Shadows of the Dawn

My first novel

A book about childhood -
and how to survive it

SHADOWS OF THE DAWN (Extract)

Chapter One

A long time ago, before the world turned old, there was a small dusty hamlet which nestled on the border of the County. It had been built - if that is the right word for such a collection of tumble-down cottages - by warriors, who had swept through hundreds of years before, leaving little settlements here and there to mark their path, and it had long since fallen asleep in the folds of the rolling green hills that surrounded it. The brown-stone church that sat on the sweep of the valley looked benignly down on the cluster of thatched roofs which huddled below it, like a goose proudly watching its brood of goslings sleeping in the midday sun, and, in the lengthening shadows, seemed to smile its approval. A muddy track ran or rather wandered past the wooden doors like a drunken farm-hand on his way to collect water from the brook that meandered slowly through the yellow-green willow trees lying at the foot of the guardian hills. Life passed quietly here and, were it not for the trickles of smoke that punctuated the skyline, it would have been easy to imagine that the inhabitants had once upon a time vanished into the depths of the earth itself.

It was into this slowly vegetating world that Niall’s family had come some years previously, fleeing the haunted wastes of the flatlands that lay to the east. They had moved, without much ceremony, into the priest’s house that sat in the lee of the derelict churchyard and there they had tried to heal the wounds and forget the nightmares of the past. His father, the priest, had once been a scholar and an athlete but life had treated him unkindly. He had grown old before his time and , in many ways, was now a broken man who was doomed to preach a faith that, even for him, had become something of an illusion. His mother, an artist and a giddy socialite in her youth, had once dreamed too - only to see the dreams turn to dust in the cold and hostile faces of those they had sought to help. This was to be a fresh beginning, a time when time itself would mend and repair the damage to their souls - or so they hoped and thought.

Niall himself had only vague memories of the land from which they came and could only recall a world of endless horizon where the rain had fallen with grey monotony and people had muttered about the ghosts that were supposed to frequent the cold and marbled tomb of a house in which his family had lived. It had been a world devoid of warmth, of kindness, of hope, so he rejoiced now in the green and verdant hills and the flowing streams and the animals that grazed quietly in the undulating fields around him.

He, together with his three sisters, settled quickly into the rambling warrens of the old rectory and were content to idle away the days exploring the dust-filled attics, the echoing barns and the mysterious, overgrown gardens that constituted and defined their new universe. It was a curious house: at one time, light and full of sunshine and, at others, dark and menacing. They learnt to keep away from their mother’s bedroom, which soon became, in their children’s minds, a cross between a Queen’s throne-room and the torture-chamber of an evil warlord, and the dank and forbidding cellar which lay beneath the house and was occasionally used as a threat to control them. Instead, they would spend their time in the playroom at the far end of the house, where their parents seldom ventured and they could, for a moment, escape the looming storm clouds in innocent and casually mischievous pursuits, or they would silently creep out into the gardens and run whooping across the grass to one or other of their bolt-holes where they could entertain the flights of fancy to which children retreat when surrounded by tensions they are too young to understand or counter.

They also discovered the other children who dwelt in the tiny hamlet and shyly learnt to allow them into their confidence and, in return, to be invited into the games these new friends would play in the farmyards and haybarns that sprawled around the ramshackle cottages down the hill. It was a time of learning and adventure, a time of childish imaginings but also a time when the darkness began to descend.

It is difficult to say when exactly it started. Maybe it had always been there and only gradually began to emerge into their consciousness as they grew older; maybe the continued weakening of their father paved the way and finally opened the door to the demons hidden in the depths of their mother’s mind. All Niall knew was that in the mornings the air would be thick with the tension of approaching thunder and his father would be quivering with fear and apprehension at the sounds emanating from the dark room at the top of the winding stairs.

Chapter Five

The following day was a Sunday. This was a special day in the household not just because it was the one day in the week when Niall’s father went to work but also because the appearance of cassock and surplice bestowed an otherworldliness on the atmosphere in the house. It was also a day of foreboding, a day in which his mother became most acutely aware of the deprivations that she felt her husband’s loathed vocation had imposed on her.

The role of vicar’s wife had never sat easily on her shoulders and the fizzy socialite, that she had once been, back in the days of the University town where they had met, resented the dull conformity that was expected of her and the cold and draughty rectories to which they had since been consigned. This had been made worse by the sniping of parishioners who failed to understand her refusal to attend their flower shows and their Mothers Union meetings and by the arrival of the four children, with all the concomitant responsibilities and constraints. In her mind, at least, her husband, and the Church to which he belonged, were directly to blame and she wasted no opportunity to remind him of this and, when the poison flowed strong, to attack the faith that was both his succour and the means to inflict the most damage, the greatest revenge.

The fact that his absence on days like this further deprived her of the object of her rage meant that the children were particularly vulnerable. Niall knew this and, after the events of the previous day, was especially fearful.

Although he woke early, from a restless sleep, it was some time before he managed to find the resolve to go downstairs and face his fate. By then, his father had already been to an early morning service at another village in the valley, where he was obliged to officiate, and had returned to eat a late breakfast. He sat there, at the kitchen table, dressed in his long-flowing black cassock and, for a moment, Niall felt a surge of pride. Then, however, he noticed his mother. She seemed oblivious to his presence, though, and Niall was able to slide round towards the relative safety of the door.

What was he to do? He knew that, if he stayed there, it would only be a matter of time before his mother exacted her toll for the supposed sins of yesterday and, yet, where else could he go to?

He looked at his father for an unlikely inspiration and then remembered that he would soon be going to his second service of the day, up at Hallerton. Perhaps......

“Dad, can I go with you to Hallerton? It’s such a nice day........and I can help carry things for you.”

“Well, it’s a long way and you’ll probably just get bored. Anyway, your mother may need you here.”

They both glanced across to where his mother was sitting but she was engrossed in a mouthful of toast and her eyes and, thankfully, her mind were still glazed by the stupor of sleep. Niall knew that he would not be able to ask for her permission directly, it would be much too like sticking his head in a lion’s mouth and encouraging it to bite, so he returned to his father.

“Please, Dad, I won’t get in the way.....................”

“Well, I ..............What do you think, dear? Should I...............but it’s really up to you. If you need him here, I’d................”

His mother was watching him intently, bits of toast lining her mouth like bird feathers.

“Do what you damn well please,” she hissed.

Niall needed no second invitation and walked, with as much feigned nonchalance as he could muster, out into the garden. Once he felt the free air wafting against his face, the tension finally got the better of his self-control and he raced helter-skelter away from the house.

His father eventually joined him by the path and the two refugees turned and silently began the journey to Hallerton. Neither was in the mood for conversation and so they walked their separate path, deep in the preoccupation of their own thoughts. The track ran down the side of the wilderness, which stretched most of the way to the line of the stream, and, as they passed by, some part of Niall realized that the pool, his pool, must be fed by the water running underground. The memory of this most remote, most secret, of sanctuaries made him smile to himself and brought more of a skip to his stride, but it was only when they had safely crossed the road that he, and indeed his father, began to breathe anything like easily.

“How are you?” The question made him jump, coming, as it did, from such an unexpected quarter.

“I know yesterday must have been a very difficult day for you,” his father continued, “but are you O.K.?”

Niall half turned towards him and looked at him out of the corner of his eye. He was plodding along with his face averted, but, when his questions went unanswered, he glanced back and, for a moment, the two eyes locked, in mutual consideration. Then he smiled nervously, almost shyly, at his son.

“Well, how are you?”

Niall still didn’t reply. His mind was reflecting on the warmth of his father’s smile and the care radiating from his eyes. He had seen his father in many guises, but never this, and it confused him. He was torn, torn between the bitter lessons he had been taught about trust and adults and, on the other hand, the need to salve the wounds still bleeding inside him. For a moment, he teetered on the edge of rejection, but then, curiously, the picture of a shadowy rabbit entered his mind, and the need prevailed. He sighed and found himself returning the smile.

“I’m O.K., I suppose.”

Nothing more needed to be said. A bond had somehow been created, at least for the time being, and as they continued on their way up the hill, Niall was pleased to feel his father take his hand. They walked on quietly, father and son, hand in hand, conjoined by the symmetry of their needs.

