A Yorkshire

None of this was John’s fault though, or at least that’s what he told himself, and anyone within earshot, piling the blame onto his father, shouting at the ghost of a man he’d grown up hating, and yet never been brave or courageous enough to stand up to or just simply move away from. But this was the dales, so where the hell was he supposed to have moved away to anyway? He’d grown up on the farm, knew nothing else but farming, and his blood was in the soil in more ways than most, spilt not just from thorn and nail and angry hoof, but the hard slap of a calloused hand across the face, a leather belt across the back of his legs, a thrown rock or branch. The wounds on the outside healed, but the ones inside festered, and John grew up to be a moody child, an angry teenager, and finally a rage-filled adult. He never wondered what his mum would’ve thought of the man her baby had become, because he’d never known her, and that was the one thing his dad had reminded him of daily. ‘You killed her, lad, you hear? Took her from me the day you were born! And nowt good’s come about from having you instead of her, that’s for sure. Should’ve been you, not her, you hear? Not her!’ Lad was about as close to calling him by a name as his dad ever got, though usually, he went with something more coarse, spitting the words at him like bullets as he ordered his son out onto the farm to work in all weathers, one hand cracking him hard across the back of the head, the other holding the bottle he loved more than his own flesh and blood. And the worse the weather was, the harder his father had driven him, hoofing John out into the thickest snow and the hardest rain, never caring as to whether his only son was actually kitted out well enough to not come back half-drowned or frozen to death or, on the sunnier days, burned to the bone. John had ended up being called Beef at school, not just because everyone had a nickname, nor indeed because of how he’d seemed to grow at twice the rate of his peers, but because that was usually all he’d ever had for lunch. But it was never the good stuff, just a few slabs of corned beef from a tin, dropped in a Tupperware box, with a couple of slices of bread. He had to prepare it himself after all, and if he took anything else, his dad would get angry, call him a thief, belt him one. Unable to take his frustrations out on his dad, a man whose arms were corded with thick twists of muscle, and whom he’d once seen punch a cow in the head just to get it to move out of the way, John looked to easier targets. The dogs chained in the yard soon realised that the boy from the house had sharper toes than the man and they would avoid him, baring their teeth and more than willing to sink them into him if he got too close. But sheep and their lambs, the few cattle in the lower field, the chickens, they got the brunt of it. And so did the kids at school. Bullying had come to John as naturally as breathing. But then he’d had the best teacher he could have ever asked for—his father. John was bigger than most, and they all teased him because of his clothes, and the stink that followed him from the farm to the classroom. He wasn’t the only farmer’s kid by any stretch, but he was the only one who’d reeked to high heaven of it. And kids were cruel, but he was crueller, to protect themselves some had lined up behind him, if only to be out of the way of his fists. If happy days had ever truly existed for John, then those days at school had been as close to such as he could ever imagine, prowling the playground with his little gang of warriors, picking on anyone and everyone, taunting people and teasing them. Making sure they were always scared. And they were, because he had tales to tell of the things he had done on his farm, terrible things that would churn the stomach of anyone unfortunate enough to be close enough to listen. Some of the stories were true, others not so much, but the effect was the same, and John relished the power it gave him. Horror stories were his currency, and he was generous. Then school came to an end, people grew up, and what John gave out came back tenfold. Because those kids in the playground pushed too far often grow into adults who just won’t put up with it anymore. Not that John cared, because out on the farm he was still the biggest and the meanest, and he had enough targets on which to take out his frustrations. And those who had hidden behind him, they continued to do so, keeping their own little underground economy going, never concerning themselves with what folk thought, happy to screw over another if it meant easy money, cheap booze, and a laugh at someone else’s expense. And now, years later, the fact that it was the weekend meant nothing to John; it was not a thing to celebrate. The heat from the July sun was just something else to swear at, days off were a luxury he’d never known, and the only respite would be the homebrew he drank most evenings while watching television. It wasn’t the best of lives, but it was his life and the only one he knew how to live. John was up early, like every other day regardless of how hungover he felt. Kicking open the backdoor to stare at the yard in front of him gave him no sense of worth, just a deadness deep inside which sunk deeper by the day, a lead weight out of view stretching down and down into the darkness of himself.