Into the Trees Read online

  Raymond had been working the farms in Abbeystead for years, from the age of seventeen. After school had finished he’d visited the job centre and found work as a labourer, but Raymond wasn’t good in large groups, and on the sites there were so many men, their numbers and faces changed daily, and it was hard to keep up. Some of the men meant what they said, others said the opposite of what they meant. It exhausted Raymond. But what he disliked most was working in Etherton. Converting mills into flats, converting mills into community centres, quite often stripping mills bare before they were pulled down. He felt like he was forever trapped in the back streets of an armpit of a town he’d grown to hate. Eventually he plucked up courage, returned to the job centre and asked if there was anything else going. The man behind the desk looked Raymond over, noticed his huge hands, shuffled some cards and said, ‘What about farming?’

  Raymond thought of green fields, leaping lambs, and nodded. He held his hand out for the card.

  ‘They don’t advertise,’ the man said. ‘Most of them can’t write. You’ll have to go out there and chance it. And the money won’t be as good as it is on the sites. They’re a tight bunch, farmers.’

  Less money didn’t concern Raymond too much, but he couldn’t turn up at a stranger’s door and ask for work, it was an impossible thing for him to do. He left the job centre resigned to more labouring. But after a terrible day on a new site, a site he was contracted to work for weeks, Raymond got on his bike and rode the fifteen miles to Abbeystead with the intention of pushing himself over the mountain of his shyness. He loved the place the first time he looked down from the top of Marshaw Fell. He wondered why nobody had told him it existed. Here it was, all in front of him, a bike ride away from his dark town. Abbeystead stretched out below him: forests, rivers, fields, and so much space, everything unfolding to its full size, no tight streets, no buildings crammed together, jimmied up against one another. Knocking at the first door was the hardest thing Raymond had ever done, but also the most rewarding. He’d chanced on the Roeburn farm, and although they didn’t need anyone, they sent him to someone who did, and on the same morning Raymond landed his first farming job. Word spread that he was strong and worked hard and at certain times of the year, for a few years, he could pick and choose which jobs on what farms. But suddenly, it seemed, the farms grew smaller, some disappeared altogether and Raymond went from juggling jobs for different farmers to relying on the hours Chapman could offer and the small wages he paid. But Raymond wasn’t an expectant man and it was enough. To be out of Etherton, working in Abbeystead, was enough.

  Seven

  In only six months the Nortons moved in. They were living in a shell, everything to be completed, but the roof, the windows, the walls and the floors were in place. They had electricity, they had heating.

  The first night was terrifying.

  After all the work had been done, the negotiation, the haggling, the hassling, the worry and stress of it, and all of it dealt with on hardly any sleep, they were scared to see if it had been for nothing. Eventually Harriet fell asleep in the lounge downstairs and Thomas carried her up to her room. He lowered her, as gently as he could, as if he was handling sleep itself, into her cot and she wriggled and moaned, but Thomas held his breath and she quietened. Thomas couldn’t leave the room, he didn’t dare. He sat in the corner and willed the silence to continue. Ann stayed downstairs, sitting forward in her chair, listening, waiting, for the crying to start, her back as hard as the bare concrete floor under her feet. After twenty minutes she crept upstairs and sat down with Thomas, resting her head against his arm, where she fell asleep. Harriet slept through. On the third silent night Ann cried. On the fourth night Ann and Thomas made love.

  Eight

  Raymond watched the transformation take place. On a midnight walk he stepped out of the trees to see an old tractor, a washing machine and other junk lined up in front of the ruined barn. A couple of nights later they were gone, replaced with piles of bricks, slates and timber. Thick tyre tracks seared into the grass at the edge of the forest, the thin road barely able to contain the vehicles that had been visiting. Something was happening. It pleased Raymond to have a destination to visit on his walks, it gave a direction and reason to his wandering, and he maintained a keen eye on the barn. Progress was quick. Within weeks walls were rebuilt and the new roof was in place. Chapman didn’t need him for a month-long period and when the call finally came and he returned to the farm, Raymond was keen to see how much further work had been done. When he stepped out of the trees on his first night back, it was a house stood in front of him. There was still no front door so Raymond walked through the building one last time. He went up the stairs and into the bedrooms and tried to imagine how it would look when it was finished. Raymond couldn’t help feeling envious; this was a house he would have given anything to own, hidden in the heart of Abbeystead, underneath the trees. A beautiful building, out of sight. The perfect house.

