring out into the night, waiting for the son's return. Gurde put the edge of the right shoe into the crack and pushed up, placed both hands on to the top of the wall and then peered over into the garden. But the climb had placed him directly opposite the study - the lights were on and his face was caught in the glow, so Gurde dropped back into the darkness and moved further along the wall.

  Twenty feet away was another crack and, though it wasn't as good as the first, it would keep him in the shadows. Gurde pushed up and lay flat along the curved top, feeling the water run out of the moss as he gripped the stone. He lay still and listened for a sound from the house. Satisfied that the mother wasn't near, he swiveled so that the legs hung into the garden and then dropped into the vegetable patch.

  They would either be in the kitchen, the sitting room or the study - but they would be separate. He kept low as he crept through the crunching lettuces, and then hurried across the path to the back wall of the house. Study first.

  Gurde edged towards the small window from where light was streaming into the drizzle. At the edge of the light he stood and listened and heard the familiar voice. She was speaking to someone, and he could tell by her confident tone that she was on the telephone and that the father wasn't in the room.

  She normally sat facing the wall when she was telling her stories so he risked a glance. There she sat with her back to the window, lost in her monologue. Gurde pulled back, paused, then looked in again. Her head was bobbing up and down as she spoke and she was doodling aimlessly on a piece of paper on the desk. He couldn't hear the words but he could imagine what they were. Gurde turned and hurried back along the side of the house knowing he had to be quick if he wanted to get upstairs before she finished her conversation.

  Around the back of the house the kitchen lights were on. He kept to the darkness and slipped behind the old apple tree in the corner. Gurde knew the father would be staring out into the night from the kitchen window, wishing he could get back into the study. He was where he always stood, drawing on his cigarette, lost in thoughts, a severe expression on his face. Some nights, the father would stand there for hours as she talked on in the other room, thinking out things that only he would understand, planning his twisting words, laying his traps.

  Gurde had to move fast. He hurried back through the lines of vegetables, and stopped briefly at the study window. She was still talking. He crawled along the tarmac under the window and then ran round to the front of the house.

  The outer front door was open. The inner glass door was not. He was bathed in the glare from the hallway. The glass panes in the inner door were loose and seemed to rattle their alarm no matter how carefully the door was moved. Gurde pushed the handle down and leant forward to ease the door open. It clicked but it was too late to go back. He opened a narrow gap and slipped in, closed it quietly and tiptoed down the hall. The study door was shut. He could hear some of her muffled words.

  "...it's just one of... ...and I... ...absolutely terrible..."

  He gripped the banister and strode up the first eleven steps two at a time. He passed the first landing and stepped up the central three steps in one, careful to avoid the squeaky floorboard in the middle. Only seven to go. Below, in the hall, out of sight, the study door opened. Gurde froze.

  He could hear her foot tapping on the tiles as she stood in the doorway. His heart thumped so loudly that Gurde was sure she would hear it. The moment lasted an age before, thinking she had been mistaken, she closed the door again and went back to her audience.

  Gurde climbed the last seven steps then crossed the landing. As he approached the bedroom door he was struck by the thought that she might have locked it and removed the key to ensure there was no hiding place. He clutched the handle and prayed the door would open. It did. Gurde turned the key in the lock and staggered across the room to the bed.

  The wet clothes thumped against the floor as he peeled them off. He used a clean T-shirt to dry his legs, chest and hair and then climbed under the covers.

  Now that he was back in the warmth without her knowing, Gurde wondered if she would phone the police thinking he was still out there on the hill in the darkness. She had done it before - or at least she claimed she had. They hadn't come. She would be embarrassed if she did call them. Gurde could imagine the conversation.

  "Well Madam, you say your son's lost on the hill?"

  "Yes, that's right, Officer"

  "That's funny. He's asleep upstairs!"

  Brilliant. The image of her confusion brought a brief smile to his face.

  Gurde thought again about Bairdy sitting up there at the dam. He would try and telephone in the morning, after the parents had gone, with the excuse that he had yet to think of.

  He rolled over and began to set the alarm for half past seven but, as the red numbers span on, he realised how ridiculous it would be to telephone so early on a Saturday morning. Bairdy's mother would probably answer with a stream of abuse before slamming down the receiver. He would go and meet Bairdy anyway. Ben would be all right.

  He switched off the light and lay listening to the distant drone from the study.

  He was woken by loud knocking on the door.

  "Matty? Are you awake? Matty!"

  And for a moment he forgot all that had happened the day before.

  "Yes, Mum?"

  "Open this door will you? What's it locked for anyway? Now, get up! We're going in a minute."

  His brain struggled to understand what she was talking about; then Gurde was awake. "What?" he said.

