by Ann Swinfen
She tried to pull her head away.
‘Tirza? You aren’t crying, are you?’
He peered at her in the wavering light, then he kissed her eyelids, brushing away the unwilling drops that had gathered there. She sprang to her feet, dropping the letter, and his jacket slid from her shoulders on to the forest floor.
‘Why, Tirza.’ His voice was surprised, but gentle. He stood up and pulled her towards him and put his arms around her. She felt as though she was on fire, but she clung to him, putting her arms around his neck and digging her fingers into his thick brown hair. Dimly she was aware that she was almost as tall as he was. He had only to bend his head a little for his mouth to come down firmly on hers. They kissed fiercely, and a pain grew in Tirza’s stomach and chest until she cried out.
‘Did I hurt you?’ he gasped. ‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’
She shook her head, and pulled his mouth down to her again. His body was pressed hard against her, and his hands seemed to be trying to drive her into his very flesh, one gripping the back of her head, one cupped round the seat of her shorts so tightly that she could feel each fingertip through the thin cotton.
At last he released her, and they came slowly apart. Tirza drew in her breath in shuddering mouthfuls, and she saw in the slippery moonlight that his eyes had that peculiar, dazed look. He shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No. Tirza, you’re only twelve.’
‘Thirteen tomorrow. My great-grandmother – Girna’s mother – was married at fourteen.’
‘Oh, Tirza.’ He ran his finger tenderly down her cheek. ‘I wish, I wish... But what’s the good? I’m leaving tomorrow.’
‘Don’t go.’
‘I have to. It’s no use.’ He stroked her hair. It hung to her shoulders now, and it had begun to lie in a sleek dark wave. He lifted a handful of it and kissed it. She put her arms around his neck again and clung to him, and he pulled her to him so hard that he lifted her feet from the ground, so that only her toes brushed against the dead leaves. This time when he released her, she felt blood on her lips, and as she ran her hands down his chest his heart pounded under her fingers like the beat of a storm tide.
‘No,’ he said again. ‘No.’
He wrapped the jacket round her. Then he stooped to pick up the letter, which gleamed pallidly at their feet. He reached out to slip it into her pocket next to the photographs, but she recoiled. She did not want that thing there, so close to her skin, where her small breasts lifted the soft old cotton into firm points. She took the envelope from him and held it away from her, dangling from one corner, as though it was contaminated.
He put his arm around her again and they began to walk back along the narrow path towards Flamboro. The edge of the waves licked her bare feet and his polished shoes. Just before they rounded the shoulder of the cliff, he kissed her once more, and she clung to him, crying silently. At the beginning of the road, below the burying-ground, she handed him his jacket and turned away. When she looked back, he was gone.
Tirza waited until late afternoon the next day before she went up to the farm. The bus was still unable to get through to Flamboro, so there had been no school, and she wondered wildly whether Sandy would be unable to reach Portland to catch his train, even if the driver took him round in a loop to the south to avoid the worst of the fallen trees. She tried to blot Sandy’s image from her mind, but all day she felt as though a rope was wound tightly around her body. Her muscles shrieked with tension and she found herself mouthing soundlessly strings of disconnected words, willing him to stay.
To her surprise, most of the family had turned up to celebrate her birthday, and Abigail had cooked a special dinner at midday. Even Christina had been invited, and Billy, whose improved behaviour during the summer was standing him in good stead now he had started first grade, was allowed to come from the schoolhouse during the dinner recess. Martha did not appear, for which Tirza was grateful.
‘Clarice has come over to give her a home permanent,’ said Harriet apologetically.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Tirza, her heart lifting slightly. She wanted to choose her own moment for confronting Martha.
They had all brought her presents, mostly clothes. But Christina gave her a copy of The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, bound in white leather and tooled in gold with a complex Eastern pattern. Simon had bought her a large book of Audubon plates, which must have used up a good deal of the summer earnings he had been saving for a hunting rifle.
