Northern Spirit

Copyright© Lindsey J.Carden
2011

Cover illustrations, design
and logo by Paul Middleditch©

e.mail [email protected]

All rights reserved. No part
of this book may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into an information
retrieval system, or transmitted(in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without  the prior
written consent of the publisher.

**

Published by Keldas
Chronicles 2011

www.keldaschronicles.yolasite.com

This book is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places and events either are a product
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-0-9569442-1-4

A catalogue record for this
book is available from the British Library

1

PROMISE: 1973

The blue flash hurt David’s eyes; he couldn’t believe the audacity of
the press to come to the funeral. As if they hadn’t got enough photographs, and
that would be another one in all the papers tomorrow, showing him tired with
his dark hair bedraggled, looking older than the twenty-three years he actually
was. His mother would be clinging to his arm, leaning on him heavily, yet
strong and defiant as usual. And what an irony that every photograph they ever
printed of his father, he was always looking handsome. It was usually a copy of
the one that was hanging over the kitchen fireplace, taken several years ago.
David couldn’t comprehend how his mother could leave it there when it meant
nothing but shame. But there would be no more photographs of George Keldas.
Anyone would think it was David that was the offender, and yet it was he who
was to suffer for his father’s impropriety. And today it was the funeral and it
should be all over, except for the humiliation, and David would have to live
with that.

Stopping as he reached the summit of the hill, David could see Keld
Head clearly, as the farm with its outbuildings and tower dominated the
landscape, and then surrounding it a cluster of cottages and houses. Keld Head
was one of those houses that you looked at twice. Not because it was
particularly pretty, or imposing, it was because it looked wrong. The old Pele
tower that had stood there for generations somehow didn’t fit with the rest of
the buildings. Wordsworth had said that houses like this had grown, rather than
been erected, by an instinct of their own out of the native rock. And though
this place was natural, its genetic make-up was defective. You also looked at
Keld Head in awe, like it was a living thing; it must have been because it had
influence over the people that dwelt there. And today, Keld Head was
languishing in grief as it was burying one of its sons and it revelled in the
morbidity: the drama of the funeral cortege, the gloom of a November day, the
weeping of a grieving widow, yes, it feasted on everything, loving the feel of
the sorrow swathed around its stonework.

David stood motionless, in pure silence; he could hear nothing other
than the sound of raindrops falling on leaves. He stared at the farmhouse but
didn’t want to go inside. He knew it would be full of relatives and guests
who’d come to pay their last respects, so the seclusion of the country lane
suited him and he would keep this grief to himself.

David ignored the rain as it blinded his blue eyes and curled his hair
like it always did when it was wet. He kept his hands in his pockets and his
shoulders bent low, feeling the damp seep through the fabric of his suit and
into his shoes, yet he still walked carelessly through the puddles. If you knew
David well, you might have thought he was drunk and, although he had had
several beers, it was grief that made him stagger and nothing else. David
didn’t particularly need to look where he was going because he’d walked this
lane all his life, sometimes alone, sometimes with his friends, but often with
his father. This was a path that could lead him away to seclusion, or back to
the farmhouse where if he wanted the company he knew his brother and sisters
would be waiting.

Today his mother had been generous with her invites. Aunts and uncles
had travelled long distances and David knew they would want to see him, but he
couldn’t face them. From leaving school he’d worked solely with his father,
alone with the cattle and sheep and conversation wasn’t one of his strong
points. He was only capable of using his thoughts; his mind absorbed in the
deep feelings he had, as he reflected on the strange events of the last few
weeks of his life.

David was pulling a black tie loose from around his neck when he heard
the crack of a gunshot. A rush of adrenalin flushed through him and he dropped
to the floor, curling his body up tightly with his hands over his head. ‘Man
alive . . . Please don’t shoot . . . !’ and all the tears he’d suppressed that
day, ripped out of him, and he started to cry like he hadn’t done since he was
a little boy. David knew he was acting irrationally, because he’d seen the gamekeeper’s
Landrover on the lane and he would only be shooting rabbits.

As he wept, he could think of nothing but grief, with the pain his
mother must be carrying and the sense of responsibility he had for his younger
brother and sisters. He thought that the burden would be too big for him. Yet,
the weight had fallen firmly on his broad shoulders. David remembered the words
of the clergyman who seemed to look only at him. He’d talked about the
responsibility of the young to look after the grieving. That those with their
vital energy should assist the helpless, but David had only been half-listening
and felt uncomfortable with the eye contact and turned away.

And now as he lay there on the wet earth, he promised himself that he
would never leave his mother as his father had often done and vowed to stay at
Keld Head, even if this meant he would never marry and have children. Why
should he inflict his unhappiness on anyone else? He would try to take care of
his brother and sisters and not treat them harshly as his father had. Maybe he
could give them the love and support they all needed and compensate in some way
for the way his father had behaved.

