The Telling

by Jo Baker

  I felt it. A teetering, pregnant silence as if a breath had been drawn, and someone was about to speak. I looked up, glanced around the room. The daffodils on the windowsill, the grey paths across the floor, the silky ashes in the grate; it was all absolutely ordinary. The view from the window, grey sky and green fields. As I turned my head to look, I felt slow, as if moving through water. The air was thickening; if I lifted up a finger, and ran it through the air in front of me, it would leave a ripple. But it was too much to move a finger. I couldn’t move a finger. Each breath was a conscious effort.

  I must have sat like that for just a minute, maybe less, waiting. Nothing happened. No one spoke. My skin teased itself into goose bumps.

  And then I sneezed, and a sheep coughed in the field, a great barking, rasping cough, as if it were taking the piss out of me.

  Idiot.

  What would Mark say? I swung my legs off the sofa, got up and went over to the window. He’d have me down the road in an instant, have me in the queue to see the peeled man. I looked out at the garden, the intensity of its green, its lushness. I saw what I had seen before, but failed to take account of until that moment. Down at the end of the garden: the electricity substation.

  Double idiot.

  On the corner of Kirkside Road, our road, there’s an olive-green metal cabinet, pressed up against the low wall, the privet hedge behind swelling up and around it. I don’t know exactly what it is: electric wiring or telephone cables, perhaps. Occasionally I’ve seen a guy there in overalls, he’d have the doors open, the cabinet spilling wires. Sometimes, passing by, I’ve heard the electricity hum inside, like a dozen violins playing the same chord. The substation must have been similar, only bigger, grander, more expansive. An orchestral strings section thrumming out a single chord. Electricity: that’s what the hum was, that was the strangeness in the air. Nothing more than that.

  —

  I took myself out for a walk, the way I might have taken Cate out for a walk. I had to organize myself into jumper, jacket, boots, and practically drag myself out of the door. I’d get some fresh air and some exercise, and then I’d get stuck in to the work: unwrap everything, take everything out of the boxes, bags, suitcases, heap it into piles, begin triage. I could get it done in a day or two, once I’d got started.

  I stalled at the top step. I felt so obvious, so conspicuous, the street a clean sweep in both directions. To my left, the ground rose, the street ducking out of sight down the other side, towards the church. The road was a cul-de-sac; I knew from the directions. To the right, the street flattened for a while, and then curved and climbed towards the crossroads where it was lost from sight behind the bulk of a converted barn. There was about a quarter of a mile between my cottage and the barn, and in all that space there were only four houses, standing in wide pools of garden. In between, fields reached right up to the edge of the street; sheep grazed and lambs stood around in gangs, like teenagers. There were no pavements, no white or yellow lines, no hard boundaries at all. Grass nibbled and cracked at the edge of the tarmac. Hedges were bony and holed, fence posts had been strung with invisible wire. The only solid lines were the dry-stone walls edging some of the gardens and fields, so ancient that they seemed more like an accident of geology than anything man-made. It made me feel exposed, and somehow porous, as if I were too vulnerable to face the air. At home, I’d head for the park, the canal, the open spaces, but where do you go when everywhere is open space?

  The nearest house was a cottage just across the street, a little further down the hill: low sleepy-looking windows and an ancient front door, a flagged front path with daffodils growing in the borders. There was something weird about the light: the daffodils’ colour seemed almost phosphorescent. To the right of the cottage there was a gate; a track of bare stones and mud was worn into the grass beyond. A yellow arrow glowed on the gatepost, pointing upwards and away across the field: a footpath, a direction to follow. Somewhere to go.

  The gate had fallen off its hinges and been tied in place with wire and twine. I dragged it open far enough to slip past, and then I was out in this great green field, the track sloping away in front of me, the valley opening out ahead; copses, hedges, grass, the woods and hills rising up beyond, and on one of them, a solitary cottage silhouetted against the pale sky. I made my way down the track. To my left there was an ancient hedge, half dead, half wildly sprouting, patched with wire. The leaves weren’t out yet, but everything was green: green algae on tree trunks, slim green saplings, green reeds in the ditch, rich green moss in mounds on the bank. It felt like my eyes were being bathed, as if they were being re-educated in colour. After a lifetime of London’s yellow-brick and red-brick, tarmac and concrete, its odd pool and splash of green, my eyes were now learning to work in negative.

