Chapter 2

Lightning slashed deep cuts across the bruised sky. The intervals between the flashing and the growling response grew smaller as Marilyn sat by the window. The angry colours were incredible – sometimes dark purple blue, sometimes pink, sometimes even green – like the end of the world. Like nothing she’d ever seen. She was trying to capture the mood with her camera, experimenting with different exposures to distract her attention from the innate fear she was unable to suppress. She’d had enough now and longed for it to end so she could move away from the window. Silly, she knew, but while she stayed in one place and kept her eye on it, she felt safe. Who knew what it would do while her back was turned?

As she watched, she felt as if the anvil-head stormclouds were as enchanted by this moorland Yorkshire paradise as she was. They lingered for an age, before hurling a particularly fierce shaft that shook the land round about. She tensed, wondering what damage it had done, to her house or her neighbours’. Had anyone been hurt? The storm finally decided enough was enough and skulked off down the valley, still grumbling angrily, defiant flashes like cheeky tongues darting as it faded. Drumming rain was left in its wake, new rivulets decorating the yard and surfaces of the outbuildings in ways she hadn’t seen before, each drop conjuring a dancing fairy to celebrate the clearing of the air.

Her tension finally lifting, she stood but lingered at the window. The unnatural storm-twilight had given way to a translucent dusk, the heavy rainclouds tinged at the horizon with a friendlier pink where the sunset tried to reach through with its customary nightly farewell. Ashamed at her irrational fear during the past hour, she was glad no one had been there to see her. It wasn’t as if she’d been in any real danger, here in a thick-walled stone house that had stood for centuries. She knew she had a tendency to over-react, but prided herself in getting on with things matter-of-factly as soon as she caught herself doing it. An expedition across the clutter of the darkened living room to the light switch yielded nothing but a futile click. She sighed; the storm had left her a little something to remember it by after all. Guided by the warm glow from the fireplace, she lit a candle from the mantelpiece and decided on an early night. Despite her best intentions, lingering fear shifted her focus away from the candlelight’s warm heart to the shadows it attracted around its edges – hovering threats, undefined beasties watching.

Further down the dale, a small tent crouched like a wary animal in the corner of a field. Its occupant stirred and poked his head through the door. The rain now pattered on the canvas to a lighter, more natural rhythm and the refreshed air was a relief. As Jay sat and watched the black clouds disappearing up the valley, the hints of rosy sunset emerging from beneath echoed the lifting of his spirits. The apocalyptic storm had awoken his familiar terror, and he was only just beginning to feel the oppressive darkness drain away. This one had been exceptionally bad – the hollow-rumbling thunder getting beneath his skin and stirring his deepest fears, the lightning threatening to rip the canvas walls and tear him apart. He realised he was still shaking, but at least there was no sign of the boy. Glancing around as if it still wasn’t too late for him to appear, Jay almost broke into a grin. He checked himself, keen to keep control.

You can’t run forever.

The words flashed back into his mind and he concentrated on convincing himself he hadn’t heard anyone else saying them. The insistent notion that had come to him amid the bedlam of the storm had been his own and no one else’s. He glanced around more nervously this time, relief at the sight of the empty field turning to uneasy anger. Hadn’t he earned the right to be left alone by now? And yes, he’d had a change of heart during the last hour and would enjoy keeping to it. He couldn’t run forever; it was time to start thinking of a life that didn’t involve a succession of journeys monotonous in their empty promises. Time to settle down, maybe; make his way south over the next few days, take possession of his house, find some meaningful work. Or stay round here? Why not? It seemed a nice place.

He shrugged. Early days. Perhaps making definite plans was too big a change too soon. The idea was enough; with the intention in place, he was satisfied he’d know the right thing when he found it. Performing on the streets to indifferent audiences, convincing suspicious householders of his skills and integrity as a handyman, would soon be things of the past. And he’d say goodbye to Dan. That raised a hollow fear, but he insisted. He breathed deeply, distracted himself by taking out his pipe and filling it from the tobacco pouch. His hands were shaky. Only the storm. The aftermath of holding himself tense for over an hour. He inhaled the first lungful of welcome smoke. Yes, Dan would have to go. But perhaps not yet. You can’t. The tobacco comfort began to pervade. Run forever. No, but one step at a time, hey?

