by Henry Green
Would he marry now? And would a young lady want to marry a blind young man? Ah, but if they knew her Master John of course they would. She ought to know him, she had known him longer than anyone now, and he was so good and kind-hearted even if he was a bit rough at times, but then all young people were like that. She would like to see his son but she might go off at any minute, the doctor said so, it was her heart, she wouldn’t last on to see him. But it wasn’t doing him no good to be following around of that girl with her father. That man, and him in the church too, it was a sacrilege that’s what it was. And the shame on the village and on the house. They was the laughing-stock of the countryside. And him going and living quite near just to spite them, oh if the master was here, he would send him packing and that daughter of his parading of herself about. She would talk to Mrs. Haye she ought to know what everyone was saying.
She had been sitting in this very chair when who should come in but Mr. William and she could see something was up on account of his being out of breath and he had said “The young master ’as been ’urt” he said, and she had been turned to stone so to speak, as it says in the Book, and he had gone on about the accident on the railway and how he would be blind for ever. And she had said “Lord have mercy on us. Lord have mercy on us.”
To think that it should happen to him, him that was so good and kind. He had been good to her he knew what he had to thank her for. And he had been so brave through it all. Oh dear. Even when he was quite a mite he had been that kind-hearted. Mrs. Richard Haye was like that they had said. In another way though it must have been. And she always going about whistling, never going to church, and so happy with all her men friends hanging around and the master too simple to notice or suspect. Folks as are that happy are dangerous. And her silly whistling so that you couldn’t stir without hearing it, senseless it was. And everything in such a muddle so they said. She had only seen her once when they had taken her to be shown to the mistress as the new nurse. Too weak she had been to stir a finger but beautiful although so pale lying there on the bed propped up on cushions, the light shining on her face, blue eyes half-closed with long lashes and so thin with her last home-coming. She hadn’t said a word just looked at her, they were beautiful eyes, too beautiful. But they was all liable to die like that all women. She had been near to marrying Joe Hawkins before she went out into service. She didn’t regret it, she would do it again if she had the chance, though two Master Johnnies didn’t come but once in a lifetime.
Getting up with difficulty she made herself some fresh tea, hanging up the kettle-holder on a brass-headed nail that goggled like a golden eye from the wall. The room was thick with warmth. A lifeless pennant of steam came from the spout of the teapot.
She lifted the cup to her lips with hands which trembled rather. She sipped. A cup o’ tea did you a deal of good. Nothing like it so that the older you were the more you felt the need of it. And the cough was getting worse, it wouldn’t go till it had killed her. But Mrs. Haye would give her a fine funeral with a stone which would have an angel on it maybe. Beautiful she always thought they looked, them tombstones as had angels on ’em.
And when she was gone Master Johnnie would be still more alone and he was lonesome enough now. He hadn’t a soul left as belonged to him except Mrs. Haye and her. The master had been the only son of an only son so that if Master John did not marry the name would go. Mrs. Haye had brothers and sisters, and many of them, but they wouldn’t speak to her nor she to them. It had been a romance her marrying the master. Mr. William had told her at one time and another what he had heard at table and it seemed as if her parents had not approved of her marrying the master, and he as fine a man as ever was. The marriage had been sudden enough certain. So that when she had married against their orders, as it might be, they wouldn’t hear of her again. That was a shame. Scotland she came from and lived in a fortress, they was wild them parts. But there it was and he was alone poor Master John. It was funny how some families did seem to die out, and when you thought of her own sisters and brothers dead and gone now and their children. There was no sense or order in it.
There was Christmas coming and she would have to begin thinking of what he would like. Two presents each year he got, one from Mrs. Haye and one from her and every year he gave her one. To think of his having no one else to give him one. And it was hard to think of something he would want and it took longer to make things up now as you were older. It had better be something warm, there was a hard winter coming, and she would make socks for Eliza’s new baby her great-niece. He would want another muffler on cold days like this, and there would be more of them too, but then he would be wearing it with that hussy. What the world was coming to. To think of him walking out with her, that common thing.
And he had had a letter from that nurse only the other day, that was another one, stuck up she had been and not fit to look after anyone much less Master John. But he hadn’t liked her, oh no she knew her Master Johnnie he didn’t hold with her sort, and quite right too. The good Lord knew what she was. She hadn’t liked to trust him a moment out of her sight when she was there. And she that would not take her meals in the hall and her no better than anyone. What did she think herself she would like to know. Oh it had been a mess-up everybody knocked off their feet, as it might be, by this happening. Mr. William hadn’t known which way to turn and it was the first time as she had seen him flustered. And she had not slept so much as a wink in three nights nor had cook with thinking of what he would want to eat what time he came back from hospital. Mr. William had not known such a thing happen ever, and he was a knowledgeable man. And Mr. Weston had worried himself about the fruit that he could ’ave peaches and grapes so that old Pinch could not remember anything like it ever, not that he was liable to, useless rude old man that he was. There had been the time when he had said to her quite sudden like “I ain’t a-goin’ to die yet awhile so don’t you worry,” which was all on account of her asking of him kindly as to ’is health, which no one could take offence at. But he was of the sort as drop down sudden. And there was Annie, poor body that was half-crazed, and for a week, when they had told her she said nothing but “Deary me,” she felt it too poor soul, of course she did, as if they wasn’t all fond of Master John. It was a mess-up.
