Haweswater, page 8
– Hah! Chase, eh! Clever lad.
Isaac let out a squeal of a laugh. Samuel looked at his daughter. Her smile was almost feline, contained. The corners of her mouth upturned by only a small black part of the lips. Even her hair, blue-blonde and long and full, made him think of a lion, and in the shadows between her collarbone and the sweep of hair might have been carcasses hanging off trees in the savannah. He detected a dark mood pushing at her surface, though she tried hard to be glib.
– It’s a book of poetry by Emmett Thompson. He’s uncle t’ Hazel Bowman and lives over in Kirby Thorpe. I think he was … there too. Y’might read some after supper, if y’like. Or get Zac to. He’s bin practising all day. Haven’t yer, Zac?
– Your father has better uses of his time just now, Janet. There’s a lame calf in t’top field and I’m sure some ewes are about ready to drop. Can’t afford to lose as minny as last year.
Her mother’s tone was imbued with tension. But Janet had a wild cut to her. She had her father’s neck between her teeth and wouldn’t let it go.
– It’s a first edition. There is a signature in the front cover. Mr Thompson visited the Bluebell bookshop in Kendal last month; I met him. He has a lot of interesting things to say. About what t’give up … and what t’keep. And why. In one poem he talks about how passing something away from you is like receiving the full weight of understanding what the object truly represented. That when you put on your own empty hands, they are about the same weight as a bird lifting from the water. I don’t remember exactly. But I loved that line.
– Thanks, lass. Thanks, Jan.
At the sink, Ella banged down the empty pot with emphasis. Her daughter did not flinch.
Samuel stood up and walked round the table. He bent slowly and kissed his daughter’s hair. She smelled like the rain coming on to dry earth. She smelled of the lily soap that he had been bringing her from town since her hair grew long, bought once a month, a secret expense. By the hearth, Chase pricked up her tufted ears, and a second later was by her master’s feet. Samuel picked up his cap from the rocking chair and pulled it on to his head.
– Grand stew, Ella. Grand as owt. Time to sort out city fella.
As his thumb pressed the door latch down he heard his wife’s voice, charged and warning.
– He’s bringing ill. He’s a messenger of nowt but darkness and ill. I just know it, Sam, I know it here.
She was holding a hand over her chest, her jaw working at her cheek. Then the cool damp air was sliding past Samuel’s neck outside the cottage door.
As he reached the top of the steep field he found Nathaniel Holme repairing a hole in one of the drystone walls which bordered the two men’s properties. By the old man’s feet was a selection of good-shaped rocks for the task, some flat and short for bridging, others dense and high for volume, stones for the body of the wall. As he approached, Samuel heard the familiar, soft thwock-thwock of stone being set down against more stone, followed by a harsh scraping as it was turned into place. The old man’s breathing was laboured and loud, as if the air was running on loose shale from his lungs to his mouth. He grunted as he lifted another piece of the wall.
– There’s a couple spots need tending down by our barn when yer dun, if y’like.
Nathaniel turned. His voice was thick in reply.
– Git out, yer sly bugger. Watch a fella bildin’ up fell en cum up en stick a stree in his hat!
Samuel hitched his trouser knees up and knelt down on the chill, recently thawed ground, next to his old friend. He picked up the biggest stone from the grass and hefted it into the uneven cavity of the wall, glancing at Nathaniel from the corner of one eye. Chase whined and bent to lick the back of Samuel’s hand as he worked. Then she took off up the field, paws bounding off the ground, a streak of black and white fur. Nathaniel examined his companion’s work and tutted.
– Never could wall out, thee. Look at that gap in t’middle. Fat Jake down yonder could fit through t’hole. What yer dyan up hea so late, any road, yer daft bugger.
– Same as you, yer daft bugger.
– Aye well, it’s ower fuckin’ late fer buggerin’ about. I’m going tu t’Bull. Cumin’?
– Aye. Go on, then.
– Sam, th’ knows my mind at Bull. Give ower talk of stoppin’ in t’dale. Pointless, like.
Nathaniel spoke quietly, slowly, slowly, breathing hard. A pause in the conversation left only the sharp and blunt sounds of stone on stone as Samuel continued with the walling.
