A Spell of Swallows

by Sarah Harrison

  After they’d gone, he remained in the garden until a lamp came on in the upstairs window, the same one where he had caught her looking at him on his first morning in the village, then moved swiftly away.

  In the very heat of the moment, just as he cried out, Saxon registered, blurrily, that his wife was staring at him, or at some point beyond his shoulder.

  He rolled away from her and raised an arm to cover his face, a barrier behind which to collect his thoughts. It was not the fact that her eyes had been open that disturbed him, but the expression in them: something quizzical and objective, as if she were seeing him for the first time.

  A minute later, lying on his side, facing towards her, he said: ‘I adore you.’ It was the simple truth, but also on this occasion a test, or experiment, for the results of which he scrutinised her profile.

  Vivien did not answer, but smiled dreamily, and closed her eyes in a long blink of acknowledgement. Saxon’s world shifted minutely on its axis. They lay side by side, gazing upwards. He could smell the aroma of the half-cooked omelette, but his appetite was gone.

  George Lownes made no bones about the fact that he thought the Mariners an extraordinarily odd couple. How, he asked himself, and anyone else he happened to be with when the subject came up, had Saxon Mariner managed to snare the delightful Vivien? Mariner was a gifted poet and might well (though George was a lifelong atheist without the least knowledge of these things) be an exemplary parish priest, but he was a dry stick; and a prickly one, too. Whereas his wife . . . George shook his head and smiled to himself as he alighted from a cab in Jasper Place, W1, outside Rosa’s restaurant. To know her was to love her, he thought fondly. Why on earth would a woman like that choose to be the helpmeet of a country parson? What the devil did she do with herself all day? How many good works could there be in a place the size of Eadenford? George had visited them there once, and it had been more than enough. He had never experienced such gratitude and relief as when he was on the train back to London and his urbane Fitzrovian life. People spoke of the joys of country living, of natural beauty and the sturdy virtues of village folk, but nothing George had seen chez Mariner had altered his view that it was a living death. Rural life may have suited Saxon, who was after all a writer and a man of the cloth, but what possible attraction could it hold for a vivacious young woman?

  Currently, George had three preferred locations for the entertaining of clients. The first was his club off Piccadilly, one of the oldest and grandest in London. The food was sound and wholesome, but unexceptional, it was the grandeur you paid for; that and the exclusivity—the waiting list was longer than Eton’s. For obvious reasons, this option was not available if there were to be ladies present. For mixed company he used the Savoy grill (impeccable), or Rosa’s (bohemian). Today, he‘d chosen the latter, mainly for Vivien’s benefit. It would be more to her taste than her husband’s, but George took the view that the poor girl needed spoiling a little.

  He was greeted by Gianni, the head waiter and shown to his usual table on the far side of the room against the wall, a position that was both discreet and perfect for seeing and being seen. The room was crowded and noisy and the kitchen, occasionally visible through flapping swing doors at the back, appeared suitably hellish, the chefs conducting their business in a swirling vapour, clashing and shouting like men on a battlefield. The emergence of perfectly decent food at regular intervals seemed incidental to the ongoing drama, and Rosa’s clientele, an eclectic crowd in any case, took their tone from the kitchen: they spoke loudly, gestured extravagantly, smoked like dragons and generally projected as if trying to upstage one another in an elaborate theatrical piece of ensemble playing. It pleased George to imagine that the shade of the eponymous Rosa, said to have been the madam of a brothel on this same site, hovered over the whole enterprise, imbuing it with a raffish glamour.

  At this moment he was completely happy. He liked to feel that his job in publishing qualified him to be a member of the artistic beau monde, and was sure he would appear so to the pleasant but provincial Mariners.

  And here they were, being escorted between the tables by Gianni. George rose to greet them, shook first Vivien, then Saxon, by the hand—the latter gesture accompanied by a manly squeeze of the elbow by way of congratulations.