By the time they reached the outskirts of the village, Hallerton was beginning to stir. Curtains were being pulled back and people were at their front doors stretching their sleep away. The occasional child appeared in the waking street, either errand-bound or at play, and Niall recognized one or two from the school. There were also parishioners already heading for the church, although the service was not due to commence for a good half an hour. At this, his father began to quicken his stride and, despite the severity of the incline, they were soon there.

A tall, moustached and gently balding man was waiting for his father outside the large hob-nailed wooden door to the church. Niall knew him to be the churchwarden, an old soldier who had fought in distant wars and returned, wound-weary, to the sleeping hills of the County. He was a good man who invariably had a smile beneath his ginger whiskers and he ran the parish and the church with the quiet efficiency of a man well-used to command.

Niall’s father greeted him cordially and the two were soon locked in discussion about the practicalities of the forthcoming service.

Niall listened for a while, enjoying the odd reference that was made in his direction and wondering at the sparkle in his father’s eyes, as he flew, free of his fetters, in a world that he understood, a world which paid him the respect that was his due. The interest, however, soon began to wane and he slipped away, to search for solitude or adventure.

The villagers were now starting to appear in greater number, all bent on the ablutions of the soul. Niall was reluctant to join them, fearing that the ambivalence about his father’s god, which circumstance and his mother had instilled in him, might somehow flaw the bond that the journey had created. Besides they were adults, so he detached himself and wandered down to the little group of thatched cottages which separated the church from the sweep of countryside lying beyond and sat beside the Celtic cross that stood in their midst.

Eventually, the stream of worshippers slowed to a trickle and the service began. Niall listened to the strands of hymns floating on the air and to the silences, when he knew his father would be talking. The solemnity of the occasion and the sight of the tall stone buttresses rising before him seemed to imbue his father with an authority and power that, once again, filled him with pride and made him wonder whether he really knew the hapless victim that trembled before his mother. For a moment, he imagined him standing in his pulpit, admonishing and teaching the respectful faces gathered below, but this time he felt a wave of irritation coursing through him, against the villagers who somehow deprived his family of the best of his father. If only she could see him like this, he thought, if only he could........but the notion died as quickly as it was born, a bubble evaporating in the stark white heat of the midday sun.

His reflection was suddenly broken by a pigeon landing on the rocks which formed the base of the cross. It looked at him inquisitively, first with one eye and then the other, its throat rippling rainbows in the morning air. Niall watched it shifting uneasily on the uneven surface and tap-tapping the breeze and felt pleased to have some company. The bird remained there for a while but then, its investigation complete, it flew off in search of more rewarding pastures. He felt curiously abandoned but shrugged the feeling away and turned to study the cross in whose lee he sat.

It was a large column of weathered stone marked both by the outrages of the seasons and by the flowing line and scroll of ancient craftsmen and was capped by a cuneiform cross held inside a once coiled circle. There was a mood of timelessness about it and it was easy to peel back the centuries and imagine the men and women of the long-dead tribe, that had once dwelt here, coming to dance and chant their faith in swirling ritual. The idea was comforting and, as the music swelled from the gables of the nearby church, Niall found himself growing strong in the richness of the atmosphere.

Gradually, however, the cold of the stone began to seep into his limbs and so he got up and made his way down the street, down towards the school. He was reluctant to return here, though. It was a place that evoked mixed emotion and it would be hard to explain, were he to be seen by one of his friends, but there seemed no other option. As he strolled, he gazed at the little post-office on the other side of the road and wondered about the far-off countries with which it seemed to be inextricably connected. If only.....but no, there was no point in entertaining thoughts like that either!

Just as he was nearing the lonely waste of the playground, he heard the sound of children’s voices. It was coming from a narrow track that looped around the side of the post office and, his curiosity aroused, Niall immediately changed course and walked, more quickly now, to see what was happening.

The track lead to a small patch of green, filled by the muddy, tumbling forms of young boys hacking a football this way and that. As he got closer, Niall realized that one of them was Graham. He hesitated, one half of him pleased to see a friend, the other concerned, embarrassed by his reason for being there. Discretion clearly advised departure but, as he was about to leave, Graham noticed him.

“Hullo.......what’you doin’ here?”

The question, though one of innocent surprise, was like a challenge and Niall was at a loss as to how to reply. He couldn’t tell him that he had accompanied his father to church, for that would be a breach of the unspoken rules by which the gang lived.

But what else could he say?

“I.........I was getting bored at home and my mother was starting to threaten me with chores, so I got out and decided to come up here.”

Graham looked at him with the same quizzical expression that he had worn during their first encounter and then, having thought about the answer and given it his approval, he grinned and said,

“Good for you.......d’you wanna join in?”

Niall blushed, both from his deceit and from the unexpected pleasure that had been granted him, and, although a vague feeling of uncertainty lingered on for a while, was soon happily running and tussling with the others. It was good to focus on nothing more than a piece of patched and torn leather and he rejoiced in the easy friendship around him. So much so that he forgot the reality of time and circumstance.

“Niall.....Niall, it’s time to go home!”

It was his father. Standing at the gate. Niall froze, his legs rivetted to the ground, his mind reeling from the thunderbolt.

What could he say? How could he explain?

He thought about telling Graham about the events of the previous day but pride, and a reluctance to give the nightmare form, dictated otherwise. He knew, in his bones, what it meant and there was nothing he could do about it. He was contaminated, both by his deceit and by his willing association with a hated adult. Retreat was now the only option.

As he backed away from the scene of his humiliation, he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the treacherous ground, unable to face either the accusing eyes of his erstwhile friend or the damning smile of his father. He hated himself again, for being, like his father, a victim, albeit of circumstances beyond his control.

The journey back to the hamlet passed in silence and Niall wandered on in front, determinedly alone. A trust had somehow, once again, been broken; a bond, so recently formed, had been damaged and lay in pieces on that small patch of grass, perhaps beyond repair.

By the time they reached the house, he was past caring about what would greet them there and, as soon as he was able, he sought the solace of his bedroom. He sensed that he had lost something, something that had, for a while, kept his head above the turbulent waves and, as he sought to escape the tide of guilt and confusion that threatened to drown him, he turned to one of the books hidden beneath his bed. Here, in the words that he was now beginning to decipher, were, he sensed, worlds of make-believe that could take him away from the realities of the day and which, somewhere amongst the pages, might just provide the raft he now needed.

His suspicions and fears were confirmed soon afterwards. Nothing was actually said, nothing needed to be. His previous friends simply ignored him, in the classroom, in the

playground, wherever it was they encountered him. They were not exactly hostile, they just moved away and, with a look here and a half-formed gesture there, made it clear that he had been relegated to the lower ranks. Niall tried to talk to Graham but the look of contempt froze the words in his throat. He clearly didn’t want to hear an explanation, even if one had been possible, he inhabited a child’s world of black and white judgement and, anyway, was savouring the taste of a new game. Niall watched, resignedly, as he walked away to mutter and smirk with his cronies and knew that he was, once again, alone.

The days crawled by in a glaring monotony of indifference. He felt exiled, both at school and by his own emotions towards his family. There was little alternative to work and so work he did, at first hesitantly and uncertainly, still wary of the opinion of his former friends, then, as repetition dulled the effect, more openly, even to the point of defiance.

Mrs. Simpson was, to begin with, somewhat sceptical of this transformation. Once is strange, twice is downright ........peculiar, she must have been thinking to herself. But, when he stuck to it, and that despite the back of the hand derision of his fellows, she started to give it greater credence and, finally, she was lending him her support wherever she was able to. Not that that was easy, though. He was, she decided, a curious customer, who radiated a tension that was sometimes almost electric and was loath, to the point of bloody-mindedness, to accept any kind of help. The mother hen in her, which, admittedly, was never far from the surface, wanted to sweep him up and tell him that the world was really not that bad, but her instincts, as a teacher, told her that this would be a foolish move, so she simply watched him out of the corner of her eye and, whenever a puzzled frown clouded his brow, found some excuse to visit his part of the classroom.

“That’s a nasty sum you’ve got there,” she would say, “I’m not sure I myself know how to do it! Have you got any ideas?”

and then, having inveigled her way into his confidence, she would try to point him in the right direction, but always taking care to make it appear as though it had been his idea, his solution.

She would also keep her eyes open for the sniping attacks to which, for reasons unknown, he was being subjected. She knew that little ruffian, Graham Hall, was behind most of it and, whenever she could, she would tie up his attention with so many chores and distractions that he had no time or energy left to even think about tormenting his new-found victim.

