A Spell of Swallows

by Sarah Harrison

  Beaming, she touched the bow. ‘Ma put it in.’

  ‘Very nice. Looking for Mrs Mariner?’ She nodded. ‘I’m afraid she’s not there at the moment.’

  This was truthful, if misleading. Susan looked crestfallen, her shoulders slumped and her lower lip pouted in disappointment.

  ‘But Mr Mariner’s in, and he’s all on his own. I expect he’d like to see you.’

  ‘What?’ She looked baffled; he could see this was going to take a bit of doing.

  ‘I said why don’t you go and call on Mr Mariner?’

  ‘I’m not allowed.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Ma told me.’

  ‘I see.’ Ashe wiped his face. ‘Of course you mustn’t be a nuisance if he’s busy. But you never know, there might be something you could do for him. Walk the dog or something . . .’

  He watched this idea take root. That was enough for the time being.

  ‘ ’Bye Susan.’

  He pushed the mower forward. She hung about hesitantly for a minute or two but he ignored her, and in the end she pottered off quite purposefully in the direction of the vicarage.

  Saxon was preparing the few but important words he must say the next day. He was acutely aware that this was an occasion when he would have a large crowd and their undivided attention. Every eye would be upon him, every ear attuned to what he would say. He wanted, fervently, to get this right. He must strike a note that was decently sympathetic, respectful and dignified . . . which acknowledged the horrors of war and also its sublime sacrifices . . . which looked forward to a long peace won by those sacrifices. Mourning must be given its due, but be placed in the service of building a better and more peaceful future.

  He rubbed his eyes with both hands. These things did not come easily to him. He was happier with interpreting points of doctrine and how they applied to human behaviour. He preferred careful, scriptural preaching to the capturing and expression of a mood. He was not a man of the people.

  One thing he had decided upon was a roll of honour: each name from the memorial to be read out, simply and straightforwardly, not by him but by a carefully chosen lay individual whom the village held in high regard. There need be no personal details, the memories of the bereaved would supply those. No one would be omitted, all would be equal.

  Saxon might be no orator, but he was not without a sense of theatre and already, in his mind’s ear, he could hear the steady, dignified recital of names, sonorous and melancholy as a funeral drum. Unfortunately, there was a hitch. One of the two war survivors was unable to read and almost pathologically shy, the other, having accepted the task some two weeks ago, had called at the vicarage last night and cried off, overcome by the prospect of standing up there in front of everyone and mentioning all those dead men. When Saxon’s powers of persuasion failed he had been as understanding as possible, but there was no denying how awkward this was. If the worst came to the worst he would, of necessity, step into the breach, but he felt most strongly that this was not a role for him, that it should be filled by someone who had been in the war.

  Frustrated by this impasse, he rose from his desk; a turn in the sunshine might assist the decision-making process. Preparations for tomorrow were well in hand; he would go over to the church, show an interest, compliment those involved on their work. Now he came to think of it, one of them might well have ideas about a suitable reader.

  Saxon was about to leave via the front door when he sensed someone hovering at the back of the hall and saw that it was Susan Clay, presumably looking for his wife. He found the girl something of a trial with her driftings in and out, her animal-like devotion to Vivien and her childishness, disconcertingly housed as it was in a bulky, woman’s body. In his present mood however he was disposed to be welcoming.

  ‘Good morning, Susan. How are you?’

  Blushing furiously she mumbled something ending in ‘. . . thank you.’

  ‘I’m afraid Mrs Mariner’s not here.’

  ‘Can I do something?’

  This enquiry, apparently simple, was so open-ended as to leave Saxon baffled.

  ‘Um . . . I beg your pardon, Susan?’

  ‘Please can I do something for you?’

  Now Saxon understood. Vivien wasn’t in and the girl wanted to be given some small task to perform. It was commendable that she liked to be useful—but he couldn’t for the life of him think of anything suitable.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t think—perhaps another time.’

  ‘Can I take Boots for a walk?’

  ‘Boots?’

  ‘Please?’ she added as if he had prompted her. Of course, the dog.

