A Spell of Swallows

by Sarah Harrison

  ‘I’ll let you get on with your reading.’

  ‘Sir.’

  I pretend to get on while I watch him from the corner of my eye. He looks almost crestfallen. How can an intelligent, educated man like that let himself be dictated to by someone like me?

  Either he’s not as clever as I thought, or I’m a lot cleverer.

  Chapter Five

  The following Sunday, Ashe went to church. He arrived at St Catherine’s a few minutes early, and it was raining, but even so he hung about outside the porch till he heard the organist playing the introduction to the opening hymn. Only then did he open the door, turning the big iron ring very gently so as not to make a noise. Of course some do-gooder looked over her shoulder, did a double take and managed to beam welcomingly. She came bustling out of her pew to give him a service book, but he was too quick for her, took a book for himself and sat down in a place off the side aisle, at the back.

  The hymn rang some sort of bell from his army days, but he didn’t join in. The remnants of a choir stood out front: two old men, four sturdy women and half a dozen small boys to make up the numbers, who were no more singing than he was. One of them spotted him and there was a bit of nudging and staring until a female chorister intervened with a sharp prod. The congregation, about thirty of them, sang along apathetically.

  Ashe thought perhaps they were taking their tone from the vicar. The Reverend Mariner held his book in front of him at chin height, but his eyes were fixed, quite literally, on higher things, somewhere around the apex of the north wall and the roof, and his lips moved desultorily as if he were talking to himself, not singing.

  The hymn had a lot of verses. The organist liked to finish each one with a rallentando, as if that—was the—end . . . but no! On and on it trudged. Ashe saw Mrs Mariner sitting in the middle of a pew, several rows from the front. She was wearing a tweed hat with a feather, the whole thing a bit askew, as though it had fluttered down and perched there. Her hair at the back looked none too secure either; a couple of long strands had already come loose. Lady Delamayne, on the other hand—front row, opposite side—was smart as paint, encased in a well cut, fitted green suit with a round, buttoned collar, and a green and black cloche; no hair showing. When her head turned slightly Ashe caught a flash of red lipstick. He pictured her shoes, black, with tall, thick heels and a strap across the instep. Next to her was a man who must have been her husband, big, pear-shaped and florid with a shock of greying curls that started well back on his freckled dome. He was a loud but inexpert singer; Ashe could hear his slightly off-key rendition from here.

  There were one or two others he recognised—the Clays, Spall the butcher and his wife, the woman who worked at the vicarage, his landlady Mrs Jeeps (he hadn’t told her he was off to the same place), and a few others he knew only by sight.

  The hymn ended. Mariner began to speak—not his own words, but those laid down in the service. He held the book, a different one, but did not consult it. The archaic English rolled out of him like scarves out of a conjurer’s mouth. His voice wasn’t his own either, but one assumed for the occasion, highly enunciated and full of odd, unresolved cadences. Ashe thought you could almost feel the boredom through the backs of people’s heads. No, not boredom: disappointment. There was something here for the taking, but Mariner wasn’t the man for the job. The mad army padre Mills had been the same. What was it about these men? A brush salesman could have made a better fist of it.

  The service went on, with more stuff from the book, prayers, another hymn, then the sermon. Mariner rose slowly to the pulpit, put his notes on the lectern, and rested his hands on either side of it. Some of the heads tilted hopefully in his direction, but most remained staring straight ahead, or at the floor.

