The Innocent Moon

by Henry Williamson

  Passing the rock where Irene was wont to sit he saw the school-girl with what appeared to be her mother and other members of the family having tea.

  The next afternoon he rode over again, astride the same cob but riding bare-back and wearing old flannel trousers tied with string, old shrunken shirt, and his feet bare. Riding past the tea-rock, he heard a laugh, and waved at the girl but did not stop. Later, preparing to bathe, he asked the boy, who had sauntered over, to hold the cob while he went in to swim.

  “Aren’t you going to undress, sir?”

  “Good lord no! If I get wet, I’ll get rheumatism!”

  “Would you care to have tea with us afterwards, sir?”

  “But how does your mother know I’m not a bad character?”

  “She said to me, ‘Is your friend a gentleman’, and when I said you were, she said, ‘By all means ask him.’ So will you, after you’ve had your dip? Oh, good. Our name, by the way, is Selby-Lloyd.”

  Mrs. Selby-Lloyd looked very young to be the mother of almost grown-up girls, he thought—Queenie the elder had recently left school, and was just nineteen; Annabelle was sixteen, and Marcus twelve. They insisted that he stay to dinner at the hôtel, where they had the same drawing-room as Irene when she was there.

  April 25. Annabelle, the hobbledehoy schoolgirl, is transformed in her bright red bathing dress. Her dark hair twisted up and tucked into a red cap, and where then is the captain of the hockey team? She is formed in an exquisite mould—nothing is noticeable. She is like a work of art whose artistry is entirely hidden. One does not think, What lovely curves, or, What fine texture of skin. One simply takes a swift glance and feels despair that such beauty is beyond one. Annabelle of course is not responsible for that beauty: she merely wears it as a flower bears its petals, or a bird sings its song.

  As I walk across the sands to Turnstone my mind moves back in time, and I hear the nightingales singing in the woods of my boyhood. Peace, rest, beauty—the nightingale’s song: Annabelle wears that beauty in the shape of her body, in the brightness of her eyes, in the strength and whiteness of her teeth and in her sun-sweet smile.

  I am now quite one of the family, and go over every day.

  One morning when he had finished, with relief, his breakfast of the remains of a tin of bully, another of sardines, and some dried-up cheese there was a tap on the door and Barley glided in, to stand still by the table.

  “If you please, P.M., Mummie said I could come and see you if I wanted to.”

  “True?”

  “Yes. May I wash up for you?”

  “Well, it’s a sort of ritual, Barley, thanks all the same. First paper, then sand from that bucket, then hot water. Like to put on a record while I do it?”

  She put on Kriesler, and he thought the music seemed to fit her—so light of touch, gracious, almost apart from ordinary life, yet of its true essence. He noticed that her shape was beginning to show through her frock. “How old are you, Barley?”

  “Sixteen, P.M.”

  “I didn’t develop until I was sixteen, then I shot up like a lamp-post. However, don’t worry: Bernard Shaw said: ‘The highest creatures take the longest to mature, and are the most helpless in their immaturity’. I don’t mean that you are helpless, of course!”

  She looked at him with a wavering smile before putting on another record, which was halfway through when the bare head of Annabelle passed across the open window. Joy leapt in him like a fountain turned on.

  Pulling open the door, “Annabelle!” he cried. She remained seated on her bicycle, one hand on the coign of the wall, and turned her head. How fresh her cheeks, how bright her eyes, she had come to see him! “Come on in, Annabelle, and hear the gramophone!”

  She sat still on her bicycle. “Oh, is that you? I thought you lived miles away!”

  “See you later,” said Barley, and was gone.

  “Come here, Annabelle! I’ve got a Kriesler record! Come on in!”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’ve also got something to show you—my horse-skin, which only arrived yesterday!”

  Slowly, as though reluctantly, Annabelle pedalled to the cottage door. She did not dismount, but sat there, maintaining balance by holding to the door-post. Her colour was vivid; she was smiling, yet her eyes were steady upon him. There was a clatter of mudguards, and Marcus arrived. Ignoring him, Phillip invited in Annabelle to see the horse-skin. Marcus, since he had not been asked, remained politely outside when Annabelle went in.

