All Among the Barley

by Melissa Harrison

  ‘No – I –’

  ‘Oh, darling. Please don’t be embarrassed. There’s no need, I promise you. Haven’t you heard of the Sun Ray Club? Well – never mind.’

  The shadow of a bird passed over the water, and I was gripped by helpless fear: Connie must not go into the river, she mustn’t. She would drown, I was sure of it; she’d sink like a stone, and I’d be helpless to stop it happening. It would be like my dream of the horse-pond, but it would be she who’d be underwater: trapped down there, thrashing, dying.

  ‘Don’t go in, Connie – please don’t. You mustn’t. It’s not safe here. The current –’

  ‘Don’t be silly, it’s shallow!’

  I grasped her arm then, and she turned from the water’s edge, bewildered.

  ‘Edie! Whatever’s the matter?’

  And I burst into ragged, helpless tears, and she held me, her arms wrapped strongly around me, my hands on the warm, bare skin of her back and her chin on the top of my head.

  We walked the rest of the way back to the village arm-in-arm and in silence. Once I’d stopped crying, Connie had fetched me her hankie and put her clothes back on, and then we’d sat for a moment on the bank while I composed myself. A swan drifted past, spotless and serene, and I wondered whether it was swan’s down that we were sitting among – if this was in fact their nightly roost.

  ‘Come on, then, duckie. A brandy’s what you need,’ Connie had said at last, nudging me gently, and I’d smiled weakly and got up.

  It wasn’t my first time inside the Bell & Hare – I’d been sent to fetch Father back on a few occasions, and with Frank I’d fetched mugs of ale out to passing motor-cars for a ha’penny tip once or twice. But it was the first time I had walked in as a customer, to sit and have a drink, and it felt different. I wondered if Connie knew that, and whether, if I told her, my hesitation would even be something she could understand.

  The inn was low-ceilinged and cool, with a stone flagged floor and wooden benches and tables. On the right was an L-shaped bar-room, at the back of which was a little raised snug; on the left was the tap-room, with stairs at the back that led up to the inn’s rooms; this was where the dartboard was, and where Father usually sat. On the walls hung faded lithographs of hunting scenes, framed photographs of meets at the gates of the Hall, and here and there old fox masks, the eyes replaced with glass and the lips forced up into a snarl.

  I could hear the murmur of voices from the tap-room, while in the public bar near the snug the foreman and carter from Holstead Farm were sitting at a table with a man I didn’t know whose empty sleeve was pinned up to the shoulder. The landlord was nowhere to be seen; the inn was supposed to close for three hours on Sunday afternoons, although in summer this was rarely enforced.

  Connie led me through to the snug and sat me down on a bench, then went to the bar and loudly cleared her throat. At one time the little enclosed area would have been entirely private, but at some point in the Bell & Hare’s long history the wattle and daub of its studwork partition had been knocked out, leaving only six vertical timbers between it and the bar-room beyond. Still, it felt a little better than being out there under the curious gazes of the Holstead men, and I leant back against the rough, cool whitewash of the wall and briefly closed my eyes.

  What could I say to her? What was there to say? The harvest was only days away – that was the main thing. Nothing else mattered, could matter now. It would do no good at all – might only make things worse – to tell her what I suspected about Father and Lord Cecil; and I had no wish ever to reveal to anyone what had happened after the fete. If we could only get the harvest in, and without any help from the Rose boys, all would surely be well.

  ‘No, no,’ I muttered aloud. It was best not to think about Alf, and I tried to suppress the image of him standing over me. ‘Stupid,’ I whispered, and clenching my fists under the table I dug my fingernails into my palms as though to punish my hands for having undone my buttons so brazenly. Then I opened my hands and traced the circular witch-mark on one palm with my finger: again, again, again.

  At last Connie brought over two brandies and I drank mine off like horse drench and coughed until I retched.

  ‘I let Alf Rose kiss me last night after the fete,’ I gasped, when I could. I had to tell her something, and while a pure invention might have been preferable, the truth was filling my mouth like bile.

  ‘And that’s what all the tears were about?’

  I nodded. ‘I know I shouldn’t have. I know it’s wrong.’