  ‘I take as my text those words from the epistle for the day.’ Mariner looked down, as if reading. ‘ “This is thankworthy, if a man for conscience toward God endure grief, suffering wrongfully.” ’ Now he looked up, repeating the words slowly and with greater emphasis. ‘ “If a man for conscience toward God endure grief, suffering wrongfully.” ’

  Ah, thought Ashe, martyrdom. Always a good one, especially in the shadow of war. It transpired, however, that Mariner was making his point on a more domestic level—it was time the parishioners of Eadenford turned out and came to church on a Sunday. ‘Conscience toward God’ was a matter of standing up to be counted. What, asked Mariner, would a stranger passing through Eadenford think of the spiritual life of this beautiful village? That the inhabitants were people of faith and constancy, behaving according to a strong moral law? Or a bunch of shifty backsliders? (These last words were Ashe’s private interpretation of what Mariner said.) He couldn’t be sure if the vicar had seen him. His position away from the rest of the congregation might have made him more rather than less conspicuous. But Mariner’s preaching style was lofty and old-fashioned, addressed not to individuals, but to a space somewhere above and over their heads, most of which were now sheepishly bowed. Lady Delamayne gazed straight ahead and unblinking at the altar, confident that she herself was not among the castigated. Her husband sat with arms folded high on his chest, jowls resting pensively on his Sunday collar, his thoughts almost certainly elsewhere—lining up on some wretched pheasant or pursuing a fox to its death. Only Mrs Mariner seemed to be looking up at her husband with complete attention. An aqueous grey-green light fell from a window on to her face, which was still and serious beneath the rakish hat. As Mariner continued to berate those present for the shortcomings of those who weren’t, Ashe studied his wife. When, after about twenty minutes, Mariner drew the sermon to a close in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, outlining a swift cross on his front, Mrs Mariner glanced Ashe’s way and widened her eyes in a welcoming half-smile, which he did not return. All he’d wanted was for her to register his presence. He had achieved his objective.

  The last hymn was ‘Bread of Heaven’, rousing but brief. Ashe planned to slip away just before the end, but during the last verse the choir, followed by Mariner, processed down the aisle and effectively cut him off at the pass. Then everyone sank to their knees while another short prayer was murmured, inaudibly, at the back. He sat impatiently on the edge of the pew; the moment the final ‘Amen’ was muttered, he got to his feet and left, keeping his eyes on the ground, and pulling the door to behind him.

  It was good to be outside, with the soft hiss of the rain, the smell of greenness and growth from the unmown churchyard, the muted chirrup of birds sheltering in the shaggy black boughs of the yew tree, Ashe breathed deeply as he headed for the lych-gate. In the lane outside stood the Delamaynes’ car.

  ‘Mr Ashe! Wait!’

  He stopped and looked over his shoulder. It was Mrs Mariner, hurrying down the path with her hat in her hand. Below the hem of her skirt sturdy, brown laced shoes, splashed through the puddles.

  ‘Oh—Mr Ashe!’ She reached his side, panting. ‘I’m so glad I caught you.’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Mariner.’

  ‘How nice to see you in church. I didn’t somehow think’—she frowned, smiled, then waved her hand—‘I don’t know what I thought, but anyway it was nice to see you.’

  There was something excitable in her manner. He stood quietly, not helping her. The rain sifted gently down. In the dark doorway of the church stood the white figure of Mariner in his surplice. One or two other people were beginning to emerge, pausing in the porch to button coats and put up umbrellas. Their voices, less than thirty yards away, seemed distant.

  ‘I just wanted to thank you again,’ she said animatedly, ‘for cleaning the car for us that day we went to London.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said. It had occurred to him that she liked speaking to him, and to be seen speaking to him.

  ‘I don’t know—it seems to go better when it’s clean!’

  He nodded.

  ‘Not that I drive,’ she added. ‘But that’s what my husband says.’

  He was sure her husband sai
d no such thing; the observation had been entirely hers, and made on the spur of the moment.

  People were beginning to come down the path. She looked up into the rain, blinking, then pulled her hat on.

  ‘You could learn,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘To drive. Your husband could teach you.’

  ‘Heavens!’ She seemed always ready to laugh, and did so again now. ‘I can’t imagine that!’

  He didn’t join in her laughter, but waited politely for her to finish.

  ‘Oh well. . . Goodbye, Mr Ashe.’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Mariner.’

