A Spell of Swallows

by Sarah Harrison

  ‘I hope you won’t think this impertinent,’ he said, ‘but I wondered if there might be a job for me here.’

  ‘What?’ She seemed genuinely astonished, putting her hand to her breast and almost laughing. ‘You mean work?’

  ‘Work, yes.’

  ‘Look, why don’t you come in?’ She led the way into a large and, he guessed, seldom used room to the left of the front door. ‘What sort of work?’

  ‘Well, for instance . . .’ He smiled and looked round, making an expansive gesture. ‘This is a big place. You might need help with the garden, the outside of the house, cooking.’

  ‘Cooking?’ She gave another of her puzzled laughs.

  ‘Nothing funny in that, Mrs Mariner.’ He kept his tone as light as he could. ‘I can cook. I used to do it in the army. No one ever complained.’

  ‘No, no . . . it’s not that.’ She put her hand, in which she held her glasses, over her eyes for a moment as if to clear her mind, and when she took it down she looked composed. ‘Not at all, Mr Ashe. But we have a cook.’

  ‘Very well. What about a car? I understand the vicar has a nice car.’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘I like cars. I can drive, and I know what goes on under the bonnet, too.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ she said, in a way that acknowledged his self-confidence if not his qualifications. ‘I’m sure you do, Mr Ashe, but we really are not in a position to employ anyone else. Hilda does very well for us.’

  ‘Hilda—was it Hilda who opened the door just now?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ She sounded wary.

  ‘Can she drive a car?’

  Mrs Mariner burst out laughing again. ‘Certainly not! Hilda? No!’ She shook her head helplessly; he’d never known anyone so ready to laugh, as if all the laughter was piled up in there waiting, needing to be used. It was incomprehensible to him. ‘What a thought!’

  This, he realised, was the moment to back off. ‘Anyway, I’m taking up your time. Sorry to have troubled you, Mrs Mariner. If you do hear of anything, I’d be grateful if you could let me know, I’m moving to Mrs Jeeps’s tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course I will, Mr Ashe, I’m sorry I can’t be more help.’

  She showed him out. His hat was back on his head and he was halfway down the steps when he heard another voice, the husband’s, saying: ‘What on earth’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing, really.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  Ashe, his hackles prickling, kept walking, but was still close enough to hear Mrs Mariner say his name. He could picture the vicar’s reaction. Still, he had planted the seed and sensed that he could leave it alone to germinate.

  Saxon was firm. This was a situation where he was clear that a man must be master of his own house.

  ‘I hope you said no.’

  ‘Of course . . .’ said Vivien, but the wake of her laughter was still on her face, as though she were keeping a secret from him.

  ‘What’s so amusing?’

  ‘Oh, just something he said. About Hilda.’

  ‘I don’t see what opinion he could possibly have about her—he’s a complete stranger.’

  ‘It wasn’t his opinion. He asked—’ she giggled, and stifled it—‘he asked if she could drive. And it was such a funny picture, so improbable, I couldn’t help . . .’

  Saxon ignored the laughter. ‘Why did he ask?’

  ‘Because he can drive, and knows about cars, apparently. So that would be a possible line of work for him.’

  ‘But not here,’ said Saxon. Irritably, he opened the front door and looked out; the drive and the road beyond it were empty. ‘He shouldn’t be knocking on the front door like that, and bothering you.’

  ‘It was no bother.’ Vivien dipped to glance at herself in the hall mirror, poking her fingers into her disarranged hair; she could see Saxon’s frowning reflection over her shoulder. ‘He was very polite.’

  ‘I’m sure he was. He’d have wanted to ingratiate himself.’

  ‘Actually,’ she straightened up and faced him, ‘he has to behave pleasantly because something terrible happened to his face, during the war. It’s quite shocking. Every day of his life he must have to put up with other people’s reactions, not all of them particularly kind, I imagine.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry about that. But others of them,’ Saxon pointed out sceptically, ‘those of the tenderhearted like yourself, extremely sympathetic.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘He’s a good deal more fortunate than many,’ said Saxon. He didn’t intend to be harsh, simply to protect his wife from importuning strangers on the doorstep. ‘Many young men came back without arms and legs, unable to work at all.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘There are still dozens of them up at Eaden Place, facing an extremely uncertain future.’

