There are no Wolves in Lancashire

"There are no wolves in Lancashire," Riley told them, "not nowadays at any rate. Time was, Lancashire was full of wolves. The whole of England teemed with wolves. Wolves lived side by side with men, some say outnumbered them ten to one. But men did not care to share their country with wolves. They hunted them, traded their pelts, made hats out of their fur, necklaces and charms from their teeth. Until there came a time when the last wolf in England was tracked down and killed. And that---" Here the storyteller's eyes narrowed to slits, his voice dropped to almost a growl. "That happened right here in Lancashire. In fact..." The grizzled head rose. Eyes glinting golden in the firelight swept the spellbound circle. "In fact it happened over yonder---" He pointed into the darkness. Nine sets of eyes automatically turned although all knew nothing could be seen. "---in the forest surrounding the great hill you can see from the top of the causey-way. That was the last wolf," Riley concluded. "And his name was Farrer."

It was one of Simmon's earliest memories. He could not have been more than three or four at the time. It might well have been the first time he was awake at such an hour. Certainly it was the first time he had joined the campfire circle. He perched in his father's lap, absorbing the story as much by the rumble in Riley's ribcage as the words that fell from the lips above. It sowed the seed, a seed that took years to push through to the forefront of Simmon's mind. But it grew strong and well-rooted. Once apparent, the idea was impossible to dislodge. Simmon considered it before he went to sleep and he woke with it rattling in the void behind his eyes. He enacted it in his dreams; during the day he examined it more methodically, weighing the possibilities, scrutinising possible ways and means. In the end the concept became so huge, so detailed, so inspirational that the boy simply had to share it. And so, one day, ostensibly out of the blue, he announced to his father, "Dad, I want to be a wolf when I grow up."

Riley had a face like a rock ringed in grey moss. He rarely registered surprise, alarm or even happiness. Today he managed the first two simultaneously. He cocked his head to one side, glared at Simmon from under the dark canopy of his right eyebrow.

"What's that you say?"

"When I grow up, I want to be---"

Riley cut him short. "You can't. I told you, there are no wolves---"

"---in Lancashire. Yes, I know. That means I can be the first. Or the first of the new Lancashire wolves."

"What's put this foolishness in your head?"

The instinctive answer was It was you, obviously, but to Simmon's inner ear that sounded like cheek and Riley did not tolerate cheek. So he gave the question some thought. "I think it's always been there," he decided. "I can't remember when it wasn't. And if it's foolishness, why are so many of your stories about wolves?"

That was unexpected. Riley's jaw dropped, revealing large square teeth. "Them's just stories. This---" he indicated with a sweeping gesture the camp, the ragged perimeter of the Delph, the trees above and below, "this is here, this is now. Young lads nowadays don't grow up to be wolves. It's just not..." He seemed lost for words, recovered himself, and declared in tones that brooked no further discussion, "It's out of the question and there's an end to it!"

He turned as if to leave but stopped, stiffened, lifted his chin, and turned back. "You're sure it wasn't one of the others put you up to this? Coster – or that contrary bitch Phoebe?"

"I'm sure," Simmon said.

"Good lad," growled Riley. He placed his heavy palm on Simmon's head, tickled the scalp beneath the thatch, pressed the boy to his flank. "We'll keep this discussion between ourselves, eh lad? Family business, yes?"

"Yes, dad."

Simmon's people were travellers. They were not Roma, not Pavee, and indeed did not travel. Simmon had decided that others – the townsfolk – called his people travellers because that is what they wanted them to do. The law said that travellers were allowed sites and the townsfolk hereabout had granted Simmon's people the Delph to live on, provided they did not build houses and at least gave the impression they could set off on their travels at any time, preferably soon. The Delph was an ancient quarry on the easternmost edge of the town. Before the travellers came it was where townsfolk from the other side of the main road built lean-to garages in which to keep their cars. Further down the hillside – the southern slope – had once been allotments but in the gap between allotments being old-fashioned and then fashionable again the travellers had come and no townsfolk wanted to grow plants or indeed keep cars so near to people who, it was believed, were genetically obliged to steal them. Beyond the allotments was the fifteen-acre stretch of common land called the Platts, which was open to everyone, even the travellers, though woe betide if they tried to pitch camp there. At the foot of the hill was the railway line, with pedestrian level crossings at either end of the Platts, and at the far edge of the Platts was a line of dense woodland, mainly evergreen, behind which skulked the next town, which nobody really mentioned.