  At the bottom of the hill there was a small wood. I could hear the sound of running water. The path forked in front of me. To the right it passed a tumbledown building and climbed an open field; at the top of the hill I could see trees, and the tower of Storrs Hall. Straight ahead, there was a stile, another yellow arrow hammered to the post, pointing diagonally across the wide meadow beyond. I followed the arrow. It felt better, having my route decided for me.

  In the meadow, the ground was sodden underfoot. Pools of standing water reflected back the slaty sky. The air was cool and damp and there was a smell of cow dung, and grass, and something peppery that I couldn’t identify. The next field was thick with thistle, nettle and dock; a narrow path traced its way through the waist-high weeds. I lifted my hands and rested them on my head to avoid the stings. I came to the riverbank and stood looking down at the tumbling water. It was thick and full, the colour of black tea. I could see rounded pebbles on the riverbed. My boots were soaking; there was mud on the hems of my jeans; nettle-stings had penetrated the denim and left a trace of bitter heat behind a knee. A bird flapped overhead, I looked up to watch its flight. It was so large and slow that I couldn’t quite believe it. It settled under the far bank, at the river’s edge, and stared down into the water. A heron, I think.

  I don’t know if it was the blank whiteness of the sky, or the intensity of the space, or the emptiness, but by the time I came to the woodland, I felt so choked and miserable that I knew I had to talk to Mark. I’d have to be cheery with him, and it might just stick, and last beyond the ending of the call. I was climbing a steep wooded slope, through this low-growing broad-leafed plant, the whole place reeking incongruously of garlic. The air was still, the signal strong; it was as if he were standing right beside me.

  “What’s up? You all right?”

  “Fine. A bit breathless. Out for a walk. Is everything okay your end?”

  “Everything is okay, and was okay, and will be okay. Car seat correctly fitted and used. Mum insists no chocolate buttons were administered. How are you getting on?”

  I came to the top of the hill, the edge of the woods. I looked out across the valley, at the motionless livestock and good grazing, at a curve of river and a bridge, at the wooded hills and moors rising beyond. It had started to rain while I was under the trees, the white sky settling into grey, and everything was becoming muffled with drizzle, and seemed empty, really empty.

  “I miss you,” I risked.

  “I miss you too, and Cate misses you; she’s right here, do you want to talk to her?”

  He was at home: I hadn’t realized. I’d imagined him at his desk, paper cups and Post-it notes, the glow of a computer screen and the smell of printing and the line that lingers between his eyebrows. Suddenly it was briefcase in the hall, rolled shirtsleeves and the faint hair on the back of his arms, and the end-of-day lines at the corners of his eyes and half a dozen reports to write for the morning. Things had changed so much; he had changed so much: he was trying so hard. I glanced at my wrist. It was bare. I had left my watch somewhere.

  “What day is it today?”

  “What? Tuesday.”

  “Already.”

  “Mum said she’s fine to l
end me the car, so we’ll definitely be up to see you at the weekend. Maybe you can come home with us, drive in convoy. If you’re done by then. Do you want to speak to Cate?”

  I could hear in his voice the cool echo of the bathroom, and Cate babbling in the background. Bath-time.

  Her absence was suddenly catastrophic. I could almost smell her. Her hair, musty and appley. She’d stand between my knees as I knelt to undress her, arms up as I pulled her vest over her head, and her belly round and firm and smooth as a peeled boiled egg.

  “No.” I was surprised by my own urgency. “No.”

  “She’s just here.”

  “I don’t want to—don’t want to unsettle her.”

  We talked for a while, and I could hear her high little voice in the background, and she had half of Mark’s attention, and we spoke uselessly, it was impossible to talk. I said goodbye; he hesitated.

  “Do you think you’ll—you don’t really seem—”

  “It’s slow going.”

  “Of course it is. It’s a lot for anyone to face.”

  There was just a shade too much emphasis on anyone. We both retreated carefully from the moment and its implications, knowing we had got too close. We talked brightly about nothing for a bit, and then we said goodbye.

