The Winds Of Heaven

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The Winds Of Heaven Page 10

by Monica Dickens

"More fool him." Anne kicked her foot to move the weight of a dog. "He's daft about those beastly sows."

  "But he has to. I seem to remember he once told me why, but I can't think what it was. Oh, please, Anne, put on a coat, there's a love, and come and look at Daisy."

  "What good would I be?" Anne slid farther under the bedclothes. "Fm not a midwife."

  "Neither am I. But if you'd just come and look " Louise

  turned away forlornly.

  "What are you going to do?" Anne asked with the comfortable interest of one who is going to stay in bed while someone else is up and busy.

  "I don't know what to do. I'd better fetch Harry, I think." Louise thought that Anne would at least offer to come with her to Harry's cottage, but all Anne said was: "Take one of the dogs if you're going down the road. Take Boxer. He's the fiercest."

  Louise felt safer without the booming, slobbering dog, who was always charging against her like an American footballer, intent on knocking her down. She took him downstairs, however, and as soon as they were outside, he bounded off into the darkness, barking frantically, and was seen no more that night.

  Feeling very small, Louise was blown down the road by the wind to where Harry's cottage stood lopsidedly on the edge of the wood. The trees were in torment now, hurling themselves this way and that with a noise like the sea. There was a light in Harry's window. Thank goodness, he was still up. Harry would help her. He would know what to do. Thank God for Harry, Louise thought; but when she knocked with her fist on the bare door, and Harry opened it, lurching in the doorway against the fumy background of his slovenly kitchen, she saw that he was quite drunk. He gibbered at her. He did not even understand what she said.

  Louise turned and ran, retching at the memory of the old man's breath as he swayed toward her. She struggled back against the wind, pushed open the heavy yard gate, and went in dread to the pig sty. One baby pig had been born. It lay dead on the bloody straw where Daisy's weight had flattened it.

  "Oh, poor Daisy!" Louise cried out in distress. "I'm sorry. Fm so sorry "

  The sow had her eyes closed and was making a noise like fifty sows. Louise wanted to leave her, yet had to stay. Kneeling in the doorway with her skirt in the mire and Frank's jacket hunched up round her ears, Louise watched helplessly as one by one the pigs were born and crushed to death by the lubberly weight of their barbaric mother.

  Louise crept back to the house, the strength drained out of her mind and body. There was something she should have done. She did not know what it was. Frank would have known, but he was not there, and she had failed him. She had lost Daisy's litter, and she did not know how she was going to face his disappointment.

  Early the next morning, Dick Bennett knocked at the door on his vay to work to inquire about Frank. Louise dragged herself out of bed, feeling as if she had not slept, and came down in her dressing gown to tell Dick about the horrors of the night.

  "She should have been in the farrowing pen," he said. "It's made so that the piglets fall through it, you see, so the sow can't roll on them."

  "I didn't know "

  "Why should you? You did your best, I'm sure. It wasn't proper that you should be there at all. No place for a lady. I wish you'd have fetched me. It was no use thinking of old Harry. I don't know why Frank keeps on with him. Poor old Frank. That's a lot of money gone down the drain for him. Poor old Frank/'

  He bicycled away shaking his head, and left Louise feeling worse than ever.

  Harry did not come that morning. Louise had not expected that he would. Feeling her age, she forced herself to the yard to do what she could for the clamoring livestock. The goats were rattling their small, hard hoofs against the door. They would have to be milked. Someone had to do it, and Louise had been through such a bad time already that she thought despairingly that it might as well be she.

  Walking like a condemned man, she fetched a bucket and slowly lifted the latch of the shed. She had not milked a goat since she was a child. She remembered nothing about it except that it was difficult.

  She chirped to the goats placatingly as she went gingerly inside. They watched her movements with unfocused eyes. "Nice girls," Louise said foolishly. Perhaps they would stand still when they realized that she was going to help them. She put a collar on one of them and tied it to the wall. It strained back with straddled legs and bulging eyes, trying to choke itself, but at least it was standing still. When Louise knelt in the straw and touched it with trembling hands, it began to

  thresh insanely about the narrow stall, kicked over the bucket and knocked Louise on to her back.

