by A. W. Exley
I pulled Cossimo to a halt, hopped down, and walked into the dim interior. Spices hit my nostrils and for a moment I remembered the first few days in Egypt when I went to the market. Exotic aromas and bright colours had assaulted my senses like a kaleidoscope explosion in my head. A fond memory I tucked away, so the vibrancy would light my darkness later.
"Henry. What can I do for you?" Judith, a tall, homely lass, greeted me. Everyone in the village was connected in some way. Judith's father, who owned the general store, had three sons who went to war in my troop, although only one and a half returned.
I pulled out my notebook and scribbled my question. Have the Morrises been in recently?
She rolled up her eyes as she thought. Thick black brows pulled down with the effort of concentration, making them look like one enormous caterpillar sleeping on her face. To distract myself from wondering if it would crawl off to one side, I stared at the rows of products. Rationing had been introduced in the larger towns, but we quietly ignored the ration cards in our tiny neck of the woods.
"I've not seen Mr Morris for a good couple of weeks. Let me check their mail." Her voice interrupted my inspection of spam and powdered eggs.
The wall behind the massive counter looked like a giant honeycomb. It held a hundred small pigeonholes where the mail was sorted and sat until it was picked up. Judith ran a finger along the polished wood until she reached a paper label with the word Morris written in a flowing hand. There was a touch of whimsy in the flourishes and embellishments, as though someone practiced their calligraphy as they made all the name plates.
Judith pulled out the bundle of mail and flicked through. "The oldest letter here is three weeks old."
A stone plummeted through my gut. It would seem Mr Morris had not ventured into town since I had taken them news of the pandemic. I scribbled another note, my penmanship functional at best and not at all like the ornate calligraphy on the pigeonholes.
I'll take the mail and their monthly supplies out to them.
"You're a good lad." She turned, rummaged under the counter, and then pulled out the account book.
I scowled. Delivering bags of flour and sugar in peacetime England didn’t make me a good lad. It didn't erase what I did, or rather didn't do, on a battlefield in Europe. I imagined that before he ever returned my voice, God would require an act of courage so great I would never dare attempt it.
Judith's finger ran down the columns as she checked what supplies the Morrises usually ordered. She spoke without looking up. "I don't listen to any of that hot air Davie Phelps is spouting off at the pub."
I rolled my eyes behind closed lids. The man was determined not to leave me alone.
"Our Liam says its rubbish. That you never left your post, and funny how Phelps is always right beside you in his stories. Sounds almost like he hid behind you."
Our Liam was her brother who returned as half a man. Poor bastard lost both his legs at the hips. It said something about the strength of his character that he not only survived the catastrophic injury but retained his sense of humour.
Perhaps Judith and Liam were right. Phelps spun tales of my cowardice, but I never realised how he was always behind me in them. A soft snort escaped my throat.
As we walked back and forth loading the cart, something caught my eye. A stack of pamphlets on the counter proclaimed the virtues of a new life in far off, colonial New Zealand. The black and white drawings within showed grazing sheep and a rural outlook similar to our own countryside. The text spoke of the quiet and safe nature of the community. Of the bravery and manliness of the kiwi troops who fought alongside those from mother England. Yet the new nation forged her own identity, while retaining the seclusion of life at the bottom of the globe.
An idea formed in my mind and I tucked the pamphlet into my jacket. It didn't take long for the two of us to load the cart. Judith was as capable of lugging a heavy bag of flour as me. I didn’t mind the slow ride out to the Morris farm. The quiet and isolation suited me. The heavy plod of Cossimo's hooves was a metronome that soothed my thoughts. The cool breeze blew over my temples and washed my mind clear for once. If I stayed in the present, the past would not sneak up on me and drag me down into nightmare memories.
The tower appeared on the horizon first, the finger pointing to the heavens. As we approached, it cast a long shadow over the fields. It would be a two hundred foot tall sundial, if Mr Morris had the imagination to dot a few stones at twelve, three, six and nine to aid in telling the time. Not that I could imagine him undertaking such an act of fancy.
