Northern Spirit (42 page)

This frank admittance by Hannah reassured David that their relationship
was purely platonic and professional.

‘I’ve never been able to climb Scafell and I would have loved to.’

‘Maybe Davey will take you. . . . Will you?’

David was astonished at his suggestion and muttered a reply. ‘Yes . . .
yes I’d love to. Do you have time before you leave, though?’

‘When can we go?’ She widened her brown eyes.

David’s veins surged with vibrancy; his body trembled with excitement.
He had taken his chance and it had paid off. A day out with Hannah was beyond
his imagination and yet he was quietly concerned. He still had a bad back from
working under his car, and today the pain had begun to shoot down his leg, and
his usual elegant stature was reduced to a slight stoop as he walked with a
limp.

‘You enjoyed that then, Davey?’ Barry was now looking at the empty
plate.

David stretched back in his chair and contentedly rubbed his hand down
his stomach. ‘It beats tomato soup and sandwiches any day! That’s the extent of
my cooking I’m afraid and Betty would survive on the soup if I didn’t make the
sandwiches.’

*       
*        *

David didn’t go straight home, but took a stroll along the shore of
Windermere, alone. He didn’t care that it was still raining, as a hazy moon
shone through the clouded night and lit his way. Cool droplets of rain curled
down his hair and dripped onto his face. His boots crunched on the shingle on
the lakeshore, as he wandered deep in thought, planning in his mind which route
to take Hannah up Scafell; excited by her enthusiasm. But down in the recesses
of his mind he had a heavy thought, as he knew she was leaving and he wondered
if he’d left things too late; he wished it was more than rain that he could
taste on his lips.

20

MAN OF CLAY.

When David awoke next morning he could barely move; his back had locked
into a position that caused him to bend almost double. He struggled to get out
of bed and could hardly stand straight as pain shot down the back of his leg to
his knee. He cursed his own stupidity in walking out in the rain, and had
assumed that at twenty-three he was indestructible.

David had become like a cat with nine lives. He’d already cashed in two
of them by staring down the barrel of a shotgun. For recklessly driving his car
down narrow country lanes, he could probably count another two; for being
beaten up at a football match; one. And another for sleeping rough in London,
where he could have caught pneumonia. He’d also experienced mild hypothermia
from spending a night on the fells looking for a desperate woman. That left
only two lives intact; he must be more careful and preserve the breath he had
left in him. He’d spent far too much, too early, as most of us do.

David struggled to wash and change and as he looked at the clock, he
realised that it was later than he expected. He had slept through Mrs Challenor
doing some washing; Betty hobbling backwards and forwards to receive the
milkman, the fish man, the baker’s van. He had slept through the phone ringing
several times; each time Betty was too slow to answer.

This particular morning with David absent, Mrs Challenor had plied
Betty with endless questions of his whereabouts, as he was usually up by now;
if not working, he would be gardening or walking, or tinkering about with the
car. She thought he must have had one too many beers last night, and complained
that the young men of today didn’t know when to stop drinking.

Betty too had wondered where David was, and why he was still sleeping.
She hadn’t heard him come in at all last night and it was only the sight of the
car keys thrown on the table that had reassured her he was actually home.

She’d stood at the bottom of the stairs and listened for any movement,
but her hearing had failed her. If only she could hear some breathing, some
snoring, any noise, just to tell her he was safe. Her weakened legs wouldn’t
let her climb the stairs; the former dining room was now her bedroom. In
frustration, she tapped her walking sticks on the floor, angry at her pitiable
state. It was late in the morning when Betty heard the noise from the cistern
flush in the upstairs toilet.

David came downstairs and looked rough. Betty thought he probably had a
hangover. But, as David held his back and attempted to make himself a cup of
coffee she saw the real problem. She reached for her handbag and, tipping the
contents out onto the table, found some packets of painkillers and vitamins.

‘You’ll suffer with your back, Davey. . . . Your father did and your
grandfather did - they both had arthritic spines. My Freddie got it badly too.’

David didn’t want to disagree with his aunt about the chances of
inheriting anything from George Keldas, and continued to sip his coffee and
swallow two painkillers.