  “Come up and see it, Annabelle!”

  In her gym shoes and dark blue dress she went up the stairs. They sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Oh Annabelle, I am so glad to see you!”

  “Then why didn’t you come over to see us?”

  “Annabelle, I am so fond of you.” He put his arm around her, and laid his cheek on hers, taking care not to breathe upon her. She brimmed with pulsing warmth. Her dark eyes in the shadowed room had the deep colour of wallflowers. Then she jumped up. “I must go!”

  “No, Annabelle, no!”

  “I must, quick, let me go!”

  “No, not yet, Annabelle! You haven’t seen the horse-skin yet.”

  “Yes, I have. What did you do with the rest of it?”

  “I ate it. Sit still, Annabelle.”

  “Shan’t!”

  “You shall!”

  “Shan’t! Really, I must go.”

  “But why?”

  “You look too much like a blinking old owl!”

  “But you haven’t admired my horse-skin!”

  “It looks scruffy to me.”

  He sat apart from her, she sat demurely. “Where did you get it, truly?”

  “Well, it’s rather a long story.”

  “I guessed that!”

  He moved nearer, she jumped up. Determined to show how little he cared, he led the way downstairs.

  “But you haven’t seen my portrait on the wall. It’s by a famous artist,” as he invited her up again.

  “Why should I come? Who’s the artist?”

  “It’s signed ‘Swank’. Look, only just here!”

  “You must have done it yourself, if it’s signed ‘Swank’.”

  “Come here, Annabelle!”

  “Shan’t!”

  She returned, followed by Marcus, who said, “I’ve read your book. I suppose you were Donkin?”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly go to a Reformatory.”

  “What a pity,” said Annabelle. “It would have cured you of spouting poetry. Don’t start him off, Marcus! Of course you’re Donkin!”

  “I like some poetry,” confessed Marcus. “Especially John Masefield’s.”

  “Oh, lor’,” cried Annabelle. “I’m going!”

  “Hear my gramophone, won’t you, Annabelle?”

  “No fear!” She got astride her boy’s bicycle, smiling at him. Her knee in the black school stocking was smooth and adorable. She remained, balancing in the doorway. “You old owl!”

  “Donkin is partly based on a poor boy I once knew, called Cranmer.”

  The curve of her knee was beautiful. He wanted to gaze at it, but Annabelle pushed off, followed by Marcus. He stood there, disturbed and self-critical. He had read of the knee being beautiful in one of Jefferies’ novels, The Dewy Morn, which he had borrowed from cousin Willie’s derelict cottage; but he had not known the feeling until that moment. Annabelle and Marcus returned, followed by the old cattle dog who was beginning to know that visitors meant strokings, scratchings, and sometimes food.

  “Is that rag-bag yours?” asked Annabelle.

  “Rag-bag? It’s a prize wall-jumper! You ought to see it go with a leg of mutton in its jaws!”

  She pretended to kick the old dog with her gym shoe. “What’s its name?”

  “Buzzoffquickski. He hatched out of the horse skin.”

  Marcus thought this very funny. Annabelle also laughed, showing teeth and tip of pink tongue. Her beauty hurt. Seeing his eyes she said, “We must go, co
me on, Marcus!” but she moved a yard only, her shadow thrown sharply across the threshold. Then, “Come on, Marcus! Leave the old owl to his own blinking devices. He is an owl—if you’ve ever seen an owl with blue eyes!”

  The boy stooped to pat the dog, which was trying to detect, by smell, the rest of the bully beef.

  “Are you coming? I’m off!” And pushing away from the wall, Annabelle went.

  “Is he yours, Phillip?”

  “Well, sort of. During a thunderstorm he creeps in here for reassurance. He’s scared of thunder. Or as the farmer says, ‘The bliddy dog clears at the first clap’. There’s good English for you.”

  “I say, how fast can your Norton go?”

  “It has done seventy-three.”

  Annabelle’s shadow reappeared. “Still jawing? Oh, I forgot to ask you. Mother says, would you care to come to dinner? And there’s a tennis court. Do you play?”

