Common Ground (37 page)

As I was leaving the hospital I saw a face I recognised. A man in his thirties leaning with his back against the wall in a lower corridor, his eyes staring, brows jumping, as though he was running through a very serious conversation with himself. It was Danny, one of the dads-to-be who'd attended the same series of baby-care classes as us a few weeks back. After a long and difficult labour his wife had just birthed a boy. We talked for a few minutes and he looked a little shaky, frightened and tired, so I put my arm round his shoulder. He smiled and then, suddenly and forcibly, sobbed. ‘Sorry,' he said immediately, ‘I'm sorry.' There are times when the distance between us becomes noticeably less, when you recognise the humanity in others and feel the common thread that knots and ties us all together. In the same way the zoomed-out eyes of those first astronauts were gifted a unique perspective of this planet – the preciousness and precariousness of a small pale-blue dot in cold, sparse space – I feel the cogs that turn unstoppably under the surface; the connection we all share from living out our days together and, at the same time, the beauty and viciousness those days entail. I think of how we owe it to ourselves to make the best of it all during our short-lived stay. And I wonder whether, if we could hold on to such truths, the answer to that question –
what kind of world are we bringing you into?
– might yet be different.

Exhaustion and crashing emotions are catching up with me. I start back for the car, looking up at the sleeping town as I walk. The lights shivering and twinkling against the black remind me of those images you see of distant galaxies forming. I think of Thomas asleep in a crib with Rosie curled next to him, then of the endless potentiality within our grasp. And for a moment the world seems right.

‘Oh and by the way, did you hear?' Rosie asks. An intense, excited, delirious week has already passed since we brought Thomas home. For the umpteenth time, changing his nappy is a two-person job, requiring fresh Babygro, blanket, cardigan, hat, even a sponging-down of our bedroom wall.

‘Hear what?'

‘It was on the news at lunchtime. They're calling off the badger cull.'

It's a funny feeling that follows, like just after you yawn or sneeze: a little rush, then a stolen second of stunned reflection.

Later, while Rosie feeds Thomas upstairs, I flick on the kitchen radio and listen to the Commons announcement being replayed in full. Turns out it is less an abandonment, more a stay of execution. At the dispatch box Owen Paterson sounds as defiant as ever, emphasising it is a ‘postponement' until next summer, resolutely insisting that there is no shift in government policy. But there is a shift, and I can feel it. I suspect he can too. Common sense, public conscience and scientific reason have prevailed and prevented – for now, at least. Who would have thought it? Forcing a change through scrutiny, assessment of evidence, resilience, determination and action; a national show of compassion towards the non-human world – sometimes even a little victory can go a long way to restoring your faith. It lightens the horizon, even as the days draw in and darken.

I am dreaming of the edge-land again, down in the midst of Scots pines and the cold, scrub-scattered banks. I'm walking by the river upstream, towards the viaduct, following something. But
what
, I can't quite tell. A faint shift in the silence is all. The wood is grey and black. The river slips by. And I'm still going. Footstep after footstep. And it's still going. Another slight
fizz
ahead, like a rustle, a soft tread on leaves or a leg shifting under a blanket. I roll my head on the pillow and, still dreaming, quicken my pace to reach the trees that lean and stretch from the bank like fingers pointing lazily northwards, over the Nidd. Another movement, this one a snuffle, like a fox cub, and I realise that I'm no longer looking through the trees but down into a dark den or sett. And that whatever is in there is working up to a scream. A pause and my mind reacts like a pilot flame firing in a boiler, yanking me from sleep. My legs kick out from under the duvet; my feet touch carpet and I push and pivot my body, covering the few feet to the Moses basket stationed at the end of our bed. I rub my eyes but there's nothing to attend to. Thomas has settled himself. No scream erupts. It was probably just wind. He is perfectly happy, snug and swaddled with the fingers of his left hand poking out of the top in a nonchalant wave. I smile and put my finger in his palm, letting him grip it. ‘I'm here,' I whisper. ‘Daddy's here'. A rookie move. He clamps down hard and I'm caught. I try to work my hand free but each time I do he stirs, whimpers and makes like he's about to shriek. I glance over at Rosie who is lost in the duvet and exhausted slumber, her arm tucked under the pillow. Anxious not to disturb her, I give up and stand in the dark watching Thomas sleep, wondering at the indescribable strength of the thing that's grasped hold of me. It takes a moment to straighten it out, but it's love, of course. It fills my head, my heart and this whole messy house.

