Mary Hatt wipes her tears. Wally Walter Brown. Daft simpleton twerp poop-poet, bugga you. As a matter of fact, Mary thinks, that ought to do for his headstone.
There is more gossip. Filterings that have filtered through. The house is busy; nothing is quite the same these days. The farm is filled with girls for a start, land girls they call them, and it is true they are landed on you without so much as a by-your-leave. The least bit of weather and they come chattering into the house.
The rain is still coming down outside after three days, so Mary Hatt squeezes underneath her bed for some peace and quiet and in order to think the latest news through. It is only a small filtering, but very definite. Confirmed, according to Evie Winter, by Mrs Brown herself. He is in Oxfordshire. He is at a training camp. He is to be with the Royal Artillery, Mrs Brown says. Royal! She says he will go abroad, certainly. She doesn't know where. Even he doesn't know where. Royal Artillery. Walter Brown. Daft daft daft. The army must have urgent need of a poop-poet. Perhaps he will come across her brother, Clem, in his tank. Poor Clem. Or Joseph, tall proud Joe, who says it is an honour to fight for his country and a greater one to die for it. Brave Joe, where will we find you? Mary closes her eyes.
The girls are laughing in the kitchen downstairs. A poor show, Mary reckons. She likes to frighten them with her behaviours, not necessarily fits. There have been no fits for a while. She put one on for them in the first week because she could see them looking, waiting. They must have been told. By Evie Winter more than likely. Royal Artillery. Royal! Wally Wally Wallflower, growing up so high.
19th April 1944, C.M.F.
Well now, my dear Mary,
I am sitting in a bivouac on a damp grassy hillside, looking at the water glinting in the churned-up fields in the valley. What else? I can see a fast-flowing river, brown with silt, a village of burned-out and bombed houses, the big Red Cross flag of a military hospital. Then there are more bivouacs and clothes hung to dry on the hedges, and a ceaseless stream of vehicles up and down along the road.
It may come as a surprise for you to hear from me this way. Daft, is likely the way you would view it, particularly when you have had a chance to take in my news and whereabouts. Daft is right, my dear girl, Mary. But in fairness there is much in the world that is gone daft these days.
I am with the Royal Sussex. We are up in the hills, about 2 or 3,000 feet, and everywhere is mist and rain. The mules do a remarkable job in these conditions and can carry more than you would imagine. How willing and biddable they are, not really stubborn at all!
Speaking of animals. Well now, did you know that almost every vehicle here has a dog or perhaps a cat, but more likely a chicken or two on board? Several now have sheep and lambs of course. Usually these creatures are acquired as we go through the deserted farms, together with the odd chair, table, alarm clock or cutlery items, though I personally have taken nothing that did not belong to me. The animals do lift our spirits and, excepting the grazers, would have starved.
So, Mary, I must tell you of our first spring snow. Two days ago it fell and on the higher hillsides it still lies, like writing on the wall, warning us of the contrariness here of weather and environment. Well, at the moment the weather is rather cold, with a touch of frost in the mornings. This morning, going down to the stream for a wash, the ice on the little pools crackled under our feet. Still, I am very lucky as, for a while, I was in charge of a house with a few chaps, waiting for the Coy to be relieved. We were well organised and the fire blazed high all day.
Well, Mary, do you have any details on Walter? I have it on fairly good authority that he is hereabouts. How I would dearly love to see him! I hope to manage it soon.
Interestingly, last night I woke up around 4 o'clock and about 30 yards away a nightingale was pouring out a beautiful song. It made me think of Walter, and of you. The moon was up and it really sounded lovely. True, there was a background of artillery, but that only made a setting of a deeper note.
Some sad news. Our signaller received a letter saying that his brother in the R.N.F. had just been killed. Our chap is only 19 and his brother just 18 months older. He seems so young and was rather badly cast down.
I have been praying at his side and he seems to find it comforting. I know you will pray for him too.