  "You fool!" Louise screamed. She scrambled up and ran out of the shed, sobbing with fright and with rage at the stupid animal's ingratitude.

  Anne was in the kitchen, surprisingly up and dressed.

  "Anne/* Louise stood before her defeatedly. "I'm finished, I can't go on any longer/' Her tears started again.

  Anne stared at her. "What on earth's the matter, Mother?"

  "It's the goats. The goats have to be milked. Harry's not here, and I—I don't know how to do it/'

  "Is that all? Well, my goodness, I know how to do that"

  "You do?" Louise stopped a sob in mid-breath.

  "Of course. I learned at that farm camp you used to send me to; don't you remember? I don't do it when Frank's here because he thinks I don't do it right. He's so damned particular, so I let him get on with it. Come on, Mother. Mop your eyes with the dish towel. Don't let's be silly. I'll milk the blasted goats till their insides drop out, if they're not careful,"

  "God bless you," Louise said fervently. She had never loved Anne so well. While Anne was milking the goats, with shouts and curses, Louise drove Daisy into an empty sty. Turning away her head, she took the dead piglets out one by one on a shovel and buried them in a shallow grave behind the manure heap. Looking round guiltily in case Anne should see her, she said a Hail Mary over the pigs before she left them, and tried to comfort herself with the thought that now at least they would never squeal under the slaughterer's knife.

  Anne helped Louise all that day. She worked carelessly, with many oaths, and almost seemed to enjoy herself.

  Louise told her: "I could never have managed without you. It's sweet of you to help."

  "Why shouldn't I?" Anne was impossible to praise or thank. "It's my property, isn't it? Even though Frank paid for it. With all his worldly goods he me endowed, and my God, what hellish

  goods they are!" She tugged at a hundredweight sack of meal which the corn merchant had dumped in the yard when they were not looking.

  "You shouldn't do that, dear. Youll strain yourself." Louise fluttered round, pushing at the sack with futile hands. "Leave the thing where it is."

  "Can't. It may rain tonight. Damn that man. He'd have taken it inside if Frank had been here."

  'We'll put a mackintosh over it, or something. Do leave it, Anne. Youll hurt the baby."

  "So what? Don't talk to me, Mother. No one can talk when they're lifting things."

  "What you doin'?" Harry had come into the yard, and stood behind them, swaying and blinking his eyes. He did not look like himself. His face had fallen away to nothing; his lips were sucked in, and a patchy beard grizzled his bony chin.

  "What you doin', I say?" he demanded.

  "Playing the piano," Anne grunted. "Can't you see?"

  "Help us with this sack," Louise said in her most commanding voice, which came out higher than she intended. "It's too heavy for Mrs. Nixon."

  Harry leered at her. "I ain't taking orders from no woman."

  "Well, then, get on and do some work, and we won't have to tell you. There's too much for us to do. Tomorrow's the poultry man's day and the chickens have got to be killed and trussed. Harry, you must help us." Louise's commands changed to pleading.

  "Must, must, must. Who's musting me?" Harry wagged his head idiotically.

  "Go away," Anne said. "You're drunk."

  Harry stood for a while and watched her drag the sack over
the sill of the shed door, and then seeing that he was going to get no more attention, wandered off, muttering and moving his hands jerkily from the wrists.

  "You shouldn't have sent him away," Louise said. "We need him."

  "Not in that state. Drunken old sod. We can get on better without him. I'll take a stiff drink tomorrow and then murder some chickens/'

  "I thought you couldn't stand the sight of blood/'

  "I can't, but chicken's blood is different. Thinner, And the brutes look better dead. Ill do it. Don't panic, Mother. I'm not such a fool as you think."

  Louise was amazed at the change that had come over Anne. She seemed suddenly to have embraced the cause of looking after Frank's interests. It was delightful working together like this, tiring themselves out in the hot, steamy sun that had followed the storm. Anne was monosyllabic and disparaging, but Louise felt very close to her, and wished that it could always be like this. Perhaps now that Anne had overcome her stubborn apathy, she would go on helping Frank. They would work together as a team, running the place as a model farm. Anne might even have her name added to Frank's on the side of the truck: F. c. AND A, NIXON, MKT GDNRS, STONE FARM, etc.