As always, my gaze travelled up the stone, jumping from arrow slit to arrow slit until I reached the window at the very top. Did she sit and watch, one eye closed as she aimed her rifle? Or was there an open book in her lap today?
Neither apparently. The heavy door creaked and groaned as I climbed down and gave Cossimo a scratch under the harness resting on his shoulders. Sunlight ringed her form from behind and I drank my fill of the sight, as though I had marched across the desert for two days with an empty canteen. I shouldn't look at her in such a way, but I couldn't stop myself.
Being close to her stirred things deep inside of me. Dark things a world away from the easy friendship we shared as children. Staring at her set off a hungry ache inside me.
Today she wore a dark blue pinafore; the hem swished against her calves as she moved. A slither of stocking peeked between bottom of skirt and the top of her black leather boots. A cream linen shirt with the top button undone revealed her pale throat. The sleeves were unbuttoned and rolled up to below her elbows. Today, the long plait sat to the front of her shoulder and dropped like spun gold to her waist.
My gaze fixed on the long swinging plait. Once at school, when I sat behind her, I had dipped her hair in my ink well and drawn on my paper. Now I could use the end as a thick brush and paint a mural on the wall containing her.
"You're not supposed to be here. Go away." She shooed me as though I were an errant chicken scratching up her vegetable seedlings.
I ignored her and for the first time I remembered, a slow grin crossed my face. I turned my back to her so she didn't see it. Despite her words, she gave herself away. Her chest rose and fell in sharp breaths and she must have run down the stairs to fling open the door after seeing us approach. If she had laboured in the garden beyond, she wouldn't have known we were without until I banged on the door.
Did it mean anything that she rushed to see me? She didn't have an old pistol in her hands, so she wasn't going for a close range shot. I picked up the bundle of mail and once my smile dropped away, turned and held it out to her. She snatched it from my grasp but her fingers grazed over mine. A tiny contact, but an ocean of cool water poured over my arid desert. I wanted to linger, to trace a pattern up her arm with my fingertips, but she was gone too soon.
I drew a deep breath and held it, pushing down the turmoil in my gut. Wouldn't do to throw up on her shoes. Perhaps she always made me dizzy because of the way she wound me around her finger. But war had taught me some lessons, and I hid my emotions away lest I embarrass us both.
Her fingers twisted around the pile of letters and her face pulled in a frown. Under her gaze, I shuffled from foot to foot. She wore that look women get when you have done something to really annoy them and they are trying to decide if they will tear into you or not.
I wanted to drop to my knees and apologise for the war going on so long. Only my work as special orderly to Sir Jeffrey afforded me an early discharge; otherwise I would still be calf deep in muck. At the same time, it pricked my pride that she never wrote. How could she have ignored all my letters? Did I not even warrant a letter telling me to cease and never contact her again?
In the end I drew in a sigh and then mouthed, more. I gestured to the cart behind me and hoped she understood.
A brief nod, the plait bobbed back and forth and she looked on the verge of following me. She stood with one foot poised above the beaten earth of their front path.
&n
bsp; "Hazel! Come back inside. You know you are not allowed beyond the wall." Mr Morris' deep voice boomed and skittered over the stone. We both looked around, an ingrained reaction from years of sneaking around, climbing walls, and trying desperately not to get caught.
She froze and then the foot moved backwards, and she stepped away from me. She might have only moved one step away from the threshold, but it may as well have been a thousand miles and I had no way of reaching her.
6
Pushing down my disappointment, I grabbed a sack of flour and tossed it over my shoulder. Hazel's slender form retreated, to be replaced by the hulking behemoth of her father. He was a dreadnought shielding a small pleasure yacht.
"You're not welcome here, Henry." He folded his arms over his chest and blocked my way.
I’d thought the bag with FLOUR stamped on the side would be an obvious clue as to the purpose behind my presence. Yet he still barred my way inside. What did he see when he looked upon me? A lad shattered by war and trying to reach out to the girl he left behind? Or a vile creature who would corrupt his daughter and spread pestilence over their farm? From the way he narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists, I suspected the latter.
