by Magnus Mills
I said, “You shouldn’t drop litter, you know.”
“Why not?” said Tam.
“Well,” I replied. “You know. It looks bad, doesn’t it? Spoils the countryside and everything.”
“That’s a load of shite and you know it,” he said.
“No it isn’t,” I said. “You can’t just go chucking rubbish all over the place.”
“You can if you want,” said Tam. “All this stuff about litter is just English pathetic…” He trailed off, and then started again. “This is Scotland. You’re in Scotland and these mountains have been here millions of years. It doesn’t make any difference, a few fag packets for fuck sake. That’s just English fucking pathetic shite.”
“He’s right,” said Richie.
“Yeah…I suppose so,” I said.
I couldn’t see any mountains.
♦
Sometime later we passed the sign welcoming you to Scotland if you were coming the other way.
“Where are we going?” said Tam.
“Take a look in the folder,” I replied.
Donald always gave us a folder to take on each job, and the previous day he had prepared one containing Mr Perkins’s details. It lay on the metal shelf below the dashboard. In it were an address, a road map, an inventory (what we needed to build Mr Perkins’s fence), and a field plan (where we would build it). Also a projected completion date. Tam reached for the folder and pulled out a handful of papers, which he studied for a few moments.
“Fuck,” he muttered, and thrust them back inside. Thus, in one movement, Tam transformed Donald’s neat file into a crumpled wedge. Richie now took the papers and leafed through them.
“Upper Bowland,” he said at length.
“Upper Bowland?” said Tam. “Is that the name of the place?”
“Yep,” said Richie, putting the folder back on the shelf. And with that their curiosity subsided. Tam and Richie sat quietly side by side in the double passenger seat, watching the road ahead as we drove into England.
♦
I was breaking the legal speed limit for towing a caravan, and the light was beginning to fade, as we entered the county of Hereford and Worcester. If we had had more time we could have stopped briefly in one of the many towns we’d passed and stocked up on food at a reasonable price in a supermarket, and even checked out promising pubs for future visits. Instead, we had to press on. We’d been pressing on all day. I’d flogged that truck along all sorts of motorways and ‘A’ roads in my effort to get to Upper Bowland on time. We’d stopped only once, and that was for breakfast hours ago. It had emerged then that Tam had come away without any money at all. In fact, he had very little of anything. The remains of his personal set of fencing tools were somewhere in the back of the vehicle. With him that morning he appeared to have brought just the clothes he worked in, plus a spare pair of jeans and his cowboy boots, all jammed into a small haversack. Richie seemed to be slightly better kitted out, but neither of them had organized any food for while we were away, and now Tam had revealed he had no money either. Richie said he would pay for Tam’s breakfast, and seemed to have no objection to subsidizing him for the time being. Which suited me. I looked at the amount of egg, bacon, sausage, tomato, beans, fried slice and mushrooms Tam consumed, and wondered how long Richie would put up with the arrangement. As I said, that was hours ago. Now we were working our way along a quiet ‘B’ road, and it was getting late. I pulled over and checked Donald’s map.
“According to this we’re looking for a turn-off on the right,” I said.
Not that I expected to get much show of interest from Tam and Richie. They had spent the entire journey gazing silently through the windscreen, smoking from time to time, and taking turns to nod off next to me. I don’t think they had any idea what part of England we were in, nor did they care. It was all the same to them. Now that the end of the journey seemed to be getting nearer, however, they began to pay attention again.
I switched on the headlights, which meant, of course, that we hadn’t made the deadline. As we drove on we started talking about Mr Perkins. We decided that he was probably waiting at his gate at this very moment, and when we got there he would accuse us of being late, and not making any effort to arrive earlier.
“I expect he’s already been on the phone to Donald,” said Tam.
Yes, we all agreed, he probably had.
“Cunt,” said Richie.
Just then we passed a sign on our left which said ‘Lower Bowland 3 miles’. I ignored the turn-off and carried on.
“BOWLAND!” shouted Tam. “That was it back there. You missed the turning!”
“That was Lower Bowland,” I replied. “We want Upper Bowland.”
“Upper Bowland will be above Lower Bowland, won’t it?” he said.
Now Richie joined in. “Upper Bowland is back there. We’ve just passed the sign.”
“Upper Bowland is on the right,” I insisted, pressing on and speeding up. No right turning appeared, not for miles. But we kept passing turn-offs for Lower Bowland on the left, and each time Tam and Richie would point out how many miles it was. Lower Bowland was starting to get further away, and there was still no sign of a right turn. I was beginning to lose confidence when suddenly I saw a small lane on the right. There was no signpost but I turned off anyway, and heard Tam murmur something to Richie. This lane seemed to go on and on for ever, but finally, to my relief, the headlights lit up a roadsign: UPPER BOWLAND.
“There you are,” I said. “You should have had more trust in me.”
“Luck,” said Tam. “You were lost.”
I pulled up just beyond the roadsign. There was nothing here. No shop, no pub, no houses. Only a farm entrance.
“Hello there,” said a voice in the gloom.
