The Arrival of Missives

by Aliya Whiteley

  I could provide you with a number of reasons, and I will do so if you wish. It will probably make this easier, because every one of them will give you leave to think me mad. I would prefer it if you decide that you, also, do not want to marry a girl who could be so changeable in nature. We were not meant to be together; will that do?

  I suppose it will not, and you will want to draw this out, and meet face to face, and I will oblige. It will not change the outcome.

  I would have liked to have gone to Taunton and taken you with me. I would have searched for a way to be together that came without all the usual words. I am sorry that I was cruel to you, on the day of the interview, when I stood upon the smile; for it was cruelty to wilfully misunderstand you at that moment. I hope you appreciate that I am not deliberately being cruel now.

  I have one favour to ask of you: do not come to the wedding rehearsal on Sunday afternoon, or speak of this matter to anyone before that time. I would like the opportunity to explain all myself to our parents, in the church, at that appointed time. It would be easier if you were not there to hear my words.

  Your friend forever,

  Miss Shirley Fearn

  I put away the pen and ink, and seal the letter in an envelope. It is all I can do. I will hand it to him tomorrow morning, when I go into the village to fetch the bread. And then what?

  Sunday afternoon awaits.

  *

  Not all plans run smoothly.

  I would have liked my own company for this task, but my mother decides to come with me, and so we take a slow walk into the village while she grasps the opportunity to talk to me about wedding arrangements: the flowers, the cake, the chimney sweep who will come in the morning, the silver sixpence that must be placed in my shoe. She is working so hard to ward off a disaster that has already happened.

  We collect the bread from the bakery, served by a sullen Phyllis, and as we step outside I tell my mother that I have a letter to deliver to Daniel. She raises her eyebrows, but does not comment.

  We walk past the school. It is Saturday, and all is quiet within. I wonder what Mr Tiller has taught the children this past week, and whether they have taken every word as truth. Once I thought that a bitter teacher spoils a pupil; I wonder now if it there is not an innate bitterness at the heart of education, which always comes with hidden meanings and a high cost.

  We reach the village green, and my mother waits by the maypole, which has not yet been taken down, as I make my way into the smithy's yard. Mr Redmore and Dennis are at work together – one holds a large piece of metal still in tongs while the other hammers it flat upon the anvil – and they look up in unison as I call out a hesitant greeting in between ringing blows.

  'He's at market,' calls Dennis. 'Saturday is Taunton day, you know that. Have you lost your brains in the rush to get to the altar?'

  Mr Redmore puts down the tongs, wipes his hands upon his stiff leather apron, and then cuffs Dennis around the back of the head, which makes me smile. Of course, Daniel is not here, how could I have forgotten? So much has happened that even the simplest of facts is passing me by. I am disgusted with the relief I feel as I hand over the letter to Mr Redmore. I do not have to see Daniel at this moment, and I do not have to explain to him why I need to record in a letter that which I cannot bear to say in words.

  'Would you see Daniel gets this, please, Mr Redmore? It is very important.'

  His old eyes flash surprise as he replies, 'Very well, that I can do. Are you well, miss?'

  'Yes thank you,' I say.

  'Only you look a little wearied, but then, perhaps brides-to-be do. I remember when I got married—' He shrugs. 'Well, enough of that. I must get back to the work in hand.'

  I picture him as a young man, in the days approaching the saying of his vows; he has quite the kindest expression I have ever seen. It occurs to me that he has only ever wanted his sons to be happy, and that he wants me to be happy too. I take his hand in mine, and squeeze it.

  'Thank you so very much,' I say.

  Then I walk away before either one of us can say more.

  All depends on keeping the breaking of the engagement as a secret, but my mother takes one look at my face as I meet her on the green and reads everything there.

  'Oh, you foolish girl,' she says. 'Foolish, foolish. Quick, go back and retrieve the letter and rip it into pieces, before it's too late.'

  I shake my head. I am expecting such rage from her, but instead she puts a hand on my shoulder, and says, 'Why, Shirley?'