The rain slowed and uneasy patches of clear sky began to appear. The promise of sunset was already fading to dusk, and the clouds crowding back in, as he got out his stove and took his plastic container in search of water. It wasn’t an ideal pitch, but his search had been cut short by the need to erect the tent before the storm hit. He felt a sense of purpose far beyond the immediate act of preparing supper. You didn’t need a plan to have a sense of purpose, after all.

Marilyn fell asleep to a waterfall of heavy rain, and was awoken in the night by a persistent rumble. The storm must have returned, insistent on having the last word. In the hush that followed she lay, willing herself not to need to go downstairs through the ghostly living room to the ground-floor bathroom. For once willpower worked; dawn was seeking entrance through the curtains when she opened bleary eyes. She got up and looked out. Everything was still; no wind, no rain, friendly white clouds in a blue sky.

She glanced to her left and saw that the world had changed.

Opening the window and leaning out, she stared, wishing the scene before her wasn’t there. The barn seemed to be groaning beneath the weight of the hillside which had slid down and tried to sit on it. The woodpile and the makings of her new kiln behind it were buried, as was her carefully-tended vegetable garden; the straggly trees up the hillside were a tangle of limbs reaching through the heap of soil and stones, like drowning sailors pleading for rescue. A larger tree was split, limbs scorched, one half leaning on the barn at a crazy angle. Like a dream, she recalled the rumble she’d heard in the night.

She dressed quickly and went downstairs, pausing to curse as the light switch on the landing refused to obey. Putting the big old-fashioned kettle on the hotplate, she felt more than her usual self-sufficient satisfaction. A spring-fed water supply and solid fuel Rayburn meant she still had at least a few home comforts.

Putting her coat on, she stepped out. It was a beautiful, clear morning, the weather seeking to offer her an apology for the previous day’s antics. Not an apology she felt she could accept right then. Genghis materialised from behind her and meowed loudly for breakfast.

‘You’ll have to wait.’

Leaving the cat for a moment, she walked warily over to the barn as if the landslide were about to come alive and bite her. It almost had. Another twenty metres this way and it could have been the house. At least her room was at the front, but she wondered how much good that would have done her. She told herself she had enough on her plate worrying about the scene before her, without wasting energy on what-ifs.

Having finally made the decision to stay and live out here, she’d been beginning to allow herself to feel some satisfaction in what she’d achieved. And now the vegetable garden she’d carefully prepared and planted out with a few winter crops would need digging out rather than digging over. She’d cleared out the barn, burned the rubbish and made a careful pile of salvageable materials behind the growing woodpile. Woodpile, useful rubbish, vegetables, garden shed and, most importantly, the outbuilding where her kiln was going to be housed – all were now little more than an interesting challenge for archaeologists of the future to scratch their heads over. Not to mention the car. After clearing the barn she’d given the ageing jeep shelter from the elements in the hope it would thank her with improved reliability.

She scrambled over the heap of earth and stones spilling down in front of the building and, unable to shift the doors, peered through a gap in the venerable timbers. The interior was dimly lit by dappled light from a hole in the roof, where the fallen tree had sent a scorched branch through the slates and the rafters, as if trying to grab her car. She couldn’t see whether or not it was dented, but told herself, trying to stay calm, that it would still be driveable. Once she’d shifted a tree. Once she’d dug out a pile of rubble larger than herself to free the doors.

She went back in before the kettle boiled dry, shutting the door firmly on the nightmare. Sitting with hands wrapped round a mug of strong coffee and staring into space, she wondered if this was all a sign, trying to tell her this decision had not been a good one and she should go down into Holdwick to live sensibly. She reminded herself forcefully that she wasn’t superstitious. Everything was in place, the builders were about to start on the work of converting the barn to a workshop, and this time she wasn’t going to give up on her dream. Or accept favours from Matt a moment longer than she had to.

No point sitting brooding, either. She glanced at her watch. Early, but not too unreasonable to be phoning the neighbours, see if their electricity had also been affected and if they had any news of when it would be back on. She picked up the phone and the dead absence of dialling tone felt tangible. It was a long trudge in any direction until she could get a mobile signal, and over a mile to the Harringtons’. But moping would do her no good. She yanked on her boots, almost snapping the laces in anger and frustration, and set off to make contact with the world.