“Mr Perkins?” I said.
“Yes. You found us alright then?”
“Er…yes,” I replied.
“Right, well I’d better show you round before it gets any darker. Follow me.”
A figure moved ahead of the truck and began walking up the farm track, and we followed, just keeping him in the beam of the headlights. When we got into the farmyard he showed us where we could park the caravan, and also where the outside tap was. There was a single light on in the kitchen of the farmhouse, but it was difficult to see anything clearly, and I never got a proper look at Mr Perkins. He seemed alright though, and hadn’t complained about anything so far.
“You’re not Scottish?” he said.
“No,” I replied. “Fraid not.”
“But it is a Scottish firm, isn’t it? I used them because they said they specialized in high-tension fencing.”
“High-tensile,” I corrected. “Yes, that’s right, we do.”
“But you’re not Scottish?”
“No. Sorry. Those two are. I’m not.”
“I see,” he said.
Tam and Richie were somewhere nearby in the shadows. I noticed they hadn’t spoken since we arrived, and after unhitching the caravan were just standing around doing nothing. They needed some instructions, so I gave them some.
“Can you jack up the caravan and connect the gas while I go with Mr Perkins?”
I got into the truck for a moment to get Donald’s file. This only took a few seconds, but when I got out again Mr Perkins was standing in the doorway of the caravan talking to Tam and Richie. Then he stepped out and joined me.
“Is there something particular you want to show me?” I asked.
“Yes, along here,” he said, leading me out of the yard and further up the farm track. It was now total darkness. The moon, however, was out.
When we had gone some distance Mr Perkins said, “I asked your friends if they’d like a cup of tea, but I think there was a bit of a misunderstanding.”
“What did they say then?” I asked.
“They didn’t really say anything,” he replied.
We walked for a few more minutes, and then stopped at the top of the track.
“No
w this is our hill,” said Mr Perkins.
I was aware of something looming nearby, but could see nothing.
“We want you to divide it into four quarters with your fences. For lambing, you see. We’ve gone into sheep.”
All this I knew already. I’d read the details yesterday in Donald’s file.
“Is there anything else?” I asked.
“No, that’s it,” said Mr Perkins. “I just wanted to show you where the hill was.”
This was what I’d done ten hours’ hard driving for. To be shown a hill. I’d seen from the map that this was the only hill of any size for miles around. It was one of those hills that you get here and there in the countryside, thrust up by some geological accident millions of years ago and responsible for the term ‘rolling landscape’. But Mr Perkins obviously didn’t think I’d be able to find it on my own.
“Right. That’s fine. Thanks very much,” I said, and for a few moments I stood with this stranger I could hardly see, looking into the blackness.
“Well, I’d better be off now,” he said at last, and we walked back down to the farmyard. As we passed the caravan I could see two red glow-worms moving silently inside where Tam and Richie sat smoking in the dark. I said goodbye to Mr Perkins and he locked up the farmhouse before going off in his car. Then, with a sinking feeling, I went to the caravan. We must have forgotten to bring the gas bottle. That was why they were sitting in the dark.
“Go on then,” I said. “Tell me the bad news.”
“What?” said Tam.
“We’ve forgotten the gas bottle.”
“What are you talking about? We’ve just connected it.”
“Well, don’t you want the lights on?” I asked.
“We’re going out, aren’t we?”
“Where?”
“The pub.”
“But it’s only quarter past five,” I said.
“Oh…is it?”
Yes, it was only a quarter past five, and I wondered for the first time what we were going to do at night now that it was beginning to get dark so early. I also realized that, for tonight at least, I was going to have to share some of my food with Tam and Richie. Tomorrow we would have to go and get them stocked up properly. In the meantime we lit the lamps of the caravan. There was an electric striplight at one side, which was supposed to be powered by a cable led out through the window. However, this striplight made such a loud buzzing noise when it was turned on that we hadn’t even bothered to bring the cable with us, and were relying on gas lamps only. They were barely adequate, but to tell the truth there was not much worth lighting up. This caravan had been used as a home for itinerant fencers for years, and was, more or less, a wreck. There was a bunk bed in the corner which Richie had claimed. He was already lying in the top half still wearing his Wellingtons, and his bag lay on the bit underneath. I seemed to have been given the bed opposite Richie, while Tam was on the one opposite the sink. Next to the sink was a gas cooker, which we lit to make a pot of tea (though we had no milk).
While the kettle boiled I said, “What did Mr Perkins come and say to you then?”
“He asked if we wanted some tea,” replied Tam.
“Well, why didn’t you say yes?” I said. “That would have been nice. I could have done with a cup of tea when we got here. And I bet he had some milk.”
“Expect he did.”
“Why didn’t you say yes then?”
“Because we’re not tinkers,” said Tam, giving me a look.
After I’d fed them some canned beans, we arranged ourselves in our three corners with little left to do. Richie had brought his cassette player with him, which he attempted to play powered by batteries only. The batteries were not new, and started to struggle halfway through the Black Sabbath tape Richie had chosen. The sound of Richie’s tapes slowly being stretched in an under-powered cassette player was to become a familiar background noise over the coming weeks.
