Turf or Stone

by Evans, Margiad

  Phoebe stopped, and Dorothy jerked herself upright. Through the door they heard scolding and broken jeering laughter.

  ‘There he is, mother!’

  Dorothy walked across the room and glanced along the passage, which was almost dark. With the light of the hall lamp behind him, Easter was coming towards her, and there was something dangerous in his aspect, something wild and out of control. His features still gleamed with fitful mirth, and his unholy eyes were shining excitedly. He stopped very near to her, bending so close to her bare shoulders that she took a quick pace backwards. She wore a long amber-coloured satin dress, which attracted him, but he disdained her. She had no character, no strength, nothing to give or to teach.

  ‘You have been a long time,’ she said.

  ‘I came as soon as I could, madam.’

  Dorothy surveyed his slovenly clothes and ill-shaven face impatiently.

  ‘How many times have you been told not to loaf about the kitchen?’

  ‘I was killing a rat.’

  He answered impudently; pulling the dead animal out of his pocket he swung it round jauntily by the tail.

  ‘Its neck’s broken,’ he added, with a secret glance under his arched eyelids, ‘I caught it a clip with the tongs as it run over the fender.’

  He held it out for her to see. She was disgusted, and he returned it to his pocket with a contemptuous grin. A horrible odour indicated that the rat was in reality much staler than he made out; in fact, it was a dead one which he had picked up for a purpose of his own.

  ‘Bring me a cigarette,’ Dorothy suddenly demanded.

  Easter could not see any.

  ‘On the table behind you, in that box.’

  While he turned round she dwelt on him, the fierce, impertinent man whom she could not endure.

  He found the box and passed it to her without opening it, and she shook it so that they could hear the cigarettes rolling about inside.

  ‘Don’t you think you should have opened it for me? Now, a match!’

  ‘I haven’t a match,’ Easter exclaimed loudly. All at once he felt furiously angry as though he must strike her or spit into her face. The mood blazed in every feature, and made itself clear in his voice. Phoebe heard. She sprang to her feet, and coming to her mother’s side leant forward and lit the cigarette. She cast a wavering nebulous glance on Easter; it seemed as if she were aware of his impulse and would take the insult herself. She looked both courageous and imploring. He averted his eyes, and his expression changed from a scowl to a sullen moroseness.

  Dorothy smoked and stared him up and down. She gave her orders: he was to drive over to Davis’ farm and find out if Mr Kilminster were there. If he were, Easter was to bring him back. On no account to let him ride…

  ‘Oh, you are impossible!’ she broke out, ‘you haven’t shaved, and your clothes are awful – disgraceful. You look like a sweep.’

  ‘They’re good enough for my work.’

  ‘That’s enough. You can go.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How dare you!’

  Phoebe’s heart was beating terribly fast.

  Easter roared with laughter. Standing in an absurd attitude on the tips of his toes he took the ends of his coat and held them out between finger and thumb, opening his arms, which were remarkably long, as far as they would go. The dead rat fell to the floor. He picked it up, made a ridiculous bow to Dorothy, and went away leaving her petrified with astonishment, until her rage burst. Almost beside herself, she took Phoebe by the shoulders and shouted, ‘Who can I appeal to, answer me that? Eh… fancy that creature having the face… oh, your father…’

  * * *

  The night was frosty. Above his bare head the sharp stars flashed. He held the reins in his cold taut hands. Who’d think things were growing? Who’d think there were animals as warm as lambs in the hard fields?

  The old woman at the toll house had gone to bed ill, her daughter told him as she opened the gate, a lantern hanging from her wrist, a shawl over her head. Was he coming back? Yes. Well may as well leave the gate open now, must be close on eleven. He heard the old woman coughing up there in her bedroom. There were nice warm lights in Brelshope. Easter passed. Down one hill holding up the pony, up another, down another. He got out, went up to the rickety gate and shook it roughly till the pony turned its head. The gate was fastened with string. Easter took out a knife, cut through the many strands and led the pony into the yard. He knew exactly what to do. Having taken it out of the shafts and led it into an empty stable he pulled one lamp from the bracket, and carrying it, made his way towards the house. As he approached he heard a confused muffled tumult and the random straying notes of a tinny piano. He nodded, and screwed his mouth to one side.