But with Christmas coming on you really didn’t know where you were, what with the happenings and everything, though it was all settling down now. But there was this girl he was walking out with which didn’t bear thinking of. She would knit him a muffler that would keep him warm and there wasn’t many as knitted as close and firm as she did if she didn’t go quite so fast. And the socks for Eliza’s new baby, Harriet they was going to call her and a good name it was, grandma had been a Harriet. Then there was Joe, who was to marry next month, he would want a wedding present, something useful as would be a standby. He was a good boy that and a good son to his mother, her twin, as was dead now. Twelve brothers and sisters, the good Lord had been favourable to her mother, and six of them dead and gone now and four nephews killed in the war one after the other. But there was eight left. Joe had been too young to go, but now he was marrying and was in a good position, and there would be children and she would knit them socks . . .
She sipped. The kettle threw out sprays of steam and bubbles bubbled angrily about the lid. Sometimes the lid would rise as if to let something out, and there would be a hissing in the fire and then it would fall back again. The room was full of movement with sudden still glowing colours here and there on the furniture where the fire caught it. A late fly dozed just within the half-circle of light thrown out by the fire on the ceiling and where the shadows crept up from the corners trying to choke the light. The room was so warm. And the figure in the chair sat straight and quiet with hands crossed on her lap, and the whalebone in her collar kept the chin from drooping.
*
“So we are going to Swan’s Wood, are we?”
“Yes, do you mind?”
“No.”
He press
ed closer.
“This silence with the sun and with the sharpness of the frost still on the ground and with you here . . .” he said, but she did not answer.
“The breadth and distance there is in the country today, June, don’t you feel it?”
“I don’t know.”
“The country is so full of the sun today, June, and I am away from them all, for you have rescued me from the house, so that I am with you. And we have hours of time, this will be the longest walk of all that we have had yet. It is such an adventure. Do you like walking with me, June?”
“Perhaps I do, perhaps I don’t.”
“But you must, or else it will be so dull for you. And you are kind to take me out, for they are old in that house, so old. Poor Nan who is dying, and William the butler who is waiting for a pension, and old Pinch who is going to retire next week. Mamma is giving him a cottage rent free. He has worked in the garden for forty years.”
“Do they get pensions? How much?”
“Enough to live on, when they have deserved it. But listen to that cock, June, crowing so boastfully such miles away. And the car droning up Bodlington Hill on its way to Norbury, with the stream just near hurrying by over the stones. And the birds are singing to the fine day, there are so many of them. Do you know the names of birds?”
“No, an’ I wish I did.”
“Nor do I, it does not really matter. But what luck that we should have the sun for our walk. We have had so much rain up to now.”
“An’ I hate rain.”
“So do I! Listen to the starlings on that tree, screaming at us, perhaps. June, did you say the other day that you lived alone with your father?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“I did not mean that. It is a very excellent thing to do. But you must be very lonely sometimes.”
“Sometimes.”
“Then do you never see anyone? It must be so dull: I know how it is.”
“Oh yes, I see one or two.” She laughed.
“Who? But I never see anyone, except stewed people that Mamma serves up, when there is no way of keeping them out. And you are nicer than any of them.”
“You are a funny card.”
“Am I? Well, there are worse things to be. Isn’t it funny, though, that we should never have met in all these years? I have never seen you, June, never seen how you are.”
“You have, only you don’t remember. In church I used to watch you when we were both quite little, but you would hardly ever look at me, you were too grand. And afterwards.”
“But then I must have seen you. Why did you look at me?”
“There was nothing else to do.”
“No, I suppose not. Where did you sit?”
“To the left of your pew, just in front of the font. Don’t you remember?”
“And what was the church like? I never really noticed it. Oh, it hurts to try and remember. I can only see bits of it, the spaces are so hard to fill up.”
“Don’t. I hate that church too, only through the window on the right you could see an apple tree.”
“Yes, I know. And there were birds.”
“And apples in the autumn. Do you remember?”
“Yes. Apples.” And he laughed.
“Why do you laugh?”
“I don’t know. But I did hate being made to go to church—though of course your father used to preach really well.”
“Oh yes!”
“Mamma . . . He grew roses up the church, I think. I liked that very much. They were so pretty.”
“An’ Mrs. Haye made him take them down again.”
“Did she? I wonder why. Do you like roses?”
