A Spell of Swallows

by Sarah Harrison

  ‘Mind?’ began Vivien, but Saxon cut in.

  ‘The mower needs some oil, it hasn’t been used since last year.’

  ‘I found some in the garage. She’s rolling along nicely now.’

  ‘It’s like a park,’ said Vivien, walking into the middle of the grass and performing a slow pirouette of inspection. ‘We shan’t know ourselves.’

  ‘Right you are,’ Ashe pulled down his sleeves and began buttoning the cuffs, if there’s nothing else I can do, I’ll cut along.’

  ‘Can we get you a drink after your labours?’ asked Vivien.

  ‘I’m all right, thank you, Mrs Mariner. Hilda was good enough to bring me some lemonade.’

  ‘Did she?’ exclaimed Vivien and, glancing at the kitchen, lowered her voice: ‘Goodness, you did make a hit.’

  ‘And very nice it was too.’

  Saxon cleared his throat. ‘Mr Ashe, what do we owe you?’

  ‘The net only took me a few minutes, Reverend. The price of a drink’s fine, no hurry.’

  ‘But’—Saxon made a jerky gesture—‘what about—all this?’

  ‘I did it off my own bat. Gave me something to do.’

  Saxon, as so often with this man, felt that he had been wrongfooted, and on his own territory.

  ‘As you wish.’ The moment he’d said the words he realised they sounded stuffy, but didn’t know what else to say. The man had been thanked, had made the case against payment to both his own and Saxon’s satisfaction, and there was an end to it.

  ‘I’ll be on my way then,’ said Ashe. ‘I’ll be here for your drive on Friday, Mrs Mariner.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  Ashe sent Saxon a man-to-man glance. ‘I shan’t be needed for long, Reverend. Your wife’s a natural driver. She’s taken to it like a duck to water.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  As he walked away, Saxon sensed Vivien’s barely restrained desire to accompany Ashe to the gate, to thank him again, to be friendly beyond what was necessary or appropriate. He himself walked steadily in the direction of the back door, and after a minute she caught up with him.

  In the kitchen, a glass and a jug containing dregs of fresh lemonade stood on the table among preparations for lunch. Hilda was in the scullery, scraping carrots at the sink, but as they entered she came over, wiping her hands on her apron.

  ‘That Mr Ashe was here, Reverend.’

  ‘I know,’ said Saxon, ‘we met him. Excuse me, will you?’

  Hilda’s eyes followed him as he left the room and then returned to Vivien. ‘He was very polite,’ she said, as if refuting an unspoken criticism.

  ‘I’m sure he was, Hilda.’

  ‘He went ahead with the mowing, he would do it—I hope that was all right.’

  ‘Of course! For one thing it’s not your responsibility to tell him what to do, and for another Mr Mariner and I are delighted. I’ll tell young Paul he doesn’t need to come for another week or two.’

  Hilda appeared genuinely relieved. ‘Only I wasn’t sure.’

  Vivien would have gone, but Hilda hovered.

  ‘I took against him when he called the first time.’

  ‘Who could blame you, Hilda? He does look rather alarming.’

  ‘He can’t help that, though, can he?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘As I say, Mrs Mariner, today he was a perfect gentleman.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And the lawn’s come up a treat.’

  ‘Never better.’

  ‘Oh well.’ Hilda’s tone said she could have gone on, only duty called. Vivien saw her opportunity.

  ‘Hilda.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Mariner?’

  ‘I’m collecting the puppy at the end of next week.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘I thought I should let you know.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about it,’ said Hilda, heading for the sink. ‘We’ll shake down in no time.’

  On her way to join Saxon in the drawing room, Vivien caught sight of herself in the mirror and paused for a moment, examining her reflection closely, as though identifying the face that looked back at her.

  The day the puppy was to be collected was the day that Saxon—driven by a sense of duty and against his better judgement—had agreed to go to London to do a reading from Beyond Self at a specialist poetry bookshop in the Gray’s Inn Road.