  Descending a couple of shallow steps behind the wagon-house he followed the path under a high stone wall, then turning sharp to the left came upon the house, a solid old sandstone building, as heavy and irregular as a red crag. It was divided by a paved passage with doors at either end, which were never locked or bolted. He marched up this passage, his lamp swinging, his long stride echoing, until he reached a window, then pushing his face forward, he peered through the uncurtained glass into the room.

  It was full of men, most of whom he knew well by sight, intimately by tale. They were dishevelled, squalling, vehement, their hands and faces red, and their throats bursting with wet laughter. Only one woman was present – Mrs Davis, sitting at the table pinching the wick of a candle, while her eyes, bright with joyful life, flitted from one hot face to another. Matt himself sat on the table so close to her that his knees pushed into her shoulder: a green velveteen curtain draped his head and arms, and he continually twitched at it, fingering the tasselled fringe which fell ludicrously over his forehead and nose. His eyes were swimming, his skin damp and very pale. He was silent.

  Davis himself in his shirt sleeves, a cap on the back of his head, sat at the piano, his open arms extended the whole length of the keyboard, lolling in a very easy attitude. The others leant against the walls or straddled across chairs. What would have astonished almost any observer was the sight of Marge in her cotton nightgown fast asleep on the knees of one of them, her little arm and relaxed fist thrown backwards against his cuff. Easter saw a great many bottles, not only on the tables and the floor, but sticking out of the empty parrot cage. Everyone was drinking, bawling, and gesticulating, excepting Matt and Mrs Davis, who, having smothered her fingers in candle grease, now folded her hands beneath her chin and observed the party with a pleasant expression.

  Suddenly, however, a thunderous frown blackened her brow; she sprang across the room and grasped the arm of a man who was about to pour the dregs of his drink into the open piano, too late as it happened. Easter heard her yell, saw her lifted off her feet, twisting and kicking out her legs, and then pandemonium broke loose. Easter observed that Matt made no attempt to throw himself into the row; his head had fallen forward, and his hand relinquished the glass, which lay on the floor in pieces. The groom reflected: he was in no hurry and the thought of Dorothy waiting up in her drawing room for her drunken husband was pleasant. He retreated from the window, walked back to the stable and, mounting a wooden ladder flat against the wall, which led up to the loft through a hole in the boards, threw himself down on a pile of hay from whence nothing was visible but the star-speared square of sky through the unglassed window. He extinguished the lamp and quickly fell asleep. He had a strange dream.

  He seemed to have gone very far back into childhood, as far back as he could remember, when he lived with his mother in a sort of encampment with other half-bred gypsies. He thought he was lying in their own shelter made of bent withies and tarpaulins; he thought it was raining outside and he was alone in the hot dark, and if he put up his hand he could thrust the roof away from his face. He felt he could not draw his breath, and a burning, dusty smell crowded his throat. He was choking.

  ‘Mammy,’ he cried in his sleep. He fancied he heard her coming, but when the s
ack across the opening was pushed aside, it was not his mother’s brown hand that he saw. The sweat broke out.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he cried aloud.

  ‘Phoebe,’ her voice replied as distinctly as if she had really spoken in his ear.

  He awoke terrified, and found that he was lying face downwards and might easily have been smothered in the hay. For a moment his senses gibbered, then he swore, spat out the bits and ends that were in his mouth and sat up. During his sleep, which had been much longer than he knew, his body had sunk deep into the hay. Now he was hot, his throat was parched with grassy particles, he was soaked with sweat. He coughed and coughed until his forehead swelled, felt for the light, and climbed down the ladder feeling ill and sensitive to the dark. The dead rat smelled like a dirty drain. It was one in the morning: a light now showed from an upper window of the house, a window which must have been ajar, for Easter distinctly heard two voices. His own was dry and harsh as though it had been scorched as he shouted down below, ‘Who’s there?’ like an echo of his dream.