  ‘Have you done that before?’ She nodded vigorously. ‘Then you may—for no more than half an hour, though, just up the hill and back, perhaps?’ Another nod. ‘I don’t know where he is, you’ll have to find him.’

  ‘I’ll look for him in the garden.’

  ‘Excellent.’ She blushed again and Saxon felt suddenly quite remorseful about his habitual mild irritation with her. She was good-hearted, as the simple often were. And what was it Our Lord had said about suffering the little children?

  ‘And Susan, thank you. It’s very kind of you to offer.’

  Quite overcome by the exchange, she stumped hurriedly away down the back stairs and Saxon, as if in reward for his good deed, had a bright idea.

  ‘Morning, Reverend,’ said Ashe in response to Saxon’s greeting. ‘Just finished.’

  ‘So I see. Splendid.’

  As usual, the man stood politely, waiting with slightly studied patience for whatever he might say next.

  ‘Ashe . . . I have a suggestion to make. A proposal.’

  Ashe still seemed to be waiting, so Saxon pressed on.

  ‘Tomorrow as you know is the ceremony of dedication. What all your hard work has been for. I want there to be a roll-call of the fallen, a roll of honour, read out during the service, so that each man on the memorial is personally named.’

  ‘That seems only right.’

  ‘I don’t wish to do this myself. I feel such a contribution would come best from someone who served in the war—I mean not as we all did, even those of us on the home front, but who actually took part in battle. Who can be said to have shared the terrible experiences of those who didn’t come back. The question is, who?’

  Ashe said in a matter-of-fact voice:

  ‘One of the men from the village.’

  ‘That was my initial thought, but one wasn’t able and the other has decided at the last minute that he’d rather not. Which of course I understand. So I wondered,’ he pressed on, ‘whether you yourself would consider helping out?’

  There was a pause, during which Ashe’s face remained quite inscrutable. Then he said: ‘I’m afraid not. Reverend.’

  ‘Now then, I had predicted you might initially refuse, but let me try and—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But why? Consider—’

  ‘I’m an outsider.’

  ‘Mr Ashe, you’ve been here, what, several months now. You’re a member of our village community, and an extremely useful one, if I may say so. You are a young man. You bear—pardon me for mentioning this—you bear on your face the scars of conflict. I can think of no one better qualified for the job.’

  ‘No.’ The word was repeated with slightly greater emphasis, stark, plain and irrefutable, Saxon had no alternative but to accept defeat.

  ‘Well, I must say I’m sorry, but I entirely respect your decision, and your reasons . . .’ With an effort, he found a lighter tone: ‘You will be coming tomorrow, though?’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said Ashe.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Saxon hastened to change the subject. ‘By the way, I don’t suppose you’ve seen that dog of ours? Young Susan Clay wants to take him for a walk.’

  ‘He was by the gate earlier, when your wife came through. I haven’t seen him since. Must be in the garden somewhere.’

  ‘I expect you’re right.’
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  ‘He could have dug his way out. They do that.’

  ‘But if he had, then you’d have seen him, surely,’ said Saxon. ‘His main object in life seems to be to seek you out and stay as close to you as possible.’

  ‘There’s no accounting for taste.’ Ashe gave the faintest hint of a smile. ‘Anyway, I’ll keep an eye out for him, Mr Mariner.’

  In the church, Saxon found his wife sweeping up stray greenery and twigs from the flagstones around the font. Lady Delamayne and Mrs Spall were deployed in the chancel and the north aisle respectively. When he told Vivien, sotto voce, about his exchange with Ashe she pulled a grimace of dismay.

  ‘Saxon, you didn’t!’

  ‘Why not? He’d have been an admirable choice, and would have made a good job of it too. He’s a surprisingly articulate, well-read fellow. Anyway, this is all academic, because he declined.’

  ‘Of course he did.’

  ‘I don’t see that there’s any “of course” about it.’

  ‘He’s very sensitive to his position here—I mean in Eadenford—he would never in a million years agree to stand up in front of everyone else and do something like that.’

  ‘You obviously know him much better than I do,’ said Saxon, a little peevishly. ‘I thought it a perfectly reasonable request, and a rather flattering one as a matter of fact.’

