Mary George of Allnorthover

by Lavinia Greenlaw

  The drought forced things open and they gave up whatever was once liquid inside them: the parched trees smelt of resin, the fence of solder and the jetty of creosote. The reservoir, though, had withdrawn into itself. Mary took off her boots, walked to the end of the jetty and sat down on the edge but it was no good, her feet could not reach the water. She walked along to a clump of trees.

  Mary and Billy used to climb out along a low bough here. He would watch her take off her shoes and glasses, and walk swiftly to the end only to have to come back, take him by the hand and inch him along. Mary tried to explain how she could make herself light and steady by not looking, by insisting that there could be no wrong step, what it was to keep moving, not knowing when she had left the bank and was out over the water. Billy had tried once, without success, to get her to do it with her glasses on.

  A girl had appeared in the tree over the house. She was standing up straight on the low bough, her arms spread wide. In quick, small steps she reached the end. Tom’s eyes followed her, went past and looked down and there was something, a shadow, like the darkening colour of a sudden change of depth. As Tom stared, the shadow took on shape and then it wasn’t shadow but a house, lingering like a deep-sea creature uncertainly beneath the surface. Its slate roof glittered for a moment and was gone but the girl was still there, not in the tree now but further out, where the roof had been, on the water.

  A pale thing with cropped hair; a child in an old blue dress that might have been his mother’s. She was somehow in suspension, utterly concentrated but also on the verge of slipping away. Tom started to walk towards her, terrified he would make her disappear. Don’t move, he begged her silently, not till I get there and see where you are. But then he was crying and could not see, and the sun shifted, enlarged, glared, and somehow he had closed his eyes and when he opened them he was by the tree and there was a barefooted girl but she was beside him.

  ‘You frightened me.’ She leaned a little towards him, squinted and frowned. ‘Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise you.’ He didn’t look up. ‘Are you in pain? Have you hurt your eyes?’

  ‘Are you from here?’ His voice was an uncertain roar. He had spoken to no one for days.

  ‘Oh! I’m afraid … I thought you were someone … I’m sorry!’ Embarrassed, and a little frightened, Mary turned and half walked, half ran to the jetty.

  Tom could not move and did not know what to ask, but just as she disappeared he realised: ‘I know you!’

  Mary, pushing on her glasses and throwing her boots over her shoulder, scrambled up through the trees and squeezed through the Other Gate. She heard another croaking shout as the loose panel fell to the ground with a clatter and twang, like tired percussion. She ran up the track, her bag banging against her knees, one hand pushing her glasses back up her nose. She stopped to shove her feet into her boots. There was no sign of him following, but Mary cut across Factory Field. Her panic was so great that she felt her body drag, as if the corn were as tall as it should have been and she was having to fight her way through slapping waves. She stumbled over the stile and down into the road.

  As soon as Mary turned the first corner, she began to calm down. Her cheeks stung, each gulp of air caught like chaff in her throat and she could run no further. It was the reservoir that had panicked her, she decided, its artificial plantations and still water, not that man who looked so worried and ill. Her mother would have held his hand and talked to him in her cool, soothing way. Mary knew what that felt like: like being rescued not by an angel but by a statue of an angel, and folded in marble wings; and she had mistaken the man for someone she had thought of as a statue too, when she was a child, a church saint or an effigy on a tomb.

  Mary skirted Temple Grove, a copse of spindly, tangled hazel, ash and willow: useful, adaptable, flexible trees that had been part of a parcel of land given to the Knights Templar after the first Crusade. The Knights learnt Euclidean geometry from the Arabic, and applied it to the building of their barns. While their wattle-and-daub farmhouses had lurched, buckled and been pulled down, these barns, with their perfectly balanced angles, were still standing. Nothing so regular had been built until the new houses after the last war, tessellated arrangements that had everything to do with numbers.

