‘But it’s change we’re wanting, man! Have you not listened, have you not heard a word –’
It was Father, pushing and shouldering his way through the crowd. I saw men turn, grinning; saw them part to let him through. The tenor of their attention had changed, and I could sense it; this was sport now, master against man. I saw one or two jostle him on purpose, saw men nudge one another and crane their necks ready to see the confrontation. I wanted to get Frank, but he was in the tap-room with the Rose boys and Grandfather; I wondered if I should run home and fetch Mother, but I knew it would take too long. And then it was too late.
John stood his ground as Father approached, only folding his arms. Connie, behind him in the snug, was standing; I could not see Mr Chalcott or the other man from where I was, but it seemed they had stayed in their seats.
Father stopped a few paces away from John, his red face full of choler. With the advantage the step gave John, they were about the same height, and I realised, with a wash of horror, that they might at any second actually come to blows.
‘Please God, no,’ I said out loud, although I hadn’t meant to. A big man near me turned; it was the wheelwright’s apprentice, a lad I had only ever glimpsed before in his leather apron hard at work among the half-built wagons or forging their wide iron tyres.
‘Well, if it in’t the famous Mather girl herself,’ he said now, and elbowed his companion. ‘Look who’s here!’
‘This is change!’ Father was shouting, pointing towards Connie. ‘This, John, this! We must rebuild the country, we must put our own kind first!’
Despite the confrontation, more men nearby were turning around to look at me; I felt their eyes on me, probing and keen. What had the wheelwright’s apprentice meant by ‘the famous Mather girl’?
‘This in’t change, man, it’s folly – dangerous folly, for all that.’
‘You speak against me, John Hurlock?’
‘In this matter, yes.’
‘You think you know better, that’s it. You allus have. And now you come in here, slinging mud about. Don’t matter if the woman were in the War or not, to my mind.’
‘No, I’ll wager it don’t – to a man who never served.’
Uproar then, the men rushing forward, something like joy surging through them and leaving me weightless and horrified and alone. I stumbled back a few paces, one hand seeking the inn door; I saw Frank, followed by Sid Rose, fighting to get to Father and John through the crowd; and then there on the floor was a discarded magazine, trampled by boots, an image of my face smiling idiotically out at me from the crumpled page.
Frank came out and found me. I was with Sally Godbold’s mother and a couple of the other women; Elisabeth Allingham, when she came out, had strode off up Church Lane, muttering darkly about the foolishness of men. I’d wanted to run after her to ask her what she truly thought of Connie, for she had come to know her and was a shrewd woman who had seen a great many things. But Sally’s mother had hold of my arm and was set on preventing me going back into the inn to see if Father was all right, and so I waited there, chastened and helpless, for all the shouting and ruckus to die down. I felt watched – not only by the people around me, some of whom were certainly staring at me strangely, but more distantly, too. It would likely be a crow somewhere, black in the darkness; perhaps the same one that had picked out poor Edmund’s eyes, so that he could not see. I would have to gather my wits about me, that was once again as clear as day.
As the women shook their heads and began the work of dissecting and reassembling the night’s events, work that would no doubt go on for weeks, I thought about the photograph of me in Connie’s magazine, and wondered what words she had used it to illustrate. It must have been taken in Home Field the afternoon Mr Chalcott had arrived; I was holding a wheat-sheaf and shading my eyes with one hand, looking not quite at the camera but over to where Frank had been stooking, perhaps. It was both me and not me, and I thought about the possibility that hundreds of people might have seen it – had seen it already. It had been stolen from me, my own image pressed into the service of something I hadn’t consented to and didn’t understand.
That this could happen was further proof that I was not a real person, I realised; not real in the way that other people were real: Frank and John and Connie, for example. None of this would ever have happened to them. Perhaps I had made myself up entirely, and kept doing so every day; and if that was the case, what if I ceased all the work of being Edith Mather – stopped my body speaking and eating, for example? Once a little time had passed, enough for my grip to loosen, would I still exist?
