The Blind Light

by Stuart Evers

  ‘Yes, we have other farms to visit.’ Gwen says off script. ‘Pickford’s, isn’t that the one, love?’

  ‘I’d have to have a look, Gwen,’ Drum says. ‘But that sounds about right.’

  Garner goes to the whistling kettle, takes it from the hob, laughs to himself.

  ‘Pickford’s isn’t a farm, it’s more like a petting zoo. Buy his place and you’ll starve before the end of the year.’

  ‘Let me do that,’ Gwen says as he struggles with the teacups. She gives her best library smile. ‘You sit down.’

  He nods in obligation, sits opposite Drum, places his mitten hands on the scarred wood. He follows Drum’s eyes, looks down at his own hands.

  ‘Elsie died and then the hands went. A visit from Arthur Itus. It’s agony, can’t do a thing.’

  ‘Same as my Uncle Nudge,’ Drum says. ‘He got it bad, had to sell his place too. Had a dairy farm down in Braintree, I used to go and help him on holidays, and then his hands went and he had to sell up. It’s houses now, you know. Turn in his grave if he knew.’

  Gwen looks at Garner. An overplayed hand, surely. Too much a coincidence, too smooth a leap. Only chance Uncle Nudge ever worked on a farm is if they’d had a henhouse at Broadmoor.

  ‘How many cows?’ he says. ‘On your uncle’s farm.’

  ‘Three hundred,’ Drum says, ‘so I know about scale. Can we see the sheds? I’d like to see the set-up.’

  ‘Have us tea first?’ Garner says.

  ‘Of course,’ Drum says.

  15

  They steal away from Natasha and Nate, leaving them playing dress-up, and run into the garden. They hold hands as they sprint, the wind snapping at Anneka’s face, pressing her clothes to her like a shadow. They hurtle, and he makes a long roaring sound, one that comes from deep inside, and they take the incline hard, but do not break hands. They are heading to the dell, their secret place amongst the trees, a shack covered in moss, the old hide. They are going too fast, much too fast, but she doesn’t worry for her footing, doesn’t think of anything but the speed and the descent and the feel of his hand in hers.

  He slows as he reaches the edge of the dell, slowing her too, expertly, bringing them to a canter and then to a slow trot. Heart in her ears, in her throat, the mulch scent of the dell, the sour stink of the stagnant brook. All the journey here thinking of that, the slippery banks, the still water, the hide with its damp blankets, gas lamp, the ripped deckchairs.

  She loosens her hand from his as he pushes past the brambles, the nettle copses, the unpruned tree leaves. Inside, pushing through into imagined territory, the colours and textures different, as though from tape to film. Taking the narrow pathway single file, him in front, turned to one side, the two of them like swordsmen or fencers. Through into the frith, a wide expanse of treelessness, in the middle the hide, beyond it the brook. The astonishment of the greens, the dirtiness of the browns, the long nose of its fragrance.

  ‘I got us supplies,’ he says, opening the door to the hide. She follows him, the smell changing again, the damp blankets and the sweetness of mouldering apples. He turns on the gas lamp and on a small camp table there are two cans of Coca-Cola, a selection of chocolate bars, the kind of swag she dreams of at the corner shop. He sits on his deckchair and she quickly takes the one beside him.

  He raises his can and she raises his, they take off the ring pulls and put them on their fingers, the way they always do.

  ‘I do hope you come and live here,’ he says. ‘It would be so much fun.’

  She feels the Coke foam in her mouth, gagging at her throat and it comes out of her nose and her mouth, one big rush of bubbles and sugar. It sprays her T-shirt, the swept floorboards below.

  ‘You what?’ she says.

  ‘You don’t know?’ he says. ‘Have they not said?’

  She looks at him, and in the mouth there’s something amused, and something terrified, something young and something old. A different face than she’s seen before.

  ‘We’re moving here?’

  ‘Well, I think that’s the plan. It’s a possibility at least. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  Knew not to say something, but too excited not to, see that in his fizz, in his red cheeks and sweated temples. Blonder than any boy she knows, the hair long now, ringlets, a page-boy cut. Almost feminine, such long eyelashes.

