Bedrock

It was years since Catherine had been here, but the feeling was instantly recognizable. This landscape had nurtured her interest in geology as well as shaping the brief, exhilarating, exhausting years of her marriage. The fells lifted the skyline around her and her eyes, her spirits rose to meet them.

Thank God, she thought, for the felicity of two days here, alone. Two days tagged onto the end of a trip north to advise on a planning proposal. She had turned down the assignment at first, then remembered how close she would be to the Lake District and changed her mind. She deserved a break: she could fit in some walking afterwards.So she had spent the previous day in Runcorn, giving evidence to the planning committee. A developer wanted to build a housing estate above an old mine. Thousands of tons of rock salt had been dissolved out of the ground, leaving sixteen vast underground caverns which were being used to store natural gas. Earlier salt mines had caused severe subsidence, a problem which developments in engineering had addressed. But this particular mine, on the outskirts of Cheshire's Triassic salt fields, was built a decade or two before its larger neighbors and there were questions about its stability. What was her expert opinion? A straightforward commission, you might think. Straightforward in any other circumstances, certainly. Would the new houses be safe? Yes. The structural engineer's evidence was unimpeachable. Was the development welcomed by those living nearby? No. Hardly surprising, really. Had her advice been fair and impartial? Yes, as always. Should she have been drawn into discussion with the leader of the local action group? Absolutely not. Not on any level. Did she regret what had happened, the surprise twist to yesterday's program? Hard to say. Hard to believe it had happened, even. Complex geotechnical data she could take in her stride, but she was out of practice at interpreting emotions. xxxxxxxxxxxThere were familiar landmarks now: the glassy surface of Ullswater where Wordsworth watched skaters bisecting the moon's reflection on the ice, and above it the ridge of High Street along which Roman soldiers marched north. Many millennia before them had come the glacier whose path shaped this valley, the great ocean whose sediment laid down the slate which had been used for building since human life came to the Lake District. The whole of geological history was visible here: volcanoes which erupted half a billion years ago, collisions between continents gliding around the globe, seams of minerals trapped in fault lines. Much of Catherine's history, too. Much that she'd rather not be reminded of, but she had stayed away for too long, nonetheless. It had seemed safe to come back alone. And after last night's encounter she was especially grateful not to be returning directly home from Runcorn. xxxxxxxxxxxThere had been regular updates from home, of course; the discreet bleep of a text message as soon as the mobile came back into range at the top of the pass. Her son, Philip, keeping her in touch. Philip. Pip had always been wrong for him: too frivolous; too fleeting for his solemn baby face. He changed it when he went to school -already serious-minded at five, already the man of the house - and it had stuck. Even in his text messages, which were otherwise carefully abbreviated.Dear Mum, hope ur OK. Tania 8 nothing last night. Weird msg from grandpa. Hope he is OK. Cu soon. Love PhilipA string of eighty-eight characters, tethering her to her life. To her daughter Tania, still desperate at fifteen to be a dancer. To her father, recently widowed for the second time, whose odd behavior might signify early Alzheimer's or merely a desire to be attended to. To Philip, tall, dark, anxious Philip, who might in another life have focused his teenage zeal on religion or sport, but had instead devoted his energy to bringing greater order to his family. Philip's horizons needed stretching more than hers did. Didn't she have enough to be going on with, without an additional complication?xxxxxxxxxxxHis name was John, and he had more hair than she usually thought appropriate for a man and a beautiful smile. A smile generously, widely bestowed, but still conferring a sense of particular grace on the recipient. He had looked her up on the internet, had come along to the public meeting well prepared. He had been interested in her presentation, he said. She thought he was a journalist at first and was not entirely disarmed by the casual way he dismissed himself as "just an interested local." Nonetheless, she had allowed him to buy her a drink. She was on holiday, after all: the planning committee had gone home by then.xxxxxxxxxxxRobert left her when the children were two and four. It all happened with bewildering speed, but she knew there was no hope of him reconsidering: Robert never changed his mind. He had been just as certain that he wanted to marry her, and she hadn't doubted him then, either.He took with him his conviction, her financial security, the future they had mapped out. She was amazed, even now, by the abruptness of the transition from having him on her side to facing his implacable opposition over everything. He had not been generous, considerate, reasonable, or any of the other things which husbands abandoning young wives and small children could be, to make up, just a little bit, for their treachery. He had made a mistake, he said, impossibly sure of himself. The only thing to do was to walk away from it, to start again while there was still time. In the event -- and it had been a long time before she could see this as a consolation -- it was Catherine who had come out of things better. Robert's mistakes had accumulated, despite his determination to throw them off. Catherine, like others in her situation, had