  The Knights had prospered for a hundred years in austerity and chastity before the parish turned on them when the crusades failed, with accusations of idolatry, homosexuality and child murder. There was still a whiff of that six-hundred-year old scandal about the place. Saplings struggled up through nettles and brambles, only to give up before they emerged from the shadows. The wood was dark and difficult to find a way into. Those who wanted to walk their dogs, pick blackberries or bluebells, or tire out their children, went out through the other end of Allnorthover and into the Setts, a solid wildwood of oak, chestnut and beech with wide paths and clearings, National Trust signs, and bamboo and rhododendrons that made it seem like nothing more than an overgrown garden.

  Temple Grove was where you went to build a den, try your first cigarette and, later, to drink cider round a fire, smoke dope and scare each other with stories about the Man in the Van and his goats, or about the day someone found a makeshift altar here, three bales of straw, a black candle and a chicken’s foot. Billy and Mary had done these things and had heard all the stories. Neither of them knew who was supposed to have found the altar but they believed it. Once, they had found a full set of women’s clothing, including bra and knickers, next to three old sofa cushions. The cushions had been ripped open and scorched.

  At some recent critical point, Temple Grove had become too small to hold secrets. It lost a little more of itself each year, as the farmers pushed the fields harder against it. Children went in knowing they could be out in under a minute, that they could always be heard and could hear their friends calling from the road or the field. Ingfield Dip was full of water, the Grove was half gone, mile after mile of hedgerow was being uprooted and clusters of new houses were springing up all around, with new windows from which to be seen. Where was there to go now, not to be visible?

  There were people living right next to the Grove now, too. The Strouds had sold off land for a caravan site called Temple Park that the villagers preferred to think didn’t really exist. But like the hospital, the courts or the Social Security office, most people had a connection with the place at some time or other: a friend or relative needing a cheap rent or placed there by the Council. The village was growing older as the old lived longer and the young moved away. Like the two cemeteries, the almshouses were full. A senile widower, a pregnant daughter, all those who might have been cast out or taken in, or sent to an institution, another town, another country, found themselves here. They lived quietly and came to the village as little as possible, mostly to get the prescriptions that helped them sleep, walk or breathe.

  The caravans were set at odd and irregular angles, as if to suggest some spontaneous arrangement or natural development. Packed close together, they were turned away from each other as much as possible, and were painted in unobtrusive shades of pale green, beige and grey that matched the worn grass, gravel and cement that defined each plot. The caravan dwellers took on this drabness and were recognised by it. They made cramped, effortful gestures and their skin had a greenish tinge, as if they brought with them the light of their evenings squeezed close to their televisions.

  When the heatwave started, they began to leave their doors open all night. Then they took to unclipping their tubular aluminium folding tables and chairs, and taking them outside. They began to have their meals outdoors, first in the evenings and then at breakfast, too. They neither disturbed nor joined each other. Couples sat down as usual to talk about the children, the bills, a holiday, an illness or the weather. They would remain, only yards apart, within the privacy of their small square of grass. The heat opened the pores of their skin; sweat made them conscious of their breasts, bellies and thighs; their clothes were tight or heavy. The secrets, confessions and ultimatums th
at might have surfaced got stuck. No marriages were saved or broken. By the end of June, the tables were making way each evening for mattresses, lilos and camp beds, but only after dark. At dawn, everyone crept indoors to dress with the guilt and pleasure they might have got from staying out all night unexpectedly.

  Mary crept along the paved road that wound from one end of the site to the other. She passed a couple folding up their camp beds and a young mother gathering sheets, her naked baby fast asleep on a pillow beside her. If they were taken aback by Mary’s presence, she didn’t notice. She probably didn’t even see them. Mary’s glasses were the smallest, least obtrusive she could find, but still they weighed upon her heavily. There was too much, anyway, between her and the world, without those thick lenses. They corrected her vision, but she could not feel what she could see. So Mary tended to keep her head down and imagine.

  Beyond Temple Park was a small breaker’s yard, the size of a meadow in which a family might keep a pony. It was just a worn-out patch of oil-stained earth, now dried and cracked and hardened by the heat. There were always a few cars dumped along the back hedge, mostly those that were too big, too small or too gimmicky, a Humber perhaps or a Robin Reliant. Some were picked away, scavenged for spare parts; others rusted and sank into the ground. The yard belonged to Fred Spence, a compact and taciturn man who lived with his wife in one of the smallest, oldest caravans in Temple Park. He kept a filthy truck parked in the yard and drove away in it, early each morning. Fred was often gone all day but rarely brought anything back. Mostly he dealt in incidental scrap – guttering, a trailer, a gate, pipes.