Nathaniel was seventy-one, arthritic, and could not work as he once had. His body was near to seizing completely with swellings and there was a bad cough deep in him that had gathered strength over this last winter, turning heavier, taking over the old man’s chest and robbing him of air as it shook itself free. Nathaniel’s two sons had died in the war and his wife Angela had passed away a decade before. There was nobody left to work at Goosemire, except one part-time farmhand, a few itinerants in the busy seasons if he could afford to pay them, and Nathaniel undertook most of the farm work himself.
Samuel sighed and rubbed his hands together, brushing off shards of slate.
– Dam’s not coming off. It’s all in that laddie’s heed.
He tapped the side of his own skull with two fingers for emphasis.
– Besides, it took years fu’ t’uther dam in Thirlmere to git finish. Wilf Martin at Hinter Hall farmed up until last block went in, eh?
– Aye. But, git finish it did, Sam. Git finish it did.
Nathaniel’s eyes were hazel-yellow and old and tired as he turned to look at Samuel. He was nodding as he leaned forward on to the wall, taking the weight of his wiry upper body on to his arms. Then he cleared his throat lengthily, spitting on the grass. Samuel knew the noise was a precursor, it usually meant the old man was preparing to give a speech, speak his mind. He was not mistaken.
– Sam, lad. That M’nchister fella’s wearin’ a suit as costs as much as thee’s house, if Lordie felt like sellin’ up. Fella’s not up fu’ t’scenery, nor buying a cottage fer lil’ kiddies to grow up in. He’s got some mighty weight, mighty weight. His face’ll tell thee that. Next time w’see young fella, he’ll niver be laffin’ like t’uther day. But it suits me grand, in a way; mine are all gone. Purchase order’s dun on t’farm. Notta fella more hard priss to leave t’dale than me. And thee’s young enough to start ova agen. That wee un’ll git gud schoolin’. Janit can teach in town. Zac’s not up t’farmin’. Too much watter in t’lad’s heed binow. And that bonny lassie’ll not fetch up wid a complete git fer a husband if she’s out of Shap’s v’cinity. Betta selection in Penrith, like. Lordie’s not gonna renew, Sam; bugger’s not losin’ out, neither. I tell thee, th’ll be compensation plenty fu’ t’auld bugger. Nowt fer thee.
Samuel sighed.
– Cheerful auld bugger, in’t ya?
Nathaniel grinned at Samuel with a mouth of brown and missing teeth.
– I am. I am.
Then he stood up painfully, lifted off his cap and wiped his brow of sweat with a sleeve and replaced the cap in one movement. With a gnarled, arthritic hand he took a pipe out of his jacket pocket and a tin of loose tobacco. He filled the pipe and left it in his mouth, but he would not light it until he was inside, out of the wind. Nathaniel was a practical, wise old man. He was endlessly jovial, respected and admired throughout the region.
The two men walked down the fields towards the village. They walked comfortably in a silence accepted by both parties. Words, when they were exchanged, were restrained, cordial.
– Seca grand evening, like.
– Aye, grand, Nate.
The wind was getting up. It brought references to the winter within it, which bothered Nathaniel’s chest. He wheezed but never slowed his pace. The two men paused by a herd of cows in the lower fields and Samuel bent to check the hooves and underbelly of one of the beasts. He stood up and sent a piercing whistle back over the darkening hill, and a minute later Chase came streaking down it with a rabbit in her jaws. She jogged lightly by the feet of the two men.
– Gudog.
They continued on towards the small clutch of houses which was disappearing into the dusk. By the time they reached the Dun Bull, the night had almost settled down fully. From the mountains half-circling Mardale came the released scent of the earth, strong and woody from winter’s concentration, and along with it came the fresh flavour of the pushing spring.
Janet Lightburn had not wanted to spoil her father’s birthday, nor had she been in the mood for an argument with her mother about any of the information she wanted to disclose. At the gathering in the Dun Bull Inn there was little room for her to find a clear space and deliver the news, it was crowded with men of the dale who had come to discuss the visit from the suited man and the air was yellow with smoke, making it difficult to get firm eye contact with them all in turn as she wanted to. But she stood firm among them, inhaled the collective masculinity of the place and adopted a fairly fierce tone to get their attention. It was nothing new in itself, she had been known to speak with authority on issues before, and with the confidence of a politician. Nevertheless, the men grumbled as they became quiet, begrudging her presence somewhat.