  He walked quickly away, conscious of her watching him for a moment, before being sucked into the group of departing worshippers, the Delamaynes among them; he could hear Lady Delamayne’s resonant tones cutting through the rest.

  He was exhilarated. Church had done him good after all.

  The rain intensified during the afternoon. The badminton set which Vivien had taken out a couple of days earlier was still in its canvas bag, propped against the side of the shed. The temperature in the vicarage—not a warm house at the best of times—dropped sharply, and Vivien, swathed in her largest cardigan, lit a fire in the drawing room, and curled up in an armchair beneath a lamp, with her book and a cigarette.

  Saxon was restless. Having gone into his study after lunch, Vivien could hear him moving about in there, and then the door opened and his footsteps sounded in the hall, on the stairs, across the landing, down again . . . pacing about in irritable boredom.

  Familiar with this mood, she didn’t look up when he came into the drawing room, but kept her eyes, self-protectively, on the page. The rain thrummed and streamed on the window. The chimney didn’t draw well in this weather and the fire was no more than a dull red glow, smoking sullenly. She leaned forward and threw her cigarette end on to the coals.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ said Saxon, referring to the habit rather than the action.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re not yourself, somehow, with a cigarette in your hand.’

  ‘But I am.’ She laid the book face down on the arm of the chair. ‘Just not a side of me that you like.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not ladylike.’

  ‘That doesn’t—’ He hesitated, and then said firmly: ‘No.’

  She gave a brief sigh of exasperation, and changed the subject.

  ‘Did you see Mr Ashe in church?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I thought that was rather surprising. I wouldn’t have taken him for a churchgoer.’

  ‘I’m quite sure he’s not,’ said Saxon thinly.

  She laced her fingers behind her head. ‘He doesn’t think much of me.’

  Saxon frowned. ‘It’s of no possible concern to me what he thinks of either of us.’

  ‘Of course not.’ There was a lengthening pause, during which the only movement in the room was the tip of Saxon’s index finger tapping a rapid and uneven rhythm on the arm of his chair. She wished he would stop.

  ‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘if I should learn how to drive . . .’

  ‘By all means if you’d like to,’ he replied, as if she had asked his permission. ‘Where did this idea come from?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it recently. So many women can now, because of the war and so on. It would be useful, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘If I did want to, would you teach me?’ Until then she hadn’t wanted to look at him, but now she did, the better to gauge his reaction.

  ‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘I’d make a very poor teacher. I’m not sure I have the patience. We should argue.’

  ‘I promise not to.’

  Saxon rose from his chair. ‘Well?’ she asked, ‘what do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He began to move towards the door, driven out by her questions. At the door he said, over his shoulder, ‘I’d be no use at all to you. But there must be someone else who could teach you.’

  He left, and in a moment she heard the study door close, this time followed by silence.

  Two days later Ashe was loading the station van with trunks for Eaden Place—there were still patients arriving, even now—when Mrs Mariner cycled into the station yard.

  Her appearance was nothing short of bizarre. She was wearing a pair of over-large moleskin trousers held up with a belt, and her hair was tucked up in a cap. The bicycle’s seat was set a little high for her. He pretended not see as she stopped, hopping awkwardly with one foot on the pedal and the other on the ground, then dismounted and leaned the bicycle against the wall. Mr Trodd appeared and greeted her; they exchanged a few words and he pointed towards Ashe. Ashe kept working as she came over.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Ashe.’

  ‘Mrs Mariner. Morning.’

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’

  He tossed the case he was holding into the van. ‘You’re not.’

  ‘There’s something I wanted to ask you. After our conversation the other day.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘You know—about learning to drive.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘I was discussing it with my husband—’ she began, and then must have seen something in his face because she glanced down at herself and said, ‘By the way I apologise for my appearance, these are so much more practical for cycling.’

  He shrugged. ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Anyway, Mr Ashe,’ she went on briskly: ‘I mustn’t waste your time. I wondered if you could teach me to drive?’

  ‘I could,’ he replied, an emphasis on the second word implying reservations.

