People were looking at us. There were a fair few about as we walked down the high street together, and they all made sure they got a good stare before we went past. She wasn’t bothered, though, she didn’t even mark any of it, she was occupied with talking to me.
My parents pretty much freaked, they were so pleased I was going out, she said, as we got nearer the pub. They think I’ve made a friend at school, called Catherine, and I’m going round to her house–which is pretty funny really, seeing as Catherine’s a complete bitch.
I smiled at her, and watched ahead at a couple of towns going in the pub. I’d not seen Mum or Father as I’d left. Father was in the barn, and Mum likely thought I was out walking, so they’d not eyed me dressed in my good shirt and my old school shoes when I slipped out. It was her idea to come to Betty’s Sister–it would be funny, she said. We could go snob-watching. I didn’t feel right comfortable going into the place, mind. I kept thinking, they’d know me from before when they wouldn’t let me in, and I’d have to take her down the Tup, or worse, she’d want to know why I was barred and then she’d find out everything.
There were round wooden tables outside, each spiked with a furled-up red umbrella, and either side the door were two great metal furnaces on poles, for heating the outdoors. A blast of noise escaped from the door as we went in–not the woollen muffle of conversation like normaltimes when a pub was busy, but a hard, bouncing sound, jarping off the walls and the planed-down floorboards.
Come on, she said, going ahead of me, I’ll find a corner. They won’t serve us if they see me, because I’m under age. I trailed after, looking downward at my school shoes. Most the drinkers were crowded in groups near the bar, stood in circles yammering at each other–the men laughing, slapping each other’s backs, and the females all lipstick and shiny belts and a smog of perfume as we pushed our way through. I touched her on the arm, in front of me. What do you want to drink? I asked her. Bacardi and Coke, she said, and she disappeared through the crowd. As I approached the bar I started to feel easier, because no one seemed to be looking at me, and I didn’t recognise the barmen or any of the drinkers thronged round the bar. Except for one. When I got to the counter, sat next me, hunkered over on a metal buffit, old Jack was staring grimly into his pint. A calf-lick of hair was stood proud above his forehead.
Jack, I said, and he looked up, daffed, squeezing his eyes to see who it was.
Oh, he said. He gawped at me a moment and I thought he was about to say some more–hast-ta seen t’ place, lad? I can’t understand they done it. I took meself two lines on t’ petition, you know. But he didn’t say anything, he turned back to watching his pint. The barman gave me a queer look when I ordered the drinks, but that was owing to I looked a sight in my good shirt and my hair brushed–he didn’t know me, so he couldn’t refuse serving me. He poured my pint and I marked the tops the pumps were shaped into the head of a smiling female–Betty’s sister, no doubting. I took the drinks when he’d done and went to find her, without speaking again to Jack, still staring into his glass.
She was parked on a mighty, brown leather settle in an empty corner of the pub. I set the drinks on the table and sat opposite, on a low seat about two miles away from her.
You can come sit here, you know, she said, smiling. There’s a better view.
What of?
The snobs, she said.
I shifted over and lowered myself on to the other end the settle. I couldn’t likely turn to face her while we weren’t talking so I looked out at the crowd, same as she was doing. Sometimes I’d snatch a piece of talk from the noise–a man beldering something out and the circle busting with laughter. It was too noisy to hear what they were laughing about.
They’re repulsive, aren’t they? she said.
Least they’re kept to themselves in here, mind.
She turned to me and frowned, as though she’d just caught me having away with a cow.
Sam, they shouldn’t be here in the first place. This pub used to be the heart of this town.
For some, it was, the heart, I said. I left it at that, and she didn’t ask what I meant, she went quiet again and I stared at the chalkboard on the wall aside us. Soft and luscious, with characteristics of elegant strawberry, it said on it, about a wine, like that might make you want to drink it. She’d curled up into her side the settle, her knees drawn up on the cushion.
What do you think that is, then–an elegant strawberry? I said.
She didn’t know what I meant firstly, but I nodded at the sign, and she laughed.
You see her over there? she said. The fat tart in the red top–I’d say she was one, if it wasn’t for the fact she’s about as elegant as a pig on ice.
We both laughed at that, then she said, we’re being watched, look.