  "You heard me. Open this door!"

  "What?"

  "Oh Jesus! Come on, don't mess me about. I want you up. I need to talk to you."

  He stared up at the ceiling. She banged harder on the door and rattled the lock.

  "Right!" she shouted. "That's enough! Get yourself out here now!"

  He kept quiet. The father shouted something from downstairs.

  "Yes, dear," she replied. "I'm sorry. I'm just coming."

  She tapped again, more gently this time. "Matty, please will you come?"

  Gurde was determined not to answer. There was a long silence before she finally gave up.

  "Matty?" she said meekly.

  The father called again. "Pat! What on earth are you up to? Come on!"

  "Coming," she called b
ack. Then she turned back to the door. "Look. I know you can hear me. I've left some money by the telephone. Remember what I said about answering the door and about your brother. I want you to be here when we get back. Be good. I've got to go."

  Gurde almost answered but swallowed it back. She walked down the landing and he counted each step as she went down the flights of stairs. Seven then three then eleven. There was some muffled conversation in the hall. A few doors banged and he heard the car roar down the drive and fade away down the road.

  He lay there for a few minutes feeling satisfaction and guilt in turns. The house seemed quite empty. He guessed Ben was already feeding on his morning diet of cartoons in the living room. He glanced at the clock: it was almost nine. He threw on some clothes from the pile, unlocked the bedroom door and hurried downstairs.

  He crept to the living room door and peered in to see Ben sitting in his pyjamas, his face pressed up against the television screen. He often didn't get up until one o'clock on a Saturday, so Ben probably wouldn't notice if he was gone for a few hours. If he was careful he could get up to the dam, do enough fishing to have made an appearance and then get back before all the cartoons had finished, and Ben would never know, and if Ben didn't know then the mother would never find out.

  He sneaked back into the hall. The fishing rod lay behind the creaking cupboard door under the stairs. Gurde opened it and grabbed the rod, the reel and any bits he could see that might be useful. It was all supposed to be used at sea and none of it seemed good for catching trout. He wondered if Bairdy would laugh when he saw the massive hooks that Gurde was carrying. Still, that didn't matter.

  He stuffed the various bits into the haversack that was on the cupboard floor, swung it over his shoulder and hurried to the back door. The long rod swung dangerously close to the various walls and doors as he scuttled out.

  The only real worry was that the mother would come back for something. Every time the family went on holiday she seemed to leave something behind, and, no matter how unimportant it might seem, she always had to go back for it. In the mood the father was in she probably wouldn't have much chance of coming back, even if she wanted to, but it was still a possibility that made Gurde hesitate at the door.

  It was pouring with rain. He headed down the drive and turned right - away from the church and the Woodhill and the cliff - and started the long walk through town and along the base of the hills to the path up to the dam. The rain chilled the back of his neck. Gurde stepped away from the kerb whenever a car drove past.

  He passed through the streets avoiding eye contact with the few people that had ventured out into the storm. Gradually the houses became less frequent and more widely spaced until there were only flooded fields on either side of the road. He reached the swing-gate at the base of the dam path and pressed the button on the side of his watch, making the red 9:58 briefly shine out; an hour had already passed. Ben would still be watching his cartoons.

  The two soggy miles from the house had taken an age and for a moment Gurde thought of giving up, but then he imagined Bairdy waiting patiently under his umbrella and started upwards.

  The path had become a spitting river. Though Gurde stepped from side to side to avoid the worst of the water, the wet clay clung to his shoes and sucked at every step. He tried putting the fishing rod over his shoulder to stop it catching on the bushes but the rain ran down his sleeves.

  Eventually he dragged it along behind so that it wouldn't be damaged if he slipped. As the path steepened, Gurde slipped more and more, grasping for branches with his free hand to stop falling further, planning what to say to his first real friend at school. And at every pause he checked the watch, counting down time to the end of the cartoons.

  Another long hour passed before the path began to level out along the side of the glen. Up ahead, the massive wall of the dam grew out of the gloom, dark and imposing, confidently holding back the surge.

  It had been years since Gurde had been so high above the valley. Then the sun had shone and the dam wall had seemed warm and welcoming. Now it was streaked black by the rain. The overflow on the far side roared with a torrent of brown water that poured down to the rocks below. The path had eroded and Gurde felt increasingly nervous that a single slip would send him rolling down to join the churning bubbles. He welcomed the concrete steps that led to the top of the dam itself.

  As soon as Gurde passed the dam wall and looked across the black water he knew there was nobody there. The water massed with tiny circles. The rain hissed across its surface. The whole valley felt cold and empty.

  He peered along the reservoir's paved sides, trying to make out the bright umbrellas and solitary figures that he had imagined would dot the water's edge.

