Beastings Read online

  Go to Mary’s and fetch the Priest.

  She looked up at Hinckley. She wiped away the saliva.

  The Priest?

  He nodded. She sobbed again.

  Hinckley pushed past his wife and barrelled down the stairs. He reached for his coat.

  We can find her ourselves she said.

  He snorted.

  And what use are you?

  Please she said. Why the Priest – why him?

  He’ll know what to do. She’s one of his. He knows them girls inside and out.

  Do you think –

  Hinckley cut her off.

  I’ll fetch him up myself.

  A cold draught blew in from the street then he was gone. The door swinging on un-oiled hinges behind him.

  A MEMORY THAT she had often re-visited in the darkest days of St Mary’s – one of the few she had left: the sound of rain on the wood-store roof in which she had hidden and the ice cold mornings when they made her sleep there in that first place that was her home. She recalled being on the moors in snow – up top and alone. At play her brothers and sisters must have fled and left her. Snow obscured her view. It surrounded her and made her think the world had ended and everyone had died and only she was left. She remembered how good this made her feel. Her fingers toes hands cheeks and nose were numb when she was found what seemed like hours but may have only been minutes later. Disorientated and starving but silent. The tears that came were not at being lost but at being found.

  AND NOW NEITHER the outdoors nor the night and its infinite darkness held any fear for her. The night was not a foe. In the wood beneath the trees the girl could not see her hand in front of her face or her feet on the ground but the darkness itself was not something to fear.

  The girl was not afraid of ghosts or spectres; neither apparitions nor jack o’ lanterns black dogs boggles wraiths or the green men that were said to stalk the woods and hollows and fells of the north country. Those that the other girls had told tales of. No. It was people that made her fearful. People and their ways. No animal nor fireside fairy tale creation could harm her here beneath the tree with the bairn in her armpit. But a person could. Especially a person out creeping on the hillside under the concealment of night.

  The dark did not scare her but those it could hide did.

  The Lord is with me; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?

  The girl had made a nest for herself from the bracken. A primitive grounded eyrie.

  She buried herself down in it then pulled the bigger fronds over herself. There was moss for a pillow as night flooded around her.

  Her eyes slowly closed then darted open then she closed them and soon she couldn’t tell the difference. And soon she was sleeping.

  She was damp and stiff when she awoke. All around her dew had gathered on the bracken and ferns and freshly-spun cobwebs like ship’s rigging hung heavy with tiny silver droplets vibrating as the spiders crawled across them to gather their night’s bounty. For a few moments everything was silent.

  A bird started singing and then another and then the conversation grew all around her.

  The girl was dry in her nest. She was dry and she did not want to move.

  She wanted to stay there forever half-buried in the dirt.

  She lay with the baby pulled tight to her chest. It had cried a lot in the night. Howls of hunger. She had had to open her coat and lift her shirt for it in the darkness of night as all around her the grass and leaves rustled. But she had been barren and nothing had come and she didn’t understand why and it kept on crying so much that it had exhausted itself and was now sleeping. She was about to lift her shirt again to see if she could squeeze something out – just a few watery droplets from her teat – when something made her blood run cold.

  There not more than ten feet away in front of her up against a small log were four tin cans. A band of artificial colours and blocked-out lines unfamiliar against the jumbled green tones of the scrub.

  She scanned the clearing looking for other disturbances. Her eyes flitted from left to right and then back again then the girl waited for a few minutes before squeezing herself out from beneath the trunk. She leaned against it a few moments and scanned the thicket again. Watching for movements. Listening for sounds. Then when all she could hear were the birds singing their morning chorus and the rumble and gurgle of her own stomach. She stood and walked the few paces to the tins.

  They had been carefully placed and neatly ordered with their labels facing outwards. The first one had a label that was red on the top half and green on the lower and had words written on it.

  But all she saw were colours and the black blocks and curves of the lettering.

  She picked each up and turned them in her hand. Lying on the ground in front of them was a tin opener and a small tinder box on a lanyard. She opened the box and there were matches in there and laid on top of the matches a small piece of charcloth. She closed the tin.

  She looked around again then pocketed the box and walked around the back of the trunk and while supporting the baby inside her coat with one arm she squatted and lifted her skirt and urinated. When she had finished the girl went back to the tins and laid the baby down. It was damp with its own urine. She placed the tins in a fold at the bottom of the sheet that she had used to cover herself in the night then put the baby above them then re-tied it and turned to start quickly walking away.

  It was early. The day was a fresh candle just lit and her feet got wet and the lake sat behind a haze. She left it behind as she pushed through whin and thicket and rounded the circumference of the top of the hill.

  She tried to not to think about the tins and where they had come from.

  Every time the girl thought of the tins she felt scared and she quickened her pace. Once or twice she considered untying the sheet and taking the tins and throwing them as far as she could through the trees and down the hill to disturb the stillness of lake though it was too far away to reach – and her hunger too great to do anything so futile.

  The thicket opened out onto a crag that she was able to walk down and around and into more gorse through which there wound a series of paths. The birds were singing more loudly than ever and above her the sky was clear and cloudless.

