A Spell of Swallows

by Sarah Harrison

  ‘Susan, on your feet, say hallo to Mrs Mariner.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Hallo, Susan.’

  Susan stood up, the doll dangling by its half-finished plait. ‘Hallo.’

  ‘I do love your puppies,’ said Vivien. ‘Guess which one I’ve chosen.’

  ‘No,’ said Susan. To Vivien’s horror, the girl’s eyes had filled with tears, and her mouth puckered. ‘I don’t want to. No thank you.’

  Vivien realised that she had touched a nerve. ‘Susan, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘Daft girl.’ Edith sucked her teeth. ‘That’s quite enough of that, I told you they have to go to new homes, we can’t keep them here all their lives, how would we feed them? And who’d look after them all, I’d like to know?’

  In response Susan began to sob, her plump shoulders quivering. She pressed her hands to her eyes and the doll with its fixed, stitched grin fell to the floor. Vivien darted forward to pick it up, and put her arm round Susan, making an anguished face at Edith over her daughter’s head.

  ‘I feel terrible,’ she whispered. ‘She must love them so much.’

  ‘Sooner they’re gone the better,’ said Edith. ‘Out of sight, out of mind.’

  This abrasive comment, though no doubt true, was no comfort to Susan, whose sobs came even more thick and fast. She sank back down on to the chair, and covered her head with her skirt, revealing large, serviceable pink knickers almost to the knee. Halfway between elastic and hip was a patch pocket from which protruded an incongruously dainty white handkerchief, the letter ‘S’ embroidered on the corner. Edith sprang forward, pulled the hankie out and the skirt down in one more or less seamless movement.

  ‘There now, that’s enough, girl, blow your nose.’

  Edith was not a harsh parent, far from it, but she was plainly mortified by this display of her daughter’s, especially when it might jeopardise a sale. Vivien pulled another chair close to Susan’s, cudgelling her brains for something to say which would reassure both of them.

  ‘I tell you what—Susan, I’m going to need some help. The puppies know you. Will you come and visit every day, and tell me if I’m doing things right?’ She put her arm round Susan’s still-heaving shoulders, and gave them a squeeze. ‘Hm? Will you? It would be such a comfort, to me and to Boots. That’s another thing, perhaps you could make sure to call him by his name every day so that he gets used to it.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said Edith. ‘That’s a very good idea, Susan. You could make yourself useful, tell Mrs Mariner where she’s going wrong.’

  Vivien took the remark in the spirit of encouragement in which it was obviously intended. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, warming to her theme, ‘you’d come round some time soon, before he arrives, and tell me where the best place would be for his bed, and everything. I’ve never owned a dog before.’

  During this exchange the snuffling and snorting had gradually subsided. Vivien replaced the rag doll gently on Susan’s rather damp lap.

  ‘How does that sound?’ she asked. ‘Could you come tomorrow?’ She glanced at Edith. ‘If that’s all right.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Edith. ‘Say thank you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Mariner.’

  ‘No, no, it’s I who should be grateful. I’ll look forward to it. Come in the morning, and we’ll get everything organised, won’t we.’

  Susan beamed blotchily. ‘Yes!’

  Edith saw Vivien to the door.

  ‘Sorry about that carry-on, Mrs Mariner. I’ve told her a dozen times the puppies have to go.’

  ‘Poor Susan, I can imagine how horrid it must be for her.’

  ‘You’ve been very understanding.’

  ‘Please, Mrs Clay . . .’ Vivien held up her hands. ‘I’ll see her tomorrow morning.’

  Saxon, looking out of his study window, saw his wife return, cornering out of the road at speed and coming to an ungainly halt beside the front door. She looked up briefly, caught his eye and waved. He raised his pen in reply; she looked flushed and pleased with herself. Saxon knew she had been to the Clays’ house. So any day now there would be a dog about the place—correction, a puppy—chewing and barking and making messes . . . He closed his eyes, tapping the pen against his lower teeth. What he must do, he decided, was to accept the fact that the dog was hers, Vivien’s, her pet and therefore her responsibility. They would both be happier, and life easier, if this was clearly acknowledged, than if he were restlessly, irritably and in all probability ineffectually attempting to intervene in the animal’s training and care.

