Of Love and Slaughter

by Angela Huth

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I would have thought leaving the house unlocked, even in some remote place like this, was quite a risk.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Oh, George. Don’t be cross. I’m sorry. I should have warned you.’ Lily rose, holding the mug in both hands. ‘It was probably a silly idea. My car’s full of watercolours I’ve got to deliver back to the old woman near Exeter. I was having a bowl of soup in a pub somewhere, thinking I’d better stay the night there, when it came to me: why not go back to George?’ She shrugged, gave a slight giggle. ‘I rang you, but there was no answer. Perhaps it was foolish, such spontaneity?’

  ‘No,’ said George. As he stood eye to eye with her, he could feel the ache in his back, drifts of sleepiness, fading anger and other, stranger sensations he could not put a name to. At their previous meetings he had vaguely sensed, though not positively registered, that she was beautiful. Now he saw that was definitely so, but the fact did not reduce his irritation.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I can’t make excuses. The fact is, the truth is, I was … drawn to this place. I thought about it a lot.’ She released her eyes from George’s, looked round the room. George nodded. ‘I mean, of course I’ll go now, straight away, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘No, no,’ George said again, without enthusiasm.

  ‘You don’t sound overjoyed, but I’ll only stay a short while. Be off at any time you tell me.’

  George sighed. ‘I’ll show you the spare room and we can talk about your stay tomorrow. Tomorrow evening, that is. Be busy all day.’

  ‘Fine.’ Lily lowered her head, sending a shoal of hair across her face full of pale sparks from the table light. George picked up her suitcase.

  ‘You don’t travel lightly, ’ he said.

  ‘But I cover a lot of ground.’ If she was trying to sound enigmatic, George thought, she failed.

  They went up the staircase whose failing joints groaned with various notes of discomfort as their feet weighed upon them. They moved along a dark passage whose wooden floors dipped like a shallow boat. Their footsteps were quietened here by strips of carpet, its ribs breaking through its pile, that George’s mother had laid many years ago. He opened a door into a large room with a small window. There was a smell of mothballs, a suggestion of damp.

  ‘This is it,’ he said. ‘Not very grand. Hasn’t been used much since my mother died.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Lily’s eyes journeyed over the dark furniture, the wallpaper of dun stripes, the sad little curtains, the bed plainly unmade beneath its cover.

  ‘I’ll get you some sheets.’

  George went to the cupboard in his bathroom. It housed a cladded hot water tank and shelves piled with linen. Its thick smell of warm linen was a flash of remembered childhood. George had often hidden in this cupboard, squeezed behind the tank, in games of hide and seek. He had crouched uncomfortably for ages, waiting for his friends to find him – which of course they never did, even when they opened the door for a moment, allowing him a small blast of bathroom cold air and a moment of light. He had thought it would be a good place to die, the linen cupboard. Now, standing helplessly in front of the banks of sheets, he realised it was the first time in his life he had ever had to choose a pair. Dealing with bed linen was a part of domestic life from which he had always been protected by able women – his mother, a scout at Oxford, Dusty. Jesus, I’ve been spoilt, he thought, and tugged at two sheets he hoped would be the right size.

  In the spare room, holding them flat on his spread hands like a tray, he presented them to Lily. She had already hung a number of things in the oak cupboard.

  ‘Shall I help you make the bed?’

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘You’ll be all right?’ Even as he asked, George was aware that he did not care very much. The well-being of an uninvited guest, in his fatigued state, lacked importance.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Tomorrow, help yourself to whatever … Dusty’ll be here if you want anything. Take a look round the farm, perhaps.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about me.’ Lily dropped the unfolded sheets on to the bed and came over to George. ‘;I won’t be a nuisance, I promise. I’ll deliver the pictures then come back and go for a long walk. Then you can give me my marching orders tomorrow evening if you want. I won’t take offence, I promise.’ She smiled, a little wearily. ‘But it’s lovely to be back … Just look, George.’ Her arm swept across the vista of the room with a small jangle of bracelets. ‘Imagine how all this could be.’