Well, Mary, I told him the story (well, I should tell it here to you too) of the day some weeks ago when we came to a village church that had been built some 300 years ago, 1621 to be exact. More than that we found the history of it from our friend the local priest (who is one year older than myself). Well, apparently in 1621 one of the village inhabitants swore that, wherever he saw snow on the 8th day of August, he would build a church in honour of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Possibly he thought he was on a good thing, for August being a very hot month it was hardly likely that there could possibly be snow. However, he must have been severely shaken when, on the morning of the 8th, snow an inch thick was actually seen on the hill. Yes! So, now there is a church, and the 8th of August is the fiesta day. The most beautiful true and lovely story I have ever heard. I thought you would like that story. I hope you do. I did.
Mary, how lovely it would be to see you and return home again! By the grace of God, I shall.
May God bless and protect you, Mary.
God bless you, dearest, Now and Always.
Yours,
Charles Sankey
A very small square of paper is pressed inside the larger one. Sean opens it and the tiny handwriting, curling like sewing, is revealed in neat rows.
Always remember: We shall never more suffer the lonely night when we sit together by the stream, nor hasten more to the demands of the clock. But only rest beneath a leafy canopy wherein shines the light of His eternal Love. We shall return to Him, each one of us, when it is our time. We shall go Home, Mary. We shall go Home.
Sean thinks he will draw the paint-line home and show this one to Ann. This one is different. He will go by the short cut.
Fifty-one
SEAN SEES HIM in the woods. The man is walking quickly, as though he has a train to catch. Sean watches. It is him, the one with the dead rabbit. It is the man in Mrs Roys' photograph. It is the man who writes the blue moth-wing letters. mista waltr. There are no trains here, however, as this is Gomms Wood. Sean thinks it is lucky that today of all days he is hidden behind this giant fern to witness these goings-on. The strange walkings and talkings of Mr Walter. Because, after all, the smoke-blurred detectives in their short raincoats are not here to slam any car doors or take photographs of leaves.
Mr Walter is snapping twigs and creepers as he goes. Things scrape his face but he does not put his hands out. It is unusual for a person to walk this urgently in dense woodland; ordinarily a person would pick their way, or run. Sean wonders whether there is any possibility at all that Mr Walter might be Martian. He wonders why he has not thought of it before. The man is already almost out of sight among the trees. Sean will have to move after him with jungle alertness. He must not let him out of his sight, he must not lose him now; he must not leave any stone unturned. Gomms Wood is one of the few places around where the weather cannot interfere. It simply can't get inside this wood. It tries; you see the sun straining itself through tattered leaves and poking through canopies, you see rainwater trickling and dripping. But the weather cannot invade and take over. Not like it does on the hills where there used to be fields and orchards and now there are nearly-houses – where once upon a time it would make or break a farmer and his workers and now it merely floods people's garages.
Sean has to run to keep up. He is used to running in these woods, except this time he is the hunter not the hunted. It is difficult because he is keeping his eye on the ball. The ball is Mr Walter. He moves almost as fast as a ball that someone throws at you along with the instruction, Catch!
Mr Walter is out of the wood and striding through the long lush meadow where insects balance on the tops of grass blades. Butterflies rise up in front of him and bounce out of h
is way. If he had a briefcase and a newspaper under his arm and he was on a railway platform and the whistle was blowing, he would not look at all out of place. Not like he does here, empty-handed, stone-faced, tearing through clouds of summer aphids.
He reaches the rushes and reeds where Ann usually sits and times Sean's weightless dives, where she once knitted indecipherable items in unwearable colours. Somewhere in those water grasses Sean's blue breathing tube still lies in the place it was flung.
Mr Walter has walked straight into the pond as though it were not there. He does not behave like a bather at all. He splashes in without pausing or considering or checking for fish or insects that may sting. He does not break his stride or turn his head or raise his arms. He walks until the water is up to his waist. And then up to his shoulders. And then he is just a head. Watch the ball. Why doesn't he swim? And then he is under. God.