  ‘I thought this place might amuse you,’ he said, as Gianni drew back the chair for Vivien. It’s absolutely full of people who would like you to think they are somebody.’

  ‘And are they?’ she asked, looking round.

  ‘Mostly not—but nil desperandum. Just occasionally a real luminary sneaks in.’

  ‘Then I shall have to keep my eyes peeled.’

  ‘You’d better,’ said Saxon. ‘Because I shouldn’t recognise them anyway.’

  ‘Ah, writers . . .’ George, who was sitting between them, beamed fondly at his client, but inclined his head towards Vivien to align himself with her. ‘Writers! They truly are in a world of their own.’

  Vivien saw exactly what George Lownes thought about the two of them, and it enraged her. He was one of those maddening people who fancied themselves students of human nature and who allowed a hint of their supposed ‘insight’ to seep into their manner and conversation, to let you know how clever and intuitive, but also how discreet, they were.

  In these circumstances she felt oddly protective towards Saxon. For all his prodigious intellect and outward composure, pride and an air of stiffness made him vulnerable to a particular kind of covert ridicule. She also wished—for that moment only—that she had it in her to be more fashionable. Wearing smart, expensive clothing, with elegant shoes and bag and a chic hat perched on curled hair, she might have been better able to redress the balance. She would not have appeared so much the sort of simple soul whom George Lownes could invite into his sniggery collusion.

  Unfortunately, that recourse was simply not available to her. She could not do it. Not because of lack of funds; Saxon often suggested she ‘buy something nice’, and had once or twice even ventured to buy her something himself (she winced at the memory). It was simply that she lacked both judgement and inclination. She wouldn’t have known where to start, and so chose not to.

  On the other hand, she could see that she was not too out of place in here. Rosa’s was a restaurant with artistic pretensions, and the appearance of the diners was in keeping with this conceit. Long scarves, peasant shirts, dramatic jewellery and arresting hats were much in evidence. If anything, she though despairingly, she had made the mistake of trying too hard. Instead of her one respectable jacket and skirt, and rather prim pre-war blouse she would have been better off in Saxon’s old shirt and one of her ‘interesting woollies’. She had been wearing a hat she liked, in jaunty tweed with a feather, rather Tyrolean, but had taken it off before she sat down. Her hair, floppy as usual, felt as if it were about to descend all over her shoulders. Her left stocking had snagged on torn upholstery in the train. She was hot. The two of them were being patronised by this sleek, smiling tomcat of a man and she badly wanted to let him know that she, at least, was on to his game and did not take kindly to it.

  Champagne arrived, ordered by George without reference to his guests. Vivien knew that Saxon didn’t much care for the stuff, and would be looking forward to a nice claret with his fillet of beef. But the champagne lent an air of instant celebration to the proceedings, and they clinked glasses.

  ‘To the book!’ cried George heartily.

  ‘To the book,’ murmured Saxon. ‘Beyond Self . . .’ he added, almost warily, as if the words were so much a product of another place and time they had become strange to him.

  Vivien lifted her glass higher and said in a forced tone: ‘Success!’

  They drank, thinking in their different ways about Beyond Self George was first to end what threatened to be an awkward pause.

  ‘I’m looking forward to some splendid reviews. Edward Jacob at Phaeton has already been in touch, he’s a tremendous admirer of yours.’

  ‘Is he?’ sai
d Saxon.

  ‘He particularly likes the fact that these are not poems about the war. He feels there may have been enough of that, that people are ready for something different.’

  ‘Good.’ Saxon wasn’t sure whether it was or not. As a man of God had he perhaps been remiss in not writing (again, his last volume had dealt with it) about this overwhelmingly important subject?

  ‘What I’d really like,’ went on George, wagging a finger, ‘and I’m not the only one, would be for you to do a reading. Some time in the month after publication. For readers, and potential readers, nothing beats hearing the work read by the poet himself.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I know so.’ George turned to Vivien. ‘Mrs Mariner, what do you think of the idea?’