The shake to her hand was not nerves, it was not even the subconscious intimidation of being outnumbered fifty to one by men. If she trembled, it was because the issue she was discussing stirred her up and agitated her. She had put in a telephone call to the Lowther Estate, she said, that morning, and after a considerable run-around from Lordie’s secretary she had managed to speak to Peter Talbot, the estate manager. They would all remember him, having helped to drag him from the lake after a disastrous fishing trip last year when he was using the Langdale boathouse. Crooked-nosedy fella, aye. He confirmed that the Mardale tenancies were under review. Relating to a private business endeavour with a Manchester corporation. She was assured by him that they would all be informed, by letter and within a month, of the estate’s decision.
Murmurs went through the crowd, a comment or two about a woman’s place, very quietly. Basically, that means yer all fuckin’ out, she said, and slammed a hand hard down on to a table. And if Teddy Hindmarsh was so convinced this was horse shite, and that a lassie couldn’t understand grass for grain, she suggested he make a call himself and try his hand with that wan bastard who’d be better off drowned.
Behind her the tall figure of Paul Levell had entered the bar and was nodding slightly. Janet Lightburn stepped between broad unwashed bodies to the bar and ordered an ale from Jake McGill.
Sometime after midnight of the following week, Janet and her father walk into the farm kitchen, which still has warm air from the glowing cinders of the range. Their hands are frozen and bloody. Janet moves to the sink and soaps her wrists in cold water. The water tank is not hot at this time of night and she has to work the blood off without the aid of dissolving heat. It sets under her nails as she scrubs, blackens. There is a numb buzzing in her head from the strong wind on the fells, where she has been braced on the ground with her father for over an hour. Her eyes are weary. Lambing season means little sleep for Westmorland farmers, but within days their bodies have adjusted to the new routine, finding a strange and fraught level of energy that comes in the wake of sleep-deficiency. It is a difficult time, when winter can sweep down into the valley just as the village is beginning to see the crests of snowdrops and crocuses budding through the earth. Snow buries and camouflages labouring sheep and only the stray sound of a bleat will indicate the hole into which the animals have headed.
If they can find the animals due to birth, and bring them into the safety of the farm sheds or a sheltered corner field, it is a far easier task. There is steady light from the hurricane lamps and the ewes can be positioned and helped, the sticky lambs kept warm. But predictions are seldom accurate, and it is bleak searching the fells for a twisting ewe in early labour. These births are almost impossible to assist in the black cold. The bark of the dog, frantic over a fallen animal. A wet lamb, rocking in the savage wind, often has to be shown how to live and move or it will not survive a single, tenuous night. There is precious little on the side of a farmer during this time of year.
Even later in the lambing season the spring weather brings its share of problems. Treacherous mud and constant rain churn the ground and there is no firm outside surface offering traction and stability, a table upon which to drag still-borns from their mothers. Dejected, the sheep often cry over their listless lambs, refusing to eat in the coming days, the loss double for the farm. Panicked by imminent delivery, a sheep might stumble off its heft, up into the crags where it cannot be reached. Silly season, Samuel calls it, though his daughter is all earnestness during these weeks, mirthless, and more driven than even her father.
Samuel Lightburn scuttles coal into the oven. He fills the kettle with water and places it on the hotplate. Ella has left out some biscuits and cheese on a plate, covered with a cloth. The two eat ravenously while moving about in the room, unbuttoning coats, wrenching off wet boots and setting them against the range. The house is quiet above them and a carriage clock ticks on the shelf. Two-fifteen.
Father and daughter sit at the table with their hands wrapped around mugs of hot, sweet tea. There is no point in climbing the stairs to bed at this hour. At four another shift of lambing will begin. In the kitchen only the dog sleeps by the hearth, with her nose curled under one paw, and her hind legs twitching. She works even while dreaming in her sleep. Samuel has come to know less than ever about women through the disposition of his daughter. Where his wife is a hard, often stubborn woman, who believes in separate roles, Janet is above and beyond. She terrorizes the old notions, batters her way through and out the other side. There are no absolutes to be found in the blood on her wrists, and under her nails. She has feral qualities not belonging to either sex. But he cannot say he isn’t proud of her. Because, by God, he is!