  Standing back to wait while a bucket filled under the tap, Louise was lost in a charming dream of the future. Anne would be so much happier now, and she could go on working, if she was careful, almost until the baby was due. Country women did it. Perhaps Anne would become a real country woman, as nature had intended when she gave her that physique. How pleased Frank would be when he came back and found Anne working for him in one of his blue shirts with the sleeves rolled up. He would adore her.

  Frank came back unexpectedly the next day. The hospital had been telephoning all morning to ask Anne to come and fetch him, but since they could not get an answer and they wanted his bed, they had sent him home in a hospital car.

  Finding no one in the house, Frank came to the yard with his hand in a sling and found Anne contemplating a tin pail full of dead chickens.

  "She killed them all/' Louise said, bursting with the news of Anne's heroism. "Isn't she wonderful? She s been working like a slave while you've been away. She's been absolutely grand."

  An amazed grin spread over Frank's candid face. He went toward Anne to embrace her, but she said: "Don't touch me in that suit. I'm filthy/'

  He kissed her just the same. "You're a wonderful girl," he said. "I'm proud of you/'

  "You don't have to be. It's a good thing to get some of these damned birds out of the way, if you ask me/'

  "These will have to be trussed before Barker's man comes," Frank said, automatically becoming efficient. "Where's Harry, anyway?"

  "Drunk, of course. You might have known he'd be no use/'

  Frank picked up a chicken and put it on the table. "I shan't be able to do much with this hand for a while." He frowned impatiently at his bandaged fingers. "Anny, do you think you could possibly—if I show you how ?"

  Anne had intended to attempt the plucking and trussing, but now she threw the chicken back into the pail, where it landed with a wet flop among its fellows.

  "For God's sake, Frank," she said, in her old, surly tone, "I've been working myself to death ever since you went and mashed yourself up. I'm not doing any more. I'm tired and I want food. You'll have to get one of your village pals to help you." She wiped her hands on a sack and walked out of the shed. She went back to the house and took off her shoes, and for the remainder of Louise's visit she did not go near the yard again, except to ask Frank for money when she wanted to go into Bedford.

  "It was you that did most of the work, wasn't it, Mother?" Frank asked when Louise brought out a mug of tea to him, since Anne would not wait for hers until he came in.

  "No, honestly, Anne did work hard, after the first day. I can't think why she suddenly did it, but even more I can't think why she suddenly stopped as soon as you came home."

  "Anne's a funny girl/' Frank said thoughtfully.

  Louise nodded silendy, not wanting to criticize his wife, even though it was her daughter.

  "You were wonderful, Mother/' Frank said, shaking himself out of his thoughts, and smiling at Louise over the mug. "I can't thank you enough for helping me out/'

  "I enjoyed it. I don't often get a chance to be useful. I just wish I could have done more. We had to leave a lot of things." She looked at the ground for a moment, biting her lip, and then looked up and said urgently: "Frank, there's something I've got to tell you. It's not very nice. You won't like it."

  "Spill it." He balanced the mug on the top of the fence. "I can take anything after that hospital."

  "You know I promised you everything would be all right? Well, it isn't. I did something wrong. Come with me. I want to show you something,"

  Frank followed her to the humped earth behind the manure heap. "What's this?" he asked. "Been doing some digging? What are you going to grow here—pumpkins?"

  "Don't joke, please," Louise said miserably. "Frank, it's—it's Daisy's babies."

  "Anny," Frank said, when they were undressing in their bedroom, "how about asking your mother to stay on a bit longer than she planned? I know she was supposed to go at the end of the week, but I'm a bit of a cripple now. I need all the help I can get." He held his damaged hand awkwardly in front of him. He was trying to undress with one hand, not liking to ask Anne to help him.

  "I shouldn't have thought Mother was much help." Anne pulled a cotton nightdress over her head and tied the sash too loosely, so that she looked bulkier than ever.

  "She is, though. You'd be surprised. Look what she did while I was away."

