by Paul Hazel
madman certain.” Then he would count out the pile of
guineas, letting each clink in the darkness on the dresser. He
was astonished and disappointed when the last board came
up
“That will do,” Wykeham said, in a voice which seemed
to say, Now off with you, the rest is my business only. But the
Bristol men lingered about at the edge. Adam France was
reaching down with a lantern.
“It smells like an open grave,” Sam said.
“Much you would know of that,” George Tennison
answered.
“Take the lanterns,” Wykeham said. And they did that.
George Tennison stood in the doorway of the stable
watching his fellows walking away down the drive. He waved
and got a wave back but the darkness took them and the wind
muttered and he lost the sounds of their shoes on the gravel.
He ambled around out in front and peered in at the door. A
light had been clicked on and he could make out a large
center room.
The stables had been divided. The left side, beyond the
tack-room, disappeared down an aisle of wooden half doors
behind which the beasts paced warily. To the right the stalls
had been dismantled and the flooring replaced with paving
stones. At the far end hugh black shapes of several very
elegant, very old automobiles, now dull with dust, waited
uselessly on blocks. It had been nearly forty years since
George Tennison had seen the like of them.
With a stab of memory he recalled the busy streets of
Bristol. Sitting on the curb in the heart of the market, his
eyes filled with envy, he had watched the great cars pass. He
64
WINTERK1NG
had discovered then, for the first time, how bitter the part
was he had been given to play in the world. As if no time had
passed, with the same deep humiliation, he felt again his
smallness and swore.
At last there was a click of a latch, a clop of hooves. For
an instant the light behind him was blotted out by a shadow.
Through the dim opening Wykeham came forth leading a
mare.
“Hold the reins,” he said.
“And mine?” George Tennison wondered, stepping aside
awkwardly, for the mare was huge. “Surely for myself, a
gentler. . .”
Already the mare was beginning to dance. Wykeham
grinned. "Going out you will sit up beside m e,” he said. “But
watch me carefully, for you will be riding her back.” He laid
his hand on the horn of the saddle, then finding the stirrup,
hauled himself up. “1 will have your hand,” he said.
George Tennison made a tentative protest; but strong
fingers closed on his wrist. All at once his thin legs were
straddling the mare s wide back.
“You do remember the way out by the roads?”
“I expect so,” George Tennison answered. “I walked
them.”
For a moment or two the mare trotted agreeably along
the dark drive. But then Wykeham prodded her side and
with alarming speed she bolted into the wood.
For all George Tennison knew the mare might have leapt
into pure darkness. A menace of shadows surged past his
head. He could hear the thudding hooves, each jolting step
shaking him clear to the bone. He grabbed hold of Wykeham’s
waist. The young man laughed.
When George Tennison opened his eyes again, the mare
was trotting easily under the trees; the old trunks were
distinct and separate against the sky’s shining blackness. The
metal of the bridle, even the leaves of the trees seemed as
lustrous as mirrors. The older man drew a breath. Between
the branches, halfway out to the stars, a flight of swans rose
like an arrow aimed at the moon.
“This is South Wood,” Wykeham told him solemnly but
the man heard the note of eagerness beneath. Wykeham
shook the reins gently. “The tree-cutters have been busy
here,” he said. “Yet their work comes to nothing.”
The Hill and the Tower
65
They rode through the wood. Although he could only
see the back of the younger man’s head, George Tennison
imagined he was smiling. The mare lifted her neck.
A long time after, or perhaps a short time, he never
knew which, George Tennison realized that they were close
to the village. Soon he saw the houses, snug behind their
fences, and the top of the green and he remembered that he
had not asked where they were going.
“It is not far to the station,” Wykeham announced all at
once. “You will leave me there. You might,” he added, “tie
the mare up for the night wherever it is you are staying. You
could ride her out to the house, if you wished, after breakfast.”
George Tennison hesitated but then in his mind’s eye he
saw Mrs. Tennison peering out from the window into the
morning, watching him climb like a jockey onto the back of
the mare. “I would like that,” he said, suddenly grinning
himself.
“Where are the men?” the stationmaster asked him.
“I have sent them to their beds. Well you might go
yourself.”
“I have stayed to help.”
“You look tired," Wykeham said. But the stationmaster
insisted on walking with him into the yard where the stable
car waited on the siding. Nevertheless he found he needed to
lean on a post or a gate, if only for a moment, holding his
weary head nearly upright in the cradle of his arms.