I:V
In March the running water of the valley is bitter, acid cold, as snow on the fells begins to melt and is brought down over chilled rocks and icy beds. It has in it all the breaking soul of winter, thousands of dying flakes in one long, moving water-coffin. But despite the cold, the streams and waterfalls are very clear, clearer than they have been all year, a perfect window into the living houses of the river. Sediment and detritus are bound to the ground, by ice, and are unable to dissolve into the passing liquid until the thaw takes a better hold in April, loosening the old skin of the earth, allowing it to shed.
Isaac lies half on the ground, half braced on a rock over a channel of the river. His face in the water turns purple and yellow and his lips soon numb. If he is not careful, his muscles will start to spasm uncontrollably and he will lose his balance, shocking the rest of his body into the water, electric cold. He times himself within the icy cataracts. He has perhaps no more than ten seconds before his cheeks begin to roll of their own accord, as if he is fitting, then he must surface. Knowing the direction of flow, he turns his face downstream, using his head to block its passage, protecting his eyes from the burn of the moving current. He opens their lids. There is a second when their mechanism falters, they will not adjust to the temperature, having lost the slim warmth of an eyelid covering, the lenses will not still and focus is impossible. Then, the panic subsides. Pupils retract. The world of the inside river appears, detailed and precise.
Water is white-clear. And after a while it is non-existent. There is no wetness. There is no thin element rushing past, only frigid movement, arctic winds in another planet’s sky.
He sees sharply, down to the rocks on the riverbed, and a prehistoric tail, a grey crayfish leg is tucking itself under a dolmen. He reaches down with a quiet hand and turns the rock over without so much as a particle of soil or sand lifting into the current of the river. The crayfish, a dark lobster-cat, does not move. Its whisker antennae, sensitive enough to feel a shift of life a foot away in the water, twitch, touch-sighted, its pincers gather energy. It knows the house is gone. Isaac moves a small hand through the current quick as a diving bird and pinches it on the armoured back at the point where it cannot reach a claw back to him. It kicks its tail, flicking back into the firm grip. The divisions of its shell click against each other, the sound dull underwater. He loves that sensation, the language of sound. He turns it over, examines the pale-grey underbelly, the alien anatomy riddled with legs, then drops it into the wind to watch it swim backwards under the shifted rock, to continue sleeping in the river. He puts his fingers in his mouth, sucks them, moving his tongue, as if to create a friction of heat. But his is not a fish-blood, there is no oil under his skin to keep him warm in the river’s cataracts.
Ten seconds have passed. His teeth are moving against his cheek. Cold invades every pore of skin with tiny arrows. He ignores the sensation of spears a few seconds longer.
Trout gape at him. Their spots shimmering fire, locked with brown-silver and lit by the water’s light. Minnows butting the current, all eyes. The black silk of a hidden eel. Crustaceans adding sections to their shells along the cratered stones of the river valley walls. It is all worthwhile.
The houses are filled with life even in winter, reptilian, marine, and the fish, sluggish in the near-zero climate. All is stark at this time of year, barren, before the sun warms reeds and algae to life from the rich beds, and grassland returns once more in the river, forestation, jungle, beating slowly in the benthic weathers. But now, life gives itself up utterly for observation.
He will stay down for as long as he can, a watery pioneer, caught between two worlds. His foreign body, learning the river’s tricks. His nostrils closing, eyes in stasis, not giving away a suggestion of life, no tell-tale air bubble struggling to the surface to reveal his presence. His blood crystallizes, congeals. His lips turn blue and their cells die. But he will cut into the water again and again for the pleasure of the other world, a boy tranquillizing his face. His head smashing through the reflection of a lumbering crow in the sky. Because the March water is sparkling and icy and pure, a conductor of vision, a magnifying glass to all corners of the pools. A rare month for spying on these inhabitants, the strange and beautiful nations.