  He heard her come in, and clump swiftly down the hall in her heavy shoes to the back of the house. He could only hope that her puppy-related tasks included telling Hilda, whose reaction he did not care to imagine.

  But the arrival of the puppy exercised Saxon a lot less than his wife’s impending driving lesson. He should not have been surprised that she’d gone to the station and asked the man Ashe—after all, he had declined to teach her himself and had even suggested that someone else might be able to—but he was nonetheless more than a little shocked. It had all happened rather too quickly, as if she’d known he would refuse and had the next step already planned. Hadn’t she been rather forward in putting her request? Her impulsive and open nature could so easily be misconstrued.

  Then there was Ashe himself, and that face. Saxon would have liked to feel some ordinary Christian pity, but it was impossible. The man had an inherently superior manner which was irritating, when as far as anyone could see he had absolutely nothing to be superior about. Who was he, after all? A complete stranger about whom nothing was known, who’d been reduced to going from door to door like a tramp in search of work, and who was now no more than the station van driver. How would the vicar’s wife’s choice of driving instructor look to other people? There again—Saxon sighed—did that matter? Wasn’t it his own reaction that troubled him most?

  There was also the question of the fellow going out in his, Saxon’s, car: his most prized possession! Vivien had clearly not considered this to be an issue, and the arrangement had gone by on the nod. He grimaced in annoyance. He should have undertaken the lessons himself! It was not too late. And yet he had the feeling that he had been overtaken by events, that Vivien was actually looking forward to going out with this—this gargoyle.

  Saxon put down his pen, and clasped his hands on his open sermon-book. For a full minute he sat very still, eyes not closed, but fixed on his thoughts, in a state suspended uncomfortably somewhere between prayer and furious agitation.

  ‘What’ll I do with it when I’m working?’ asked Hilda.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Vivien, ‘you don’t have to do anything at all.’

  ‘It’ll be underfoot.’

  ‘No, he won’t, he’ll be good as gold.’ Vivien was determined to attribute both gender and personality to her pet. ‘I’ll see to that.’

  ‘What about its business? I can’t be responsible.’

  ‘Hilda, you’re not responsible!’ Vivien’s voice had risen slightly and she brought it back under control. ‘Please don’t worry. I’m going to house-train him at once. Susan’s coming up to help me, she knows all about puppies.’

  Hilda sucked in her cheeks. ‘Whatever you say, Mrs Mariner.’

  ‘He’s lovely, Hilda,’ said Vivien.’ ‘A month from now we’ll wonder what we did without him.’

  ‘She was perfectly all right about it,’ Vivien told Saxon over lunch. ‘All that worried her was whether she’d be able to get on with her work, and I soon reassured her about that.’

  ‘Good,’ said Saxon, ‘We’re very fortunate in Hilda, I’d hate to lose her.’

  ‘Not half as much as I would! Imagine me in sole charge of this place, it doesn’t bear thinking about!’

  ‘That’s true,’ he said. This made her laugh, as she was always more than ready to appreciate a joke against herself.

  Taking advantage of this moment of light-hearted mutuality, Saxon asked casua
lly: ‘Is it your driving lesson tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Ashe is coming here at six o’clock.’

  ‘Then I shall make sure the car is out on the drive for you.’

  ‘There’s no need, Saxon. The whole point is that he’s a competent driver.’

  ‘That may be so, but I’d prefer to. It would be very awkward for all of us if he sustained a bump first time out; I’d like to spare him the possibility.’

  Vivien looked at him for a moment. She seemed to be making a decision. Then she got up and walked round the table. She embraced him, and held his head to her breast.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For being so good to me.’

