Open Writing

‘Goodbye, drive safely.’

With a sigh of relief I watched the dark blue minibus clatter down the steep track looking like a monster whose arms waved from several windows. The excited chatter of children gradually diminished. After the last gate the vehicle accelerated. The exhaust pipe nearly came to grief on a huge slab outcrop. This seemed like an action replay of many vehicles that had gone before.

My dog was catching a sliver of sun at the top of the yard. She spent most of her time out of doors. Within the confines of the youth hostel she seemed ill at ease. ‘Trying to get your white bits sun burnt?’ I asked her. She looked enquiringly towards me. I smiled and murmured, ‘in a while Lucy.’

After I had shut and bolted the main door and turned the sign to closed I made a slow, reluctant, progress towards the kitchen. From within there was a muted sound of radio three. Keri insisted on bringing culture to the masses. Either the radio or her CD’s were in evidence at every mealtime. Indeed, it did seem to have a calming effect on our more boisterous hostellers. Sounds indicated that the dishwasher was being emptied; I had learnt not to interfere with this activity. Keri has her set ideas about method. I have often been in trouble if a saucepan was ever stowed away in the wrong place, or knives mixed with forks.

As I passed the small room we use as an office I heard the phone ringing. After a moment’s hesitation I decided to do my duty and answer the wretched thing. I popped inside and perched on the office chair. A precarious enterprise as it had an aptitude for tilting at an alarming angle. I picked up a pen and prepared to take bookings, sort out delivery orders or deal with rambling requests from headquarters.

‘Good morning, Greenside Youth…’ It was my sister. ‘Listen is Rob still okay about me coming for a bit? I’ll move on as soon as I get myself sorted.’

‘He’s fine.’ Her voice sounded even more distant that it actually was. ‘More to the point, how’s Keri?’

‘No better, she was as mad as hell when she found out about my imaginary dental appointment. She went on and on about trust. If I’d told her the truth she would probably have hidden my car keys.’

‘Trust indeed. Tell her to stop playing with your head.’

‘Don’t worry. Less than twenty four hours and I’ll be on my way. I’ll be with you about tea-time tomorrow. How about we get a Chinese meal? Once again thanks sis. Oh yes, please stop me if I’m ever going to do anything as insane again.’

My sister sighed. ‘As though you ever listen to me, must go now, ciao.’

At least Keri hadn’t intercepted this call. A holiday postcard from my sister and her family had never arrived; or at least never been given to me. Telephone messages were not passed on. When I complained I heard ‘do you think I’m your secretary?’ My erstwhile partner was an out and out control freak. She hated the idea of me ever having had a life beyond Greenside. Over the summer months I had begun to feel like a prisoner, confined in spite of the open surroundings. Keri dabbled in activities I could barely understand; she gave mysticism a bad press. Ah well, soon be over. I bounded up the stairs to complete the morning chores. Talking to my sister had lightened my spirits.

I spent twenty minutes cleaning two bathrooms and checking elsewhere. No huge dormitories these days. Now we had sets of rooms with four beds at most. I remembered when my parents brought me youth hostelling visitors did all the domestic work. Jobs were allocated and checked in a military fashion. Cards were not given back until ‘duties’ had been checked. Wardens were fearsome creatures who ruled their fiefdom with a rod of iron. These days ‘health and safety’ and a worry about insurance claims had put a stop to the tyranny of the past.

Was Keri a strange throwback to those days? Only with me I’m afraid; she was pleasant enough to our ‘paying guests’. Her venom was saved up for me. My title of assistant warden sounded grand; domestic servant would have been more accurate. Today’s check of rooms produced one grey walking sock, a toothbrush that had seen better days and two mobile phones. Strange, as I thought these ‘must have’ accessories were welded to their owner’s ears.

Eventually, when I could put it off no longer, I headed back towards the kitchen. Keri had her back to me. She was standing near the sink. Long auburn hair was constrained by a hairnet; she took her kitchen duties seriously and was very particular about hygiene requirements. Fortunately my close cropped hair did not present a problem. She appeared to be awaiting my arrival. Keri had placed three large bowls full of washed vegetables on a work area.

‘All done, the place is spick and span’, I remarked.

A wall of silence greeted me. So, I was to get the treatment. Well, I could cope with that. After all I would soon be as free as a bird. In the meantime potatoes, carrots and onions awaited our attention. Tonight the hostel had forty five people booked in, most of them requiring a meal. We worked in what should have been comfortable silence and chopped and sliced. Repetitive top and tail, scrape, chop, top and tail, scrape, chop. When I first came to the youth hostel I used to dream about vegetables, long rows appearing as nightmares; rather like the potato picking days of my childhood. Today Keri’s chopping board absorbed her anger; her work was accomplished with a dull thud. A summer spent together had ensured everything was done quickly and efficiently.