  “Do I not play? My cannon-ball service is terrific—fifty per cent of the balls burst into flame.” She laughed, balancing on the bicycle. “You priceless ninny!”

  “Are you seventeen yet, Annabelle?”

  “Her birthday’s next wee——” began Marcus, but “Don’t tell him!” she cried. “I don’t want any books of poetry! Anyhow, it’s a long way off.”

  “I’ll give you my Norton.”

  “Is it dud?”

  “Dud? I’ve been tuning the engine. Just listen to the tick-over!” He wheeled it out, bleached bathing dress tied to handlebars, and put it on the stand.

  “Phillip will now swank,” remarked Annabelle.

  Before he could pull round the back wheel there came the sound of hooves. Then down the lane came a slight figure riding astride.

  “Hullo, Queenie.” She was neat and cool in dark grey riding kit. He was surprised to see the cob he usually rode. “How d’you like him?”

  “You mean this awful hack?” The cob, used to sugar from Phillip, tried to take her into the cottage. “Get back, you brute!”

  “Sammy’s all right, Queenie. He knows this cottage. Bestways let him have his head. He’s got a mouth like a moodook.”

  “Whatever is that?”

  “Yorkshire for anchor—‘mud hook’. I heard it first at a crown-and-anchor party in 1914 at Hazebrouck.”

  Queenie, her eyes wide and innocent, looked around the kitchen.

  “Ask him to show you his skin, Queenie! Go on!”

  “His skin?” said Queenie, demurely. “Why, has he got some awful disease?”

  “It can do seventy-three,” said Marcus, beside the Norton. “It’s a Brooklands Road Special!”

  “What, your skin?” asked Queenie. “How very amusing. Do show me.”

  “It’s a pony-skin. It’s upstairs. Do you mind?”

  “Why should I mind? If Annabelle’s seen a skin that can do seventy-three why shouldn’t I? Seventy-three what, by the way?”

  He followed her up the stairs. “How thrilling to think this is where you write your books!” Her voice became whisperingly intimate on the landing. “One day this cottage will be famous. Then I shall tell my friends I once went into Pee Maddison’s bedroom. Is that the horse-skin? Where did you get it?” He told her, but she appeared not to be listening. “Aren’t you terribly uncomfortable in here? I should loathe it.”

  There seemed nothing else to say. He followed her down the stairs again. “Would you like my horse-skin, Queenie?”

  “Who’s giving away horse-skins? Hullo, Phillip!”

  Mrs. Selby-Lloyd—Sophy after the first evening at Turnstone—stood on the threshold. Her voice was slightly quivering, colour was in her cheeks. He noticed again how gentle and slender was her hand, which remained in his.

  “We’ve been looking at Phillip’s horse-skin, Mother. I say, is my hair too frightful? I can’t find a looking-glass anywhere,” said Queenie. In the open doorway Annabelle’s shapely black legs were turning pedals backwards as she strove for balance on her bicycle.

  “What an abode of tranquillity,” said Sophy, looking at Phillip. “Well, how are you? Have you been working hard? No wonder you can write here.” She dipped a fingertip in the bowl of washing-up water, which was tepid, and saw the Beatrice stove. “Have you any matches? Let me wash up for you.”

  “No, really, thanks. I’ll do it later.”

  “But I’d like to. And look at your poor socks!” She laughed gently. “You need looking after, I can see that. If you like, I’ll do any darning you require. I’ve got a basket here, and can take some back with me now. Are you coming over today?”

  “Thanks, I’d like to.”

  The bicycle rattled on the sett-stones. He ran out—it was only the bicycle. He went back to the kitchen.

  “Annabelle, dear, be careful of the handle-bars against the door. Did you paint those flowers on the door, Phillip? They look like early Van Gogh.”

  “Oh, I’m not much good at painting.”

  “Anyone can see that!” called out Annabelle, now leaning against the door.

  “I think they’re rather twee,” said Queenie.

  “May I see the bedrooms?”

  “Be careful not to stay too long upstairs, Mother,” called out Queenie, as Phillip and Sophy went up. “Remember you’re at the dangerous age!”

