A Spell of Swallows

by Sarah Harrison

  He’s polite again now, and it takes an effort to be civil under these circumstances. I used to admire him in a way for that keeping-up of standards. I could see it was a real talent even if it was a pointless one.

  It won’t do him any good now, not with me anyway. Now I know what he’s really made of. Don’t get me wrong, I like to feel I’ve got the edge, and now I have.

  But I’m sorry to have lost the old Jarvis. He brightened up the day.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ashe waved away their thanks and made little of his triumph.

  ‘I was pretty sure we’d come across him sooner or later. He’s only a youngster, he wouldn’t have gone far. Got stuck down a hole over the back there. No harm done.’

  ‘But he must be starving,’ whispered Vivien, stroking the puppy’s head. ‘He’s a bag of bones.’

  ‘He’ll be fine in no time,’ said Ashe. ‘But don’t feed him too much at once, his belly won’t take it. Only slops tonight.’

  ‘I will . . .’ She looked up. ‘Ashe, you have no idea how happy you’ve made me.’

  He nodded. ‘My pleasure.’

  Saxon walked with him to the end of the drive. ‘We owe you a considerable debt. My wife has been wretched, absolutely wretched about this.’

  ‘You don’t owe me a thing.’

  ‘You found him, Mr Ashe.’

  ‘One of us was bound to.’

  From habit, Saxon put his hand in his pocket and fingered his change, calculating what would be a suitable amount. Only in the nick of time did he stop himself making that error of judgement again, and clasped his hands together prayerfully.

  ‘As long as you appreciate how grateful we are.’

  ‘Glad to help. See you tomorrow, Reverend.’

  Ashe began to walk away.

  ‘Mr Ashe.’

  Ashe stopped and turned with an air of studied patience. Saxon covered the space between them. ‘There’s something I’ve been thinking about, for a little while.’ This wasn’t true, the thought had only just occurred to him, but now it seemed so obvious he did in fact wonder why it hadn’t done so before. ‘If we were able to match your present wages, do you think you might be able to work here full time? At the vicarage?’

  He was about to run on about the sort of work that could be done, how useful it would be and so forth, but realised from the look on Ashe’s face that these explanations weren’t necessary. In fact, it was almost as if the invitation had been expected.

  ‘Thank you for the offer, Reverend. I’ll think about it if I may.’

  ‘Of course . . . Of course. Take your time.’

  ‘Oh, I shan’t be long.’

  After supper, Vivien returned to the dog. At ten o’clock Saxon went in to her and announced that he was going to bed.

  ‘I’m sure you needn’t worry about him,’ he said. ‘He’s going to enjoy the best night’s sleep he’s ever had.’

  Vivien frowned. ‘I don’t know . . . He’s still trembling.’

  ‘He’s probably dreaming of chasing rabbits.’

  ‘Or having a nightmare, about whatever awful things he’s been through. Think of being trapped in the dark, so that no one can hear you.’

  ‘Someone did hear him,’ pointed out Saxon a little testily. ‘Ashe heard him.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  Inexplicably, she was almost in tears again. Saxon would have liked to say he understood, but he did not. He considered mentioning his conversation with Ashe, but since he was waiting for the man’s decision . . .

  ‘Vivien. Stop torturing yourself, please. The dog is found. He’s here.’

  ‘You’re right, I know.’ She turned to kiss him, and pressed her face into his neck for a moment. But it was only a show of contrition, because then she said: ‘I’ll just stay down here for a moment, if that’s all right.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He moved towards the door. ‘I’ll see you shortly, then.’

  But she was once again kneeling down by the dog’s basket, and didn’t answer.

  Vivien stroked Boots until, gradually, he stopped shivering. Two of the wooden kitchen chairs had threadbare cushions, which she took to make a more comfortable seat for herself on the floor.

  She knew she should feel sorry that she had, in a sense, sent Saxon away, but his presence had irritated and stifled her, and his mention of Ashe . . . It had hurt and offended her, with its implication that she, of all people, did not appreciate what Ashe had done.

