The grasses have grown so thick around the walls of the house that I have to push them aside, but at least there are no nettles. I am able to work my way around the corner of the house and then crouch down without worrying about stings and scratches. I find a hiding place; I am ensconced amongst green leaves with the delicate fronds tickling my ears and teasing my hair. I will have to comb my hair out carefully later. Later, when I return to my room and face my father's wrath for my lateness, I will be a changed woman.
With time to waste, I must consider my plan. Do I have one? No, I am being impetuous, and this is not how I pictured it. But he would not give me the opportunity earlier and so I must make my own chance to explain my feelings to him. He cannot escape from this place; this is his last resort. Besides, I like that word – impetuous. What is the point of being young if one cannot attach the adjective 'impetuous' to it?
There are too many questions in my mind and I cannot still my thoughts. They germinate, sprout and form beanstalks that raise up into the sky. I am picturing a wedding in summer with a cornflower and sweet william posy to hold when I hear the door open, and then close.
How could I have missed his footsteps on the path? I thought I would have time to steel myself at his approach, but he is close now, so close, and already in his cottage.
I cannot breathe, but I must. I cannot. I listen for him; I am a rabbit, with tender ears quivering. Has he headed straight for his kitchen? I picture what my father does when returning from work: leaving on his boots, to my mother's disapproval, and looking in the pantry for something to eat before seating himself in a chair before the kitchen fire. I can envisage any man might act in such a fashion, although maybe Mr Tiller brings down a book from a shelf and actually does unlace his boots and place them tidily by the door, as a gentleman should.
I hear a scrape close by – the sound of a chair along the kitchen floor, perhaps? He is sitting so close to me. If I stood up now, he would see me. I would be as a vision to him, and a wild one at that, with ferns in my hair and a flush to my cheeks that is far from ethereal. I can feel my face burning with heat, although I am not ashamed. It is the excitement of the moment, but how could I persuade him of that? That I feel no embarrassment in my love? He would think me young and stupid, and possibly the instigator of a ridiculous prank, which would be unbearable.
No, I should work my way back to his front door so that I can straighten my shoulders, throw out my chest, and bang upon it with purpose.
But I cannot do that, not when I do not know what my welcome would be. I must see his face first, just a glimpse of it; I must see the man, not the teacher. Then I will be able to address the man as an equal, no matter if he tries to play the teacher with me.
I can imagine him eating methodically, possibly upon a dried apple or a wedge of cheese, with his mind on his book of Wordsworth's verse, or on the lesson for tomorrow. He will be lost in thought. He will not see if I lift my head, just a little, until I can spy him through the window. He will not see.
I shift to my knees amidst the ferns, relieving the ache in my thighs, and then inch my way upwards so my view through the window changes: the low black beams of the kitchen from which hang dusty copper pans; the top row of serving plates upon the tall dresser; an ink drawing of a robin, the eye a black watchful bead that spies me, hanging in a gilt frame from the wall. Then a crown of brown hair. I raise myself just a little more, balancing on the balls of my feet, and I see his noble face, worthy of a bust from antiquity with the severe slope to the nose but a gentle draw to the eyebrows that softens all expressions. His countenance is cast downwards, deep in private reflection. He does not eat. He sits in a pool of yellow light from the lamp beside him at the table, and he slowly unbuttons his waistcoat. Still his fingers tremble.
I am imprisoned by my love for him. I cannot look away. He is unguarded; he thinks he is alone, but I am here. I am here! I belong to him, and I cannot be freed from the glamour his slow unbuttoning casts upon me.
He opens up his waistcoat and then commences upon the studs of his shirt sleeves. Then he reaches behind his slim, long neck and removes his collar. All the studs are placed upon the table. He slumps, as if these actions have allowed relaxation to come to him. Yes, this is the man. This is whom I wish to marry.
I should move to the door and knock, say my piece before the perfect moment is lost, but then I see his chin raise up once more, and he is about the business of his remaining buttons.