One day, she strolled over to this, the most intriguing, and most perplexing, of her little throng, and said,

“I’m really pleased with you, Niall, your work is coming on in leaps and bounds, so I’ve decided to give you a star.”

The tussled, auburn head in front of her stopped still but, after a moment’s reflection, was raised and two large grey-blue eyes stared out from underneath the fringe. The look was so intense, so penetrating she found herself taking a step backwards in surprise.

“Are you sure?” the mouth below the eyes asked.

“Of course I am!”

Mrs. Simpson was quite thrown, both by the question and the examination behind it, and, to re-establish her control of the situation, added,

“I wouldn’t have said it, if I didn’t mean it!”

The mouth pursed in thought and she noticed how red and how chewed the lips were. She was just beginning to feel a little irritated by his reaction, when the eyes suddenly lost their steely edge and started to smile.

“Thank you..........very much,” Niall said, and went back to his labours, his body noticeably more relaxed, a shy grin spread across his features.

Over the weeks that followed, Mrs. Simpson found more and more reason to cluck and crow over what had become her prize chick and the one star gradually grew into quite a collection. The problems with the other children seemed to have resolved themselves as well, the gang having obviously decided that he was, for some reason, impervious to their taunts and found a new target.

As for Niall, he was clearly enjoying both the work and the success it brought him, and was even beginning to talk to her without first lowering his eyes and without his body tightening at her approach. It is, she mused, almost as if no-one has ever given him any attention before or any praise or any............love. She resisted the urge to put her arms round him and give him one of the bear-like cuddles that she reserved for her own children but did, next time she bumped into him outside the church, look long and hard at his father.

It was some time after that that Mrs. Simpson made her mistake.

She had just finished her morning class and was heading off towards the little cottage by the green, where she lived and where she usually had her lunch, when she collided with the grey and spectacled form of Mrs.Gover. Normally, she would have merely grunted an apology and thought nothing more of it, but today she was filled with an almost childlike glee about the progress of her protégé and simply couldn’t restrain herself.

“I’ve got a real find in my class,” she burbled, “He’s only been with us since just after the start of this term and yet I’ve managed to get him reading and goodness knows what else besides. He..........”

“Who is this boy?”

The stentorian tone brought her to a grinding halt and, immediately, she realized the mistake she had made. She began to backpedal, furiously.

“Oh, it’s not important, he’s got an awful long way to go before he’s up to.........”

“Well, if he’s made that sort of progress already.........”

“Yes, but,” it was Mrs. Simpson’s turn to interrupt, “he needs a lot more consolidation, before he’ll be ready for..........”

“But surely that’s my decision,” and then, with thinly disguised self-satisfaction and perhaps a note too of contempt, “ I am, after all, the headmistress here. Now, which boy is it?”

“But I................”

But there was nothing else she could say. The ground had been neatly cut from under her feet, and she realized that this was not an argument she was going to win, so concluded tamely, “It’s the vicar’s son.”

“Um.......... now, that is interesting. It must run in the family!”

“Well, I’m not sure about that. He’s a funny little boy and he’s got.........”

“No, Mrs. Simpson, I insist. I’ll send a boy for him some time this afternoon.”

And with that, she twirled on her heel and faded back into her classroom, leaving her irate colleague sucking in huge gulps of air and brimming both with anger and with the bitter taste of defeat. As she told her husband later on, had there not been children within earshot, she might well have sworn!

Sure enough, about halfway through that afternoon, there was a knock at the classroom door and one of the older boys came in and asked whether it would be all right for him to take Niall to see the headmistress. Niall turned from boy to Mrs. Simpson and then back again, slack-jawed in bewilderment. He instinctively assumed that he had done something wrong and was in trouble, and looked again to his teacher for some sort of reassurance. She, however, was unusually quiet and Niall was surprised to hear her snap back an uncharacteristically terse reply. By now, most of the other children had reached the same conclusion as Niall, and his former friends were smirking and sniggering in delight. The teacher’s pet was going to get his come-uppance!

Niall slowly rose to his feet and, like a condemned man stumbling to the gallows, shuffled out behind the messenger. His fear was immediately confirmed and strengthened by the cold austerity of the other classroom. The children here were sat on tall stools behind high sloping desks and there was no sign of the merriment or joviality of Mrs. Simpson’s room. They looked at the intruder with barely-concealed derision and disdain and Niall almost fell as he staggered backwards, repelled by the collective hostility,

“Come here, boy!”

He peered around the cloaking bodies in front of him but without being able to see where the voice had come from. His mouth and throat were now very dry and his head was beginning to buzz.

“I said, come here!”

The tone and the expression were horribly familiar and Niall started to wonder if it was really just a bad dream, but then one of the girls nearby took pity on him and pointed to a spot over by the distant blackboard.

“Go on, she’s over there,” she whispered.

Niall tottered forward on jellified leg, trying hard not to crash into the dark and menacing shapes around him. When he had passed through the first two or three lines of desks, he at last saw what the girl had been pointing at. Mrs. Gover sat behind a large flat desk, her grey hair pinned tightly back and a cold eye staring at him between the arch of an eyebrow and the tortoise-shell frame of her glasses.

“Don’t worry, her bite’s not as bad as her bark!”

It was Clare. He twisted round, surprised to find a friend in this unlikely setting, and saw his sister and Susie grinning reassuringly back. It didn’t altogether remove the fear and trepidation, but it did reduce it enough for him to make it up to the teacher’s desk.

“Well, boy, I’ve heard some good things about you,” she said, watching him intently through diamond eyes, “and I’ve called you here to see if you are clever enough to join this class. Now, see if you can read what is written on the board.”

Niall’s eyes grew even larger and his head began to swim again. He had been expecting to be told off and perhaps even shouted at, but, although it would hardly have been pleasant, he was at least used to it and knew how to shield himself from the worst of its effects. This, in a way, was far worse. He had been taken by surprise and now, with his defences down, he was to be put to the test, in front of all these sneering children, and in front of his sister as well.

A grey cloud of panic began to spread its clammy hand around the inside of his head and he had to fight to overcome an almost irresistible urge to turn and run.

He couldn’t fail again, he couldn’t abandon his sister to the catcalls and insults she would receive, were he to do that.

No, this time he had to stand his ground, even if it did mean humiliation.

The problem was, though, he simply couldn’t work out what the teacher had written. The handwriting was scrawled and spidery, unlike the ornate and rounded style to which he was accustomed, and, whereas the letters in his class stood in splendid isolation from each other, here they were joined together like waves coiling and crashing in a stormy sea. He tried to focus as best he could, but the underlying fear and the growing sense of panic were eating away at his mind and causing his eyes to twitch from one area to the next in a miasma of uncertainty and confusion.

“Come on, come on. I was told you could read.”

The tone was now one of impatience and irritation.

“I was told you were........clever.”

Niall felt a tide of embarrassment creeping across his face, to further compound the nightmare. He fought harder still, but the more he tried, the worse the situation became, until, finally, the shapes seemed to merge into what vaguely resembled a can of wriggling, writhing worms.

“Well, I think we’ve given you quite long enough,” the bird-faced woman suddenly said, before adding, with a touch of triumph, “ I can’t see what your teacher was so excited about. She must have made a mistake.”

This last jibe, however, only succeeded in angering Niall.

It was his failure, not Mrs. Simpson’s.

Why should she be criticized? Hadn’t she done all she could to help him?

The thought of this mean-spirited woman chiding the gentle Mrs. Simpson for his failings struck an all too familiar chord in him and he gritted his teeth in a quietly simmering rage. Then, despite the teacher’s glance to indicate that the ordeal was over and that he should return to his own classroom, he looked at the board again.

This time, his mind cleared and freed by the cleansing acid of his anger, he was able to decipher first one or two letters and then a couple more and, finally, a whole word.

“It’s ‘mountain’,” he blurted out.

“What is ?”

“That word on the board, it’s ‘mountain’.”

“Um, so it is....... but what about the rest of the sentence?”

Niall had carried on looking at the board, even while talking to the teacher, and had already managed to work out another one or two words. Almost unable to suppress the strange mix of relief and exhilaration that was now driving the fear and the panic back before it, he pressed on and, although he knew he would have to guess at one of the words in front of him, finally turned towards this new tormentor and said,

“I think it says ‘The rain falls on the mountain and then trickles down into the stream’.”

