Hi,
My name is Den Cartlidge and I’ve been a member of the Leek Writers group since we started back in 2005.
I write fiction mainly but have tried my hand at life writing too. I am currently a Creative Writing student at Keele University.
On the Moors
‘You can’t wash up in your best trousers,’ Mum said, leaning on the chair for support. ‘Go upstairs and put something more suitable on.’ Dad sighed and made a lot of noise climbing the stairs. He made more noise coming back down. He was wearing his swimming trunks when he returned to the sink.
The memory comes out of nowhere. It’s just after dawn. The sun looks green and yellow as it creeps through the forest. The woodland path had a gentle gradient but the moorland path, up to the Old Man, is steeper and greasy with due. The Old Man is the tallest hill round here and it’s wearing a grey hat today. When I reach the summit the sun becomes a weak silver globe. I lean on the trig point and look at the mist swirling in ghostly ribbons above and below. There’s a skylark tumbling nearby. I can hear it, but I can’t see it.
I think about the special cushion on Mum’s chair.
‘Mum is sick,’ Dad said, ‘so we’re going to have to do all the things she used to do around the house. If we get anything wrong, don’t try to hide it. Make a joke out of it. Be silly. Don’t hide a mistake, promote it!’
Mouse was confused. She didn’t understand. I was older and at school. When Dad did silly things, like dancing to Tom Jones in the kitchen, I knew it was my job to laugh first.
It starts to rain a little on the Old Man’s summit. I take the path back down onto the moors. The path goes up and down, like a slide made from stone and moss and dew. I stop and close my eyes before I enter the forest. A silver tongue of stream is gurgling below. Behind the stream, where the pine has concentrated its forces and boots cannot reach, a ravens is laughing. The curlew, flying overhead, hears him too and replies with a mournful wail. A red grouse, swimming in the heather on my right, concludes the concert with a long sarcastic cackle.
I think about Dad’s silly jokes and stupid voices again. When Mouse finally understood what he was trying to do, she joined in and made everyone laugh. The last time we spoke to each other was at Dad’s funeral, three years ago.
The forest is dark. A young stag crosses the path and bolts when he sees me. A couple with matching red waterproofs are climbing out of their car when I return to the visitor centre. The rain is turning heavy. I’m glad to get out of it. I switch on the car radio and dig my phone out of the glove compartment. I scroll through the address pages until I find Mouse’s number.
I hope she hasn’t changed it.
‘You can’t wash up in your best trousers,’ Mum said, leaning on the chair for support. ‘Go upstairs and put something more suitable on.’ Dad sighed and made a lot of noise climbing the stairs. He made more noise coming back down. He was wearing his swimming trunks when he returned to the sink.
The memory comes out of nowhere. It’s just after dawn. The sun looks green and yellow as it creeps through the forest. The woodland path had a gentle gradient but the moorland path, up to the Old Man, is steeper and greasy with due. The Old Man is the tallest hill round here and it’s wearing a grey hat today. When I reach the summit the sun becomes a weak silver globe. I lean on the trig point and look at the mist swirling in ghostly ribbons above and below. There’s a skylark tumbling nearby. I can hear it, but I can’t see it.
I think about the special cushion on Mum’s chair.
‘Mum is sick,’ Dad said, ‘so we’re going to have to do all the things she used to do around the house. If we get anything wrong, don’t try to hide it. Make a joke out of it. Be silly. Don’t hide a mistake, promote it!’
Mouse was confused. She didn’t understand. I was older and at school. When Dad did silly things, like dancing to Tom Jones in the kitchen, I knew it was my job to laugh first.
It starts to rain a little on the Old Man’s summit. I take the path back down onto the moors. The path goes up and down, like a slide made from stone and moss and dew. I stop and close my eyes before I enter the forest. A silver tongue of stream is gurgling below. Behind the stream, where the pine has concentrated its forces and boots cannot reach, a ravens is laughing. The curlew, flying overhead, hears him too and replies with a mournful wail. A red grouse, swimming in the heather on my right, concludes the concert with a long sarcastic cackle.
I think about Dad’s silly jokes and stupid voices again. When Mouse finally understood what he was trying to do, she joined in and made everyone laugh. The last time we spoke to each other was at Dad’s funeral, three years ago.
The forest is dark. A young stag crosses the path and bolts when he sees me. A couple with matching red waterproofs are climbing out of their car when I return to the visitor centre. The rain is turning heavy. I’m glad to get out of it. I switch on the car radio and dig my phone out of the glove compartment. I scroll through the address pages until I find Mouse’s number.
I hope she hasn’t changed it.
