A Spell of Swallows

by Sarah Harrison

  The evenings were closing in. Eight o’clock and it was already dusk, a sense of dew falling. The end of the year. Swept by a swooning, not unpleasant melancholy, Saxon looked up at his house. The curtains of the small window of Ashe’s room were not drawn, and a soft inverted triangle of light fell on the wall opposite. What was he doing? Even as Saxon asked himself this, a dark shadow appeared momentarily and, ashamed of himself, he looked away.

  He returned to the house and went into the drawing room. To his surprise there was no light on and he thought at first Vivien wasn’t there. Then he saw her; she was sitting on the sofa with her legs curled up beside her, and a book in her hand. But she wasn’t reading—how could she with no light?—she was staring at the ground in front of her, in a world of her own.

  He turned on one lamp, then the other. ‘Vivien?’

  She must have heard, because she turned her face towards him, but the expression on it was distant, the eyes open but still unseeing. For a terrible moment it reminded Saxon of the faces he had so often seen gazing up from coffins: that blank, unreachable, inner absence. Hastily, banishing the thought, he went to sit next to her, took the book from her hands and claimed them himself.

  ‘Vivien, my dear—my darling—what are you doing sitting here in the dark?’

  At his touch he heard her exhale, as if she had been holding her breath—or scarcely breathing at all. Her eyes focused, she looked almost puzzled to see him there. He raised her hands to his lips and kissed the fingers.

  ‘I hadn’t noticed,’ she said.

  ‘You were miles away.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Saxon placed her hands back in her lap as if returning a toy to a child, and stood up.

  ‘I am going to suggest we have a tot of whisky.’

  ‘No thank you.’ She shook her head and leaned it on the back of the sofa, but he was firm.

  ‘I’m overriding you. A purely medicinal mouthful will do us both good, and help us sleep well.’

  He went to the dining room and took the decanter and tumblers from the cabinet. As he poured he remembered that Vivien had had something in the order of two hours’ sleep already. And yet she looked so thin and wan.

  He returned. She was sitting exactly as he had left her, hands in her lap, eyes gazing at the ceiling. Without lifting her head she turned it towards him.

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Just this once.’

  Obediently she held out her hand and he wrapped her fingers round the glass. ‘I assure you we shan’t be making a habit of this.’

  He sat down once more and watched as she took a sip.

  ‘Would you mind very much,’ she asked, ‘if I had a cigarette?’

  ‘Not at all.’ This was not the moment for his usual disapproval. ‘Allow me.’

  He fetched the silver box from the mantelpiece and proffered it. She took one. They did not have a lighter, and he was obliged to take the box of spills from the hearth. This reminded him of something, and as she took her first deep inhalation, he said:

  ‘Ashe has cleaned the fireplace in the study while I was out today.’

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘I should probably have told him not to bother if I’d been here, but as it is he’s brought it up like new. A great deal cosier.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘He brought rather a lot of earth in on his shoes and forgot to clear it up, which is most unlike him, but I shan’t mention it.’

  She was silent, and took another mouthful of whisky. The cigarette smoke wreathed around her head. He seemed to have lost her again. Time, Saxon thought, to be direct. It was after all a husband’s duty to be solicitous, and it would help to exorcise the disgusting and unloving thoughts that had infested his head over recent days.

  ‘Vivien, forgive me but I must ask, are you quite well?’

  She seemed to consider this for a moment, and then replied, carefully: ‘Quite well, yes. Not very well, though.’

  Saxon was flooded with an ecstasy of relief—his wife was ill! It was no more than that, a purely physical complaint, in all probability one of those specifically female ailments which he could scarcely guess at but which he understood were often accompanied by erratic and unpredictable behaviour . . . An indisposition—that was all!

  He tried not altogether successfully to keep this delight out of his voice.

  ‘My darling, I’m so sorry. You should have told me.’

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you.’

  ‘But I’ve worried so much more, not knowing what was troubling you, seeing that you weren’t yourself, imagining all kinds of terrible things . . . What are the symptoms? We must take you to the doctor, we’ll do so tomorrow.’

  ‘Saxon . . .’ She passed a hand across her face, pressing her thumb and forefingers into her eyes as she did so. ‘I’m perfectly capable of taking myself to the doctor if I need to.’

  ‘But I should like to come with you. I’ve felt—how can I explain—a separation between us recently.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it’s because you have been keeping this secret, protecting me in some way.’

  She drew on the cigarette as if drawing strength from it. ‘Yes.’

  Saxon would have put his arm round her but she was occupied with the cigarette and the glass, and was sitting with her shoulders hunched in a way that precluded intimacy. He laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘Never mind, nothing is your fault. I’ve been preoccupied, the reading and so on. No wonder you didn’t want to come! You have no idea how much I reproach myself with not having broached this earlier.’

  ‘It really doesn’t matter.’

  ‘And anyway, what are your symptoms? I know that you’re tired, and you have certainly lost weight. Is there anything else? Are you in pain of any kind?’

  She thought again. ‘Yes.’

  The relief drained from him, sucked away by dread. ‘What sort of pain? Where?’