It has lain untouched on a low shelf by the door for well over a month. I've walked past countless times without incident, yet today I find the notebook has somehow secreted itself into one of the cavernous pockets of my warmest coat. Rummaging for a glove, my nail meets a familiar hard-backed cover. I curl my forefinger under the elastic band that keeps its pages closed, and pull it out with a frown of puzzlement.
Hello. How did you get there?
Between wrestling on boots and hauling the pushchair out through the narrow hallway, my hand must have instinctively reached out. I shouldn't be surprised, though; old habits die hard. Sometimes we know ourselves better than we think. This morning, for the first time, I'm walking Thomas down to the edge-land.

It's a creaking-cold day. Winter, unblinking, is staring down autumn, frightening it from its perch, chasing it from the woods with first frosts and sharp, fiery light. The sun shows willing but shines weakly from the east as I steer the pushchair down Bilton Lane, stopping every now and then to make sure the boy's all right. He's probably a bit overdressed. On top of a thick cardigan I've bundled him up in a bright woolly hat, mittens and tucked two blankets under his muffler, but then again we've never walked this far from the house before and the air feels distinctly draughty, like a great sash window has been left open to the north. The sky has the same oily rainbow sheen as you find inside oyster shells and it stretches brilliantly behind roofs and telegraph wires, over hard, bare stubble fields, woods and the hills that range away unreachably between the bungalows and semis.

At the crossing point the two oaks either side of the road have been almost stripped completely. The sun paints branches yellow; beneath, the grass plays dead. Thrushes spill song and dogs bark. I'm grateful for the track they've laid over the old railway. The pushchair's wheels glide over the bitumen in a single, smooth, continuous note. Bikes whistle past us in both directions and light ripples the red, tiled rooftops of Tennyson Avenue. Reaching the meadow, I push us past the pylon and across country to the wood's edge, where I sit on a fallen pine branch. A few feet away a tiny goldcrest appears and begins working up and down a dead thistle, its Mohican of gold gleaming like a celestial streak. I assume Thomas must be fast asleep from the trundling, but when I turn the pushchair around I find his eyes are staring up in wonder, reflecting the trees and sky, taking everything in. Lucky thing. To have those days ahead when all the world is wide and bright, and all the world is all you can see.

I reach into my pocket and retrieve the notebook. It is a clutter of things, layered and brown like the earth, its cover wonderfully dirty. I undo its elastic fastening and flick back and forth through its pages, through the maps, scribbles of fox tracks, paragraphs of nineteenth-century railway research, drawings of the weir, a tramp's babblings, a folded-up brochure for Bilton Hall Nursing Home, dead leaves and squashed deer droppings, dried flower heads and stray Himalayan balsam seeds. There are wobbly, half-completed tables that note the timings of owl calls and the appearance of swifts above the fields; sketches of hares and the compass-point fields of vision matriarchal rabbits adopt when guarding their young. Here, pressed in a margin, is a mayfly's wing; here a found roach end and a squashed sprig of nettle. Here, a rough outline of a badger's print. Bound and folded together with it all, my thoughts and feelings and impressions. Brief moments in time. The extraordinary you can find in the ordinary. A changing life in this fleeting, wheeling world.

In many ways I wish I could have written a neater story but I suppose edge-lands, like our lives, are tangled stories that write themselves. And for all the pages we might fill, nothing comes close to a second of being here.

We sit quietly, the boy and me, until the goldcrest has gone. After a while I close the notebook, tuck it next to him and turn us both for home.

You showed me eyebright in the hedgerow,
Speedwell and travellers joy.
You showed me how to use my eyes
When I was just a boy;
And you taught me how to love a song
And all you knew of nature's ways:
The greatest gifts I have ever known,
And I use them every day.