  George had wanted the reading to take place in the evening but Saxon had refused point blank. It was enough that he had agreed to do it, without the added inconvenience of the last train home or a night in town. Even so he would not arrive home much before seven, and since it was also the day of Vivien’s driving lesson Ashe, in his capacity as station employee, was despatched to drive him to the train. However, a potentially uncomfortable experience proved not as bad as Saxon feared. Having asked what was taking Saxon to London, Ashe said:

  ‘I didn’t know you were a writer, Mr Mariner. Would I be able to read one of your books?’ He seemed to see that this query was open to misinterpretation, and clarified it. ‘I mean, could I get hold of one?’

  ‘The works of minor poets are not that widely available, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I like poetry. You can pick up a poem as often as you like and see something new in it every time.’

  ‘That’s so, yes.’ Saxon could not help but be impressed by the perceptiveness of this observation.

  ‘It must be a comfort,’ went on Ashe, ‘in your position, to have another life.’

  ‘Yes . . . Yes, I suppose it is.’

  ‘Some men kept diaries, in the war.’

  ‘A worthwhile exercise, I should think.’

  ‘It helped pass the time.’

  ‘Did you keep one yourself?’ asked Saxon.

  ‘Me? No.’

  They drove for a while in silence, but as they turned into the station Saxon was moved to say: ‘I could always lend you one of my collections if you’re interested.’

  ‘I’d be very interested, Mr Mariner. Thank you. You wouldn’t need to worry, I’m a good borrower—you’ll get the book back good as new as soon as I’ve read it.’

  Saxon waved a hand. ‘I’m sure I will.’

  Once on the train he was immediately assailed by doubts—his poetry was essentially private. That it should be read by strangers, people who didn’t know him, was just about bearable, as well as being economically desirable. But did he want Ashe, this oddity who had somehow taken a place in their lives, to form an opinion, perhaps to draw conclusions from it? Too late now, the offer had been made, he could scarcely withdraw it without seeming rude. Perhaps it was a good thing that he had agreed to do this reading (which he had been dreading for days), because it would accustom him to the idea of being seen and identified. Other writers managed, so why not Saxon Mariner?

  He was soon reminded why not. The Phoenix Bookshop was halfway up the Gray’s Inn Road, between an Italian barber’s and a large, well-frequented pub, the Prince Albert. Given the area’s proximity to Bloomsbury, Saxon had pictured the shop as solidly literary, a thoughtful, dignified place reminiscent of a college library. The reality was small, chaotic and almost as bohemian as that frightful restaurant had been. The twenty or so people assembled there seemed to fill all the available space. George was there to greet him, glass of sherry in hand.

  ‘Saxon, there you are! How the devil are you, my dear chap?’

  ‘Not looking forward to this, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Nonsense, you’ll be a riot. Let me get you one of these. For VIPs only, the customers get tea.’

  ‘No thank you,’ said Saxon. ‘It’s a little early for me.’

  ‘Calm your nerves.’

  ‘I need to keep a clear head.’

  George steered him past the seated audience to the back of the shop. ‘Point taken, but I’m going to get you one anyway, so that you can take the odd nip when and if the occasion demands.’

  There was no arguing with him. Saxon took the proffered gl
ass and stood with George near the table on which lay a modest display of his books, past and present.

  ‘We don’t put out too many on these occasions,’ explained George, having mistaken Saxon’s wan look for one of disappointment. ‘The audience for this kind of event tend to be serious aficionados of the work, not highbrows. In other words they’ll probably already have read your backlist. But we’ll hope to sell some of the new collection, and of course the value of word of mouth is simply incalculable.’

  Saxon glanced nervously at the assembled enthusiasts, a more eclectic group than he’d bargained for: young men in hats, older women with long hair, several characters who, in other circumstances, one might almost have taken for tramps.

  ‘I hope I shan’t disappoint them.’

  ‘My dear chap, how could you?’

  ‘I’ve never attempted anything like this before.’

  ‘But you’re the poet himself, the one who knows how your work should sound, so whatever you do will be definitive in their eyes. Besides, you’re an old hand at performing—just imagine you’re back in that pulpit of yours, and this lot are the faithful, gazing up at you. Which in a way they are!’ George chortled at his little conceit.