A short way down the lane she rounded a bend and saw a figure approaching. There weren’t too many hikers at this time of year, the summer stream dying down to an autumn trickle. It wasn’t yet half-past eight, but she’d observed that walkers often made an early start. This one seemed especially keen; he must have set off in darkness as the nearest bed-and-breakfast or campsite were almost five miles distant. Although he had the copious rucksack and sensible outdoor jacket of a long-distance hiker, he didn’t radiate the sense of condescending earnestness that many of them did, especially the older ones like him. His practical gear looked well-worn and lived-in, the overall effect brightened by a colourful cotton scarf at his neck, and he gave her a friendly smile as they neared one another. As he did so, she recognised him as the busker from the day before.

‘Morning. Didn’t I see you in Holdwick yesterday? Telling stories?’

‘That’s me. I’m flattered you remember.’

His modesty seemed genuine. Genuine? She’d see about that! It might not be wise to accuse him outright, but she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t say something.

‘Um…there was something I wanted to ask you.’

‘Me?’

‘My purse got nicked while I was watching.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘You didn’t happen to, you know, notice anything, did you?’

‘I’m afraid not. It sounds silly but I get in the zone and… Hell, I’m sorry if anything I did or said… Did you lose much?’

His confusion sounded as real as his apology. Common sense had already intervened to tell her if he had an accomplice they’d most likely be travelling together.

‘Not really. Don’t worry. I shouldn’t even have mentioned it.’

‘No harm in asking.’

‘Anyway.’ She was feeling embarrassed now. ‘I don’t think it’ll affect you, but there’s been a landslide back there. Where the track ends and it becomes a path.’

‘Is the way blocked?’

‘I don’t think so. It was a bit higher up and the trees caught the worst of it.’ Not to mention her barn. ‘But I just thought I’d mention it.’

‘Thanks, much appreciated.’ He removed a battered leather fisherman’s cap that was more in keeping with the scarf than the hiker’s jacket, and ran a hand through dark curls. She noticed a hint of salt-and-pepper at his temples before he replaced the cap, frowning slightly as if coming to some decision. ‘Do you need any help?’

‘Help?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m guessing you must live nearby. I just wondered – landslide, that storm last night…’

She suddenly wished she hadn’t said anything. It reminded her how isolated she was.

‘No, everything’s…fine, thanks. I’ve got to see my neighbours, down the lane here, about something, that’s all.’

He nodded. ‘Good-oh. I’ll be on my way then. Thanks for the warning.’

He raised a hand to his hat in an old-fashioned salute.

As she continued on her way, she wished she’d locked her door. She glanced over her shoulder a few times before he disappeared from view; if he did likewise she didn’t catch him.

Dorothy Harrington invited her in for a cup of tea. The roar of a generator drowned out the usual farmyard sounds.

‘Richard drove down to the phone box earlier. The electricity board said it’ll probably take a couple of days or more to get it back. You’d be amazed how widespread this storm’s been, love. They said there’s a central fault and a fair few lines down in the county. It’s no surprise that a remote area like ours is low on their list of priorities, though you can imagine Richard gave ’em what for.’

Marilyn smiled as Dorothy continued. The telephone, true to form, looked set to take even longer to restore.

‘He told them about you as well, love. They said they’ll happily divert our calls to our mobiles and pay the bills.’ They both laughed and tutted at the absurdity – neither of them had a signal at home. ‘Do you want me to run you to the phone box now?’

‘That’d be great, thanks. I could do with phoning Alan.’ On her walk down she’d planned to ask, cajole, even beg the builders to start early – finding a way to scrape together the extra to pay him to work today, a Sunday, if he was willing – so they could get the devastation cleared and start almost on schedule the following week.

Over a mug of tea, she told Dorothy about the landslip, playing it down, emphasising her relief that it wasn’t worse. Dorothy promised that Richard would come over and see what he could do to help as soon as he could, but he’d already gone out. ‘I did ask him to call by to see you before he went, but he thought old Mrs Horton might need him more. She’s 82 and on her own as you know. Sorry, love.’

‘That makes perfect sense. I’m fine.’

As they went out to the car to drive to the phone box, her neighbour paused and leaned towards her confidentially.

‘I forgot to mention…we had a fellow here earlier asking if we had any work. A bit early in the day if you ask me – goodness knows where he popped up from. He looked harmless enough, if a bit eccentric. He hasn’t been up your way? Forties, fifties, big rucksack, funny hat?’

‘I passed him on my way down. He was heading off over the moors towards Annerdale.’ Marilyn had no reason to doubt he’d be well on his way by now, and wanted to reassure her neighbour, who found it difficult enough as it was to come to terms with a young woman living on her own out here. She appreciated her willingness to help, but bristled at fuss. ‘I’m sure he was harmless.’