Mr Walter is in the pond. Don't panic. It is just that Mr Walter is in the pond. Sean runs towards the water. He scatters mayflies and grasshoppers. He crashes into the reeds. He stands and looks in horror at the still brown surface, at the reflections of the trees, as they too peer curiously into the depths.
'Mr Walter!'
He is gone.
Bludyell. Sean runs around the edge of the pond. Rudyell. Mr Walter is in the pond without a breathing tube. Bludyell. This is the stone that will be unturned. Sean, you are a pie-faced spaz and I've always thought so. Rudyell. Mr Walter does not come up. Mr Walter is drowning. No one but Sean knows. He can run. Run! No one will ever know. Crine out loud. He wishes he had never even met Mr Walter. You're a good lad. A fine lad you are. He cannot run. He ran once before in Gomms Wood and it brought the police in their smoky cars. He will not run. He will be brave. He will leave no stone unturned. Ann will blink when she hears.
Sean jumps. The water is colder than he remembers. He swims towards the centre where a leaf boat bobs. An astronaut must train for four years. He must prepare to go where it is silent and dark and cold and he will weigh less than a leaf when he gets there. Sean plunges down. He can hold his breath for almost a minute now. He opens his eyes and discovers he is no stranger to the brown murk this time. It has become his friend, and he stretches out his hands and he kicks himself down.
A mad woman lies at the bottom of the pond. It is said she was mad. It remains an unsolved mystery, another one. The villagers are used to living with mysteries; they are not afraid. But neither do they swim in the pond. Nobody has swum there since the drowning. The people on the estate do not know about this. Their coffee mornings and cheese-and-wine evenings are attended only by other estate residents. The village children whose family names are in the churchyard know not to swim there or play on the tip.
When a strong swimmer drowns everyone asks why. Why did Mad Mary drown? It was odd. Mary Hatt had swum in the woodland pool since she was a little girl. She swam like a fish.
A farmer knows; he knows nature makes the odd miscalculation from time to time, and he accepts it. He witnesses her miscalculations every spring as his livestock give birth.
John Hatt waded up to his knees and he let his youngest daughter go. He watched while the infant Mary crawled forward beneath the surface of the water. Then he closed his eyes and prayed. He prayed to God for mercy, for forgiveness, for quick resolution in this most dreadful of tasks.
Mary Hatt suffered seizures from birth. John and Ida Hatt had watched their child contort and stiffen and struggle. They waited. Dr Summer paid a visit. One day, he said, she would simply asphyxiate, and that would be that. He did not know when. They spoke prayers to keep her, to protect her. Each time they thought she had gone, she returned. She would breathe herself pink again, pull herself back, though her heart swung too slow to hear. She died many small deaths in a day, and John Hatt thought it was kinder this way, to give her back quietly. In the water she would not struggle, she would not know. She would simply be returning to her element, to the buoyant memory of fluid. The water would neither frighten her nor carry her cries. It was, he thought, the kindest thing to do, natural, understood by God. The same God who, in His mercy, would forgive them, if not now then later.
John Hatt saw right away that she swam. He covered his face with his hands and asked for guidance. He cried. And then he walked away.
Mary Hatt was discovered by a cowman, watering his herd on their way to Wycombe. She was in the reeds, like Moses, laughing at dragon-flies. Holding her breath was second nature to young Mary Hatt.
Mary's mother waited at the door with her news, and when John came in she slapped his face. He let her do it. He never knew whether it was because he had failed to drown Mary or because he had agreed to drown her in the first place. Mary Hatt swam like a fish, always had. Poor mad Mary. No one ever swam in the pond again.
Fifty-two
A CLARKS SANDAL floats in the pond. It bobs to the side and waits there as though it would like to step out and walk away. The sun is high in the sky, but the big tree shadows the water, keeping it cool. A woodpecker taps into a tree, a sound like urgent knocking. As if to answer it, Sean comes up in the pond. He is slick like a seal. He gasps and coughs. The tree waits.
