‘I shouldn’t think so … really. But the idea … of it.’
‘You mean how it was?’
‘No, no. It were always tight and there was … ever trouble. I mean what I might have found it to be … for me.’ Father Barclay waited and eventually, Tom went on. ‘You grew up … in the city, didn’t you, Harry?’
‘In a boys’ home.’
‘You said. They put the homeless in a home.’ They both laughed. ‘Says you look like a farmer!’
‘They do.’ The priest blushed. ‘Who knows? It might be in my blood.’
‘So why come to a village? Because your … face fits?’ They laughed again. Then Tom shook his head. ‘That matters, though, doesn’t it?’
Father Barclay nodded. ‘You’re right. I was drawn to Allnorthover because it seemed that everything belonged, and had belonged for centuries. People don’t lock their doors. They know and help each other. There are old houses and old families. I liked the notion of unbroken lines, of things that stay in place.’
‘And what if your face fits but you don’t?’ Tom enquired. ‘When you belong to it, the place holds you so tight, you might not notice how it squeezes.’
‘If it’s like that for you, why come back?’
Tom looked along the high narrow bed, across the cage that protected his plaster cast from the pressure of his blankets. The pain of his leg left the rest of him clear. He had never felt so clear. ‘You know, Harry. There are things … out of place. I did nothing to put them right back then. If I can settle it, it won’t hurt to … be held here.’
‘Tom. There’s things out of our hands. You have to let go and move on.’ He knew he was sounding soothing now.
Tom frowned. ‘How can you let go of something that’s out of your hands?’ (That blinding light and somewhere in it, the girl and her gift of walking out onto the water to show him where.)
The priest chuckled, leaned forward and hugged him awkwardly. ‘I’ve missed you, my friend!’
Tom lay awake, enjoying their conversation long after Father Barclay had gone. He would soon be home. He was getting to know the girl through where she went and when. At the right moment, he would catch her. And there was much to do before the first frost.
‘Dear D,’ wrote Mary, gauging the scale of her writing to an imagined square far smaller than the size of the card itself. ‘The Harvest Festival Disco on the 20th? Clara thinks it might be a laugh. M.’ She paused and then followed her initial with the rest of her name. The disco was three weeks away. Perhaps she should wait a few days till school started and she was in Camptown, and might bump into him anyway. If she waited, he might phone. She found his address in the telephone directory and copied it out. She thought of how it might arrive stamped by the sorting office – ‘Remember Your Postcode’, and of how that might obliterate part or all of her message, something crucial like a name or date. Should she try to find out his postcode? She remembered how he had addressed her as ‘Mary George of Allnorthover’, and left the card as it was. The picture on the front was of a sculpture of a blue tree. It had a frothy top, a spindly fluid trunk, and a puddle of roots at the bottom. The shadow it cast on the white wall behind it was like the neck of a full jug from which a trickle of liquid poured. Mary had seen this sculpture at an exhibition once when she was small and had been so captivated by the foreign shade of blue that Stella had bought her the card.
Beside her on her desk were two rejected versions of her note. One was a picture of a woman in white, carrying a man on her shoulders. They were floating over a green river and they were smiling. His right hand covered her right eye, and in his left was a raised glass of red wine. His head had slipped to one side and looked as if it were about to be carried off by the winged woman in purple who was swooping past. ‘Dear Daniel,’ this card read. ‘What a summer!!! I’ve been washing half the village’s hair, hearing all sorts of scandal, and praying for rain. How about the Harvest Festival Disco? I was talking to Clara and SHE said it should be an absolute hoot!! Believe me, it is surreal. It’s on the 20th, so let me know what you think, love from Mary.’ There was a cross, a kiss, after her name. It was another card Mary had had for years, but only now did she notice that the woman in white’s dress was slashed at the front, a purple-stockinged leg was exposed and that her low-cut bodice was falling off one breast. The third card was a photograph that reminded Mary of somewhere she had been to, marshes near the coast. It was of a narrow boardwalk disappearing into rushes. On the horizon, at the other end of the path, was the silhouette of a house. It had one tall chimney, like a periscope. On the back of this one Mary had written: ‘Après la récolte, la danse. The Harvest Festival Disco on the 20th? An experience.’ No names, initials, ‘dear’ or ‘love’. The French was something she’d read somewhere. She had to look up ‘récolte’, ‘harvest’, to check the direction of the accent. Perhaps she’d made it up. Mary put all three cards back in a drawer.