  He raised his hand and placed it gently beneath her right breast, feeling the soft weight of it in his palm. At once, as always, he was overtaken with desire for her. He let his hand slide down to the join at the top of her legs. His other arm crept round her, encircling her bottom. He heard her breath quicken into a sigh. It never failed to astonish him, that she seemed to desire him as much as he desired her. Everything in his upbringing, and in the attitudes of other men and women, especially those of married couples, had led him to believe that most women (except those of easy virtue) simply put up with physical love; that they did their conjugal duty as the price they had to pay for the affection and fidelity of their husbands. When Vivien had accepted him he had scarcely dared believe that his feelings would be so fully and gloriously reciprocated. He knew it was not a sin, but a gift from God, and yet to have access, always, to such overwhelming pleasure seemed almost sinful, as if his pleasure were at the expense of others’.

  She turned slightly and sat down on his knee, her arms about his neck, her head hanging languidly. He was enveloped by her. In a sort of ecstasy, he fondled her. It was as he imagined it must be to play some large and beautiful musical instrument: the responsiveness to his touch, the sweet, soaring, transcendent excitement . . .

  She rose, with a sort of heavy, sliding reluctance, from his lap, her fingers trailing from his mouth to his hand.

  ‘Come along.’

  Half an hour later, when the bell still had not rung, Hilda came up the stairs and peered from the end of the hall, to see how the land lay. The dining room door stood wide open. The remains of lunch, the used plates and half-full water glasses, were on the table. Near Mrs Mariner’s chair, a napkin lay on the floor; Mr Mariner’s was dropped anyhow on his used plate. His chair was pushed well back from the table and the cloth at his end was pulled all to one side. Hilda sucked her teeth—the whole lot could have gone for six.

  She went in and began clearing up. The small sounds she made only emphasised the extreme stillness of the house. As she scraped the leftovers on to one plate, she supposed that once they got this dog, it would be able to eat scraps. Whatever Mrs Mariner said, Hilda was not convinced that it wouldn’t be a nuisance. At times like these, for instance . . . When they were having what she thought of as their private moments. The marital bedroom was no place for a dog, it would be left to her to look after it. And apparently—she clattered the knives and forks into the potato dish—Susan Clay would be calling even more often. The Clays were a nice family, and Hilda didn’t mind Susan, in moderation, but Mrs Mariner was always asking if she could stay ‘for a bite of lunch’ or ‘a slice of cake’, and the girl had an insatiable appetite.

  Hilda knew she was well off with her job at the vicarage; the Mariners might have been an odd couple, but they were fair, and not fussy, and let her get on with her work with the minimum of intervention. But there were limits to her tolerance, and not every employee would be as discreet and understanding as she knew herself to be.

  With the tray stacked to capacity, she set off back to the kitchen. A dog underfoot now, she thought grimly, and there’d be a disaster.

  Saxon stroked Vivien’s hair; such beautiful hair, soft as a cloud, fluid as water, sifting and stirring under his fingers. This was the moment, he thought, when he might say exactly what he wanted, and be heard.

  ‘It’s not too late to put off Mr Ashe, you know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking. I should like to teach you to drive. It was simply that you startled me rather when you first asked, I’m a creature of habit as you know. Anyway,’ he finished, somewhat lamely. ‘There it is.’

  She said nothing, but he seemed to feel her stiffen.

  ‘I believe,’ he went on, ‘that I made some foolish remark to the effect that we’d argue, but with good will on both sides there’s no reason on earth why that should happen.’

  She was still silent, and he had nothing else to say. Except, of course: ‘So perhaps you could tell Mr Ashe he won’t be needed.’

  Those silences had given him his answer. But he had said his piece and now, unhappily, had no choice but to hear her out.

  ‘Saxon, I can’t. Not after agreeing, after approaching him. Quite apart from the fact that it’s work for him, work he needs, what will he think? He’ll guess that we’ve been discussing him. And don’t say that it doesn’t matter, because it matters to me. That poor man has so much to contend with every day of his life, every time he walks out of his door in the morning, I’d so hate us, of all people, to add to his unhappiness for the sake of a few hours out in the car.’

  With an enormous effort of will—she could not know or imagine how great—Saxon thrust aside the angry, wounded, wounding things he most wished to say, in favour of a direct appeal to her loving nature.