Mrs. Gover frowned.

“It’s actually ‘fell’ and ‘trickled’ but I suppose that’s not too bad..... in the end!”

She was obviously loath to admit that she had been wrong, and her eyes grew even steelier as she considered defeat. What made it worse, was that her defeat would inevitably be construed, by her rival, as her success.

No, that simply would not do!

“There is one more test that you will have to pass, if you are going to join my class,” and, as Niall’s eyes widened in disbelief, “We will have to see if you are tall enough to sit on one of the stools. Appleby, bring your stool over here.”

A tall, lanky youth, who was already wearing the pimples and furze of embarrassed adolescence, approached, stool in hand, and placed the new ordeal in front of the two of them.

“See if you can sit on that with your feet flat on the ground,” the predator said, and her prey dutifully tried - but, sadly, to no avail. He desperately stretched his body this way and that, but, although he could get one of his feet onto the floor below him, the other, treacherously, remained dangling in the air. It was now a battle, a battle between him and all the malign forces that deprived him of his due. He slid forward, as surreptitiously as he could, to gain an extra inch or two, but the eagle eyes spotted it and tut-tutted him back. He even tried loosening the sandal on his foot so that it, at least, might rest on the ground and, for a moment, it nearly worked, but Mrs. Gover, still equally determined to win this battle of inequalities, knelt down and felt the detached heel hovering above its erstwhile companion.

“No......No, I’m sorry, but you don’t quite make the grade. Maybe in a year or so’s time,” she said, though not perhaps with the same degree of triumph in her voice as there had been previously.

Niall knew he was beaten, knew that, once again, something had been given to him and then taken away. He didn’t wait for the inevitable dismissal, but turned and trudged wearily back towards the door. As he went, though, he sensed that the atmosphere around him had changed. The contemptuous looks had been replaced by winking eye and begrudging grin and, whereas shoulders had previously been kept in his way, now they moved, almost respectfully, out of his path. It was as though the children, having witnessed his ordeal at the hands of a common foe, accepted him as one of their own, like them a victim.

“Well tried!”

It was Clare again, glowing with pride, and Niall, seeing that he had not failed her, felt his spirits lift.

When he reached the door, he noticed a vague outline hovering in the shadows. It was Mrs. Simpson. She must have watched the whole episode and now, moved by pleasure in his performance and a mixture of anger and relief at his rejection, she did what she had previously refrained from doing and swept him up in a giant bear-like hug.

That day, the children wandered home, each in their own way, each for their own reasons, feeling happy and, all things considered, remarkably carefree.

Clare was chattering on, like a brook in full flood, as indeed she was wont to do when she was excited, about how her brother had done this and Mrs. Gover had done that and her friends had thought the whole thing was really good and Susie said............

Anna, at whom the story was aimed, wasn’t really listening but was absorbed in the memories of the games she had played that day. She skipped along the track, humming a snatch of a tune she had heard somewhere, lost in her world of make-believe and happy distraction. She had, however, witnessed Niall’s return to her classroom and, like her elder sister, had for a moment or two been able to bask in the reflected kudos. Quite why, though, she neither knew nor particularly cared. Her brother had done well at something or other and Mrs. Simpson had said something nice about him in front of the class and that, in the simple parameters of her thought, more than sufficed.

Niall, in the meantime, was ambling a little way back, embarrassed at the unusual praise being heaped on him but also curiously pleased with himself. He had lost a battle but, somehow, the defeat had been mysteriously transformed and, instead of feeling downcast and humiliated, he now was, inexplicably, elated. Perhaps it’s because I didn’t let Clare down, or Mrs. Simpson, he thought; perhaps it’s because I didn’t run away, like I did before.

The mood of chattering light-heartedness lasted all the way down the winding path and even across the mud-streaked road. It only began to wane into silence, as they rounded the corner and saw the house perched in sombre shadow below the sun-lined church.

Niall hesitated before crossing the threshold into the gravel driveway that laced around the side of the house. He needed to understand what had happened at school, why it seemed somehow important, why he felt as he did. And then he realized.

He was playing the scene back through his mind, in search of an explanation, and, at the same time, thinking about the return home, when, suddenly, the two faces, the faces of his immediate past and present, crept, like creatures of the night, from the depths of his imagination, and slowly merged into one. In that instant, he knew what he had confronted and what he had learnt.

We do it to ourselves, he said to himself, we let them into our minds, we let them use our fear to destroy us.

Then he remembered the sight of Mrs. Gover scrabbling around on the floor, in a desperate attempt to prove a ridiculous point, and he laughed, laughed from the depth of his stomach, laughed from the core of his soul.

“What’s the joke?”

His father had come out to see what was keeping him and was clearly puzzled by the sight of his son, standing there, in the middle of the path, with his hands on his hips, guffawing loudly. That’s not like Niall, he thought to himself, I wonder what’s got into him? However, the moment passed, unanswered, driven into the back of his mind by the pressing news he bore.

“Grandad’s here. He’s come all the way down from up north,” he said, then added proudly, “just to see us!”

“Who? What do you mean ‘Grandad’?”

“My father, who else do you think I mean?”

His grandfather? Here?

The announcement immediately wiped all other thoughts from Niall’s mind. He had never really thought of his father being anyone’s son. The idea seemed strange, and slightly unsettling, further muddying, as it did, a pond already obscured by all that had happened. However, this, in turn, was swept away by an over-riding sense of curiosity.

What does he look like? Why is here? Why haven’t I heard about him before?

His father had been standing quietly watching his reaction and, when he saw Niall’s eyes light up, he smiled proudly and, once again looking like his companion from the road, lead the way in.

For some reason that he didn’t quite understand, they went into the small breakfast room, where the children usually had their bath in the big tin tub kept on the back of the scullery door. Niall had to adjust his sight to the darkness that greeted him there, and, as he did so, he saw his mother talking nervously to someone over by the large open fire-place which dominated the room. He took another couple of paces forward, feeling increasingly uncertain of himself, and realized that there was a short and stocky man sat in front of her, in the high-backed rocking chair, which she had once bought from a dusty antique shop in one of the drab towns of the flatlands. The man had obviously been waiting for him because he immediately leant forward and, with a wink and wry grin, said:

“Hallo, thee must be Niall!”

Niall, already somewhat at a loss, was further confused by the burr in the voice and the strange sound of the words. He stepped back, wondering what to make of it all.

His grandfather was clearly quite old, you could tell that much from his grizzled grey hair, but in some ways he seemed remarkably youthful. His eyes twinkled, even in the half light of the shaded room, and spoke of a warm and humorous personality. Tthere was also a strength exuding from his muscular frame. It was, however, the hands that particularly caught Niall’s attention: they were immensely broad, covered in a mat of black hair and had fingers that gripped his knees now like the gnarled roots of an enormous tree. They were, self-evidently, the hands of a working man, the battle-scarred veterans of many years of unremitting labour, and, somehow, they seemed to bestow on their owner a curious kind of dignity and honour.

Niall found himself looking back at his father, who was stood behind him trying to gently usher him forward, and was absorbed by the contrast. There were similarities and Niall, in particular, remembered the same expression in his father’s eyes on that ill-fated Sunday, but these were more than outweighed by the differences. Where the father was weathered and compact, the son was slender and slightly sallow; where the father was strong and confident, the son was weak. As he gazed at his father’s pale face protruding from beneath his balding pate, he wondered how the one could be the child of the other and was, for a moment, jealous of the benign power emanating from the older man.

It was about then that he noticed the teeth. Floating in a glass on the table. He instinctively took another step backwards, his mind recoiling in surprise - and revulsion. His grandfather had, however, followed the line of his sight, and seen his reaction. He chuckled and said :

“It’s all right, son, they’re only me false teeth. I teks ‘em out, when I’m feeling dowzy, or when I’ve bin jawing too much. I keep mi real wuns for special occasion!”

Niall felt his stomach turn and had to resist a strong impulse to flee, but the old man held his eye and urged him to come and sit by him, which, after a slight hesitation, he did.

“Nah then, tell uz about theeself.” His grandfather said geNially.“I hear thee’s a bit of a star!”