  Her hand holding the cigarette rose to her forehead, moved hesitantly down and from side to side, as if she were making the sign of the cross. Saxon frowned.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ His voice was sharp with anxiety. ‘Where—your head? Your whole body?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She shook her head and with an appearance of effort adopted a brisker, brighter tone. ‘I expect a lot of it’s in my mind, I’m just run down, though heaven knows why I should be. I’ll snap out of it soon.’

  ‘But winter’s on its way,’ he said fretfully. ‘The cold, the dark. And you’re buried here, don’t think I don’t realise that, you with all your energy and fire cooped up with me in this great house, in this stuffy little parish—’ He stopped, perhaps he had gone too far. Those things he was so keen to denigrate constituted his vocation. ‘Never, ever think,’ he said earnestly, ‘that you are unappreciated.’

  For only the second time since he came into the room she looked directly at him, and this time there was such bleak sadness in her look that it brought tears to his own eyes. ‘I do know that.’

  ‘I hope so.’ He stood up, to cover the emotion that threatened to overcome him. ‘We’ve had no holiday to speak of since we went on honeymoon. Let’s have one. Let’s plan it together.’

  ‘But as you say it’ll be winter soon, and then Christmas when you’re so busy . . .’

  ‘What better time to find some sunshine? Perhaps at the end of October. We could take the train to the Italian lakes.’

  She smiled anxiously. ‘I suppose we could.’

  ‘Tomorrow!’ said Saxon, bringing his hands together to finalise the matter. ‘Tomorrow, we shall make a plan, and I will put it into action.’

  ‘Let’s see.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and set down her barely touched glass. Then she rose and came over to him. He opened his arms and she stepped into the circle they made. But instead of putting her own arms round him she kept them tight to her sides, only lifting her palms to lay them against his chest, and bending her head so that her forehead rested on his shoulder.
It was an attitude of—he sought the word—of penitence.

  ‘My darling Vivien,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘Please don’t worry. All will be well.’

  The next day, his mind at rest on one score, and fired with enthusiasm for the projected holiday, Saxon was a good deal happier. The problem had been diagnosed, the solution could be put in place. Vivien could see that this improvement in his own morale had projected itself on to her. She declined his offer of breakfast in bed and managed to nibble at enough toast to elicit the comment that she seemed slightly better.

  ‘I think I may be,’ she said. All she wanted was for his attention to be elsewhere. Let him dream up holidays, make plans, anything so long as she was not watched.

  ‘But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t see the doctor. A complete check-up—’

  ‘Please. Saxon, don’t fuss. I’ll get in touch with him if I need to.’

  ‘In which case you’ll let me know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What will you do this morning?’

  She folded and rolled her napkin. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Not that it matters,’ he said hastily. ‘But be sure not to overreach yourself.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘I shan’t be going out, I’ve got work to do in the study, but perhaps later we could take another walk together—by the river. That was particularly enjoyable.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ she said, adding with enormous effort: ‘Yes, why not, we might see the kingfisher again.’

  ‘Excellent. And for now, I shall walk the dog. Unless you’d like to, of course.’

  She shook her head dumbly. Saxon beamed. She had to look away, she did not want his smiles, his pleasure—she did not want his love, which felt like a dusty cobweb, tangling her in its stale, clinging strands. Where had all this renewed affection come from, just when she least wanted it? The moment he had decided she was ill, his mood had altered, she hadn’t known him so cheerful and outgoing since the days of their courtship. Why not, she thought, let him be happy, let him make plans, anything, so long as he leaves me alone.

  It was only when they’d left the table and she was in the sanctuary of her little sitting room that she considered the implications of her husband’s mood. For now she had established a pretext for seeking solitude and rest, like some swooning Victorian lady, but as time went by he would expect her to improve, and their physical intimacy to be resumed. Whereas she—she sobbed and clutched her head between her arms, rocking helplessly back and forth.

  Ashe! Where are you?

  The moment she heard Saxon go out she went up to the bedroom, and stood by the window, the same one from which she’d seen Ashe that first time. It commanded a view of the garden gate, the west end of the church, the south porch and part of the path that led to the war memorial and the road. Almost as if her frenzied longing had conjured him up, Ashe was there! A pair of shears lay on the ground next to him, but he was pulling at the couch and elder that clogged the base of the hedge. As she watched, Saxon came into the picture from the direction of the house, with Boots on his lead. The dog almost pulled him over in its eagerness to greet Ashe, but the moment Ashe was on his feet it lay down, asking to be petted. The two men talked, she could hear their voices—Saxon’s mainly—but not what was being said. Saxon gestured in the direction of the church, and Ashe nodded. Saxon gave the dog an encouraging tug and they went on their way.

  Vivien stayed where she was, watching. Ashe kneeled down and continued pulling weeds for another couple of minutes then stood up. He picked up the shears and walked across the lawn below her to put them in the shed. Instinctively she stepped back. A moment later he returned, heading for the church. And then, as he closed the gate behind him, he looked up. It was a glance intended, unmistakably, for her: sharp, quick and accurate as a dart.

