Of Love and Slaughter

by Angela Huth

  ‘I remember,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll be out on the tractor till lunchtime. Help yourself to whatever you want.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And this evening we can work out …’

  ‘Probably nothing to work out.’

  ‘No: probably not. Sleep well.’

  George was detained for a further half-minute as he watched her pulling the curtains across the windows that now admitted a bright dawn. He guessed that the smile she had just given him was still there. The lively snap of her hand, distorting the lilies on the cotton stuff, indicated that her happiness matched his own. But before she could turn back to him to confirm his imaginings, he left the room and closed the door. The buoyancy in his steps made the old floorboards of the passage sing more loudly than usual as he made his way to his room for what was left of the night.

  7

  The face of his mother had vanished very quickly from George’s mind after her death. This often worried him, as he confessed to Nell and Prodge but to no one else. He studied photographs of her to induce memory, but a static two-dimensional image is no evoker of flesh, blood and habit. ‘Your mother used to tip her head back when she laughed,’ David Elkin once said, ‘exposing the full length of her pretty neck. I loved that.’ But George held no such picture. Her voice still lived in his head – slow, husky, trailing. The feel of her thin hand, the skin warm and soft as ageing rose petals, sometimes returned to the gaping fingers of his own empty hand. And never would he forget the smell of her. This was nothing to do with man-made concoctions, which she never wore, but was a natural skin smell, somewhere between primroses and cowslips. When George was very young and still afraid of the dark, she would lie beside him on his bed, reading to him until he fell asleep. The scent of her, the warmth of her, the music of her voice combined to make him feel utterly safe. He was aware of this safety long before events taught him the preciousness of this state of being. Sometimes, in his attempts to visualise her face, he would think back to those sweet evenings and try to remember how, through drowsy eyes, he saw her chin, her downcast eyes, her hair. But that picture seemed to have gone for ever. On the occasions he dreamt of his mother, she was always turned away from him, or in shadow, or moving too fast. So the subconscious was of no use, and he would awake frustrated and sad.

  What he remembered – would always remember – were the funny things she said, her singular way of looking, the wisdom of her theories, her belief in magic. This had little in common with his own. While he loved the whole idea of goblins, witches, spells – and when they ran out of books his mother would make up her own stories containing these elements – her belief was in the more grown-up kind of magic. This held little appeal for George, although he would listen politely. To be honest, Mama, I don’t really understand what you’re talking about,’ he often said. ‘You will,’ was always her reply.

  After she died George cursed himself for not having attended to her magic beliefs more carefully. Her theory was that should something outside the norm happen in a familiar place, that familiarity was shattered. ‘When your father came to take me out for the first time, he came up the stairs and into my tiny flat, and the small sitting room where I was waiting – nervous, thrilled – broke up into a thousand pieces that came showering down on to me so thickly that I was unable to recognise where I was. It was a sort of snowstorm of sensation. It didn’t return to normal until the next morning when I was alone again.’ George had had no idea what she meant at the time. She had also told a story about some furious row with her brother, here in the farmhouse kitchen, which, for her, distorted the solidity of all familiar things. That was a dark, frightening magic, she explained, that left you momentarily with nothing to hold on to. But good magic, if you were lucky, was the more frequent. You just had to be able to recognise it: the going for a walk in a place you knew well, with someone you realised you loved, for instance, heightened the sense of importance in every tree, flower, distant field, fading view.

  His mother’s recounted moments of her kind of magic were too numerous to remember – and, to be honest, at the time George had not found them particularly interesting: they were experiences so far from his own. But one or two stuck in his mind, and by the time he went to Oxford he found himself looking, secretly, for a similar experience. He was mostly disappointed. Sometimes, alone among Magdalen’s fritillaries or listening to the New College choir at Evensong, he would sense a frisson that seemed to give special significance to the moment, shaking him from his usual sense of detachment. But it was never caused by a girl, a romantic involvement. He began to doubt it ever would be. His mother, he had concluded, had been particularly lucky in her brushes with magic, but her gift had not been passed on to her son.