  She considered before replying, not to George but to Saxon: ‘I think it would only work if you wanted to do it—if your heart was in it. You’re a poet, after all, not a performer.’

  Unfortunately Saxon wasn’t quite quick enough, and George cut in.

  ‘But he is! You are, Saxon—every Sunday you get up in that pulpit and preach to the multitude. Or however many are there,’ he added, in response to Vivien’s incredulous expression. ‘At any rate you’re a practised speaker. And no one can ever render poetry as truthfully and sensitively as the writer himself. All I ask is that you consider it, Saxon. Go home and think, discuss it between yourselves. We need to introduce you more fully to your public. Ah, the roast beef of old England . . .’ He leaned back, rubbing his hands, as their plates were put in front of them. ‘Now then, I want to hear about the parish and all its doings . . .’

  He didn’t, of course, and Vivien could hardly bear to hear Saxon dutifully outlining his schedule of humdrum meetings and poorly attended services. Her husband was a brilliant and unusual man, but beneath the pretence of admiration Lownes was subtly subverting the occasion, obliging him to recite in detail the essential dullness from which Lownes and Peart had the power to lift him.

  When pudding arrived, she took the opportunity to break into Saxon’s analysis of church finances.

  ‘I know what I think. I think you should do a reading.’

  George’s eyebrows rose high in his round, pink face. ‘Bravo, Mrs Mariner.’

  ‘Perhaps more than one, around the country. You could organise that, couldn’t you, George?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Saxon smiled thinly. His high cheekbones were a little flushed—with the wine, perhaps, or with embarrassment. ‘Vivien, don’t let’s get ahead of ourselves. This idea has only just been mooted.’

  ‘I simply wanted to say that I think it’s a good idea. You’re too modest, Saxon.’

  ‘Hear hear,’ said George. He looked from one to the other as if umpiring a tennis match. ‘Well said!’

  Saxon would have been more flattered by this observation if he’d known it to be true. Whatever his faults, complacency was not among them. Not knowing how to acknowledge the compliment, he ignored it.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly travel about the country like some itinerant entertainer.’

  ‘Like Charles Dickens?’ suggested Vivien, not looking at him, running her forefinger along the edge of the cloth. She continued to feel angry and out of sorts, not only because of George.

  Who now, annoyingly, tapped his finger to his mouth, eyes narrowed. ‘A palpable hit, I think.’

  ‘I couldn’t leave the parish to go swanning off. Eadenford is where my real work is. I’m needed there.’

  ‘Don’t they have’—George cudgelled his brains—‘curates? Aren’t curates supposed to step in when the incumbent is away? I’m sure I’ve read it in Trollope.’

  ‘No . . .’ said Saxon. ‘No.’

  Vivien realised that her spirited call to arms on Saxon’s behalf was being traduced, and all her good intentions in danger of backfiring. The likelihood of his undertaking one poetry reading, let alone a tour, was becoming more remote by the second.

  ‘Of course,’ she said humbly, ‘the parish must come first. I wasn’t taking that into account—I let my enthusiasm run away with me.’

  Saxon nodded austerely, but George was enjoying himself.

  ‘And a lovely thing it was to see, if I may say so. If you ever tire of parish duties, Mrs Mariner, you could always find a place in the world of publishing. That sort of unalloyed delight in another’s work is rare. It cannot be feigned.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Saxon, but the mild sarcasm was lost on George, who slapped his midriff contentedly and asked who wanted cheese.

  Saxon held his peace in the cab, paid for by Lownes, but once they were aboard the train, facing each other in window seats in an otherwise empty compartment, he felt obliged to say, as gently as possible:

  ‘I know you meant well, but on the whole it’s best if we talk about these things privately before voicing an opinion. Arguing—or appearing to argue—in public only muddies the water. And it’s such bad form.’

  Vivien, who had been staring out at the low grey ramparts of London drifting past behind rags of smoke, turned to face him. Her eyes were big and bright.

