To Move the World (Power of the Matchmaker)

by Regina Sirois

  William is back in school, boarding for the summer to make up for the lost month of classes and exams he missed. It is good, too, because he would have noticed much better than Dad that I hide myself away at least once a day for a bitter cry. I am the only one who cannot rejoice in our circumstances. I once thought there was nothing bitter in me, and certainly not enough tears to keep me occupied for weeks, but I am starting to feel like the groundspring on our southern slope, fed by an unseen, unstoppable force that pushes out a endless gush of water. Dad has hired a new man to help us, an old friend Mr. Bartlett who is at least fifty, but still manages to keep up with most of what Alan did. These men are irrepressible to their dying day. I like Mr. Bartlett because he is so dogged in his work he hardly notices me at all. If asked he would likely remember I’m a girl, but certainly wouldn’t recall what I look like, which means he doesn’t notice at all if I am tear-stained or blotchy. All the better for me because I think absolute misery deserves absolute privacy.

  Except for Theo. I don’t hide it from her because she already knows, but I think it is wearing on her because she hasn’t visited in a week and only called once, but hung up quickly when I started to weep for the entire village line to hear. At least she had the good sense not to announce to anyone what was wrong. And truthfully, it was Theo who saved me from myself on the train ride home, so I owe her several allowances.

  I wondered if I could leave this part out entirely, but I feel such self-loathing, I think a confession is the only penance for it. I think if I see it in ink it will keep me from ever being so blindly foolish again. I believe I was drunk with desperation.

  When the train pulled into the London station I had the mad idea to get off and use my last bill to hire a car to get me to Jonathon’s flat. I was certain it wasn’t enough to pay the fare, but I knew he would pay the remainder once I got there. Only it was late afternoon and we already had hours to travel home. Theo pointed out that once I got through my whole speech about why I stood on his doorstep I would be stuck there for the night, which would look either terrifically presumptuous or embarrassingly naive, not to mention would horrify my father. I knew she spoke the truth but I only saw myself in his living room, all the lights glittering outside and his long arms pulling me close for a breathless kiss. I was so overpowered by the image I clutched my carpet bag and announced I didn’t care what came of it. Theo nearly had to tackle me in front of an annoyed woman who looked like a clerk from a department store and a very curious old man who seemed like he rather fancied the idea of me jumping off the train. Then she ordered a large glass of red wine and made me sip until I cried docile tears and told her how right she was. The humid city slipped away, leaving only the fresh air to rush through the open windows.

  If she had not been there I would have arrived at his door, pulse thundering and mouth parched of all words, desperate to find out if he felt anything for me at all. I’ve imagined it thousands of times in the last two weeks, sometimes with tragic outcomes, sometimes glorious. Once he proposed and once he ordered me out of his home in a majestic rage, asking how I could be so foolish. And in my imaginings I loved him equally when he hated me or professed his undying love. The only scenario that made me livid was when I knocked on his door and his cursed secretary answered in a scandalous evening gown. I’ve lived so much in my head these last terrible weeks that the real world is drained of colour. I rather wonder if this is what the opiate addicts feel like when they come back to life and find reality much flatter than their imaginings.

  I wrote Jonathon letters, from full confessions of falling in love with him on the day he came to rescue me in the middle of the sheep crisis to subtle thank you notes where I carefully mentioned the engagement is cancelled. I threw most of them away except for the ones that make me cry the hardest. I save those for the days when I feel the need to torture myself, which is more often than I care to admit.

  The only letters I send are to Alan, all friendly and conciliatory, hoping his recovery is going well and telling him the good news about the sheep. I am determined to be a kind sister to him. He writes back and it is the queerest thing to have our chipper letters fly across England, neither of us saying a word about the state of our hearts. There is a strain when we speak of the future of the farm. How can we share it if we are not married? It hurts my head to think about so I avoid it largely. But he is up and about, moaning they won’t let him go back to training and telling me his arms ache to throw a few rowdy sheep or soldiers around. He never was made for convalescing.

  There is a general stir of excitement in the village. Notices are going up of items that may be in short supply in the event of war and flyers race round from the Women’s Civic Club reminding us to grow whatever we can in our own patches. Mrs. Pearson even has pickled pig feet to silence anyone who worries there might be waste. If one thinks only of food production and parades and train station goodbyes, it is easy to forget what it all truly means.