  But the morning after Lily’s return the truth of his mother’s belief became suddenly clear to him. He went down early to the kitchen. He had not slept more than an hour since going to bed at dawn, and was impatient to be up. Impatient for the day to begin. He made himself a pot of strong coffee and sat down at the table. It was a fine blue day, the clarity of spring in every leaf outside. But it was not a day he recognised. The fact that Lily was asleep upstairs had altered everything. The furniture of the room swayed as if powered by a rocking sea. The stripes of the blue and white butter dish, which had given service for as long as George could remember, seemed to have been charged with new brightness overnight. They dazzled. The solid things of everyday began to dance. This is madness, thought George, but enchanting.

  He sat there unmoving, wondering when Lily would come down, and what would happen when she did. He knew he could not wait for her long: the sheep awaited him. But when he had time to return to the farmhouse … perhaps she would be down. And then what? How would this visit be? How long would she stay? What could he do to keep her as long as possible? Buoyed as he was with the light of revelation, the first intimations of powerful feelings for Lily, he would not want her to go again.

  George’s reflections were broken by the sound of hooves. He looked out of the window to see Nell riding into the farmyard. It was unlike her to come so early. George’s happy thoughts turned to unreasonable fury, rage: at this moment he did not want to be interrupted by anyone, least of all Nell, to whom there would have to be careful explaining. George automatically fetched milk, a second mug: control was needed.

  Nell came striding into the room, a small birch whip in one hand, an egg box in the other. For an infinitesimal moment George was aware of seeing her as strangers, encountering her for the first time, might see her: friendly, raw-boned, uncouth, thoughtless of her appearance. Would they miss, he wondered, a certain careless attraction that emanates from some girls who have never experienced city life?

  ‘You’re early’ he said.

  ‘Such a lovely morning. Thought I’d ride.’ She put the box on the table, sat down. ‘More bantams’ eggs.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’ George wanted to throw the box long and far, smash the eggs into a murk of yolk and slime and shell. He prayed Lily would carry on sleeping, not come down just now.

  Nell poured herself coffee automatically. She turned to George.

  ‘Prodge definitely wants to get married,’ she said.

  ‘Prodge? Married?’ For a moment George’s surprise halted the swinging of the room. Lily faded. ‘Who to? Why’s he not said anything to me?’

  Nell laughed.

  ‘Oh, there isn’t a girl. No one particular in mind. Just an idea.’

  ‘How did all this come about?’

  ‘Goodness knows. I think it’s been creeping up on him. Shed finished, prize cows, farm doing nicely. Now it’s time for a wife. Children, I suppose.’

  ‘Good heavens.’

  ‘Besides which, I think …’ Nell narrowed her eyes. ‘I think it wouldn’t be stupid to suppose that he’d like to find a wife before you. I told him Lily was coming back.’

  There was a long silence. Nell could be devious sometimes, George knew of old. But he was reliev
ed by the lightness of her tone.

  ‘Perhaps that’s what set him off,’ she went on. ‘Anyhow, last night he gave me a whole long spiel about the kind of girl he was looking for, and how he’d take one on even if she only half measured up to his expectations. Trouble is, he fancies something quite glamorous, but he knows the most important thing is that whoever it is doesn’t mind living miles from anywhere and will make a good farmer’s wife. Anyhow, he seems to think his black leather jacket – he got it, cost a bloody fortune – is some sort of good-luck token. Now he’ll seriously begin looking.’

  George sighed. The whole notion, setting about marriage in this way, seemed preposterous. And yet, of course, normal. His anger at Nell’s ill-timed appearance had fled as quickly as it came, and now his concern was for her.

  ‘What about you, Nell?’ he said. ‘What will you do if Prodge finds this perfect wife?’

  ‘Oh, me. Don’t worry about me.’ Nell shrugged. ‘He wouldn’t turn me out. House is big enough for three. I’d just keep on, wouldn’t I? Doing my own thing. Not interfering, of course.’ She stood up. ‘Daresay I’d come in useful for baby-sitting.’ She went to the sink, washed her mug as she always did, turned it upside down on the draining board. With her back to George she asked: ‘Did Lily come, then?’