All thoughts of power cuts and suspicious strangers were eclipsed on the way back from the phone box. Alan had apologised profusely, but that was little comfort. Not only was he unable to start clearing the mess today, but he’d have to delay starting on the barn itself. One of his customers on the edge of town had suffered a direct lightning hit to their house causing structural damage, and he was sure she’d understand that it had to take priority… She did understand but it didn’t make her feel any better.

She had the presence of mind to borrow a sturdy shovel in case hers was buried, and allowed Dorothy to drive her up the lane to her house. She even summoned the grace to receive her sympathy with a show of gratitude as she got out of the car at her gate, but insisted there was nothing further to be done. She’d manage.

Diverted from her purpose only long enough to change into her oldest work clothes and plait her hair to keep it firmly out of her way, she took up the shovel and set to work. After a few minutes she began to feel daunted. She paused, but thought of the jeep, her link with the world, stuck inside, and kept going. Whenever she stopped to wheelbarrow the debris to a disused corner of the yard to deal with later, she noticed how much more she ached. Each time, she allowed herself no more than a minute’s pause. She had to be able to get out, see people, show them she was reliable, not some airy-fairy artist who crumbled at the first sign of a crisis. The breaks became more frequent and her digging – work she would never admit she was not cut out for – slowed, her breathing increasingly ragged as the pile of earth and stones appeared to grow rather than shrink beneath her ineffectual onslaught.

‘Hello again.’

Marilyn jumped, annoyed both by her involuntary display of weakness and by the interruption. She had hardly given her morning’s encounter another thought, but knew who it was without turning.

‘I haven’t got time to stop.’ She heaved one more shovelful into the barrow to prove her point before turning to face him, wiping her brow with a grimy hand. ‘What are you doing here?’

It came out more sharply than she’d intended, but he seemed unconcerned.

‘I followed the path up there and paused to admire the view from the shoulder of the hill.’ He waved a hand. ‘Looks bad. I know you said you were OK but I wondered if you wanted some help after all.’

‘I’m fine. Thank you,’ she added as an afterthought.

‘I’m not trying to be patronising. Think about it. Teamwork. One of us digs’ – patronising or not, she knew which one he meant – ‘while the other wheels it away. We’d get the doors free in half the time.’

‘I’m afraid I couldn’t afford to pay you much.’

‘Who said anything about paying?’

‘Mrs Harrington down the lane said you’d been asking for work.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘No secrets in an area like this, eh? I don’t want payment – it’s not very often I come across a damsel in distress. Good to be able to help. Though a spot of grub later wouldn’t go amiss.’

She relented. ‘You’re right; I guess it’d be easier with two. I don’t want to hold you up too long, though. It’s quite a way over the moors before you get to Annerdale, and the days are getting shorter.’

He looked back towards the barn. ‘Are you sure it’s safe to move much of this? We don’t want to make things worse.’

She was grudgingly impressed by his forethought.

‘Why don’t we go and have a look?’

He shrugged off his rucksack, left it outside the porch and they climbed the hillside through the trees behind the house.

‘It all looks so different.’

She gazed across the devastation. The tips of small trees poked through the heap of soil that thickened as it slumped towards the bottom. A hedge with a low wall running at its foot disappeared into one side of the slide and re-emerged on the other. She wondered how many of those stones were now littering her vegetable garden. The worst threat was the lightning-struck tree that was leaning at a crazy angle, still attached to the roots in the ground, but for how long? A huddle of sheep munched unconcerned on the far side of the fall. She felt strangely distant herself, as if she’d wake up soon.

‘I don’t think there’s any danger of a second slip,’ he said. ‘The soil looks pretty thin up there and it looks as if all that was going to move has done.’

Marilyn wondered how much either of them really knew, but saw no real reason not to agree. She saw no real reason to refuse his offer, either, though the idea of a stranger working uninvited in her yard unnerved her. As they scrambled back down, she hoped he’d clear the barn doors quickly and leave. Turning towards the house to fetch a hot drink and a slice of the fruit cake she’d made yesterday, she apologised to him for the lack of bacon or sausages – she wasn’t one for cooked breakfasts herself and didn’t have a lot in. He waved away her concerns, saying with an easy smile that he’d be grateful for whatever she had. It made her feel guilty for doubting him, but didn’t stop her wishing he’d gone straight to make a start on the digging instead of following her to the house. He waited in the porch as she removed her boots then bent to do the same. Marilyn hovered in the inner doorway watching him.