  I’ve waited breathlessly for Jonathon to ring up but the one time he did I was in the barn and Dad spoke to him. That was more than a week ago and now it hurts to wander outside of hearing distance of the silent telephone box on the wall. I built up the courage to write him a short note this morning and I’m almost certain I will send it with the post. The carrier doesn’t come every day, so I’ll have to cycle to town to post it, but the sun is so high and clear and the air feels so thick with the scent of green hay in the pastures I think it the perfect use of a day.

  The note is not embarrassing at all, I don’t think. I’ll transcribe it here:

  Dear Jonathon,

  A thousand thank yous cannot suffice. Dad is thriving and the farm is green with life and hope again. The new breeds will be here in mere days. Mr. Bartlett is helping us and William is back at school. It is a bit lonely with everyone gone, but the Women’s Society keeps me busy. They haven’t many “young ones” so they keep us like pets. I am wishing health and comfort for your father. I did pray so hard for him in church on Sunday. I know you are frightfully busy, but I wanted only to thank you again and wish you well.

  Your friend,

  Eve Brannon

  I erased one line I’ve been struggling mightily with. I had said, “Alan is well and recovering, though you were right about our names, Alan and Eve. It was not meant to be.”

  I don’t think it is too forward, but I do not trust a single thought in my head. Perhaps I will include it still. I must decide before I run outside and hop on my cycle. I will not cry on a day so fine. I will sing old village songs to myself as I pedal just to be sure.

  25TH JUNE 1939

  It has only been five days and a note arrived from London on stationary from the office of Jonathon Doran. It is a lovely font that reminds me of modern art museums. I keep touching the paper because I am certain he wrote the words himself. There is something decisive and masculine about the strokes of ink. Sometimes I press it to my nose, trying to smell him, but I think I only imagine there is anything beyond the scent of paper. He wrote:

  Dear Eve,

  You are a dear friend. Thank you for writing and making me smile. I am busier than I ever imagined. I’ve been placed in a minor role under Raeburn, who is the head of the agricultural plans branch of the Ministry of Food. That is surely the dullest sentence I ever wrote! Forgive me. I am so glad to hear your family and the farm are thriving. I think of your little patch of earth often. In all my travels I’ve never seen lovelier. I am touched you remembered my father in your prayers. I must admit I heard about your engagement, or lack thereof. I was in Woolwich two days ago and stopped in to check on Mr. Canavan. He shared the news with me. I hope you are not too downcast. I do not know when I will next be home, but do keep me informed how you get on.

  Truly,

  Jonathon Doran

  I’ve run my finger over the word “truly” so many times I am worried it will wear off. It is my only comfort after the bit about seeing Alan. I felt like I’d swallowed a bucket of needles when I
read that. I live in terror that Alan let my secret out, or worse, blamed Jonathon for it all. How dignified Jonathon gave me no details. How dignified and terrible! Oh, has England ever been so airless before? It seems they have rationed even the atmosphere. I cannot breathe at all. And how can I tell him how I am getting on when I’m not getting on at all?

  I did the only thing I could and wrote him a letter full of happy lies of how well I am. I threw in a bit about Alan being quite queer on his medicines, just in case that could account for anything. I felt so old writing it, as if I were a hundred years in the future and telling my younger self what to say to preserve my dignity, though I’m not sure I’ve much of it to save. I silently thank Theo a hundred times a day she kept me on that train. At least I’m spared the humiliation of remembering myself proclaiming my love on his doorstep.

  I keep the white box from the shop in Woolwich under my bed. (I do wish I’d asked that woman her name.) I’ve only opened it once, stroking the dress as if it were a dying lamb. I seemed to be telling the grey silk goodbye and how sorry I am it never came out of its box. I did so want to believe there was hope. If I am true down to the core, I must admit some sliver of me still does. I both hate that sliver and need it desperately.