  ‘Dearest child,’ Connie said, laughing and sitting back, ‘there is absolutely no need to get so upset. Anyone would think you had committed a mortal sin. Do you like him, that’s the main thing? He seems rather sweet.’

  ‘I don’t want to marry him, if that’s what you mean. I don’t even want to walk out with him, or – anyone.’

  ‘Do you want him to kiss you again?’

  I found that my legs under the table were trembling, as though with pent-up energy, and I concentrated on keeping them still.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Old thing, did you not like it?’

  ‘I –’

  ‘For that matter, I didn’t enjoy my first kiss much either – I wonder if any woman really does. Perhaps it’s something you just need to endure until you’re used to it, like cigarettes. Give it time.’

  ‘I don’t want to be kissed again. Or – anything. I don’t want him to kiss me; I don’t want anyone to kiss me.’ Despite myself the trembling was becoming more general, and I stared down into my empty brandy glass and realised I was holding my breath. It was like floating away, or wanting to; I tried to tether myself to the bench where I sat with my hands. I felt very pale.

  ‘Oh, Edie, you’ll feel differently in a year or two, I guarantee it.’

  ‘I won’t. I won’t!’

  ‘Darling, you’re vibrating,’ she said then, laying a cool hand on my thigh. ‘Let me fetch you another brandy. You sit there and take a few deep breaths.’

  ‘May I just have a lemonade, Connie? Please.’

  ‘A brandy is what you need, Miss Mather, I promise you. But sip it slowly this time. I don’t want you being sick.’

  I don’t know what time it was when I left the Bell & Hare; the drink had fuddled me, and I was exhausted, too, by everything that had happened, by my lack of sleep, the effort of talk and the difficulty of keeping in everything I knew I mustn’t say. We walked to the draper’s, where Connie embraced me firmly before letting herself in the shop door with a latch-key; then I continued past the pump on the green and turned left to cross the river and follow the cut that came out on Back Lane. There, I slipped between two cottages and climbed the bank until I came out onto our own land, and I took the field path home.

  I have always thought that there is something holy about dusk, when the light begins to fade and the fields lie empty, the lamps are lit indoors and the birds are seen winging to their roosts before darkness falls. The evening sun was low and warm, my shadow running over the soft heads of wheat, and somewhere nearby a turtle dove was making a low, contented sound. Alone, I felt all my confusion ebb and my soul expand – yes, that was it exactly, as though I was part of everything, and everything loved me and reached out to me somehow: our quiet cornfields, the evening sky, the trees. And then a dorhawk began to churr, the feeling faded, and I shook my head and picked up my pace.

  XII

  ~ Sketches from English Rural Life ~

  There is surely no better repast than country dishes, innocent of the fashions of the modern age. They may not be refined, but here there is good, wholesome food such as may be found on every English farm where butter is churned by hand, cheese is made, and bread is daily baked.

  In the village everyone, from blacksmith to publican, farm-hand to agèd cottager, has his vegetable-garden from which he may take freshly dug potatoes, runner beans, radishes, carrots, marrows and salads in their season, the seed saved parsimoniously in a twist of paper for the following
year, or to be exchanged with friends and neighbours for their own. He may tend raspberry-canes, or a damson-tree; he may keep a skep of bees, and a pig or goat if he has room; thus, rarely does the country-dweller want, for by his own labours he feeds himself and his family, instead of subsisting on devitalised factory foodstuffs and tawdry foreign goods.

  And there is yet more to recommend this system: for work performed in nature purifies the spirit, and keeps the Englishman in contact with his native soil. ‘Only from Nature could the truth arise,’ said a wise man; and in such health-giving labour may be found the oft-occluded wellspring of the nation.

  A recipe for harvest cake: Mix 8oz. good, white flour and two of corn-flour, a little baking powder and bicarbonate of soda, and some spices. Add a pinch of yeast, then stir in 8oz. sugar. Rub in 4oz. lard. Beat together a pint of fresh milk and an egg and stir into the mixture; then add 8oz dried fruit and some candied peel, if you have it, and combine well together. Turn into a cake tin, cover and leave to rise. Then bake for two hours, and at last glaze with a little milk, while still hot.