  Vivien ignored this. ‘Here’s Lady Delamayne, let’s ask her.’

  ‘Good morning, Vicar!’ Too late to demur. Felicity Delamayne was striding down the aisle with her horticultural debris in a large canvas holdall designed for the purpose. ‘All set for tomorrow?’

  ‘Pretty well,’ said Saxon cautiously, but Vivien appeared to have the bit between her teeth.

  ‘Not quite,’ she said, ‘there’s no one to read out the roll of honour. I don’t suppose you’ve got any suggestions?’

  ‘Let’s see now.’ Felicity put her burden down on a pew near the door, the better to think. ‘Of course Sidney would always be willing, but he might not be quite what you’re after—no, no, I know it’s nothing personal, simply a question of what would seem right . . .’

  She frowned, cudgelling her brain. Saxon wished, oh how he wished, that Vivien had not brought this woman into it. She was quite bossy and interfering enough without encouragement.

  ‘I’ve got it!’ she exclaimed now, holding up a forefinger at head height as if to still the masses. ‘Why don’t I ask one of our young men from Laden Place?’ She sent a quick, bright, interrogative glance back and forth between the Mariners. ‘Hm? What about that? There are several nice young fellows who are back on their feet and a bit bored, and I’m sure any one of them would consider it an honour. I could take the list of names back with me now, and we could bring the volunteer down with us when we come tomorrow.’

  She stared again, head cocked, but thrust forward a little—aggressively, in Saxon’s opinion. Vivien was also looking at him and he could tell from her expression that she considered the problem solved.

  ‘What do you think?’ Felicity asked again.

  ‘If that’s not going to cause unnecessary complications to you and Sir Sidney . . .’ he muttered, ‘what can I say?’

  ‘You can say yes, Saxon, and leave it to us. You know you can trust our judgement, we see these poor chaps every day.’

  ‘Then thank you,’ said Saxon, though he felt distinctly rebellious. He couldn’t help feeling that he had become the victim of some ‘women-know-best’ conspiracy. In the case of his wife he was prepared to recognise that in certain areas this was generally true. But Felicity Delamayne was a trying woman at the best of times, and to have her so obviously riding to the rescue was most irritating. Because these were uncharitable thoughts, not fitting for a man of the cloth, he added:

  ‘It’s very good of you, Lady Delamayne. If you could contrive to arrive a little early tomorrow then I can have a word with whoever is to be the reader—about timing, and so on. Because of course the roll of honour doesn’t feature in the printed sheet,’ he explained.

  ‘Why don’t we report to you at the vicarage half an hour in advance? Then Sidney and I can make ourselves scarce while you two have an O-group.’

  ‘Yes—yes, absolutely.’

  ‘So that’s that, now tell us what you think of the church.’

  For the first time, Saxon looked around him. Despite his irritation, he was moved by what he saw. The church looked lovely—sombre greens, lit here and there by pale blooms, many of them wild flowers: campion, Queen Anne’s lace, foxgloves and dog roses. He observed that not only the font, Vivien’s responsibility, but also the altar and lectern arrangements showed great imagination and a sensible understanding of the meaning of tomorrow’s occasion. What he aspired to in words had here been achieved in the frail medium of flowers and foliage, and much of it by Felicity Delamayne towards whom just now he had felt both grudging and resentful.

  ‘Not bad for a bunch of amateurs, eh?’

  ‘No indeed.’ He cleared his throat, and raised his voice to include Mrs Spall, on the far side of the nave. ‘It’s quite beautiful. Thank you all.’

  A few minutes later they all four emerged into the brilliant, hot sunshine, fragrant with the smell of new-mown grass. Ashe had gone, and they took a moment to admire his handiwork.

  ‘He’s done us proud, Reverend,’ said Mrs Spall. ‘I can’t remember when the churchyard looked so nice.’

  When she’d gone, Lady Delamayne tapped Saxon’s wrist. ‘He’s wasted driving that station van about the place. If I were in your shoes, Vicar, I’d take him on.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Employ him full time. There’s plainly nothing the man can’t turn his hand to.’