  Another glance at the audience only confirmed Saxon in his view that such a leap of the imagination was quite beyond him.

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘And as I say,’ went on George, as if he’d only just said it, ‘about ten poems, depending on length—well, none of them are that long—with perhaps a few words from you about the genesis of each one, any difficulties you had . . . You know the sort of thing.’

  It was a waste of time Saxon telling George that no, he didn’t. A couple more people arrived and sat at the far end of the back row, though there were empty chairs at the front—perhaps these people had more in common with his parishioners than met the eye.

  The bookshop owner, a whey-faced little man with Chatterton-esque wavy locks, took one more look up and down the street and then came over to them.

  ‘Mr Mariner,’ he said. ‘The floor is yours.’

  ‘Enjoy yourself,’ whispered George. ‘It’s going to be a roaring success, and afterwards I shall take you out to lunch!’

  At about the same time that her husband was suffering his ordeal at the Phoenix Bookshop, Vivien arrived at the Clays’ front door to collect the puppy. She had come on foot, and had with her the small red collar and lead she’d bought in Bridgeford, and payment in cash in a brown envelope.

  Edith Clay accepted the envelope with thanks, but cast a sceptical look at the collar and lead.

  ‘You’ll not get very far with that I’m afraid, Mrs Mariner.’

  ‘Oh dear. Did I do wrong?’

  ‘It’s just that he’s not used to it. He’s never been on a lead, remember.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking he’d walk all the way back,’ said Vivien. ‘He’s only a baby after all, but—’

  Edith shook her head, eyes closed, as if she had failed to make herself clear. ‘He’s not going to want to go at all, Mrs Mariner, that’s the trouble. You’ll have to carry him.’

  ‘That’s fine, I’ll do that then.’ Vivien saw Susan appear behind her mother. ‘You’ll keep me company, won’t you, Susan? I could do with some help.’

  Edith looked over her shoulder. ‘You’d like that, I dare say? Yes, she would, look at her face, all smiles. Come along in and fetch him then.’

  The walk home, even with the two of them, became something of a Via Dolorosa. Boots whined and trembled unhappily. When they carried him he struggled, and nipped with tiny pin-sharp teeth. If they put him down he wouldn’t move at all but dug his paws into the ground and wriggled so violently that he eventually slipped out of the collar and they had to chase after him.

  ‘Your mother was right,’ said Vivien. ‘He really doesn’t want to come.’

  ‘He’s leaving his mother,’ Susan pointed out. ‘And his brothers and sisters. He’s sad because of that.’

  ‘Yes, I mustn’t forget that for now I’m the brute that snatched him away from his family. Here, Susan, he’s used to you—you take him.’

  In the end they swaddled the puppy in Vivien’s waistcoat which seemed to calm him by simply stifling movement, and took turns to carry him to the vicarage.

  When they arrived, Vivien said, ‘I think we should do what your mother suggested and give him something to eat straight away so he knows this is home.’

  She left Susan with the puppy in the back room housing his box and blanket, and went to the kitchen.

  ‘I’ve got some milk warming,’ said Hilda.

  ‘Hilda, you think of everything. I’m going to make him some porridge.’

  ‘Can I take a look-see?’

  ‘Go and say hallo, do, he’s in the back room with Susan.’

  When, a few minutes later, Vivien returned with the porridge, she found Hilda and Susan both sitting on the floor with the puppy scrambling over Hilda’s aproned lap.

  ‘Look,’ said Susan, ‘he’s cheered up.’

  Hilda turned her face up to Vivien, her cheeks quite pink.

  ‘Mrs Mariner, I think he likes me.’

  The bookshop owner professed himself more than satisfied.

  ‘Not many left,’ he said, returning the remaining copies to the shelf. ‘I may have to order some more.’

  ‘You see?’ George slapped Saxon on the shoulder, it worked. Your public adored you.’

  In fact, Saxon was rather pleased, but the habit of caution was hard to shake. ‘I can’t think why. It seemed very dull to me.’

  ‘Not even the tiniest bit flattered?’ George tilted his head roguishly.