  'It is too complicated…'

  She sighs. I have a sudden feeling that she has been expecting this all along. 'Come. Let's get home.'

  We start the walk out of the village, back up the hill that leads to the farm. There are so many things she could say and I am so grateful that she decides to say none of them. I already know my father will be apoplectic. I already know that everyone will laugh, and point, and consider me used and discarded, good for nothing any more. I do not need her to tell me.

  Instead she says, 'When I was a little younger than you I met your father at a fayre. He bought me a baked potato without even asking first; he was bold, and bright, and he had a reputation back then – the kind of reputation that does a girl no good and a man no harm at all. He had got a girl into trouble in his own village, was the word, and then had refused to marry her, although nobody could produce the name of this girl when I asked for details. Perhaps it was all a lie. I didn't really care, anyway. My parents forbade it so I sneaked from the house to see him, and got caught, of course, being quite useless at such acts. He agreed to marry me, though, which surprised everyone. It did not seem to matter whether I agreed to marry him.'

  She does not say more.

  We cross the stile and walk up the edge of the lower field together. How calm she is; how different to what I was expecting.

  'Thank you,' I say, although I cannot exactly explain for what.

  'I wanted you to be better, to be beyond all this.' She gestures at the ground, the sky. 'But the more you learned, the further you got away from me, until I could not recognise myself in you. I have been so lonely, watching you make your plans from such a distance, with your head in the clouds. And I became bitter as you excluded me. I could not understand it. But this act – this I understand.' She takes my hand, and squeezes it.

  'How can that be so? I do not understand it myself.'

  'What will you do?'

  There is no answer to give her.

  'You cannot go to Taunton,' she says. 'Put that out of your mind.'

  'I no longer want to be a teacher.'

  'Good, because they did not want you. A letter came days ago. They wrote that you did not have the correct attitude for a schoolmistress. I destroyed it before your father could read it, and take pleasure in it.'

  They do not want me. They do not want me; well, I hold fast to my thoughts. I do not want them. No more rooms of quiet, seated, suppressed children. No more thoughts that I do not form myself.

  'I admire you,' my mother says. We continue to walk to the farm; where else would we go? 'I wish I had your courage. I have long admired it from afar. I will help, as I can, to find a path for you through life.'

  Honesty compels me to say, 'Perhaps you should not formulate such thoughts until you discover what I have said in the letter to Daniel.'

  She nods. 'Very well. When will you tell your father?'

  'Tomorrow afternoon. At the rehearsal. Do not come. Make an excuse, I beg of you. You will find out all later.'

  'It will all come out in the wash, and then we can decide what to do. There will be happiness, eventually. I do not doubt it.'

  She pulls me into her arms with a strength that I had almost forgotten she possessed; it is the strength born of hard work and worry, and holding a child safe even when they struggle.

  'I do not doubt it,' she says, again, and I wish she had not. She sounds so much less certain with repetition.

  *

  Three men stand befor
e me and ask their questions.

  I sit in the front pew of the church, my hands folded demurely in my lap, my eyes downcast. I know better than to show my true face, or give my answers.

  My father, Mr Redmore, Reverend Mountcastle: they have all read the letters that Mr Tiller sent to me. I handed them over as soon as we were gathered in the church. Reverend Mountcastle holds them now; the once-white pages, folded, look grubby, the edges curling. 'Why did you not inform your father of these improper advances? You must have known it was your duty.'

  'I am sorry,' I whisper, which goes nowhere towards answering his question but at least seems to mollify him. He stands in the centre of the aisle; behind him are the carved wooden steps to his pulpit and the long stained-glass window of Mary in blue, with the baby Jesus in her arms.

  My father is on Reverend Mountcastle's left. His arms are crossed and his mouth straight. His cheeks appear to be permanently flushed since my revelation, as if they will never overcome the embarrassment of it.

  On the right of the Reverend stands Mr Redmore. This must be his first time in church since that Sunday he attended upon his return from the war. His eyes do not look so kindly upon me any more. I feel my body trembling, and I cannot control it.