been galvanized by injustice and necessity and had exceeded her expectations. For nearly five years, by then, she had given herself up pleasantly to motherhood, but she had a geology degree; she was employable. A specialist firm which provided advice to mining and quarrying companies employed her. She found a dependable nanny, worked part time at first and then, when Tania went to school, full time. She progressed up the ladder. Six years ago she left to set up an independent consultancy, and she had not looked back. There was enough work to choose from, and she chose to travel more and more as the children got older. She liked the sense of independence, of free flight, despite the trail of text messages and her guilt at leaving her family behind. Leaving Philip to bear the sense of responsibility his father had left him with.xxxxxxxxxxx"You give advice to action groups," he said. "I've looked at your website. Sometimes you work for action groups, not contractors.""But not at the same time," she protested. "I can only advise one party in each case.""And this time you're on the other side." "I would give the same advice whoever I'm working for," she said. "I present the facts. The most I could do for you -- " she hesitated -- "I could find someone else to help you, and the most they could do is to help you frame your arguments, to achieve some compromises.""So you'd be happy living here?" he asked -- not aggressively; he wasn't an aggressive man. "You'd be happy to have millions of cubic meters of empty space under your house?""I would," she said firmly. That was the truth. "But you won't be living there yourself, will you? Isn't it more a question of...""Not in my back yard?" "I didn't say that."That smile again. "Our concerns are legitimate. What about the construction traffic -- all those heavy lorries shaking the ground? No one's driven over the mine for decades. Who knows what might happen?""You heard the evidence. They've assessed the rock mass, done some very sophisticated modeling, and everyone's happy. If you're worried about the construction traffic -- you know there are regulations about noise, that there will be environmental assessments -- ""Which may make some aesthetic difference to what they build, perhaps, but -- ""Aesthetics are important," she said. "The site's derelict: there's a chance to reshape it, to make it beautiful again. If you want to spend money on professional advice, that's what I'd focus on. You could push for a health impact assessment, for concessions -- road improvements, local facilities -- ""Tours of the caverns, like they have at Winsford? Oh, but there's all that gas down there, isn't there? Not so nice for schoolchildren to visit.""Parts of it could still be opened to the public -- ""Free canaries provided, perhaps?"But they were both losing interest in the mine. Even as it grew more heated the argument became less important and its undertow led them, inexorably, in a different and unexpected direction.xxxxxxxxxxxHe was not the first man to have attracted her attention since Robert left. There had been some tentative approaches over the years, some prickings of desire. One or two fledgling romances which could perhaps have taken wing if she had wanted them to. She was too self-contained, everyone said. She had learned too well how to get along on her own.It wasn't that, exactly. It was partly her work, the satisfaction of being absorbed by something challenging, rational and solid. She took pleasure in her intimate connection with the earth and was comforted by a perspective which spanned millions of years. She enjoyed planning the future of the landscape, too, the way it would look when the quarry was long gone, the mine spent. Better, she told rooms full of undergraduates when she lectured at the university, than devoting your life to something which might migrate or mutate at a moment's notice. Or run away.Then there was her family, the complexities of a domestic life which was far from rational and predictable. She had imagined that things would get easier as the children grew up, but they had not. She got away more often, but they were always waiting for her when she came back. Her stepmother's illness had been unexpected; so had the crisis after Tania's ballet school auditions. Now there was her father's confusion, her worry -- perhaps perverse? -- about Philip. There was only so much space in her life. Only so many people she could hold onto. It was necessary, her resistance to encroachment. It was no use allowing herself to be tempted by sentiment.xxxxxxxxxxxShe had booked a room in a bed and breakfast in Patterdale, some distance from where she had stayed with Robert. Robert and the children. Turning off the main road and driving, it seemed, directly towards the base of Place Fell, she was pleased with her choice. Robert was not here; she would not have to banish him from the landscape. The steep slope of the fell rose almost from the back door of the house, dotted here and there with the bright gold of gorse. She deposited her bag in the pretty, low-ceilinged bedroom, changed into walking boots and headed for the gate which led to a network of footpaths. After half a mile she heard the rush and tumble of water. The path led past the mouth of a cave, and from above it a waterfall spilled down the side of the fell. She paused to watch a group of children playing, building a dam across the stream. An older boy, apparently in charge, shouted to his sister to get off a slippery slab of rock. Catching sight of Catherine, he turned to explain."There's monsters in there. Me Dad says so. You got to be careful."Catherine remembered a game they had played with Philip -- Pip -- and Tania, years ago. "There might be a dragon," she said. "There are lots of dragons around here."The boy's eyes