Secrets - Back to Lancashire (2)

Hills, and more hills, conjuring up thoughts of the old tongue twister about the ragged rascal running round and round the rugged hill. I get lost on the way. After stopping to look at the map, I retrace the route over a bridge and past a tiny village church, the colour of hay.

'Nearly there,' I say to Robert, listening to an iPod in the back.  

My son doesn't reply, just stares out of the window. He's eight.

I wish you could meet Robert.  I'm sure he'd warm to you. He does to certain people, but he has never bonded with me. I won’t use the word autism, but you'll see for yourself. Anyway, Robert and I are back for a while.

It's not so bad, I tell myself as I pass a deserted brick bus shelter and a valley peaked by a huge chimney-like tower on the opposite hill. At least, the air's fresh here, more so than in London. This is an ideal time to get myself in shape, join a gym.  Cut down on the beer and coffee. Do some walking up and down these hills. Get the damaged kneecap working again.

The sprawling village – or, rather, the small town of Kiddlestone, depending on how one wants to describe it – comes in to view after about half a mile: a war memorial standing where the main road forks in two, a muddy brown church surrounded by uneven gravestones and overgrown patches of grass, rows of terraced houses and cottages on hills overlooking a drop where a river weaves its way through fields and barbed wiring.  You'd love it here, I reckon.

Another chimney attracts my attention, reddish-brown and damp. A landmark.  'We're here.'

No answer from Robert.

I take the first right down the next hill, reach a long plain of grass at the bottom, turn into a narrow industrial cul-de-sac and hoot the horn outside an old three storey factory converted into apartment style flats. The Factory, home for the next year. The building's huge, fortress with turret-like windows and the chimney to the side. Not quite London, but pretty impressive anyway.  

My sister sorted out the details. Mel, remember? She's four years younger than us – a tender thirty-one – and me and her have been through some similar stuff together, minus the danger on Whaley Hill. Mel's an artist. For a long time, she enjoyed a successful career as a illustrator in Manchester, and then in London, but she recently moved back to Lancashire following the break up of a relationship. It's amazing how she and I keep going round in circles.

'Okay, you need to turn that off,' I tell Robert, referring to the iPod.  The boy does, eyes glued to the floor. 

'You'll like it here. It will be a new start.' 

He turns away without a word.  We get out of the car, stepping into late afternoon sunshine and the smells of soil and farming. A blue smiling sky above, hopefully a good sign. The meadows on the other side of the river are just about visible.  If we had a dog, we could walk it there later.

The bulking wooden door opens at the front and Mel hurries across the car park. 'You made it,' she says, hugging me. She tries to include Robert in the hug, but he shies away.  That's exactly what I meant, Craig. I'm sure he'd get on with you, though.

When Mel releases me, I take a moment to study her. She looks well considering all that she and I have been through, skin smooth and unblemished, rich black hair down to her waist, coal-like searching eyes small and intense. Little Mel, we used to call her when we were kids. You and I used to get her overexcited. All the time. The pummels and pinches we received in return were well worth it.  

Mel shows me how to use the electronic keypad out by the front and I go through with the luggage. The inside of The Factory is enormous, an archaic museum: glass balconies over a three storey drop; white painted brickwork, stark and bare; a glass dome in the ceiling that causes light to reflect off the ground floor. The lack of sound is palpable, nearly audible. It hangs over me, like a cloud, provoking a flicker of disquiet, as if danger is brewing close by.