  I stood looking at the grey and green of the landscape, the smell of garlic in my mouth, the drizzle cool on my skin, thinking about the tender places that we can’t bear to touch. He used to give me Sunday mornings, when she was still tiny. He would bundle Cate into her snuggle suit, bump her down the front steps in her pushchair, and give me two hours of quiet in the flat. Chill out, he’d say. Have a sleep. Read a book. Do nothing for a while. Footsteps on the floor above, muted voices from downstairs, but otherwise, quiet. Heaps of folded laundry and Mark’s work files on the dresser. My head throbbing on the pillow, my eyes dry with sleeplessness. The clock ticking away the minutes of Mark pushing Cate through the park, their noses pink, stopping at the café, Mark ordering a coffee for himself and giving Cate her bottle. Me lying rigidly awake. I’d get out of bed. I’d start by putting away the laundry. Then the washing up. Then I’d be cleaning the kitchen surfaces, the table, rubbing fingermarks off the doors, wiping down the skirting boards. They’d come back, and I’d be down on my hands and knees dabbing at milk-spots on the carpet. I got this from my mum, I know. She could never do nothing. She just couldn’t be still.

  I had to get back. I had to get back to the house. I had to get started.

  The rain hung in the air, a thick and saturating mist. My jeans were wet through, the mud walking up the inside of the ankles and wedging into the seams; my jacket was sodden and leaking. I needed waterproofs. I needed, and this is a phrase I never thought I would ever catch myself even thinking, I needed an anorak. I trudged on through the fields, collar turned, head down, miserable.

  Cows stood motionless, trees dripped, grass bent under the weight of water droplets. To my left, a thick hedge and beyond that an expanse of open field; ahead, a steep hill, the river cutting close to its base, and then woodland. But no sign of the village.

  I’d missed a fork in the path. At some point the path had split, and instead of heading back the way I’d come, across the flood-pooled meadow to the bottom of the track, I’d kept straight on, along the riverbank. Useless townie that I was, the first time there wasn’t a garish yellow arrow to point the way, I’d got lost.

  I pushed the wet hair off my face. I turned around and looked back, taking stock.

  Behind me, the flat land seemed to stretch for miles, the footpath trailing off into blank meadow. Drizzle, patches of white-lit sky, heavier clouds bundling up the valley. I could go back and try to find the path; or I could go on, hope that this path would get me somewhere useful. I turned around again, glanced along its snaking line into the woods. How could that be useful?

  My eye caught on something. On the top of the hill, high up, between the leafless branches, I caught sight of a chunk of slated roof, and what looked like a bellcote. The village church, at the end of the village street. From the church, it should be just a brisk walk up the street to the cottage, dry clothes, coffee. And it looked like the path was a back way to the church. I wiped the drizzle off my face and headed on into the woods.

  It was dark under the trees. The ground was thick with that broad-leafed glossy plant; again, the scent of garlic: I began to think it must be a wild variety. At first the path was wide and straight, but it was soon twisting between briars and fallen trees, heading away from the river and up the hill, which suited me fine. I was doing okay. Even though the light was fading, I felt confident, competent and in control. I was steaming up the flank of the hill, damp, breathless, beginning to sweat.

  I’d soon lost sight of the river; the trees grew thick; the undergrowth was a tangle of bare shrubs, briars and creepers. Heading uphill at an angle, my feet slithered out sideways from beneath me on the loose rich earth. I was no longer sure if I was on a path, or just following a coincidence of gaps between tree trunks, bushes, bramble patches. Now I was scrambling, pulling myself up by low-hanging branches, grabbing at roots, heaving myself over banks and landslips with my hands pressed into the crumbling earth; it smelt rich and dark and ripe. Birds were twittering and calling in the bare wicker of branches. I was hot with the climb and shivery with the soaking. My jacket was tight and awkward and wet, my jeans clinging. All notion of a path had gone and it was getting towards dark. I was conscious of my heartbeat. I should have turned back earlier, while it was still relatively easy to retrace my steps. The woods were quieter now; no birds, just my own huffing and scrabbling. Rain dripped in heavy clots from the branches above. It couldn’t be much further. I dragged myself up, grabbing at tree roots. I made my way around a holly bush, and up over a rise. At last I was on flat ground.

  There was a wall, and a narrow wrought-iron gate. Beyond, in the fading light, as if in a woodland clearing, stood the church. It was low and damp-streaked. It looked ancient. Gravestones leaned at angles. On the left of the church, there was some kind of earthwork, a grassy mound that looked far older even than the church. I came up to the gate; it was wired shut. I shivered. The damp pressed through my jacket to my skin.

  The rain had stopped. I leaned on the gate, let my head hang forward. I was so out of shape; I took a minute there, just letting my heart slow, my breath calm.

