Only of Us

A short story

For the last twenty years, I’ve been working on a climbing novel (The Bear Pit), which is probably a fool’s errand, as climbing fiction is invariably no match for non-fiction (although the best stories have a bit of both). What most inspired me was reading one or two pieces of climbing fiction that appeared in the UK climbing magazine On the Edge, rare pieces but ones that stayed with me over the years, as well as John Harrison’s The Climbers (I used to see John bouldering at Mile End when I lived in London in the 90s). My ideas was to write something very Northern, simple and gritty, sort of like A Kestrel for a Knave meets Ben Pritchard’s film Splinter (the story is written in black and white). Although I’ve written about a third of the book, but keep kicking it down the road in order to focus on work that pays, but I’ll probably try and finish it after publishing the 3rd edition of Me, Myself & I. Anyway, this evening, while scrubbing away old files from my Google Drive, I came across the first bit of fiction - a short story - that I wrote but never sent off to any mags. Rather than just let it get lost, I thought I’d share it here.

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Kate arrived unannounced. 

She had driven up the day before, catching the first ferry over that morning, and now stood at the door with Ewen in her arms, both smiling through the thick glass of the back door. 

Rob jumped up from the table and let her in, taking Ewen from her so she could sit down, while I made her a cup of tea. I told her off for driving all the way from London, but Rob just laughed as he lifted up his grandson, telling me that the roads North were much better than when we'd lived in England. 

I just felt shocked at how much older they seemed since our last meeting. 

We hadn't seen each other for over a year, apart from regular e-mails with images attached.  Ewen was nearly four, and he looked like his granddad. 

After dinner, we brought down some of Kate's old books and toys for Ewen to play with while we talked. I flipped through the books, showing him the pictures his mother had loved most. 

As Rob washed up, Kate mentioned that she'd been to see our old house in Leeds on the way up and that it looked just the same as when she was little; a tiny brick terrace. The whole city seemed flattened to make way for new buildings, but the house and the street had escaped and still looked the same. 

"We also drove up to Almscliff," she said. "Remember when we used to go up there and watch you climbing?" 

Rob turned and smiled, wiping his hands on his trousers. "That was a long time ago, it's amazing you remembered the way". 

"Let's go in the garden while your mum finishes looking at all your old things," he said, grabbing Ewen and carrying him out of the door and over his shoulder. 

It had been twenty years since we'd left Leeds, swapping a Headingly terrace for a small cottage on the island of Mull. For a long time, Rob hadn't wanted to move – back then, he was always against any kind of change – always telling me there was no way he could ever live far from the gritstone crags and quarries that edged around the city. He didn't think that living in Leeds was so bad; he'd been brought up in Doncaster and thought the girls would be OK, but I wanted more than that. 

The truth was we always came second to Rob's climbing. 

Rob often told me that Leeds was the hub of British climbing and how important it was for him to live there. Sometimes, he'd promise to think about moving somewhere else, Scotland perhaps; after all, it would be great to live there for the winter climbing, but he couldn't think of moving until he'd finished his projects—scrappy little climbs stuck away in scruffy quarries. 

Sometimes, we'd argue about the move, and he'd take off to the university, where he'd spend hours moving backwards and forwards along the climbing wall, his fingers gripping the brick edges. He said this made him strong and helped him relax, but when I pointed out that he never got anywhere, he laughed and said I'd never understand. 

We argued like this for a few years, and I realised it wasn't about moving. 

I'd almost given up any hope of giving the girls a different kind of life. Still, after his accident, all his reasons to stay sort of faded away, and in the end, it was Rob who suggested we leave. 

He needed to get away from the things he loved. 

Rob was a famous climber back then, well renowned for climbing, which wasn't well-known. I used to ask him why he wasn't as rich as a footballer, so at least we'd benefit from his skills instead of just being a drain. He'd just tell me that he was doing it because it made him complete; without it, he'd be nothing. I wondered why we weren't enough for him. I used to envy my friends who had normal husbands with regular jobs and went on standard holidays together. 

One thing that made up for his climbing was the fact that some of his climbing friends were very nice people – funny and intelligent; like Rob, they were selfish, but they weren't my bloke, so it didn't seem so bad, much like other women's blokes are funny when they're drunk, whereas your own bloke is just annoying. 

I was always known as Rob's wife, and although I was not a climber, I enjoyed the scene. There were always many parties where I could talk to other non-climbing wives and girlfriends. Nowadays, they would climb with their men, but back then, it was different, plus I had the girls. 

