by Hazel Prior
I said wouldn’t she rather sleep in my bed, where it was softer and warmer? She looked at me in a strange way and there was a little silence between us. I said I would of course sleep downstairs and keep Phineas company if that was what she decided to do. She said no, no, she would hate to put me out, she’d be much happier on the floor in the little room, next to her harp. I said whatever made her happiest, that was the thing she should do. I put down some more cushions and rugs though, because I thought that what she had wouldn’t be enough to keep her comfortable. Not at all.
Then Ellie went out to look at the snow for a bit and she stroked Phineas for a bit and she played the harp for a bit. The harp-playing soothed her. I could tell.
I did not wish her a happy Christmas though. I guessed that, from her face, it wasn’t.
Ellie cooks with me, in the little kitchen. She makes curries and stir-fries and teaches me how to make them too, with ginger, garlic, lemon juice and stuff. I am learning all about cumin and coriander. She always did say that variety is the spice of life and I am beginning to think she is right. The spices keep our insides warm on these cold days.
There are white ribbons of snow outlining every branch and twig, and rows of icicles stuck along the roof of the barn like crocodile teeth. Drifts lie along the edges of the track, very thick and powdery. It is deep underfoot, too. I need to get the shovel and dig us out when we drive to Minehead or Porlock for supplies.
When Ed came to the barn on Saturday (which was the Saturday just before New Year’s Eve) he was very excited. He likes snow, a lot. As soon as we arrived he launched himself into the snow, took great handfuls of it and flung it up in the air, jumping up and down. Then when Ellie came out he threw some at her, which she didn’t mind a bit. She scooped up a load more and threw it back at him. This was their first encounter. I was glad it was going so well.
After that we compared footprints.
‘Yours are biggest,’ said Ed to me, planting his small foot with flashing trainers into my zig-zag-ridged boot-print. ‘Next are Ellie’s,’ he continued, leaping into her narrower, smoother prints. She does not have her thick grippy boots with her because she left them in her house and doesn’t want to go back and get them. Her feet get cold a lot in her not-very-practical shoes and she slips about. Ed and I had to hold on to her on both sides to support her. ‘Mine are smallest,’ said Ed, demonstrating the fact by making lots of footprints that ran round us in circles.
Then Ed told us that we had to turn and face the barn and count to a hundred while he went to hide, and after we’d reached a hundred we had to follow his tracks and see if we could find him. Ellie and I obeyed. We trailed him across the white field, alongside the stream and up the bank, over the tumbledown stone wall, then into the woods. We searched for him under the laden boughs of the old oaks and beeches. We said ‘Where can he be?’ a lot of times. Loudly.
Then there was a sudden ‘Boo!’ and he sprang out on us from behind a tree trunk. I collapsed on to the ground in shock. Ed laughed like a drunken hyena. His laugh is contagious. Ellie joined in. Which was a good thing, I think.
There is nothing Ed likes more than jumping out and shouting boo. I’m beginning to get used to such explosiveness. It seems to be a major feature of a small boy’s life.
That same afternoon we made snowmen. We made a snow-Dan, a snow-Ed and a snow-Ellie in the orchard. We also made a snow-Phineas.
‘We need carrots. Have you got carrots, Dad?’ Ed asked. Luckily I did have carrots. We gave ourselves carrot noses and gave Phineas a carrot beak.
‘We need lumps of coal. Have you got any coal?’ Coal was something I did not have but Ed was resourceful and found some dark stones. We carefully placed our eyes in our faces.
‘What do you make mouths out of?’ he asked next. ‘Twigs?’
I applauded his idea and said if there was one thing we were never short of on Exmoor that thing was twigs.
‘I’ll find some,’ said Ed and scooted off. A moment later he was back with three twigs. The curviest one he put on the snow-Dan’s face to make him smiley. The second curviest he put on the snow-Ed. But on the snow-Ellie he put the twig upside down so she looked sad. I looked at the snow-Ellie and I looked at the real Ellie and I saw that Ed had got that right.