"Henry has brought our mail and supplies, father, and I know mother has nearly run out of tea." Hazel's voice came from behind but I couldn't see her. She might as well have spoken from behind a closed door.
Mr Morris' scowl deepened for a long moment before he snorted and lifted his brows back to their usual place. His hands relaxed and dropped to his sides. Hoping I read the signals right, I tossed the sack to him and then returned to the cart for the next one. He pointed one meaty finger at a spot just inside the wall and I lowered the sugar to the ground. Apparently this wasn't going to be a long visit; he wouldn't even let me carry the groceries into the cottage.
Soon a pile of sacks, tins, and boxes stacked on the grass by the door to their enclosure. My heart pounded and thrummed in my ears. I needed to sow a seed in Mr Morris' mind before he tossed me out into the paddock. Reaching into my jacket, I pulled out the pamphlet and held it out to him.
"What's this?" His hand hesitated, as though he suspected me of handing over poisoned papers. Or was I the serpent offering him an apple?
Hazel took it instead, stepping between us and taking the pamphlet slower than she snatched the mail. Our fingertips stayed at least an inch apart this time and a cold ripple of disappointment ran up my arm instead of her warm touch.
She read the title; her lush pink lips formed each word. I coughed behind my hand to hide amusement that she still moved her lips when silently reading.
"It's about life in New Zealand and how to emigrate." Her gaze shot up and those clear blue eyes pinned me to the spot. "Are you leaving, Henry?"
I blinked. Me? No. I meant to usher her to a safer place, the furthest corner from the war that raged around the world against an unseen enemy. Yet the waver in her tone when she asked the question would have robbed me of my voice had I possessed one. If I were to leave, would she miss me?
"Henry?" Her eyes widened and she took a step closer.
My heart thumped at the idea she might still care for me, but it was a path to destruction to hope she saw me as anything more than a friend. I shook my head, both to clear the descending fog and as a denial. I pointed to her and then to the pamphlet. You.
"Me? Travel to New Zealand?" She rolled the words around on her tongue. A light crept into her gaze on the word travel. That had always been her dream, to see the world. To tread the most remote regions like a Victorian explorer. She wanted to climb the highest mountains, sail the widest oceans, and bask under the warmest skies.
Excitement lit her from within until a mobile wall blocked my favourite view as Mr Morris stepped between us.
"Send my daughter to such a remote place? Are you daft, lad? Why, it's full of heathens and savages." He blustered and puffed and I feared he would blow me over.
Hazel would be safe there. I scribbled on my pad and thrust it under Mr Morris' nose. He barely glanced at my spider crawl note, but swatted me away.
"She most certainly would not! I will not condemn my daughter to a living death crammed inside a floating sardine tin waiting for God's hand to descend and send everyone to a watery Hell." Mr Morris missed his calling in life. He should have entered the clergy. He would have made one of those vicars whose fervent sermons full of brimstone and damnation would scare you straight for the entire week until the next dose the following Sunday.
A slender hand pulled back her father's arm and she hushed him like a yapping dog. "I'm sure Henry means well, father. I would love to see the world, but I will not be hidden away either here or in a remote corner of the globe. Perhaps one day I will travel to New Zealand, but only as I travel through many countries."
I tried to muster up an argument to write on my notebook. I was never good with words. Could I see her hidden away from the world? That would be like shoving the Mona Lisa in a closet and never letting anyone gaze upon her secret smile. No, that was never my intention. There must be a way to keep Hazel safe while still allowing her freedom to live life as she wanted. I just needed to figure out how.
Mr Morris obviously didn't like such talk of travel and adventure from his daughter. He gripped her hand tight, as though fearing she would flee right now. "There is no world to see, Hazel. The day of judgement nears and God will weigh your soul. Scrub the idea of leaving from your mind. Your mother and I are trying to save your soul from eternal damnation. We have not laboured all these years for you to sully yourself out there!"
