Family Drama 4 E-Book Bundle (157 page)

Where had all the ‘golden locks' gone that Sylvia used to twist around her finger and tug when she was going to sleep? It was going grey in the wings and was firmly anchored in a victory roll, using an old stocking, flattened with a headscarf or man's tweed cap. Her cheeks were wind-burned and pink, with ice-blue eyes that missed nothing. She was still firm and full breasted, with a figure honed with lifting bales. Trousers suited her, and Ben's twill shirt and army jacket her favourite outfit. She could still smell the sweat of him. It comforted her to wear his clothes. It was as if she was taking on his mantle and trying to do all the jobs as he would have done them. He would be glad she'd made it through the wilderness months. What use had she for dresses and tweed suits?

She would never darken the door of a church again if she could help it. The consolations of religion meant nothing to her, nothing at all. If it gave comfort to others, so be it, but it wasn't for her. Her gods were closer to the hills, the old spirits of the Dales that promised nothing more than blood, sweat and tears for working this upland pasture.

On a clear day she could sometimes hear the
bells of St Peter's, Windebank in the distance, ringing out the seasons in turn. Kurt and Dieter were Catholics and went to services there when they could. Yewells were staunch Chapel, with a few renegades like Wes and Pam turning to Church when they went up in the world.

Sunday was just another day in the week for Mirren, but the one that she was allowed to spend to herself and that suited her fine. She would give last week's local
Gazette
a good going-over.

She kept peering out across the yard to the fields. The snow was building up and a strange unease crept over her, reliving the night when one of the farmers up the dale failed to return from Windebank, last winter. His poor wife was waiting with hope, searching with the lantern, calling with the men for hours, lanterns across the snow, hoping he had taken shelter, sick in her stomach as the night turned to morning and her worst fears were confirmed. The newspapers had gone to town with florid prose: ‘Tragic death on Windebank Moor. Young farmer vanquished in raging storm. Gallant man loses his footings in the snow…' describing how the lifeless body of George Pye was found lying close to a sheepfold, only yards from shelter. What the papers refrained from saying was that he had spent the night with his cronies in The Fleece, as usual, and staggered back to be caught in a storm with half his wits sozzled,
disorientated, crossing and recrossing his own tracks. It was a stupid, needless accident but she knew how easy it was to drown sorrows in drinking. That could've been her. Everyone up the dale had some tragedy to blot out.

She was too on edge to pick up the paper now or a book. The classics and poetry were her preference: the Brontës, of course; Dickens, rereading into the small hours sometimes when sleep was elusive. Where was it she had read that there were three bad things in life?

That was it. She had made acquaintance with all three in her time. Don't go down that path, Mirren, she muttered. No going there or she'd never get the evening milking done.

Ben woke in the middle of nowhere, trying to fix a point in the landscape he recognised. The train rattled on, packed with Sunday travellers, all squashed together, trying to get some kip on the long journey north.

The low sun was already flooding over the stone walls like rose-coloured silk. As he gazed over the hills he recognised that peculiar winter light like
the soft hues of firelight. Even the sheep were tinged pink and gold. All the roughness of the stones, the bare branches caught up in the flame, and then suddenly the light was gone.

Transfixed by the sight and sudden recognition that this must be close to Scarperton and home territory, Ben felt a stirring, a restless surge of energy and a voice whispering in his ear, ‘Go back. Pay them all a visit. Rebuild your bridges before you go off on your travels. Make your peace and sort it out once and for all. Australia's a long way in the other direction!'

He turned round to see who was talking to him but the rest of the soldiers in the carriage were nodding and snoring. This was crazy. Now he was hearing voices singing loony tunes.

It was time to make for the door. Then he realised it was Sunday and this was the Scottish express that didn't stop at all the little station halts. The stone walls were rushing by and he felt a panic. It was still light. There was still time, as his feet felt the wheels on the track slowing down, reducing speed. He tried to ignore the voice.

‘Why are you sitting there? Get off right now before it's too late.'

