‘Oh come on, lad! I’ve picked up from the beginning that you haven’t been keen to return home but isn’t it time you put whatever it was to one side? You can’t stay here any longer. He pauses, then, ‘You’ve done these people a great service, Lawrence, don’t let’s run the risk of tarnishing your record just because we didn’t recognise when enough was enough.’
I just stare at Dougie for a moment. His choice of words has just cracked open some long-sealed memories. This isn’t the first time in my life I’ve been forced to move on. I’d hoped things would be different here, that I’d get a chance to settle, maybe?
But that is not the story of my life.
‘Your hound gone off roaming again, boy?’ my father’s observation had seemed innocent enough. I should have known it wouldn’t be.
But on the first morning of the week my life fell apart I wasn’t thinking about that. My dog Kahn - part-wolf and part Alsatian - had always been a free spirit; running off for a few hours was just something he did at times. All my tired brain could register at that moment was if Kahn had gone AWOL, I wouldn’t need to take him out for his morning walk before I left for work.
‘He’ll be back,’ I told my father. He had to be. Kahn was the one thing from home I was planning on taking with me when I left Macrae Farm. Only Dad didn’t know about my plans yet, did he? My plans to take Mum and Pilgrim as far away from Macrae farm and him as we could possibly go. My plans that we should just disappear, find some place where he could never discover us, live out the rest of our lives in peace and free from fear. I’d glanced at him uneasily as he shook open his animal-feed catalogue. I knew I couldn’t afford for him to even suspect what my plans were or there’d be hell to pay ...
The thought crossed my mind.
‘Kahn wasn’t with the others at the feeding bowls last night either, was he?’ Could he have been missing for longer than I’d realised? Dad didn’t respond, just commented to no
one in particular;
‘I see that Bailey’s trying to salvage what’s left of his rare-breed stock.’
“Pity. There are only three of his type of pig left in the world now, aren’t there Dad? ” My younger brother had looked up from his toast, his round face aiming to please, looked sympathetic. Pilgrim didn’t know we were leaving, yet. Mum had just nodded, affecting interest, carried on her ghost-like activities around us in the background of the kitchen, stirring the pot. I glanced at her over the top of Dad’s catalogue, waiting for a co-conspirators sign, the slightest raise of the eyebrows, anything, that’d say to me ‘We’re on the same team and working together so we can leave; soon we won’t have to listen to this rubbish ever again…’
My father was an enthusiast, as well as a trader.On the farm, the Large Saddlebacks and the Tamworths still rooted around in their pens; officially, he was a pig-farmer though it was an open secret that the pig farming had never been where he made his real money. No, my dad had ‘other concerns’, mostly illegal ones and it was this empire that he’d assumed me and Pilgrim would eventually want to become a part of. Dad had made no secret of his displeasure that I’d already refused to start work for him that summer. I’d gone for a holiday job at a local dog breeders in the next village down, instead.
“It’s a pity, isn’t it, Lozza?” my brother had turned to me that morning, wanting to include me in his commiserations “...about Bailey’s pigs?”
I remember my father glanced over the top of his catalogue to see if I’d respond as well, make some appropriate comment that’d show I cared.
I didn’t. My father knew I wasn’t interested. Not interested in his pigs, not interested in his money, not interested in him. It bugged him, that. I knew it bothered him deeply that I wanted nothing to do with him. That I wouldn’t yield; that no matter what he did he was never going to fashion me into his own mould. I put down my mug, looked away from him, looked out towards the fields beyond the open window.
On the first morning of that final week all I knew was that I had to get us away from there. I had to keep my focus on that goal. I was going to work and save and keep my head down and before the new term started for my brother I’d have all of us out of there.
I hadn’t bargained
on
what was about to happen next.
I slipped out of the house quietly.
Dad was asleep and Mrs P was pottering around in the kitchen. I left her a note by the door to say I’d be back soon, and she won’t leave the house till I return. I figured the less I said about where I was going, the better. They won’t like it. But I couldn’t hang about waiting till January for the Post Office to get my letter back. If I wait till January, that’s too long, it’ll be too late.
It’s already gone one o’clock.
By the time I turn to look over my shoulder at the patchwork of fields and country lanes spread out behind me all I can see is everything getting covered over with white at a rate of knots. I’m going to have to step on it. I’m at the juncture on the hill where the road forks to the right, now, onto the narrow footpath towards Macrae Farm which is away from the main road and which at the moment looks like really dodgy footing.