Sean walks home. He thinks he is always walking home this way, squelching. His progress is slower in only one sandal. The bare foot finds every stone, shard and thorn in Hughenden. 'Ow,' Sean says, and then again, like a peculiar wading bird. The sun follows him, burning the backs of his legs, pressing him on.
Once he is on tarmac he speeds up. She will not believe him of course, but he will tell her nonetheless. The truth will out. That's what people say. He hopes that is correct because the truth this time is more fantastic than any lie.
He sees her. She is at the top of a dirt mound with her hands on her hips. Yap yap yap, she is talking like that. When Sean's dad wants to indicate that, in his opinion, Sean's mother is talking too much, he makes little yap-yap motions with his hand, and says, 'Yap, yap, yap,' behind her back. Sean is always amazed as he has never noticed his mother talking more than the odd word or two.
Sean climbs the dirt mound. By the time he reaches the top he is bursting to tell it.
'P'sof, Spaz.'
'Guess what?'
'P'sof.'
'Mr Walter went in the pond bludyell I tried to stop him doing it God.'
'Yur a spaz and you don't know it.'
'Like some Martian I tell you what.'
On the hill the great orange crane stretches its neck left and right and raises its dinosaur head to the sky.
'Mr Walter went in the pond.' Perhaps, Sean considers, the smoky policemen will come again. Perhaps they will photograph the pond water. Maybe wade in up to their waists in their short raincoats. There was never a dull moment around here lately. Sean mentions this to Ann.
Gor stands at the sink, flicking his ash into the plughole, watching his youngest through the window. Sean appears to have been tarred and feathered or ducked or rolled in wet mud or something. Always the filthiest kid on the estate, Sean. How did he come to have such a funny kid? Who the bloody hell's he talking to? Other kids don't talk to themselves. Talking to himself all ruddy summer since she died, that girl. Not his fault. Nothing to be done about it. Police knew that. Ann Hooper. Nothing to be done now. Too late now. Poor kid's been buried almost three months. He'll have to snap out of it. Find another pal. Come on, son, come on. Chewing a ruddy brick. He's doing it again. Who in the bloody hell's he talking to? There's nobody there.
Ann Hooper's funeral had taken place on a warm spring day. She sailed past the estate in a gleaming black hearse. Wotcha, Spaz! She glided up the hill like an empress and the other cars followed. She sailed past the last tattered poster of her face: Did you see anything? Did you hear anything? Were you in the vicinity on 4 May? And the number to ring if you did. At the crossroads they waited for traffic but there were no other cars in Buckinghamshire. Sean heard the world go quiet. Just the scraping sound of insects and a burning sky. Ann had the roads to herself, like royalty.
There was nothing else save for her big black wagon, the procession behind and a blank-eyed cuckoo in the wood.
The children from Cryers Hill Primary School were required to sit on the left-hand side of St Mary's Church on Cryers Hill Lane. Perhaps the Church of the Good Shepherd on the estate was considered too informal, with its concrete bell tower and smoky coffee mornings and come-as-you-are vicar. St Mary's on the other hand had a stained-glass window of St George and family tombs and was over four hundred years old. Here the local community could take comfort in a place that had witnessed the christenings, weddings and burials of their grandparents and great-grandparents. Here Ann Hooper could lie in peace and grow leaves in her hair. Here a village could bid a dignified farewell to its own lost child, its own unwitting angel snatched in the woods from under their noses.
A small group of girls shared a hanky to cry in, but mostly the children just swung their legs and stared.
The vicar read out things from the Bible. Sean didn't remember hearing anyone read from the Bible before. It was, Sean felt, not bad. Pleasant, Mrs Roys would have said. They sang hymns, 'Abide With Me', and 'Lead, Kindly Light'. Some of the adults knew the words and Sean watched their mouths making the rhymes. Ann would have been scornful, he thought, but he enjoyed it. When the service was over he wished they could do it again. Afterwards he heard the adults remarking on how small the coffin was, but Sean reckoned it was huge – enough room in it to roll over, to knit, to point out spazzery. He stared at it without blinking for old times' sake. But no one could stare without blinking longer than Ann.
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