‘This is really great,’ Tirza told him. They were sitting on Nathan’s narrow front porch while the others lingered over their coffee, talking about the progress of the war. Billy had gone back for afternoon school.
‘Oh, well,’ said Simon. ‘I was thinking when we picked the cranberries in the marsh that you’d like a good bird book.’
‘This is much more than that.’ She stroked the maroon cover fondly. ‘Some people even split them up and frame the pictures, but I wouldn’t ever do a thing like that.’
‘Glad you like it,’ he said.
He had just told her of the quarrel with his father about the army. To Tirza, who knew his voice as well as she knew the feel of her own skin, it was clear that he could barely keep from crying, however fiercely he gouged at the edge of the porch rail with his pocket knife. She told him he should keep quiet about his plans until he finished high school, by which time Tobias might be persuaded to change his mind. Simon agreed gloomily.
Tirza wrapped her arms round her knees, trying to fold closely in on her own body. She saw herself as a tight bud on a rose bush, layer upon layer locked in. But a bud would open out and bloom, while she felt she had already opened, bursting outward last night in Sandy’s arms, every layer and cell of her complex self laid open to him. Now she had shrunk back to this withered bud, blighted, never to open again. She wanted to tell Simon how desolate she felt. She needed to explore the sick, surging feeling inside her whenever she was near Sandy or even thought of him – part excitement, part anticipation, part fear. There was no one else she could confide in, not even, she felt, Christina. Yet somehow she could not find the words to tell Simon. She hugged her secret to herself, though she ached to talk about it. They fell into silence again.
As the short afternoon wore away, the birthday party broke up. Christina was the first to leave. She kissed Tirza and strode off home, cutting up the hill behind the schoolhouse. Then Harriet said that she and Tobias were meant to be calling on the Fletts for a cup of tea before going back to the evening milking, and Simon went with them. Nathan settled down in the boat shed to mend his broken lobster pots, and Tirza helped Abigail wash the dishes.
When she was free at last, she realised that if she went to the farm now, she would catch Martha alone. Clarice had walked past the kitchen window ten minutes ago, Billy was still at school for afternoon softball, and the rest of the family was over at Flett’s Stores. She went up to her room to fetch Sandy’s letter. It was lying on the top of her chest of drawers, beside the china-headed doll Mrs Larrabee had given her last spring, and the stack of painted Shaker boxes Sandy had bought for her. She had put them there more than a month ago, and Abigail had not questioned her about them, so perhaps she thought Tirza had bought them herself. She ran a finger over the smallest one, feeling the delicacy of the bent wood and the snugness of the joints. Then she opened it and took out Sandy’s photograph. Tears welled up in her eyes and she rubbed at them angrily.
The sealed, unaddressed envelope was no longer a pure cream. She and Sandy must have trodden on it in the dark in the forest, leaving dirty smudges on the paper. One corner was bent where she had pushed it carelessly into the hip pocket of her shorts before she came in last night, for fear her father or grandmother might see it. She had not felt capable of any conversation, but had pleaded a headache and gone early to bed.
The envelope looked grubby and unprepossessing. Well, what did that matter? She didn’t care. She thrust it once more into her shorts pocket and set out for t
he farm. To save time, she took her bicycle, even though the first part up to the Tremayne place was so steep she had to push it, and parts of the farm track had been so badly torn up by the army jeeps that it made cycling difficult.
When she reached the farm she knew at once that the rest of the family had not yet returned. The cows were clustered near the house end of the pasture, waiting to be milked. Sam, she had heard at dinnertime, was over ploughing a solitary Libby field on the other side of Swansons’ farm and Patience had the day off. She opened the screen door of the kitchen and called. There was no answer. It occurred to her suddenly that Martha might have gone over to Todd’s Neck. But the Ford pickup was standing in the yard, and Martha was not one to walk when she could borrow the truck.
Tirza went round to the porch. Patches was curled up in the sun and Martha was lying on the porch swing, with her elegant legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. She was reading a magazine and her newly permed hair was tightly curled up around her head. Tirza thought it had looked better before, when it hung loose.