  A recipe for marrow jam: Peel, seed and dice your marrows, say 6lb, and add the same quantity of jam sugar. Leave in a cool pantry or refrigerator overnight. Then take your largest preserving pan and fill it with the mixture, adding the juice and zest of four lemons. Take 3oz. fresh ginger root and bash with a rolling pin, then place this in a muslin bag and add to the pan. Bring to the boil and then simmer until, on a cold plate, it can be seen to set. Strain and jar as usual.

  This is the second instalment in our new ‘Rural Sketch’ series, which will appear weekly until further notice. Your countryside correspondent is

  Miss C. N. J. FitzAllen.

  I put the cutting down and picked up my teacup. Mother, Mary and I were at Grandma and Granfer’s once again; it was the last chance to visit before harvest began. I had havered over coming; I had no wish for Grandma to look into me or ask me questions, but the air at home was tense, Father checking the barometer almost hourly and John and Doble doing their best to stay out of his way. It made me jittery, for I have always been unable to prevent myself from absorbing the moods of everyone around me; and it was worse just then than ever, for since the fete I’d felt so queer and nervy. Lack of sleep must have been the culprit; once again I had lain awake nearly all night, my thoughts seething strangely and becoming dark.

  ‘That’s my recipe, you know,’ said Mother now, ‘the one for harvest cake. I don’t know where she got the other. Fresh ginger!’ and she shook her head.

  ‘Ah, but it was my recipe afore you, Ada,’ said Grandma. ‘You’ve got no cause to take on.’

  ‘I don’t know. I just don’t feel comfortable,’ Mother said.

  ‘You must bring her over to meet us,’ said Granfer, who was leaning in the doorway of the railway carriage and chewing his unlit briar. ‘Happen I’ll never get another chance to meet a famous author ’fore I die.’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that, Granfer,’ said Mary, baby Terence clamped to her blue-veined breast. ‘You’ll be years with us yet.’

  ‘I’ll bring her next time, Granfer. You’ll like her – everyone does.’

  ‘Even you now, Ada?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve grown used to her, I’ll say that. She can be helpful – did I mention that she arranged a new buyer for our eggs?’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes, we don’t sell them to Blum’s any longer; they go all the way to London in a van, and we make an extra twopence per load.’

  ‘George must be pleased with that,’ said Grandma.

  ‘He says he’s more pleased not to have to deal with a Sheeny any more. Connie’s going to speak to some of the other women in the village, too.’

  ‘What’s a Sheeny?’ I asked.

  ‘A Jew, Edie,’ Mother said. ‘Not that I’ve got anything against them, of course.’

  ‘Why doesn’t Father want us to deal with one, then?’ I asked. ‘Nobody ever minded before.’

  ‘They’re not like us, that’s all.’

  ‘Some do say they shirked the call-up in ’14,’ Mary interjected, ‘though Clive says that’s nothing but a slander.’

  ‘Will you ladies excuse me while I see to the pig?’ Granfer said; he never liked to hear talk of the War. Fishing a screw of tobacco from his waistcoat pocket, he descended the little steps, out of sight.

  Mother and Mary began talking about the baby, and I reached for the cocoa tin on the table to see if there might be another piece of fudge.

  ‘Edie,’ Grandma said.

  ‘Oh – sorry. I was being greedy,’ I said, and put the tin back.

  She shook her head and regarded me for a long moment. ‘The bird is alive, and it’s not the woman troubling you – although perhaps she should. You and your brother are friends –’

  It wasn’t a question or a statement, but a conclusion she had come to from looking at me. I nodded and picked up my empty teacup and began to turn it in my hands, looking down at its familiar pattern of pink roses.

  ‘Yes, Frank’s well. We all are.’

  She said nothing, but continued to regard me closely.

  ‘Nothing’s the matter, Grandma, for goodness’ sakes!’ I snapped.

  The talk went on but I did not take part in it, thinking instead of Connie, and whether she had really meant that I could go and live with her in London, and what that might be like. So it came as a sickening shock when Mary, the baby asleep at last, asked if it was true that I was walking out with Alfie Rose.

  ‘No! Of course not – who said that?’ I replied.

  ‘Oh, she’s colouring up!’ Mary laughed.