There had been a time, not too long ago, when I had felt very powerful. When had that been? I couldn’t quite recall. And now Edmund was dead, and it was my fault; he could no longer help me. Nobody could.
Frank came; he took my arm and led me away from the women. His face was grave.
‘Ed, you shouldn’t be here. You must go on home – quickly, now.’
‘Why?’
‘You know why. It’s bad trouble that’s broken out. Father and John have come to blows.’
‘Should I fetch Mother? She can stop everything, she can –’
‘No, but tell her – tell her what’s happened, so she’s ready. You must warn her.’
‘Will you bring him in the trap, with Grandfather?’
‘If he’ll let me. I’ve got to find him first.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Didn’t you see? John bested him – well, he could have. Father landed him a blow, and then they were grappling – then John just pushed Father to the ground and stood over him, told him he were a better man, and a better farmer too. Then he spat on the floor and went back to where he were sitting, to finish his ale. Father picked himself up and took the back door out; the Devil only knows where he is now.’
Hot shame bloomed through me. Everyone had witnessed it – now everyone knew of our disgrace. It could never be lived down.
‘Where’s Grandfather?’
‘Oh, he’s all right, he stayed just where he was. Bob Rose is sitting with him now, and a couple of the old boys from Holstead.’
‘And – and Connie?’
‘Still in there, arguing the bloody toss with anyone’ll listen. Look, Ed, will you get on home now? Alfie’ll go with you and see you’re all right.’
And there Alf was, at Frank’s elbow, his eyes on mine.
‘I – I can go by myself, Frank.’
‘Ed, it’s fine – everyone knows you two are walking out. Alfie even asked Father’s permission earlier, and Father stood him a pint. Now, go on and warn Mother what’s coming, will you? I must find him and get him home.’
XVII
I walked with my arms folded and without looking at Alf. For Mother’s sake I knew I must take the quickest route home, through the cut rather than along the road, but I quailed to turn onto the secluded path. I kept my eyes ahead; I felt as though blinking was something I had to remember to do, for otherwise my wide eyes would surely dry out. I seemed to weigh nothing; I might have been walking a few inches above the ground. I don’t remember any sounds at all other than that of Alf’s voice, which came from somewhere very far away and yet was still too close.
‘Take my hand, Edie, won’t you?’
I kept my arms folded over my chest and let myself think it was so that he wouldn’t see my ugly, bitten nails.
‘Are you in a bate?’
I parted my lips so I might breathe silently, as an animal does, breathing very shallowly, one breath in for every two steps.
I said nothing in reply. The blood beat in my ears.
‘You’re upset about your father,’ he said, his voice kind. ‘It’s only natural. Don’t you worry, though. Frank will find him and bring him home.’
We were at the crossing over the Stound and I concentrated on matching my stride to the stepping-stones in the dim evening light. Alf followed behind me, whistling quietly through his teeth.
‘It’s n
ice to see you, Edie. Did you know I’ve been laid up? I took ill with a summer cold, else I would have called for you.’
We took the cut to Back Lane, goose-bumps pimpling the skin of my legs under my light cotton dress. It was a beautiful night, heavy with the scent of roses and night stocks from the village gardens around us. The moon was huge and low; ‘Phoebe,’ I whispered to her, under my breath.
‘Slow down, Edie – what’s the rush?’ Alf said, laughing, and I felt his hand grasp my arm, where it was held tight against my chest. I shook it off – I wanted to run but I didn’t dare to, and quickly I wrestled the feeling down.
‘I have to warn Mother,’ I said.
‘You worry too much, that’s what it is,’ he said, an aggrieved note creeping into his voice. ‘Your mother can look out for herself. And in any case, she’s made her bed.’
Now we were between Greenleaze and Crossways. He was walking beside me, his face turned to scrutinise my own, and I could feel his anger, kept down for now – but for how long?
