Haweswater by Sarah Hall

Chase pricked up her tufted ears, and a second later was by her master’s feet. Samuel picked up his cap from the rocking chair and pulled it on to his head.
    – Grand stew, Ella. Grand as owt. Time to sort out city fella.
    As his thumb pressed the door latch down he heard his wife’s voice, charged and warning.
    – He’s bringing ill. He’s a messenger of nowt but darkness and ill. I just know it, Sam, I know it here.
    She was holding a hand over her chest, her jaw working at her cheek. Then the cool damp air was sliding past Samuel’s neck outside the cottage door.

    As he reached the top of the steep field he found Nathaniel Holme repairing a hole in one of the drystone walls which bordered the two men’s properties. By the old man’s feet was a selection of good-shaped rocks for the task, some flat and short for bridging, others dense and high for volume, stones for the body of the wall. As he approached, Samuel heard the familiar, soft thwock-thwock of stone being set down against more stone, followed by a harsh scraping as it was turned into place. The old man’s breathing was laboured and loud, as if the air was running on loose shale from his lungs to his mouth. He grunted as he lifted another piece of the wall.
    – There’s a couple spots need tending down by our barn when yer dun, if y’like.
    Nathaniel turned. His voice was thick in reply.
    – Git out, yer sly bugger. Watch a fella bildin’ up fell en cum up en stick a stree in his hat!
    Samuel hitched his trouser knees up and knelt down on the chill, recently thawed ground, next to his old friend. He picked up the biggest stone from the grass and hefted it into the uneven cavity of the wall, glancing at Nathaniel from the corner of one eye. Chase whined and bent to lick the back of Samuel’s hand as he worked. Then she took off up the field, paws bounding off the ground, a streak of black and white fur. Nathaniel examined his companion’s work and tutted.
    – Never could wall out, thee. Look at that gap in t’middle. Fat Jake down yonder could fit through t’hole. What yer dyan up hea so late, any road, yer daft bugger.
    – Same as you, yer daft bugger.
    – Aye well, it’s ower fuckin’ late fer buggerin’ about. I’m going tu t’Bull. Cumin’?
    – Aye. Go on, then.
    – Sam, th’ knows my mind at Bull. Give ower talk of stoppin’ in t’dale. Pointless, like.
    Nathaniel spoke quietly, slowly, slowly, breathing hard. Apause in the conversation left only the sharp and blunt sounds of stone on stone as Samuel continued with the walling.
    Nathaniel was seventy-one, arthritic, and could not work as he once had. His body was near to seizing completely with swellings and there was a bad cough deep in him that had gathered strength over this last winter, turning heavier, taking over the old man’s chest and robbing him of air as it shook itself free. Nathaniel’s two sons had died in the war and his wife Angela had passed away a decade before. There was nobody left to work at Goosemire, except one part-time farmhand, a few itinerants in the busy seasons if he could afford to pay them, and Nathaniel undertook most of the farm work himself.
    Samuel sighed and rubbed his hands together, brushing off shards of slate.
    – Dam’s not coming off. It’s all in that laddie’s heed.
    He tapped the side of his own skull with two fingers for emphasis.
    – Besides, it took years fu’ t’uther dam in Thirlmere to git finish. Wilf Martin at Hinter Hall farmed up until last block went in, eh?
    – Aye. But, git finish it did, Sam. Git finish it did.
    Nathaniel’s eyes were hazel-yellow and old and tired as he turned to look at Samuel. He was nodding as he leaned forward on to the wall, taking the weight of his wiry upper body on to his arms. Then he cleared his throat lengthily, spitting on the grass. Samuel knew the noise was a precursor, it usually meant the old man was preparing to give a speech, speak his mind. He was not mistaken.
    – Sam,