  ‘Walking out? You never are!’ said Mother, turning to me where she sat, her face hurt.

  ‘It’s rubbish, Mother, I’m not walking out with him. Honestly,’ I said.

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard,’ said Mary, smirking. ‘I’ve heard you went for a twilight stroll together after the fete. Oh, Ed, it’s high time you found yourself a sweetheart. Don’t look so upset.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything about a walk, Edie,’ said Mother. ‘I thought you stayed on to help clear up!’

  ‘I didn’t actually say that – I didn’t say anything!’ I said, and felt myself beginning to flush red. It was anger, of course, though I was slow to recognise it, for only Father, in our house, was permitted such a thing.

  ‘Oh, and why did you not speak out, then? Keeping secrets from your mother?’

  ‘Ada,’ Grandma said.

  Something rose in me then, something taut like a bowstring. I stood up, and it snapped.

  ‘Secrets! Secrets! I didn’t tell you why I was late because Father was blind drunk when I got home, if you remember – he’d kicked over John’s garden and he was being sick all over the boot scraper, and the yellow vase had been smashed and was in bits on the kitchen floor, and actually it was shameful, shameful, the way he carried on at the fete, so if we must talk about secrets, let’s talk about that, shall we?’

  Looking down at the three women’s shocked faces and the still-sleeping child, I felt powerful and elated: my blood had surged and slowed again, and its receding tide had left me feeling as clear and unambiguous as a glass bell. I lifted my right arm then, and with one trembling finger traced a witch-mark in the still air that hung between us. Mary gasped and put her hand to her mouth.

  As I turned to leave, I saw Granfer standing quietly in the railway carriage door.

  ‘Come on, child,’ he said, his voice steady, and held out his crabbed hand. ‘Let’s you and me see to Meg, now, shall us? That’s right.’

  Whatever motor-cars may offer in terms of speed and convenience they surely lack in tranquillity. For a good pony knows what she is about, and can for the most part be left to her own devices; her head bobs in front of you, ears up and alert, leaving you free to look at the passing hedges, and over them to the fields on either side; to gaze down into gardens, and into cottage windows, too – all of it at a pace gentle enough to cry �
�Good evening!’ if one is in good humour, and exchange a little news with anyone you pass. The birds and wild creatures are not frightened away by your passage, for the only sounds you make are the steady clop, clop of the pony’s hooves and the crunch of the trap’s wheels on the road. And should darkness fall you can light the carriage lamps and watch the moths crowd around them, or you can trust your pony, who sees and hears far better than you, to steer you past any motor-cars or foot travellers in the dark. Then the steady motion rocks you into a trusting dream – not quite asleep, but not awake – in which you know yourself to be but one in an unending chain of people through the centuries who have worked in partnership with horses in war and in peacetime, and always will.

  That afternoon we drove home for the most part in silence, Mother, Mary and the baby in the front of the trap, me in the back with Mary’s perambulator lashed securely beside me; we were going to take her as far as the village, where she planned to call on some old friends and then walk the last few miles home. I said nothing, merely watched as the road unfurled behind me, the dust raised by Meg’s hooves hanging in the air. In the front, Mother and Mary exchanged a remark now and then, but very little was said; from the hedges, though, blackbirds sang, low and melodious, and sparrows chided and fought.

  I felt tired now, and somehow dull, like a blunt knife or dirty pewter. In place of the recent, strange intensity of my thoughts there was only a blankness, for something inside me had shifted and I had surrendered almost gratefully, in the way that you sometimes surrender to sleep. I knew that there would be questions later, and I did not know what I would say, but for now there was only the journey; the homely railway carriages and the smallholding receding behind me like a lost world.

  Granfer had led me to the little paddock where he tethered the goat and called Meg over, and then he had taken my hand and rested it on her warm flank. I leaned my cheek against her neck and closed my eyes while he held her head and spoke to us both quietly, telling us about the bees in the clover, and where the throstle was nesting, and the hare he had watched at sunrise suckling two leverets. Heaven only knows what the three women were saying about me indoors, but I listened to Meg’s breathing and felt her gently toss her head, and after a while they came out and I heard the murmur of their voices, and I opened my eyes again.