  Raymond ate his meals in the kitchen of the farmhouse with Frank and Sheila Chapman and it was there, a week later, he learnt about the Nortons.

  ‘It’s a family from Maltham with two young kids,’ Sheila said. ‘One day they knocked on the door and asked old Silverwood if it was for sale and she sold them it.’

  ‘I bet she did,’ Chapman said. ‘And I bet she got a price for it.’

  Sheila nodded her agreement and stood up to clear the table. Raymond rose to help.

  ‘But if they think it’s going to be easy up here, if they think it’s going to be sunsets and country fairs, they’ll be in for a shock,’ she said. Raymond passed her the plates and she scraped chicken skin and cold gravy dregs into a bucket. ‘They will be in for a shock,’ she repeated. Chapman stayed at the table, lit a cigarette and said, ‘I bet she did get a price for it.’

  It pleased Raymond that there would be a family in the barn. He couldn’t understand why more people didn’t buy barns and turn them into houses in the countryside. Not too many of course, then it would just be like the towns, but there was enough space in Abbeystead, enough broken old barns for a few more to come. When he heard about the amount of money houses sold for in cities it made Raymond dizzy. Why! Why spend all that money on a house amongst thousands of other houses, with noisy, nosey neighbours, and crowds of people everywhere? Why do that when you could live here? Raymond didn’t understand how people’s brains worked.

  Nine

  Mornings in Abbeystead were as close to heaven as Thomas Norton thought it was possible to be. He would drink a cup of tea at the kitchen table in the quiet hour before the family woke and silence was sent scurrying into the corners. He would wash and dry the cup and leave the house at half past six for his walk. He varied the route depending on the weather, the time of year and his mood. Sometimes he walked through the trees, sometimes he climbed Lowgill Fell, occasionally he walked a shorter walk to Mrs Silverwood’s house and back. Like Raymond Farren, Thomas couldn’t quite believe that Abbeystead was there for him, for free, every day. The mornings, as Abbeystead gathered itself to life, were wonderful to Thomas, and he took his time on these walks, tried to spot the changes to the trees and plants throughout the year. He felt ashamed that he could hardly name any of the flowers that grew alongside the road, he wasn’t even sure about the different species of trees he passed under, so he bought a book to teach himself. But it wasn’t easy – he’d study a tree, flick through the book to find the corresponding picture and would see that the tree could be one of several, or sometimes there would be no picture that resembled the tree in front of him at all. He grew frustrated with his lack of progress and stopped taking the book out with him. But he still found the early morning walks helped sustain him through his day at work, where he would have to deal with colleagues and customers and their moods and emotions. Thomas didn’t enjoy his job and throughout his working day he held on to the thought that at half past five he would be driving out of the town, on the quiet roads, up onto the hills and minutes later he would b
e dropping down into Abbeystead, heading to his home and family in the forest. And best of all, he still had the night to come. He liked to watch as the trough shaded, slowly at first, before night finally and suddenly took hold, dropping a blanket of black entirely over everything. The moment it happened thrilled Thomas. It was absolute, medieval. In summer he would sit on a plastic garden chair at the back of the house with a glass of beer, watch the sky darken and the trees back away into the night. A shiver would run through him. His children were in bed asleep, his wife was curled up on the settee, he was guarding his frontier.