‘Why won’t you speak to me, Edie? Cat got your tongue?’
I was measuring the distance; I could see it was too far. I wasn’t going to be able to reach home before he made something happen. Perhaps there were words you could say – to soothe, or ward off, or somehow contain. I didn’t know what they were; I don’t know if I could have said them, anyway. Mary would have known, and Mother, but I wasn’t the right kind of person: I didn’t know how to be in the world like that. I had thought that Connie could transform me into someone who was allowed to say yes and no to things, but it hadn’t worked and now she was tainted anyway, tainted and perhaps a liar, or even worse, and although I loved her I knew that I should put her and everything about her far from my mind.
The truth was, I was useless and defenceless, and Alf knew it. He could smell it on me as a dog smells fear: the strangeness that had plagued me at school, that made me friendless, that left me always at the margins and I knew now always would.
He knew all that, and yet he still wanted to walk out with me, I realised suddenly; and everyone said he was such a nice boy, so funny and practical and kind. Yes, it was me who was to blame, after all; he had in the past called me cold and prudish, and I could see from the way I was behaving now that it was true.
I tried to drop my shoulders and slow my breath, but I found that I couldn’t quite bring myself to uncross my arms. Dimly, amid the effort to relax myself, I became aware that I was very afraid.
‘I’m sorry, Alf,’ I whispered. ‘I don’t know what’s got into me.’
‘Well, it were an . . . interesting night,’ he replied, a little mollified, his voice less sharp but still with a petulant edge. ‘I’ll wager you’re not the only one feeling upset. Your friend Connie has stirred up a real hornet’s nest.’
‘I think she meant well – I’m sure she did.’
‘Oh, no doubt about that. I’ve a mind to join her little outfit, you know – well, we shall see how the land lies tomorrow.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. That were a good speech that Seton Ritter chap made. He spoke a lot of sense about agricultural reform – and about the Jews, too. The cancer of Europe, that’s what he said.’
Now something began to happen like the rising feeling before you vomit. I felt as though I must fight to keep myself from flying apart.
‘You think that little girl, Esther – you think Mr Blum in the village – a cancer?’
‘Oh no, Blum’s all right. It’s all the other ones I can’t stand. They’ve no homeland, so no loyalty, you see; wherever they are, they only look out for their own, so they become a parasite – like that family at Hullets were. There are hordes of them coming all the time – this country is being handed to them on a plate, Edie, and nobody high up seems to care. And if they’re starting to spill out from the cities now –’
‘But Alf –’
‘Something must be done about them – that’s all I’m saying. It’s common sense.’
We were between Great Ley and Home Field with its stooks of moonlit wheat; in just a few more minutes the farm would be in sight. Relief began to course through me, and I felt for a moment that I might be about to faint.
‘Stop, Edie,’ Alf said then.
I closed my eyes briefly and kept walking, my legs weak. Now I really did feel sick, and suddenly cold. All the sounds of the summer night rushed back in: a breeze whispering like water in the leaves of the hedgerow elms and ashes; crickets chirping; a landrail calling crex-crex from somewhere far away. The world felt very dear and close, and overwhelmingly acute.
He grabbed my arm then, spinning me around.
‘I said stop, Edie. Did you not hear?’
And so we faced one another on the field path, my heart hammering. Here it was, then, and I must endure it. The fear fell away, and I uncrossed my arms and looked at him. For a moment – just a brief moment – everything was still.
He took a step closer, hips loose, eyes heavy-lidded.
‘So pretty,’ he said. ‘You love me, don’t you, Edie? Shall we have a kiss?’
He began to raise his right hand to touch the side of my face, and as he did so I felt myself flame into unalloyed rage so pure that he saw it. Rage: to feel it was like arriving in my body for the first time, entire and intact and beyond argument or doubt. I knew as I watched his hand falter that he could not touch me, for I did not wish it, and never again would I allow myself to be touched.