Niall’s eyes widened in recurring surprise. What on earth made him say that? Who would tell him anything like that? He looked towards his father for an explanation, and the coy smile he was wearing was answer enough. He must have been talking to Mrs. Simpson, he thought to himself, and, as he drifted into the conversation with his grandfather, he mused on an idea which both irritated and pleased him, in equal degree.

Sadly, ‘Grandad’ only stayed until the evening, but, during that time, Niall was able to watch and enjoy the strange effect he had on his parents. His father was more confident and more at ease than he could ever remember him being, while his mother seemed oddly sheepish and restrained. He couldn’t help wishing his grandfather could stay a little longer - or perhaps return at some time in the future. He also couldn’t stop himself from wondering why his existence had been kept a secret, but then he thought again of his mother - and knew the reason why.

But maybe there was hope, after all

Chapter Nine

Just as they had begun to believe that they would never see him again, Niall’s father emerged from his seclusion. It was, by now, late into Autumn and the trees had changed the green of their livery for the vibrant russets and copper-browns that forewarned the coming of the winter winds. The house had settled back into the familiarity of routine and, in many ways, it was a happy time, orchestrated as it was by the lighter, softer tunes that now reverberated through its corridors. Niall, though, despite the smiling facade, kept his distance. He knew that the warmth and the laughter around him came at a price, and he was unwilling and unable to pay. Even if his father failed to resurface, there was still his memory, and the many other memories too, demanding their own kind of payment. But surface he did, one cold morning, when the clouds sat heavy in the sky, obscuring the frail sunshine.

Niall had left the house early, that morning, to savour the freshness of the air and to see the pony, which now grazed in a distant meadow. The dew lay thick on the grass beneath a cloaking bank of mist and the world was reduced to strange shapes that loomed suddenly from the shadows. The boy, however, was quite content. This was his territory, and he knew it well, knew that there was nothing here that would ensnare or endanger him.

When he reached the little field, he discovered that one of the local farmers had been out felling trees recently. Large trunks rested here and there, some stripped and naked, some hacked and gutted, the red and apricot-orange of their flesh testimony to the axe.

Niall recognized one or two of the fallen giants, an old oak that had stood with ivy-lined solemnity in the nearby hedgerow and a young silver birch which had once been home to nests of bluetits, and he mourned their passing. He was sufficiently well-versed in the way of the countryside to appreciate this as a necessary evil, but, as with the sight of the red-marked lambs, he still resented what he saw as man’s intrusion into his land.

It also struck a chord within him, a chord that resonated dully inside the rawness of his mind. He stood by the birch for a while, wondering what had happened to the chicks from the nests, and then, seeing the parent birds flying forlorn overhead, realized the inevitability of their fate, and turned quickly away. There were parallels here in the haze, but this was not the time to face them.

He found himself a place on the fence that intermittently shored up the hedge running down the side of the meadow, and waited for the pony to develop an interest in him. Experience had taught him not to chase, not to look concerned, but instead to feign a casual disdain, and, sure enough, the horse eventually emerged from the mist and ambled over towards him. They were not so much friends, as old adversaries joined by a mutual respect and a mutual dislike of the human world that had sought to dominate both of them, and now they greeted each other with restrained politeness, the one nodding his head and pawing at the ground with his hoof, the other click-clicking with his tongue and teeth and then proffering the horse-nuts he had brought for the occasion.

The pony sniffed, turned his head away in apparent disgust, snorted and, having observed the niceties of the ritual, dutifully stretched out its discoloured teeth and delicately took the gift. As it wheeled away in celebration of its unfettered independence, Niall remembered that distant day when those teeth had flashed in venom and loathing. He had hated the horse then, and yet now here they were, alone in the swirling of the mist, trusting each other and sharing their isolation. He mused on the reasons why, why things had changed in the way they had, and, as the horse trotted up for another mouthful of nuts, realized that it must have something to do with defiance, or at least the lack of weakness. Maybe that’s the answer, he muttered to himself, though still uncertain as to what question he was trying to resolve.

Eventually, the cold moisture of the dew began to seep through his broken shoes and force its way into his thoughts. He glanced up at the horse, but it had moved away, the conversation over. Niall watched it fading back into the mist, and wished he too could disappear, could merge with the trees and the hills and never have to return to the complexities awaiting him in the world outside. But he knew he couldn’t, the damp and the cold told him that much, so, with a sigh and a final lingering look at the shadows, he began to trudge back towards his home.

When he got there, there was nothing to suggest that anything had changed, no outward sign that his father, too, had emerged from the mist and the shadows. The house still squatted in the lee of the brown-stone church, a trickle of smoke still rose from the wood-burner beneath the column of the chimney stack, the windows still glistened with the frost and condensation of the early morning hour. Nothing at all seemed different to when he had left it, but, as he pushed the kitchen door open, he knew that something had happened. The air itself breathed with renewed tension, and the echoes of the recent laughter had dissolved, and been replaced by a cold and empty silence.

He swung round, his guard rapidly rising, but, to begin with, could see nothing. Then, he heard a dry cough coming from the darkness of one of the corners, and, as he looked closer, he realized it was his father, sitting in the curved Windsor chair by the burner. At least, it appeared to be his father, but it could just as well have been a total stranger.

Niall felt his breath pour from his lungs, as though he had been thumped in the pit of his belly. The stranger in the chair was old and haggard, and his eyes, as far as he could see in the flickering of the open grate, were hollow pits, devoid of any spark of vitality. He was hunched in the chair, like a rag doll, his skeletal frame pushing awkwardly at the stained and faded shirt, and his legs were curiously stretched out in front of him - as if they were the dead boughs of a dying tree. He didn’t move, didn’t seem to be aware of Niall’s presence, but continued to watch the glowing in the grate through the blankness of his stupor.

Something deep inside Niall made him move forward, made him defy his growing revulsion. It could have been a perverse curiosity, or the need to try and prove his initial reaction wrong, but, whatever it was, it propelled him remorselessly onward, until he stood beside the shell that, once upon a time, had been a man. Even now, he didn’t stir.

Niall gazed at him with the calm indifference of shock and, as the seconds passed, slowly knew that this stranger was indeed his father.

“I’m sorry.”

Niall leapt in surprise. He hadn’t expected him to speak, he had seemed so alien, so lost in the hollowness that something as familiar as speech had somehow seemed beyond him. Yet he had, and, as Niall recovered his wits, he felt the soft tendrils of warmth beginning to push back the cold inside him. The voice had been cracked and weak and had borne the unmistakable trace of pain and sadness, but it had been his father’s voice, and its familiarity gave him the strength to face the broken body before him.

“Why.......... what are you.......” Niall paused, confused by the strangeness of his own voice now, “what are you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry to have caused so much trouble,” his father replied, “I didn’t want it to be like this, I really didn’t, but everything ..........everything seems to go wrong. Maybe your mother’s got it right..........maybe things would be better, if I wasn’t here.”

Niall looked at him again and saw the hollow pools had filled with tears. He felt his father’s sadness and, at that moment, knew that he loved him. He gently leant forward and put his arms around the bony edge of his father’s shoulders, and then hugged him close. They stayed like that for a long time, each swimming in the tide of their own need, and when Niall eventually stood back, he could feel his own tears coursing slowly down his cheeks.

But what could he say? How was he to give a grown man the answers, the strength that he in turn was searching for? He shook his head in bewilderment and, embarrassed at his own inadequacy, looked away. Words flickered through his mind, half-formed bubbles rising from the deep and evaporating in the harsh glare of daylight. What could he say to heal the wounds so manifest before him? How could anything help?

“Does it hurt much?” was, in the end, all he could manage, but he knew that the question was foolish and reddened as he heard the words flapping feebly in the air.

His father said nothing for a while, his eyes wandering again to the fireplace as though in search of the warmth and the light that his life had for so long lacked. Niall was grateful that his question had seemingly gone unheard.

But it hadn’t, his father had clearly been thinking how best to answer, for, just as Niall was beginning to back away, to leave him to the privacy of his suffering, he peered up from the streaked, lined fretwork of his face and said,

“Yes, I suppose it does. It’s not as bad as it was, though, and the doctors are giving me things that help. Don’t you worry yourself about it, I’ll be fine.”

His voice was now slightly more distinct and a faint but weary smile flitted momentarily across his lips. He was obviously fighting for control and trying to find a dignity and strength with which to hold back the bitter wind of despair that howled within the ruins of his body. Niall again warmed to him.