For one brief second this crazy idea hung in the air. If he missed this chance perhaps he might never see Cragside again, never get a chance to make his peace with Mirren. He stood up, gathered his case
and his bag, his coat, pulled down the belt that lowered the window, peered out as the steam and soot rushed into his face. They were slowing down near Windebank level crossing. This was his chance.

He was suddenly wide awake, alert to danger as he threw out his bags and jumped onto the bank, rolling down just before the small station platform. With one leap into the unknown he was in free fall, parachuting into old familiar territory, answering the call in his head. He knew he was finally going crazy.

‘You can't do that 'ere! It don't stop 'ere!' shouted a man, running towards him, while the one o'clock from Leeds to St Enoch's, Glasgow, with its long line of maroon carriages, was already shunting out of sight.

Ben sprang up, sniffing that clean damp air up his nostrils, the welcome tinge of soot smoke. He was back in the hills one last time. It had been a long time since his last visit.

He would give them all a surprise, and Auntie Florrie would be delighted to feed him up and give him a bed for the night. There would be no other train on a Sunday in early February and the porter-cum-gate keeper was already demanding to see his travel warrant, looking up at him with suspicion as his ticket was for Port Greenock.

‘Now then, I know your face,' he said gruffly. ‘You shouldn't be jumping off trains, lad, but you
always were a devil. It's one of them Yewells, is it?'

‘Ben,' he smiled back sheepishly, straightening his greatcoat and trying to act casual. The rest of his stuff was scattered along the line.

‘This's highly irregular to jump off a train. I should report you,' said the little man, trying to lift the battered case from cluttering his line. ‘Happen you're a rare 'un to turn out on a day like this. Have you seen that sky? Off to see Tom Yewell up the tops?' His accent was thick but the welcome was typical. He wanted to know all his business. ‘It's no day to be wandering about the fells. The nights pull in sharp up here. Any road, you've miles to hike,' he said, pointing to where the hills rose high in the distance.

The last-minute pilgrim smiled to himself. He'd miss all this–being recognised even by strangers who were curious about your doings. He was going to sail halfway across the world on an assisted passage to start a new life amongst total strangers. How he wished he could take all this with him.

He was glad he had not joined up, but taken work on an arable farm near York. He missed sheep and hills but a gang of farmer workers were setting off for the New Territories where farmers were needed and there was land to buy. Ben was free to follow his impulse, a free agent with time to say his farewells. His mother was upset, of course, but she still had Bert to mollycoddle since
he returned from Germany. He and his German wife were the talk of Horsforth for a while.

Ben stood on the platform, uncertain. Taking out his last pack of Capstan from his pocket, he tapped the box several times to loosen the pack, pulled off the Cellophane and peeled back the packaging to shake out two cigarettes. He offered one to the porter, who popped it behind his ear with a nod. Then he pulled out his Ronson lighter from his trouser pocket and lit up, leaning back on the wall out of the wind. His hands were still shaking from the fall.

‘I'd forgotten how grand it is up here,' he smiled, drawing in the smoke. ‘I guess a Sunday is not a good time to hitch a lift, though,' he sighed.

‘You're dead right there, chum. They'll all be sleeping off their Sunday dinner. I hope you've eaten?' asked the porter.

‘Yip, sandwiches on the train,' Ben replied.

‘It's a fair hike over the moor road. If you crack on apace, you'll happen make it by nightfall, but don't leave the road and if snow blows in find yerself a barn or summat for shelter. Don't go wandering around or you'll end up frozen in a ditch. We lost one man last winter. I'd leave yer case here. It'll be safe enough with me. Where're you living now?'

‘On my way to New South Wales,' Ben replied, warming to the Yorkshire man.

‘By heck! That's going it. The wife's brother emigrated to Melbourne. Is that anywhere near your place? Jimmy Ewebank is his name. He's a farmer,' said the porter, certain of finding a connection.

‘I haven't a clue, but if I see him I'll tell him you were asking,' Ben offered while shoving his valuables, papers, shaving kit and some clothes into his canvas bag. It was time to take a hike. ‘Be seeing you,' he waved.

