by Ruth Sutton
Daniel was away for a few minutes, hitching up one of the horses to the cart. They clattered across the yard and he came back into the kitchen. John was lying back in the big chair.
‘Can ye stand?’ he said to John.
John leaned forward and struggled to his feet, but one leg buckled under him and he fell back. Daniel knelt down and looked at him. Then he stood up, leaned down to push one arm under John’s knees and hauled him up into his arms, taking small steps to steady himself on the floor’s uneven flags.
‘Get ’is bag, love,’ he said to his wife, and she followed him out of the dark kitchen to the cart standing outside.
‘You get up, Edna,’ said Daniel, ‘ I’ll sit ’im on th’edge. You pull ’im back and then we can lie ’im doon.’
‘Fetch us a blanket, then,’ she said, as she held John’s head and lowered it to the floor of the cart. ‘Can’t have ’im rolling about.’
By the time the Asbys reached the floor of the valley and the broad track towards the pub, John was mumbling, asking for water. He lay on his side, the blanket over him and tucked around, his knees drawn up like a baby as fits of coughing came and went. Edna knelt beside him, wiping his face with her shawl. Another track appeared to the left, as splashes of rain began to leave dark spots on the floor of the cart.
‘Drop me ’ere, love,’ she said, ‘I’ll go down to Baker’s. Wi’ any luck they’ll be back. You carry on and I’ll see you up there. Go slow. ’E looks reet done in.’ She wiped John’s face one more time and grasped his hand. ‘Dan’ll take you to t’pub,’ she said. ‘I’ll find someone who’ll know ’ow to ’elp you. Won’t be long.’
She jumped down and set off down the track, holding her shawl with one hand against the wind as the thin rain blew steadily into her face. Daniel clicked his tongue and the patient horse pulled the cart up the valley towards the pub. John lay motionless on the floor. Daniel wondered what was wrong with him, and what would happen. He’d seen people like this before and knew it was serious. The rain fell quietly on them both, the strong and the sick.
Chapter 14
There’d been a pub at Wasdale Head for as long as anyone could remember. Certainly Daniel Asby remembered it from his childhood, before he left the valley for the pit at Egremont. All those years underground he carried with him the image of the familiar end wall, visible from the final bend in the road. Dwarfed by steep fellsides to the north and west, and the bulk of Scafell on the other side of the flat valley floor, the pub was the centre of the climbers’ universe. From its shelter and companionship the paths ran to Pillar, Gable, and over Scarth Gap to Borrowdale and Eskdale. Many a tired walker, lost in cloud, thanked God when he dropped down below the cloud line and saw the litter of buildings, the gleam of Wastwater and the distant sea.
Sam Phizakerlea, who ran the pub, reigned over this end of the valley like an enlightened despot. He was a climber himself, and gave the climbing community what it travelled so far to enjoy: easy access to the best climbs in England, good ale and congenial company. There were always climbers here, year round. The pile of boots in the porch filled the air with the smell of Dubbin polish. Night after night, year after year, the back bar absorbed stories of slabs and holds and overhangs. New-fangled ideas, like pitons and rubber shoes, were despised and rejected. Real men, – and they were all men – reinforced each other’s conviction that they were the true disciples, untainted by the effete modernism of Europe. To prove their credentials, they cheered as one of them would occasionally circle the back bar without touching the floor, finding foot and hand holds on the ancient walls.
It was almost dark when Daniel Asby’s cart clattered across the cobbled yard of the pub. The landlord was filling log boxes. Daniel jumped down from the cart. ‘This lad’s sick, Phiz. Real bad. ’E were ganging down t’path from Boot, thought he was drunk, but ’e’s sick. Gi’s a hand. Need to get ’im inside.’
Phiz climbed up onto the cart and lifted John’s shoulders to slide him down to where Dan was waiting to steady the lolling body. Then between them they carried John through the low front door of the pub.
‘Not the bar,’ said Phiz. ‘To the left. There’s a fire lit in there and we can put him on the settle.’
Phiz took off his jacket, rolled it and put it under John’s head while Daniel stood upright, holding his back that had pained him since his accident and would until he died.