*       
*        *

Tom Keldas sat fidgeting on the sofa. It was difficult for the eleven
year-old to keep still. He was listening as his grandparents lecture his mother
on how she should conduct herself. How she should treat the children and how
she should try to sell the farm and buy a new bungalow in Windermere. Tom hoped
his mother wasn’t listening, like she didn’t listen to him sometimes when he
had important things to tell her. He would hate living in Windermere and have
to make new friends. But Tom wasn’t given to patience and interrupted them.
‘Mum. . . . Where’s Davey?’

His mother didn’t give his bad manners a second thought and was just
happy that her second eldest son had interrupted. ‘He’ll be getting the dairy
ready I hope.’ She too was troubled that David hadn’t come home and she hadn’t
seen him since the service had ended. ‘Why don’t you go and see if he needs
something to eat.’ She doubted David had eaten anything all day.

As the boy left the house, a black dog followed. Tom didn’t put a coat
on but just ran carelessly through the rain. His father would have called him a
pratt if he were here and, if his mother was out of earshot, something worse.
At least that was one thing that would change.

He approached the dairy, but was disappointed to find the place
deserted. Usually he would hear the milking machines or the music from David’s
transistor radio and, glancing into the yard, he saw the cattle were paddling
about in slurry, standing waiting. He stood for a moment in the rain, unsure of
what to do. It was twilight and his eyes were slowly coming accustomed to the
semi-darkness. He grabbed the dog’s collar to reassure himself.

They were both startled when they heard a noise coming from the lane.
Tom shuddered as it sounded like someone was crying. The dog’s tail twitched
and she raised her hackles and set off to find the source of the noise, but Tom
couldn’t hold on to her and he momentarily froze, but then was compelled to
follow.

David was still lying on the wet footpath and, exhausted, lay there in
a daze. He was stirred by the wet tongue and warm breath of the dog licking his
face. ‘Shove off Moss. . . . Go away.’ David raised himself up a little, as
Moss kept on washing his face and licking his damp hair. As he tried to stand
to his feet, he saw Tom standing at a distance, his young face pale and
troubled and unsure of whether to approach or not.

‘It’s all right Tom. It’s only me.’ David spoke softly.

‘Good grief! I thought you were a Rusky - a spy or summat.’

There was a truth in his brother’s words, which David knew he would
never understand and he wanted to say:
If you see any strangers about the
place, tell me,
but he resisted and to cover his fear, said: ‘There are no
spies up here, Tom. You watch too much telly.’

But Tom didn’t believe him and knew differently, because he had seen
them.

David struggled to stand and started to brush the wet and the grit off
his trousers and jacket, he couldn’t stop himself from checking if there was
any blood. He’d once heard that if you’ve been shot, it was the blood you saw
first before you felt any pain, but of course there was none.

‘If that’s your best suit, Mum’ll kill you.’ Tom wanted to touch his
brother and help him but daren’t. ‘What’cha doing on the floor, anyway?’

David didn’t reply, but threw his wet arms around the boy and led him
back to the farm, pleased it was almost dark and his grief had been hidden.

In reflection, David was glad that he’d wasted the time at the pub in
Grasmere, standing at the bar and staring into his beer glass, submerged in his
own self-pity. He hoped most of the visitors would have left the farm by now
but, as he guessed, he was already late for milking.

‘Will you do me a favour then, 007, saying you’re so interested in the
underworld. Sneak into my bedroom and bring me my work things. See that Mum
doesn’t hear you mind.’

David quietly slid open the dairy door and put on the lights, as once
again his sore eyes winced in the brightness as the fluorescent lights flashed
on. He rubbed his hair dry with an old hand towel and struggled to remove his
wet jacket and shirt that was sticking to his body. As he roused himself, he
shivered as the damp and the cold finally reached his brain. He rubbed himself
with the towel and muttered, ‘Come on Tom . . . hurry up. . . . Don’t mess
about.’

*       
*        *

Tom crept into David’s bedroom and looked around for his brother’s work
clothes and found them folded on his bedside chair. On the floor lay the
cushions of a makeshift bed that his mother had made up for him. He would have
to share David’s room for another few nights until his grandparents and Great
Aunt Betty went home. But Tom didn’t mind, it made him feel grown up to stay
with David and have his little sister out of the way in his mother’s room. Tom
loved his brother’s bedroom and, as David suspected, he lingered. He browsed
around, looking at the bookcase. Then he fiddled with some of David’s
possessions. There were framed diplomas and certificates from agricultural
college. Tom read the inscriptions on some brightly coloured rosettes pinned on
the wall that David had won as a boy from showing the cattle and sheep. He
picked up a model tractor and spun the wheels round and round in his hand.
David would have made it, sat upstairs alone in his room, looking to get away
from an angry father who barracked him constantly, saying he wasn’t doing his
job right, saying that he was stupid, even insinuating that David’s quiet
nature showed ignorance and weakness.