(5/20)Over the Gate

by Miss Read

  We walked by the church and took a fork to the left. It is a lane used little these days, except by young lovers and Mr Roberts' tractors making their way to one of his larger fields. A dilapidated cottage stands alone some hundred yards from the entrance to the lane.

  We stopped at its rickety gate and surveyed the outline of its ancient garden. A damson tree, its trunk riven with age, leant towards the remaining patch of roof thatch. Rough grass covered what once had been garden beds and paths, and nettles and brambles grew waist high against the walls of the ruin.

  The doors and windows gaped open. Inside, on the ground floor, in what had once been the living room of the cottage, we could see hundredweight paper bags of fertilizer propped against the stained and ragged wallpaper. They belonged to Mr Roberts and were waiting to be spread upon his meadows any day now. Upstairs, the two small bedrooms lay open to the sky. The thatch had retreated before the onslaught of wind and weather, and only the frame of the roof stood^, gaunt and rotting, against the evening sky.

  'It must have been pretty once,' I said, looking at the triangle of garden and the rose-red of the old bricks.

  'The vicar told me it was lived in during the war,' said Mr Annett. Tt housed a family of eight evacuees then. They didn't mind it being haunted, they told Mr Roberts.'

  'Haunted?' we cried. I looked at Mr Annett to see if he was joking, but his face was unusually thoughtful.

  'It is, you know,' he said with conviction. 'I've seen the ghost myself. That's how I came to hear the history of the place from the vicar.'

  'Is that why it stays empty?' I asked. It was strange that I had never heard this tale throughout my time at Fairacre. Mr Annett laughed.

  'No, indeed! I told you people lived in it for years. The evacuees said they'd sooner be haunted than bombed, and spent all the war years here. I think Roberts found it just wasn't worth doing up after the war, and so it is now in this state.'

  We looked again at the crumbling cottage. It was too small and homely to be sinister, despite this talc of a ghost. It had the pathetic look of a wild animal, tired to death, crouching in the familiar shelter of grass and neglected vegetation for whatever Fate might have in store.

  'When did you see the ghost?' I asked. Mr Annett sighed with mock impatience.

  'Persistent woman! I see I shall have no peace until I have put the whole uncomfortable proceedings before you. It was a very frightening experience indeed, and, if you don't mind, I'll tell you the story as we walk. Even now my blood grows a little chilly at the memory. Brisk exercise is the right accompaniment for a ghost story.'

  We continued up the lane, with young Malcolm now before and now behind us, scrambling up the banks and shouting with the sheer joy of living. With the scents of spring around us, and the soft wind lifting our hair, we listened to the tale of one strange winter night.

  Every Friday night, with the exception of Good Friday, Mr Annett left the school house at Beech Green and travelled the three miles to St Patrick's church for choir practice.

  Some men would have found it irksome to leave the comfort of their homes at seven in the evening and to face the windy darkness of a downland lane. Mr Annett was glad to do so. His love of music was strong enough to make this duty a positive pleasure, and although Ins impatient spirit chafed at times at the slow progress made by Fairacre's choir, he counted Friday evening as a highlight of the week.

  At this time he had much need of comfort. He was a young widower, living alone in the school house, and ministered to by a middle-aged Scotswoman who came in daily. The death of his wife, six months after their marriage, was still too painful for him to dwell upon. She had been killed in an air raid, during the early part of the war, and for Mr Annett life would never be the same again.

  One moonlit Friday evening in December, some years after the war had ended, he set out as usual for Fairacre. It was so bright that he could have driven his little car without headlights. The road glimmered palely before him, barred with black shadows where trees lined the road. He was early, for he had arranged to pick up some music from Miss Parr's house and knew that the old lady would want him to stop for a little time.

  A maid opened the door. Miss Parr had been invited to her nephew's, but the music had been looked out for him, Mr Annett was told. He drove to St Patrick's, and went inside. It was cold and gloomy. No one had yet arrived, and Mr Annett decided to use his time in taking a stroll in the brilliant moonlight.