‘We’re trying to find Baker’s lass, if she’s around,’ said Daniel. ‘Looks like pneumonia to me. Needs some proper ’elp, I reckon. All we can do is keep ’im warm, let ’im sweat it out. That’s what they told us when our Alan was bad that time. Mind you, he died. ’Appen this one could, too.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Told us ’is name’s John Pharaoh.’
‘One of the Whitehaven mob?’
‘Nay. From away. Ulverston. Lives at Boot he says.’
‘Where’s his folks? We might need to find them.’
‘God knows. He’s nobbut a lad. The Porters might know.’
‘Fred Porter you mean, the rug man?’
‘Aye, ’im and ’is missus, Mick Tyson’s lass. He’s stopping with them.’
‘I’ll fetch a blanket,’ said Phiz. ‘Let’s hope we’re doing the right thing.’
‘My Edna’s gone down to Bakers’ place. Not far. If Nora’s there, they won’t be long.’
Daniel pulled up a stool towards the settle and watched John’s eyelids flutter and his mouth move. ‘Mam.’ Just the one word.
‘Hang on, lad,’ said Dan, leaning towards him. ‘We’ll have you reet.’
A young man appeared at the door. ‘What’s up, Dan?’
‘This lad, Colin,’ said Daniel, pointing at the body on the settle. ‘Found ’im at th’ farm. ’E’s badly. Edna’s gone for ’elp.’
The young man had a full pint glass in his hand, holding it carefully as he came across the room. He looked down at the figure on the settle.
‘Ehyup,’ he said. ‘I know him, it’s John. Hang on a minute.’
He put down the glass on the mantelpiece above the fire and hurried out of the room. Daniel heard his voice in the bar. A minute later he was back, and another young man with him.
‘See. It’s John, the lad from the brewery in Ulverston. What’s his name?’
‘Pharaoh,’ Dan interrupted. Told me that himself before ’e passed out.’
‘That’s it. Pharaoh. Ulverston. He’s a climber, not bad, too. Comes up weekends. Haven’t seen him for a bit, mind. I think his mam died.’
‘Said ’e’s living at Boot,’ Dan added.
‘Boot? Must’ve shifted. Always said he wished he lived nearer. Doesn’t look good, does he? What’s up with him?’
‘Looks like pneumonia to me. Hurry up, Edna love. Phiz and I dinna know what to do for t’best.’
‘Is Howard in, Rob?’ said the first young man to his friend. ‘Have a look for us. Said he was doing Hadrian’s today. Should be down from Pillar now it’s dark.’
Rob disappeared from the room, and Phiz returned with another pillow and a big grey blanket. Colin held John’s head. Phiz tucked the blanket between John and the back of the settle and then laid it over him.
‘Is Howard around?’ said Phiz.
‘Rob’s gone to look for him. Lucky if he is. He might still be coming down. He and Mick stay out as long as they can.’
The men stood silently round the fire, watching the prone form in front of them. There were voices in the yard and Edna joined the group. ‘Naybody there,’ she said to Dan. ‘House is dark. Mebbe in Whitehaven, on t’way back, who knows.’
‘There’s a doctor ’ere, but he’s still out on Pillar. Just have to ’ang on, lad,’ Daniel said to John but there was no response. ‘What do we do, lads? Keep ’im warm, cool ’im down? What?’
‘Beats me,’ said Colin. ‘Me gran had pneumonia, in our house when I was a little lad. She was in our front room, then she died.’
‘Come on, Howard, where a
re you?’ said Daniel, listening to John’s laboured breathing. ‘Could they ’ave gone down t’other way, into Ennerdale?’
‘Nay. Stuff’s still here, and the car.’
Edna looked up. ‘Car, eh. That’s handy. Couldn’t ’ave the poor lad bumping all t’way down to Whitehaven in the back of our cart.’
‘Hospital, you reckon?’ said Daniel.
‘Aye, have to be.’ Colin said. ‘He’s bad. Can’t just watch him slip away.’
‘Who’ll pay for that then?’ said Daniel. ‘It’ll cost.’
The group stood, faces lit by the fire, and stared at John. They could all hear him wheezing, his lungs rattling with fluid and phlegm.
Edna spoke again. ‘Can’t just stand ’ere. I’ll go back t’Bakers, see if I can find anyone. Tell them to get Nora ’ere when she gets back.’