“What about your legs, they said that they were both broken?” The question was somehow easier now, as though each exchange was breaking down the barriers that grief and shock had created.

“Yes........they are,” his father replied, hesitantly, “I’ve got them strapped up at the moment, so I don’t know how bad ................... but I’m sure they’ll mend. I just need some rest and I’m sure I’ll be as right as rain.”

Niall was not convinced, but it was good to hear him at least beginning to fight back. He needed to have hope, even if it was illusory; he needed to try and build some sort of raft from the wreckage. He paused, as other questions began to cluster like pigeons cooing in the eaves. One in particular jostled loudly in his mind, but he feared the answer. There was still something strange in his father, something very distant, and he knew that returning him to the belfry on that fateful day could push him back into the shadows from which he was now struggling to emerge. He tried instead to find a different tack.

“I’ve just been out in the fields. I went to give...........”

But he never completed the thought. At that moment, his mother suddenly appeared in the doorway and Niall, in one swift look, knew that the change had not survived the resurrection. Her face had lost the fresh bloom that laughter had, for a while, given it and now wore the familiar mantle of sharp and thorny anger. The eyes, which had, of late, smiled and sparkled, now were darkened by malevolence. She was not really aware of Niall, he was an irrelevance, an irritant barely worth a cursory look of contempt. It was her husband that drew her attention, and she clearly did not mean him well. Niall flinched, as the coldness swept back in. He could perhaps have guessed that it was bound to be like this, and, from time to time, had, in some part of his mind at least, anticipated it, but the shock of seeing his father again and the suddenness of his mother’s unmasking had left him unprepared, and so he reeled from the blow as surely as if she had struck him.

“And what do you think you are doing?” she hissed.

His father had sunk back into the curve of his chair, when she had burst through the doorway, and now he ground his spine into its wooden spindles. Niall saw the soft gleam of life that had begun to glow in his eyes fading rapidly into the depths and knew that the small spark of hope had been extinguished. He groaned silently, and, unable to face the resurgence of his nightmares, slid unnoticed around the formidable shape that was his mother, and fled into the darkness of the corridor.

The muffled sounds of conflict sped him on his way and, as he hurtled up the staircase, he careered into Clare, who was climbing down towards the hall. She had obviously only just woken up and was completely flummoxed by the collision.

“What are you doing?” she snapped, trying to rub the sleep from her bleary and unwilling eyes.

“Can’t you hear?”

He was so overwhelmed by what was happening that he automatically assumed she would know what he was talking about, but she didn’t, and stared at him with growing irritation. Then she, too, heard - and realized what it meant. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes were suddenly stripped of all vestiges of slumber, as her mind was flooded by waves of confusion - and fear.

The two remained where they were, allowing the reality to sink in, and then Clare gave a stifled cry and fled towards her bedroom. Niall stayed a moment longer, wondering whether he should, or indeed could, do something, but he too was frightened and the thought of his mother stalking her prey, with all the deadly menace of a long overdue kill, was sufficient to expel any such thought from his mind. He returned to the simplicity of flight, but, as he did so, he knew in his heart that he, too, had failed but that, one day, he must, and would, find the courage, the strength to stop and fight.

* * *

The strife raged, intermittently, for some time after that. The children learnt again the virtues of concealment and silence, and faded into the greyness of their faces. The daytime hours were spent mostly at school, but, even then, their imaginations kept them informed about what must be happening at home and so they would drift morosely through the hours before returning to find their fears confirmed. Even Anna had lost her chuckling good humour and had started to snap and spit as the tension eat into her soul. Niall was saddened to see her change. She had always been a spark that brightened up the gloom and to watch the light fading was like seeing the petals of a delicate and fragrant rose succumbing to the bitterness of winter. He wondered, too, what effect the constant exposure must be having on his youngest sister, who was still too young to join them in their partial escape. But what could he do, what could anybody do?

The evenings were, inevitably, yet more difficult and, in an attempt to keep the stalking beast at bay, they devized all manner of strategem and ploy with which to protect themselves. Whatever daylight was left before the onset of the ever-lengthening nights was spent outside, far away from both sight and summons; when darkness forced them back into the house, they sought the sanctuary of the little attic that ran, compressed, above their bedrooms and offered some safety in the narrowness of its steps and the dust and cobwebs in which they sat, quietly whispering about the sorrows of their plight; meals were, if possible, to be avoided, or, if not, to be eaten with disguised haste; early sleep was advized, even if it was feigned, as indeed it often was. They learnt to work as a team, scouting and fending for each other as best they could, and, although it was a small solace, Niall was pleased to see the bonds, that had grown loose in recent times, now beginning to return.

Eventually, the fury began to subside, though, and the predator

slunk back to her lair, content, for the time being at least, to

remind her prey about her presence with just the odd growl and snarl from the tangled undergrowth. Her cubs slowly crept out of their cover, blinking in the harshness of the light, and went to inspect the kill. They found him, propped up on makeshift wooden crutches, desperately trying to clear the debris of the latest conflict. He was clearly terrified, and, when he saw them watching him from the shadows of the doorway, waved them away with a violence born from the extremity of both his fear, and his shame.

The girls retreated, unable to countenance the scene before them, but Niall stayed where he was. He had seen his father drowning, had reached out a hand to pull him from the waves and then, when the shark appeared, circling in the waters around him, had let him go again and abandoned him to his fate. It had been one too many failures and the sight of his father standing over the shards of the broken pots, feebly trying to sweep them up on legs that would not, could not bend to the task, broke the restraints of fear, and brought the sediments of guilt and responsibility flooding to the surface. He hurried over to him and, despite his protestations, gently took the dustpan and brush away from the trembling hands.

“I’ll do this,” he muttered, as he surveyed the wreckage in front of him.

“But......but you can’t,” his father stammered, eyes flicking nervously towards the darkness of the doorway, “she’ll kill me, if she finds you......”

Niall straightened, and looked at him.

“I don’t think I care,” he said eventually. “You can’t do this, and, with you like that, you shouldn’t have to. Anyway, it’s......... it’s about time someone stood up to her.”

“But you don’t know what you’re dealing with. When she’s in this mood, she doesn’t know what she’s doing and she’s............she’s very dangerous.”

“Oh, I know that. I know far more than you realize, and I’m not going to let her do this to you. You’re ill ........ and things like this can only make it worse.”

His father gazed at him, as though, for a moment, he was seeing him through new eyes, then he sighed, shook his head gently and turned away.

“Maybe you’re right,” he murmured, “but, if she comes in, for God’s sake give the things back to me.”

Niall got on with the sweeping. At first, his arms and his back were taut with tension and he could feel the brooding silence watching him, slowing his every movement, but then the simple dynamics of the task gradually took over and he found himself enjoying the escape it offered and relishing the opportunity to at last exorcise at least some of his guilt. He gathered the fragments of china, which lay in scattered pools across the kitchen floor, and wrapped them in the newspaper that his father had managed to find. He then carefully wiped the walls to remove the traces of impact, and stood back to inspect his handiwork. The room appeared to have been restored and the tidying done, but, just as he was about to hand the pan and brush back to his father, he noticed one or two recalcitrant pieces peeping from below the table. He bent down to collect them and, when he straightened, realized his father was frozen to the spot, his eyes fixed firmly on the doorway. The electricity crackling in the air explained precisely why.

Niall froze for a moment as well and then edged himself round, hoping against all hope that his instincts were wrong. But they weren’t, his mother was standing there, framed by the shadows behind her and with a look of malign satisfaction spread across her face. Niall felt like a thief caught taking apples from the orchard and tried to hide the evidence of his crime, waiting all the while for the inevitable retribution, but for some reason it never arrived. His mother looked at him, looked at his father, then gave a little snort of contempt and, with her lip curled in derision, disappeared back into the darkness.

For a second or two, neither of them moved. The shock of her arrival and the even greater surprise of her departure had sapped the energy from their limbs and thrown a cloak of paralysis over their minds. Only the ticking of the clock on the wall and the faint whispering of laughter that seemed to echo around them broke the grip of silence.

When he finally recovered his wits, Niall glanced at his father, again in search of answers as much as comfort, but his father had merely sunk deeper below the waves of his fear, and was staring out of the window with the same glazed and forlorn expression that Niall had seen in the stranger on the chair. There were no answers there, and probably never would be. Niall would somehow have to find his own.

