Northern Spirit

by Lindsey J Carden

  NORTHERN SPIRIT

  LINDSEY J CARDEN

  Copyright© Lindsey J.Carden 2011

  Cover illustrations, design and logo by Paul Middleditch©

  e.mail paul@middleditch.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into an information retrieval system, or transmitted(in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written consent of the publisher.

  **

  Published by Keldas Chronicles 2011

  www.keldaschronicles.yolasite.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places and events either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9569442-1-4

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  1

  PROMISE: 1973

  The blue flash hurt David’s eyes; he couldn’t believe the audacity of the press to come to the funeral. As if they hadn’t got enough photographs, and that would be another one in all the papers tomorrow, showing him tired with his dark hair bedraggled, looking older than the twenty-three years he actually was. His mother would be clinging to his arm, leaning on him heavily, yet strong and defiant as usual. And what an irony that every photograph they ever printed of his father, he was always looking handsome. It was usually a copy of the one that was hanging over the kitchen fireplace, taken several years ago. David couldn’t comprehend how his mother could leave it there when it meant nothing but shame. But there would be no more photographs of George Keldas. Anyone would think it was David that was the offender, and yet it was he who was to suffer for his father’s impropriety. And today it was the funeral and it should be all over, except for the humiliation, and David would have to live with that.

  Stopping as he reached the summit of the hill, David could see Keld Head clearly, as the farm with its outbuildings and tower dominated the landscape, and then surrounding it a cluster of cottages and houses. Keld Head was one of those houses that you looked at twice. Not because it was particularly pretty, or imposing, it was because it looked wrong. The old Pele tower that had stood there for generations somehow didn’t fit with the rest of the buildings. Wordsworth had said that houses like this had grown, rather than been erected, by an instinct of their own out of the native rock. And though this place was natural, its genetic make-up was defective. You also looked at Keld Head in awe, like it was a living thing; it must have been because it had influence over the people that dwelt there. And today, Keld Head was languishing in grief as it was burying one of its sons and it revelled in the morbidity: the drama of the funeral cortege, the gloom of a November day, the weeping of a grieving widow, yes, it feasted on everything, loving the feel of the sorrow swathed around its stonework.

  David stood motionless, in pure silence; he could hear nothing other than the sound of raindrops falling on leaves. He stared at the farmhouse but didn’t want to go inside. He knew it would be full of relatives and guests who’d come to pay their last respects, so the seclusion of the country lane suited him and he would keep this grief to himself.

  David ignored the rain as it blinded his blue eyes and curled his hair like it always did when it was wet. He kept his hands in his pockets and his shoulders bent low, feeling the damp seep through the fabric of his suit and into his shoes, yet he still walked carelessly through the puddles. If you knew David well, you might have thought he was drunk and, although he had had several beers, it was grief that made him stagger and nothing else. David didn’t particularly need to look where he was going because he’d walked this lane all his life, sometimes alone, sometimes with his friends, but often with his father. This was a path that could lead him away to seclusion, or back to the farmhouse where if he wanted the company he knew his brother and sisters would be waiting.

  Today his mother had been generous with her invites. Aunts and uncles had travelled long distances and David knew they would want to see him, but he couldn’t face them. From leaving school he’d worked solely with his father, alone with the cattle and sheep and conversation wasn’t one of his strong points. He was only capable of using his thoughts; his mind absorbed in the deep feelings he had, as he reflected on the strange events of the last few weeks of his life.

  David was pulling a black tie loose from around his neck when he heard the crack of a gunshot. A rush of adrenalin flushed through him and he dropped to the floor, curling his body up tightly with his hands over his head. ‘Man alive … Please don’t shoot … !’ and all the tears he’d suppressed that day, ripped out of him, and he started to cry like he hadn’t done since he was a little boy. David knew he was acting irrationally, because he’d seen the gamekeeper’s Landrover on the lane and he would only be shooting rabbits.

  As he wept, he could think of nothing but grief, with the pain his mother must be carrying and the sense of responsibility he had for his younger brother and sisters. He thought that the burden would be too big for him. Yet, the weight had fallen firmly on his broad shoulders. David remembered the words of the clergyman who seemed to look only at him. He’d talked about the responsibility of the young to look after the grieving. That those with their vital energy should assist the helpless, but David had only been half-listening and felt uncomfortable with the eye contact and turned away.

  And now as he lay there on the wet earth, he promised himself that he would never leave his mother as his father had often done and vowed to stay at Keld Head, even if this meant he would never marry and have children. Why should he inflict his unhappiness on anyone else? He would try to take care of his brother and sisters and not treat them harshly as his father had. Maybe he could give them the love and support they all needed and compensate in some way for the way his father had behaved.

  *

  Tom Keldas sat fidgeting on the sofa. It was difficult for the eleven year-old to keep still. He was listening as his grandparents lecture his mother on how she should conduct herself. How she should treat the children and how she should try to sell the farm and buy a new bungalow in Windermere. Tom hoped his mother wasn’t listening, like she didn’t listen to him sometimes when he had important things to tell her. He would hate living in Windermere and have to make new friends. But Tom wasn’t given to patience and interrupted them. ‘Mum… . Where’s Davey?’