It was at that instant that it happened: there sprung up a bright orange glow on the far side of Home Field, vigorous and hungry and alive.
‘Look – what’s that – what’s that?’ I said, pointing, my voice rising to a shout as Alf Rose turned to look.
‘Fuck me, Edie – fire! – Fire!’
I think perhaps you know the rest, but I shall tell it anyway. You will forgive me if I sound matter-of-fact. More than half a century has passed and I see it now like a newsreel rather than something that happened to me. And, of course, I have been made to go over it all many times since then.
I ran, my lungs straining, outrunning even Alf with his long legs and thumping feet behind. Strangely, I felt that someone was with me – Grandma Clarity, perhaps, or even Father’s mother – and I felt so grateful, although of course it was far too late.
When we neared the yard I saw that our hay-ricks were both well alight, the heat like a barrier stopping me in my tracks. The barley-ricks, too, were smouldering, and the darkness above was filled with whirling flakes of fire as fragments of burning hay and barley-straw were sent aloft.
‘The thatch, Edie! The thatch!’ shouted Alf, and ran to the horse-pond, and in the orange glow I saw one or two tiny embers settling on the old, hunched roof of the house. I knew then that it was too late to save Wych Farm.
But then I saw Doble emerge from the smoke and flames: a small, slow figure, almost lost in darkness, his sunken chest bare, his too-big trousers held up with string. He carried a single bucket tremblingly before him, and I ran to him, the terrible heat calling to mind slaughter day when Mother would scorch the bristles from the skin of the pig.
‘Edith! God be praised,’ he said, and then his face folded into the maw of his mouth as he began soundlessly to cry. I took the bucket from him; it was only half-full, but I threw it uselessly in the direction of the blazing hay-rick all the same. Then I hooked the bucket handle over one arm and helped the old man haltingly away from the yard.
‘The horses, Doble,’ I said urgently as we reached the orchard, where the air was a little cooler, the roar of the flames less intense.
‘At grass. Your father –’ he gasped.
I went cold. ‘Father?’
‘He was here. I saw him.’
‘Where?’
‘At the ricks. Edith –’
‘Where is he now? Where is he?’
‘I can’t rightly say, Edith. I’m sorry. Happen – happen he’s gone.’
I left him under the trees, calling something to
me that I couldn’t hear, and ran back to the rick-yard, where Alf was flinging buckets of water onto the barley-ricks, one of which was belching smoke.
‘Edie!’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘You must run for help! Go!’
‘You go! You bloody go!’ I shouted back, thrusting the bucket into his chest as hard as I could. ‘I’m staying – Doble says that Father’s here somewhere.’
Flames were licking the side of the barn closest to the ricks as I plunged into its smoke-filled darkness, shouting and coughing. I fumbled my way around the reaper-binder and the tractor, calling for Father, my eyes streaming, my head becoming light. But there was no reply. Then I heard shouting outside, and stumbled out to see John leaping from the trap as Frank wrestled with Meg where she reared and bucked in terror at the inferno of the ricks and Grandfather held on tight to the seat of the trap.
‘Ada!’ John shouted, his voice anguished, as he sprinted for the house. ‘Ada – please God – are you safe?’
And I remembered Mother then, too late, and my legs buckled under me where I stood.
I don’t recall anything more of that terrible night, save for one thing. Some hours had passed, I think, and I was lying on a bed – I don’t know where – and Grandfather was with me, holding my left hand in both of his and singing. I knew somehow that he had been singing to me for many hours, and that he would continue for many more yet.
I wanted to tell him that my rage had lit the ricks, that I had used my powers to save myself and so it was my fault that everything, everything, had been lost. But I couldn’t bear for him to stop singing, and so I stilled the words and just listened to his clear, resonant voice as at last my grandfather gave me the songs passed down to him through all the forgotten generations, tears seeping out from the corners of my closed eyes and into my hair:
All Among the Barley Page 22