  ‘I know that, too.’ His wife’s face had become closed, and he felt suddenly that his well-intentioned warnings had stifled something in her.

  ‘Vivien, don’t misunderstand me. I just don’t like the thought of some complete stranger taking advantage of your good nature.’

  He had put his hand on her arm, and she touched it lightly with her fingers, acknowledging his apology.

  ‘I know, I know . . . But he wasn’t. He asked to speak to you but I said as I always do that you were working.’

  ‘That was quite right. As long as you never hesitate to call me if you—if you feel in the least uncomfortable.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘So we understand each other,’ he said.

  On her way downstairs to reassure Hilda, Vivien thought that no, Saxon did not understand her. Her reaction to Mr Ashe had not been, as he put it, ‘tender-hearted’—but disconcertingly strong. Her heart felt not tender but—she sought the right word to describe it—alert. Unpredictable, and alert.

  ‘He was perfectly pleasant,’ she said in answer to Hilda’s question. ‘Poor fellow, imagine having that effect on everyone you meet for the first time.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He’s looking for work. Like so many others.’

  ‘There’s nothing for him here, ma’am,’ said Hilda. The ‘I hope’ was left unspoken.

  ‘No, unfortunately, it seems you’re right. A pity, it would have been nice to be able to help, but there we are . . .’

  Hilda felt no compunction, only relief. She was as one with her employer the vicar, but for different reasons. She gave a shiver of revulsion; she could think of nothing worse than having to put up with that every day.

  Back at his desk, Saxon remembered his wife stooping to look at her reflection, her hand straying, however ineffectually, to her hair . . . An instance of small, feminine vanity so unusual that it had stayed in his mind. That, at least, was pleasing.

  Ashe was prepared to bide his time on the vicarage, but in the meantime he needed work, both for the money and more importantly for reasons of reputation. Moving in over the post office in Mrs Jeeps’s back room was a step in the right direction. The room was nothing much and she was a terrible cook, but she was a lot cheaper than the Waggoner’s. If there was or ever had been a Mr Jeeps he was not in evidence, and Ashe sensed in his landlady an excellent source of and disseminator of village gossip.

  He had no desire to remain a stranger in Eadenford, an ugly, unemployed, unknown quantity hanging about and providing easy meat for gossips. Work of the sort he wanted would be much more likely to come his way if he was gainfully occupied and accepted in the village, Clay’s forge and workshop would have been ideal, suited to his abilities and tucked away round the back. But since there was nothing doing there, he preferred to be a little less central. He had seen the carrier’s van with Higgins in his porter’s uniform at the wheel, leaving the vicarage as he arrived there, and the next day he set out to walk the two miles to the station.

  He was in luck. The stationmaster, Alf Trodd, was friendly and phlegmatic, and in need of an extra pair of hands now that Sam Higgins was ‘driving abou
t the countryside on charitable work’ for a day or more a week. He stated plainly—no offence intended nor taken—that he thought it best if Ashe were not on the platform or in the ticket office dealing with the passengers face to face, so to speak, at least to begin with.

  ‘In fact,’ said Trodd, ‘you could do the driving, the fetching and carrying and so on, and Mr Higgins can resume his normal duties down here.’

  Higgins looked so crestfallen that Ashe, mindful of the need to stay on good terms with the village, suggested they take turn and turn about.

  ‘Let me start with the driving and after a couple of weeks we can swap over. If that’s satisfactory to you.’

  The stationmaster professed himself perfectly happy so long as the work got done, and mentioned a going rate which would cover his room without much to spare, Still, this situation was only temporary; with a following wind something else was going to come up soon.