  There was an unearthly beauty about the night that chimed with the young man's melancholy. He made his way slowly along a little used lane near the church, and let sad memory carry him on its flood. It was not often that he so indulged himself. After his wife's death, he had moved to Beech Green and thrown himself, almost savagely, into school life. He had filled his time with work and music, so that he fell asleep with exhaustion rather than the numbing despair which had first governed every waking hour.

  He passed a broken down cottage on his left, its remnants of thatch silvered with moonlight. Just beyond it a five-barred gate afforded a view of the distant downs. Mr Annett leant upon its topmost bar and surveyed the scene.

  Before him lay the freshly ploughed field, the furrows gleaming in the rays of the moon. Further away, a dusky copse made a black patch on the lower flanks of the downs. Against the clear sky their mighty bulk looked more majestic than ever. There was something infinitely reassuring and comforting about their solidity, and the young man, gazing at diem, let the tranquillity about him do its heahng work.

  It was very quiet. Far away, he heard a train hoot impatiently, as it waited for a signal to allow its passage westward. Nearer, he was dimly conscious of the rustling of dead leaves at the foot of an old crab apple tree which stood hard by the gate. Some smallnocturnal animal was foraging stealthily, wary of the silent man nearby.

  Sunk in his thoughts, he was oblivious of the passage of time, and hardly surprised to notice that a strange man had appeared in the lane without any noise of approach.

  He came close to Mr Annett, nodded civilly, and leant beside him on the gate. For a moment the two men rested silently side by side, elbows touching, and gazed at the silvered landscape before them. Despite the stranger's unexpected advent, Mr Annett felt little surprise. There was something gentle and companionable about the newcomer. The schoolmaster had the odd feeling that they were very much akin. Vaguely, he wondered if they had met before somewhere. He shifted along the gate—the stranger seemed excessively cold-and turned slightly to look at him.

  He was a loosely-built fellow, of about Mr Annett's age, dressed in dark country clothes which seemed a pretty poor fit. He wore an open-necked shirt and a spotted neckerchief, tied gipsy fashion, round his throat. He had a small beard, light in colour, which gleamed silver in the moonlight, and Ins fair hair was thick and wiry.

  'Full moon tomorrow,' commented the stranger. For such a big man he had a remarkably small voice, Mr Annett noticed. It was almost falsetto, slightly husky and strained, as though he were suffering from laryngitis.

  'So it is,' agreed Mr Annett.

  They relapsed again into contemplation of the view. After some time, Mr Annett stirred himself long enough to find some cigarettes. He offered the packet to his companion.

  'Thank 'ee,' said the man. 'Thank 'ee kindly, but I don't smoke these days.'

  The schoolmaster lit his cigarette and surveyed the man.

  'Haven't I seen you before somewhere?' he asked.

  'Most likely. I've lived in Fairacre all my life,' answered the man huskily.

  'I'm at Beech Green,' said Mr Annett. The man drew in his breath sharply, as though in pain.

  'My wife came from Beech Green,' he said. He bent his head forward suddenly. By the light of the moon Mr Annett saw that his eyes were closed. The use of the past tense was not lost upon the schoolmaster, himself still smarting with grief, and he led the conversation from the dangerous ground he had unwittingly encountered.

  'Whereabouts in Fairacre do you live?'
he asked. The man raised his head and nodded briefly in the direction of the ruined cottage nearby. Mr Annett was puzzled by this, but thought that perhaps he was nodding generally in the direction of the village. Not wishing to distress him any further, and realizing that his choir must soon be arriving at St Patrick's, Mr Annett began to stir himself for departure. It was time he moved, in any case, for he had grown colder and colder since the arrival of the stranger, despite his warm overcoat. The stranger only had on a long jacket, but he seemed oblivious of the frost.

  'Well, I must be off,' said Mr Annett. 'I'm due to take choir practice at seven thirty. Are you walking back to the village?'

  The man straightened up and turned to face the schoolmaster. The moonlight shone full upon his face. It was a fine face, with high cheekbones and pale blue eyes set very wide apart. There was something Nordic in his aspect, with his great height and wide shoulders.

  'I'll stop here a little longer,' he said slowly. "This is the right place for me. I come most nights, particularly around full moon.'

