Snowstop
A Novel
by
Alan Sillitoe
For Roy Davids
O eloquent, just, and mighty death! Whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none hath dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world hath flattered, thou hast cast out of the world and despised: thou hast drawn together all the far stretched greatness, all the pride, all the cruelty, and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words, Hic jacet.
Part 1
ONE
One skid of the boot and he would be down, clutching at weak or non-existent straws. Well, Keith Blackwell didn’t want to go down, so he would take care not to, but there was snowy ground ahead and a precipice to the right, and no other way to reach Beagle Tarn except twelve hundred feet up and four miles from Ullsridding.
Rohan jacket zipped against the wind, boots oiled and laced, he carried a small rucksack with an extra shirt, and changes of underwear to be sparingly used, like the soldier he’d briefly been. In one sidepocket were packs of Kendal mint cake, plus a sportsman’s flask of four-star brandy — more for show than sustenance, because you didn’t booze while on the run. In the other compartment was a sheathed survival knife which could skin a rabbit or sharpen a pencil. Four crisp fifties folded into his wallet were equal to the pre-War five-pound note his father had said you should always carry on your person.
Keith was fed up with wheeler-dealing on the telephone, and semaphoring across halls of money. Sooner or later the eyes began to swizzle at dancing firefly figures, fingers numb from tapping keys yet loving the changing cash register screen as if the Mona Lisa was stripping off and getting dressed and stripping off again.
He had BMW’d three hundred miles up a motorway more perilous than the rocky gradient to starboard, threaded the needle of wall-like pantechnicons and the fragile mid-road barrier in a welter of oil and grey rain, all lights on and systems go but blinded each time by enveloping slush.
The stream ran dark green where he set up his tent, pegs into the black butter of the turf to hit rock after a few inches. When the night wind threw its weight, the dank covering came in on him, a swathe of stars clearer than ever above London winking on his effort to get it upright. He was surprised at such good temper because far less disturbance at home would have sent the blood racing with venom. The seemingly sackcloth roof dropped again at five but he ignored it and went healthily back to sleep, head near a gap by which to breathe the sweet air of the Lakes.
Unperturbed at the wreck of his billet, in spite of bruised fingers where the mallet had missed, he pulled his primus from the boot at dawn to boil water and fry eggs, starving hungry and shivering through the coat covering his pyjamas. Using the wing mirror, he shaved with his cut-throat, and took time to dress.
Next night the tent couldn’t even fight back — no way. Forsaking lukewarm mush he ate at a hotel, and stayed, the room unheated, window frames rattling like dried bones. Less comforting to his spirit than the tent, dreams unrolled with a phantasmagoric idiocy matching the final mayhem at home.
Lacing his hood against cutting air that blew bad dreams clear, he went on slowly, boots leaving a trail of grey footprints in shallow snow. Sheep scrounged at tufted grass, no human near as he looked at the map because white had untraced the path. His lungs ached from cigarettes, ankles hard and burning from too many sedentary hours. At thirty-seven he needed a few days to get his wind, humping his pack into the hills to set up camp and daring man or beast to dislodge him. He drew a vector on the map and, adding a few degrees of variation, followed a course between low hills, knowing there would be water at the tarn, maybe rabbits to trap and birds to snare.
Summer or winter he would leave London, alone because you could trust no one but yourself, nor want better company, a joy to navigate up hill and over moors, treading blisters down and camping under the lee side of wall or hedge. The desolating question always came: What the hell am I doing here? Did I leave my cushy home for this? But by day three the sky was his roof, down to head level, or lifting so high that the space inspired him to move away from legal footpaths, going stealthily through all obstacles to break the carapace of office and home.
Beagle Tarn reflected the surrounding slopes, no smudge of cloud as he trained his Zeiss on a man wearing a checked shirt, crouching to place white fuel cakes under a kettle. A young woman hung a towel over the rear rope of the tent, then put on a khaki jacket as Keith came near. ‘You’re just in time for coffee. But you’ll have to share my mug, because we’ve only got two.’
‘No, thank you. I had buckets at breakfast.’ Their openness annoyed him, but he let down his pack and offered the flask.
Freckles dotted her pale skin when she smiled, her mug ready. ‘Yes, please.’
He splashed some in. ‘I came for the birdwatching’ — but it didn’t sound right, because what could you see in such a season?
‘Gulls and ravens.’ The man’s face was gaunt above a reddish beard. ‘Not much else at the moment. You might be lucky, though.’
‘Cheers!’ She swigged. ‘Would you like a biscuit?’
The packet was under his nose, but he was tempted to destroy such amiable figures in the landscape, cut them up and feed the wildlife. What a treat for the newspapers. Another, after Gwen was found: But the headlines would be forgotten in a week. You had to kill by the score to be remembered. In any case, he liked the woman’s smile, and the way loose breasts moved under her jacket. ‘It’s nice to see someone else in the wilderness.’
Her weedy boyfriend — though no doubt hardier than he looked — put powdered coffee into a mug. ‘We love it up here in winter.’
The spoon was tiny, and Keith asked if he was a chemist.
‘I’d earn a lot more if I was. We’re teachers, up from Manchester.’
He wondered what they knew between them. His daughter was at boarding school, though he couldn’t say the teachers were much better. In the old days you got what you paid for, but now you paid for what you got whether you liked it or not. ‘I must be going. I have to be back in London by this evening.’
‘Look after yourself,’ the man said.
‘You too. Take care.’ He followed the same way down, fingers sliding icily over tufts of grass, which held him at boot length. Stupid to slip, but that would be one solution, unless he survived as a basket case. He brushed snow clear, laughter at being sent home in a plastic bag to Gwen who, before, would have had to care for him, no time then for her lover. ‘You did it on purpose,’ she would have ranted. ‘You bastard. But it won’t work. I’ll go on doing just as I like.’
Oh, she would have shouted all right, knowing he wouldn’t depart while Laura was young. But why had she let him find out? To leave a letter on the hall table, or an edge showing under her handbag, to have the telephone make its hungry canary call and whoever it was click off on hearing his man’s voice, to call her from work and get no reply when she afterwards swore she had been in all day — such clues dropped in order to wake him to the fact that she was still alive. He did not appreciate it, as she knew he wouldn’t, and when he asked who it was, as she knew he had to, she acted the caught-out wife and told him. She couldn’t bear the pain of deception, wanted the luxury of an affair but also the comfort of his permission.
You weren’t supposed to care these days, though she had told him knowing that the torment would send him to the wilderness for solace, leaving her a few days with her boy friend who was going to Australia for three weeks. When the man had gone she would be pleasant again, and say it was all over anyway, and she was sorry, so let’s carry on where we left off, because it was undignified to let it bother you.