  It was suddenly so obvious that no-one would have gone fishing in such conditions. Gurde remembered that fishermen were supposed to like the rain, but this was more than rain; this was a downpour. He wondered if he should tell Bairdy he had gone at all.

  Gurde looked at the heavy fishing rod lying against a rock at the edge of the shifting water. If he'd had the proper equipment he might have caught a fish but with the hooks he had brought it wasn't worth trying. He didn't even have any bait.

  There was a metal walkway along the top of the dam, with a handrail on one side where the reservoir water lapped against the stone. The underside of the handrail was lined with drops of water, hanging like jewels from the metal.

  Gurde left the haversack on a rock and walked out to the middle of the dam, running fingers along the rail, freeing the droplets to fall back into the black mass where they belonged. At the heart of the dam he could almost feel the weight of the water straining against the stone, trying to continue its path down to the valley below as it had done for centuries, frustrated that this narrow, man-made barrier should prevent it from completing its journey.

  The roar of the overflow at the end of the walkway filled the senses. Clouds of white spray drifted out to merge with the rain. Gurde climbed up on to the slippery metal sill, with his toes poking out over the edge, and looked down towards the sharp, V-shape of the hills and the flooded plain in the distance, aware that a sudden gust of wind would finish him, testing his nerve. After a while, Gurde dropped Matt's arms back to his sides and turned to look across the rippling reservoir where Bairdy was supposed to have been huddled under his umbrella. At least Gurde was there; at least he had taken the risk. Now he could only wait and see if there was a price that had to be paid. Surely the brother would be all right.

  He checked his watch. It was already time to head back. He dropped down on to the metal walkway with a clang, snatched up the haversack and the rod, and began the long slide back down to the road.

  As he approached the house he began to plan again how to get back in without being heard, just as he had done the night before. The mother had done this. She had made it into a place that Gurde had to break into like a thief.

  He peered up the back drive, dreading the sight of the car outside the door, expecting to see her standing beside it with her arms folded, waiting for his return. But the drive was empty. According to the watch it was already one o'clock and Ben would be expecting his brother to be waking up.

  Gurde jogged up the drive listening to the muffled laughter from the television. He could only hope that Ben would not be in the kitchen - he knew he was too wet and dirty to pretend that he hadn't been far. Gurde entered the warm air, crept through the empty dining room under cover of the blaring music from next door, and hurried upstairs.

  Gurde showered and then wandering back downstairs in a dressing gown.

  Ben was still lying on the floor in front of the last cartoon. He turned his head, and Gurde waited nervously for the brother's opening remark.

  "I'm hungry," Ben said.

  The rest of that day disappeared. The noise of the television kept his mind occupied with unimportant things while the rain continued to lash against the windows, reminding them to stay indoors. Ben raided the kitchen cupboards, b
uilding huge sandwiches out of whatever could be found.

  During one determined rummage on a high shelf, Gurde found a dusty packet of Player's cigarettes. Since there were only two left, he assumed that the packet wouldn't be missed.

  He sneaked upstairs, where Ben couldn't smell the fumes, and lit up in front of the open window. The first time Gurde had tried smoking it had been disgusting, but that had been over a year before and he thought he might be old enough now for it to taste better. He had to do something bad while the father was away. He sucked twice on the cigarette and decided it wasn't a good idea. He felt sick and only just managed to avoid retching.

  Gurde stubbed out the smoking tip on the windowsill and then tried to rub off the black soot that had marked the stone. The long stub had to be disposed of too. It took three desperate flushes before it unwrapped, crumbled and vanished down the toilet. Gurde put the packet with the last cigarette behind the dictionary on the shelf.

  As he put the dictionary back into position he remembered the money by the telephone. He rushed downstairs, found the five pound note tucked underneath the receiver and patted it as he slipped it into his back pocket. Then he went back to watching television.

  Gurde had expected to enjoy being in control of the house. He could do what he liked, but with the constant thrashing of the rain he just felt bored. Ben was getting bored as well and they had a fight.

  Ben started it by kicking the chair as he walked past to turn up the volume after Gurde had turned it down. Gurde kicked Ben's leg in complaint. Ben swore and threw a cushion, so Gurde knocked him over. The brother then turned red and jumped up and kicked Gurde hard on the shin and from that point things deteriorated.

  It ended when Ben grabbed a book off the shelf and span it as hard as he could across the room. Gurde ducked and it missed. The book bounced off the wall and hit a cup. The cup shot across the table, spraying cold coffee as it went, and smashed against the radiator. It was all Ben's fault, but Gurde was in charge, so he picked up the broken pieces that had scattered across the room. He moved the nearest chair to cover the dark stain on the carpet and called a truce.