I looked out, but I couldn’t see anyone watching, they were all too busy at their yammering.
It’s the Burridges. They’re friends of Mum and Dad.
Should we leave, then? I said, no matter I still couldn’t see them.
No. I don’t care.
I’d near finished my drink. There were rings of froth dried down the insides of the glass. I glegged the board again, for something else funny.
They’re going to come over. Look, they’re coming.
She was right. A pair of them were shuffling to the edge of the crowd. They stopped there, talking with their heads close together, twice giving the eye over in our direction, then they started toward us with big blank smiles.
Jo, the female said, how are you getting on? Are your mum and dad here? They both had smiles fastened on, and I thought they were going to sit down on the seats opposite, but they didn’t, they stood next each other smiling down at us.
Mum and Dad are at home, she said.
Oh, right. Do tell them we said hi.
I could tell she didn’t want a palaver, she wanted to get back to her yammering, she could blatherskite about this later. But the husband wasn’t going to let it by so easy. He supped his drink and leant forward. He had a pewter tankard–it was one of them that never got used before the place was done over, they were all hung off the roof back then.
Just a Coke in there, I hope, he said, laughing.
She didn’t answer him. She took up the glass and drank a slow glug of it, the white of her throat coursing up, down.
Coke, and rum, she said, setting the glass down.
He didn’t know what to do about that. We all watched him, waiting for what he’d say, but all he did was he laughed again. He was making like he thought she was joking about the rum, but he knew she wasn’t–he kept darting his eyes at the glass, as if the rum might show itself if he looked at it enough.
Are you a friend of Jo’s from school? he said, turning to me.
Sam’s a farmer, she jabbed in.
Oh, he said, and for a moment I thought he was going to ask me something daft–tell me, is it true that cows can foretell the weather?–but then he fixed a look all over me and I knew he wasn’t thinking anything like that, he was thinking–what are you at, bringing girls in here, getting them puddled? His wife was pleading at him with her eyes. Please let’s go back to the group, dear. We don’t want a scene. There’s a fortnight of gossip from this, already.
He took another slug out the tankard, backing away.
Do mention us to your parents, won’t you. And don’t drink too many Cokes. He wasn’t laughing now, though. We watched them make their way back, in discussions. We should phone Chickenhead. That boy’s got the devil in him. Did you see the way he was dressed?
Do you think they’ll tell your mum? I said.
Of course they will.
It was only as we were walking back a short while later, my feet jipping from the bastard shoes, that it came to me maybe that was the reason she’d wanted to go there in the first place, because she’d wanted to get spotted.
I glegged another look at my watch. It was past one in the morning. The barn was peaceable–only the dim wheeze of fat, tired ewes and sometimes the rustle of a babby too full of dander to sleep. She wasn’t coming. I stood up for an inspection tour of the barn, limping some because my toes had blistered from the night before. No matter of that, mind, I was fain pleased the way it had passed off, never mind we only stayed for one drink, or that she’d been quiet walking back, or that Chickenhead would likely be banging the door before long. I kept thinking about the joke with the strawberries. There’d have been more of that, certain, if them two hadn’t shoved in.
Toward the end the barn I marked one of the sheep ligged out between the wall and the back of her pen. She was on her side, breathing fast and heavy into the straw. Each few breaths the whole her body would jerk as she tried to right herself, but she was proper rigwelted and she couldn’t get up. I knelt down by her and touched her head with the pat of my hand. She was shivering, no matter she was hot as coals, and I knew right off it was pneumonia and she hadn’t much wick left. I fetched a blanket and covered her over, then I sat aside and made sure she didn’t throw it off with jerking too violent–she was too far gone for me to do much else besides fettling her comfortable now.
I was sat there with her, when I marked a pair of eyes watching us. Half-hid in the dark of the pen, her babby was looking on, too boggled of me to come out any further. Poor little bugger wasn’t more than a few days old, didn’t understand anything of the world except for where milk comes from, but it knew right well its mother was ailing. Even so stupid an animal as a sheep has a nous for death, and danger, from the day it drops. I went over to scoop it up, and it struggled some against my chest as I carried it to a free pen other side the barn–there wasn’t sense in letting it watch the mother die, and anyhow, it’d need fixing on to another ewe soon enough. Just as I was carrying the lamb through the barn, the door slid open and she stepped in.