  'I can understand it,' said Mr Annett gently, scanning the sad grave face. 'There is comfort in a lovely place like this.'

  A burst of laughter broke from the stranger's lips, all the more uncanny for its cracked wheeziness. His wide-open eyes glittered in the moonlight.

  'Comfort?' he echoed. 'There's no comfort for the likes of me—ever!' He began to tear savagely at the neckerchief about his throat.

  'You can't expect comfort.'hegasped painfully, 'when you've done this to yourself!'

  He pulled the cloth away with a jerk and tore his shirt opening away from his neck with both hands.

  By the light of the moon, Mr Annett saw the livid scar which encircled his neck, the mark of a strangling rope which eternity itself could never remove.

  He raised his horror-filled eyes to those of the stranger. They were still wide open, but they glittered no longer. They seemed to be dark gaping holes, full of mist, through which Mr Annett could dimly discern the outline of the crab apple tree behind him.

  He tried to speak, but could not. And as he watched, still struggling for speech, the figure slowly dissolved, melting into thin air, until the schoolmaster found himself gazing at nothing at all but the old gnarled tree, and the still beauty of the night around it.

  The vicar was alone in the vestry when Mr Annett arrived at St Patrick's.

  'Good evening, good evening,' said the vicar boisterously, and then caught sight of his choirmaster's face.

  'My dear boy, you look as though you'd seen a ghost,' he said.

  'You speak more truly than you realize,' Mr Annett answered soberly. He began to walk through to the chancel and his organ, but the vicar barred his way. His kind old face was puckered with concern.

  'Was it poor Job?' he asked gently.

  'I don't know who it was,' replied the schoolmaster. He explained briefly what had happened. He was more shaken by this encounter than he cared to admit. Somehow, the affinity between the stranger and himself had seemed so strong. It made the man's dreadful disclosure, and then his withdrawal, even more shocking.

  The vicar put both hands on the young man's shoulders.

  'Poor Job,' he said, 'is nothing to be frightened of. It is a sad tale, and it happened long ago. After choir practice, I hope you will come back to the vicarage for tea, and I will do my best to tell you Job's story.'

  The younger man managed a wan smile.

  'Thank you, vicar,' he said. 'I should be glad to hear more of him. I had a strange feeling while we were together—' He faltered to a stop.

  'What kind of feeling?' asked the vicar gently.

  Mr Annett moved restlessly. His brow was furrowed with perplexity.

  'As though-it sounds absurd-but as though we were brothers. It was as if we were akin—as if we shared something.'

  The vicar nodded slowly, and sighed, dropping his hands from the young man's shoulders.

  'You shared sorrow, my son,' he said as he turned away. But his tone was so low that the words were lost in a burst of country voices from the chancel.

  Together the two men made their way from the vestry to the duties before them.

  The vicarage drawing room was empty when the vicar and his guest entered an hour or so later. A bright fire blazed on the hearth and Mr. Annett gratefully pulled up an armchair. He felt as though he would never be warm again.

  He sipped the tea which the vicar gave him and was glad of its comfort. He was deathly tired, and recognised this as a symptom of shock. Part of his mind longed for sleep, but part craved to hear the story which the vicar had promised.

  Before long, the older man put aside his cup, lodged three stout logs upon the fire and settled back in his chair to recount his tale.

  Job Carpenter, said the vicar, was a shepherd. He was born in Victoria's reign in the year of the Great Exhibition of 1851, and was the tenth child in a long family.

  His parents lived in a small cottage at the Beech Green end of Fairacre, and all their children were born there. They were desperately poor, for Job's father was a farm labourer and times were hard.

  At ten years old Job was out at work on the downs, stone-picking, bird-scaring and helping his father to clear ditches and lay hedges; but by the time he was fifteen he had decided that it was sheep he wanted to tend.

  The shepherd at that time was a surly old fellow, twisted with rheumatism and foul of tongue. Job served a cruel apprenticeship under him and in the last year or two of the old man's life virtually looked after the flock himself. This fact did not go unnoticed by the farmer.

  One morning during lambing time Job entered the little hut carrying twin lambs which were weakly. There, stretched upon the sacks stuffed with straw which made the old man's bed, lay his master, open-eyed and cold.