  ‘Then—would you? I’d be so grateful.’

  ‘I work full time here,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I realise that, and I don’t want to impose. But perhaps, say, an hour a week? I’d pay you, of course.’

  Ashe took his time. ‘What does Mr Mariner think about this?’

  ‘As a matter of fact it was his idea.’

  ‘He doesn’t want to teach you himself?’ Ashe pushed the bounds of propriety a bit, to see what he could get away with.

  ‘No.’ She didn’t even seem to notice. ‘He’s much too busy, and anyway he doesn’t think it would work. He thinks we might . . .’ She hesitated. ‘I agree with him, actually.’

  Ashe picked up another suitcase. He kept his movements slow because his brain was racing. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Splendid.’ She sounded businesslike, but she was a lot more pleased than she was letting on. ‘When shall we start?’

  ‘The evenings are getting lighter.’ He slung the case into the van and dusted his palms. ‘What about six o’clock on Friday?’

  ‘Perfect. Will you come to call?’

  ‘I’ll wait by the garage.’

  ‘Yes, but if I’m not there do come and ring the doorbell. The front doorbell,’ she added.

  He inclined his head.

  ‘I’ll see you soon then.’

  ‘Afternoon, Mrs Mariner.’

  She collected her bicycle and stood astride it before first scooting unsteadily, then pedalling away. Trodd, quivering with curiosity, came out of the station office and walked over crabwise, his head slewed round to watch her retreating back view.

  ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Get yourself invited to the vicarage tea party did you?’

  Ashe made no comment, and closed the back of the van. ‘I’ll take this lot then.’

  ‘Yes, yes, on your way.’ Trodd waved an arm in the direction of the road. ‘Watch out for lady cyclists!’

  Edith Clay needed to get shot of the puppies, or at least to know that she would definitely be shot of them soon. Whatever disagreements went on behind closed doors at the vicarage were no concern of hers.

  ‘So will you be wanting one, then?’ she asked, standing over Mrs Marine
r as she knelt on the floor.

  ‘Oh yes, I think so.’ She glanced up at Edith. ‘May I pick one up?’

  ‘Course you may.’

  ‘Let me see . . .’ Mrs Mariner deliberated, and settled on one of the dogs, black with white feet. ‘Hallo, hallo . . . Aren’t you handsome?’ She held the pup up in front of her face. It stretched its front legs towards her, paws turned up, with splayed toes. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘He’d be a good choice,’ said Edith firmly. ‘Biggest of the litter, and the strongest. He’d look after you.’

  ‘Would he really?’ Mrs Mariner laughed. ‘Would you?’

  ‘Men like a dog about the place,’ offered Edith. ‘Dog more than a bitch,’ she explained, ‘suits them better, somehow.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Vivien peered closely at the puppy. ‘Does he have a name?’

  ‘That’s up to you. If you want that one and you’re going to pick him up a couple of weeks from now, we can start calling him whatever you like. Get him used to it.’

  This was one of the means by which Edith hoped to pin Mrs Mariner down. Once she’d named a pup it would be that much harder for her to change her mind.

  The strategy seemed to have worked. Vivien returned the puppy to its siblings and stood up. ‘Boots,’ she said. ‘I think we should call him Boots.’

  ‘That’s it then. Nice and simple. Boots it is.’

  Edith went to the calendar that stood on the mantelpiece, She picked up the stub of pencil that lay next to it, and marked a large cross, and the letter ‘M’ on a date two weeks hence.

  ‘He’ll be ready for you.’

  ‘I shall look forward to it.’ Vivien bent to pat the puppy. ‘Goodbye for now, Boots.’

  Susan came into the kitchen and plumped down heavily on a wooden chair. In her hands was a rag doll with a mop of string hair, which she began plaiting. As she did so her tongue protruded slightly, and she sent a shy, sideways smile at Vivien from beneath the hank of hair that had escaped its armoury of coloured slides.