My dad had started a project. I found drawings and plans in his workroom when I went in to steal some paint. They were laid out on his fourth work surface: The Creative Space. Scattered in front of me were sketches of horses. Drawings of the legs, of the head and the body. They were done from different angles, all with measurements and notes. The pictures were broken down into sections and labelled: ‘crest, barrel, flank, gaskin, hock’. He always started with sketches. He would tell me that ‘art is in the detail’, as he slaved over the third draft of a design.
Laid next to the plans was a map of Duerdale Valley and he’d put a cross through the north-west corner of Brungerley Forest. The trees start only a couple of miles out of town and run for miles. Jon told me that it was quite famous locally. It was said that in the Middle Ages an old spinster lived there. Of course, an old woman living alone in the forest could only mean one thing: a witch. The locals agreed she should be put on trial but the trial never happened. When the magistrates turned up to take her to court they found her hanging from one of the trees on the edge of her camp. It was never discovered whether she killed herself or whether one of the locals got to her first. Ever since then there had been stories of witches from other areas visiting the forest as a pilgrimage, to pay their respects. There were rumours of a yearly gathering and some people believed it still went on to this day. Jon said we should visit the forest one day, that some of the trees were massive.
I smiled down at the diagrams and sketches. This was a good sign, a good thing. I waited until teatime the next day. I was sat with my pie and chips and Dad had his whisky. I blew on a hot crust of pie and said, ‘I saw your drawings.’
He looked up, surprised.
‘Of the horses?’
I nodded.
‘Oh … right’
‘They look good.’
‘Thanks.’
He lifted the whisky up to his mouth but pulled the glass away without drinking.
‘It’s an idea I had years ago but never did anything with. Do you remember the rocking horses I made?’
I nodded.
‘Well, I got the idea making those. They were always my favourite toys to carve. Something to get stuck into. But of course you have to stick it on some rockers and make sure it’s safe. It’s a toy, not a work of art.’
He looked at me to see if I was still with him.
‘I wanted to make a carving without any restrictions. A big bloody wooden horse. They can be huge, you know, and if you saw one of them charging at you, well, you wouldn’t be hanging around. Saucepan eyes, teeth the size of piano keys and legs that could kick your head off your shoulders.’
He took a short swig. ‘When it’s finished I want it to stand outside, not sat in a gallery or exhibition hall getting dusty.’
He leant forward, excited now.
‘Not in the middle of a park though, or on top of a hill. Just somewhere someone would occasionally stumble across. Almost like a secret. That’s why I’ve chosen Brungerley Forest. There are miles of unmarked tracks and dead ends, tracks that peter out, tracks that you aren’t even sure are tracks or just gaps between the trees. You can walk for days and not end up in the same place or walk for twenty minutes in one direction and end up back where you started. It’s disorientating.’
I’d noticed he’d been going out more but he hadn’t said where and I hadn’t asked. I was just pleased because going out more meant drinking less.
‘There would be no signs, no explanations, no interviews in the local paper. It would just appear. I often spoke about this with your mum. We both loved the idea but I never got further than just talking about it.’
I was stung by the mention of her. We hadn’t talked about her since she died but it was the most he’d spoken about anything in months and I wanted to keep him going.
‘What kind of wood will you use?’ I asked.
‘English oak; it will need to be well treated but it’s one of the best for outdoor carving. It will last for years.’
‘Will you need permission from the council?’
‘Probably, if they knew about it. But who’s going to tell them?’
We both smiled at the outlaw still lurking in him.
‘How will it stay standing in the wind?’
‘I’ll have to root the feet into the ground. It can be done. I’ll fix the hooves to iron rods and dig those deep into the ground.’
‘When will you start?’
‘I already have.’
‘Can me and Jon help?’
‘Course you can, I’ll need help.’
We grinned at each other and I saw deep in his eyes for the first time in months the glimmer of a twinkle.