  Fred Spence’s wife spent her days cleaning and when her home was done, she’d scrub and polish the outside of his ‘office’, a tiny outhouse with a single window. She was not allowed inside and nor were Fred’s customers. On the rare occasions that money changed hands in the yard, Fred entered his office and opened the window to receive it. Dorothy Spence was not allowed to touch the truck either.

  In those long days of fierce light, Dorothy Spence could not stop thinking about glass and, in particular, windows. It had become too hot to keep cleaning her home so she worked on the outside, preferring the parts that give her a glimpse in. Mary George met her at the yard gate. She barely recognised the woman she saw on the bus into town with her line of lipstick, and bright hat and gloves. To Mary, without these accessories, Dorothy Spence had no mouth or hair or hands.

  ‘You’re the George girl? I thought you were your brother.’

  ‘I have no brother.’

  ‘Sometimes you look like him.’

  ‘Can I help you carry those?’

  Dorothy Spence took a step back, ‘Thank you.’ She shook her head, scrutinising Mary, before adding ‘You need a good wash, my girl,’ and was satisfied when the child did not protest. She walked carefully away, a bucket of dusters, brushes and cleaning fluid in either hand. Mary watched her begin to polish the windscreen of a crumpled Ford Cortina.

  Mary’s pale face was lit with pink across her cheeks and nose, a livid colour that looked not like sunburn but some internal heat. Her fringe fell limply into her eyes and so, to keep it off her face, she took a red scarf patterned with dark gold flowers out of her bag, tied it round her head and set out to walk the last mile home. The makeshift turban made her both majestic and menial, a boy king or a kitchen maid. Her clothes looked accidental, borrowed or found, all of them ill-fitting and far too heavy.

  The Verges had ten clear yards of mown grass on either side. In the days when roads like this were a favoured route for merchants, robbers and highwaymen lurked among woods and between villages. A statute was passed, decreeing that all trees and bushes be pulled up so that they would have nowhere to hide. Now, this sudden width had a vertiginous effect on drivers who had crept out of the traffic snarl of Camptown, or had been driving under the limit through Allnorthover on a speed-trap day. The widening landscape encouraged them, and there were many accidents as the road was really quite ordinarily narrow and its corners particularly nasty, not the gentle sweeps they appeared at all, but full of odd angles that caught you off guard. The Verges curved slyly back and forth and then the road straightened, the banks disappeared and the village of Allnorthover began with clusters of small tied cottages set hard on the road. It was at this point that Mary saw the man again. She had been walking along the bank close to the trees, trying to find some shade. He was standing quite still at the point where everything narrowed again, facing in the direction of the village.

  Mary could not think why he was there. The air prickled around him, as if he were at war with every muscle and bone in his body. She felt his pull and disturbance but did not want to know what it was he wanted. She crossed over the road and walked quickly past, willing him not to notice her.

  Tom had almost reached the village when the road went bad on him. He felt his legs billow and contract, making contact with the road more suddenly or later than expected. He had been waiting for the ground to settle when the girl appeared in front of him. She did not look back but Tom sensed that things cleared around her. He followed her. When he could not catch up with her, he began to call. Feeling his voice raw and uncertain, he put what strength he had into making a noise that might reach her but could manage no more than a string of single sounds.

  So it was that the villagers of Allnorthover saw Tom Hepple come home, walking down the middle of the High Street, looking more than ever like someone in the grip of a god, only he appeared to be fixed on Mary George, who was falling over herself in her hurry to get away. Tom was half singing, half croaking one drawn-out misshapen word after another, ‘Wait! Stop! Help! Home!’

