W&A Short Story Competition 2022 - Second Place Story

In our village Chapel Hill is legendary. It is a gateway of sorts, leading out of our steep sided valley and onto the main road heading north or south. It is how we leave and how we return. For centuries countless feet have trudged up the hill: the miners, farmers, foresters and priests, the midwives, shopkeepers and just about anyone else that ekes out their living in this little corner of the world. Tourists try the hill on the way to the pub from the little campsite and always arrive flushed, thirsty and in a flurry of anoraks and latches.

You and I have walked together up and down Chapel Hill ever since you were born.

It starts at the chapel, now just a shell of a place, with its grand entrance, high windows surrounded by low, moss covered drystone walls. Not that long ago you could round the corner onto Chapel Hill with the pomp of a singing congregation to accompany you on the first push up the steepening slope. Now there’s a silence, but for the whistle of the buzzards high overhead or the rattle and clank of a bouncing tractor in the far fields.

I held your little hand the very first time you tried the hill and you twisted and lingered, paused and looked; a wild curious mind taking in the day. You stared up the road, seeing a mountain, with your eyes wide and your button nose dribbling. I slowed my pace and waited as you tottered. We conquered it together.

Once the first curve is behind us the steepness becomes more noticeable. By the terrace where Nick lives, tapping on his drums, or where Tony, a ball of pure energy who eats the hill for breakfast, rents his annexe from Cath and Phil, the edge of the chapel wall ends and the graves crouch back down out of sight.  As the hill winds on, the fog of breath grows thicker with effort. With every step there is a feeling of surfacing from the valley bottom; breaking through some invisible ceiling and outrunning the churchyard.

When you started school we stumbled up there for the bus. I worried and fretted that you’d be okay, that you’d make friends and not be cast down by teachers or treated meanly by your fellows. You were stoic, I remember, in your over-sized coat whose arms continued past your hands. Your little bag contained many treats and you wore it on your back like all the kids do. That bag bounced up and down as you hopefully bobbed, but you occasionally dawdled vulnerably and compounded my concern. I was your protector who wanted to carry you in my arms, though all I could do, I knew for certain, was to wait as you dragged yourself up there under your own steam. I didn’t walk down until the bus was out of sight.

The little rivulets of water that trickle down the side of the road flow faster as we climb and then, as if to offer some little physical gift, pool slightly as the incline reduces at the modern bungalow with its utilitarian grounds. By now you can hear the rushing of the cars, always going just a bit too fast and acting as an acoustic metaphor for our transition from peace into the modern world. Here, most of the houses have bird feeders and the nervous flitting of the passerines draws our attention away from the cliff-like loom of the road ahead that suddenly rears up again. The dark crows balance on the telephone wires and watch the small birds with what looks like disdain.

Your first fight shocked me of course. I didn’t see clearly enough that you were stronger and taller, your strides more assured. To me you weren’t ready for this and why should you be? Why should it come to you at all, ever? As we climbed I constantly checked you were okay and that you could cope with another day at school. Did you mind seeing him again? Was he bullying you? “It’s okay dad, don’t worry, I’ll be okay” you replied, but you looked harassed and downcast and were beyond my reach, living in another world; your own world in fact.

Near the top, the round mirror that sits on a post and guides out the reversing cars reflects us back in wide angle. The image bows out and distorts and we rush into view and pass in the blink of an eye. One time as we struggled to the point where legs start to burn, I noticed myself and you alongside. You were formed now, a man; solid and springy. You still had time to grow, but there you were, almost my height, arms swinging, stalking not walking. You were shoulder to shoulder with me, keeping up and smiling. I saw my own father next to you, my head ever so slightly lowered.

I don’t suppose you remember the first time I asked you to slow down? I wasn’t really interested in those little ferns that grow out of the grey wall with its funny cap of render. No, I needed to catch my breath. We were talking about university and you asked many questions about what it would be like. Actually, I lied when I said it would be nothing but good. I brushed the heartache and worry under the carpet and stuck to the basics. I couldn’t imagine your leaving, and, in truth, I was thinking more about me than you. I had never before been the last duck on the beach, watching as the rest of the flock flew away in formation towards exotic lands. I stared at the ferns and panted. You waited with a head full of the future and to you nothing had happened but us walking the hill again.

At the very top the road curls cruelly round with a tiny encore that spills us out on to the pavement of the A44. Before, we would look at each other smirking, amused at this final blow, grabbing above our knees to help our fiery legs cope with those last two steps to deliverance. We’d brush ourselves down and stagger in comfort, on the flat, to our destination. Now, before your body leaves, your mind is living elsewhere. You live away, somewhere faster, more consuming and you’ve no time to dwell on that little bump on the corner of the road. For you, this place is altering into a memory. Perhaps you will speak about it to your new friends if you find time? Perhaps you might think of the valley before you drift off to sleep? For me you will always be here like Chapel Hill.

Before you left I wanted to drink with you, so we set out for the hill. We passed the huge chapel with its broken windows and rotting plaster. The gravestones sagged and slumped and something was banging in the wind. It was drizzling and it was cold; our breath puffed out like steam trains. And when we reached the bungalow I noticed your shoulder. Your left shoulder was in front of me. I breathed deeply and pushed harder, but there it remained, possibly a foot ahead. You were charging along, light in your step and free. The tie that bound us together on our struggle up the hill was gone. We were no longer walking side by side.