‘Hi,’ she said lamely.
Martha glanced over her shoulder.
‘Oh, it’s you. Uh, happy birthday.’
‘Thanks.’ Tirza sat down on the top step, with her back against one of the posts which supported the jutting upper storey. She did not know how to begin. She could just hand Martha the letter and walk away, but that felt wrong, so she sat, searching for something to say.
Martha tossed her magazine on to the wicker table. It slithered off the edge and fell to the floor. It was a glossy fashion magazine and the cover showed a woman with very red lipstick wearing a navy blue suit with square shoulders like an army officer’s uniform and very high-heeled shoes. Tirza thought they looked ridiculous together. The woman had a navy hat like an upside-down flowerpot, trimmed with a frill of veil, and she was standing sideways with one hip hitched higher than the other and her breasts thrust forward. Tirza suddenly felt very tired. She locked her hands together between her knees.
‘Did you want something?’ Martha said.
How like her, Tirza thought. Why do I always have to justify myself to her?
Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of the distant figure of Billy plodding up the farm track from the sea, dragging his schoolbag in the dust. She was running out of time. She did not stop to work out what she was going to say.
‘Sandy’s gone,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘I said, Sandy’s gone. Sandy Fraser. You know fine who I mean.’
Martha sat up suddenly and swung her feet off the seat. The swing rocked violently.
‘What are you saying?’
‘Sandy’s gone,’ Tirza said for the third time. ‘He asked me to tell you.’
‘Gone? Gone where?’
Martha sprang across the porch and seized Tirza by the shoulders. She jerked her to her feet. She pushed her face close to Tirza’s. Her breath smelled of beer. The moment froze, and Tirza wondered where she had managed to get beer in the farmhouse. Perhaps she kept a supply in her room. Perhaps she spent her days drinking. Perhaps she was drunk now. But Martha’s eyes were perfectly sharp, boring into her own.
‘He’s had his orders,’ Tirza said. ‘He has to go back to England. To the RAF. To fight.’ Her voice cracked a little on that, but she held all her muscles tight. She wasn’t going to give anything away to Martha.
‘When?’ Martha gave Tirza’s shoulders a shake.
‘First train to Boston this morning.’
Martha gave a cry. She shook Tirza again.
‘Why didn’t you come sooner? When did he tell you, you little bitch?’
Tirza held herself very still. ‘He told me yesterday. And he asked me not to come until he was well away. He didn’t want you to know.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ Martha raised her hand and slapped Tirza hard on her left ear, so that her head was knocked sharply sideways and her ears rang. She jerked loose from Martha’s other hand. Patches jumped up and ran away across the yard.
‘It’s true.’ Tirza felt tears shamefully filling up her nose and throat. The realisation that he had really gone, which she had fought against all day, suddenly rolled over her.
Martha grabbed her and shook her again, so that her head snapped back and forth on her shoulders.
‘You little trouble-maker, what have you been saying to him?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Tirza gasped.
‘You tried to warn him off me, didn’t you? I’ve seen you, hanging around him, trying to get noticed.’
‘I’ve seen you too,’ Tirza shouted, discretion tossed to the wind. ‘I saw you in the summer cottage. How could you do that? Lying there naked? You’re not married to him. You’re filthy.’
Martha stared at her. Then she laughed. ‘You don’t know anything about it, you stupid child. What makes you think it was my idea?’
There was something about the defiant way she said it. And the way Sandy had been so reluctant to face her. Tirza suddenly knew with certainty.
‘It was you. You’re no better than a she-goat on heat.’ It was a shameful thing to say. Tirza had overheard one of the soldiers use the phrase and was appalled to find the filthy words spilling out of her lips. Martha hit her again, hard, but she did not even try to defend herself. She hung her head. Martha pushed her aside.
‘Gone?’ she said. She looked round wildly. ‘He can’t be gone. He said, he promised...’