  16TH JULY 1939

  Outside the sheep are grazing under a full moon tinged with red. In the strange light I can make out their shaggy wool under the moonbeams. I can even tell which are the new ones because they have no glinting horns. Every now and then I can just identify a tall, black shadow walking among them. Dad and Bartlett are both out. We don’t know if it was a wolf or a dog, but something got to the Sheffield’s flock and took down three sheep before their dogs ran it off. The terrible thing about sheep is how easily they give up. When they’re frightened they will fall down and die. If they actually get injured, even if it’s a bite on the leg, they will breath their last in sheer terror more than the injury. Alan was the only man I ever saw talk a sheep out of dying. A vulture, of all things, attacked one of our yearlings and the poor thing had a gash from the top of its head to the bottom of its neck. Alan ran the bloody bird off and saved the lamb, even though it had begun to twitch. I remember how awed I was and how much I loved him that day. I was only sixteen. I wish so much I could take that girl and give her to him because they would both be so happy. It’s only that she doesn’t exist anymore. Now it is only me, locked away in my bedroom, looking over these pages and pondering how different it all turned out than I imagined. I am stalling because I simply don’t know how to say what I must, so I suppose I will just throw myself in total.

  Friday morning I had plans to roll out pastry for a steak and kidney pie for dinner, weed the summer garden that looks more like a summer bramblepatch at the moment, and get stool samples Horton needed for the new sheep to make sure they were taking well to the summer ryegrass. I had only rinsed off the morning dishes when the telephone rang. I picked it up with a cheery voice, expecting Theo and wanting to show her I was fit for company again because it was getting dreary around here.

  “Eve, it’s Jonathon Doran.”

  I dropped the metal pie plate and it made a thunderous clatter on the stone floor.

  “Hello?” he asked.

  “I’m here. Hello? Jonathon?”

  “I’m due in Harrogate today to consult with some landowners about turning over fallow fields to new food production. I know it’s a long jog to the south for you, but would you be interested in keeping me company at dinner tonight? I could be done with business by eight.”

  I trembled so hard I leaned against the counter, holding on with one desperate hand.

  “I’m afraid our car is not starting at the moment. Perhaps Theo could…”

  “Nonsense,” he replied. “My mother’s butler acts as a driver to help get my father out of the house. I’ll ask to borrow him for the night, if you truly don’t mind. I’d love to hear about the farm.”

  I wouldn’t have cared if he said he wanted to hear about African beetles. I would have spoken of nothing but axle grease if it meant an evening of being together. “I truly don’t mind,” I replied.

  “Shall he collect you at seven then?”

  “Certainly. Thank you.”

  I paused for a silent second and then replaced the earpiece before I could make a mistake.

  I started to cry out of sheer shock. I mopped up my face and touched my smiling lips, tried to make my mind believe it. I salted the pie crust with ecstatic tears and laughed to myself in the empty kitchen, startled by the sound of my own joy. It’s been so long since I heard it. And then, to my credit, I went out into the garden to work. I decided if I spent all day trying to beautify myself I’d go mad, so I made a promise to finish my chores. The August sun was unrelenting as I bent over the rows of carrots and runner beans. Never have weeds felt so delightful as they ripped free of the hard ground under my fingers. When Dad came back to the barn he looked at me heaving and puffing, all covered with sweat and shining in smiles. He nodded heartily, probably convinced I was done being morose over Alan. That is when I realised just how wonderful I felt and gave myself a stern talk, telling myself how absurd it was to think for a moment anything would come from the evening other than a fresh wave of misery when I said goodnight. But it didn’t work. My heart kept insisting whatever bitter blackness it faced when I had to leave him, it was nothing compared to the happiness of seeing him again.

  I herded the new sheep into the barn with Skip’s help, putting them each in a clean stall. I was too hot to face the kitchen so I meandered to the beck to soak my feet and to decide what I should talk about that night. I rubbed my sweaty arms with fresh water and looked over the field to the house. It looked like a painting, hot greens melting on the canvas of day, the stones walls blurred against the blazing blue. The sky was the exact shade of Alan’s eyes and it made me ache with guilt that I could be so happy without him. I locked my fingers together and said a fervent prayer that a darling nurse would fall madly in love with him, which was really just a way of making someone else mop up after my mess. But still, I hoped.

  When my toes were blue from the arctic water and my head on fire from the burning sun, I waded through the tall grass back to the stalls to distribute vitamins before turning the agitated sheep back out. They are still chuffy from being carted in from Scotland and none too pleased with their new home, but once they get used to Skip they’ll be right again. I ran into Dad in the yard and asked him if he and Bartlett could get by for the evening without me.