  ‘Of course I’m flattered, a little, it’s just incomprehensible to me why a group of intelligent people would want to come and sit on hard chairs to hear my rather indifferent rendition of those poems.’

  George and the proprietor raised their eyebrows at one another.

  ‘I shall take him to lunch and explain,’ said George. ‘Are you sure you won’t join us?’

  ‘No thank you, this is my busy time, Mr Mariner—Saxon—it was much appreciated. Perhaps you’ll consider doing it again?’

  ‘Patience!’ George put his hand up. ‘The poor fellow’s still recovering. Send the order form direct to me, if you would, then I can speed it on its way.’

  This time, with no lady present, they went to George’s club. Over steak and kidney pudding washed down with a decent claret, Saxon began to relax for the first time that morning. He certainly felt energised, his movements lighter, his head clear, even his palate cleansed . . . Perhaps, he thought, this was the fabled exhilaration experienced by actors and entertainers (a thing which till now he’d found impossible to imagine) which kept them up half the night carousing and unable to contemplate sleep.

  ’. . . if you’d like me to arrange one or two more,’ George was saying. ‘But the ball’s in your court. Cheers!’

  ‘Your very good health,’ said Saxon. ‘I shall certainly think about it.’

  This he did, on the way home, as the train chuffled and clattered through the south-western suburbs and out into the countryside. In the peace of his window seat, in a compartment containing only one other passenger, an elderly woman knitting, away from George’s voluble insistence on how wonderful it had all been he was able to take his own feelings out and examine them at leisure.

  He was pleasantly surprised to find that they remained favourable. He had not felt exposed, or not unpleasantly so. The poems had somehow stood for him, and between him and his audience. They had protected him. The small amount he had managed to say about them had not proved too much of a torture and had been well received. One of the tramp-like people, a man of indeterminate age with wild hair and a tweed cloak, had turned out to be himself a distinguished poet, who claimed to have thought highly of Saxon’s work for some time. That had been very gratifying. It was after all the approval of one’s peers that meant the most to a writer.

  Wha
t with the success of the reading, and the pleasure of being once more at home after a day in London, he was in good spirits when he alighted from the train at Eadenford. He had ordered the village taxi, and it was there to meet him. When the driver asked him how his day had been he had no hesitation in replying: ‘Excellent, thank you.’

  When the taxi had driven off he stood for a moment in the vicarage driveway, savouring his homecoming, and the prospect of well-earned rest and recuperation. He had become a new person today—more complete, recognised in a field other than the small one of the parish, and as a consequence more ready to face his parochial tasks. It seemed that George, an unlikely angel in disguise, had been right all along.

  He noticed that the garage door was closed, Vivien must be back. Just then he heard her voice from the garden, whooping and laughing; playing with the badminton, he had no doubt, trying to keep the shuttlecock in the air. As he walked round the side of the house he was already smiling in anticipation of seeing his wife on this beautiful evening. He was actually looking forward to her enthusiastic enquiries, and to the answers he would give.

  She was not holding a racquet, but running round in circles with a puppy at her heels. Saxon halted. Not a puppy—the puppy. In the excitement of his own day he’d forgotten that this was when it was due to arrive. Normally, he would have been rather put out by this oversight, and taken aback by the small piebald interloper scampering and bouncing on his back lawn. But still carried on a warm wave of success, Saxon was enchanted by the sight of his wife and the little dog, so full of life and joy and movement. It was as if his home, in his absence, had undergone a change that reflected his own.

  ‘Well, I never . . .’

  ‘Saxon!’ Vivien stopped and bent over, hands on knees, panting and laughing. The puppy rolled, wriggling, on to its back displaying a pink and white tummy.

  ‘Look who’s here!’

  Saxon set down his briefcase. ‘Remind me what we call him.’

  ‘Boots.’ Vivien picked up the puppy and snuggled him against her shoulder. ‘Come and say hallo.’

  She walked to meet him and they kissed. As they did so Saxon put one arm round her shoulders and with his other hand touched the puppy’s head, feeling with a pang the silky softness of its coat, the delicacy of the skull beneath, the feathery snuffle of its small nose against his palm.