‘It’s because I stayed out in the rain for too long last night. It’s my
own fault.’

‘Ah you young ones, you don’t know how to look after yourselves.’

‘Well it’s kill or cure I’m afraid.’ And David reached for his jacket
and started to leave without eating breakfast.

‘Oh, Davey. . . . Not this morning. Please just rest?’

‘I can’t rest . . . I must walk it off. . . . I need to be fit.’ And he
left without any explanation.

David limped all the way up the lane and onto the track to Claife
Heights, feeling pain with each step. He was angry with himself now; how could
he possibly walk Hannah up Scafell? He only had three days to improve.

The grass on the field was slippery from the night’s heavy rainfall and
as he entered the forest, the lime on the metalled road stuck to his boots.
Steam was rising from the trees as the late morning’s sunshine evaporated the
moisture. The forest appeared to be on fire.

As David continued to walk, the pain in his leg eased as he got into a
better stride, and he started to enjoy the fresh air. As it was mid-week, there
were few people about, but David still chose his route carefully to keep some
isolation, hoping to catch a glimpse of some wild-life. The dark shaded areas
of the forest, densely planted with trees, managed to cut out most of the
light; all he could hear was birdsong and a faint whistling of the breeze.

He lingered a while in one plantation. He’d walked here earlier in the
spring and had spotted a young stag, standing majestically in front of him, its
red coat glistening in the sunshine. They had watched each other, motionless,
for some time, neither of them daring to move, wondering who was most afraid.
He’d hoped he could see it again, and perhaps some young ones grazing with
their mother, but today it was too late; they would have been up and
breakfasted much earlier than him, and would have gone to ground in the forest,
or be nestling in a pocket of bracken on the fell side.

As he walked slowly, he thought he heard a murmuring noise - perhaps
the sound of someone talking. He wondered if he was closer to the
public-footpath than he’d thought. Perhaps it was the voices of the foresters
as they worked in a nearby plantation. He listened again, but there was
silence, so he carried on walking.

As he continued, he began to hum to himself and went to sit on a rocky
outcrop to take in the view. Again he heard voices and, this time, they were
light and cheerful - perhaps a woman’s voice or some children playing. He
walked on again and continued slowly, watching his footing as he re-entered the
forest and, as he trod on wet tree roots, he slipped in the mud and sodden
earth and just managed to keep standing.

The voices remained with him; neither louder nor softer, and he realised
they were coming from behind him. He stopped to listen but the voices stopped
again. He wondered if he was hearing things, and that maybe he had drunk too
much last night after all, or was it just a ringing in his ears. David, amused
by it, lightly tapped his head and continued. All was silent again.

He crossed another metalled road and re-joined the forest, when he
heard what sounded like a child’s laughter. Again he waited and listened and it
stopped. He was perplexed and was beginning to feel uncomfortable, when he
heard another voice, and this time it was calling his name. It reminded him of
the night at Keld Head when he’d re-traced his footsteps in the snow, worrying
who was behind him, afraid he was beginning to act like his father. But this
time he had nothing to fear. It was just coincidence that it sounded like his
name.

Then he heard it clearly, not just the name David, but David Keldas.
Someone was really behind him; a woman or a child was calling his name and
telling him to stop. Maybe it was Hannah he thought, and waited for her to
catch up. When no one arrived he retraced his steps, and then off into the
distance and into the trees, he caught sight of a red garment as someone ran
away from him.

David heard the laughter again and, angered by the teasing, pursued.
But he could hardly run; his leg and his back ached too much. He certainly
wasn’t afraid of Betty’s fabled ferryman as he walked on, avoiding the footpath
and followed the stalker deep into the forest.

In the density of the trees, he lost the figure and lost his bearings.
He stopped and listened again and heard a whispering and laughing and
instinctively headed for the noise. As uncomfortable as it was, he started to
run, his leg painfully jarring as he stumbled again on some branches and tree
roots and, as he jumped over the dead bracken and broken branches, he scratched
his face and tore his jacket on some sharp stalks. He could make no advance on
the stalker and yet continued on, not wanting to lose ground, gasping and
panting with each breath.

Then he heard it again: ‘Run, David . . . run!’