When June Hepple found out that Tom was going to be coming to stay again, she put away her ornaments, packed a bag and went back to her Great Aunt May’s. The twins, Darren and Sean, were home and Sophie was busy getting them new shorts, shirts, blazers and shoes, haircuts and pencils. She didn’t mind June being out of the way.
If people tried to ask June about her mad uncle, she had nothing to say because she didn’t see him, she wasn’t there. May liked her company and approved of Christie keeping Tom with him. The Chapel was not a place to live.
Sophie kept the bottles of capsules lined up on the kitchen counter, along with the painkillers and antibiotics the hospital had prescribed. Each morning, Christie helped Tom into the bathroom and then downstairs. He spent the day in the big armchair, his broken leg in its cast, as rigid as the rest of him was limp. Sophie bustled around, feeling the need to go in and check on him frequently.
Although Sophie left the windows open, little air came through the nylon lace curtains. The high-backed armchair had been in the old house, but Sophie had given it a smooth new cover and once Tom had sunk into it, it was impossible for him to get up again. If he needed to use the downstairs toilet when Christie was out, Sophie had to help him up. She did this by taking his wrists rather than his hands, pulling him quickly onto his feet and then, as he straightened, faltered and leant towards her, she would slip a crutch under each of his elbows and hurry off. But Sophie never really hurried. She was always careful, made-up and dressed up. Tom liked to see how she placed herself in a room, how she leaned back on her high heels and how her hips rolled from side to side. Whenever she walked away, he watched her.
Outside, all day, Darren and Sean kicked a ball against the side of the house. They took it in turns to try and keep the ball in the air, so it hammered against the wall in long volleys. Then there would be a disappointed shout, silence, and the hammering would start again.
‘Let’s go in on the bike!’
‘Billy, I am not turning up at school in your bloody shoe!’
‘You don’t have to. I’ll leave it behind. Just ride pillion.’
It was the day before the beginning of term. Billy and Mary were sitting in the Catholic cemetery, smoking dope. It was still hot, but the sky had begun to move. One minute the poplars cast tall shadows and the next, the light was even again.
Billy, as usual, was lounging on his great-grandfather’s grave. ‘It’s our last year, our last start. We might as well do it in style,’ he persisted.
‘I just want to get on with things now,’ Mary tried to explain. ‘No fuss.’
‘Worried your boyfriend will see you?’ Billy didn’t usually tease her and she didn’t like it.
‘Fuck off. Anyway, who said he’s my boyfriend?’
‘Excuse me! First Crouchness, then a little al fresco do in the doctor’s pool?’
‘What do you know about that?’
‘Little bird …’ he chanted.
‘Christ, you’re beginning to sound just like Julie!’
Billy sat up. ‘It’s a small world.’
‘If you’re going to talk in clichés, Billy, I’m going home.’ He looked unperturbed, but followed Mary as she stomped out of the cemetery.
‘Forget about tomorrow, then. Let’s just go for a ride now. No one will see you in the sidecar, anyway.’ He knew how much Mary liked to get away from the village. She shrugged and continued marching, but Billy saw her clenched fists relax and then, when she reached the bike parked on the road, she clambered ungraciously in.
As they passed the Chapel, the rear wheel of the motorbike hit a pot-hole where the heat-cracked road had erupted. Billy rode on for a minute or two, until he could no longer ignore the violent hobbling of the burst tyre. He pulled over at the end of the Clock House drive. As he was taking off his helmet, they could hear someone running towards them along the gravel. Mary thought it might be Clara, and tugged with one hand at the chin-strap of her helmet and at her glasses with the other. The strap was frayed and its buckle stiff, and her glasses were held fast. As the figure approached from behind, she could not bear to turn round and be seen. There was nothing for it but to sink as low as she could in the sidecar and to hope whoever it was would pass.