I have seen my father in his vest often enough, but it is not a vest that Mr Tiller begins to expose. It is skin.
No, it is not skin. It is the puckered edge of a thick scar, white and ridged at the hollow of his throat, leading down, and I remember what Mrs Barbery said – that he was not a real man. I am afraid of what I am about to see.
He unbuttons all the way down to the line of his trousers, pulls open the leaves of his shirt front, and then I see the scar is not a scar. It is a pattern revealed, which decorates the entire of his chest and stomach, and lower; I cannot comprehend so many lines and angles, made in his flesh. Except in the centre of the pattern, where there is no flesh at all. There is rock.
How can it be rock? It is solid, and juts forth from the bottom of his ribcage, making a mountain range in miniature, sunk into the body in places and erupting forth in others. There are seams of a bright material within it that catch the lamplight, and glitter, delicate and silvery as spider thread.
Mr Tiller places his hands upon the rock and throws back his head, his eyes closed, his mouth open. He forms words that I cannot hear; perhaps he does not speak them aloud. I am struck by the thought that he is communing with it.
He opens his eyes.
He sees me.
I am made rigid by his naked gaze. We are caught in an intimacy that panics me; I am aware of the space between us, our breaths, our open mouths, our shared shock. The burning honesty of our pounding heartbeats, separated only by glass.
He is not a real man.
I find myself on my feet, and he is moving also, pushing back the chair from the kitchen table as he rises with such speed, but I surge through the weeds, to the path, and then away: past the gate with pebbles crunching under my feet, in the direction of the river. I hear the front door bang and he calls my name, but I cannot risk turning to see if he follows. Besides, he will never catch me and I can hear the river now. I will cross the old stone bridge by the mill and loop back around the village to make my way home through the fields and I will never speak of what I have seen, never never never.
'Shirley,' calls Mr Tiller, from far away.
I start to slow.
I find myself at a trot, and then a walk. My skirts are tangled around my legs; I shake them out as I reach the bridge. Up ahead is the mill, closed up tight for the night. And it is night, now; only the last rays of the sun provide me with the means to see my feet upon the stones. I reach the centre of the bridge and look down along the length of the river.
Mr Tiller has fought a war, and he has returned from it a changed man. I did not truly understand that until this moment. Something terrible, beyond my experience, has befallen him. The shock of it is overwhelming to me. But I asked for the means to test myself, to be worthy of leading the coming generations, and I have been provided with those means. If Mr Tiller is brave enough to live with such an injury, then I will be brave enough to at least stand upright in his presence and acknowledge it.
'Shirley.'
He has come to stand at the start of the bridge, where it joins with the road. His shirt buttons are redone, although his collar and cuffs remain loose. He looks like a man once more, albeit a dishevelled one, and his expression pleads with me – it is an honest expression, the kind I have dreamed of seeing upon his features.
'Come back to the cottage,' he says.
I shake my head. It is not that I do not trust him. It is only that this seems to me to be a better place to have this conversation. He limps slowly across the bridge to stand beside me;
I think his leg must be paining him after he has hurried upon it. Perhaps he is always in pain, from that heavy mass of rock within him, erupting from him. Now I know of it I can see the peaks, just visible through the material of his shirt. It is no wonder that he always keeps his waistcoat in place and buttoned.
'You should not spy on people,' he says, gravely. He leans on the stone wall, and stares into the water that runs through the archways, and onwards to the wheel of the mill.
'It was not my intention, and certainly not my usual pastime,' I say. I am pleased at my even tone. I sound cool and proper, like a lady. 'I wanted to talk to you. About a private matter.'
'May I ask what was so important that you had to stand at my window and peer inside?'
What a question. I can't begin to answer it. I find I am no longer sure that I want to speak my heart to Mr Tiller.
'Do you…' he says, and then changes the direction of the conversation abruptly, to, 'Will you speak to no one about this? I think that would be for the best.'