  ‘She did, yes. Pretty late. She’s sleeping.’

  ‘Sleeping.’ Nell turned to him. There was no enquiry in her eyes. ‘Well, that’s good she’s back,’ she said. ‘You won’t be so alone.’

  ‘You know I like being alone.’

  ‘Things can change. Anyhow, tell her to give me a ring and we’ll go riding. It’ll be nice for me to have her back, too. Not many girls of my age in these parts, as you well know. Give her my love.’

  George watched Nell’s powerful long strides across the yard. She untethered her grey mare and then mounted with a single, elegant spring. Once in the saddle she was, as usual, an impressive figure: straight and sure, absolutely in command. As she jogged out of the yard her blonde curls sprayed against the sky like small foamy waves dashing themselves to pieces on the sand. Despite the happy turmoil caused by Lily, George was not unaware of the familiar pull of his old affection for Nell in his heart.

  Lily had brought lunch. When George came in he found cheeses arranged on a pretty old plate taken down from the dresser – a plate his mother had been excited about finding years ago in a market: too good to use, she said. She wouldn’t want it to be broken. Its sudden place on the table shocked George for a moment. Then he saw how right Lily was: how foolish it was to keep things for mere ornament.

  Wedges of Dolcelatte and Chaumes and Camembert sat at various calculated angles round the hunk of rugged Cheddar that had been Dusty’s only offering of cheese for months. George smiled. There was a delicious smell coming from the oven. Bread, or warming rolls, perhaps. No wonder the kitchen continued to dance.

  Lily came in carrying four small pots of tufted greenery.

  ‘I brought herbs,’ she said. ‘I remembered that last time there were never any herbs. And there wasn’t much salad. So I brought …’ She went to the fridge and took out several different lettuces, sophisticated curly things with ruby leaves. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course not. We’re rather in the outback, here. Not rich in radicchio.’

  Lily seemed so busy with the salad-making that there was no chance to go and kiss her, which George longed to do. He stood by the dresser, helpless, grounded, watching her, eyes half shut for fear of too sharp a picture unnerving him completely. It was an impressionist picture he saw: the swishing of a pale skirt, scatty hair shredding the sun that alighted on its waves, pretty hands slivers of light among the reds and greens of lettuces, long fingers twinkling as scissors chopped a length of chives. But for all the vitality of her movements, Lily seemed withdrawn – morning shyness, perhaps, after the acknowledged charge between them last night. Or possibly, thought George, he had misread her then. Perhaps he had assumed she felt what he felt, and had been mistaken.

  They ate. The kitchen table was transformed into the corner of a French restaurant: gingham napkins (where had she found them?) folded on side plates, wine glasses, a bottle of fizzy water. Had she been shopping this morning, George wondered? Or had she kept all these things hidden in the boot of her car? So many questions George asked himself: but put none of them to Lily.

  Their talk was flat, constrained, as if each seemed bent on not putting a foot wrong. It would be better at dinner, George thought: apart from anything else, time would not be against them. He was always in a hurry at midday: not the moment to linger over wine (in fact neither of them touched the bottle he produced to go with the glasses) and try out all the cheeses on the newly baked bread. George looked at his watch.

  ‘I’ve got to go and check a length of fence up on one of the high fields,’ he said. ‘One of our loutish rams had a go at it last night. Like to come?’

  In truth, he couldn’t imagine Lily at his side, swaying through the uncropped grass, listening to his plans of how best to repair the broken fence. He rather hoped she would not want to come. It was a job he could accomplish quickly on his own. With Lily by his side he would be distracted. He would want her to sit beside him on the grass, look at the views of this corner of England which he loved like nowhere else in the world. Hold her hand. Stroke the back of her neck. Kiss her again.