After Rob's accident, we saw fewer of his friends, which I found upsetting. The visits and phone calls became less frequent, as did the parties. Only when I'd flick through the odd climbing magazine—sent to the house when they used one of Rob's old shots—did I spot an oddly familiar face and flicker back to the good times. 

It seemed as if Rob had died, which I found more painful than he did, and when I asked him about it, he'd just say that people have to move on. I found it more painful than he did 

There were a few climbers who stayed in touch for a while. They'd come up and visit us in Scotland, sit at the end of the garden, and talk about what was going on in the climbing world. I always hated these visits; I didn't like the intrusion of Rob's old life, and when they left, he'd often seem distant, only returning when the kids came home from school. But eventually, even these visits stopped. 

Rob's last big trip had been to Pakistan; I am trying to remember which mountain, but it had been stiff and long, and as a guide to its difficulty, he'd been given a mountain of free gear. I convinced him that he didn't need it all, and feeling guilty about leaving us for ten weeks, he sold it to raise enough money for me and the kids to go to Spain while he was away. People didn't realise, especially all Rob's mates, that his kids missed him when he was gone. 

The problem for Rob was he was always somewhere else if not physically, then mentally, and I hated that when he was with the girls, he was always thinking about climbing. Unfortunately, it seemed that the more he ignored them, missing birthdays, Christmas and school open nights, the more they loved him, meaning it was more challenging for them – and me – when he was gone. 

When you're a child, an hour feels like half a day; ten weeks is like having no father. 

The girls really enjoyed Spain and didn't mention their dad too often. Although being a single mother is never easy, I enjoyed it until I got the call about Rob. 

I'd just brought the kids back to the campsite from the beach. They were both crying - like only small children can do when they're tired, and you're trying to hold it together - when the owner told me someone had left a number and I had to ring them urgently. 

Trying not to tremble in front of the girls, I copied down the number on a page of Where the Wild Things Are, then walked over to the phone and dialled it, the girls sniffling around my legs. 

It was Sue, one of Rob's partner's girlfriends, who answered. She lived on the same street as us, and having a son the same age as Kate, we'd often see each other. I always thought of her as a climbing martyr like me, and it seemed unfair that it was she who had to tell me that Rob had finally died. 

As I waited for her to speak, I realised I didn't feel scared or upset. Instead, I felt peaceful, as if his dying was going to be a release. Still, instead of news of an avalanche or broken rope, she told me not to worry, that Rob was coming home early. We had to get back to the UK because he had frostbite and might lose his fingers. 

I tried to sound unaffected by the news. I thanked her for getting in touch, asked if her husband Jim was OK, and said I would be OK and didn't need any help. But once I'd replaced the receiver, I could only sit on the curb and cry. The girls both stood and stroked my hair, told me not to cry, and said everything would be OK. 

I'd left the kids at the neighbour's house and driven to the airport alone, worried about how they'd react to seeing Rob. He looked like his father - who'd died the previous Christmas - as he walked out through arrivals, trying to push the trolley with his wrists, his hands comically bandaged. We didn't say anything to each other. He shrugged, and I wished he'd stayed with his mountain. 

Rob was one of eight people at a party who got caught in a big storm and trapped. Two of his friends, Jim and Paul, whom he'd known for years, had got some kind of oedema brought on by the altitude, meaning their lungs were filling up with fluid. The only option was to fight through the storm to get them down. 

Jim had been our best man, and Paul was Kate's godfather, so they were like family, like everyone at the party. Rob, being the most vigorous climber, took charge of manhandling them down the ropes. The descent took all night and saved their lives, but it resulted in Rob's fingers freezing. 

At first, everyone wanted to know the story, with magazines and newspapers wringing the house. He was even on local TV, which was exciting for the girls. They were glad to have him back, able to sit on him every night on our old red settee rather than watch him go down to the university. I could tell, though, that his mind was still far away, making plans for once his fingers healed. 

The injuries were more severe than everyone had thought, and even though most of his fingers were saved, they were useless for a climber. That winter, Rob couldn't even go out of the house without down mitts on, and as for climbing grit, he said it felt like cheese grating off his flesh. 

Of course, we all thought the doctors were wrong and that his fingers would return to normal. His climbing friends, especially his seven friends from the trip, called around often to see how he was doing, especially Jim and Paul, who were guiltily unscathed by the events. The truth was that it slowly dawned on Rob that his fingers would never be the same, so he had to accept that he was no longer a climber. 