  Mrs Davis put her head out. The groom yelled in reply: ‘Easter Probert. Where’s Mr Kilminster?’

  ‘We’re putting ’un to bed.’

  ‘Then you’re doing my job, and I hope you like it.’

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ Mrs Davis replied, peacefully and without irony.

  ‘What’m I to tell the missus?’

  Hereupon she sloped her head towards someone behind her, and murmured a question. After a moment her full face was turned once more towards Easter, but a yawn so far distended her jaws as to render her incoherent. The groom waited, his heart singing curses. Mrs Davis repeated: ‘Say, we couldn’t send ’im back tonight. ’E went stupid. Tell ’er that. Goodnight.’

  The window shut and the light withdrew from her head, travelled across the ceiling, and went out. Easter went across the yard to the pump, splashing in the muck. He drank deeply, drenched his head, and yawned to the stars. The sweat dried on him, his terror began to abate. He had felt, for one spasm, when Mrs Davis had shut the window, that he should scream. His hair had risen on the back of his neck.

  He harnessed the pony and drove him rather slowly. He was very late, for on reaching The Gallustree, he found no lights showing. Mrs Kilminster had evidently given him up. That didn’t trouble him.

  Mary was not asleep. She lay in bed, waiting for Easter. Curtains were drawn across the window; the bedroom was a box of black darkness. Mary lay on her back, turning over her bitter, resentful thoughts and counting her grudges. She would not speak, and when he sat down by the bed and put his head on the pillow, she did not move.

  ‘Haven’t you been to sleep yet?’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘But I’ve a surprise for you,’ he whispered, and stretched an arm across her throat. She was still, absolutely still. He hated her hardy self-command.

  He struck a match: in the light her face appeared white and dragged. It was the fifth month of her pregnancy. By the brief flickering of the little yellow flame burning like a searchlight on her face, he looked at her and wanted her to be kind. But she had lost all her kindness, which at the best had been dictatorial. She closed her eyes, the match burnt out, and Easter cast away the glowing end. Throwing up both arms, he brought them down crashing with clenched fists on either side her body. The bed sprang.

  ‘You’re what I hate most… you’re what I hate most!’

  He cursed her passionately while she lay inert, breathing hard and straining her eyes, his weight on her legs. He returned to his sing-song whisper: ‘A surprise for you. You wait!’

  With a swirling movement he rolled the bedclothes towards her feet, and then she felt something furry burrowing into her neck beneath her ear. It was stone cold. There was a dreadful smell.

  ‘What is it?’

  She began to writhe and scream. A little dead head snuggled hard under her chin.

  ‘Easter, Easter, take it away!’ She pulled at his wrists, her round, tossing hip hit him over the heart.

  ‘Take it away. I’m going mad! Please…’

  ‘It’s a dead rat. That’s what it is. Its eyes are running, there are flies’ eggs in the fur, the tail’s half off. It’s only a dead rat.’

  And he pushed it deeper and deeper into her flesh, till, hanging round his neck, she dragged herself up, and with the poisonous little carcass crushed between them, seized him by the ear and tugged. They struggled furiously in the darkness. He did not strike her; he half carried, half dragged her across the room and poured a jug of water over her head. She relaxed, one mighty quake shook her, and she burst into shuddering groans. She fell prone on the floor, her wet hair over his feet. When he bent to lift her she crawled away from him and hit her head against the wall. She cried like a thrashed animal in snarling despair.

  Easter struck another match: ‘That’s what you’ll get when you try to fight me. Stand up!’ he shouted. ‘Stand up and I’ll kill you this time.’