  She had been the first to reach him. He carried the thin dog easily in his pale, sinewy arms, and as she approached he had stopped and held out the sagging body towards her. But as she’d held out her own arms she had looked not at the dog but into Ashe’s face. Because of its disfigurement it was a hard face to read, but the eyes had burned with a fierce, cold command. Remembering it, she shivered.

  ‘There you are,’ he’d said. ‘Told you I’d find him for you.’

  As she had taken the dog from him, awkwardly, clutching and grabbing, his own arms had lowered slowly to his side and hung there, the fingers slightly flexed. She noticed then that they were cross-hatched with fine scratches, some of them bleeding. She’d had to look away, but not from pity.

  She had not met his eyes again after that one, brief exchange. The moment had been swallowed up in a clamour of welcome and celebration. But she sensed—no, she was sure—that she had entered into a contract with John Ashe.

  Not only did Ashe not give his answer to Saxon at once, he did not present himself at the door of the vicarage for the next couple of days. In his experience nothing was ever lost by holding back a little, especially when one was in a position of strength. He was careful to run through a mental inventory of the place to confirm to his own satisfaction that there was nothing outstanding to be done; he must be seen to be conscientious. The fence near the churchyard gate was sagging slightly and would need shoring up soon. There would be little point in his having painstakingly engineered the dog’s disappearance and rescue if the silly animal escaped a second time with who knew what unforeseen consequences, this time beyond his control . . .

  Just in case, he went round at twilight on the Monday evening with some heavy-duty twine, and did a makeshift job on the loose uprights from the churchyard side. While he was there, Mrs Mariner came out into the garden. He kept his head down and stayed still; she wouldn’t see what she wasn’t expecting. He had a good view of her however, and it was interesting. She had the air of having simply risen from her chair, left whatever she was doing, and come outside to be alone with her thoughts. Her glasses were pushed up into her hair, which was loose, and she’d pulled the sleeves of her cardigan down over her hands, and folded her arms, the effect rather like that of a straitjacket. She walked to the middle of the lawn, near the badminton net, and stood looking up at the sky. There was already a half-moon in the dark blue, but Ashe could tell it was whatever was in her mind’s eye that she was looking at. He could take a guess.

  Still looking at the sky she turned slowly, on the spot. Her glasses slid off and fell to the ground but she ignored them. Then she stretched her arms above her head, letting the baggy sleeves of her cardigan slip back below the elbow. She swayed, shifting her weight from foot to foot. In the gathering dusk, she looked like a fury or an eccentric priestess officiating in some arcane rite. Ashe had the feeling that if he entered the garden and went over to Mrs Mariner right now, he could have done whatever he liked. But when something seemed easy, that was usually not the moment to do it.

  After a few seconds of the swaying she seemed to recollect herself. She peered shortsightedly around on the dark grass for her glasses, located them and slipped them into her skirt pocket. Then she took hold of her hair with both hands, twisted it into a makeshift plait and tucked it inside her collar. After this she went briskly inside and closed the back door after her.

  Ashe tested the fence before slipping away.

  On the Tuesday at midday Trodd told him to pick up some men and their luggage fro
m Eaden Place, in time for the London train.

  ‘Another bunch cured,’ Trodd said sceptically; he took a dim view of the post-war world. ‘Poor blighters, they won’t know what hit them.’

  It was another hot day. The station wagon laboured up the hill and Ashe had to stop on the way to top up the water.

  These days he knew the score. When he arrived at the house he drove round to the front, circled on the gravel and pulled up just to the right of the main door, facing the way he’d come. He got out and opened the back of the wagon for the trunks. Then he rang the bell. One of the young nurses answered, but she’d seen him before and didn’t flinch.

  ‘Oh, hallo. Yes—I’ll go and see if they’re ready.’ ‘If you show me where the luggage is, I’ll start loading.’

  ‘That’s it, over there’. She nodded in the direction of the back of the hall. ‘Do you need any help with it?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  He felt the flick of her curious glance as she walked away. By the time he was stowing the last of the four trunks, the men appeared. Jarvis was among them.