  ‘I knew something was up,’ she says. ‘I bloody knew it.’

  ‘Nothing’s decided,’ he says. ‘It might not happen.’

  ‘It’ll happen,’ she says. ‘If my dad wants it, it’ll happen. Always does. No wonder he never did my room. What’s the point if we’re going to move?’

  ‘You got your room?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I hate it though. It hates me too.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘So this might be a blessing in disguise.’

  He smiles, disarming, and pushes her gently on the shoulder, his sincerest form of affection.

  ‘I’m not moving,’ she says. ‘Not for nothing.’

  He picks up his can of Coke, he drinks some and picks up a Twix. He opens the wrapper and hands her one of the fingers. She takes it and bites off the caramel, leaves the biscuit intact.

  ‘Not even for me?’ he says.

  ‘It’s not about you,’ she says, pushing his arm, smiling. And would it be so bad, to be here, to visit the hide, to paddle in the brook. No. Not enough.

  ‘Anyway, I have something to show you,’ he says. ‘A secret. Might change your mind.’

  Always with the secrets, the codes, the games they play needing to be hush-hush, ones sometimes where they touched each other, but not for some years now. Secret touching game, that one called. She looks him up and down, expectant eyes, knowing she can’t resist. Can never resist a secret, has never seen a locked door she doesn’t want to peer behind.

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Later,’ he says, biting into the Twix, eating half in one go. ‘I’ll show you later.’

  16

  He has never been so close to livestock before, the feral hum of cattle, the steam rising from their backs, the shit from below their tails, the arcs of piss, the huff of breath. He nods wisely at what Garner says, the technical information of which he understands around three-quarters. He asks about the milkers, their power supply, how old they are, how often the gaskets blast, and Garner does not seem impressed, but neither does he see through him, raise a cotton-flax eyebrow and push for confirmation of knowledge. Drum watches the milk pumping, filling the containers and it feels like being on the line, each cow contributing to the finished product. He pats the flank of a Friesian, fondles the tag in one of their ears, listens to Garner talk of supply lines and the man who collects the containers at the end of day.

  Gwen stands close by, thankfully says nothing, does not distract from the transaction at hand, from the confidence he is building. Deference important, but also knowledge, and passion. He tells Garner stories of his time with Uncle Nudge, all his own invention, all his own guile. No Carter for this. Carter’s intelligence worth nothing when standing with Garner, his provided information just slightly off, what his grandpa called duff gen. All Drum, now. Gwen too, but him. Him closing this one down, making all the inroads.

  ‘I think we’ve seen enough,’ Gwen says. ‘Can we go back to the house? I’d like to have a look there too, if we may.’

  Drum does not look at her, does not dare, does not want to show his face, the anger at her talking over what he was about to say. But this good, though. The impatience, good, because she wants to see more. Good this, to smile and agree – ah, yes that would be great to see the house – but seething that she cut him off, the anecdote now forgotten, impossible now to recall, but a good one about Uncle Nudge and what was it now? Never mind, all over, interview conducted, examination passed.

  Garner leads the way, takes them down the gulley back to the house.

  ‘My great-grandfather built this place from the ground up,’ Garne
r says as they walk. ‘The old house was burned down, but that’d been standing since the seventeen hundreds or something. Last man standing, me. Last man.’

  He takes them into the house, through the kitchen, into the sitting room, a fire in the grate, stone flags, rugs cast over them, a dog sleeping by the television set. Good-proportioned room, bigger than home, a sofa and two chairs, only one looking like it was ever used.

  Up the narrow stairs, runner threadbare, on to small landing.

  ‘Bedroom,’ he says, opening the door into a small room full of junk.

  ‘Bedroom,’ he says opening a door onto a bigger room full of junk.

  ‘Bedroom,’ he says opening a door into a sparse room, just a double bed and a chest of drawers. A big room, one with potential, the light sure to stream through in mornings.