  "I suppose I didn't do a thing?"

  "Of course, dear, I know you did the most of it, but still "

  "Still what?" Anne was brushing her teeth in the china basin, maldng grotesque faces,

  'Well, she feels so bad about the pigs. I thought if she could think I needed her here, it would make her feel a bit better about it, see, and not think it's the end of the world; though, of course, it was a bit of a blow, I must say. But she couldn't know. I hate to see her—well, you know how she is—so sort of sorry and humble."

  He tried to make Anne understand, but could get no response. She climbed into bed with a creaking of the springs. "It's all arranged for her to go at the end of the week," she said indifferently. "You'll have to get someone else to help you if Harry doesn't sober up. Miriam's expecting Mother, and she won't like it if things are changed. She's probably got her dainty little vases of flowers already in the spare room."

  Frank got into bed, holding up his pyjama trousers, because he could not tie the string. "I never knew Miriam was all that keen to have your mother," he said.

  "Don't be bitter." Anne picked up a magazine. "It doesn't become you. Now go to sleep and let me read. Mother's going on Friday. I've already looked up her trains and written to Miriam."

  5.

  JLHE LITTLE vases of flowers were there in Louise's bedroom at Pleasantivays, but not so tastefully arranged as usual. Ellen had done them. Instead of picking flowers from the garden, she had gone into the lane and gathered what had looked like a beautiful fistful of wild flowers and grasses until she got them home.

  She sneaked into the pantry so that no one could laugh at what she had in her hand, and took down two of the little china jugs that Miriam collected for the colorful miniature bouquets she liked to dispose about the house.

  "Your flowers are always so charming/' Miriam's friends told her. "So individual. One gets tired of the eternal gladioli and roses. What little loves these cyclamens are—are they cyclamen? But posies take a lot of trouble. I wish I had die time."

  Ellen stabbed the wilting flowers into the jugs, and mimicked to herself the things they said, nodding her head and mouthing with stretched smiles, ending each recital with: "I wish I had the time/' This was what people said when they were envious of something that another person could do better.

  No wonder they were envious of her mother. No one could arrange flowers as she coul
d. Ellen liked to stand back on her heels and watch her mother's fingers, deft and delicate among the blossoms that always seemed to stay fresh for her. Sometimes Miriam asked her to help, but Ellen's fingers were so clumsy that Miriam grew impatient and sent her away, or at

  best told her that she could stay and watch if she stopped scraping her feet in that maddening way.

  Ellen knew that she often annoyed her mother, although she could not think why. That she annoyed her father was no cause of worry to her since he was obviously a man destined to be annoyed by children. Simon and Judy seemed to have discovered how to avert this destiny as far as they were concerned, but Ellen did not bother about it. A lot of people s fathers were like that. Gone all day and missing everything, and coming home at night to tell everybody what they should have done. Faraway figures who only half belonged during the week, and lords of the manor at week ends, who made the house a different place. Jolly and noisy with you one minute, and then suddenly rounding on you irritably, as if you gave them a headache.

  Ellen had long ago given up trying to please her father. She was too busy trying to please her mother, whose bounty she craved. She sometimes thought that she might have to give that up, too, since the results were not worth her efforts, and Miriam, rarely noticed that there had been any effort at all.

  When you are an annoying child, and a plain one, whose smile reveals not sweetly comic gaps, but protruding tombstones with a gold band on them, grown-ups are apt to forget that you are not like that on purpose, and to give you no credit for trying to be otherwise.

  With her grandmother, it was different. Poor old Granny, Ellen thought, with affection, not pity. She always wants to think the best of you. She always says: "You didn't mean to do it, I'm sure/* even when I did mean to do something, like going out in my nightdress when I had flu, and trying to catch pneumonia. Even though these flowers do look awful—she stood back and looked discouragedly at the sadly drooping sterns—she'll tell me how pretty they are, and I shall be pleased, although I know they're not.

  She began to nod her head and smirk again. "Why, Miriam!"

  she said out loud. "How attractive! That's so original, putting dandelions in with dead vetch. I just wish I had the time to play about with flowers like that!"

 

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