They turned to watch her go, but no one spoke. Colin went back to the bar. Rob sat on a low chair in the corner and supped slowly at his pint. The clock over the fire ticked loudly. Below it the fire glowed red. Thirty minutes passed, forty, fifty. Phiz looked in, they shook their heads and he disappeared again. John stirred briefly but didn’t wake.
Suddenly the front door opened, discarded boots thudded onto the pile in the corner of the porch.
‘In there, doc,’ said one of the voices, and a man entered the hot room. He ignored the others standing around, held out his arm and pushed them gently away, easing past them and dropping to one knee in a seamless movement.
‘Thank God for that,’ said Daniel. ‘Glad you’re ’ere, doc.’
‘Who is he, do we know?’ Howard Mackintosh asked, without looking up. He had one hand on John’s wrist and stared at his watch. ‘Need more light in here,’ he said, to no one in particular. Rob and Daniel looked at each other, and Rob left to find Phiz, who arrived shortly carrying two oil lamps.
‘One lamp over here,’ said Howard, again without looking up. ‘He’s bad. Pneumonia probably. Do we know how old he is, where he’s from?’
‘Must be early twenties,’ said Rob. ‘Been coming up here for a few years, more often since his mam died.’
‘What did she die of, anyone know?’ Howard was trying to piece the bits of information together. It didn’t look good.
‘He didn’t say much,’ said Rob, holding the empty glass in front of him. ‘Just said she’d died. Didn’t want to talk about it I reckoned, so we left it.’
‘Well, he could go the same way,’ said Howard. ‘Need to get him into hospital, but not tonight. Don’t want to move him, but no choice. First thing, I’ll take him down myself. Is there a telephone anywhere?’
Phiz spoke from the doorway. ‘Nearest’s down at post office. Want us to phone now, or in morning?’
‘Morning’ll do. Call Whitehaven Hospital, ask for Dr Williams. Tell him I’m bringing a young man in, suspected pneumonia, no history. Give him the name, anything else you know. It’ll take an hour or two, but we’ll get there. Did you say there was a nurse somewhere around?’
‘Nora Baker, lives down Ramside.’
‘Ask her to be here by eight in the morning, if you can find her. He’ll need some care while we’re on the road, if he lasts the night.’
Howard wiped John’s face, felt his forehead.
‘Phiz. If you can find my bag in the room upstairs, can you bring it down? Need my stethoscope.’
By the time the bag arrived there more people crowding round the doorway, looking silently at the young man lying within.
‘Can you all get out?’ said Howard. ‘The man’s very sick and doesn’t need you lot staring at him like an exhibit. Have some respect.’
The crowd dispersed. Dan watched from the doorway, as the doctor did what he could. It would be a long night.
Chapter 15
John lay back on the pillows in the narrow hospital bed and stared to his left, to the window he could see over the two beds that lay between. These were both occupied by snorers. John cursed them both every night but the two of them neither knew nor cared. Jacob Phythian was a Whitehaven Hospital veteran, been in that same ward more times than he could remember. Everyone seemed to know him. His cough was relentless, harsh, terrifying. John wondered how much longer the man would live. The younger of the two, Stan Tilney, was thin and pale with an incongruously large tight stomach, like a pregnant woman. John didn’t know what was the matter with him. Now though, in the early afternoon, they were both asleep, and mercifully quiet.
Beyond the window the air was pale with mist and cold. In the harbour, only a few hundred yards from the hospital, black water slopped against wharves and steps, and out beyond the protection of the harbour wall, white foam striped the sea. In his mind John saw the top of Bowfell sparkling where sunlight met frozen hail. He closed his eyes to keep the bright image in his mind, holding at bay the smells and sounds and sights of the ward where he lay.
It shouldn’t be long now. How long had he been here? Almost three weeks they said, but he didn’t remember the first days after they carried him in. The doctor who’d brought him down Wasdale to the hospital had looked in on him a few days before. John didn’t know him and after a few awkward minutes the stranger had gone back to the ward office to check his notes. That had been a couple of weeks ago. Now he felt stronger every day, and imprisoned. He was bored and restless. Long hours of doing nothing had emptied his mind, leaving space for memories to flit around, distracting and disturbing him like poltergeists. Memories danced in his head while he slept, the roar and taste of sea water, a blur of orange light reflecting off a lake.
