Duerdale: It’s about an hour away, to the north-west. It’s tucked between hills and moors, almost hidden, like a mole tucked between rolls of skin. I had never heard of it. Nobody I knew had heard of it. When we went to sign for the house the estate agent told us, ‘Make sure you have provisions. It was cut off for three days when the last snow fell. When the rain finally washed the snow away they found two old people dead in their beds in one house.’ My dad looked up at him, then back at the contract, and signed.
It was raining and windy the day we moved. It was one of those dark days that never quite fully emerge from night. The journey took nearly two hours, an hour longer than it should have done. Dad wouldn’t drive on the bypass or busy roads and he drove slowly. Tense and edgy, hunched over the steering wheel. We spent most of the journey in silence. The rain fell hard and the windscreen wipers squeaked and wobbled with little effect and I watched the rain hit the road and bounce back up. We eventually reached the outskirts of Duerdale, but our house was on the far side and we had to drive through the early-evening deserted streets. It isn’t the best time to judge a town – a dark day, black and raining. I tried not to shiver as we passed the unfamiliar houses and shops. It looked like a town from an old black-and-white film where the characters hardly speak and the wind bangs the gate open and closed in the night. I concentrated on the road ahead. As if reading my mind, Dad said, ‘It will look better with the morning sun on it.’ He didn’t sound convinced. We reached the far end of town and the foot of Bowland Fell. We braced ourselves for the climb and the car strained against the gradient and the buffeting wind.
We passed a few houses and farms lower down the fell. They looked in better repair if no more welcoming than our house. Although it was only early evening, most already had their curtains drawn, closed to the incoming night. The trees at the side of the road grew thicker the further we travelled up the climb. They branched over the road from either side and embraced each other in the middle and it felt like driving through a tunnel. We turned off the main road and onto the uneven track that led to our house. The trees were gone and we had fields on both sides. The rain attacked us from all directions. We were jostled and bounced in our seats as the car lurched over the pits and holes of the track.
My dad was leaning forward in his seat, a concentrated frown on his face. The rain had started coming down harder and faster, like lines of thin steel from the sky to the ground. Tiredness hit me from nowhere. I slumped. I felt Dad turn to me, a glance to see if I was OK. I was about to return the look with a smile. I didn’t. Just as my head turned, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow appear in the road. I shouted. The car screeched and tensed and slid to the left. Stones from the track jumped into the air. We scrambled to a halt.
Standing in front of us, inches in front of us, was a boy. Dripping wet, mouth open. It was hard to tell through the dark and the rain, but he looked a couple of years younger than me. He stood with his arms at his side, white skin, glassy-eyed and no expression. Mouth open. He looked at me for a second, turned his head and looked at my dad. Then he was gone. Running hard and fast across the fields and disappearing through the pouring rain. We watched him go. ‘Jesus,’ my dad said, ‘we nearly killed our first local.’ He was sweating. We sat there for a couple of minutes. He laughed nervously, trying to lose the shock. He put the car back in gear and we set off, even slower than before.
We drove for a few more minutes, rounded the final bend and I could see the house, silhouetted against the hillside. I tried not to focus on it too much. We pulled to a stop and stayed sat in the car, unsure of the next move. Dad sighed and roused himself and I followed slowly. We climbed out of the car, he unlocked the front door and we stepped into the house as the new owners.