'No one but yourself.'
He nods. I think he understands my meaning. I cannot simply be silent forever more, because the questions I have will plague me if I am not given the opportunity to voice them.
'Shirley, there are some aspects of life that a young girl should not have to know about.'
'You were doing your duty,' I commence. 'You were fighting for King and country. You plunged into battle. There were explosions, all around. Many died. There were pieces of men everywhere, scattered, and the smell of blood, the cries of anguish, were strong. I am not a child. My imagination will tell me what you will not.' He stood tall amidst the dead and the screaming, no doubt, with determination on his handsome face, streaked with noble tears. 'You were trying to hold a position, on a beach, backed against a cliff by greater numbers, and suddenly there was a sound so loud, a boom, like the voice of the Lord, and then the rock-face itself fell down upon you, and you felt nothing but a sudden sense of peace, as if all had gone silent, and you looked down and saw the rock itself upon you, and you—'
'No, no,' he says. 'Oh no, Shirley, my dear girl, that is not what happened. Although I must say I wish your version could be true. I do wish it were true.'
'Then tell me.'
Mr Tiller puts his hand to his face, covering his eyes. I breathe out, and my concentration upon him is broken for a moment. I realise we have now passed into night proper. The sounds of the birds settling has changed into the shrill chorus of frogs by the riverbank. All is dark.
'I will walk you home,' he says. 'It's late. You may tell your father that you were aiding me in a project for the school. May Day is nearly upon us, and if the weather holds it will be a fine festival this year. Let us say I needed help with planning the dancing.'
He turns, and starts a slow walk away from me, in the direction of his cottage. 'Come on,' he calls. So we are back to commands given and accepted, and I hear confidence returning to his voice. He could almost believe his own story, of May Day and happy dancing, just as I could almost believe mine of that brave stand on a lonely beach. Of course, we are the same! I see it clearly, even in the darkness, that we are truly suited. We are creative types, linked by our irrepressible imaginations, and our minds are perfectly aligned even if our bodies bear such terrible differences.
He enters his cottage to fetch his waistcoat and a lantern, and while I wait for him to emerge my determination to be his love hardens once more to resolve.
He will not escape the goodness of my intentions this time.
Here he is, collar and cuffs buttoned, waistcoat in place. He holds aloft the lantern and we start to walk. To circumvent the village we take a less well-trodden path that leads through the woods; it will take us to the back of my father's sheep fields, which are only good for tough grasses and mutton.
The circle of light from the lantern is a strange intimacy. It makes it easier to walk closer to him, and to say, 'I am determined to be of help to you, sir.'
'You are a good girl,' he says, in guarded fashion. 'I could certainly do with assistance when it comes to May Day matters this year.'
'In all ways,' I say. 'Does it – hurt?'
He pauses, then says, in time with our footsteps, 'It does not. It is not exactly an injury, Shirley. I would be dead without it.'
'I'm afraid I don't understand.'
'You do not have to.'
'But I want to,' I say, clearly, to be sure I am taken seriously. The trees press close; how watchful the wood feels, at night. Still, I will not speak quietly. 'I want to understand. I want to be involved in every aspect of… I am bound to you, sir. I think you know this. I will be a teacher too. I have applied to Taunton Municipal College and I mean to study for my exams.'
'That is a worthy ambition,' he says, without looking at me.
'I mean to be a teacher,' I repeat. 'With you. To come back to the village and teach with you. As your companion.'
It is not possible to be any plainer.
He keeps walking, but I can tell he has understood my meaning, and his silence is agonising. Is he shocked? Amazed? No, surely he has long been aware of my devotion to him. I thought that perhaps he might have been prepared for such an offer, even grateful for it.
But no. There is only the slow drag of his leg and my own misery. He does not want me, even as a helper, even to simply listen to the little ones practise their spellings. 'We would not have to be…' I say. I hear the plea in my own voice and hate myself for it. I will not be this desperate, pleading girl.