The stationmaster awoke as the two a.m. train was
pulling out of the station. The wind had dropped. An odd
scent filled his nostrils. When he tried the doors of the car he
found they were unbolted. He swung them open and poked
in with his lamp. Its yellow beam ran along the floor and over
the sides of the huge empty stall. His nostrils twitched,
smelling the thick, unmistakable scent of oak-wood.
4.
4 tijk tree?”
“At the crown of East Wood,” Longford continued,
pushing his cup away from him and into the assortment of
abandoned luncheon dishes. “Up from the house,” he said,
“in the direct line of sight to the river.”
Plum saw his disappointment. “Are you certain?” she
asked.
“I have made the measurements a good half dozen
times,” he snapped, unaccustomedly cross with her for having doubted him. Plum folded her napkin. Her instincts told her to let it be. There had been no talk yet. She reached for
the cup, seeking to touch what he had touched and restore
whatever connection had broken. The mild brown liquid
slopped unexpectedly over the rim. She watched the stain
spread through the tablecloth and thought with gathering
irritation, He might at least have drunk a little.
“But if it wasn’t there yesterday,” she complained.
“But it was,” he persisted, “this morning.” Indeed it had
very much been there. He had come up the drive, having
started out early to have his little chat with Wykeham, to
invite him to dinner (after
all, the young man was his ward
and there were things to be settled), to mention, in passing,
the matter of a few old trees he wanted cleared from the
wood. As he had let his gaze drift over the familiar line of
the foliage, he had seen the shocking new growth, brash in the
sunlight, like an enemy standard raised overnight on the hill.
He had still not gotten over his surprise or his anguish. Only
yesterday there had been nothing but gaunt, dying trees. He
had banged on the door. No one answered and he had tacked
up a scribbled note on an envelope letting Wykeham know in
66
The Hill and the Tower
6 7
the firmest possible way that he was expected at the parsonage at seven. On the way back toward the village he had met a man leading a mare. It was his habit to smile even at
strangers, but he had trudged on past George Tennison
sullenly, without looking up.
The box was surprisingly heavy yet the old man continued to lift it. For much the same reason once a week he limped into the village for whisky. To do less, even by the
smallest measure, would be to admit finally that he had
grown too old. He removed the box from the corner, sliding it
first with the combined efforts of his feet and hands. It was a
pretty box, he had always thought, compounded of a great
many layers of lacquered wood and fitted with a pair of heavy
brass hinges. For several minutes it rested on the seat of the
chair. When his heart hgd stopped pounding and the whiteness had gone from before his eyes, he lifted the box onto the table. He would not let the woman help him. Not yet, he
thought with sly cunning. The woman squeezed next to him;
he coidd see her bosom rise and fall with expectation. He was
not altogether certain he approved. Angels, he had been
taught, were, or at least ought to be, sexless.
Nora reached for the lid.
“There is a lock,” Chance said. He began to fumble in
his pockets. Though it was difficult with her standing so close
to him, he avoided her touch. He was still not frightened.
But with Death’s Angel come into the house, he would have
to be careful.
Nora was happily unaware of his mistrust. Since Plum
had brought her to his cottage, she had simply been waiting
for whatever would happen next. She had not bothered to
listen when the two had spoken. She may have wondered
where she was but the sound of the wind, filling the treetops,
reminded her of the great tidal race at Bodp, and the sound
had distracted her. Nora had not followed when Plmn made
her way to the door. No other words had been spoken. The
old man spent the night sitting out on his step; she had slept,
without dreaming, in his bed. When she awoke she had made
him breakfast which, since he refused it, she had eaten
cheerfully. She hadn’t the slightest idea what to do afterward.
She had been sitting on the stool and humming when Chance
came in the door.
68
WINTERKING
“You’ll not find me any easier prey than you’ve found
him,” Chance warned her.
Nora caught a glimpse of her face in the window glass
and wondered at the wicked flush on her cheeks. The morning was warm. Breathing in the tingly scent of her own damp skin, she unbuttoned her blouse.
"Found who?” she asked, watching her reflection. The
fabric of the blouse still clung to her. She wriggled and dug
behind her back. Because he was only an old man and it
scarcely mattered, she unfastened her brassiere.
“He you have chased forever,” he said. “Though you ain’t
got him.” He began to feel braver. “Nor is it likely you
would.”
She looked at him doubtfully.
“Could you tell me what you mean?” she said.
His gnomish smile widened; for he saw this as proof
of his toughness. “Oh, better than that. I can show you!”
It was then he had gone for the box.