“Very much. There used to be so many of them in that garden at the old Vicarage. Father was always crazy on them, an’ so was I.”
“The rose is lovely, June, don’t you think? The poets sing so often of them. They call her the queen of flowers. ‘The damask colour of thy leaves.’ ‘Sweetness dwells in rosy bowers.’ ‘The blushing rose.’ ”
“Oh yes. They were all over our garden.”
“Then you must have lived in a way dear to the lyrical poets of the seventeenth century. How charming!”
“I never read poetry. I haven’t time.”
“Really? And the church must have been so pretty, buried in them. But then Mamma is very low church.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, she does not like ornaments to a church. I think it is very silly of her, though Crayshaw goes too far with his lighted candles and so on.”
“But what does it matter?”
“It is popery, that is all. It is going to Rome.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh well, why talk about it?”
“Father was so fond of his roses. Making him take them down like that was a shame.”
“Listen to those bells, June. The sound comes tumbling over the country from so far off. It would be Purley church, I suppose.”
“Father hates church bells. They hurt him.”
“Where are we now?”
“We are just coming to Mr. Brownlee’s farm.”
“I thought so. Brownlee’s chickens are making such a noise.”
It was a shame the way they had treated Father.
“What a lovely material your dress is made of.”
“Do you like it?”
“So much. It is so soft, one’s hand glides over it and then sinks down in the folds of it drowned in it, June. What colour are you wearing?”
“Blue.”
“Yes, it would be blue.”
“Poor boy, not being able to see.”
“Call me John, dear, ‘boy’ is so young.”
“Poor John.”
“It has been awful without you.”
“Has it?”
“Everything is black. Before, even when one shut one’s eyes the eyelids were red if one were outside, but light now has been cut off from within. Nothing but black. One gets desperate sometimes, you know. There are times when I would like to kill myself, really, I mean.”
“Poor John.”
“But your eyelids when you closed them would be such a delicious colour for the lovely eyes inside.”
“Would they? Oh, but then you have never seen my eyes.”
“Perhaps not, but I can feel them just the same.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, they are so calm, so quiet. Such a lovely blue.”
“But they are dark brown.”
“Oh. Then your dress does not match?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“But what does that matter? They are such lovely brown eyes. And sometimes they light up and burn, perhaps?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well . . . But have you ever been in love?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe they are burning now?”
“N-no, I don’t think so.”
“How sad. And mine, if they had not been removed, would have burned so ardently.”
“What’s ardently?”
“You know, hotly, pas—No.” This was awkward. “But I like your eyes, whether they are brown or blue.”
“You are really quite nice, John, an’ I think I like you.”
“No more than that?”
“Perhaps.”
And his hands was in hers. Better to ignore it at first.
“Perhaps?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“You are strange, June, so distant, so cold. I don’t believe you really like me at all, no, really not.”
“Mind, here’s a gate. Be careful.”
“Where is the gate? You are cruel, you know. You don’t care a bit. Oh, here it is; good.”
“Care about what?”
“What about? Why, me, I mean. But this will be where we have to cross the road. Then we go through the gate which should be to the right there. Shut this one; that is the home farm we are leaving.”
“Have you got a farm all of your o
wn?”
“Yes, and why not?”
“You must be rich.”
“I am not so sure about that.”
“It must be wonderful to be rich.”
“It must be wonderful to be poor.”
“How do you mean? You’ve never been poor in all your life. So how can you tell?”
“But poor people are always much happier than rich people on the cinema. The cinema used to be the only way I had to see life.”
“But what do you think of scrubbing floors all day, and of cooking food, and of having to look after your father who is ill, and all that?”
“Is he ill, June?”
“Yes, at least he thinks he is.”
“I’m sorry. But you won’t always be poor?”
“As far as I can see.”
“But one day a fairy prince may spirit you away to a place of luxury. Think of it.”
“Gracious, no! Why should he?”
“He would have every inducement. These things often happen, you know, here and there.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But I do. One of these days . . . we . . . perhaps. Well; but I am so sorry he is ill.”
“Oh, I don’t think he is as ill as all that. He is a poet an’ imagines things.”
“A poet? Does he write poetry?”
“Yes. Leastways he doesn’t write, but he talks beautiful. About stars and things. I can’t understand him half the time, so I just say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to keep him company. He is a wonderful man.”
“And you must lead a most thrilling life all alone with a poet in that house. Mamma says that the garden was—is very beautiful.”
“Yes, it is full of trees and things.”
“So wild. Such a free life.”
“Free? Well, I don’t know about that. But we have some chickens, only they have to be fed. And there’s the cat. She killed a great big mouse the other day.”
“Did she!”
“Yes, an’ there’s the chicks that get lost in the grass, I love them, an’ there’s a starling that nests every year in the chimney, and my own mouse which plays about in my room at night, an’. . .”