  Ann was less happy. The new lease of life that struck Thomas refused to attach itself to her. It was months after the move before she noticed the grumbling dissatisfaction. At first Ann was exhausted and catching up on sleep was blissful, that was enough for a while. And then they’d begun to finish and furnish the house and that had absorbed her. When it was finally done she could see that the house looked good, that it was a house to be proud of, a house to be envious of even. She sat back and patiently waited for the converted barn to start feeling like a home. But despite the fact she’d chosen the carpets, the curtains, decided on the colour of the walls, hung the paintings herself, the house refused to yield, refused to welcome her. Ann thought that perhaps it was because nobody had lived there before; there were no memories buried in the walls, no notes hidden under the floorboards. Maybe a house has to earn its homeliness, she decided; maybe you can’t just throw up bricks and a roof, put down some carpet and expect a place to feel like home immediately. So she waited, but the change didn’t come. She suspected it wasn’t just the house, that the location played a part in her unease, and it struck her why one afternoon as she read a book on the settee, the rain crashing onto their new roof, gurgling into the new gutters – it felt like she was on holiday, a wet afternoon in a rented holiday home, miles from the nearest town, a cosy village not too far away, ideal for bike rides, walks and picnics in the summer. Once that thought embedded itself in her head she was unable to shift it. Life was one long holiday. That should be fun, but instead Ann found it unsettling. She would feel a jolt of panic as she worked in the garden or cleaned the kitchen, she would have to stop what she was doing and convince herself that she wasn’t supposed to be somewhere else, doing something else. ‘It’s alright,’ she told herself. ‘You are in the right house, you are in the right place, relax.’ But she remained unconvinced.

  The second year was the real shock. The first winter they’d only just arrived and her relief at Harriet sleeping through the night was so overwhelming Ann barely noticed where she was. She started to come back to herself the following March, just as spring rushed the valley. It was small things at first. She would realise she was holding a cup of coffee, feel the shape of the handle in her hand, the weight of the drink in her wrist. The smell of the coffee caught her as if she hadn’t smelt it for months. She would hear the slap of her bare feet on the bathroom tiles and notice the way her toes gripped the floor when it was wet after Harriet’s bath. By the time the second winter hit, Ann was fully conscious and felt the brunt of it. The never-ending short days of darkness and cold. Even in the summer months it wasn’t until the sun was midday-high before it beat the trees and lit the rooms, but from November to the end of February Ann felt like she was living underground. She bought lamps to bolster the light provided from the ceiling lights, and in the winter months she kept them on throughout the day, waging a war against the darkness. The house was fitted with central heating but the rooms were wide and tall and took a long time to warm up. Stepping out through the front door you were hit with a cold to make you reel, a cold that ached your teeth. The cold meant Ann didn’t take Harriet and Daniel out much, and the more she didn’t go out, the less she felt able to gather the energy to get the children into the car and go anywhere. And the trees. All those trees. They filed up to the garden in a line, they ran down either side of the house. There was a break at the front, but even then, just the narrow road, and they started again, a vast, deep wall in front of her. They surrounded the house like soldiers, corralling every brick into place. She felt their presence, even in bed at night, standing over her, breathing, always watching. One night she dreamt of trees pushing up through the foundations and breaking through the floors into the kitchen and the lounge. In the morning she told Thomas about the dream and he smiled at her and said, ‘How wonderful, trees in the house.’ Ann shuddered at the thought and the dream stayed with her.

  Ten

  Etherton, 1989

  Raymond was desperate for a phone call from Abbeystead. He was sure his house was crumbling by the day and living there triggered concern and worry that swarmed his chest like an angry mob, hijacked his thoughts and taunted him. He was positive there must be something catastrophically wrong with the house, looking at the state of it there must be, and it was only a matter of time before it collapsed in on him. At night he dreamt of water pouring through the roof, soaking him as he slept. And when he woke, as he did several times a night, his body was drenched, covered in a cold prickling sweat from his chest to his legs. When he jerked awake in panic, he worried what was happening to the house as he slept. Were the walls finally crumbling into nothing? Was the house sinking below street level? Taking the whole row down with it? Raymond needed work, fields underneath his feet, fells on the horizon. He needed a phone call from Abbeystead.