  ‘I had thought that you might genuinely prefer to learn with me.’

  Unfortunately this sounded merely petulant, but it was too late to take it back.

  ‘Do you know . . .’ She reached up her hand to touch his cheek. ‘Do you know, Saxon, I wouldn’t.’

  He felt turned to stone. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because I thought about it too—what you said, and I think that you were right. You have so much to do, and I don’t suppose I’ll be a particularly apt pupil. It will be so much better to pay someone—someone who really needs the money—to put up with me.’

  ‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie. I should never have mentioned it.’

  He swung his legs out of the bed and began pulling on his dressing gown, suddenly ashamed of his nakedness. Not wanting to see Vivien, either, he kept his back to her. Guilt and resentment flooded him. This was not what a parish priest should be doing at two o’clock in the afternoon; desire had made him vulnerable and stupid and he had got what he deserved. The disobliging feelings he was experiencing were no one’s fault but his own.

  ‘We should get up,’ he said.

  He went into the dressing room and closed the door. As he did so he was acutely aware that his wife had not moved, but was lying with her head averted, gazing out of the window, her hair spread around her on the pillow.

  It would have surprised Saxon to learn that Vivien, too, was examining her conscience. For almost the first time she was aware of having exploited the peculiar chemistry of their marriage. She had manipulated her husband’s pride, and his conscience, to her own advantage—though what advantage precisely she was unable or unwilling to admit, even to herself.

  When she heard his footsteps on the stairs, she got out of bed and dressed quickly.

  Susan set off for the vicarage next morning carrying another note, this time a list, laboriously compiled with her mother’s help, of preparations Mrs Mariner could make for the puppy’s arrival. The list was long, and included among other things a box or spare drawer with an old blanket for Boots to sleep in; a clock to wrap up and tuck next to him to remind him of his mother; a large box of porridge oats, because he wouldn’t yet be on to meat; a collar and lead; and plenty of newspaper to put down while he was still being house-trained. Susan hoped she’d be able to remember everything and explain it sensibly to Mrs Mariner. Her mother had been stern on the subject of silly behaviour, and bursting into tears: there was to be no more of it. Boots was as good as Mrs Mariner’s now, she sa
id, and it wasn’t polite to make a fuss.

  Susan was sure that this time she’d be all right. For a start, the puppies wouldn’t be there, so she wouldn’t be reminded of their soft coats and paws and their sweet, snuffling noses . . . And for another, Mrs Mariner always made her welcome at the vicarage and told her what a good girl she was.

  She was at the end of the High Street when a van pulled up next to her, and a man leaned across to speak to her.

  ‘Hallo, Susan.’

  ‘Hallo.’ It was the man with the funny face, who had given her the cake.

  ‘Off to the vicarage again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Want a lift?’

  She took a step back. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Good girl.’ It was peculiar when he smiled because one side of his face was already grinning, so the other side just seemed to catch up with it. ‘Cheerio.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  As Ashe drove past the vicarage gate he caught a glimpse of the Reverend Mariner, sitting at his desk in the study window. Not working though; just staring into space.

  MESOPOTAMIA

  Years later if I heard some officer type say he’d ‘been at Ctesiphon’ I’d think, if I were him I’d keep quiet about it.

  The night before a battle you’re supposed to have serious thoughts—say a prayer, think of home, write a letter to be opened if you ‘don’t come back’. Plenty of people do, for the same reason they turn up at church parade—because they’re scared shitless and they want to build up a bit of credit. Not me. The night before Ctesiphon I sit and clean Jarvis’s kit.

  ‘That’s it, Ashe,’ he says approvingly, ‘there’s a lot of comfort in ritual.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right, sir.’

  He smiles, he likes the way I speak; it amuses him. Early on I realised that the right kind of voice can get you a long way. I listened, and copied, and taught myself to speak like an educated man. Not plummy, not like that, just properly. Another thing: lower your voice and people have to listen. And when in doubt, keep schtum as they say in the East End. No one ever got into trouble by keeping their mouth shut.