  His mother didn’t give his bad manners a second thought and was just happy that her second eldest son had interrupted. ‘He’ll be getting the dairy ready I hope.’ She too was troubled that David hadn’t come home and she hadn’t seen him since the service had ended. ‘Why don’t you go and see if he needs something to eat.’ She doubted David had eaten anything all day.

  As the boy left the house, a black dog followed. Tom didn’t put a coat on but just ran carelessly through the rain. His father would have called him a pratt if he were here and, if his mother was out of earshot, something worse. At least that was one thing that would change.

  He approached the dairy, but was disappointed to find the place deserted. Usually he would hear the milking machines or the music from David’s transistor radio and, glancing into the yard, he saw the cattle were paddling about in slurry, standing waiting. He stood for a moment in the rain, unsure of what to do. It was twilight and his eyes were slowly coming accustomed to the semi-darkness. He grabbed the dog’s collar to reassure himself.

  They were both startled when they heard a noise coming from the lane. Tom shuddered as it sounded like someone was crying. The dog’s tail twitched and she raised her hackles and set off to find the source of the noise, but Tom couldn’t hold on to
her and he momentarily froze, but then was compelled to follow.

  David was still lying on the wet footpath and, exhausted, lay there in a daze. He was stirred by the wet tongue and warm breath of the dog licking his face. ‘Shove off Moss… . Go away.’ David raised himself up a little, as Moss kept on washing his face and licking his damp hair. As he tried to stand to his feet, he saw Tom standing at a distance, his young face pale and troubled and unsure of whether to approach or not.

  ‘It’s all right Tom. It’s only me.’ David spoke softly.

  ‘Good grief! I thought you were a Rusky - a spy or summat.’

  There was a truth in his brother’s words, which David knew he would never understand and he wanted to say: If you see any strangers about the place, tell me, but he resisted and to cover his fear, said: ‘There are no spies up here, Tom. You watch too much telly.’

  But Tom didn’t believe him and knew differently, because he had seen them.

  David struggled to stand and started to brush the wet and the grit off his trousers and jacket, he couldn’t stop himself from checking if there was any blood. He’d once heard that if you’ve been shot, it was the blood you saw first before you felt any pain, but of course there was none.

  ‘If that’s your best suit, Mum’ll kill you.’ Tom wanted to touch his brother and help him but daren’t. ‘What’cha doing on the floor, anyway?’

  David didn’t reply, but threw his wet arms around the boy and led him back to the farm, pleased it was almost dark and his grief had been hidden.

  In reflection, David was glad that he’d wasted the time at the pub in Grasmere, standing at the bar and staring into his beer glass, submerged in his own self-pity. He hoped most of the visitors would have left the farm by now but, as he guessed, he was already late for milking.

  ‘Will you do me a favour then, 007, saying you’re so interested in the underworld. Sneak into my bedroom and bring me my work things. See that Mum doesn’t hear you mind.’

  David quietly slid open the dairy door and put on the lights, as once again his sore eyes winced in the brightness as the fluorescent lights flashed on. He rubbed his hair dry with an old hand towel and struggled to remove his wet jacket and shirt that was sticking to his body. As he roused himself, he shivered as the damp and the cold finally reached his brain. He rubbed himself with the towel and muttered, ‘Come on Tom … hurry up… . Don’t mess about.’

  *

  Tom crept into David’s bedroom and looked around for his brother’s work clothes and found them folded on his bedside chair. On the floor lay the cushions of a makeshift bed that his mother had made up for him. He would have to share David’s room for another few nights until his grandparents and Great Aunt Betty went home. But Tom didn’t mind, it made him feel grown up to stay with David and have his little sister out of the way in his mother’s room. Tom loved his brother’s bedroom and, as David suspected, he lingered. He browsed around, looking at the bookcase. Then he fiddled with some of David’s possessions. There were framed diplomas and certificates from agricultural college. Tom read the inscriptions on some brightly coloured rosettes pinned on the wall that David had won as a boy from showing the cattle and sheep. He picked up a model tractor and spun the wheels round and round in his hand. David would have made it, sat upstairs alone in his room, looking to get away from an angry father who barracked him constantly, saying he wasn’t doing his job right, saying that he was stupid, even insinuating that David’s quiet nature showed ignorance and weakness.

  Tom hoped one day he would be able to go to agricultural college and get diplomas of his own. Maybe go to young farmers’ meetings like David did and dance with pretty girls.

  When he was satisfied with his tour of David’s bedroom, Tom edged down the stairs carrying the bundle of clothes. He stole into the kitchen and, juggling with the clothes in one hand, stuffed a piece of cake in his mouth, and then gathered some things from the leftovers of the buffet for David. He chose a few sandwiches, a sausage roll and a piece of chocolate cake, then wrapped them in a serviette and, unceremoniously, shoved them into the pile of work clothes.

