Alan Garner - Thursbitch

“What’s to be done, then?”

“Hold fast. That’s what. Bull can bide while folks forget. It all comes round, in the long run, if we can thole while others learn to mind their ways and do things by rights again. It may not be in our time; but we must see. Bezonter. That’s me jiggered for telling.”

“Father, I never thought.”

“You can think now.”

“But what shall we do? How shall we thole? How shall we, then?”

“We’ll build Jack a little ark,” said Richard Turner. “For him and his brood chicks. And we shall fence it round, so as they can pick away to their hearts’ content; and we can grow cabbage.”

“ARE YOU SURE you’re warm enough?”

“I’m fine. I like cold. I like wind. Stop fussing.”

Showers were blustering with the sun.

“The cave will shelter us from this southeaster.”

“Oh, groan. Here they come. Does nothing put them off?”

“Good afternoon!”

“Good afternoon. No, these are the hard men. This next lot are another matter.”

A school group approached, close to the wall, although the wind drove against their exposed side. They each held the same map boards. No one was looking at anything but the ground ahead, their hoods pulled down to their eyes and their collars over their mouths. The mini-bus at Pym Chair was in sight, but they could not increase their pace. The walking had made them sullen. Only the teachers were chatting amongst themselves; and one kept hectoring the children with facts they would not hear.

“Good afternoon!”

“Good afternoon.”

“Poor buggers,” she said. “But I suppose it all helps towards something or other in the great educational scheme of things. Though I see no budding Ph.Ds there. No one appears to be exactly enthralled by the Todd Brook Anticline. They’re shent. Ian? Mind if we prop the wall up for a moment? My legs are feeling the climb.”

“Do you want to go back?”

“No, I do not, thank you very much. I’ll tell you when that day comes.”

They stopped at the hollow of Old Gate Nick. The way had been walled across, but was clear to see between the scarps above Saltersford and over the heather towards Goyt.

“On, on, on,” she said, and pushed off from the wall with her poles. The bank of Cats Tor was steep out of the worn Nick. She slipped, but he was holding her by her belt and across the shoulders. “Sorry. Oh, damn it to hell. To hell and back. Sod it. Sod it. Sod it. Ian. I can’t do this bit.”

“You can. Fireman’s lift. Hup.”

He draped her as a bolt of cloth. Her arms hung, dangling the poles.

“Thanks. That was great.”

“Are you comfortable?”

“Yes. Very.”

“Then stay there. You’re no weight.”

“Put me down, Ian.”

“No. This way, you don’t have to have a social conscience, Doctor Malley.”

She laughed, and he strode along Cats Tor, while she walked upside down backwards on the poles.

“Help!” she shouted as they were overtaken. “Abduction! Murder! Rape! Rapine!”

The walkers accelerated past, not looking, silent.

“We’ve cracked it!”

They continued along the ridge to the sawn-off telegraph pole in the fence. He lowered her onto the other side and climbed over.

“I’ll walk now,” she said. “I don’t fancy being dumped in a bog.”

They staggered across the short distance to the outcrop and sat on the flat bed of the recess, overlooking the valley.

“I said we’d be out of the wind.”

They watched the patterns of light on Thursbitch and the silver showers driving.

“Fan. Tastic. This is my place,” she said. “I could live here for ever. But I do live here. That’s the odd thing. My thoughts aren’t tunnelled to that obsessed clinical future. I’m not stuck in a bland room or zimmering around a garden. For God’s sake, I’m not a botanist.”

“It’s because you’re not under pressure.”

“Weird. Normally, I could never say in clear what I’ve just said. It’s those damned doctors and nurses. It’s not their fault. At least, I hope it’s not. They have to follow the book: ‘Always formulate a question so that, if required, the patient can answer with a single negative or positive. To confront with the need to make complex decisions can lead to unnecessary distress.’ That’s one thing you do not forget when you read it, I can tell you. It’s no basis for scintillating conversations. And when someone spins words so that you can say only X or Y, is it any wonder you sink into their ways? But here I’m with what I know: and remembering what I had for breakfast is no big deal any more.”

“Carboniferous grits are more than cornflakes.”

“Exactly.”

“Speaking of which,” he said, and opened his bag and took out the sandwiches, held her drink, and fed her.

“But I do understand how fortunate I am, Ian. Sometimes I do.”

They watched the valley.

“Ian?”

“Yes?”

“You keep looking at me.”

“Sorry.”

“Why?”

“I don’t mean to.”

“And differently.”

“Sorry.”

“Ian! Stop apologising! All I want is a straight answer to a simple observation! You’re such a bloody Pygmalion and so smug! ‘Look what I’m doing. I give up my precious time for a terminal case. I go to infinite pains to keep my composure. Look at me. Don’t you admire my objectivity? Am I not the epitome of the empathising professional at work? She sits there with a face as yard as a fiddlestick, thpewing abuthe and I never flinch.’ How I dethpithe roo! Roo mothionleth cold-fingered wakord! Where are the bells? Can you hear them, Ian?”

“No.”

“Tinkling. Listen.”

“I can’t hear them.”

“I can. Somewhere near. Now they’ve gone. Never mind. It’s marvellous.”

“Why did you never marry, Sal?”

“What?”

“Just an idle thought.”

“Like hell it is. If you must know, I got tired of massaging male egos that couldn’t see any point in what I was doing with my own work. And thank God for that. At least I don’t have to face up to what I might have left to any kids. But you skedaddled into your seminary PDQ, didn’t you? Talk about fait accompli , mate in one. Or not, in this case.”

“That was not the reason, Sal.”

“If it wasn’t, it was a damned good substitute. Your chum Ignatius is a pretty effective bouncer. Or is celibacy inherited, too? That’s a joke. Did you love me?”

“Sal. Stop. You know that is the one aspect that must not come into this. Do not even think of it. If you do, we cannot meet. Any where, any how. Certainly never alone here. I could be struck off on both spiritual and medical ethical grounds. It is a subject that does not and must not apply.”

“That’s the first time I’ve seen you panic in twenty years.”

“You should know better than to do this, if here really does mean what you say it means.”

“I apologise.”

They were silent again.

“Don’t twitch, Ian. You’re as bad as me.”

He stood, and gazed out over the valley, and was quiet. Then he sat and took hold of both her hands.

“Sal. Look at me. No. Look at me.”

“Oh. Eye contact. Of course.”

“Your neurologist has written to say that you can’t be treated where you are any longer. You’ll have to go into hospital next month.”

“How long?”

“That long.”

“Where?”

“Manchester.”

“No.”

“The last scan showed a crucial deterioration.”

“But you promised.”

“I did.”

“You promised you would tell me before I lost my wits.”

“It is not your mind, Sal. It is your body. The motor systems are critical, and you are going to need more support than they can give you at the Home.”