  ‘Bad form?’

  ‘A silly expression.’ He flicked his fingers, dismissing it. ‘Ill-mannered, then.’

  ‘If I was rude, I apologise.’

  ‘You weren’t intentionally so, but the effect—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Saxon. Truly.’

  Her words may have been contrite, but her tone was sharp; he almost wished he hadn’t spoken. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Looking out of the window she said, in the same voice:

  ‘I don’t like the way he treats us.’

  ‘Lownes? What’s the matter with him?’ Saxon knew the answer to this perfectly well, but for some reason did not wish to hear it articulated by his wife.

  ‘He’s horrible.’

  ‘He just entertained us royally.’

  ‘I don’t care, he’s a vile man.’

  ‘I must say I think that’s rather a harsh judgement. He’s—of a certain type, certainly. But, forgive the cliché, life would be a dull thing if we were all the same.’

  ‘No!’ Vivien sat back, slapping her hands down on her knees as if that did it. ‘No, Saxon, I won’t forgive the cliché. Not from you; you’re only doing it now to excuse that awful man.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Saxon. ‘In what way is he awful?’ He found himself hoping, somewhat cravenly, that the ways in which Vivien thought George Lownes awful would not correspond with his own views, so he would be able honestly to disagree with her.

  ‘Let me see.’ She began counting off on her fingers. ‘He’s patronising, and smug, and insincere. He pretends to admire your work—’

  ‘Vivien!’ He was sharp, she had touched a nerve. ‘I’m sorry—are you saying that he’s lying?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ She paused, not wanting to hurt him. ‘I think he doesn’t care. It’s all just business to him. We come up to London with straws in our hair and we’re supposed to be pathetically grateful for that expensive lunch. You’re a poet, Saxon. I wonder, does he know how lucky he is to have you?’

  ‘Whether he does or not, I’m lucky to have him, too. I’m sure there are many hundreds of excellent writers, unsung and unknown, who are never paid the compliment of being published.’

  ‘You see?’ she cried vehemently. ‘Compliment! He’s not complimenting you when he prints your wonderful words, he’s engaging in a business transaction.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Saxon drily, ‘he lacks acumen. I don’t imagine my books swell the publisher’s coffers by as much as a brass farthing.’

  Vivien gave a short, impatient sigh with eyes closed, composing herself to return to the fray.

  ‘There are other kinds of value. Your value to them is as an adornment. Your presence tells everyone they are discriminating and thoughtful, that they have taste. They can show you off in the places where these things matter.’

  Reflecting on this, Saxon gazed out of the wind
ow. They were leaving the outskirts of town now. On a school games field, boys were playing rugby, for perhaps the last time that season. Saxon shivered at the thought of the school’s roll of honour, swelled by hundreds over the past four years. Perhaps, though, the terrible slaughter of their predecessors would at least have paid for the freedom and safety of these lads, running and shouting in the spring sunshine. He wished fervently that he had written a poem along these lines . . .

  ‘Well?’ asked Vivien.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ he said in a chastened tone, ‘that “these things” as you put it don’t matter at all.’

  ‘Not to you, Saxon, I realise that. To them.’

  ‘You may be right.’

  ‘I am.’ She settled back, quite flushed. Saxon was wary of Vivien in this mood. He was warmed by her strength of feeling, but sensed a rather less attractive lack of control. With hindsight, perhaps they had all got off lightly at lunchtime.

  The Mariners changed trains at Salisbury on to the branch line, and reached Eadenford at half past six, the only passengers to alight there. As the train huffed and snorted away, the smoke floating and dissipating in its wake, the peace of evening seemed to settle around them. The station was a little way from the village; they could hear the soft, dying fall of a wood pigeon, and the sporadic barking of a dog in the distance. Beneath the trees at the top of the far embankment the ground was misted with violets. On the rough grass lower down a scattering of rabbits, accustomed to both trains and passengers, hopped and nibbled.