He heard it time and time again; it wasn’t his imagination.

Pursuing faster, David slipped, struggled, and slid about in the mire,
splashing through boggy patches black with peat that saturated his trousers.
Out into the sunlight and then back into the shade. He was making headway now
and the laughing stopped.

He saw the shape of a small slim frame; someone wearing a red knitted
hat and dark clothes. It looked like a boy.

‘Stop. . . . What do you want?’ David shouted. But they ignored him and
continued to run from him. And now he could only hear their breathless gasps.

With a strength David thought he didn’t own, he ran on faster and as he
approached the stalker, he lunged out and grabbed their jacket, but they
slipped from his grasp. And as the pain in David’s leg gnawed at him, he again
shouted in despair, then stopped.

‘Please wait? Who are you? What do you want?’ But he was ignored.

David chased again, and this time he managed to catch hold of the
person’s jacket and then, lunging his body onto the legs, grabbed hold, and
both of them went crashing into the mud on the forest floor.

David held on tightly as the stalker tried to wriggle free, kicking him
and muddying him. And as they wrestled together, both twisting and turning,
David saw the face of a girl, afraid, and struggling to release herself from
his grasp. She ran free and again David pursued. She grabbed a broken branch
and hit him on the shoulder, but he knocked it from her. Then, finally, his
manly strength once again knocked her to the ground.

As she struggled to free herself, David caught her shoulders, turned
her body over, and knelt beside her. ‘What are you doing? What do you want?’ He
shouted desperately as he looked into her muddied face, and could see clearly
that it was Joanne. David held his head high and dared to look in her eyes.

‘Don’t hurt me, Davey, please. Don’t hurt me!’ She was gasping and
laughing at the same time.

David didn’t release his grip but held her tightly by the shoulders,
thinking her back must be as saturated and filthy as he was. ‘What do you want,
Jo? You’re crazy!’ And he pressed her shoulders further into the ground.

She shook her head and tried to wriggle free, but this time his grip
was too strong. ‘Do you want to kiss me again? Do you?’ she struggled for
breath.

David didn’t want to kiss her; he wanted to slap her face, and it took
every ounce of restraint not to.

‘What do you want?’ He shouted again, still holding tightly onto her.
‘Why are you following me? Why are you doing this to me? What have I done?’

‘No, you never think you’ve done anything wrong, do you, Davey. . . .
You think you can mess around with my feelings!’

‘Joanne. I’ve never messed around with you!’ He gave her a look of deep
reproach. ‘I only kissed you once – maybe twice, that’s all!’

‘Oh yes, it doesn’t seem much to you does it,’ she spat. ‘It didn’t
mean much to your father either!’

‘I don’t want to know about him!’

‘No, I don’t suppose you do,’ she stopped struggling. ‘But you’re going
to. That was just how it started with him, just a kiss - just like you . . .
then one more . . . then one more!’

‘Stop it, Jo. Just stop it!’ He shook her by the shoulders.

‘No, I won’t stop it. . . . That’s it . . . close your ears. I never
will stop it, I never will. He thought he could come to me at his beck and
call. I was only a kid, Davey . . . I was only fifteen. I couldn’t handle him.
I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid! He was manipulating me.’

David was stunned to silence.

‘Sometimes when you were out looking for him, and you thought he was on
the fells, he was with me! Can you believe it? What a joke! Oh yes, he thought
it was so much fun. He laughed at you all. But I couldn’t cope anymore. I knew
it was wrong - him and his secrets, but I couldn’t stop him. So I started
tormenting him, just like I tormented you. I threatened to tell your mother,
but I didn’t want to hurt her. In that, I was loyal. So I told him you were
trying to take over the farm, and that he should get back before you ruined
things, but he still kept coming back, so I just carried on teasing him;
following him day and night as often as I could. I harassed him so much; made
him nervous and suspicious of everyone. Yes, it was me, Davey. I repaid him for
all his abuse. Oh yes, and then you came along - just the same - just like him.
But you, I’d longed for . . . ! I hoped you would save me, but you were just
the same - just a kiss, that’s all, and then it stopped. That was just as bad.
Just one kiss huh! Is that what you thought?’