‘Sorry,’ he said as he straightened up, ‘you ought to know who it is you’re inviting in.’ She’d been intending to take the mug and cake out to him. ‘Jay Spinney.’

She took his proffered hand and shook it.

‘Good to meet you.’ The introduction did nothing to lessen her reluctance to let him in. ‘So is that J as in short for something, or your full name?’ she added, to fill the space in the porch.

‘You intending to write me a note of thanks?’ He grinned. ‘Hmm, Jason, you mean? Jonathan, Justin? Actually, it’s simply Jay. The woodland watchdog, they call us; garrulus glandarius, magpie’s cousin…’

She couldn’t help returning his smile. ‘I’m Marilyn.’ She finally stepped aside. ‘Come in, then. Tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee, please. As strong as you can make it.’

‘A man after my own heart,’ she said, and immediately regretted the familiarity.

She filled the kettle and put it to boil as he removed his coat in the warmth of the Rayburn.

‘Water supply OK, then?’ he asked.

Marilyn nodded. ‘The spring’s not in the path of the landslip, thank goodness.’

‘At least you don’t have to fetch your water in buckets. But do tell me if there’s anything else I can do for you while I’m here.’

‘I can manage, thanks.’

‘Oh. Right. Of course. I’ll just finish freeing your barn door and be on my way. I suppose your husband’ll be back later.’

‘I said I’ll be fine.’

She felt more exposed than the bare soil of the hillside.

‘Well, things could be worse,’ he mused as she brought to the table two mugs, the coffee pot and the fruit cake.

‘Forgive me, but why do people always say that?’ she said as she sat down, poured the coffee and handed him a mug. ‘Whatever life throws at you, there’ll always be someone telling you things could be worse.’

‘Ouch. Yeah, I’ve always wondered myself why it’s supposed to make you feel better – sorry.’

He picked up his mug and took a sip, studying it appreciatively before setting it on the table. She felt a flash of pride; it was one of hers.

‘Sorry myself if I sounded ratty.’

‘Understandable.’

He smiled and she began to relax.

‘What brings you round here?’

‘Just a whim. Well, I lived for a while in Keighley when I was younger; used to like coming out to the Dales. So I’m spending some time revisiting these parts.’

She nodded, offered him the plate of cake. He took a piece and they ate in silence. There was a long moment where she felt she should say something, but couldn’t think of a word. She noticed his free hand playing with the end of the colourful scarf around his neck.

‘That’s a nice scarf.’ Although she meant it, she immediately felt embarrassingly girly. He grinned as if he’d read her mind.

‘Thanks. I’m settling into it. Got it at a craft fair in Bath last year. The old one was like a rag; high time it went. I always wear one, you know, like some guys identify who they are with a tie. You know where in the world the convention of wearing a tie originated?’ She shook her head. ‘Go on, have a guess.’

‘Well, from the way you ask, it’s obviously not from the fashions of the English court.’

‘True enough. Though I’m sure English high society helped to establish it. But back in the 17th century, when I guess they were all still wearing lace collars, the army of the French king, Louis – the 14th, I think – called on a regiment of mercenaries. Those guys identified themselves with distinctive red scarves. They must have done all right because people eventually came to adopt scarf-wearing as a Good Thing. Hrvati, the foreigners called themselves.’ The h was a strong sound, deep in his throat. ‘The French couldn’t get to grips with that so it came out as cravat, and it came to be used for the scarves rather than the people. We can’t really handle that h either, so we call them Croats.’

‘I never knew that.’ She smiled. ‘Cravats from Croatia.’

‘Hrvatska.’

They laughed as he got her to try and pronounce it.

‘Have you got connections?’ she asked.

‘With Croatia?’ He paused. ‘I…I used to know someone. I’ve travelled. Got all sorts of connections.’

The way he spoke backed him up. Marilyn realised she hadn’t been able to place his accent. His rich voice had the trace of northern that a childhood in Keighley would have given him, but no more; he clearly enjoyed pronouncing foreign words, but wasn’t a foreigner himself. He sounded like a man who’d travelled, hints of vowel sounds and expressions picked up like mementoes of places he’d known.

Before she could ask any more, Jay brushed the crumbs from his fingers and went to put his mug and plate neatly by the sink, something Matt would never have thought to do.

‘Best crack on with that digging,’ he said with a smile. ‘No rest for the wicked.’