  Tom dawdled across to the dairy and the familiar humming sound of the milking machine engine that he’d listened for half-an-hour ago was now in full flow.

  David was standing inside, shivering, with a large towel across his shoulders. He grabbed the warm pullover from the boy’s arms and, as he pulled it over his head, ruffled up his tattered hair.

  Tom stood and watched, looking closely at David’s adult body, hoping he would grow to be as strong; he’d already noticed a few premature changes to his own and was apprehensive.

  David wasn’t particularly a tall man, but what he lacked in height he gained in stature. He had a good posture and usually walked proudly and, for a man, gracefully, carrying his head tall and his back straight. His chest was still bronzed from spending long days in the fields that summer, hauling hay and straw bales to help his sick father. His young body reflected well his strength.

  Tom was glad his brother was strong because he had feared his father; he’d made Keld Head a dangerous place to live. David had protected Tom several times from a beating, as George grew impatient with the young lad. David had taken some of the endless criticism from him and, more than once, a good hiding. They hadn’t told their mother, guessing she too was under strain from looking after a sick and unreasonable man. Yet, despite all his misgivings, David loved his father.

  Tom couldn’t understand why his father treated them as he had; he knew he could be awkward at times, but David, as far as he was concerned was faultless. So consequently, Tom hated his father and loved David all the more for his courage.

  ‘Can I help you with the milkin’ tonight, Davey?’

  ‘I tell you what. How about getting the next lot of cattle out of the yard for me, eh? And then go and get me a coffee to go with these dry sandwiches.’

  This time Tom quickly responded, and his willingness and kindness brought a warm smile to David’s hardened face. A glaze of moisture covered his deep blue eyes and softened his countenance.

  *

  Kathy Keldas was listening to her parents and her aunt discussing the latest story-line in Coronation Street and knew it was time to leave, glad at last she was no longer the focus of their conversation. She went into the kitchen with the pretence of making a fresh pot of tea, but in reality wanted to use the vantage point of the kitchen window to check that David and Tom were working.

  Looking out into the darkness, she was pleased to see the lights of the dairy shining across the yard. She knew that David was upset today and more so than the other children. He hadn’t spoken much the whole of the day and she was disappointed he hadn’t mingled with the other mourners. In some ways she could understand his feelings, but hoped he may have shown the common decency of circulating more than he had. Although David was a quiet man, he was well liked and usually polite.

  Kathy stood reflecting, holding her hand to her chin. She was still dressed in her mourning suit: a black crepe outfit with a flash of red on the collar; a silent and defiant gesture. It also had a fetching scooped neckline, which flattered her slim body, which was purposely chosen for the members of the press. It also highlighted her blonde hair, which was pinned on top of her head. Kathy was only forty-two and just like David had begun to look and feel much older.

  Knowing that David was working hard reassured her. He had supported her and helped her again in a time of crisis. She felt a pang of anxiety hit her as she thought how brave he was, and hoped he wouldn’t be harmed by the last few hard years of his young life. A time when most would be looking for selfish pleasures, David was bound day and night to the farm. He had done this without complaint and with complete acceptance. But Kathy realised David was mortal; she had felt the strain and she guessed he had too.

  She had found herself surrounded by tragedy and had wondered sometimes if it was real, or if her body had just switched from reality to fantasy; like she was playing the r
ole in a drama that would soon end and the curtain pulled back so she could go back to the world of normality again. She would have to try and talk to David though, but not yet; not just after the funeral. She must know his feelings and reassure him. What would his ideas about the future be? Kathy even wrestled with the thought that one day he may want to leave. He was a mature lad and popular and she couldn’t expect him to stay single forever.

  David had already met several girlfriends and Kathy knew some he was fond of, but he rarely brought any of them to Keld Head. He would be afraid of them meeting his father, of being taunted in front of them and, worse still, George embarrassing them with drunken slurs and innuendoes. But as soon as any young woman heard of George Keldas’s reputation, it was usually the last David saw of them.

  Kathy was naive and hoped that things would be different now and David could begin to lead a more normal life, but there was something inside her that wanted to hold on to him.

  Yes, she would have to talk to David, but not today.

  *

  The following morning a fresh westerly wind was rattling a loose pane of glass in Kathy’s bedroom window. She huddled up closer to a large pillow placed lengthways in her bed where her husband once lay; someone had told her it would keep her warm, and it did.

  She’d heard from across the hallway David’s alarm clock and hoped he’d heard it too. She sat up a little, not daring to sleep, but the loud click of the bathroom light switching on answered her.

  Kathy wanted her life to take on some stability and hoping the weather would stay dry, she decided to do some washing, after that, maybe clean the house; it would be good therapy to have something menial to do, as if every little task would heal her. Then once her visitors were fed, she would turn her attention to her younger children, which she knew had been neglected of late.

  Kathy also knew there was gossip in the village about her husband, which may have penetrated the schoolyard. She wanted to put a stop to it for the sake of her youngest children and the family name. A decision to call at the school and have a discreet word with Dorothy Hargreaves, the head teacher, would be her first mistake that day.