It occurs to me that I do not have to be.
'You are free to evaluate my offer for a time,' I say. 'But please be aware that I know my own mind and cannot be dissuaded. Just as I know of your injury, and the fact that you would prefer I keep it secret. So it seems we both want something from the other, in fact. We must hope our desires are compatible.'
The trees part, and we are suddenly at the boundary of my father's fields. The night sky is fresh after being under the cover of the trees, and the moon is large, throwing light across the stretch of grass. There are no sheep in sight; they must be gathered in a corner, in the shelter of the hedge-line, keeping each other warm in a heap. As I think of them I realise I am growing cold, and there will be nobody to keep me warm if I do not find a way to make myself what men want. What Mr Tiller wants. What on earth does he want? I am young, and quick-minded. I have offered myself to him and he has not replied. I refuse to feel ashamed. I will discover what he wants.
He holds the lantern high as I climb over the stile, gathering up my skirts in the hope he will take the opportunity to look upon my legs, but he does not. He looks away, then passes me the lantern as he steadies himself and climbs awkwardly over the stile. Then we commence our journey across the field, and the barest black outline of my home becomes visible in the distance, with candlelight winking in the parlour window.
'My injuries were extensive,' says Mr Tiller. 'Since you wish to be treated as an adult, let us speak as adults. I am not capable of being a husband.'
'I have heard talk in the village,' I say, primly. 'I am aware of the situation in that regard.'
'Then you should ask for more from your life, Shirley. You deserve more from it.'
'Sir, it is not in your remit to tell me what I deserve.'
'I will not misuse you, miss, no matter how much you desire it,' he snaps, and I am glad; here is his temper, here is what he feels for me.
'How old are you, sir?' I ask him.
'I am 24 years of age.'
'Then why do you act like an old man already? There are not even ten years between us. In the wake of this war, how many undamaged men do you think remain? Let me decide what constitutes a real man. Maybe you are a true man in your mind, if not in body.'
He stops walking, and bends over a little at the waist, as if struggling to breathe. 'Sir?' I say. Then I realise he is not fighting for air but for control of his emotions. He is crying. I have wounded him afresh, reminded him of his own limitatio
ns instead of helping him realise how easy they would be to overcome with the right woman by his side. What can I say to aid him? 'You will always be a real man to me,' I tell him. I move to his side, and put my fingers on his back, upon the silk of his waistcoat. I feel flesh, normal human flesh. I can feel the muscles tense at my touch under the sewn panel of material.
He jerks upright, and stumbles away. He does not look at me. 'There is your farm,' he says. 'Take the lantern. Go.'
'I do not need it,' I tell him. I know these fields, and my eyes have always been keen in the dark. Besides, the candle in the parlour window was no doubt lit for me. I am so cold and tired; exhaustion at this conversation has stolen over me in a moment. I could sleep forever. 'Goodnight,' I say to Mr Tiller's straight back. 'We have the May Day celebrations still to plan. Let us talk more on that tomorrow.'
I walk quickly, cutting across the field, and find the sheep all at once, gathered in a crowd, their heads tucked against each other. What strange, mindless creatures they are. I must push through them to reach the final stile before home and they push back, shoving me, putting their stink upon me, churning up the earth under their hooves. I slip down and my knee lands hard upon a large stone; it will bruise, but I pull myself up, grabbing handfuls of their woollen coats. I break free of them, and cross the stile.
I am exhausted beyond words. There is still my father to face, and now I am dirty and sore; I must not cry. I have seen wounds upon a man's body, rock embedded in flesh pulsing with silver, and I have negotiated for love like a market trader when I wanted it to be a natural, wonderful happening. I am a woman now. I must not cry at what has happened tonight, for it is the first step towards the life I want. The rock under his skin will not be strange to me for long, and I will not cry.
The Arrival of Missives Page 2