Alan Garner - Thursbitch

“Yes, Ian,” she said, and stuffed tissues into her mouth.

He drove down the steep-banked lane. There was no place for two cars to pass. He was in second gear all the time to the three-way junction and beyond, turning left round Nab End into Saltersford.

The land was as level as it could be, for the valley. Then they went past Jenkin Chapel and up towards Pym Chair. At Howlersknowl he left the road and vibrated across the cattle grid.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Conservation of mass and energy.” The road dipped down and then up to the farmhouse. “I shan’t be long.”

He went to the door and knocked. The door opened and he spoke for a few moments. Then came back.

“OK. We can park here. Out you get.”

He unlocked the boot.

“Oh no,” she said. “No.”

“Yes, Sal.”

“No. Not those poncy sticks. I won’t. I will not.”

“They make a difference. I’ve tried them.”

“I am not going to,” she said. “I don’t want to become one of these yomping urban oiks who don’t know what they’re doing or where they are. Good God. You’ll have me in a Day-Glo jacket, next.”

“Do I detect a hint of hubris?”

“You can detect what you sodding well like.”

He took her hand to go through the yard to the hillside.

“Put those sticks back in the car, Ian.”

“I may use them myself,” he said.

“Ian?”

“Yes, Sal.”

“You know just how many kinds of bastard you are, don’t you?”

“People tell me often enough. But I don’t let myself get on tender-hooks about it. Now are we going, or aren’t we?”

They walked along the track between a stone wall and the farm garden.

“Ian?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. The moods are the worst part.”

“I know, Sal. I know.”

They began the climb across the last field before the valley. She held his arm, but soon she could not control her stumbling. He said nothing, and they went on at her pace.

“Oh, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn. I really am sorry. Not a good day today. I’ve got to sit down.”

“Over here,” he said, and he took her to a yellow boulder and they both sat on it. “No rush. Take it easy.”

She put her back against his.

“And that’s what it’s all about,” she said at last.

He said nothing.

“You win. Show me how to use those footling sticks.”

“Winning doesn’t come into it.” He adjusted the length of the trekking poles.

“Stand up. Now put your hand through the thong and grip the moulded piece.”

“You know I don’t have a grip,” she said.

“Put your hand round, and your weight will do the holding. The poles are spring loaded. Now the other. To all intents and purposes, they give you two more legs. How’s it feel?”

“As if I’m an over-articulated chimpanzee.”

“I’d settle for over articulate,” he said.

“Now what?”

“Just walk. But left pole with opposite right leg. The spikes will hold you and the rubber disks will stop you from sinking in. There’ll be less lateral stress, too. Start by climbing, first. Back to the track.”

She jabbed both poles into the grass and stood for a while, testing her balance. She took a cautious step. Then another.

“Try a normal stride,” he said.

She moved, but the left pole went with the left foot, the right with the right. She fell sideways. He went to pick her up.

She was laughing too much to speak.

He lifted her under the arms and put her back on her feet. She began to shift her weight, but was overcome by giggling and rested her head on her hands on the poles.

She pushed her tongue forward inside her lower lip, jutted the jaw, furrowed her brow and set off, keeping time and measuring her strides with loud monkey grunts. When she reached the track, she turned and jangled her hands above her head, gibbering, pursing her lips. Then she strode off past the stone gateway into the valley.

“Wait for me!” He ran to catch up.

“This is great,” she said. “Fan. Tastic.”

They moved at a steady pace.

“Fan. Tastic. I’d forgotten what walking is.”

“Careful going down. The balance shifts.”

“Ian. It feels as though . . .”

She stopped and looked up and around.

“As though?”

“As though there’s no difference.”

“Between what?”

“Anything. There’s no difference. I can’t tell which is the valley and which is me.”

“I can,” he said. “My feet are my feet. And that water we’ve gone through is that water. Water does not have feet.”

“What’s the difference between your feet and the water?”

“My feet are dry. Water is wet.”

“Wiggle your toes.”

“So?”

“You are wiggling the valley and the valley is wiggling you. Third Law of Motion.”

“Then what’s this stile?”

She looked at it.

“I’ll help you over,” he said.

“No. But get ready to catch.”

She shoved the poles into the mud and put one foot on the step. She pushed and leaned forward, so that when she toppled, the momentum brought the other foot up and she caught her balance by holding the side with one hand and using the friction of her body against the post to slow her movement. Then she lifted a pole, lodged it onto the step on the other side of the bar, and crossed over with the opposite foot. She brought the rear leg up behind her, but she could not bend it enough to clear the bar. She had to put it back down, and stood with one foot on either side.

“I’m stuck.”

“Do it again; and I’ll guide your leg.”

“No.”

She swung the other pole across and set the two together, holding them with one hand. She wrapped her forearm around the post and carried her weight forward, dropping her shoulders so that her hip raised the leg. The foot lay sideways on the bar.

“Let me help.”

“No.”

She moved to drag the foot free, and it snatched clear so quickly that she lost her balance and fell. She deflected herself from the rocky ground with one pole and slid down the stone wall.

“I’m OK.”

“And what of the valley?” he said.

“It’s establishing an intimate osmotic relationship with my arse.”

By the time he had climbed over the stile she was on her feet and the poles again.

When they came to the ruin they stopped to rest and eat.

“Mind if I mooch around a bit?” he said.

“Help yourself. I shan’t run far.”

He wandered about the building and the ford, and then up the western slope. He stopped often to look at the ground. He was not gone long.

“So? What have you found?”

“Too many stone posts,” he said. “I can’t make sense of them. Most of them don’t relate to any of the walls. A lot are just lying, as if they’ve been pulled up. I’ve measured some; and though they’re different shapes, they’re all about three point five cubic metres. And if the one standing above the ford is set in as far as they were, it’ll be the same. How’s that in weight?”

“About point seven of a tonne each,” she said. “Probably the maximum practical load. They’re getting to you, aren’t they? It’s this farmhouse that bothers me. The stones belong, but the house doesn’t. What’s here is a lot older.”

“I can’t cope with geological time scales,” he said.

“Nobody can. What I’m talking about is to do with us.”

“Another part of the mm factor?”

“The what?”

“Last time we were here you mentioned an mm.”

“Did I? Yes. I suppose so. That would describe it. Let’s walk. I want to have a look at that outcrop on the ridge up there.”

“Which?”

“There’s only the one,” she said. “It’s interesting.”