He strode out on the icy road from the village halt with the wind behind his back, pushing him forward. This would be his last jaunt in the hills before he embarked for a new life.

He'd been putting off this return for months, making one excuse to himself after another. He wasn't sure if he wanted to face all that sadness again. Mirren had straightened herself out without his help but he knew how cunning she could be. Now she lived alone, taking in refugees, who knows what she was getting up to?

He just wanted to know she was OK before he left. There was so much anger at their last parting. She still might hate him but he wanted to know how she was surviving.

There was no mistaking the clouds were gathering into a purple bruise as the first flakes of snow fluttered down on his cheeks. He was glad of his old army coat, and pulled his cap down over his ears. The only way was forward. This wonderful
snowy landscape would set him up for the long trek home.

It was good to be alone. ‘“Keep right on to the end of the road,”' he sang to Harry Lauder's tune.

The snow was speckled at first, the wind behind and to his side, not in his face. It didn't slow his pace but as he rose above the first snowline, above the village, onto the Windebank road, higher up he saw that it had been snowing for hours on top of ice. Snowflakes were building up on his shoulders, clinging to his trouser legs.

This was stuff that could build up into towers of snow whipped around into ice-cream cones, freezing limbs in hours. Ben thought about turning back but the track behind him was obliterated in this grey-white swirling blizzard. For the first time he felt uncertain, lost in a once-known landscape. He would have to move forward pretty darn sharpish.

‘What a fine mess you've gotten into now,' he smiled, trying to cheer himself up pretending it was a scene from a Laurel and Hardy film.

Sheep passed him like walking snowballs. They would make their way to shelter. He snatched at the hope that the stone walls would lead to some barn.

It was the patchwork of handmade walls that always fascinated him about the landscape on his first visit; each wall crisscrossing the dales over the
tops. The barns were squat and square, and plenty of them, thank goodness!

Where there were sheep, surely there would be shepherds or farm buildings, but in the dwindling light there was nothing.

He plodded on over ever-deepening snow, lifting boots that felt like leaden weights. He worked his legs like machines, keep moving, following the sheep tracks onwards and downwards. They would know where to shelter.

The sheep were suspicious of a stranger in their midst. He hoped some of them knew his scent but it was so long since he was here. Don't stop now, keep moving, he thought. His duffel bag was topped with snow. It was easier to drag it behind him to leave some trail of his presence.

His coat was frozen like a cardboard crinoline and the wind stuck his cords to his skin. A weariness was overtaking him. He was lost. He was doomed unless he found somewhere soon.

Now came the battle against the wind to stay upright. It felt like trekking through a dense jungle, pushing his limbs through snowdrifts, trying to feel for the stone walls, which were fast disappearing. His eyes were tired from squinting at the whiteness. His fingers ached with the cold. He had fingerless mitts. His leather gloves were in his case. His cap was useless but he tied his tie over the top to rope it to his head. He must not lose more heat.

There was not a soul to be seen. No one in their right mind would venture out in this wilderness. Everything must fend for itself in this icy blast. The urge to lie down and rest was getting stronger and he knew that he must fight the impulse.

What a crazy stupid fool he was to leave the comfort of a train for this endurance test. When would he ever learn? He had no power over the wild spirits of these hills. He was at their mercy. How frail was the human body against such an onslaught; how quickly the elements can ravage skin and bone.

How many sheep carcasses had he dug out, frozen into grotesque shapes, blackened by frost. It took them hours to hack away the earth for makeshift graves. He knew what frostbite could do to limbs and faces.

There was no one to blame but himself if he died out here, alone like a wounded animal. No one but the porter knew he was on the road. They would all be tucked up safe for the night. Was this to be his last resting place, stuck in some ditch in the drowsy slow sleep of death? Like hell it was! If only he could find the old bunker, the foxhole they'd built by World's End, but it would be suicide to try to get up there. It was too high up.