Ellie then said she’d like to take photos of the snow characters but she couldn’t because she didn’t have her camera with her. Then she went quiet. Ellie goes quiet a lot these days. I’ve noticed that. I don’t mind it though and Ed doesn’t mind either.
Later on Saturday my sister Jo came to join us. She brought hand-knitted gloves for Ed and chocolates in the shape of trains. She said that now she had her big opportunity to be an auntie. She patted Ed on the head and told him what a terror he was. She patted Ellie on the arm and told her she was doing really well, considering.
Ed likes talking. Ed talked all the time – to us or to himself or to Phineas. ‘You’re cool!’ he told Phineas. Phineas looked very pleased to hear this.
‘You’re mega-cool.’ Phineas looked even more pleased.
‘You’re the coolest pheasant in the whole world!’ Phineas was so pleased at this that he took one of Ed’s shirt buttons in his beak and pulled it off.
To me Ed asked lots of questions. I did my best to answer.
‘Dad, tell me about your dad. What was he like?’
I said my dad was a big and gentle man.
‘How big?’
I showed him where my dad came up to on the barn door.
With his arms outstretched Ed measured the distance between this and his own height, which was quite substantial. ‘And how gentle?’
I explained that my dad was so gentle he used to stop the car if a caterpillar was crossing the road. Even though my mother didn’t like it. He stopped the car and then he got out and picked the caterpillar up and put it carefully on a leaf in the verge, where it would be safe.
Ed nodded. ‘That’s much more gentler than my other grandad, Gramps,’ he told me. He meant Roe Deer’s father. ‘Gramps doesn’t like stopping the car even for schoolkids at the crossing.’
He picked up a stick that he had brought home from a walk earlier and waved it around. ‘What about your mum? Was she big and gentle too?’
I told him no, she wasn’t, not at all. I told him she was quite small and I showed him on the barn door where she came up to, which was a little bit closer to his own height. I said that I wouldn’t exactly describe her as gentle either. She was always too busy telling me all about what I was supposed to do and not supposed to do.
Ed said: ‘My mum doesn’t tell me anything about supposed to and not supposed to. She leaves all that to my nan.’
In the evening we sat together by the fire and Ellie read to us, bits from Winnie-the-Pooh and bits from Lewis Carroll, books I’ve kept from my own childhood. Ellie reads well. Ed was enchanted.
My friend Thomas has also been introduced to Ed. Thomas declares him to be a little monkey. Thomas lingers most mornings. He likes talking to Ellie about the weather.
It is strange when there are so many people in the barn at one time. My life is branching out into all sorts of new directions, like a hazel tree that resprouts after coppicing.
The new year has started, and so far it is very different from every other year of my life. Weekdays are the quieter days. I make harps. Ellie sits wrapped up in a rug and reads or looks at the fire. She sometimes goes outside to wander by herself or sometimes comes with me on my walk and I show her all the things I like, from the frozen puddles to the iced tops of the pine trees to the shining structures that have formed over the stream like organ pipes. She gazes at everything and holds on to me so that she doesn’t fall over.
But something is not right. Not at all. I would like very much to make it right, but I don’t know how. I have no idea what a man is supposed to do under these circumstances. I am made of the wrong ingredients.
Ellie plays the harp in the evenings, but only sad songs. I listen and the so
unds prod and poke at the tender places inside me. At times I am sorry that I ever gave her the harp because it seems to have led to so much pain, but at other times I think it is the balm that heals the pain.
40
Ellie
Dan is busy embarking on a new harp. I wander out. It’s not that late but it’s already becoming hard to see. I’m feeling tired and a little shivery. I can make out Phineas in front of the barn, pecking at something on the track. I go back in, fetch some birdseed, crouch down and hold it out to him. He runs towards me.
I’m getting fond of the bird. He’s a wonderful listener and it’s a huge relief to talk to someone who doesn’t understand.
‘Phineas, do you think I was right to leave Clive?’
He gobbles at the seed, ignoring the giver.
I have no idea if Clive has tried to find me, if he assumes I’ve gone to Vic’s or Christina’s. I wonder if he regrets tearing up my poems, if he misses me.