  Mary would not let herself even imagine him. Looking neither right nor left, she passed the first houses. At the Green, she broke into a run and pushed open her garden gate. Her mother was just opening the door when Mary flew past her. Stella was about to follow her up the stairs when an odd howl came from the Green. She turned back and there was Tom Hepple, just a few feet away. He still looked like the visionary, the genius she had once thought him to be, with blazing eyes and fine bones emphasised by his thinness. He did not look like someone who could have a crude, simple or mistaken thought. But Stella was ten years older than when she had last seen him, and the difficulty of those years had made her more careful. His face was burnt and lined, and his black curly hair, grey, cropped and coarse. Stella saw how his elegant fingers (‘Musician’s fingers!’ his mother Iris had called them) waved constantly and pointlessly in the air, that his hands could no longer hold or control anything, that his eyes were screwed up with the effort of keeping in focus. She remembered. He was a force, a hurricane, sweeping things up, breaking down doors, sucking people in and under. Stella knew right away what he wanted.

  ‘Tom, my child does not remember you.’

  ‘Your child?’ Tom’s fingers scrabbled and danced as if he were solving an elaborate equation. His voice grew quieter as his mind calmed, able at last to make connections. ‘I forgave … I could come back … She showed me!’ Tom, who had been staring into the sky all the time he spoke, brought his head slowly down and fixed his gaze on Stella. His voice swelled again, ‘She walked out on the water! Because I was there! To show me!’

  ‘The house?’ It took a moment for Stella to admit to herself that she knew what he was talking about. Then that ten-year-old winter sprang up around her like buildings cutting out the light. She remained silent, as did Tom, whom the past had never ceased to assail and confine in this way.

  ‘Mrs George!’ An exasperated voice was calling to Stella from the bus stop. There was a sound of old brakes being applied too fast, followed by a tentative rumble and then another long screech. A bus was juddering along the High Street, stopping every few yards.

  Violet Eley emerged from the shelter. The light found nothing to play on in her pastel clothes, hard white hair and thickly powdered face. She had seen the mad Hepple brother come stumbling into the village to stop at Stella George’s gar
den gate. To her relief, the bus had appeared on time and she could get away from whatever scene was unfolding. But the bus had begun stopping and starting and, sure enough, there was Stella George’s dog, Mim, sitting in front of it in the road. Violet Eley’s impatience overcame her distaste. ‘Mrs George! This is really too much! I have a train to meet!’

  The bus started up quickly, crept forward and Mim gave chase, barking furiously, darting in front and snapping at the tyres. The bus stopped again and the dog sidled onto the pavement. The driver climbed out of his cab and got as far as putting his hand on Mim’s collar. She did not snap or growl but set up such a grating, unbearable howl that the driver let go immediately. Seeing Stella by her gate, he approached, shaking his head.

  ‘Your dog … please … should be tied up …’

  Stella kept her eyes on Tom Hepple who was staring past her now. ‘Bring the dog here,’ she said, knowing he couldn’t. The bus driver had noticed Tom by now and was full of confusion. ‘You know how she cries …’

  ‘Mrs George?’ Violet Eley pleaded.

  People on the bus who were to get off in the village had wandered into the road. One or two tried to move Mim, who yelped as if she had been run over and cut in half. They recoiled, terrified in case anyone had seen them and would think they had inflicted pain on the animal. Those who knew Mim ignored her. Strangers or not, they all came across the Green to where Stella George willed Tom Hepple away from her daughter, and Tom Hepple stared through her walls and windows, and the bus driver and Violet Eley stood as if caught in their spell and miserably rooted to the spot.

  ‘Someone get Christie,’ Stella managed at last, and the spell was broken. The driver returned to his bus and helped Violet Eley on board. The others faded away. Then Christie Hepple was there. He was as tall as his twin brother but bearded, full-faced, not yet grey and far more solid. He stood to one side of Tom, as if he were his shadow – one that had more substance than the person who cast it. Christie put his arm round his brother, talking softly and constantly in his ear until Tom loosened and leant into him, turned and was taken away. Christie had not even glanced at Stella, who watched them out of sight. Then she walked over to Mim, picked her up in her arms and carried her home.