  Etherton was wearying to him; litter collecting in the gutters, the same faces behind the same counters in the shops. But now, too, there was a new concern. A family had moved in next door. A man, a woman and two teenage girls. The day after they noisily appeared there was a loud knock at the front door. Raymond slowly pulled himself up from his bed and walked over to the window. He looked down onto the top of a shiny black head and ducked away just as the head turned its face upwards to the window.

  ‘Anyone in?’ the man shouted. ‘Hello!’ he bellowed.

  Raymond retreated to the back wall of his bedroom and waited until the knocking and calling stopped. When he felt it was safe to do so, he walked back across the room, pushed his head to the wall and watched as the man strode up and down the street, talking to neighbours, talking to anyone who appeared. Smiling, shaking hands, patting backs. He was a short man, his mouth constantly on the verge of a forced-out smile. Raymond watched as the man spoke to more people in one afternoon than he spoke to in a year. He approached with his hand outstretched and the gruesome smile on his face. After shaking hands he would turn and point to his new home, then a bit more chat before he patted the men on the back, shook the women’s hands again, bowing his head a little, before letting them on their way. Raymond was caught a few days later, returning from the shops. The man wore a brown leather jacket, his hair was slicked back, he looked ready for action, and when he saw Raymond he went for him.

  ‘Mate!’ he shouted from halfway down the street, just as Raymond pushed his key into the lock. ‘Hang on mate!’ He ran down the road, his short legs windmilling at an impressive speed.

  Raymond froze with his arm holding the key in the lock.

  ‘Keith, mate. Keith Sullivan,’ he said, when he reached him, a little out of breath. ‘New neighbour. I’ve been trying to say hello for days.’

  He outstretched his arm and wriggled his fingers, twiddling for a handshake. Raymond offered his hand in return.

  ‘Jesus, that’s not a hand, that’s a shovel!’ he said as his hand disappeared into Raymond’s grasp. ‘Best not mess with you then.’ He looked up at Raymond. ‘How tall are you? Six four, six five?’ he asked.

  Raymond shrugged. He didn’t know how tall he was. He couldn’t remember ever being measured.

  The man nodded. ‘You are. Six four at least. Maybe even six five.’

  The man funnelled his hands and shouted, ‘What’s the weather like up there?’

  Raymond looked up at the sky and down at the little man and wondered if he was supposed to answer the question.

  ‘Just moved in with the wife a
nd girls,’ he said, pointing at his house.

  ‘Yes,’ said Raymond.

  ‘Seems like a good street. Friendly people, good town.’

  ‘A good town,’ Raymond said and nodded his agreement.

  ‘Well, we won’t cause you any trouble, and if you need anything, make sure you knock on.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Raymond. He turned back to his door.

  ‘You don’t say much, do you pal?’

  Raymond tried to smile a friendly smile at the man and turned his key in the lock.

  ‘Sorry mate, I didn’t get your name.’ The man took a step closer.

  ‘Raymond.’

  ‘Raymond?’

  ‘Farren.’

  ‘Raymond Farren. Our new next-door neighbour. A right cheery sod.’

  Raymond pushed open his door and stepped inside.

  Raymond found that most people left him alone. He wasn’t a rude man – when he was served in a shop he was polite; when conversation was unavoidable he did his best, but he was painfully shy and found people difficult. It had always been that way. When he was seven, the teacher told the class that everyone had to read a chapter of a book out loud, at the front of the room. The chapters were short and most of the children rattled through their reading in five minutes or less, the teacher trying to slow them down so the story could be heard and understood. Raymond’s reading took half an hour. For the first five of those awful, excruciating minutes, he glanced over to Mrs Armitage, certain a reprieve must be coming at some point, but her face remained impassive throughout. When he finally pushed the last word of the final sentence out of his reluctant mouth, the children groaned in relief and Mrs Armitage said, ‘Well done Raymond. I hope you’ve learnt a lesson today.’