  She sprang back from the window; she was panting; the sweat burst from her, she could feel it creeping between her shoulder blades, down the backs of her legs, through her hair . . . Quickly, she ran from the room and flew down the stairs.

  Hilda was in the hall, bearing a tray of breakfast things.

  ‘Careful now, Mrs Mariner!’

  Vivien registered the other woman’s puzzled expression just enough to make her slow her own pace.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Hilda.’

  ‘If it’s the reverend you’re after, madam, he’s popped out with the dog.’

  ‘I know.’ She heard her voice, curt and distracted, and modulated it with an effort. ‘No, I’ve just remembered where I may have left something. Here, let me take that for you, while you finish in the dining room.’

  Hilda’s face showed a respectful demur but Vivien had already taken a firm hold on the tray.

  ‘Well, thank you madam, if you’re going that—’

  In the kitchen Vivien put the tray on the table, and went out of the back door, closing it quietly behind her. On the ground by the back gate the weeds pulled up by Ashe were already beginning to look grey and dead on the fresh, green grass.

  Hilda was folding the tablecloth when a movement caught her eye beyond the half-open window: Mrs Mariner, skirt caught up in her hand, running like a hare towards the church.

  Saxon was full of energy. He could have gone for miles, but he and Vivien would be walking again later, and anyway he had a strong sense that this morning he would be able to do good work, both on his sermon and, God willing, his poetry. He had been planning to walk along the river bank, but changed his mind on the grounds that it would be pleasant to defer repetition of that particular delightful experience until this evening. Having spoken to Ashe, he had at first set off in that direction before changing his mind and heading towards Fort Hill to the west. He walked fast and the incline made him pant, but he had set himself a goal—the wood at the top—and was determined to attain it. Once there, he would have plenty of time to catch his breath while he enjoyed the view.

  Just below the tree line he slowed, puffing, to a halt, and sat down. The trudge had been worth it: he had forgotten how delightful it was to be high up, above the small, complex web of parish life of which the vicarage was the centre. This morning he took a special pleasure in contemplating the house, and Vivien’s presence in it. As an outwardly dry stick, he had always recognised his good fortune in having such a lovely, if unorthodox, wife: amusing, warm, intelligent—a woman who naturally drew people’s affections in a way that he never could. Yes, he had always known that, but reproached himself with not having shown it often enough. Except, of course in the bedroom, but that was a very particular kind of exchange, one in parenthesis to the rest of life, and of which they didn’t speak. He should and would make an effort to express his love and appreciation, be sure not to take her for granted. He hated to see her thin, sad and debilitated, and resolved that for however long it took he would cherish her until she was completely recovered.

  He sat there for about five minutes while the dog went fossicking about, scratching at molehills and half-heartedly following scents within a safe radius, it was not a great hunter, in fact not an adventurous dog at all. The moment Saxon rose (creakily, he was out of practice) to his feet, it set off down the hill in front of him, quite happy to be going home. He sometimes wondered how on earth such a timid and devoted creature had ever got lost . . . There had been something about it getting stuck down a rabbit burrow, but he’d never seen it show anything beyond a passing and perfunctory interest in such holes when it had been out with him. Of course, it had been smaller then, so who knows . . . Anyway, he was glad that it had been found—that Ashe had found it—because its cheerful, youthful energy and affection was particularly good for Vivien.

  This is blasphemy she thought. Blasphemy, and sacrilege. There can be no forgiveness for this.

  When they were finished they fell apart and lay with awkwardly twisted limbs, chests heaving, mouths agape, like wounded on a battlefield. The pale sunlight filtered through the window above them—Consider the lilies—and fell across them on
to the altar, burnishing the brass crucifix and splashing the altar cloth with green, white and gold. In an agony of guilt, Vivien reached down to pull up her clothes but he caught her hand.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I must—’

  ‘Wait!’

  He leaned up on his elbow, and with his other hand folded her skirt back, neatly and carefully. Then he placed his free hand on the inside of her damp thigh and stroked, this time gently, upwards to the place between her legs, where she was still liquid. There he pushed his fingers into her. When he withdrew his hand it glistened with viscous juice.

  ‘See this?’

  She nodded.

  Slowly and deliberately he wiped it on the altar cloth.

  ‘Our mark,’ he said.

  ‘Ashe!’ Vivien put her hand on his arm.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We’re not alone,’ she whispered.

  ‘Susan! Susan!’

  Susan heard Mrs Mariner calling her name, but she kept running as fast as she could, her heart banging in her chest. She tripped and fell, but scrambled back to her feet, sobbing with terror. Her head was almost cracking open with what she had seen—bare legs, flushed faces, parts of people that weren’t supposed to be seen at all, red, gleaming wet and angry-looking, Mr Ashe wiping his hands on the holy tablecloth, Mrs Mariner’s eyes so terribly, terribly scared! She didn’t know what the two of them had been doing there, or what it meant, but the effect on her was like that of the horrible dead rabbit, only much, much worse. She was nauseous with shock. When she reached the gate she looked over her shoulder, but no one was coming after her, and once she was inside she stopped and fell to her knees, crying and gagging.