I stop for a moment, punching my hands together in my gloves, stamping my feet to keep the momentum going. I both want and don’t want to go to the Macraes in equal measure. If I go … I imagine myself powering up the hill, arriving at the Macraes, knocking on their heavy wooden door which doesn’t have a doorbell.
How’s it going to be, to stand there at their doorway and when they open the door say to them, just as you would to a
normal
neighbour - ‘There’s been a mix-up with the letters; you’ve got mine and can I have it back please?’ How would that feel? Could I do that? The strange thing is, even though they’re our nearest neighbours they haven’t had any contact with us for so long I doubt any of them would even recognise me.
I couldn’t have been much older than eleven the last time Rob Macrae came down to Clare Farm. He’d come to Dad a few months previously claiming he’d got this opportunity to get a National Trust grant to restore an old ruin on his land – but only if he owned enough of the original land that went with it. He said in order to get the grant he’d need to buy Topfields and Topwoods - two pieces of adjoining woodland that belonged to Clare Farm. Convinced it could only be good for Merry Ditton if the ruin were restored, Dad had agreed to sell the land to our neighbour for a pittance. That was before someone tipped Dad off – it turned out Rob Macrae’s real intention was never the castle project, he only wanted to sell the woodland at Topfields off to some developers who were after it. Dad had tried to pull out of the sale.
I guess that’s the first time we learned what Rob Macrae could be like when crossed. I remember him storming over to ours in his four by four, coming up and hammering on the door with three of his mutts in tow, all of them unmuzzled. I hid behind the telephone chair in the hallway and Dad never asked him in. I can still recall our neighbour’s blue eyes blazing in the doorway, that red hair which he used to slick back with hair oil, the barely disguised threat in his voice when he warned my dad;
‘Back off, Clare.’ He’d looked over towards Mum, then, something unmistakably nasty in his eyes. ‘I don’t lose any sleep over the likes of
you
…’ He made me cringe, but Mum wasn’t scared of him, I could see that. She looked him steadily in the eye until, in the end, it was Rob Macrae who had to look away first; something about her unseated him.
But the way he said those words stuck in my mind for a long time. The implication that ‘the likes of us’ were somehow so beneath his contempt as to be not worth a moment’s consideration; that he was a man who - given the opportunity - would be ruthless.
My parents fought back with every means they could, of course. They lodged objections with local planning, gained some support in the village, but whatever the rights and wrongs of it, it was pretty clear a lot of people in Merry Ditton were reluctant to get on the wrong side of the Macraes. In the end, the matter was ruled in their favour.
I wipe the snow out of my eyes.
That was the year Mum joined forces with her eco-activist friends, setting up camp in burrows they dug out under Topwoods. It was a form of protest that would effectively halt any tree-removal work for as long as they remained there. That was when the real rot set in between our families; sometimes I think that maybe if that hadn’t happened, then … what happened after wouldn’t have occurred either.
But …I can’t think about that now. I can’t. What’s done is done. I
know
what the Macraes are really like, and I know that Dad would be dead set against me having any contact whatsoever with them. Even now, my phone is buzzing. It’s home. Mrs P has discovered my note, no doubt, and that’s her, wanting me to come home. But I am not going back yet.
Sod that.
I am just going to go and do it. With any luck the Macraes will all be out and it’ll be one of their farmhands who opens the door. I might not even come across any dogs. It is so quiet and still and the snow keeps on falling. It’s landing on my nose and cheeks, I swear I’m actually breathing it in. In the silence my own breath sounds very loud in my ears. It sounds uneven and way too fast, and inside, with every step I take, every fibre of me is calling -
just get out of here, Rose, don’t go up that way, walk away now
.
But I can’t. I can’t walk away from the only chance I may ever get to leave this place.
I’m about one hundred metres in, when I become aware of the crunch of another set of footsteps round the corner. There is someone else on the path. I stiffen, stop walking, listening out as hard as I can and now I can hear that whoever it is, they also have a dog with them. I can hear it snaffling around and - suddenly, as it must have become alerted to my scent - there’s the sound of a low snarling noise coming from its throat.
Shit
. I’ve changed my mind.
I’ve changed my mind
! My legs have turned to water but I can’t get away now, it’s too far to track back onto the main road before I’m spotted.
‘Get back here Tosser, you stupid Mutt, there’s no one …’ The bull mastiff appears first, tugging fiercely at its ginger-haired owner who’s yanking back on its leash. The path is too narrow for me to pass by him easily, and I can see from the enjoyment that rapidly replaces the surprise on his face that he’s thinking exactly the same thing.
‘What have we here, Tosser? A trespasser, I think.’