  ‘Toilet,’ he says, opening a door into a small piss-stinking room with a lime-silted bathtub.

  ‘It’s been a good home,’ he says. ‘Too big these last years, but a good place. Good memories. Some sad, but mainly happy. My boy were born here, in that room there, in fact. I tell people he was midwifed by a visiting vet, but that’s not true.’

  He laughs and takes them down to the kitchen, sits at the table, invites them to join him. His eyes are distant, he is seeing the past in the present, his kid, clearly gone, clearly dead, eating soup or baking cakes, and Drum is seeing the future, his kids, clearly here, clearly alive, talking to him as they eat their evening meal, the sound of their voices and the sound of his.

  ‘How many children did you say you had?’ Garner says.

  ‘Two,’ says Gwen. ‘Nathan and Anneka.’

  ‘And what do they think of all this?’ he says. ‘Moving to a farm and all that?’

  ‘They can’t wait to see the place,’ Drum says.

  Garner smiles, sadly looks inside his empty teacup.

  ‘You’re wondering about my boy? Why he isn’t here?’

  Dead, the boy. Can see his coffin.

  ‘Setting up the summer fair, over at Timbersbrook. Carrying a piece of metal to set up a stage or something, touched an overhead powerline. Dead immediately.’

  He put his claws to his face, shielded his eyes with them, though they could see the eyes through the fingers.

  ‘Him and Carter were friends, at first. Carter, the man over the way. Used to get up to all sorts. They got caught one time doing something over at the reservoirs, think they were firing air rifles or something. Carter’s father, may he rest in agony, made Billy take the fall for it. Our families, there’s always been bad blood, but you don’t know why until you see it. They sent flowers to the funeral and Elsie and I we burned them. You ever burned flowers? They smell terrible.’

  Drum sees the tears, does not know where to position himself. Wants to ask more about the young Carter, someone he has never even thought about, the boy Carter, the young master of the house. The untouchable little man and the grieving father.

  Garner looks up, takes out his handkerchief.

  ‘But you don’t want to hear all that, I know. Young couple like you, you don’t want to hear it. You want a fresh start and all of that. I understand that. But sometimes, I have to tell people about Billy. Remind them he was here.’

  He blows his nose.

  ‘Anyway, if you want it,’ he says. ‘It’s yours. Match the offer, and I’ll sell.’

  The relief is like Cuba all over again. To go back to Carter. To say he did it, that he convinced Garner, that he played his part to a T. Did it without Carter, without relying on him. To be able to say that. To be able to say that was me. Not you, me. And to work here. To work here.

  ‘Well,’ Gwen says, ‘we’ll need to discuss it, obviously.’

  Garner does not look at Gwen, ignores her and looks straight at Drum, down, if it were possible, into what counts for a soul, down into his guts at least, into his marrow.

  ‘But let me tell you this,’ Garner says. ‘That man over there. That Carter. He’ll offer you money for the land. First day you’re here, he’ll offer you money. Good money. But you will never sell to him. You will never, never sell to him or his family. If I find out in this life or the next that they own this land, I will put you in the ground or haunt you for eternity. Do I make myself absolutely clear?’

  Drum cannot avoid his eyes. They are red-lined, distended, searing.

  ‘I promise,’ Drum says. ‘We just want the farm, nothing more.’

  ‘Well good,’ Garner says. ‘We should have a drop before you go. Celebrate.’

  Gwen begins to say something but the crash and the bang from the drinks cupboard drowns it out.

  17

  ‘You can turn back now, if you like,’ Tommy says. ‘I’d understand.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ Anneka says.

  They are in the cool of the wine cellar. She knows where he is taking her; her father has told her of a safe place they go if there’s ever a war, a safe place where they’d be warm and cosy, a place like the bear’s winter house, the one from the book they’d read to Nate.