You’re here late, I said.
She came up to me without speaking.
Here. I offered the babby toward her. You fancy holding it?
She took the wriggling lamb and pressed it tight into her. Hello, little man, she said, quiet. There were red patches round her eyes, I marked, owing to the hour.
Sorry, it’s late, I know, she said, talking fast, like she’d spied my thought. Just I saw the light was on and I knew you’d be here and…I don’t have to stay long, obviously, just tell me when you need me to go.
It’s fine, I said, I’m here while six. Stay until you want.
I went to close the door. As I started sliding it shut I noticed there was a blue rucksack just outside, she must’ve brought with her. I set it indoors by the wall and went back and showed her where the pen was, to put the lamb. Then she followed me over to the mother.
She got flowtered when she saw it, and flinched back.
What’s wrong with it?
Pneumonia, I said. I went in closer, and I saw that the ewe had passed off. That was her lamb, you were just holding, but it’ll need a new mother now–this one’s dead.
She walked away. I’d been too rough about it, she hadn’t the habit of seeing death so close up. I came after her. Sorry, I said, but she didn’t seem she was listening. She was at the lamb’s pen, picking it up, then she went to sit on a bale with the babby on her lap. I stood watching her stroke on top the lamb’s head as it bleated and bassocked at her to let go. They have a fair nous for death, sheep do, but they’ve even more nous for not liking being held. I left her at it while I heaved the dead ewe out the barn and lay her in the field, covered with an upshelled wheelbarrow weighted down by an old tyre, making certain it was secure. Father would deal with the body in the morning–probably he wouldn’t want to pay for taking it down the knacker’s, so he’d burn it on the Moors. That was another item I didn’t need to tell her. The stink of scorched flesh seeping into the air, catching on the druft, until the place reeked of death for miles round, turning your innards each time you went outdoors.
I went in the storehouse, where we’d hung up the hides of the dead lambs–four, so far, which wasn’t such a bad loss as other years. I picked the biggest–14, wrote on it in red pen–and found a pair of scissors. She was still on the bale when I got back, the lamb rested something quieter in her lap now. I sat a distance off from her, for I was worried she’d think it ugly, watching me snip leg-holes in the dead hide, but she was so lost with herself she didn’t even mark what I was doing until a few minutes later. When she did notice I was at something queer she looked over, half-curious, without remarking on it.
It’ll need to wear this now, I said, holding up the skin. Jacketing. It’s to foster the orphans on ewes who’ve lost their own.
She wasn’t much impressed.
It’s best, I said. Sheep are daft articles, you know–the ewe’ll think it’s her own from the smell. And that lamb would die if it wasn’t fostered.
She let me take the lamb from her and I returned to my place, wrapping the jacket over it to measure the other leg-holes. It was a size bigger, the live one, so I had to cut them right in the corners. I pushed the left legs through their holes and clung the hide round tight, stretching until I could slot in the right side legs. It was a snug fit. I let the lamb down and it skiffled about in the straw–what the bugger’s this, then? Haven’t you anything bonnier, a Barbour or something?
The barn was well sorted into rows of pens all numbered up, so it was easy enough to find number 14 and set the lamb aside it. After a while of the lamb bleating outside the door, the ewe poked her head out and they looked on each other. I glegged round to see if she was watching, but it was hard to tell, she was on the bale still and I couldn’t heed where her eyes were focused. The ewe nosed up to the strange creature outside its pen and sniffed at the jacket, while the lamb stood stone-still like a criminal under investigation. I thought for a moment they might not couple, the ewe would cop she was being tricked, but I shouldn’t have worried for next thing she was licking it all over, my babby, my babby, you’re alive, where’ve you been this week past? The lamb seemed happy enough and all, finally getting some attention, it’s grand you’re well again, Mum, and you’ve done with the jerking, but just let me at the teats would you, I’m starved.
They were taken to each other, certain, and as I returned to the bale I thought she’d be pleased but when I got closer I marked she was bluthering. The patches round her eyes had reddened, and the lip was going.
They’re happy, I said. I promise. They don’t know any different.
I know, she said.
Come see–they’re like Darby and Joan over there.