grew wide, grave with self-importance just like Philip's."Do they eat children?" he demanded."Sheep, mainly," Catherine reassured him. "We knew a dragon, once; a mummy dragon with an egg." It had been Robert's game, a story he had sustained for the whole fortnight of their holiday with symbols carved onto stones, messages left in the fireplace, Kendal mint cake hidden under rocks. They had been too young for it, really -- certainly Tania had -- but Catherine had thought how much they would enjoy it the next year, how lucky they were to have Robert's imagination at their disposal. Six months later he was gone. He had hardly seen the children since: children did not figure in his new life, nor dragons.xxxxxxxxxxxShe wished there had been an explanation. It had felt like an unresolved bereavement: a death with no body, no way of telling what had gone wrong. Had there been signs which he had seen and she had missed, indications that they were doomed to failure? She had not thought marriage was like that, pre-destined to one outcome or another. She had thought they were bound to each other; bound at least to try.xxxxxxxxxxxThe path wound on up, towards the top of the fell. Catherine's legs were aching a little now from the unaccustomed exertion. One foot in front of another; that was the way she had always managed. Know where you're going, take one step at a time. But eventually she would get to the top, the end of the track. What would happen then? After following the same path for so long - the arduous, absorbing, upwards path - how would she know where to go next? Would she notice that the summit was approaching before it was too late to consider the possibilities? She halted for a moment, turning to survey the view spread below her, and the bleep of the mobile in her pocket told her it had caught a signal. Philip, she thought. But the number on the display was unfamiliar.You said you were going on to the Lakes but not where exactly. I am coming to The Mortal Man in Troutbeck tonight in hope of seeing you. I understand why you left in a hurry but please come and talk at least. JxxxxxxxxxxxYou're a beautiful woman, he had said, sometime in the night. It's no surprise you understand that landscape matters when you're so beautiful yourself. She didn't trust his words, but his hands were persuasive, tracing the contours of her body. She shut her eyes, imagining herself a statue, an artist's model, a sweep of undulating downland. A woman, warm and loved.xxxxxxxxxxxShe had nothing with her except a black suit and her walking gear. She settled for combat trousers and the white blouse she had worn the day before. She had not come prepared for this encounter, but the clothes were a distraction, she knew that.She wasn't sure what time to set off, either: would he expect her for dinner, or later? Could she stand to eat alone, if he wasn't there? Would it be better to wait for him than to walk in and find him there, anticipating her approach?It was still light at seven thirty: the days were longer up here in the spring. She turned left onto the main road, winding south through the dale past Brotherswater and up towards the peak of rock shaped like a steeple at the summit of the Kirkstone Pass. The landlady had given her directions to the Mortal Man, tucked off the Windermere road, but she missed it the first time. Dusk was approaching, making it harder to see the twists of the road. She slowed, looking for the turning, then pulled up sharply as a muddle of vehicles and headlights came into view. An accident, she thought; someone misjudging the bend. A blue Toyota had turned over on the bank and a silver Mini, badly crumpled, was blocking the middle of the road. Other cars had stopped, and she could hear the faint sound of a siren approaching. An accident. A blue Toyota. A common car: why should it be his? Why should it not be? A little closer and she would be able to see more, but the light was shrinking every moment now, obscuring the scene.She turned her engine off and the silence was filled by the hum of the fan, busily oblivious to the carnage a few yards away. Was it worse that some part of her hoped this was the end of it, a tangle of metal strewn across the road outside The Mortal Man, or that another was distraught at the possibility of a loss she couldn't have set a value on until this moment? Was it better that she had been brought to this extremity, reminded what it was like to suffer the risks and chances of life? She had no idea what to do, how to bear the uncertainty of the next few minutes. She could not get past, could not get out and join the straggle of spectators. There was nothing to do but wait. No option but to endure. But there was another alternative. She could turn the car around and drive back to Patterdale, to the plainness and warmth of the bed and breakfast. She could pretend she had chosen not to go, not to hear the things he had come to say. Perhaps it was better, after all, to go back the way you had come, to stick to the path you knew.Her hands were shaking a little, but the gearstick shifted smoothly into reverse and there was a farm gate a few yards back where she could turn. It was almost dark now, but the high outline of the fells was just visible above her as she drove back towards the pass, up the smooth belly of the glacial valley.Rachel Crowther mail@the-scientist.comThe 2007 Subtle Science short story competition was sponsored by The Scientist. To find out more, click here.Click here to read the winner, Tenderness, and the other runner-up, Equifinality.Rachel Crowther mail@the-scientist.comImage: Rachel CrowtherLinks within this article:"The subtle side of science," The Scientist, July 13, 2007 'http://www.the-scientist.com/news/home/53375

Bedrock

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