‘Tobias, man!’ Billy was waving his arms, flapping the extravagantly flared sleeves of his t-shirt like semaphore flags.
‘Recognised the engine, Bill, then I heard you had a limp. Must’ve hit that crater back by the Chapel.’ Mary was baffled but also pleased to hear Tobias’s voice again and its accompanying clatter of tools as he squatted down by the bike. But although she was on the other side of the machine, in plain view, she wouldn’t turn her head.
The two boys knelt beside the wheel, probing and testing and then Tobias stood up and stretched, casting his shadow across Mary’s back. She shivered. ‘Wheel it up to the lawn and we’ll find a spare. You can leave the side-car here.’ He leant across the bike to uncouple it. Mary felt a jolt. She wanted to face them after all, even just so that she could take the helmet and her glasses off but, by this time, it seemed less embarrassing to stay put. She didn’t see Billy frown and open his mouth to speak to her, or Tobias smile and put his finger to his lips. Mary listened as they pushed the bike up the drive. She was too confused to notice that the slow crunch of the motorbike’s wheels had given way to something faster and stronger. When she realised that there was a car coming down from the house, she tried not only to remove the helmet and take off her glasses but also to climb out. She managed to get herself free while yanking at the helmet, the strap of which abruptly gave way. Her loosened glasses tipped forwards so she dropped the helmet and lurched to grab them, lost her balance and fell sprawling as the car braked hard and stopped, its nearest front wheel just inches from Mary’s outstretched hand.
‘Darling!’ Clara leapt from the passenger door and helped Mary up. She was shaking, but more out of humiliation than shock or pain.
Paulie came sheepishly forward from the driver’s side. ‘Sorry, sweetheart.’ A flush was spreading messily over his throat and up into his cheeks. ‘You came from nowhere.’ He held out his hands in a wide shrug.
Clara, her arm still clamped round Mary’s shoulder, tittered. ‘Not quite nowhere.’ She pointed at the sidecar. Paulie snorted, held his breath, saw Mary smile and then giggled, and Mary began laughing too, laughing and crying and shaking, and all the time feeling Clara’s strong arm round her.
‘You need a drink,’ Clara pronounced and pushed Mary into the car.
Mary decided not to ask where they were going and was relieved that Paulie didn’t stop at one of the High Street pubs, where she knew no one would serve her. The car continued out along the Mortimer Tye road and stopped instead at The Crown, the last pub inside the parish boundary. Although this meant that it officially belonged to the village, few thought of it as such. The Crown, with its carvery and banqueting hall, was for occasions.
They sat in the garden and drank gin and tonics, while the clouds quickened and moved over them, making Mary pull off her cardigan only to put it back on again a minute later. Her trousers were ripped across one knee (but so were Clara’s black jeans), and one shin and both hands were grazed. Mary was happy. She listened to Paulie and Clara’s languid chat and turned from one to the other, fascinated by how they were both – Clara with her witch’s face and Paulie, so smooth and bland – so attractive. Mary felt sleepy and talkative at once, and began to join in. She told them about Hilary Thropton Smith’s racist parents and Kay d’Arcy’s scam. She described the tramp who comes for breakfast, bringing his egg, and who sold a caravan that didn’t belong to him. They were laughing, and she was pleased and thinking up other stories when Clara yelled, ‘Over here!’
It was Daniel, Julia and Ed. Mary squinted up at Daniel as he approached, forgetting to smile because of not being able to see that he was smiling at her, which made him hesitate and sit away from her, next to Paulie. Mary leant back in her chair, and was grateful that Clara talked on, about Italy and the term ahead.
‘How’s your summer been?’ Daniel leant forward and Paulie leant back.
‘Oh, sort of boring and sort of lively … you know …’ she stared down into the glass clutched in her hands.
‘Mary’s been telling us fabulous stories about the village!’ Paulie said.
‘Really?’ Daniel sounded interested or piqued – Mary couldn’t tell.
Then Clara got up and Paulie, Julia and Ed too. They all sang their goodbyes, blew kisses and left.