She smiled, she thought I was a proper nimrod–Darby and Joan, who the fuck’s that? She got up though, half-smiling, half-sobbing, mooded like a rainbow.
See, I said, as we both looked down on the ewe feeding its new lamb, but the sight of it made her fill up again and she was soon wiping the tears off her cheek.
I had a big argument with Mum, she said.
That pair told your parents, then?
She nodded. She’d so kill me if she knew I was here now. She thinks I’m on drugs or something. She just doesn’t have a clue about anything.
I hadn’t much of a clue, myself, but I kept that lipped up. She looked me in the face. The hair in front her ears was clagged to her cheeks.
You think I’m such an idiot, she said.
I thought she was a picture, never mind her hair was messed and her skin was damp and red, all I wanted was to touch her. I didn’t need to worry about that, though, for my wish was met soon enough, she was moving toward me, her hands touching my back, hugging me. There was a damp spot on my neck I realised was her nose, she was breathing in great lungfuls of muck and sweat, but I didn’t care much, I had my own nose pressed on top her head taking in the smell of her hair, I could’ve held her there all night if it wasn’t for my bloody stalk stiffening up down below. I shifted my crotch back so she wouldn’t mark it, putting a hand on her waist, gentle, and even through the coat I could feel how soft the flesh was underneath. She was sobbing into my neck, I patted her on the back with my free hand, then I moved it other side her waist so as I had a grip on her and I could hold her off my loins. I was stiff as a pole by then, else I’d have pulled her in close, don’t worry about Chickenhead, she’s a sour-faced cow, what’s she got to do with us? Nothing, that’s what.
Sam. She pulled off and stood facing me. I’m leaving. I want you to come with me.
A tear dripped off her chin and splashed on the lamb, suckling milk next the edge the pen. It stopped feeding a moment–eh up, it raining, is it? Just as well I’ve this new jacket on, I suppose, then it started up again at the teats.
She wasn’t crying any more, mind. She had a serious face on her, waiting for what I’d say, though I didn’t rightly know what she meant, come with her, she’d left here before when it was this dark, and she hadn’t needed guiding back then.
I’m going across the Moors, she said.
I remembered the rucksack, propped by the door. You’re running away? I said.
Yes. I need you to help me.
The house was mighty quiet, only the muffled sound of Father snoring. I was sure the budgerigars would start chattering and give me up as I snuck upstairs to gather my clothes. They were asleep, though, perched at the top the cage rested against each other, they didn’t even wake when I clicked the kitchen door shut behind me.
The queer thing was, it didn’t feel anything strange. It was like we were off on one of our walks, me guiding us along, thinking for something to say, and her keeping silent alongside, lost with herself. The only thing different was the darkness and not being able to see the paths through the heather once we were on the moorland. Unseen scratches and prickles cut at our ankles as we scraffled through, it was like we’d intruded on The Night Assembly of the Hedgehogs. I asked her where she wanted to go to, but she said she didn’t know, and that was all we spoke, so I just led us south, straight across the Moors. It was a champion moon at least, he was something helpful, looking down, guiding us on. I could see all the marks on his face, lit up gradely. You do know you’ll half freeze to death, once you go to sleep, he was saying. But I didn’t even know if she wanted to sleep at all, she might’ve wanted to keep going all night, make some ground before Chickenhead discovered she’d gone. Hmm, well, I recommend you head for some shelter nonetheless, rather than walking all the night–I hear tell from the cows that we’re in for blashy weather tomorrow. They’re never wrong, you know. I just winked up at him. Don’t you worry, Mr Moon, I’ll keep us right, there’s nobody knows the Moors well as I do, but he was ignoring me now, he’d spoke his turn.
She wasn’t mooded to walk through to morning, though, we walked an hour, then she said she was tired, we needed a place to lie down. We carried on until we came to something of a slack in the ground, it wasn’t much shelter, but it was the best we were going to get, and we settled down near each other, covered over with coats and jumpers. I laid awake looking at her back, trying to tell if she was asleep or not, and thinking about the dead sheep under the wheelbarrow, and Chickenhead coming into her room in the morning, seeing the bedsheets all knotted into an escape rope dangling out the window–she’s gone! He’s taken her, it’s that boy, he’s taken her.