  Within two days Job had been told that he was now shepherd, and he continued in this post for the rest of his life. He grew into a handsome fellow, tall and broad, with blonde wiry hair and a curling beard. The girls of Fairacre and Beech Green found him attractive, and made the fact quite plain, but Job was shy and did not respond as readily as his fellows.

  One day, however, he met a girl whom he had never seen before. Her family lived in Beech Green, but she was in service in London. Job's sister worked with her and the two girls were given a week's holiday at the same time. She walked over to see Job's sister one warm spring evening and the two girls wandered across the downs to see the lambs at play.

  Job watched them approach. His sister Jane was tall and fair, as he was. Her companion was a complete contrast. She was little more than five feet in height, with long silky black hair coiled in a thick plait round her head, like a coronet. She had a small heart-shaped face, sloe-dark eyes which slanted upwards at the corners, and narrow crescents of eyebrows. Joe thought her the prettiest thing he had ever seen.

  Her name was Mary. To Job, who had a deep religious faith, this seemed wholly fitting. She was a queen among women. Job had no doubts this time and no shyness. Before Mary's week of holiday had ended the two young people came to an understanding.

  It was Christmas time before they saw each other again, and only a few letters, written for them by better-schooled friends, passed between Mary and Job during the long months of separation. They planned to get married in the autumn of the following year. Mary would return to London and save every penny possible from her pitiful earnings, and Job would ask for a cottage of his own at Michaelmas.

  He was fortunate. The farmer offered him a little thatched house not far from the church at Fairacre. It had two rooms up and two down, and a sizeable triangle of garden where a man could grow plenty of vegetables, keep a pig and a few hens, and so go more than halfway towards being self-supporting. A few fruit trees shaded the garden, and a lusty young crab-apple tree grew in the hedge nearby.

  The couple married at Michaelmas and were as happy as larks in their new home. Mary took work at the vicarage and found it less arduous than the living-in job in London. She was a quic
k quiet worker in the house and the vicar's wife approved of her. She was delighted to discover that her new daily was also an excellent needlewoman, and Mary found herself carrying home bundles of shirts whose collars needed turning, sheets that needed sides to middling, and damask table linen in need of fine darning. She was particularly glad of this extra money for by the end of the first year of their married life a child was due, and Mary knew she would have to give up the scrubbing and heavy lifting for a few weeks at least.

  The coming of the child was of intense joy to Job. He adored his wife and made no secret of it. The fact that he cleaned her shoes and took her tea in bed in the mornings was know in Fairacre and looked upon as a crying scandal, particularly by the men. What was a woman for but to wait upon her menfolk? Job Carpenter was proper daft to pander to a wife in that namby-pamby way. Only laying up a store of trouble for himself in the future, said die village wiseacres ui The Beetle and Wedge.'Job, more in love than ever, let such gossip flow by him.

  The baby took its time in coming and as soon as Job saw it he realised that it could not possibly survive. His experience with hundreds of lambs gave him a pretty shrewd idea of'a good do-er' or a weakling. Mary, cradling it in her arms, smiling with happiness, suspected nothing. It was all the more tragic for her when, on the third day, her little son quietly expired.

  She lay in a raging fever for a fortnight, and it was months before she was herself again. Throughout the time Job nursed her with loving constancy, comforting her when she wept, encouraging any spark of recovery.

  In the two years that followed, two miscarriages occurred and the young couple began to wonder if they would ever have a family. The cottage gave them great joy, and the garden was one of the prettiest in the village, but it was a child that they really wanted. Everyone liked the Carpenters and Job's demonstrative affection for his wife was looked upon with more indulgence by the villagers as time passed.

  At last Mary found that she was pregnant yet again. The vicar's wife, for whom she still worked, was determined that this baby should arrive safely, and insisted on Mary being examined regularly by her own doctor. She engaged too a reputable midwife from Caxley to attend the birth, for the local midwife at that time, in Fairacre and Beech Green, was a slatternly creature, reeking of gin and unwashed garments, whose very presence caused revulsion rather than reassurance to her unfortunate patients.