Although the rescue had failed, it did set a pattern for what was to follow. Niall, and gradually the two older girls, found themselves assisting their crippled father more and more. It was tolerated by their mother, so long as it was not done in front of her, though why was still a mystery. There were even occasions when she interrupted them as they helped him with the chores or with his other needs around the house and, on these occasions, she would stop and turn away, while they recreated the illusion of his

isolation. Then, she would sweep in, as though nothing had been seen and nothing done. It was a curious charade, which none of them could understand, but, like the fish that are allowed to swim with impunity in and out of the shark’s gaping mouth, they gradually grew accustomed to it, until it finally became an integral part of their ever-changing lives.

One day, the doctor came again, this time to remove the bandages that had hidden and protected their father’s damaged legs. Clare and Niall watched him arrive from their vantage point on the wall outside the barn and, when he left with his little brown case clutched tightly in his well-knuckled hand, they looked at each other in mute understanding and then crept quietly into the house, to see how well the invalid had survived this, his latest ordeal.

When they reached the bedroom, they found him propped up in the bed, almost completely concealed by the drawn curtains and the blankets that were piled upon him. As they peered anxiously into the gloom, they at first thought that he had fallen asleep, and started to tiptoe away. Then, however, a dry, febrile voice slid through the dust-lined air.

“I don’t suppose you could wash my legs for me. They’re incredibly itchy........... it must be because of the bandages and everything.”

The two of them gulped, equally torn between their sense of duty and the child’s instinctive horror both of the unknown and for the breaking of illusions, but they knew they would comply. Choice was a luxury that had rarely featured in their lives, whereas unquestioning obedience had long ago been hammered into the very metal of their souls.

Clare sighed and went off to find a basin of water, leaving her brother to face the task of baring the source of many a recent nightmare. He gritted his teeth and carefully pulled back the sheets to reveal two withered and decrepit stretches of bone, covered only by a thin layer of purple and yellow parchment. It was difficult to see how this had once been flesh, how these had once been legs. As he looked closer, he could see great craters on the knees and ankles, craters that wept with the putrid smell of poison. He blanched and tore his eyes away, before his disgust and the nausea creeping up his throat became all too apparent.

“Not a pretty sight, eh?” his father muttered.

“Oh, it’s.......um....not too bad,” Niall lied. He desperately wanted to sound convincing, but it was hard to keep the revulsion that was all the time coiling tighter in his stomach from affecting his voice.

His father groaned. Clearly, Niall’s attempts had failed and so, forcing a smile across his mouth, he tried again:

“No, really, it isn’t as bad as you..............” but, fortunately, he didn’t have to finish, as just then Clare re-appeared, a look of triumph and determination shining through the steam that poured from the basin in her hands.

They each took another deep breath, then carefully bathed the legs, paying particular attention to the ulcers and trying as best they could to remove the poison. Clare was much better at this than Niall and he eventually leant back and watched, in admiration, as she worked. For a moment, he saw her in a completely different light, and, as she chatted away, sometimes chiding, sometimes soothing, but all with a dexterity and strength that he had never seen in her before, he was glad to have her as a sister.

When they had finished, Clare tenderly replaced the covers and then leant her father forward while she plumped up the pillows behind him.

“How does that feel now?” she said, her voice full of cheerful good spirits that Niall knew he could simply not match.

“A bit better,” her father replied, with a vague attempt at a smile. “I’m sorry to have to ask you to do this, but I can’t.............”

The words faded in his mouth and, for a while, there was an embarrassing silence. Niall struggled to find something to say, but once again it was his sister who saved the day.

“Don’t worry........I don’t mind doing it. Just ask when you need help.” She had got up as she was speaking and Niall was already heading towards the door, grateful for the relief it offered, when he heard her say:

“Do you think the legs are going to recover? Are you going to be able to walk on them again?”

Her father didn’t answer to begin with and Niall felt his pulse quicken as the tension mounted. He glanced at Clare, his brow furroughed in a half-formed accusation, but she was oblivious to it and now radiated such a confidence and authority that the reproach quickly died on the breath. He realized that it was a question that needed to be asked, an ulcer just as poisonous as the ones on his father’s legs, and he was glad again that she had had the courage to do what he could not. He turned back to his father, and waited for the reply.

It was a long time in coming. Their father seemed lost in the ghosts of his own reflections and unwilling or unable to respond, but, just as they were starting to feel exasperated by his silence, he sighed and then said,

“ I don’t know. The doctor told me that I’ve damaged my hips as well and that only time will tell whether it all heals properly. He says that if I take it gently ........... and get the right sort of care, there’s a fairly good chance, but he doesn’t really know. It’s all guesswork at the moment.”

The two children looked at each other again. There was nothing else that could be said or done and so they eased their way to the awaiting door, trying hard to conceal the dismay that their father’s tone, as much as the words themselves, had stirred in them. As they quietly closed the door behind them, they heard their father groan, and felt the echo reverberate through them.

Little by little, the chores and the duties increased. At first, the children were buoyed by their pride in the new-found responsibility and by the illusion of a difference made and a

guilt somehow allayed, but gradually such things waned and the tasks became more and more onerous and intrusive. It was not so much the work in itself, but the helplessness and the whining self-defeat which they encountered.

Their father seemed to have lost what little resolve he had once possessed and the more the children did for him, the more his needs and dependence grew. He would also gripe and complain at this or that, as their youthful minds and fingers failed to do as he required, and this eventually began to sap their enthusiasm and determination.

Nothing was ever said, but Niall noticed his temper shortening and his tongue sharpening. He would chide himself later and try that much harder on the next occasion, but it was difficult to contain the growing resentment and to hide the revulsion that he had never quite managed to overcome.

One day, he decided to talk to Clare about it, to try and gain some of the strength that she still continued to show. He found her sitting in her bedroom, quietly reading a book.

“Clare......I know I shouldn’t feel like this, but...........” he hesitated, reluctant to voice his shame, and fearful of her scorn, but she smiled softly at him and so he continued, “I’m beginning to find it a bit hard to cope with..........You know, the washing and the dressing...... and everything else. I don’t know what to do about it.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, but looked down at her book, as though completely disinterested in what she had just heard. Then she slowly shut the book, and looked up at him.

“Yes, I know what you mean,” she said. “It’s all becoming ........... a bit.... a bit too much. I didn’t mind it to start off with, but now............. I think he’s getting worse, moaning on all the time like that and.......... I know he can’t help it but it doesn’t half get you down........... and as for those sores on his legs ............”

Niall was genuinely surprised. He had expected disapproval or at best condescending tolerance, not agreement, and whole-hearted agreement at that. Relief flooded through him, as he stammered back,

“But I thought you ........... I thought it was just me. It didn’t seem to be affecting you. You’ve been really.......”

“I suppose it must have looked like that,” she replied, “but underneath............... I was nearly sick the first time I saw his legs and now there are ........ all those revolting sores! I think they’re called bed-sores. I don’t think I can do……. it …..much longer.”

They chatted on for quite a while, warmed and reassured by the conspiracy of their feelings and by the sharing of the secret. It eased the tensions inside them and, for some reason, gave them both the determination to carry on, which they did, boosted by the knowledge of their own weakness and the wry support that they were now able to give each other.

From time to time, Niall found himself musing on the lesson he had learnt. Things are not always what they appear to be, he decided, and, as he gazed out of his bedroom window at the trees swaying in the wind, he realized that sometimes a line of saplings will survive the gale a lot better than the mightiest oak. He also thought again about his mother and slowly began to understand why she had turned her back on this. She was making a point and at the same time coldly stripping the victim of any remaining affection. He remembered the look on her face and the mocking laughter which had swept, gull-like, over his first feeble attempt to rescue his drowning father. He sighed and resigned himself to continuing the bailing. This time he was ready, this time he was prepared to pay the price.

Winter came quickly that year, and the trees soon lost their autumn radiance. A cloying dampness enveloped the world, as the mists and frost swept through the valley and the rains beat out their intricate patterns on the window panes. Greys and darkened browns became the colours of the day and the fields lay silent, apart from the odd swooping wing of birds searching for the scraps of life left behind by the ebbing tide.