  There was a smell; a sweet and warm and fetid smell. I felt the uneasy softness beneath my feet. I glanced down, saw the heap of browned grass-clippings, dead flowers; points and curls of funereal nylon ribbon stuck out between the layers of rot. I was standing on the lower slopes; towards the top of the heap lay a balding funeral wreath of moss and wire, with three creamy plastic roses still attached to it. Undegradable, too familiar, lying there forever. A heave of panic: I had to get away. I hitched myself up onto a lower rung, swung myself over the gate.

  I dropped down into the graveyard. I felt something. A movement in the corner of my vision. I swung around.

  The worn faces of the gravestones stared back at me, blotched with damp. I could smell the earth on my clothes and hands, the rot, the wet wool of my jacket.

  No one there.

  Of course there was no one there.

  I glanced around again, unsure, my skin hard with goose pimples. There were just headstones, then the churchyard wall, with trees beyond. It was a bird, probably; the wind in the trees.

  COMING OUT FROM THE dim church, into the sun, I felt changed. The breeze picked up my bonnet ribbons, stirred my shawl and skirts. After the torment and darkness of Good Friday, today was suddenly all light and life and air, the stone rolled from the tomb, the shroud shrugged aside. The yellow daffodils, the river silver in the valley below, the blackbird singing his heart out from the top of the Bowkers’ headstone, it all seemed new, as if I’d never seen any of it before, as if I too were born again, dragged out of bloody darkness into light. Agnes was safely delivered and getting stronger every day; I would have her bac
k to me, churched and full of talk and laughing, before the daffodils had died.

  Sally shoved past me, her friend Ruth following tight after. The younger ones were pushing out of the congregation and haring off around the side of the church, to the pace-egging on the mound. I took Dad’s arm and Mam took his other and we went to watch.

  Children were scrambling to the top of the mound, hooting and calling, and the Reverend Wolfenden climbed up to join them, in his black clothes looking like a rook against the blue sky.

  I scanned the crowds, searching for him. I caught sight of him standing a little way off, his back to me; I caught a breath. Then he turned, leaning down to listen to one of the older Webster girls, and I saw that it wasn’t Mr. Moore. It was just David Airey, back from Claughton for the holiday, besieged by the spinsters of the parish. He spoke a word privately to Rebecca Brown, making her blush and laugh; and I realized I should have known that it wasn’t Mr. Moore when I’d seen him so crowded about with women. In all the time Mr. Moore had been with us, from Lent to Easter, I’d never once seen him in the company of women. Mr. Moore worked, and he ate, and he sat up in his room till late with a candle burning, and whenever we passed each other, he’d just nod, and slip past, with the barest of civilities. He often had a book with him, but I’d never had a chance so far to see what it was. And now I thought of it, in all these weeks, from Lent to Easter, not once had he walked to church with us; he was hardly likely to join us today. He was a Methodist, no doubt; or a Catholic. Something of the shine went off the day.

  The pace-egging started. The children came forward in turn to where the Reverend stood, to roll their decorated eggs down the side of the mound. The eggs were dyed pink and yellow and green, stuck with petals or bits from the scrap-basket, inked with patterns. They rolled and bumped down the grass, and settled against tussocks or in hollows. Some made it to the foot of the mound and rolled out onto the smoother slope of the grass below. I stood with my father, my arm still hooked through his, but after a while, he unlinked our arms so that he could fiddle with his coat button, and when the button was corrected, he didn’t offer me his arm again. I craned my neck to look for Sally, to see how she was getting on. She had a duck egg; I’d boiled it for her, carefully, so that it wouldn’t crack. She’d kissed me, said that this year she was bound to win, her egg was so big and strong and beautiful. I watched her come forward and throw. She lobbed it high; it hit the ground, and bounced, and bounced again, then hit a stone, and stopped dead. She tossed her head, gave a laugh, and walked away. I felt a rush of tenderness for her. When the contest was concluded, and Gilbert Mason had taken the prize, I went to find Sally’s egg. It had not smashed, not really; the force of her throw had crushed it against the stone. Fragments of shell were still held together by the silky skin inside, but the white flesh beneath it was crushed and broken into pieces. Ted came bouncing up and begged it off me: he’d already eaten his. I knew Sally would want nothing to do with it now. I gave it to him, and he walked away, peeling it and biting into the flesh.