“What else have you got, apart from Black Sabbath?” I asked, after a while.
Richie shuffled his small stack of cassettes. “Maiden, Motorhead, Saxon.”
I soon came to the conclusion that Tam was right. We would have to go out. I had another look at Donald’s road map. This was actually a photocopied page from an atlas. Donald had marked out our route with a green felt-tip pen. At the end of the green line was Upper Bowland, which had turned out to be nothing more than a signpost. A few miles further along the main road, however, the map indicated some kind of settlement. Also the letters PH, for public house. Well, that was hopeful anyway. By this time it had ticked round to seven o’clock and I knew Tam would soon start up again about going to the pub. Richie was lying on his bunk reading a paperback book he had found in one of the cupboards, An Early Bath for Thompson by A.D. Young.
“When are we going out?” said Tam.
“There’s a pub about five miles from here,” I replied.
Richie instantly put his book away and swung down from his bunk. He took off his Wellingtons and put on his cowboy boots. Meanwhile, at the other end of the caravan, Tam was doing the same thing. A moment later they were both standing by the door looking at me.
“You’re ready then, are you?” I said.
As I heaved myself off my bed and put the map away Tam said, “Can I have a sub until we get paid?”
“I lent you some last night,” I said. “You haven’t forgotten, have you?”
“No, no,” he replied. “But I need some for tonight.”
“And for buying food tomorrow,” I added.
“That as well,” he said.
So I lent him some more money, we went out, and Tam and Richie spent their first evening in an English pub. The Queen’s Head, it was called. I don’t know quite what they expected, but I knew exactly what it would be like. It came as no surprise to me that there were only about six people inside, and that they all looked towards the door as we entered, me first, then Tam, then Richie.
“Good evening!” boomed the landlord from behind the bar. “Three pints, is it?”
“Er…alright,” replied Tam.
Richie and I went and sat down at a table in the corner, leaving Tam to pay for the drinks. Then I thought of something and went back to the counter.
“Can we have straight glasses, please?” I said. Tam glanced at me.
“Don’t you want tankards?” said the landlord, booming again.
As I suspected, he had already started pouring the beer into dimpled tankards with handles.
“No thanks,” I said.
“Most people want tankards,” he announced.
“Straight glasses if you’ve got them, please.”
“Right you are,” he said, transferring the beer into proper straight glasses. I went and sat down. A few moments later Tam came over with the beers.
“Tankards,” he said, grinning. The landlord didn’t seem to hear him.
“Where is everybody?” said Richie.
“Too early,” I explained. “There might be a few more in about ten o’clock.”
“What time does it shut, then?”
“Eleven.”
“What?!”
“You’re lucky. They used to shut at half ten.”
“For fuck sake,” said Tam.
So there we sat, at a table in the corner, while the locals played darts and no doubt wondered who we were.
♦
In the morning I looked out of the caravan window and saw our future piled up on the other side of the farmyard.
“Look at that lot,” I said.
Tam and Richie, half-awake, leaned on their elbows and peered round the shabby curtains. The materials for the fence had been delivered by lorry a few days prior to our arrival, and all the posts and rolls of wire were there in a huge untidy stack.
“Fuck sake,” said Tam. “We’re going to be here for ever.”
It looked as if the lorry driver had just reversed into the yard and tipped the whole lot out. There were straining posts, pointed posts
and struts all mixed up with each other. It was odd that Mr Perkins had not said anything. Maybe he thought it was common practice just to dump all the stuff like this. Donald would have been most dismayed if he had seen it. Not his way of doing things at all.
We sat on our respective beds drinking tea (no milk), and considered starting work.
I decided that Tam and I would sort out all the gear while we sent Richie off to buy their food supply. It was clear that I would have to ignore unilaterally Donald’s driving ban on Richie if we were going to get anything done at all.
I suppose it must have been about half past eight when Richie drove off. He and Tam had put together a basic shopping list, and I’d also mentioned we would need milk. So all he had to do was find a shop, buy the groceries, and come back.
By ten o’clock Tam and I had made deep inroads into the pile and it was beginning to look a bit more orderly and Donaldlike. We stopped for a cup of tea. With a bit of luck Richie would turn up any minute with some milk to put in it. He didn’t. We started work again, and I realized that we were now continually listening for the sound of the truck approaching in the distance. Tam, meanwhile, kept walking to the gateway and looking down the track towards the main road.
“Where do you think Rich is?” he kept saying.
I could see it was beginning to affect his work. He was supposed to be throwing posts down from the pile for me to catch, but his aim was starting to go astray. I had made the cardinal error of separating Tam and Richie. It was only for a short while, but I could see Tam wouldn’t be able to function normally until Richie got back. Besides, we needed the truck to shift the materials up to the foot of the hill. This sorting out in the farmyard was really only meant to be a ‘starter’ job to get us in the swing of things, two hours’ work at the outside. If Richie didn’t come back soon the day would be lost. We had got to the point of meaninglessly checking off Donald’s inventory when he finally returned.