  When she felt like enough distance was between her and the log under which she had slept the girl sat down. She untied the baby and spread out the sheet and unwound it from its blankets and laid them out to dry in the sun. She played with the bairn a while then she reached for one of the tin cans. She looked at the label and then took the tin opener and began to open it. She fumbled and dropped the opener twice but managed to pierce the lid and then took another sniff. The smell was sharp the smell was red the smell was delicious and she took a long drink from the can.

  The girl sat the baby up and poured some watery liquid on the spoon and fed it to the baby who swallowed it all straight down then urged her to pour more by grasping the handle of the spoon. She tipped more liquid from the can and fed the baby then did it again. She was about to discard the can but it still had weight so she shook it and heard something move inside of it. A weighted thud. She took the can opener and began to work it along the rim of the can some more. When she had cut halfway around she was able to jam the opener into the gap and bend the lid back.

  She looked inside and saw some bright red shapes like huge blood clots. She lifted one out and sniffed it then ate it. A tomato. Skinned and smooth. It was gone in two chews. She had another then another. The fourth she chewed then regurgitated for the baby who pulled a face but still ate half and then spilled the rest down its front. She chewed more for it then gave it the last of the watery red juice.

  Then there was a voice:

  I wandered lonely as a cloud.

  The girl jumped and the can slipped from her grip. There was a man standing close by at the edge of the thicket. He was not l
ooking at her. She recoiled. She reached for the baby and scrabbled backwards with her feet but he just stood there scratching the whiskers on his chin and squinting at the sky and talking as if to himself.

  That floats on high o’er vales and hills. When all at once I saw a crowd – a host – of golden....baby toms.

  He turned to her.

  They always say breakfast is the most important meal of the day. My humblest apologies if I startled you.

  The girl looked around for a rock to throw at him but the man didn’t seem to notice or was unafraid of how she might react.

  Instead he slowly stepped out of the thicket and stood before her.

  Nice spot for it he said. Breakfast I mean. Lovely day too. Been here for many an al fresco lunch myself.

  He was the oddest looking man she had ever seen. His face was lined and crumpled inwards as if to protect his features from the elements and he was extremely thin and wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a tan jacket with many pockets sewn on at strange angles with long clumsy stitches. He also wore an open-necked shirt and trousers that had been rolled back high above his knees to reveal white pipecleaner legs. A coiled rope was slung across one shoulder and a piece of rag was tied around his neck. He carried a backpack.

  He was unshaven and a cigarette dangled from his mouth as he talked. His age was indistinguishable. He could have been forty or he could have been double that.

  The girl could smell him too. A heady mix of tobacco and sweat and moss and something sweet but repellent like rotting fruit.

  Yet when he spoke it was in a voice at odds with his appearance. His vowels were crisp and warm and from elsewhere. From the lowlands.

  Please allow me he said. Mr Tom Solomon – short for Thomas not tomato: professor of the woods; doctor of the earthy elements; erudite troglodyte; self-taught tailor; ornithologist; observer of the seasons, culinary wizard; Lakeland tour guide; death-defying conqueror of cliffs crags ridges rocks escarpments arêtes peaks precipices parapets bluffs chimneys and all manner of other dangerous yet wondrous geological developments. At your service.

  As he said this he lifted his hat and gently bowed his head then theatrically replaced it.

  He spoke in a way that the girl had never heard before. Compared to the flat cloddish delivery of Westmorland folk it sounded more like a melodic song from a place a long way away.

  Beware false prophets. They come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ferocious wolves.

  I thought you could use some supplies he said.

  The girl looked at him.

  He pointed to the empty tin.

  The girl looked at the tin then back to the man.

  Consider it camper’s etiquette he continued. I saw you were out bivvying but didn’t notice much in the way of munch so I thought I’d offer up this lot.

  The man awaited a response but when one didn’t come he carried on talking.

  One should never underestimate the importance of food he said. Personally I favour the vegetarian diet. Neither hoof nor snout nor anything else bestial besides has passed these lips in many a year. Could be a decade. Could be two. I forget now but I still dream of the day when people’s tastes will turn and they might start respecting their fellow creatures. Trust me: the future will be defined by our culinary intake. They can invent as many new labour-saving machines as they like but they’ll be no good to anyone if we’re all bunged up. Constipation can kill.

  He prodded the ground with his stick again.

  But until that meat-free future comes I suppose some of us will just have to lead by example. There’s spare pears too. I’ve no call for them. I mean I like them – don’t get me wrong – but they don’t like me. Give me the gas they do. Right bad. One nibble and I’m quacking like an angry mallard all night long. Reckon the creatures of the wood think there’s a beast in the old Cave Hotel instead of old Tom Solomon.

  The man smiled. Sighed.

  You can’t win them all. Anyway. Don’t let me stop you and the little one partaking in your early morning regalements. Beans are good breakfast food. And what’s good enough for the homesteading cowboys of the American dustbowl frontier is good enough for us folk I reckon. There’s a tin of them too.

  The girl held the baby close to her chest and blinked at the man again. He carried on talking.