I broke the heavy silence.

‘So, what are you doing today Keridwen? As it’s my last day shall we go for a walk together?’

‘Sunday name is it? My we are honoured. You’ll be suggesting we go on the ferry to Pooley Bridge like day trippers. No thank you, expect I’ll have to get used to being on my own,’ was the reply.

‘Come on Keri be fair, I’ve given you two weeks notice. You know I can’t pass up the opportunity of a proper salary – no more fixed term stuff.’

‘Huh, you were glad enough to leave Bradford at Easter.’

‘Well, that was then this is now,’ I declared, ‘to be honest I think we have got too obsessed with each other, stuck here half way to kingdom come. It’s not natural.’

‘Obsessed, that’s not how you felt at the beginning. I remember when we met at the folk festival you went on and on about city life. How you couldn’t wait to get away from urban living. I really thought we had something going…actually I know we did.’

‘I guess the music and drink had a liberating effect on me. Your voice attracted me Keri; unaccompanied and so special. You really know how to perform; top of the bill to my mind. You were enchanting. When you sang ‘Down by the Greenwood side’ you reminded me of Joan Baez. She was my mother’s favourite folk singer. I think I was weaned on her L.P.’s. Keri, love, we had some good moments but I felt it was always transitory.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘My job was going to peter out at the end of September anyway. The YHA wouldn’t have more than one warden here in winter.’

‘Actually, I was working on that clever clogs. I didn’t want to tell you until I knew for certain. Thought I could share you with Patterdale Youth Hostel. Head Office was going to tell me when they’d made a decision.’

‘Not sure I want to be shared.’

‘No J, that’s your trouble. No give and take.’

‘Keri, Keri, at least let us at least part on good terms.’

She completed her share of the vegetable mountain. Tossing her peeler into the sink, she gave me what I had come to sense was her baleful look and flounced out of the kitchen. I spent several minutes completing my tasks. We usually left everything prepared for the evening meal, the feeding of the five thousand as I named it. On a somewhat lesser scale I prepared my packed lunch.

Working in a youth hostel had given me an opportunity to walk during the middle of the day. We usually reckoned on having the hours between eleven and four o’clock free. Sometimes I joined the mountaineering club members who owned the miners’ row of cottages further up the valley. We had some interesting climbs; they were a friendly lot. Mostly I preferred to walk solely with my dog for company; occasionally Keri accompanied us.

I left the kitchen and decided to let Keri know I was going to do the Helvellyn circular. I knew the walk like the back of my hand but it is good practice to let someone know the route. I checked the private rooms and wandered over to the out house used by Keri for her pottery and clay-model work. She’ll be there in full creative flow I thought. The place was empty and seemed cold in spite of the temperature outside in the yard. Light filtered through grimy windows. Dirt obscured natural light. I had never understood why Keri was so particular about the rest of the youth hostel and so unaware of the state of her retreat.

There was no sign of work in progress. Clay sat in the large stone sink, covered to keep it damp. In addition to pottery Keri was skilled at making models of cottages and churches constructed in delicate slivers of slate. She had an eye for detail. These items were popular in the tourist shops of Glenridding. But her main achievement the construction of miniature gargoyles based on villagers and youth hostel guests. I peeped beneath a cloth cover to see her latest work. I shivered as I recognised the local butcher who looked like a mass murderer and the parish priest sporting a devilish air. The last figure reminded me of someone but I could clearly identify – a case of being too close perhaps.

Finished ceramics were awaiting delivery to the tourist flesh pot. At least I would be spared that job later in the week. Only a couple of miles but a nightmare journey on our uneven track. I had always been unnerved by this pottery room. I had never liked the atmosphere; my dog refused to venture down this end of the yard. Thankfully I closed the door for the last time.
All was quiet in the yard. No sign of Keri. Since I’d told her about my new job she had been frosty. Relations were strained at best. Today was going to be a difficult day for her. Perhaps it would be as well if we went our separate ways until the hostel re-opened at five. Spending the evening together would be bad enough. I scribbled a note about my walk and pinned it to the notice board in the office.

I felt my mood lightening. I picked up my rucksack, locked the back door and placed the key in the usual place under the third pebble. When I went to live in my sister’s house in Bradford I would have to mend my ways. Urban living involved double-locking, lights left on and radio playing gently to dissuade burglars. Pros and cons I thought. Given my last few months with Keri, moving back to West Yorkshire would give me many more pros than cons.