‘I tried so hard to keep loving him. I did try! He didn’t make it easy for me, though, did he? No, he didn’t.’
Phineas looks at me sideways.
‘OK, so I wasn’t blameless myself.’
He finishes the last fragments of seed and looks at me again, hoping for more.
‘I really, really don’t want him to think I was unfaithful. But I suppose he’s bound to think that, especially now I’ve run away. I hope he’s all right. I mean, his drinking was getting pretty bad. And now he’ll be even worse. He’ll be in an awful state. He did love me, I know that. With all his faults, he did love me.’
Phineas is looking bored now and starting to move off. I offer him another handful of birdseed. I need him to stay.
‘Phineas, listen! I don’t know what to do. I’ve pulled myself loose from my rock but now I’m floating with the tides and I’ve got no idea where I’ll end up. Up north next, I suppose, to talk it over with Vic. But before that I’ll have to go back home and fetch my things. The thing is, I can’t quite bring myself to do that yet.’
I’ve had time to think, and time to observe. Dan hasn’t shown any signs of wanting to get back together with Rhoda, which is a blessed relief. But neither has he shown any interest in me beyond steadfast friendship. I have to face the facts.
I wipe my eyes. ‘I can’t inflict myself on him much longer, can I? He has his son now.’
I stroke Phineas on the head, wishing I had more resolve.
The noise of a car engine startles me. Phineas flees, cawing in alarm. I stand up quickly. There, heading straight towards me in his car, is Clive. My mouth drops open, my stomach lurches. He slams on the brakes right in front of me. I am rooted to the spot. For him to find me here …
Horror hits, and scorching shame, as if he’s caught me having rampant sex with Dan. Clive’s face is livid. His eyes burn with fury. Even through the windscreen I can see the twitching muscle in his forehead. He swings the car round, avoiding me by an inch. Then spurts forward and roars away, back down the track.
I’m shaking all over.
He’ll see it as confirmation of his worst suspicions. I know he will.
Clive is a proud man, and when he is hurt, he hits out. With a horrible, jabbing certainty I know he’ll crave revenge. Like he did when Jayne was unfaithful to him all those years ago. He took a hammer and destroyed what she loved the most.
And what I love the most is …
Oh God, oh God!
41
Dan
The electric lathe is running and I have my ear defenders on. Ellie comes rushing in, panting, her face white as a lily, her hands gesticulating, her mouth shaping rapid words.
I stop the lathe and take off my ear defenders. I ask what is wrong.
‘Dan!’ she cries. ‘I must go, and I must go now! Clive was here, just now, just a moment ago, and he saw me.’
I wonder why Clive was here and if he was here a moment ago, why he isn’t still here now. Surely if he was here then his purpose was either to visit me or visit Ellie, neither of which it seems he’s done. And why does Ellie suddenly want to go? Does she mean she wants to go back to him? It is all most worrying and confusing.
I’m not sure which question to ask her first, but before I’ve managed to ask any of them, Ellie bursts into a fit of coughing. The circles under her eyes are bigger, the white of her face is tinged with green, her eyes are brimming with water. She sinks to the floor.
‘Dan, can you bring a bucket? I feel sick,’ she murmurs.
At that moment all the lights go out. Power cuts are fairly common here at this time of year. I keep a large stash of candles in the workbench drawer ready for this eventuality.
I light several candles and bring her a bucket as quickly as I can. She heaves over it.
I run for a blanket and wrap it round her shoulders. Her skin is icy.
‘I have to … to get out of here …’ she insists, struggling to her feet.
I tell her there is only one place she is going and that is bed. Not a bed of cushions and rugs on the floor, a proper bed. My bed.
She retches again over the bucket. I can see in the flickering light that it is filling with saliva and sicky bits, pale brown, smelly.
When she can speak again, what she says is this: ‘Can you put my bag in my car for me?’
I say on no account will I do that. The thing I will do is accompany her upstairs and tuck her into the bed and put an extra blanket on.
She leans on me shakily, almost accepting, then stops.