  George, who could not imagine the room any different from its present cheerlessness, nodded. Lily’s way of insisting on looking at things returned to him clearly, irritatingly. She would be not only an uninvited but also an exhausting guest. He would permit just a few days, then she would have to be off. George was about to put his hand on her shoulder, tell her this, when she moved away to draw the curtains. He said goodnight and left without further exchange.

  In bed, the sheep-thoughts turned into thoughts of Nell: how to explain to her about Lily? Did he need to explain? And why should it bother him? No answers came before he fell asleep.

  5

  John Prodger woke with a feeling of uncommon well-being. Last night he had hammered the final nail into the vast edifice that was to house his sheep. By any standards it was a magnificent farm building, and a sense of quiet pride burned through him. With a roof of soaring corrugated steel supported by pillars of oak and other local woods, it was almost as large as the Elkins’ sheep shed, put up the previous year. The difference was that whereas David Elkin had contracted a firm of specialist builders, Prodge had built his shed almost entirely single-handed. It had taken him over a year, working every spare hour when not attending to animals or land. And it had cost him most of the money he had been saving since he started work on the farm after leaving school, and the profits he had made since his parents had ‘buggered off to Spain’, fed up with the relentless hard work, three years ago. These were the days of generous government grants. A large percentage of his building was supplied from tax-payers’ money, but he still had to contribute more than he could afford to finish the work.

  But it was worth it, thought Prodge. In the past the ewes had either lambed on the hillside – a risky business in bitter weather – or in a rickety old shelter, little more than a roof on stilts, which would now be pulled down. Prodge had designed every detail of the interior of his new shed: the aisles, the layout of pens and troughs, the ingenious way in which the barriers could be switched about to make compartments of different sizes.

  Unbelievably, all was finished now, bales of straw and hay already stored to the roof at one end. Soon he would bring in the sheep to lamb. He had been aiming for this deadline, the end of February, and had just made it. Unbelievable, he said to himself again. He’d ask Nell to send his parents a postcard saying shed finished. He could just picture them on their blazing patio somewhere above Marbella (he and Nell had never been there and had no intention of going), sipping at their sangria, or whatever expats drank in Spain, and saying unbelievable, too. Pity they’d never see it.

  There had been several days of drizzle and ill-tempered winds, but this was a fine pale morning, sky dragged with streaks of anaemic primrose. Prodge and Nell, as always, got through the early morning milking with a speed and efficiency that only come from years of working in harmony and wordless understanding. To Prodge the milking parlour (next on his list to be improved) was a place of the music he most loved: the bass clank of chain, the rhythmic swish of milk drawn from full udders. He clumped up and down the concrete gutters between the rows of stalls, wiping down his cows’ udders, giving each one a single pat when he had finished. Since his father had left he had taken great care to build up a fine herd of Friesians: by now they were known to be the best in the district, many of them prize winners. In his heart, though he would admit it to no one, not even George, Prodge was proud of them, too.
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  At breakfast, he glanced at the local paper while eating the large plate of bacon, sausages and eggs that Nell had cooked for him. Normally they ate this meal in silence. Today, with one of her sly smiles, she ventured a question.

  ‘So how did you get on with Janine? You were back late.’

  ‘All right,’ said Prodge after a while. Had not the thought of the finished shed filled him with such molten happiness, Nell would not have had the benefit of an answer at all. He rather enjoyed leaving her curiosity unsated: damned if he was going to tell her everything about the thin side of his life just because they lived together. But he could see how hard it was for her to resist another question, and admired her restraint. After a while, and several more rashers of bacon, he succumbed to her enquiring look. Fact was, Nell had come up with helpful suggestions concerning wayward girls in the past.