  'It is very troubling that you kept it secret, Shirley,' says the Reverend. 'You were always a sensible girl. Where has that sensible girl gone?'

  'I was – charmed,' I say.

  I have spent hours preparing this as my line of defence. Let them think I was weak-minded, and Mr Tiller took advantage of me with stories that a real man would not possibly entertain.

  'But now you see clearly?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'I don't understand it, I just don't understand it,' he mutters. 'It is very strange indeed, this talk of rocks and future plans, and the letters are – well, they are deeply disturbing, do you not think so?' He appeals to my father, who obliges, through clenched teeth.

  'I do.' The sight of him standing there, saying those particular words in such clipped severity when this should be my own wedding rehearsal, touches a deep nerve of quixotic humour within me that cannot be repressed.

  'She smiles,' says Mr Redmore. 'She's smiling. She finds this laughable, while my son fancies himself broken-hearted.'

  'Perhaps it is a sign of the befuddlement,' says my father, who has leapt at the possible explanation as I knew he would. 'She has long been thick with the man, and I knew it was not normal in nature, but her mother told me she could settle it with delicacy.'

  'Well, it seems not.' Mountcastle sighs.

  'It's all some fantasy caused by the war,' adds the blacksmith. 'Men come back with the strangest tales, and think they face enemies, seeing them in every place. Once you have lived through such times you cannot dismiss them. The man is ill.'

  'Does that mean we should forgive him?' says my father, outraged.

  'We should forgive everyone as best we can in the name of Christian duty,' states the Reverend. 'But forgiveness does not mean forgetfulness. Tiller must not be put in charge of young minds, or even allowed near to them, that much is obvious.'

  They do not ask me why I chose to believe Mr Tiller, or what I have seen with my own eyes. They do not include me in this conversation at all.

  It does not matter; it does not matter! I have outwitted Mr Tiller. He will be forced out of the village in shame and penury, and if he applies for work in this county news of it will reach Westerbridge. He will not be able to harm Daniel, and his ability to affect the future of others will be seriously diminished.

  'Do we agree that the man is touched?' asks Mountcastle.

  'I do not care much one way or the other, but he must pay for what he has done.' My father's arms remain crossed. I am glad I asked my mother to leave us at the church door; she would set about the business of placating him, as if it were her duty, and I need him to be angry enough to ensure the downfall of Mr Tiller.

  'But what exactly has he done?' says the Reverend. I keep my eyes cast down, and pretend I am too ashamed to even look at them.

  There is a silence, and then I hear footsteps. The Reverend sits beside me in the pew, and places a hand on mine. I have never been so close to him. He smells strange, musty. Underneath his vestments he is just another old man. I hold my breath.

  'Shirley,' he says, gently. 'You were alone with Mr Tiller on numerous occasions, were you not? You helped him with tasks, such as the organisation of the May Day celebrations, is that not right?'

  'That is right, sir.'

  'Yes, that's right. You see, I already know this because he told me what a great help you were to him, and suggested you should be May Queen because of it. He has always thought highly of you, hasn't he?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Good. Good.' Mountcastle pats my head. Why does he feel so free to do so? I have not encouraged him. 'Did Mr Tiller ever kiss you?' he says, loudly, so the other men can hear, I assume. 'With his mouth?'

  One wonders how else a person could kiss another. 'No, sir,' I say.

  'Did he ever put his hands upon you?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Very well. Thank you.'

  Here is my moment. My mother called me brave, and I must prove her right. 'I put my hands upon him.'

  The Reverend's hand becomes a dead weight on mine. I would throw it off if I could.

  'Indeed?' he says, finally. Mr Redmore and my father do not move. 'How so?'

  'He took off his shirt, and I touched his skin. We were alone, in his cottage. I cannot say more. Do not make me say more.' I close my eyes and hunch my shoulders, as if emotion has overwhelmed me. I have learned that words are worth less than tears.

  'And so now we understand why you have called off your wedding. Oh Shirley.'