‘Dan, he knows I’m here. He’ll … I don’t know. But we must make him think I’ve gone. He must think I’m somewhere else.’
I say that if the idea is to make Clive think she’s gone, then there is an easy solution: all we have to do is hide her car. He will then think she has driven off somewhere else. There is no other evidence as far as I can see.
She wavers. ‘Where could we hide the car?’
I say that I can drive it down to Thomas’s if she likes. He won’t mind if I leave it next to his red van, in his driveway.
‘And if Clive comes here again, you’ll answer the door? And you’ll say I’ve gone away and I’m not coming back?’
I confirm that, if it’s what she wants, I will.
‘Yes, I do want that. And say it as if it’s true, Dan! Promise me!’
She is forcing the words out although it’s clearly an effort for her to speak at all.
Lying is difficult for me but she is adamant. I say I’ll promise if she will go to bed now and try to relax.
She lets me take her up to my room and help her into the bed. I light another candle and wedge it into the carved wooden candlestick on the bedside table. While she is getting into her nightclothes I fetch her own rug from the little room for her. She is not well, not at all, and will need to stay warm. I spread it over her and the other bedclothes. In the glimmer her face still looks crumpled and upset.
‘Go and move the car now, Dan, please. Quickly. Please!’
So I take her car keys and that is what I do.
Thomas invited me in for a drink but I said no. I said Ellie the Exmoor Housewife was in my bed and I’d better get back to her as soon as possible. He looked at me with a gleam in his eyes and said: ‘Well, in that case, mate, you’d certainly better look lively. I can give you a lift back if you like, boyo?’
But Thomas’s wife Linda, who is a large and fierce woman, said his dinner was now sitting on the table and there was no way she was going to warm it up for him all over again when he got back.
‘Sorry, mate,’ he said to me.
It was lucky I’d remembered to take a torch. The roads were very icy now. The snow had stopped but I could see little lacings and tracings of it along the edges of everything in the torchlight. The sky was clear and the stars were very bright, just as they were that night when I discovered that I had a son.
If I tried to count the stars tonight I could probably do a better job of it. The bright band of the Milky Way was draped across the sky o
ver the far pine trees. That would be a good place to start counting. But I decided not to count just now because I wanted to get back quickly and check that Ellie was all right.
The walk back from Thomas’s house took me twenty-six minutes.
When I arrived at the barn I stopped to sniff. There was a strong, acrid, chemical smell, not normal in the pure air of the Exmoor night. Then I saw there was a car parked alongside the barn, just where Ellie’s had been. I had only just registered this when there came out of the darkness a loud, frantic squawking. Phineas. I rushed round the back to where the noise had come from.
I flashed the torch around but I couldn’t see him anywhere. The squawking had stopped. If he was worried about foxes Phineas might have gone to his second bed in the woodshed. I raced round to the orchard. I was surprised to see a small, round light – the light from another torch – shining out from the shed.
‘Phineas?’ I called. But Phineas does not have a torch. I knew that really.
‘Is someone there?’ I called.
There was a low moan. It did not sound like Phineas. Not at all.
I came closer. I shone my torch round the corners of the woodshed.
There was a human figure crouching on a log. It was a man rocking to and fro, his head in his hands. The other torch lay on the floor by his feet. I picked it up and shone both torches at him. The figure did not move. The head in the hands had a receding hairline which I recognized.
‘You are Clive, Ellie’s husband,’ I said.
He lifted his head. Then I saw that his face had red scratches across it like claw-marks. The man blinked. His eyeballs rolled around a bit then looked at me.
There was a moment of silence.
Then, all at once, he gave a great howl and lurched towards me, his eyes flaring in the torchlight, his fists like giant clubs. I had not been expecting this. It was a shock. I dropped the torches and tried to duck out of the way. I felt one of his fists slam down on my shoulder. The pain forced a yelp out of my mouth. I don’t know what happened to his other fist, but something crashed loudly. My shoulder stung and the only thing I could see was a patch of light on the ground. I was staggering a bit, but I managed to bend down and pick up a torch again. I flashed it around quickly.