“Sixty— seventy years ago I made the drawing,” he was
saying as he placed the key in the lock. He pulled the lid
open. “I was a lad myself then, running where he ran and
near as fast if I’m not mistaken. Galloping off after hares in
the wood. Chasing foxes in and out of b am s. . . and houses
that ain’t houses anymore, weren’t houses then to tell the
truth, just big old cellar holes.” He put in his hand, touching
the paper deep inside.
Watching his face, Nora had a sudden premonition. With
that part of her mind that had always taken the pieces of her
life and rearranged them until, however wayward, they seemed
to fit into a single urgent tale, she thought: So my father
would have mourned his youth. It did not matter that she
had never known her father; she found the old man comforting.
She glanced about the tiny cottage that was bedroom and
kitchen and remembered the little room in Bod0 and the
ghost of the father who was not dead but gone. She would be
glad of this old man’s company. She would not let it matter
that he did not care for her own. So Eve smiled, discovering
her will was stronger, that it could change the face of paradise. With just such a smile, Nora took the faded paper from the old man’s fingers.
“He wasn’t pleased,” Chance said. He crouched in front
of her, trembling and holding himself upright with the butt
The HD! and the Tower
69
of his stick. “Not one bit pleased when I told him I had
done it. Hated the idea of anyone making pictures of him.”
Chance looked at her craftily. “But I kept it anyway. And he
knows I have it. Told the same to Longford when he came
around trying to chase me off. He won’t send me packing, I
told him.”
There was a little twitch of a smile, a pause while he
stretched out his arm excitedly and pointed. “See for yourself,” he said. “Not a line changed!” He waited but she did not answer. “You do see?” he had cried at her.
But Nora kept her mouth shut. It was already too late to
cover her breasts with the paper. She had simply stepped
back. Wykeham stood in the doorway. He did not move but
then he did not have to to make her heart beat faster. Not
that she minded. But she wondered how long he had been
standing there, dressed in his old man’s coat, watching her
nakedness.
It was fairly late, past eight-thirty, when Wykeham
knocked on the door of the parsonage. Longford, who had
fallen asleep in his reading chair, now stood bewildered in
the middle of the front room. It was Plum who had gone
to the door. Wykeham waited on the step. He was holding
an envelope in his large fingers. Plum glared at him
suspiciously.
“Forgive m e,” Wykeham said. “I do hope the dinner is
not ruined.” Before she had found the courage to answer, he
walked past her into the hall. She hurried after, pausing to
relight a lamp on a table outside the kitchen. At last he
turned so that she could see the side of his face. The features
were strong and roughly handsome. Except for the way the
&nbs
p; wind had tousled his dark hair, he did not look like a
boy.
“It was only that I just found the note,” he said in a voice
blameless and contrite by turns. She was aware of his slow
smile. She was not deceived. She thought, Something has
happened.
Longford put aside the book and came forward.
Wykeham waved the note in front of him. “1 am sorry if
there has been any inconvenience.”
“Quite all right,” Longford said. “My mistake probably.”
He showed Wykeham into the parlor. There was a brief
7 0
WINTER KING
silence. “You have already met Mrs. Longford, I believe,” he
said formally.
Wykeham smiled. “Yes. Yesterday, very early.”
Longford’s lower lip turned ever so slightly as Wykeham
took a seat in the upholstered chair where Longford himself
had been reading. There was a longer silence. Longford
blundered about the room. Settling at last on the edge of a
sofa he had never liked, he crossed his legs uncomfortably.
Plum remained standing.
“It was kind of you,” Wykeham said to her, “to make a
start on the kitchen. It needed a woman. The workmen, I am
afraid, left quite a shambles.”
“Men do,” she said, watching him. So far she had told
her husband nothing of her visit to Greenchurch. Tim had
not even remarked on it, when after the service he had come
back to the parsonage and found her already home and
furiously cleaning her own kitchen. He had merely welcomed
the sight of her in her apron. .
“But as you say,” Plum continued, “it was only a
start.”
“But a beginning has been m ade,” Wykeham said
cheerfully. “And I am grateful,”
Longford uncrossed his long legs. He had completely
forgotten to look for a housekeeper. It was this awful business
about the trees. He thought, At least he’s come and we can
get that settled. But he was impatient with himself because
he had not remembered.
“Tomorrow,” Longford said apologetically, a little taken
aback by the petulance in his voice. “There are women in the
village who would be glad of the work.” He turned to his
wife. “What would you say, dear,” he asked her, “to Mrs.