  ‘Not much doing there,’ he said. ‘Don’t think anything’ll come of it. Not all she seemed at first. My mistake.’ What he kept from his sister was the brief disappointment he had felt last night. Janine of the scarlet lips and provocative cleavage was the kind of girl, in a bar full of country folk, to unground any of the young men for whom almost complete celibacy was part of life. A saucy little temptress, she was, down from Cardiff for a visit – though she did not say to whom – on the lookout for ‘local talent’. She had accepted Prodge’s drinks, flickered her eyes, given every sign that he was her chosen ‘talent’. But in his car in the car park – impatiently she had rejected his idea of driving to somewhere more private – she had scoffed at him, called him a ‘bloody country bumpkin’. Then she had stomped off, banging the car door so hard that the solid vehicle shook. Prodge, left in a state of ignominious disarray, recovered with a speed that surprised himself. Within moments of starting the journey home the disappointment was drowned by a tide of well-being at the thought of the finished shed.

  ‘I’m going down to the shed,’ he said. ‘Think you ought to come and take a look.’

  ‘I saw it last night.’

  ‘Not in the daylight you haven’t seen it. Finished.’

  ‘I’ve plenty to do, Prodge. It’s not that I haven’t admired every inch of your progress. There’s a stack of papers waiting on the desk.’

  ‘Bloody papers. They can wait.’

  ‘Just for a moment, then.’

  In the shed, Nell silently marvelled. It was lit by a positive sun, now: ingenious design and beautiful carpentry uncluttered as they never would be again by animals, bedding and troughs of feed.

  ‘You could’ve been a carpenter, my reckoning,’ she said, looking up to the roof. ‘There were times I thought it’d never be finished.’

  ‘There were times.’

  ‘You’ve done well. It’s the finest shed for miles round.’

  ‘We’ll bring the ewes in later.’

  ‘I’m taking Whisper out this afternoon, just a gentle hack, make sure she’s OK. So after that.’

  ‘Fine. I’m off down to George’s this morning. Wants to talk about his cows.’

  ‘Three, then, thereabouts.

  ‘See what I can do.’

  On the drive to George, Prodge turned his mind to his friend’s plan to increase his own small herd of Friesians: he wanted topquality cows. Prodge enjoyed the feeling of being able to help. George had the money, was owner of a farmhouse and land and a good flock of sheep, but Prodge had the experience. He had learnt everything he knew the rough way. When his parents had made their premature flight to Spain, Prodge, by his own choice, had taken on sole responsibility: tenant farmer at the age of twentyfive. There were those in the locality who doubted his ability to make a go of it. The surly owner of the farm, who mercifully never interfered, made it clear that Prodge was on trial. He made a few mistakes, and the worries and responsibility of it all flustered him from time to time. But they were rewarding years in British farming – generous government help, good prices at the market. With Nell’s constant, wise support and encouragement, Prodge made remarkable progress. Local scepticism died. He became confident, content and, from time to time, as this morning, pleased by his own ability to judge a cow as well as anyone in the West Country. To advise George on the creating of a first-class herd would not be difficult. He looked forward to one of their serious planning sessions in the small, warm study where they had played for so many hours as children. Prodge was always touched by George’s eagerness to take up any suggestion, and now George was in charge he knew he would be called upon frequently, while George learned the ropes. The thought was a good one.

  He found Dusty in the kitchen at the sink, polishing the taps. She was known for her prowess with taps. Wherever she went, she left shining taps in her wake.

  ‘Hello, Prodge.’ She did not turn to greet him. Prodge sensed in the tense rise of her shoulders that there was the faintest sign of hostility, or perhaps disapproval. He looked down at his boots. Unusually, they were not muddy. He had not messed up her swept floor. Dusty’s mood was puzzling, but Prodge had more important things to think about.

  ‘George at home?’

  ‘Upstairs.’ Still Dusty did not turn round. ‘Coming down.’

  Prodge saw that there was little chance of conversation with her this morning, so made his way into the study. The room was warm – the kind of pervading warmth that comes from years of lighted fires – a warmth always lacking in the Prodger household. There was a faint but unfamiliar smell in the air: Prodge could not place it. Some kind of flower, perhaps. But there were no flowers in the room. Since George’s mother had died the house had lacked flowers. He opened the window.

  George came in, straw clinging to his shirt. There was something about him that made him look like a very new farmer, thought Prodge. Soon his shirts would be clogged with wear, his jeans would be threadbare and stained. Prodge was strangely moved by the sight of his friend, so eager to get on with being a farmer, looking so cleanly turned out.