  “Silly child,” murmured Sophy, looking around. “I hope our intrusion hasn’t interfered with your work, Phillip. What’s this you’re writing now? Oh, yes, you told me about that. It should be good. I’m looking forward to hearing it. That’s your real line, you know.”

  She looked out of the tiny casement window. From behind her head he watched Annabelle and Marcus pedalling furiously round the bend of the lane, apparently having a race. Annabelle’s plait was swinging and flying. A black butterfly of hair-ribbon fluttered down.

  “Excuse me a moment, Sophy.” He returned with the frayed black bow in his pocket. “I thought I saw a rare butterfly.”

  “‘Excuse me’,” remarked Sophy, in the kitchen, as she lit the Beatrice stove-wick, “is a very genteel expression, don’t you think?”

  “I’m sorry, Sophy. What should I have said?”

  “‘Will you forgive me a moment’, or just, ‘I’ll be back in a moment’. And you needn’t say ‘Sorry’ to me, ever. I only want to help you, you see, my dear. Now while I’m washing up, you turn out any socks that need mending, and be a good boy.” When the washing-up was done she said, “I must be getting back now. Come over whenever you want to, won’t you. Dinner tonight? Very well, we’ll expect you at the usual time.”

  The day seemed empty after they had gone. He prepared to get on with his short story about a badger.

  “Hullo, P.M.”

  Barley had come in almost without him noticing her movements. “Oh, you’ve done the washing up.”

  “Someone more or less insisted on doing it.”

  “Are you busy?”

  “Only disrupted. No, that’s rude. My friends have honoured me with a visit. Would you like to go for a walk?”

  “Yes please!”

  They walked to a plantation on higher ground, where they climbed a tree and sat in the branches, seeing the sky shining above the spaces in the green leaves. Climbing down again they wandered over fields and saw a linnet shivering and twittering on a blackthorn twig. Below was an adder rising open-mouthed to take it. Before he could act Barley was beside the thorn, and the linnet flying away.

  “The snake might have struck at you!”

  “Oh, no, for I was not afraid.”

  He felt calm and happy as he lay on the grass to feel the sun on his face, arms under head. She lay beside him in the same attitude. Curious, a little amused by her almost dog-like attachment to him, he raised himself on an elbow to look at her. Her hair, cut short of her shoulders, was coarse, thick, ripply, the colour of barley straw in August. While he looked at her she rose on an elbow to look at him, duplicating his attitude. She seemed to be without normal feelings; her eyes were not those of a girl but of a seer, almost se
xless in their lack of warmth. They were wide-spaced and of a gem-hardness. She had a wide forehead, the hair grew away from it in two diverse waves.

  “I can stare you out, Barley.” But he couldn’t; his mouth quivered, he laughed.

  “Your way of talking is that of a naturally poised mind or personality, Barley.” He remembered Irene telling him that she had sat up at three months, and had never cried after learning to talk. The falling masses of bright hair, the strange direct look, the effortless movement, the calm firmness of purpose, her playfulness and unusual strength had gotten her in the Straits Settlement the nickname of Puma Cub.

  “How old are you, Barley?”

  “Fifteen and a half.”

  “You don’t look it!”

  “How old are you, P.M.?”

  “Oh, ever so old. Twenty-six last April!”

  “You don’t look it! Anyway, age doesn’t matter.”

  “Matter for what?”

  She hesitated briefly and said, “I’m not too young to be your true friend. I know what you think, because I think the same. I wish I hadn’t to go back to school. I want to stay here all my life.”

  They lay and watched swifts wheeling in the sky, pretending that the circles of their hands were binoculars.

  “I would like to be a bird.”

  “So would I.”

  “You are a bird, P.M. Mummie says you’re an owl. But I think you’re really a falcon. You’ll come and see her, won’t you?”

  “Your mother doesn’t want to see me, perhaps.”

  “Yes, she does, P.M.”

  “Did she say so?”

  “Not in words, but I know she does. Do swifts beat first one wing, then the other?”

  These strange, unearthly birds were whistling with faint shrillness a thousand feet in the air, barely visible to his eyes.

  “Now I come to think of it, they do! What good eyes you have.”