A bell rang in the pub. ‘Another drink? That’ll be last orders. It’s almost half past two.’ While Daniel was gone, Mary moved into Paulie’s chair. Sitting next to him made everything easier. They lit cigarettes and spun out their drinks, managing to talk a little but mostly happy just to sit together. Daniel took her hand and stood up. ‘Looks like we’ll have to walk back across the fields.’
‘Fine. I’ll just …’ Mary rushed off to the toilet, a converted stable that ran along the side of the pub. She peered into the speckled mirror, unlit by the dangling bare bulb, and tried to animate herself, stretching her lips, baring her teeth, flicking her hair and wrinkling her nose. Then she went back out to meet Daniel with the wide smile she’d practised still fixed on her face.
‘Are you alright?’ he said. Mary faltered and nodded. ‘It’s just you looked for a moment as if you’d seen a ghost!’ This made her laugh. Daniel took her arm and led her over a stile and onto the footpath back to Allnorthover.
‘Do you know the way?’ she spluttered, still giggling and now beginning to hiccup.
He could see the spire of Allnorthover’s first church. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it!’
By mid-afternoon, the sky was harsh and clear. The light that had in just a few dull days been forgotten, returned. Lying in a hollow in the meadow behind the church fields, Mary woke feeling not just burnt but scorched, like paper hit by a beam concentrated through a magnifying glass. Daniel was kneeling beside her. When they had lain down, the world had been revolving in jerky repeated lurches. She didn’t remember going to sleep, just waking up full of heat, her eyes swollen and her stomach both churning and empty. Her shirt was open. Mary did not move as Daniel leaned forward, kissed her mouth and undid the last two buttons. He pulled down her bra straps, carefully, as if arranging her, then ran a finger between her breasts and licked it.
‘Salt.’ He smiled, but Mary, now conscious of the sweat that had collected on her chest as she slept, made to get up. He leant down to meet her. Unable to push back and raise them both, Mary pulled his head hard against her instead.
He tugged himself free. ‘Let me look at you.’
‘No!’ She hadn’t meant to shout. The sun would exaggerate her pallor and emphasise every pimple and freckle and hair. She could see the tracery of veins along her arm. ‘It’s too bright.’ She yanked at the straps of her bra and rolled onto her front.
Daniel laid her shirt across her. ‘Put this back on then. You’ll burn.’ As she dressed, he turned away. They got to their feet, Mary stiff and blinking.
/> ‘How long did I sleep?’
‘A couple of hours.’
‘You, too?’
‘On and off.’
‘Why didn’t you wake me?’
‘I wanted to look at you.’
Mary was silent: to say the wrong thing or anything that assumed anything could shatter this precarious intimacy. She didn’t want to ask Daniel how he had come to be in The Crown, nor to question Clara’s peculiar kindness. It might not be luck or fate but something altogether ordinary and nothing to do with her that had brought him here. They walked in silence past the church and round the Common till they met the far end of the High Street, where Mary led Daniel to the bus stop. Daniel drew Mary to him, but she stiffened.
‘Don’t look; then nobody will see you.’ He held her head against his chest, and she believed him and gave in completely as he kissed and stroked her hair and said, ‘You’re a strange and lovely creature, Mary George.’
The bus arrived, just ahead of Mim. The old dog almost fell over herself in her attempt to make it stop before it chose to. When she heard Mary’s sharp call, she wobbled, confused, sat down and whimpered.
‘Mimosa!’ Mary repeated sternly. ‘Don’t come the hit-and-run with me, my girl!’ The dog slunk towards her. When Mary had her by the collar, she realised Daniel was waiting to say goodbye and had one foot already on the platform of the bus. She started towards him, but Mim, thinking she was being forced to submit to her enemy, would not budge. Mary knew if she let go of her collar, the dog would follow and taunt the bus all the way out to the Verges. She tried again and this time, Mim ungraciously followed.
Daniel leaned down and kissed Mary. Mim hung back, panting noisily and baring her raddled tongue and brown teeth in a smelly yawn. Daniel looked at the dog (‘Goodnight … Mimosa!’) and then back at Mary as the bus conductor pointedly rang the bell three times and the bus juddered into life.
Mary George of Allnorthover Page 17