  His lip writhed exposing the white teeth, and he lightly swayed his shoulders as if he were actually waiting for her to spring up and aim a blow at him. He touched his sore ear. Again the match expired; he struck another and another and another in a frenzy, not waiting until they went out, but throwing them down and stamping on them with all his strength. The boards cracked, the jug and basin rattled. Easter’s stiff hair stood on end; he yearned over Mary in the attitude of a murderer, which the intermittent illumination rendered still more horrifying. She remained on her knees. She pressed her face against the wall, her arms hung down, and there was a great wet patch over her back and shoulders, grey on the white nightgown. She shivered, cowering, her sobs becoming more pitiful. Her soaking hair looked black.

  After nearly ten minutes had passed, he lit the candle.

  ‘Get up, Mary.’

  He went to lift her. She moved her arms in a sudden shocked gesture towards herself.

  ‘The child’s leaping!’ she cried in rational terror, turning her face up to him.

  His heart jumped.

  ‘They always do…’ he stammered, crouching beside her. She muttered: ‘Help me to the bed.’

  Leaning on him, she crept into the bed. They were both very frightened. She lay down and Easter covered her up.

  ‘Is it quiet?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  He was afraid to touch her whom a moment ago he had dragged across the room.

  She was ignorant.

  ‘Is it going to be born now?’

  ‘No… no. They all jump about months before they are born,’ he exclaimed, listening to her chattering teeth. She heaved great sighs, her whole body was tense, and her tears ran down the side of her face among her hair.

  ‘My hair’s wet!’ she moaned after a while, ‘I’m wet all over. Go to the drawer and fetch me a clean nightgown.’

  He did what she asked him. She raised herself, let the wet garment slip over her shoulders and lie round her waist, pulled on the dry one, and began nervelessly to rub her hair with the towel he brought her.

  As they were feebly moving with disjointed activity, something scratched at the outer door.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Only one of the dogs.’

  ‘I want it,’ she said. It whined.

  ‘It’s been off rabbiting.’

  ‘If it comes and lies down on the bed I’ll go to sleep.’

  Easter let the dog in. ‘Now lift it up.’

  A mongrel, filthy, weary, its short, whitish curls clotted with earth, its eyes blinking, it lapped at the pool on the floor. Easter flung it on the bed. Hot and panting, it stretched out its ugly body and fell asleep. Mary lay back gently screwing the almost hairless chilly ears between her fingers.

  Easter was swamped by voluptuous tenderness. He clasped her in his arms, softly moving his head between her breasts, his eyes closed. A gentle, timid woman he might have loved with real intensity, and perhaps even constancy, since his promiscuous rovings were something in the nature of a search.
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  Mary listened for repentance: among the kisses and the quivers there was no keen word of self-reproach. Exhausted, more bitter than ever, she went to sleep in Easter’s arms.

  When he took the milk up to the house in the morning, the cook twitted him on his looks. Sloppy, tumbled, his brilliant eyes all but extinguished beneath the heavy lids, he listened to her for a moment without a smile, then offended her by walking away abruptly. She said he needn’t be in such an unusual hurry. He took no notice; she had to run after him. Mrs Kilminster wanted to see him.

  ‘Is the lady up?’

  He usually spoke of Dorothy as ‘the lady’, dragging the words like a gypsy. Of course she wasn’t up, and wouldn’t be for the next two hours, the cook said, crushing a snail under her shoe. The master was out all night. She gave a loud cry at the sight of the wretched dog who had followed Easter from the yard.

  ‘Full of fleas, the dirty brute!’ She drove it into the kitchen; ‘If it comes in like this, I’ll leave.’

  She had to bath it.

  Towards midday, Easter saw Dorothy. She was in the glasshouse, stroking a young pigeon’s splendid green and pink neck. She jumped up, scaring the bird which was lame and could not fly, until it hid itself behind the hot pipe.

  While she was talking she roamed about restlessly, uneasy and irritable. She felt a cold growing on her, and her eyes were rather red.

  ‘Why didn’t you bring Mr Kilminster back last night?’ she demanded in an angry voice.

  ‘He’d gone to bed.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Mrs Davis.’

  ‘Oh… so you saw her?’

  ‘Yes, madam, I did.’

  ‘Then I suppose you went in?’

  She wants to know everything but she’s ashamed of her questions, he thought.