  They were accompanied by Matron and Lady Delamayne, who was wearing riding clothes. She was talking and laughing with Jarvis, and the rest of them were smiling at whatever was being said. Ashe climbed into the driver’s cab. Behind him, he felt the springs lurch as each man got aboard. They made quite a load, just as well it was all downhill to the station. One of them had seen him; he was conscious of the brief silence that denoted polite, whispered warnings. He imagined Jarvis’s face, wondering if . . . could it be? Kept his own face to the front.

  Matron, very upright and detached, stood in the doorway with her hands clasped over her crisp white apron. Uniform apart, you’d have taken her for the chatelaine, thought Ashe, whereas Lady Delamayne was full of beans, with her ‘Boys!’ this and ‘Boys!’ that and blowing kisses and hoping to see them again. It was as well that on this occasion she had other fish to fry and so paid him no attention, but simply tapped the roof of the wagon when she was ready and called: ‘Off you go! Safe journey! Don’t forget to write to us!’

  She stood in the centre of the drive, waving as they drove away. Three of the officers began to talk among themselves, about where they were going, their families and plans. Jarvis said very little to begin with, but after a couple of minutes when there was a lull, he announced quietly that as far as he was concerned, his real life was about to begin. Ashe’s mouth curled.

  ‘Wasn’t the war real enough for you then?’ asked one of the others.

  ‘I mean do what I always wanted to do.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Be an artist!’ said a third, who sounded a lot younger. ‘You could be, you’re bloody good at it.’

  ‘Not nearly good enough. But I do have an eye. I’d like to work with artists.’

  ‘For at least ten per cent of the takings!’ exclaimed the teasing young man, and they all laughed: men who could choose what to do; who could do whatever they liked.

  The conversation became general again, with the others voicing a commonly held opinion that artists weren’t painting anything you could recognise any more, so what was the point? Ashe could picture Jarvis’s charming smile, his easy, pleasant air of taking the joke with a good grace while not accepting its premise. He’d always been a man whom it was hard not to like.

  They swung into the station yard and Sam Higgins wheeled over the trolley to transport the trunks and cases up to the end of the platform where the goods van would stop. Ashe kept the engine running and when everything was offloaded, Jarvis came to the window on the passenger side of the cab and handed in a tip.

  ‘Thanks for a smooth ride, driver.’

  Ashe took the money and turned to face him. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  It was a sweet, powerful moment, seeing the shock spread across Jarvis’s face like a subterranean explosion.

  ‘Good God! Ashe—is that you?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘I had no idea—I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘You look well, sir.’

  ‘Yes—yes—I am. Thank you, Ashe.’

  ‘Off to London now.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Then home—Ashe, I’m sorry, this is so extraordinary . . .’

  Ashe watched impassively as Jarvis struggled to regain his composure, to find something appropriate to say. Time to put him out of his misery, for the time being anyway.

  ‘Safe journey, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Jarvis frowned, both anxious and puzzled. ‘Goodbye Ashe. Good luck.’

  ‘And yourself, sir.’

  He revved the engine and pulled slowly forward. Once the van was parked he took a long, hard look in the rear-view mirror. The men were buying their tickets, with Jarvis at the back of the queue, lighting a cigarette as he waited his turn. It took him a while, because his hand was shaking, Ashe was prepared to bet. When it was lit he raised his head and stared, through a long exhalation of smoke, in the direction of the van. Ashe stared back, into the mirror. Then one of the others tapped Jarvis on the shoulder and he disappeared into the ticket office.

  Good luck! Ashe made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat, rolled down the window and spat like an Arab into the lush green hedgerow.

  That evening he handed in his notice at the station. He had only to work the week out. Mr Trodd professed himself sorry, but not surprised.

  ‘A good man’s always in demand. Can I ask where you’re going?’

  ‘Not sure yet,’ said Ashe.

  Now Trodd’s eyebrows did rise slightly. ‘You’re taking a risk, if

  I may say so. These are hard times.’