  The very next day he took the wheel of the van to deliver packages off the London train to Eaden Place. Just sitting up there, feeling the throb of the engine and the road unwinding beneath the wheels, was exhilarating. Freedom. When people said that’s what they’d been fighting for he’d remained unconvinced—most of the men doing the fighting had about as much freedom back home as the average pet rat. Such a luxury was enjoyed by people with money. Money bought you choice, and the power to exercise it. But this, this wonderful mobility, was a little taste of freedom. He could so easily—though he wasn’t about to—have simply gone on driving, gone wherever he chose until the petrol ran out. He felt no particular gratitude to Trodd, let alone Higgins, for this opportunity; he was using them, and they were lucky to have him.

  As he began the ascent of the long hill towards Eaden Place he reflected on Mrs Mariner, taking his small store of observations out and turning them over in his mind like a boy with a couple of bird’s eggs.

  Starting with his own mother, Ashe had never cared for women: their smell, their essential slipperiness, their peculiar and disobliging mix of dependency and power. Events over the past few yeas had only served to harden this view. Religions that considered women unclean were right—the female of the species was rank. When in need of relief, he’d only ever used prostitutes; there was no point in pretending that it was anything other than a dirty, necessary exchange.

  While conceding Mrs Mariner’s unusual qualities, Ashe did not believe that on a fundamental level she would be different to all the others. That laugh . . . She might even prove a trickier customer than most. An assiduous student of human nature, he had learned to trust his judgement. One thing was certain. Provided the husband was right, the vicarage was perfect.

  What with the driving, the weather, and the relishing of his plans, Ashe was in high good humour by the time he arrived. The parcels had to be delivered at the back door, and who should meet him there but the girl he’d seen on the river bank the morning he arrived. She let out another little shriek, but at least this time he had the van and the parcels to show he was respectable, and she calmed down even though she couldn’t look at him properly.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I was just taking a dip.’

  ‘You startled me, you really did!’

  ‘I startle everyone, I’m afraid.’ He saw the beginnings of a smile in her face and added. ‘And I ate your cake, too.’

  She giggled. ‘I hope you enjoyed it.’

  ‘My compliments to the cook.’

  She led him through the back corridors to the foot of the stairs leading to the Delamaynes’ private quarters, and instructed him to leave the parcels on the table.

  ‘Let me know when you have another cake,’ he said, and she giggled as she scuttled off.

  Ashe took his time. When he’d dumped the parcels he couldn’t resist taking a look around. He was unimpressed by the owners’ philanthropic gesture in giving over the stately pile to convalescents. Who needed a place this size? And what exactly had Lord and Lady Muck been doing while these poor bastards were losing bits of themselves in the desert and dying of disgusting diseases in the swamps? Just the same, curiosity led him towards the south side of the house where he’d seen the terrace with its fleet of wheelchairs. He was surprised by how many of them there still were, and God knows how many more indoors. Some of them looked pretty chipper, but most were pale and withdrawn, and a few were shaking, and muttering, like a bunch of derelicts, old before their time.

  A middle-aged nurse wearing a cap that looked like a brace of seagulls perched on the back of her head strode briskly up to him—without, he noticed, a flicker of anxiety, but then she must have seen most things in her time.

  ‘May I help you?’

  ‘No thank you,’ he said. ‘Just taking a look.’

  ‘Are you looking for someone in particular?’

  ‘No.’ It was clear she thought some explanation was necessary, so he added: ‘I was in the war myself.’

  ‘I guessed as much.’

  ‘Any here from Mesopotamia?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you. They’re all just our patients to us. Anyway, if there’s nothing I can do . . .’ She held out her arm in an ushering gesture.

  ‘Look after them,’ he said, as if that was what she meant.

  ‘That goes without saying,’ she replied frostily. ‘Now if you don’t mind, it’s only visitors and staff allowed here and I have to get on. I must ask you to leave.’

  She took a step, but when he didn’t move she paused and added pointedly, ‘Can you find your own way out?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  This time, under the nurse’s suspicious stare, he turned, and left. As he walked down the corridor he saw a tall woman come down the stairs and study the parcels on the table. She looked up briefly from the labels as he approached, then with a swift double take looked again.

  ‘Oh—good morning.’ Everything about her proclaimed her the lady of the house.

  ‘Good morning.’ He wasn’t going to use ‘your ladyship’ until it became unavoidable.

  ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’ He nodded at the pacels. ‘I just delivered those.’

  ‘Thank you. Ah!’ She raised an index finger. ‘I see!’ Her eyes narrowed and the index finger, which had been pointing at the ceiling, angled in his direction.

  ‘I think I know who you are.’

  He couldn’t resist it. ‘Then you’ve got the advantage of me, madam.’

  ‘My apologies—Lady Delamayne. And you must be Mr Ashe.’

  ‘Correct, your ladyship.’

  ‘I believe you showed an interest in my car the other day, when it was parked outside the church.’ It was not so much a question as a challenge. Her eyelids snapped at him like twin terriers.

  ‘Outside the . . .?’ He pretended to search his memory. ‘Oh yes. Nice car, that.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so!’ She bridled, censorious but amused in spite of herself. ‘You know about cars, I assume?’

  ‘I’ve had a bit to do with them, your ladyship. I can appreciate a good motor when it’s in front of me.’

  ‘I take it you brought these up in the station van. How does that score?’

  ‘About—’ he pursed his lips—‘four out of ten. Serviceable, willing—not exciting, but then it’s not supposed to be.’

  She laughed, a fruity chortle, the edges roughened by cigarettes. He didn’t laugh with her, and he was right not to, because the next moment she waved a hand at the parcels and said: ‘Since you’re here, would you be kind enough to bring these up for me, to the flat?’

  There was no mistaking the order disguised as a request. Lady Delamayne didn’t wait for his reply, but set off up the stairs. Ashe picked up the parcels and followed, her broad, firm bottom in county tailoring and strong, rounded, silk-clad calves bobbing upwards at eye level. She was a supremely confident woman who knew what she was doing, all right. But she had picked the wrong man; his imperviousness to Lady Delamayne’s b
ackside gave Ashe considerable satisfaction.

  ‘This is us,’ she said. ‘Holed up in the attic, all in a good cause.’

  The ‘attic’ was a section of the first storey big enough, from what he could see, to house at least three village families. Lady Delamayne led him into a drawing room lined in apple-green brocade. A small brown and white dog lay on a plaid rug which had been thrown over one of the green and pink sofas. As soon as they entered it jumped down and began barking noisily at Ashe.

  ‘Be quiet! Be quiet! Bad dog, Monty! Quiet! Go back!’

  After this brief and noisy exchange of fire Monty, vanquished, retreated to the sofa. Ashe stood holding the parcels with slightly exaggerated patience. Lady Delamayne waggled a big hand with three handsome diamonds.

  ‘Over there, that’ll do.’ He put the parcels on the other sofa. Monty growled, the rumble thinning into an unpleasant snarl.

  ‘Stop that! Bad dog! Don’t worry, he’s like this with everyone.’ She went to a desk in the corner and opened a drawer, returning with something in her hand. ‘He’s the only one allowed inside and he thinks he owns the place. It drives my husband insane with rage.’ She held out a sixpence. ‘Thank you.’

  For a couple of seconds Ashe just looked at the coin, lying on her palm. She was no fool, she’d get the message: he’d take her sixpence, eventually, and the offence that went with it.

  ‘Your ladyship.’

  ‘Good!’ This had the air of an announcement, as though sealing some pact or understanding between them, which irritated Ashe, as perhaps it was meant to. Now, she showed him to the door.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He let that hang—it had not been his pleasure—and was halfway down the stairs before he heard the door close behind him.

  MESOPOTAMIA

  A desert and a quagmire—seems like a contradiction, but then there’s contradictions everywhere you look here. Two great big rivers but precious little to drink that won’t poison you—the estuary’s salt, and the shallows are so full of filth you might as well drink out of a privy. Every kind of waste floating around. Corpses, too: donkeys, dogs, even people, I shouldn’t be surprised, I get the impression life is cheap even without a war. No wonder the flies are the only ones that grow fat. And it’s a lucky man who hasn’t got the shits. We like to think we’re the hygienic ones around here, but when your innards are pretty much turned to sewer water, what’s a man to do? There are precious few latrines, and finding somewhere private to dig a hole takes a lot more time than you’ve got.