Today’s walk would test both muscles and brain. On the ascent I would scramble up Striding Edge, which formed an arête, a knife edge of a walk. No false moves allowed, not if walkers valued their life. Once I reached the summit a wide plateau would make easy walking followed by a long descent down the quarry trails back to Greenside.

Lucy bounded towards me as I opened the gate onto the fell side. As I reached the top of the first slope I stopped at a place where a slate outcrop formed an irregular line. Picking out what looked like a comfortable armchair I called to Lucy to let her know where I was resting. She glanced towards me and carried on following a trail along the boundary wall above a small ravine.

I hear a cry although nothing stirs

I could see nothing; not a thing in this narrow valley. My shoulders and back relaxed. I began to realise how tense I had felt back at the youth hostel. I sank into a reverie and let the landscape work its usual magic. Rough moorland fells gathered in the heat. Reflections only occur where rays of sun touch scars. Here, in the Lake District, heat is absorbed as though it were a currency to set against the demands of winter. A track hugged the contour line before dipping gently towards Ullswater. Field patterns on the valley floor showed the hand of man. A wide, green track indicated a drover’s road. Long abandoned mine workings and spoil heaps had quarry tracks making a crisscross tapestry.

I hear a cry although nothing stirs

This tiny part of North Cumbria would live in my soul in the days ahead. Distant fells shimmer in the heat, indistinct, blurred, out of focus. The Roman Road across ‘High Street Fell’ is empty. Legionnaires have retreated, left, right, left, I too will retreat to return to the noise, bustle and grime that is Bradford. Soak up the scenery; bottle this afternoon to aid me in the days ahead. There is no choice. Six months with Keri has left me distracted and depressed. Open landscape exists alongside a sense of imprisonment. I need to be free; not tethered by her demands.

My dog hogs my vision as she has done for the last ten years. She will miss this countryside when she is back to a regime of early morning and evening urban walks. In this world she is alert. Is there a sound only within a dog’s range of hearing? She watches intently. Rabbit, stoat or even a bee about its busy purpose will interest her. I am blind to her canine vision and deaf to her hearing. She ambles along the track then freezes and turns.

I hear a cry although nothing stirs.

After a moment of silence I hear the cry. Sound hangs in air; there is nothing to see. Now it comes from behind, sound but still no sight. I can no longer ignore the summons and I leap to my feet. With a premonition giving lead to my steps I stumble up the slope towards Red Tarn. Each slate outcrop is of Matterhorn proportions. This was the route of my proposed walk…but it was not supposed to be accomplished at this speed.

I hear a cry although nothing stirs

The sound seems constant neither nearer nor further away. In a blind panic, at the foot of scree, I discover what most climbers and walkers know and fear. My mobile phone is not working; the wretched thing is dead. Lucy moves ahead surefooted amongst the loose rock a blur of white and black. I follow her. My voice catches in my dry throat. In contrast to my heavy, slow body my mind is circling at record speed. My boot slips, stones cascade down the slope adding a discordant percussion. Sweat pours down my neck. Every step is an effort. I panic about not reaching my destination; at the same time I dread to think what I might find.

I hear a cry although nothing stirs

Beyond the final outcrop I lurch to a standstill, look down in the hollow towards Red Tarn, and see my dog. Lucy stands on the bank as though transfixed. After a moment she glances in my direction, before turning her gaze resolutely towards the water’s edge. A figure floats near the edge of the tarn. Long hair forms a golden crown; the alabaster body seems chilled. Is the body submerged? I am frozen in horror then with absolute certainty I recognise her.

Keridwen opens her eyes and raises a languid arm. Droplets of water scatter the tarn surface. I take hesitant steps towards her.

‘Hi J, what kept you?’ she smiles, ‘don’t suppose you’d care to join me?’ I fight to get both my breathing and feelings under control. Unable to control my actions I slide down the bank. Like a tethered beast I stand knee deep in ice cold water. I wait. On the bank my dog whimpers.

Keridwen sighs. In a graceful movement she stands and moves towards me. Water cascades down her body; that perfectly imperfect body I know so well. She never seems to feel cold. Nor is she affected by warmth. She never seems to feel anything. Keridwen lives beyond the confines of human frailty. She reaches towards me. A smile lingers; her eyes draw me towards her.

‘Come on, admit it J. You can’t even think of leaving Greenside. You belong with me here on the fells.’

**

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