Inwardly, I’m cringing because we both know that’s exactly what I am. The Macraes have signs up everywhere to the effect that Trespassers on their land will be ‘dealt with.’ The dog starts up a low growl in his throat and the owner yanks it down into a sitting position. Then he kicks it, hard, with his boot for good measure giving me a sick feeling in my stomach. It yelps and falls silent.
‘Gotta show them who’s boss, don’t you?’ His piggy blue eyes, scrutinising, don’t leave my face for one second and it dawns on me that he’s trying to figure out who I am.
I know who he is, well enough. Pilgrim. Me and my friend Shona used to sneak up to the top of Asleps Hill when we were kids and watch his antics on his Dad’s farm when he thought no one was looking.
Why
we used to find that entertaining I can’t imagine now - it was the danger, I suppose; what might have happened if we’d been caught. Children always like to run away from monsters don’t they? Whatever the reason, I know him far better than he knows me and he was a spiteful and mischievous kid. Apart from size he hasn’t changed all that much physically and I don’t suppose he’s that different inside, either. I suppress the shudder that runs through me at the memory.
‘And you are …?’ he demands now. Across the cold air I can smell his breath. I can smell the fustiness and the farm-smell on his clothes.
‘I’m your neighbour,’ I tell him..
‘Are you?’ He fumbles for a cigarette in his jacket pocket, an automatic reaction to cover up his surprise, I’m guessing. He holds his hand protectively over the light for a few seconds.
‘Don’t see much of you, do we? How’s your
d
ad?’ He arches his eyebrows curiously, as if we pass the time of day like this all the time, as if he has a right to ask.
‘He’s -
fine
,’ I breathe.
‘Is he fine? Thought we heard something about Jack Clare going into Forsythes Oldies home at one point.’
‘Well, he’s not going to Forsythes.’
‘Heard some talk that you might be selling up, then?’ He blows a long line of smoke just short of my face. ‘My old man nearly made you an offer …’ A small smile crosses his face and I remember that they’ve wanted us out of here for years.
‘We aren’t going anywhere, Pilgrim.’
‘Pity.’ His piggy blue eyes don’t leave my face for one second and the horrible thought crosses my mind that he might already know more than I do – what if he’s seen my Uni letter and he
knows
I’m not going anywhere?
‘Is it?’ I ask uneasily.
‘Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be stuck on a farm all her life - what’s your name again?’
‘Rose,’ I tell him through gritted teeth. I don’t want to tell him my name. I don’t want to stand here pretending to be civil. I don’t want anything to do with him. ‘Look, I know this is your land but I’m not trespassing. I’ve got a very good reason to be here. If you’ll just let me pass …’ I make to slide past him but he steps smartly in front of me, so I can’t.
‘Hold your horses,
Rose
.’ He tries to grab hold of my elbow but I shake him off. ‘Whoa,’ an unpleasant look crosses his face.
‘
That
wasn’t very friendly was it, Rose? And you have such a sweet name, too. You’re a Rose with thorns, though, eh?’ He composes himself now, pleased at his own wit.
‘You’re not thinking of showing any of those thorns to me, are you, darling?’ He makes to chuck me under the chin and I take a step back in horror.
‘Shove off, you creep.’
‘That’s not very neighbourly of you, is it?’
H
e pulls an annoyed face at my reaction. The dog starts up its low growling again and this time he doesn’t silence it.
‘I’ve got to …’ I swallow, hard. ‘Look. I need to speak to your parents. Let me by or let me go, you can’t keep me here.’
‘Whatever’s the rush though
?
What does she want to see the folks for, eh, Tosser?’ He looks at me curiously ‘It must be something very important, I’m thinking?’
‘Important enough.’
‘Important enough to tell me, then.’
I frown. I don’t
want
to tell him. My letter feels far too private and too personal to share with him and yet I suppose I’m going to have to if I want his cooperation.
‘Postman misdelivered a letter.‘ I give a little shrug like it’s important in a boring sort of way - like a bank letter or something. ‘I need to get it back, that’s all.’
‘A letter? That’s it?’ He sounds disappointed. ‘Still, this letter of yours - is it important enough for you to pay Pilgrim a little toll to let you pass?’ He pushes his gloved hand through his snow-filled hair and it dawns on me that he thinks he’s a looker.
‘Toll?’ Is he after
money
now? ‘I haven’t got any …’ then I see that he’s puckering up and it isn’t money he’s after at all. He’s got me boxed in so close up against the brambles I can smell the beer on his breath. I actually think I am going to throw up.