  My father is murmuring under his breath and I raise my head to see him deep in his fury, Mr Redmore already moving to his side.

  'Calm yourself,' says the blacksmith. 'Calm yourself.'

  'I will kill him,' states my father, icy with anger.

  'This is a church, Frederick Fearn,' barks the Reverend. Oh, the three of them are fast becoming their own stage act; they only need me to be the cause and the audience.

  'He should answer for this!' shouts my father, and his eyes pass over me as if I am not there at all.

  'And he will. We will track him down, and he will see justice.'

  'He will be miles away already,' says Mr Redmore. 'If the girl had not seen fit to delay telling us, we could have—'

  'If you had not told all that the engagement was broken, he would not have had the chance to run!'

  I hold up my hand. None of this makes sense to me, and now my stomach has a strange sensation within it, as if wheels are turning fast within. 'Could you explain, sir?' I ask the Reverend. 'I don't understand.'

  All three of them grimace. I am an annoyance to have interrupted. 'He has left the village,' says my father. 'Your precious schoolmaster made off this morning.'

  'How… how do you know this?'

  'We have been asking door to door about one of the girls in the village who has seen fit to run away,' says Reverend Mountcastle. 'I called in on Mr Tiller myself this morning, and found the cottage empty. Now I understand why. He would have heard in the village last night that you had broken your engagement, as Mr Redmore saw fit to tell all while in his cups at The Three Crowns.'

  'My boy is broken-hearted,' repeats Mr Redmore.

  'You all knew,' I breathe. 'You knew, and you waited for me to speak of it first. And now…'

  Reverend Mountcastle looks at me with pity. 'This is Westerbridge, girl. Did you forget how news spreads here? Even the news you would rather not have known?'

  I do not believe Mr Tiller has simply run away. He is fervent, unswayable. What has he done with the extra time given to him through other people's gossip? What have I made him desperate enough to do?

  The Reverend leaves me, and walks back to make the group of three once more. They talk amongst themselves, and I am excluded from their conv
ersation. I am so very unimportant. There is no power left in me.

  I gaze up at the stained-glass window. The blue of Mary's robe is soft and light. She holds the infant Jesus so gently, and around her head is a halo, the white light blending with her beautiful golden hair. Jesus is the centre of the picture, of course. His sweet expression dominates all. The blue of the robe simply frames him, in his promise of perfection. The mother does not matter, and yet he could not exist without her. As no man can exist without a woman to bear him.

  I stand up.

  'The girl who has run away,' I say. 'Who was it?'

  My father waves me into silence.

  'No!' I shout, and they all turn to me. I will make them hear, just this once. I will have a clear answer. 'Who was it?'

  'Phyllis Clemens, the baker's girl. Now sit down, and— Shirley!'

  But I am off, and running. Mr Tiller has left the village because his job is done, and he has won this war.

  *

  I must hope that he has taken her with him. And yet my heart tells me that he would not burden himself with her, not when he has a future to save. What would one more girl matter to him? But she is so pretty; how could he look at her golden hair and see only a problem to be solved? Surely he would be moved at the sight of her, and take her along as he fled.

  I am now more rock than flesh, he wrote to me.

  Out of the churchyard, past the houses of the poor, down the lane where the branches grow thick overhead, and here I am at Mr Tiller's cottage. Perhaps Phyllis is inside, locked up in a back room, or perhaps there is a letter. Yes, a letter, one last missive from Mr Tiller in which he reprimands me for not keeping my promises, and gives me one final chance to keep to my end of the bargain. I have abducted Phyllis Clemens, the letter will say. I will return her once you are married.

  At first the cottage door does not admit me, but when I put my shoulder to it, the wood squeals and it swings back. There can be no doubt that he has gone. Already the hall feels damp and unwelcoming. In the kitchen, the furniture remains while all personal touches are gone. The tea chest no longer stands beside the dresser; how could he have taken it? He must have hired a horse and cart from somewhere. No doubt the village will be full of the details.