During long days he found himself thinking about his mother, his real mother. She’d had him when she was younger than he was now. She must have made a choice about the sex. There was no baby without sex. What kind of woman has sex like that, risking a baby, without thinking? She must have been stupid, or thoughtless, probably both. Not fit to raise a child so she gave it away, to keep the family happy, to hush everything up. She might still be around, living a life somewhere, with other kids. She’d have forgotten about him, put it behind her. He wanted to do the same, but lying there day after day, it haunted him.
The young nurse had said he could go home so long as there was someone to take care of him. He’d mentioned Hannah.
‘A relative?’ the nurse had asked, smiling.
‘No,’ said John. ‘My landlady.’ It sounded so cold, but he didn’t know what else to call her. He didn’t want to say more, but he was sure that Hannah would look after him as well as Enid had ever done.
The nurse looked at him and smiled. ‘Your landlady?’ her voice rose a little. There was a slight pause. ‘Where do you live?’ the nurse continued, lowering her eyes to the little book she held in her hand. She felt for a pencil in the pocket of her apron.
‘Up the valley,’ said John, ‘Eskdale, up the top, bottom of Hardknott.’ The nurse shrugged.
‘I’m from Maryport,’ she replied. ‘Don’t suppose you know where that is.’
‘Heard of it,’ said John. ‘On the coast is it?’
‘No prizes for working that out,’ she said.
‘Well the place I live is called Boot, so what does that tell you?’
‘Not much. Where did that name come from?’
‘No idea. Never thought about it really. It’s a long way.’
‘How’re you going to get there? Is there a bus?’
‘Not sure. La’al Ratty, goes up the valley, but not much in the winter. I could find out.’
‘What on earth is, what was it, La’al Ratty?’
‘It’s what we call the train, the little train that carries rock from the quarry to the coast. La’al means small. That’s what everyone calls it.’
‘Doctor wouldn’t be happy with all that shunting about. You have to rest, or you’ll have to stay here.’
‘Can’t stay here. I need to get out.’
‘You’ve been very ill, tha knows. It could come back. You need looking after. Is there anyone we could telephone about
getting you home, back to Boot, or wherever it is.’
‘Telephone?’ John laughed. ‘No phones up the valley. There’s one at the shop at Newton, I think. And there’s a lady close by who has a car. Can’t remember her name.’
‘A car? That’d be just the job. We’d wrap you up well and you’d ride home in style. Might come with you meself, just for the ride.’ She leaned forward and patted his arm. He smiled back.
The next day the wind swung round to the south-west and whistled through the gap in the window. After the early cup of tea, too weak for John’s liking, the same young nurse appeared at his bedside.
‘Her name’s Miss Plane.’
‘Who?’
‘The lady with the car. In Newton. One of the doctors knew her dad. He’s going to ring to ask if she could come and get you, take you home. Otherwise we’ll have to keep you in a bit longer, until you’re well enough for the journey. Can’t spare an ambulance, not all the way up there.’
‘She doesn’t know me,’ said John. ‘Why should she help?’
‘You’d be surprised what people do round here. You’re not from round here are you?’
‘Ulverston.’
‘Well they do things differently there. Here we have to help each other. No one else will. No one ever bothers about the west coast. Not for years. Used to be one of the richest –’ There was movement at the door of the ward, and she stopped abruptly.
‘Ward round,’ she said, straightening the covers on John’s bed. ‘Sit up properly, look lively and they might make that call and get you out of here.’ She turned away and walked quickly back to the door and the ward office.
John endured the misery of the ward round yet again, peered at by a gang of young men of his own age, talked about as if he wasn’t there. The doctor had said something about John being home soon, but that was all, and the cavalcade shuffled on to the next bed. The young nurse winked at John. He didn’t know why. Rain was pattering on the long windows. They were on the first floor of what had been Whitehaven Castle, before the family who owned it had given it up and donated the whole place to be the town hospital. Generous right enough, but the place didn’t really suit its new purpose. In the room where John and Jacob and Stanley lay there had once been colours and silks and servants and fine folk taking tea and conversation, looking out of those very same windows at ordinary people like the ones who now crowded the rooms. The rooms were too high, and the windows too big, letting in draughts, making it feel cold.