‘Mo-om!’ Billy was standing below them in the yard, his socks falling down, his schoolbag dropped in Harriet’s flower border. ‘What’s going on? I’m hungry.’
Martha stared at him as though she had no idea who he was, then she swung round to face Tirza again. Her eyes had glazed over, the way they did, Tirza realised, when one of the planes flew low over the shore.
‘He swore,’ Martha whimpered, ‘he swore.’ She groped blindly in front of her, then she pushed past Tirza down the porch steps. Tirza watched her helplessly, unsure what to do. Martha stumbled across the yard towards the pickup. Then she stopped, turned back, and scooped up Billy. She began to run to the pickup, pushed Billy inside and climbed in after him.
Tirza ran down the porch steps and across to the truck. The engine fired. Tobias always left the keys in the ignition. Tirza struggled to pull the letter out of her shorts pocket, but it was bent and jammed in hard.
‘Wait!’ she shouted over the engine noise, and she banged on the door of the truck. As if that was a signal, it leapt away and she was thrown sideways, falling hard down into the packed earth of the yard and gashing her elbow on a stone. The truck roared away down the farm drive towards the road just as the envelope came free of her pocket.
Winded, Tirza got to her feet slowly, nursing her elbow in her other hand. The house and yard seemed small and far away, and sounds came to her thickly through the pain in her ear. She trudged across to the kitchen door and went through to the storeroom where Harriet kept her preserves and also the family medicines. There was a jar of Christina’s healing cream here, Tirza knew. The same cream as she had given Sandy. Drearily she smeared it over her bruised and bleeding elbow, and in the process spread some on the envelope, which she was still clutching. No doubt Martha would fly at her about the state it was in when she finally managed to deliver it, but Tirza was past caring. She screwed the top on the jar, pushed the letter back into her pocket, and went out into the yard to pick up her bicycle.
As she bumped slowly down the farm track towards the sea, feeling shaken and sick, she wondered whether she ought to tell anyone about Martha going off in the truck. Before, when she had had one of her peculiar turns, she had simply run to hide somewhere. She might be a danger to other people behind the wheel of the truck. Harriet and Tobias should be coming back this way soon. It must be past milking time. It was odd she hadn’t met them yet.
Over the smell of the sea and the freshly ploughed earth in the fields to her left, Tirza suddenly caught a whiff o
f something else, something bitter. She slid off the saddle and braced the bicycle between her legs. She sniffed again. It was a smell of burning, like a picnic campfire, but she didn’t think that anyone would be having a campfire today, on the first of October, with all the summer people gone. A stab of fear ran through her. It might be a forest fire. There was nothing to be seen from the Libby woods to her right, but a small fire might have started somewhere at its heart, as yet unseen. If it was Christina’s forest, then Christina’s house and Christina herself were in danger. Tirza felt sick, suddenly overcome by a picture in her head of a wall of fire rushing towards the cabin. There was nowhere to go except to leap into the sea.
She shaded her eyes with her hand and searched the sky in the direction of Flamboro. There was something there. A thin wisp of rising smoke, which might be no more than someone burning rubbish. She climbed on to her bicycle again and began to ride as fast as the broken surface would allow down to the coast path and the way home.
As she turned on to the path, the smell grew stronger and she could hear voices shouting. She stood up on the pedals to force the bike up the slope and saw Simon running down the path towards her. He grabbed the handlebars to stop her.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked.
‘The Tremayne place,’ he gasped, out of breath. ‘It’s on fire. Dad’s gone back to the village to get help. I’ve got to get back to our house to call the fire brigade.’
‘The telephone wire is down.’
‘No, only in Flamboro now. Ours was fixed this morning. Give me your bike.’
She climbed off and handed it over.
‘I don’t see how it could catch on fire. The lightning was nearly two days ago. That can’t have started it.’
He swung the bicycle round to face the opposite direction and threw her an agonised look over his shoulder.
‘I told a couple of the soldiers how to get in there, and I guess they told others. I think they’ve been taking their girls there. If one of them left a cigarette burning...’