Martin Simpson, ‘Never Any Good'

The existence of this book is largely attributable to five extraordinary women who collectively birthed, nurtured and provided the space for all that is written here. Firstly my mother, Anne, whose encyclopedic knowledge of, and love for, nature and the outside world opened the door for me a long time ago. She has been a reliable source of information, a library where, mercifully, no fees are incurred, and an inspiration since she dragged my brother and I from our beds to go badger watching on Ilkley Moor. My wife, Rosie, never agreed to the details of our life being so frankly revealed in print and never complained when it became clear they might be. For so many reasons there simply would be no book without her. She is responsible for everything precious in my life, and to her I owe everything. Stephanie Ebdon had the vision to see potential in 150,000 words of scribbled field notes, odds-and-ends and ideas, and then the conviction and patience to find the right publisher. Her support has always been unflinching and hugely important. As has that of my agent, Jessica Woollard, who first believed in my writing many years ago and continues to be the most remarkably insightful, encouraging and brilliant ally and advocate. Last, but most certainly not least, my editor at Hutchinson, Sarah Rigby – a colleague and a good friend. When she undertook this work I doubt she had any idea of the journey we would be taking together, yet she has proved to be the kind of travelling companion every writer dreams of: visionary, loyal, inspiring, attentive and always on hand to console, cajole and put things in order. I am forever grateful to her for sharing with me her talent, her generosity of spirit and her contagious desire to kick at boundaries.

Thanks also to everyone else who worked on the book behind the scenes. At Hutchinson and Windmill: Jocasta Hamilton, Najma Finlay, Laura Deacon, Chris Turner and Matthew Ruddle. For the exquisite cover, Jason Smith, and for the gorgeous interior map of the edge-land, Emma Lopes. To Hannah Ferguson, Charlotte Bruton and all at The Marsh Agency, and the attentive Alison Tulett for keeping my words in check.

My love and thanks to my children, Thomas and Beatrice, my brother, Matthew, and my father, Maurice, for their knowledge, advice and kindness along the way; also to Karen, Natalie, Freya and Niamh and the rest of the wider, wilder Cowen family. For, variously, the long discussions, long walks, friendship, willingness to lend an ear or a spare room: Tim Jones and Zara Pearson, Alex and Eugenie Price, Charles Westropp and Lydia Sadler, Georgie Hoole and Mark Ballantyne, the Hoole family, Jordan and Alanna Frieda and family, Alex Corbet Burcher, James and Jess Westropp, Theo Cooper and Danielle Treanor, Stuart and Jill Smith and family. For their profound farming insight and knowledge: Andrew Sebire, Michael Flesher and the late Stanley Flesher; and for navigating me through the murky waters of Harrogate District's planning and housing development policies, Matthew Bagley. To all my friends for their love and support along the way, especially: Simon Skirrow and family, Rob Menzer and family, Sophie Smyth, Leo Critchley, Phil Westerman and Caroline Toogood, Will and Frankie Ridler, George and Alison Scott-Welsh, Lizzie and Danny Varian, Amy and Tom Holmes, James Yuill and Ruth Tapley, Fiona and Geoff Scholtes, Katie Sotheran and Ash Anderson, Xavier and Rachel Archbold, Paul Schofield and the much-missed Peter Westropp.

Various institutions have given me the space, literally and metaphorically, to write and research ideas. My thanks to: the
Telegraph
(especially Paul Davies),
Independent
,
Guardian
and all the staff at Harrogate and Ilkley libraries, especially Irene Todd. In recent years libraries have come under overwhelming financial strain, tasked with ever-greater areas of responsibility to the community. Writing this book has shown me how important such quiet spaces, repositories of local memory and gateways to new worlds, are – especially in a virtual age. These institutions and their staff deserve recognition, support and financing, as the day that we allow free and public centres of learning to degrade or disappear is a step down a dangerous road. I am hugely grateful to all those that sought to record Bilton's past and present before me, namely the local historians and naturalists of Bilton Historical Society, Bilton Conservation Group (especially the ever-inspiring Bill Williams and Keith Wilkinson), Knox Valley Residents' Association and Harrogate District Naturalists. History is imperfect and I have recorded fictions too real to not be true and truths that seem nothing short of fiction. The Bilton that appears here is mine; people's names have been changed in some cases, in others it was important that they had to remain the same. But all mistakes are my own fault and mostly intentional. My grateful thanks also to the staff and grounds team at Bilton Hall Nursing Home and the fantastic midwives, doctors and nurses of Harrogate District Hospital.