It seemed that the change came quickly; the phone calls stopped coming on a Friday night - as people realised that Rob would never be able to get away at the weekend; the shelves full of guidebooks, so warped with age and full of ticks, were emptied and given away to the young boys down the wall; and piece by piece the gear that had cluttered up our lives for so long was left with friends and strangers until all that was left of Rob's old life was a cardboard box full of tatty ropes. 

The final act of Rob's climbing life, and one of the reasons I eventually got him to agree with the move, was his being asked to write a book about his epic. We received a small advance, and we decided to sell up and move to Mull, where he'd start his book, and I'd get a job at the local school. 

Leaving our house in Leeds was more complicated than I'd thought, only remembering then, on that last day, all the good times that are easily forgotten when you're bringing up a family. As for Rob, he was glad to go. Leeds was now just a dirty old city. He said it meant nothing to him – but it really meant too much, and it was he who would suggest we leave. 

Sitting in the van, ready to go, I suddenly felt sorry for him. I suggested we drive up to Almscliff one last time—the gritstone crag where we'd often taken the kids to watch him climb. It was a beautiful day, the kind of day it usually is when you move, and it would be nice to go up there one more time. Rob just said, 'Let's just go', not taking his eyes off the map. 

That journey North seems so long ago now, and although our new life hadn't gone as planned, it had been for the best. Rob's book didn't materialise. He said that he didn't want to think about climbing anymore and that it would be like me trying to write a book about a child who had died; he just needed to move on. In fact, we both ended up doing different jobs; I ended up working part-time in a gift shop while he took photos and sold them to image libraries in London, one skill that had at least been salvaged from his past. We had less money than in Leeds but found we needed less, and the extra time was spent as a family. 

I began to see what I'd loved in Rob before the climbing and realised then that I'd really hated him for a long time. 

That had been twenty years ago. Perhaps it was this because it was soon to be Rob's 50th birthday, or maybe Kate's visit, but I suddenly felt nostalgic. I decided that I would organise a birthday party. Rob had many friends in Scotland, and they were easy to invite, but then it came to other friends whom Rob hadn't seen for a long time: schoolmates, old joint friends, his old climbing partners back in Leeds. 

The Christmas cards had stopped coming long ago, and scribbled names and numbers in old tatty address books had ceased to be significant enough to be written into new ones, meaning all links seemed lost. Then, I saw that old, tired copy of 'Where the Wilds Things Are' on the kitchen table where Kate had been reading it to Ewen. I remembered the number, which was still there, faded and with the wrong code but still probably in service. 

The phone rang for a long time, and I'd been about to put it down – sure Sue must have moved since then – when she answered. I said hello and told her I was Rob's wife and made up a story about how I'd just found her number. She laughed and said she'd have thought I'd have grown out of introducing myself as Rob's wife. I explained why I was ringing and wondered if she could help me round up the other seven climbers from Rob's last trip. I then asked how Jim was. 

There was silence. 

I could hear an ice cream van in the distance and the sound of music playing somewhere close. I pictured her standing at the foot of her stairs, looking through the window onto our old narrow brick street. I saw my baby girls jumping off our old red sofa in their woolly tights as Rob came through the front door, smelly and scruffy but more handsome than any other man I'd ever know. I thought about Leeds and how it must look now. 

"Jim's not here anymore," she said finally. 

I didn't know what to say, unsure what she meant. Before I could think about it, I heard myself ask if she was still in contact with any of the others from Rob's last trip. 

"My god' she said 'you don't you know, do you?"

I walked out into the garden feeling light-headed. The sun was out, and Rob was at the end of the garden swinging Ewen whilst Kate took pictures. They were all laughing. 

I walked up behind him, put my arms around his shoulders and pressed my face against his hair and neck. His hair was turning grey like mine, and my arms could now wrap around his shoulders, which wasn't possible when he was a climber. 

I watched his fingers, which had once been thick and callused but were now thin and scarred, as he pushed the swing, and the little boy shouted, 'Higher, granddad, higher!'. 

I wondered if he knew, and if he did, why he'd never told me. For a moment, I felt that old feeling return from when he was a climber, how he'd keep something from me as only he could, and I thought of whispering into his ear that I knew they were all gone, they were all dead.

But as I tensed, he turned from the swing and smiled at me, and I could see that his thoughts were only of us.