With each word Mr Morris' face grew redder and his cheeks puffier. The furore summoned Mrs Morris from the vegetable patch. Leaning heavily on her stick, she crossed the short grass with worry written in every line on her face and grey hair on her head. She had always been a sickly woman, and rheumatism bent and twisted her joints, making every step painful.
Hazel rushed to take some of her mother’s weight and ease the load on her knees.
Mrs Morris reached out one thin and gnarled hand and wrapped her fingers around Hazel's upper arm. She had a remarkably tight grip for a woman whose hands were weakened by her affliction. "You will not fill my child's head with such nonsense. Her place is here, with her parents."
Hazel reached up and loosened her mother's hold. Did she think her daughter would dash out the doorway and jump into my cart? No one would ever call Cossimo a fast escape. Hazel would make better time on foot.
Hazel frowned at her mother and her slender hand patted a deformed arthritic one. "I am nearly eighteen, mother. The time nears when I will seek a life for myself out in the world."
"Did you not hear your father? Judgement is nigh. We wait for our divine Lord to collect us." Her voice rose in pitch and she cast her eyes to the sky as if she expected it that moment.
Hazel and I glanced at each other and looked around, holding our breath. Nope, nobody struck down or elevated to Heaven. Good. I wasn't ready to be judged; I wanted to erase the stains on my soul first.
"We don't know that, mother. The newspapers report influenza, not a divine plague." Hazel smiled and flicked a glance to me, even as she tried to hush her mother.
It struck me she might be embarrassed by her parents' beliefs, but I’d never judge her for their views. Equally, I hoped people didn't judge me based on the mutterings of a bully. Words don't matter. Actions do.
Mrs Morris cried out, clutched at her chest, and then staggered backwards. Mr Morris lunged forward and caught his wife in his arms. He lowered her to the ground as the woman balled up, tears streaming down her face. Then she started to sob and wail; a thin reedy cry that reminded me of a dog howl and made me wince.
Mrs Morris pulled her knees up as she curled into Mr Morris and sobbed her heart out. "Why, Hazel? Why would you abandon your parents? We have devoted our lives to keeping your body and soul pure and now you would spit upon us and turn your back in our hour of need?"
Crikey. I thought Lady Jeff
rey treated Ella badly, but Mrs Morris could give her lessons. She laid it on thick as Hazel paled and wrung her hands. If this carried on, both women would be in tears.
Not to be outdone, or perhaps it was a double act, Mr Morris added his opinion. "Plague rages out there, Hazel. Henry himself warned us of it. Why would you rush to your death and leave your parents alone?"
I rather imagined a difference between influenza and a biblical plague, but it wasn't the time to quibble. Arguing was difficult when you had to write everything down and wait for someone to read it. With no voice, you completely lost tone and inflection to drive your point home.
Hazel rushed to her wailing mother's side and dropped to her knees on the soft grass. "No, no, mother. Never think I am ungrateful for all you have sacrificed."
Mrs Morris turned her face from her child and beat at her chest. I waited for her to start tearing at her clothing and offer her breast to the asp she had nurtured. The performance was quite worthy of a grand stage in London. Anger rose in my throat against their manipulation of Hazel. I wanted to shout at Mrs Morris and call her a fraud. Or worse, a thief—for she had stolen her daughter's life.
Hazel continued to plead with her mother, pledging to stay and vowing to look after the frail woman for as long as she was needed. Only on hearing that promise did the crying stop.
Well played, Mrs Morris, well played.
Mr Morris turned his black gaze in my direction. "Out, Henry. And do not come here again. If we need supplies, I can make the trip to the village. We will not have your taint within our walls."
For the second time in one month, Mr Morris pointed a finger at the door. This time I tried not to tuck my tail under me. I wanted to stay and make Hazel understand. I wanted to pull her out to the open meadow and tell her I was as concerned for her safety as her parents. But my regard differed in that I wanted her free to live a full life. I wanted an expansive sky over her head and the space to run for hours in any direction and never touch another wall.