Niall still frequented the stream and the wilderness, and was amazed by the power of the torrent that now swept along the river bed, dragging with it the fallen trunks of willow trees which once had idly caressed its gentle waters. He would also spend hours exploring the great edifices and glistening cascades that the icy frost had sculpted on the branches of the hidden orchard and would sit beside the tree-lined pool in the wilderness, wondering what mysteries now floated beneath its frozen mantle. It was a time of death and dullness, but, even in the sterile wastes, there was still a splendour, still a clarity and precision that made him marvel. It was only when his numbed hands and his drenched clothes drove him back to the house that the gloom and despondency of the season began to eat into his bones.

Christmas came and went, and the rituals of the red stocking and the parcels beneath the tree were duly observed. It was, in some ways at least, a better time, a time when children could whoop with delight at their small, but valued acquisitions and could sit

and enjoy the tales that tradition reserved for the day, but there was, this year even more than on previous years, an underlying sense of disquiet and omen. Niall’s father had finally re-emerged from his temporary retirement and had shuffled precariously up the path to conduct the Midnight Mass. This had always been a relaxed and festive occasion, and, as such, was a fitting way to return, or at least it should have been. The cat had other ideas, though, and was still intent on toying with her prey.

Tradition dictated that, with the exception of Emily, who was safely tucked up in bed for the night, all the family went to this service and, having been sent to read quietly in their bedrooms for much of the evening, the three older children were eventually summoned down, to accompany their parents to the awaiting church. This year, however, only their father stood on the threshold, his prayer book clutched beneath an arm and his body hoist uneasily on his frail supports. Of their mother, there was no sign, other than the shifting, anxious eyes of her erstwhile victim. They knew better than to ask questions, but the questions nonetheless sat heavy on their brow as they guided their father’s unwieldy feet up the slope and into his pulpit. Normally, the flickering candles that illuminated the mass, and the quiet reflection of the service would have seemed cosy and full of seasonal mystery, but not on this occasion. The shadows that chased each other around the buttresses and arches of the small church were instead somehow menacing now, evoking images of the creature that paced and watched from the valley below, and the silences merely allowed their tension to grow.

When the service was over, they helped their father put away the sacraments and then the forlorn group trudged wearily home, their voices and their hearts stilled by what they all knew was yet to come. And come it did, not immediately, not suddenly, but like a thunder cloud that slowly builds on the horizon, coiling, darkening, as the charge at its core remorselessly mounts. The storm itself finally broke just before the Christmas lunch, when their father had returned from the morning service. He had made the merest reference to the absence of his wife, but that was all it took. She exploded in the violent coruscation of unleashed rage and, as the pots and pans flew, poured a torrent of abuse on all who dared to move within her range. It was a fearsome spectacle that swept away the structures of the day and left the family to wander desolate through the drenched remains. Not for the first time, the children went to bed, relieved that the festivities were over.

The following day, Clare rode out to join the great Boxing Day hunt. Time was when the family would have gone too and rejoiced both in the panoply of its colours and in the merriment and joviality that the season gave it. It had always been an occasion for people to clear their heads from the excesses of the previous day and to renew old friendships over cups of steaming mulled wine, but Clare rode out alone that morning, leaving a

confused and dispirited house behind her. Its curtained eyes seemed to brood on the violence of both its past and its future, and the darkness that hovered within precluded all thought of celebration. Niall watched as she disappeared down the track, and envied her the solace of her departure. However, although they were both still unaware of it, this was to be her last hunt.

The news did not break until well into the New Year. The children had already returned to the red-bricked confines of the school at Hallerton and, as the slush and sleet took grip, had resigned themselves to the blandness that seems to characterize that part of the year. The days drifted by in a grey and mechanical routine and even their parents appeared to have sunk into a mood of sombre acquiescence. They were, as a result, ill prepared for the surprise, even if it had, in other ways, been well signalled.

That day, they arrived home, tired from the effects of Mrs Gover’s droning tongue and sapped by the brittle chill that had accompanied them on their journey home, and found their father waiting for them in the kitchen. His eyes were hooded in a way that made his mood difficult to read, but it was clear from the exaggerated hunch of his shoulders that something unpleasant was hovering in his mind and, when he summoned Clare into the study with all the formality of an interview, the others knew that whatever it was, it was fairly serious. They huddled as close to the door as they dared, but the heavy oak blanketed the sound and reduced everything to an incomprehensible mutter.

Eventually, it stopped and Clare emerged, her face coloured with the reds and whites of shock, her hands gripped tight in the fist of anger. As she dashed past them, with tears already welling from her eyes, she gasped,

“They’re getting rid of my pony. They’re going to kill it...............They’re bloody well going to kill it!”

It took a while for what she had said to sink in, but eventually it did. To begin with, Niall was bewildered by the news, then he remembered what he had been told and what he had later seen in the letter, and was consumed by a surge of anger. He hated his grandfather for his coldheartedness, he hated his mother for her self-serving ambitions, he hated the world for the way it was. He wanted to rage, to hit out at something ........ but what was the point, what difference would it make?

The horse had been right to fear the effects of human contact and to fight against the people who had seemed to mean it well. They are not to be trusted, he muttered bitterly beneath his breath, none of them.

He went into the study and tried to reason with his father, tried to persuade him to sell the horse instead, but his father simply observed what to him, at least, were the realities of money and age, and Niall, smelling the defeat and resignation that muddied the air, again was forced to accept that he could change nothing. He ran out of the house and, as he made for the fields, he cursed the irony of it all. A man of weakness, a man who now relied on the strength of others, was deciding the fate of an animal who had, in its independence, stood firm against the lesser mortals that sought to weaken it. And he had decided that it should die.

At first he ran without any real sense of direction, blinded as he

was by the emotions once more pulsating within him, but gradually he became aware that his feet were being drawn to a

particular path, a path that led inevitably towards the field where he knew the horse would be grazing.

By the time he arrived, he had regained at least some sort of control over his feelings and was able to sit on his familiar perch and watch the pony in the distance. It was resting quietly over by the spinney that sheltered it from the worst of the weather, and to begin with it seemed oblivious to his presence. Then it looked up and, without ever appearing to notice him, carefully munched its way to within earshot, though, for some reason, this time, it studiously avoided coming any closer. It continued instead to graze quietly, content in the security of its own space. Niall’s mind raced with all manner of madcap schemes for its rescue, but, just as he had resolved to saddle it up and ride off in search of a better world, it looked up again and studied its youthful companion.

“And what exactly is the problem?” it seemed to ask, and, when Niall’s eyes provided the answer, “Oh that.........wasn’t that obvious? Didn’t you know that that was what was always going to happen?”

It snorted in derision and Niall shook his head, in acknowledgment of his foolishness and his sorrow. The horse continued to watch him, then turned its head to one side and gazed at him with an expression that said,

“There’s nothing either of us can do about it. This is the way it is. You can fight them ............. but you can’t beat them.”

It paused for a moment, chewing reflectively on a mouthful of damp grass, and then added, “The only thing they can’t bloody take away from you is your soul, not so long as you remain true to yourself.”

They stayed there for quite some time after that, the one ruminating gently through the blades of grass, resigned and yet defiant, the other sifting through the tendrils of his

thoughts, defiant and, bit by bit, resigned. The shadows of the night eventually began to spread and the horse started to wander back towards its spinney. Niall watched it go, and saw it stop and turn one last time. It was the time for farewells,

“Goodbye, Nicky,” he murmured, “I hope they let you run free in the meadows of the sky.”

The horse remained motionless, but, after a moment or two, whinnied, as though to say,

“Goodbye, boy.............and don’t let the bastards grind you down!”

Then it rolled its eyes, almost as if it was laughing at some private joke, and, kicking its heels high, it hastened off into the depths of the encroaching darkness.

Niall was never to see it again. The men came the following day, well before any of them were awake, and led it away to the knackers. Clare was completely disconsolate, and wept for days, despite her father’s feeble attempts to comfort her. Niall was curiously detached in front of the others, but, in the privacy of his bedroom, also gave way to his grief, and allowed the muffled tears to pour from his silent eyes. He had lost a most unlikely companion, a rock that had somehow offered him refuge from the storm. The waves had, for a time, been stilled, but now they were rushing back, intent on reclaiming their victims. He felt alone and deprived of hope, and only the rustling of the trees outside and a faint whinnying on the breeze sustained him.

Shadows of the Dawn My first novel A book about childhood - and how to survive it

Shadows of the Dawn

My first novel

A book about childhood -
and how to survive it