  “I’ve been asked to dinner in Harrogate if you don’t mind,” I told him as he bent over and ran his soiled hands under the spigot.

  He looked up at me, his bristled face betraying confusion. “Who’s t’ yoong man?”

  “Jonathon Doran.” I tried with all of my might to say it without smiling, but it tickled me so much to hear the syllables I lost the fight and had to look away from him to hide my expression.

  “Not o’er yoong then.” He shut off the water and I watched the impatient remaining drips line up and plunge into the mud below.

  “Not over old. And he certainly proved himself helpful.”

  Dad squinted and rubbed his wet hands on the front of his coveralls. “Be ‘ome by one. I’ll feed myself at the pub tonight.”

  “I was going to make you something,” I insisted.

  “Nah. Just be on. It’s good for the yoong to step out.” He winked at me as if I were in on a joke and walked away, his lips pursed like he was saving a whistle for later.

  I went inside with an extra lightness in my steps as I locked all the doors and drew all the shades for my bath. There is running water in the washroom, but it is stone cold and it’s too much trouble to cart it in from the hot tap in the kitchen. Instead, on proper bath days I drag the washtub right up to the sink and hook up a hose that lets me drain it without scooping anything out. I settled into the water, only making it lukewarm since the summer air was stifling. There is a strange thrill to being naked in the middle
of the kitchen. I used my best bar of ivory soap and took a letter opener to my nails, digging out all traces of dirt before abusing them soundly with the suds. I washed my hair and scoured my face until I was certain there was no trace of farm or sheep on me.

  Wrapped in a threadbare towel I raced upstairs and shook my wet head like Skip. I put on only my clean brown dress because I needed to sit outside in the heat to dry my hair a bit before I rolled it. Theo has a contraption that does it for her, but it looks more like a weapon of war than a hair-drying machine. Outside on a stool, imagining what Jonathon would look like across a wooden table, I sat quietly and liked my way of drying off much better. When the strands began to separate in the wind and blow free I rolled them up while chatting with the chickens who warbled at my feet. I assumed the birds were all very happy for me, the way their clucks sounded like chuckles. It seemed even the warm air was happy for me, the way it pressed kisses all over my face.

  The next two hours I walked in many circles, fanning my wet nails as the varnish dried, lapping round the kitchen table in thought, checking the clock to see if it was time to dress yet. I called Theo but no one answered at her home. Then I panicked because once I knew she wasn’t home to give me any advice, I felt I needed it very desperately. At a quarter six I went upstairs after seeing Dad off and had a very long talk with myself while I stared at the white box in my hands. Several minutes later I opened it and lifted the grey silk dress from the shop paper, watching the material cascade when I held it up.

  I fingered the graceful pleats, taking in the general impression of it, wondering if I dared wear it. Or if I would ever forgive myself if I didn’t. Though there was talk of it no one had commandeered our stockings yet so I gratefully slipped my legs into a pair and lowered the dress over my head. It felt like fingers caressing my skin as it fell down my back. I darted a glance in the mirror and it was not nearly as bad as I feared. My hair had grown longer over the summer when I had no time or money to cut it. The curls looked thicker than usual and I pinned it carefully to loop it away from my eyes, which were bright with anticipation. I applied pink lipstick and rouge, (I never do look right in the crimsons) just in case my happy flush didn’t last all evening and stepped downstairs, glad the house was empty. I used Dad’s blacking on my best shoes to disguise the scuffs, working carefully to keep the grease away from my fingers and dress. I was too frightened to sit because Skip’s hair clung to every piece of furniture. I settled for a wooden chair after wiping it down and crossed my ankles as my beating heart kept time with the pendulum clock on the wall. It chimed out the hour at seven and I stole to the window to spy the car but saw only curlews pecking at bugs in the yard. It chimed again at a quarter after and my throat constricted like a dry well. I blinked furiously, my eyes wet with overwrought nerves. At seven twenty-three I reviewed our conversation, terrified I’d misunderstood. At seven thirty-five I cried in earnest, blotting my eyes, just in case the car still managed to show up.