  Thomas swishes aside a tarp and there is a battle-grey door with a wheel at its centre. He attempts to turn it; she watches him, smiling, as he struggles, the wheel refusing to open sesame. She takes the wheel, grips the bevel and heaves it herself. The wheel gives with a clank, so loud in the wine cellar, the clank. They freeze, as though they could take back the sound, their stillness sucking it back. No one comes, though; no one is alerted. They look past the door and see small pricks of light on the roof; another battle-grey door.

  ‘Be quick,’ he says. ‘We don’t have long.’

  They race the corridor barefooted; spin the wheel and leave it ajar, blink in the light. Green brick walls, a set of double doors ahead, nozzles on the wall.

  ‘This is the decontamination chamber,’ Tom says. ‘You put all your clothes in here –’ he opens a hatch, and they both look into the smooth metal chute – ‘and you walk nude through these doors.’

  He looks flustered at the word nude, cannot look at her as he strides through the showers. She follows, the nozzles watching her, gas seeping from them, not water, doors bolted and them left to die. She touches one and a drop of water blooms in her hand. Another hits the rubberized flooring, evidence of their transgression.

  ‘This is where we’ll live,’ Tom says as they enter the living quarters. ‘All of us, all of us in here.’

  He seems proud of the space, the white walls, the long table, the easy chairs. He shows her around as though no one has ever seen a living room before, a galley kitchen before, small rooms with small beds before. She feels Alice-like, underground and shrunken; in the small bathroom impossibly tall. It is a perfect winter house. She can imagine being there for a time, curling up on the small bed, eating at the refectory table, having midnight conversations with Tom, sharing scared stories of what the world will look like when they emerge.

  ‘Do you think it will happen?’ she says. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It can’t not happen.’

  ‘That what your dad says?’

  ‘It just stands to reason,’ he says.

  Thomas comes up behind her, she feels his arms on her back, his head too, resting himself against her as a pillow.

  ‘We should go back before we’re missed,’ she says.

  ‘Missed?’

  ‘They’ll be wondering where we are.’

  Thomas turns, as if to say something, something important, perhaps the reason for breaking his promise to his father never to go down to the bunker alone, something that has gestated for time but now is impacted, impossible to chip from its mass.

  ‘Yes, we should go.’

  He doesn’t move. The last opportunity, but he doesn’t take it. Instead, from the pocket of his trousers he takes a pencil. He moves the piano from the wall and writes his name behind it. He offers her the pencil. She takes it and writes her name beneath his, beneath that the date.

  ‘Proof we were here,’ he says.

&nb
sp; ‘Proof, yes,’ she said.

  ‘Like a promise to ourselves,’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ she says to his downward eyes. ‘A promise.’

  ‘That we’ll always be there for each other, no matter what.’

  ‘No matter what,’ she says.

  And she thinks he is about to kiss her. It is there, the possibility of a kiss, but then it goes. It drifts away as they look around the silent bunker, their present and future, their names written behind the old piano.

  Can’t You Hear the Drums?

  1977

  Saturday 17 – Sunday 18 September

  1

  On Saturdays he leaves the milking to Joseph and Pete; only checking in at end of day when Rick comes to collect the day’s containers. Drum does not let anyone sign for them but himself; a rule Garner instilled in him before Drum took full ownership of the farm. Ownership, Garner said, is the most important thing on a farm. Ownership of every heifer and bullock; every pump and gasket. Know everything; all that comes in, all that goes out.

  It is his day off, but he still wakes at four, same as always. It is a heavy-headed waking. He folds the pillow underneath himself, tries to get back to sleep. His dreams are always more vivid when he does so. Sometimes he dreams of clocking in at the factory, sprinting towards his station and finding a line of cars waiting for him, doorless cars reaching back an impossible distance, all the cars he should have made. Beside them, workers gather, laughing at him; their laughter loud as the cattle’s lows.

  Ford’s is out on strike again; he read about it in the paper, heard it on the radio. Everyone striking these days, everyone wanting more. Negotiating, filibustering, grandstanding, their hands thrust out. Drum has come to despair of them all. When he and Carter discuss industrial relations, Drum still raises the odd red flag, but does so without conviction.