  I’ve not eaten yet today myself. Thought I’d have an early climb first. Get the blood pumping you know. It pays to burn a little energy before replacing it. Get a sweat on. Lovely day for it too. You and the bairn having a little break from it all I’d wager. Can’t blame you. Does you good to get beyond those stone walls and off the cobbles and creaking floorboards. All those straight lines and right angles. Dust everywhere. It’s no good is town life. Feels good to go feral from time to time though. Of course it does. Because you can’t feel lonely with nature as your companion. Days I can go without seeing a single soul or uttering a single word and I bloody love it – excuse my French dear Napoleon. More folk should try it – but no. They’d rather stop indoors where the view stays the same.

  The man made a noise with his mouth – tsk – shook his head then continued.

  Me – I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself than be crowded on a velvet cushion. An American chap called Thoreau wrote that. And I can’t blame you for holding your tongue either young lady. The Cistercian monks make a career of it. Vow of silence they call it. Part of me can see the appeal but then I like a bit of singalong as well as a natter so I can’t imagine the two are mutually compatible. Anyroad. You’ve no doubt heard me huffing and bellowing like the Lakeland steamer down there or if you haven’t I imagine you’ve heard of me around town. The silly old goat that lives in the cave on the crag. I wouldn’t believe all that you hear dear unless it’s about my sumptuous cooking and silver tongued way with the local ladies or the time I scaled the Matterhorn with naught but a ham sandwich and forty filterless Gauloises for company. In which case – please – believe away. Because Tom Solomon has never been one to let the truth get in the way of a good yarn and that’s no lie. Coffee?

  The girl was so overcome by the man’s deluge of words and strange speaking voice that she had barely noticed that he had dropped to his haunches and removed his backpack and was now unpacking an oddly-shaped coffee pot and a small bundle of kindling. He unwrapped a twist of paper that contained coffee grounds which he poured into the top part of the pot.

  It was too late for her to turn and run.

  Water’s already in there he winked. Pays to come prepared.

  He struck a match and lit the kindling and then sat back on his haunches and felt around his top pocket.

  Gasper?

  He offered the girl the cigarette packet. She shook her head.

  Take one for later?

  She shook her head.

  For the child then? I’m only pulling your leg. Maybe just as well. They say it’s habit forming – mind you they do keep you as regular as a Swissman’s ticker.

  WHEN THE COFFEE was made the man poured it into two cups then passed one to the girl.

  He lit his cigarette and brushed a shred of tobacco from his lower lip and then took a big pull. He exhaled through his nose and the girl thought of a bull in a field on a cold winter’s morning.

  There’s no milk I’m afraid he said. I forgot to pack the cow this morning. Anyway they say too much dairy is bad for your movements. A doctor told me that. Fella by the name of Wilfred Wimpole. Can you believe that? Wilfred Wimpole. Knew him in my London days. A long time ago now. An alcoholic. Gin was his thing. Let me ask you something: would you trust a man with that name? It hardly matters now anyroad. Expect he’s dead. Best finish them tomatoes before the Lakeland ants have them.

  He gestured to the can with his stick.

  The girl looked at it tipped to one side then picked it up. She peered into the tin then she
tentatively offered it to the man.

  Best not he said. I’ll be quacking all the way up the crag. On second thoughts a touch of go-fast gas could be a real boon to an old fella like me.

  He winked at the girl then sipped at his coffee.

  Only joshing you.

  The girl sniffed at her coffee then took a sip. It was foul and black. She winced.

  Seeing her reaction Tom Solomon said it’s not a proper cup unless you can stand your spoon up in it said the man. Least that’s my opinion. I tend to forget not everyone likes it as tough in the mouth as me mind. Developed a taste for it during a trip to Italy. The Alps. You ever been? Wonderful place. Wonderful. God’s country if you happen to believe in him – which as a good socialist and devout atheist I don’t though on a clear day up the Weisshorn or the Gran Paradiso even an old cynic like me would be inclined to think otherwise.

  He drained his cup and flicked the sediment into the fire. It was already burning down to its embers. He smacked his lips.

  Yes. God’s country.

  He pulled on the last of the cigarette then added it to the remains of the fire.

  How old’s the little one?

  The girl held the baby tight to her chest and the man looked away. He didn’t appear offended. Instead his face was blank for a moment as he stared into the dwindling flames then he raised his eyebrows and his face brightened.

  Here – have you heard about this Cumbrian sheep-counting? A shepherd over in Grange taught us.

  The girl looked at him then shook her head.

  The man smiled. No? Oh you’ll like this. It’s a good one. Pure poetry.

  Then he started counting out the words with his fingers.

  Yan tan tethera.

  He stuck out his thumb then his forefinger and index.

  That means one two three. Methera pimp and sethera is four five and six. Now let me see.

  He looked at his second hand.

  Then there’s lethera hovera dovera. Seven eight nine. And then dick is ten.

  The girl stared at him.

  So it goes yan tan tethera methera pimp. Sethera lethera hovera dovera dick. Doesn’t that sound so much better than the language we use to express our numerals? And I know what you’re thinking young lassie: where the hell do you go from here? Well I’ll tell you: yan-a-dick tan-a-dick tethera-dick is where you go from here.