  ‘Something’ll come up.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe . . .’ Trodd shook his head and blew his cheeks out. ‘Staying in the village?’

  ‘For the time being.’

  ‘Well, if you need a reference I’ll be happy to give you one.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Ashe turned to go.

  ‘Ashe—’ He stopped. ‘Wouldn’t be the vicarage, would it?’

  ‘Might be,’ said Ashe. ‘I’ll have to see.’

  Mr Trodd stared at the closed door with a baffled but respectful expression, tapping and turning his pencil on the desktop. There was a cool customer. Walks into Eadenford less than six months ago, out of nowhere, casual as you like, face—let’s not mince our words—like an open-cast mine—and what happens? First of all he, Alf Trodd, gives him a job pretty much out of the kindness of his heart. Next thing you know the fellow’s made himself indispensable to the reverend and his missus and is all set to be sitting pretty at the vicarage.

  What impressed Trodd most of all were those words: ‘I’ll have to see.’ As if it was all a matter of his say-so. As if he could pick and choose, and turn down what didn’t take his fancy! He shook his head again. There was something not right about that, as if Ashe knew something that the rest of them didn’t, and could call on it whenever he wanted. It wasn’t natural.

  Trodd shook his head again, this time not in bafflement but decisively. You didn’t want that in an employee. Perhaps after all he wasn’t sorry to be losing John Ashe. The vicar was welcome to him.

  Hilda could offer no explanation. ‘I don’t know where he’s got to, Mrs Mariner. I saw Alf Trodd, and he’s been down at the station as usual.’

  ‘I hope he hasn’t taken against us . . .’ murmured Vivien.

  She knew at once that she had said the wrong thing. Hilda had the vices of her virtues, and on the other side of her liking for Ashe lay a warm professional jealousy

  ‘Why would he do that, for goodness’ sake?’

  ‘No reason at all, but he’s a good worker and I’d hate to think we’d lost him.’

  ‘There’s others,’ said Hilda, and added, when her employer didn’t answer: ‘If he’s the sort to go off without a word, then it’d be good riddance.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  Saxon to begin with affected a lofty indifference, which Vivien was not pre
pared to accept.

  ‘He’s not ill, or anything, Hilda says he’s been doing his other work—you didn’t say anything that might have offended him, did you?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘There might have been something you weren’t even aware of—’

  ‘I told you, Vivien, no.’ They were in Saxon’s study, he at the desk, she standing with her back to the window, arms folded.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I think I should find him and have a word with him.’

  ‘No.’ He’d spoken quite sharply, and regretted it. ‘No, he’ll be in touch soon. I asked him if he’d like to work here full time and he wanted time to think about it.’ Saxon was a little embarrassed at being kept waiting by Ashe, and this was not how he wanted the information to come out, but he was compensated by Vivien’s obvious delight. It was as though he had given her a present.

  ‘Saxon! Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I was going to, of course.’

  ‘I thought you were against the idea.’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘You didn’t have to.’ She came over and put her arms round his neck, the first time she had done so in weeks. Saxon felt bathed in her—her scent, silky floating hair, the summery warmth of her skin, the softness of her rumpled clothes . . .

  ‘Maybe not, but I knew.’ She let go, and leaned back on the edge of the desk. ‘What made you change your mind?’

  Infected by her happiness, he opted for the simple truth.

  ‘I suppose it was seeing your face when he brought the dog back. I also wished it had been me.’ He blurted out the words—in for a penny in for a pound, but when she answered she was matter-of-fact.

  ‘How can you say such a thing? He was fortunate, that’s all.’

  ‘Extremely fortunate,’ said Saxon somewhat wanly. ‘Anyway . . . I thought he deserved some sort of reward, and he won’t take money. So as he’s made himself invaluable about the place, I feel sure we could fill his time profitably.’

  Vivien looked down at him; her expression was puzzled, as if there was something she couldn’t understand. Saxon longed for another embrace, but at that moment she moved away.