with what was going to happen. Then I remembered my mother's Auntie Doris. Doris and her husband Henry used to farm sheep on the moors high above Bradfield. Then, about four years ago. Henry died. Doris tried to keep things going for a while, but when her son Ken invited her out last year for an extended holiday with his family in New Zealand, she sold the sheep and packed her bags. Ken had written to me at Christmas, saying his mother had suffered a mild heart attack and wouldn't be coming back for the foreseeable future.
That night, I took advantage of a lull in work to call Ken. At first, he sounded surprised to hear from me, then muttered,
"I suppose you're using the phones at work."
"I've been meaning to ring for ages," I said.
"I wanted to know how Auntie Doris was doing." It's much easier to appear solicitous via satellite. I made the appropriate noises while Ken bored on about his mother's health, his wife, their three kids and their sheep.
After ten minutes, I decided I'd had enough.
"The other thing is.
Ken, I was worried about the house," I lied.
"It's so isolated up there, someone should keep an eye on the place."
"You're not wrong," he said.
"Her solicitor's supposed to be doing that, but I don't reckon he's been near it."
"Do you want me to pop out and check it over? Now I'm back living in Bradfield, it would be no bother."
"Would you? That'd be a hell of a load off, I don't mind telling you.
Between ourselves, I'm not sure Mum's ever going to be well enough to go back home again, but I'd hate to think of anything happening to the family home," Ken said eagerly.
Hate to think of anything happening to his inheritance, more like. I knew Ken. Ten days later, I had the keys. On my next day off, I drove out there to check the accuracy of my recollection. The rutted track leading to Start Hill Farm was much more overgrown than the last time I'd been there, and my four-wheel drive jeep struggled to climb the three miles from the nearest single-track lane. I cut the engine a dozen yards from the grim little cottage and sat listening for five minutes. The biting wind from the high moors rustled the overgrown hedges, occasional birds sang. But there were no human sounds. Not even the distant thrum of traffic.
I got out of the jeep and had a look round. One end of the sheep shed had collapsed into a random pile of millstone grit, but what pleased me was that there was no sign of casual human visitations; no picnic remains, no corroding beer cans, no crumpled newspapers, no cigarette butts, no used condoms. I walked back to the house and let myself in.
It was little more than a two-up, two-down. Inside, it was very different from the cosy farmhouse I remembered. All the personal touches photographs, ornaments, horse brasses, antiques were gone, packed up in crates in storage, a very Yorkshire precaution. In a way, I was relieved; there was nothing here that could trigger off memories that would interfere with what I had to do. It was a blank tablet, with all humiliations, embarrassments and pain erased. Nothing of my past lurked to surprise me. The person I had been was absent.
I walked through the kitchen towards the pantry. The shelves were empty. God knows what Doris had done with her serried ranks of jams, pickles and home-made wines. Maybe she'd shipped them to New Zealand as a hedge against being fed alien food. I stood in the doorway, and stared at the floor. I could feel a foolish grin of relief spread across my face. My memory hadn't let me down. There was a trapdoor in the floor. I squatted down and pulled the rusty iron ring. After a few seconds, the door swung back on creaking hinges. As I sniffed the air from the cellar, I grew more convinced that the gods were with me. I had feared it would be damp, fetid and stale. But instead, it was cool and fresh, slightly sweet.
I lit my camping gas lamp and carefully descended the flight of stone stairs. The lamp revealed a sizeable room, about twenty feet by thirty. The floor was flagged with stone slabs, and a broad stone bench ran the length of one wall. I held the lamp high and saw the solid beams of the roof. The lath and plaster