  Saxon felt his wife’s eyes upon him, as if this was a suggestion she had forborne to make herself, but with which she wished to align herself. For this reason, he answered carefully.

  ‘It hardly seems necessary. He already seems to spend most of his time here.’

  ‘Precisely!’ Lady Delamayne clearly considered her point proved.

  ‘And I have to say he seems more than happy with the present arrangement.’

  ‘Think about it.’ She turned to Vivien. ‘Both of you.’

  The Mariners walked back to the vicarage in silence. As they came through the back gate they were greeted by the unusual sight of Hilda out in the garden, still in her hat and with no apron on. Susan Clay was with her and they were holding hands, or at least Hilda was holding Susan’s hand, for the latter was red-faced and in tears. The moment Saxon and Vivien appeared, Hilda hailed them with a mixture of relief and perturbation.

  ‘Mr Mariner, Mrs Mariner, there you are—we were just about to come and find you!’

  Saxon’s heart sank somewhat, but Vivien hurried over and put her arm round Susan’s shoulders.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s the dog,’ said Hilda, ‘we can’t find him anywhere.’

  ‘Oh, is that all. Don’t worry, Susan, he’ll be around somewhere.’

  ‘We’ve looked all over,’ declared Hilda.

  ‘He’ll come back when he’s hungry,’ suggested Saxon, who seemed to have heard this said of both dogs and children who had strayed from home.

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Vivien, casting him a grateful look. ‘And when he does we shall be sure to let you know.’

  ‘I was—I was going to take him for a walk!’ Susan was still sobbing and choking inconsolably. ‘I wanted to take him for a walk!’

  Saxon could see that as the other party in this arrangement he would have to take some responsibility in the matter, and tried manfully to adjust his expression and tone to suit the circumstances.

  ‘Yes, you were going to, and it was very kind of you to offer, Susan. But if he can’t be found he can’t be found. Run along home now, and as Mrs Mariner says, when he turns up you will be the first to know.’

  ‘There,’ said Hilda, ‘hear that? Off you go now. Dry your eyes, here—’she offered a corner
of her apron—‘your mother’ll be wondering what we’ve been doing to you!’

  A moment later the still-snuffling Susan went on her way and Hilda returned to the kitchen. Only now did Vivien express her own anxiety.

  ‘Where on earth can he have got to?’

  ‘We’ll find him. Maybe he’s shut in somewhere.’

  ‘He’d be barking and scratching—we’d be able to hear him.’

  Saxon couldn’t help being annoyed at this, yet another distraction in what had already proved a somewhat trying day.

  ‘Let’s have lunch, and then conduct a thorough search. We could ask around the village, too. He may well be sitting in someone else’s kitchen, happily tucking in.’

  ‘They’d know whose dog he is, surely . . .’

  ‘Not necessarily. Anyway, it would be worth enquiring.’

  Vivien continued to look unhappy. ‘Yes, you’re right I suppose. I just can’t bear to think—’

  ‘Then don’t,’ said Saxon firmly. ‘We shall find him. If you’ll excuse me a moment, I think I left something in the church.’

  He was slightly ashamed that he found it necessary to make an excuse to return and say a prayer. Or why he needed to do so alone. After all, he could have said ‘Let us go back and pray’; they could have gone together. It would have been companionable and very possibly a comfort, especially to Vivien. Alas, he knew himself all too well. His solitary prayer would indeed be for the speedy safe return of the dog, but less for the dog’s sake than his own; so that he might not have to endure much of the minor upheaval contingent on its disappearance. Of course he did not like to see Vivien distressed, but mainly he longed for the status quo to be restored.

  But once in the church his surroundings exerted their usual benign influence and he felt sufficiently humbled to ask, more or less selflessly, that the missing one be found unhurt, and before too long. He tried hard to think of the dog as an individual—Boots, as Vivien had named it: the pointed black and white face, eyes bright and alert, ears pricked, fronded tail waving, an animal which, whatever one’s views on dogs in general, was certainly full of fun and always good-natured. Innocent, too, he reminded himself, as animals were.