  ‘Listen, George,’ she was saying, ‘you’ve not to bother one bit about me. If you remember, last time, I was pretty good at entertaining myself, wasn’t I? I’ll do that again, not get in your way. Though of course when you have a moment I want to see everything: changes, the new lambs, whatever. This afternoon I’ll plant out the herbs in that pot by the back door – is that all right? Then I’ll unpack my books. I’ve brought quite a few. I might read a bit, go for a walk.’

  George smiled. Relief joined his general state of happiness. He could see ahead the whole enchanted state of coming and going – in and out of the house, meeting, parting, parting, meeting …

  ‘Nell’s thrilled you’re back,’ he said. ‘She wants you to ring her, arrange to go riding.’

  ‘I’ll do that this evening. It’ll be lovely seeing her again. And riding again. I’ve brought proper boots this time. I’ve come altogether more equipped for farm life.’

  ‘Good,’ said George. He wondered if she had any idea of the lightness in his heart – or if she was disappointed, perhaps, in his lack of demonstration. She had responded so keenly last night when he had held her: today, in bright sunlight, there seemed to be no opportunity. But it was imperative not to dash her expectations: this time, he was determined she should be in no doubt of his feelings, even if his words could never match them. He got up, bent to kiss her on the forehead. To his surprise there was a movement fast as a whiplash and her arms were tight round his neck. For some time they remained in an awkward position arched over the table in a dizzying embrace. At last George pulled away, before allowing himself to be further, blissfully detained. He saw that her cheeks held the same highlights as hollyberries, as did her eyes. Quickly he left. Striding up the hill, sun warm on his back, he tried very hard to think about the broken fence.

  Prodge, to whom the success of his farm, the excellence of his cattle, were his life, found himself oddly disturbed by the purchase of his new leather jacket, the most expensive thing he had ever bought. A measure of guilt underlined his pleasure, but not so much as to force him to stop thinking about it. Never before, so far as he could remember, had he ever felt the smack of vanity. But now, looking at the jacket on a hanger in the hall, it assailed him. He had a huge, bloody stupid desire to put the thing on, walk about in it, get the feel of it. All he wanted was to take a quick look in the mirror, then, just, well… keep walking about in it, here and there, nowhere in particular.

  Prodge knew what he would see in the mirror. He wasn’t bad looking. Bit on the hefty side, but nice eyes, Nell always said. The jacket would do wonders for him, raise his sto
ck for miles around. When he had tried it on in the shop it had seemed at once like an old friend. It was comfortable, challenging. The shiny black leather was like armour, and yet not too stiff. It was the sort of jacket to give a man status. But in the shop mirrors, crowded with reflections of other men in less superior jackets, he had not been able to admire the sight of himself clearly: he had had to trust his instinct. So now, this sunny afternoon, all he wanted was to make quite sure: glance at himself, undistracted by others in the glass, then try the thing out for a bit.

  The plan would have been impossible had Nell been around: she would have laughed at him, as she did last night when he brought the jacket home. But she had gone to the village, would be away for a good hour. There was no one to catch him out, and he had a spare half-hour before he had to check the bags of cattle feed.

  Prodge rolled down his sleeves, drew on the jacket. He went to the scullery – his mother had always called it the scullery; in fact it was a rickety extension on the back of the house crammed with junk that would never be sorted out. An old mirror hung high at an angle on one wall. Among its freckles all Prodge could see was a smeary version of his own disappointed face, and the collar and shoulders of the jacket. But even in so useless a mirror he was able to confirm the excellence of the leather, shining and glinting so fiercely that its blackness blazed with a sheen of white. Wow, he thought. It’s quite something.

  His mind raced round the few rooms in the house: no, there wasn’t a decent mirror in any of them. He doubted Nell ever gave herself more than a passing glance in the one in the bathroom, and his mother, from whom Nell had inherited her lack of vanity, would have scoffed at the very idea of anyone wasting time appraising their reflection. For the first time in his life – and the thought was so odd and so out of character that Prodge found himself smiling – he was annoyed by the fact that this ruddy, chaotic farmhouse did not have a decent looking glass.