  ‘Sorry,’ said George. ‘I was upstairs looking out some books.’

  ‘I’m over about the cows.’

  ‘Right. Good. Thanks.’

  Prodge took his usual place in one corner of the ailing sofa. It whimpered as he sat.

  ‘Shed’s finished,’ he said.

  ‘No?’ George’s smile was full of awe. ‘Christ, Prodge, you really worked on that … I must come up and see it. Bad day today. I’ll come tomorrow’

  ‘I’d like your opinion.’

  George sat in a wing chair, its leather as cracked and tired as old skin, by the fire. He looked through the window to the yard. As he gazed, so strange an expression crossed his face – somewhere between bewilderment and annoyance – that Prodge’s own eyes followed George’s. He saw an unknown young woman cross the yard, tossing her head, sniffing the air. She wore a longish skirt that blew out behind her, unsuitable for the farmyard. Mysteries suddenly fell into place: the flowery scent in the room, the fact that George was ‘looking for books’ upstairs of a morning. As George said nothing Prodge asked who she was.

  ‘That’s Lily Crichton.’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  George turned to Prodge. He looked faintly apologetic.

  ‘A girl I met briefly at Oxford. She suddenly turned up in Exeter that time I was in the office after Dad died. I took her out to lunch – well, only to be polite. Then she came and had supper here.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Never expected to see her again.’ George laughed.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘But when I got back from seeing Nell last night I found the lights on. She was sitting here with her suitcase asking if she could come back for a while.’

  ‘What d’you make of that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was too knackered to argue. I think she’s here for a few days. As long as she doesn’t make a nuisance of herself I don’t really mind. Seems she’s at a loose end.’

  ‘Funny, really,’ said Prodge. ‘I’m the one who’d like a wife and kids and bugger-all comes along. You do
n’t seem remotely interested in all that kind of thing yet awhile, and some tip-top creature, far as I can see, drops out of the sky into your yard.’ He was silent for a moment. Then: ‘How’re you going to explain this Lily to Nell?’ he asked.

  ‘Explain? There’s no more to explain than I’ve told you. Honestly, Prodge. Come off it. She’s no girlfriend. What are you getting at?’

  Prodge shrugged. ‘Just this: you tell Nell carefully. You take care in the explaining.’

  ‘Of course I will. Nell’s bound to laugh. She always laughed when the occasional girl turned up here.’

  ‘That’s all I’m saying. You be gentle with Nell. Now, about these Friesians.’

  Later that morning George sat at the desk determined to deal with some of the paperwork that had accumulated since his father’s death. Only once did he wonder where Lily might be, what she was doing. Except to hand her his old copy of Wolf Solent in response to her request for a novel – she had brought no books with her – they had had no communication that morning. By one o’clock, when George had had enough of the tedious figures and was hungry, Lily still had not returned. George ate his bread and cheese in the kitchen, the local paper his only companion. He wondered again what had happened to her, but forced himself to concentrate on a report about export regulations. At two he was due to meet Saul at the milking parlour to discuss a new extension.

  Ten minutes before the appointment he walked out into the yard, glad to be away from the tedium of the desk. He decided to walk slowly to the parlour, giving himself a few clear moments in which to reflect on the advice Prodge had given him. As he left the house he saw Nell riding into the yard, straight-backed on her grey mare. Despite the chill she wore no jacket but one of her fuzzy home-made jumpers the colour of a celandine. When she pulled up, right by George, he put a hand on the single rein, patted the mare’s neck.

  When they were children Nell would ride over most days on one of her ponies. They grew larger over the years. More times than he could remember George had stood looking at her in the saddle, one of his hands on the rein as it was now. He had always found it hard to understand why the command and the assurance she displayed in the saddle disappeared once she dismounted. On her feet she was a physically strong figure, but the confidence in her own ability seemed mysteriously to evaporate. Only once, several years ago, had George ventured to talk to her about this. She had laughed it off, saying he was quite right: she was on top of things on a horse. Without the height and life it gave her, she felt diminished.