A Country Marriage

by Sandra Jane Goddard

  It was hearing strains of music that brought her contemplations to an end and made her turn to the corner where the musicians were warming up. Sporting floor-length smocks the colour of wheat-chaff, they were more easily picked out by their neckerchiefs in a shade of scarlet so vibrant as to rival field poppies. This time, a longer snatch of a familiar refrain hushed the chatter; the final stave hanging tantalisingly until the fiddler called the first dance. All around her, guests scrabbled to their feet and dragged partners into a line in the centre of the dusty floor. Couples shuffled for space, the flute player blew a single, introductory note and then barely a full second later, the features of the individual dancers were lost to a swirl of colour and movement. She tapped her foot; the melody swept along by the wistful flute, the harmony scraped robustly by the fiddle and both urged onward by the relentless beat of the tabor.

  Refrains came and went; countless and identical, the rhythm and the participants never letting up. And then, with a flourish, it was over. Many of those who had danced left the floor. New couples appeared among those who remained. Would George want to join in? Seated next to her, he gave no sign. Should she suggest it? It looked like fun. And although it was an age since she had danced, once she heard a familiar tune she would probably remember the steps. Did George even dance, though? It wasn’t something they had ever talked about. Perhaps she should wait and see; after all, the last thing she wanted was to make a fool of herself. Yes, she would take her lead from him; that would be the sensible thing to do.

  Back along the table, she noticed that Annie was getting to her feet, her unsteady progress bringing her in their direction. Perhaps she would pass them by; go and talk to someone else. A hand grasping the back of her chair suggested otherwise, though and in the instant that she felt it, she turned, her eyes suddenly and unexpectedly separated from George’s by an expanse of the pale flesh of Annie’s chest. Not waiting to see where George’s eyes went next, she directed her own firmly to her lap.

  ‘Dance with me, George?’ she heard Annie’s breathy voice asking over her head.

  She held herself rigidly, waiting to hear how George would reply. Surely he would refuse her; this showy woman who smelled of – what was that – roses? What she wanted was to see George’s face; to gauge his reaction but on the other hand, she didn’t want to risk having to look at all of that heaving flesh. When she did risk a glance through her fringe, it was just as a man’s hand made to grasp at a woman’s wrist; a wrist bearing a golden-coloured band. Gypsy gold, her mother would have said.

  ‘Not tonight, Annie,’ she heard George eventually answer, there being no doubt as to his firmness on the point. She risked raising her head a little further; not far enough to see either of their faces but enough to see Annie snatching her wrist from George’s grasp and turning away. Finally, it felt safe to look up and see that with the demeanour of someone unexpectedly defeated, Annie was making her way onwards and out of the barn.

  ‘Everything all right over there?’

  She turned towards the voice. It was Hannah Strong calling across. Presumably, then, she had witnessed what had just happened. Would there now be a fuss of some sort? She hoped not. She hoped that would be the end of it. Beside her, though, it was hard not to notice that George was downing the entire contents of his mug in one go.

  ‘Just fine, Ma,’ he called back, immediately pouring himself another draught from the ale jug.

  For what seemed like hours afterwards, and craving somewhere quiet to fall asleep, she sat watching proceedings grow ever more rowdy. When George wandered away to keep company with friends, she wondered whether Ellen might come and talk to her but when she saw her wending her way towards the door, apparently bidding people goodnight as she went, her hope faded. Had she known earlier that George was going to be gone for so long, she would have plucked up the courage to go and sit with her instead of remaining on her own. Well, more fool her: she had missed her chance. Disappointed with herself, she gave a long sigh. She felt utterly exhausted and the throbbing in her forehead – a pounding sensation that had started before she had even left home to walk to the church – hadn’t let up, even for a minute. Supporting her head in her hands, she pressed her thumbs into her temples, willing it to stop.

  ‘So, tell me then, you seen that brother-in-law of yours lately?’ It was a question that drifted across to her from a conversation being carried on nearby. She had been listening to the participants on and off all evening and with only the mildest of interest now, waited to hear the response.

  ‘Which one’d that be, then?’ the second voice asked, beginning to sound rather hoarse.

  Earlier, she had turned discreetly to look at the speakers; a pair of middle-aged labourers leaning against the barn with their fraying and misshapen hats pushed to the backs of their heads, their belts unbuckled – for, she surmised, relief from indigestion – and their faces puckered and red from the exertion required to down a worthwhile quantity of ale.

  ‘Um…’

  ‘Only, on account of all my sisters being wed, I got the three o’ the buggers, see.’

  Despite her fatigue, she felt her lips forming a smile and pictured the precarious angle of the mugs of ale that they had spent all night clinging to as though life itself depended upon them.

  ‘Hmm. Well, if I’m not much mistaken, the one I have in mind lives just this side of Winchester, over at Micklehampton Down.’

  The lack of an immediate response suggested to Mary that this information threw up more than one possibility, since a while passed before the second voice replied, ‘Ah, you’d be meaning Eli, then.’

  ‘Aye, that sounds like the fellow: Eli.’ To this, she could picture vigorous nodding followed by ale slopping from their mugs. ‘So, you heard from him then?’ the enquirer persisted.

  ‘Not these last weeks, no.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She shook her head; all that convolution and apparently for nothing.

  ‘But ’tis a mite strange you should ask.’

  Although, perhaps there was still a chance that this tortuous conversation might yet turn out to be interesting.

  ‘Oh? How’d that be, then?’

  ‘Well, see, I hadn’t thought to see him again now until the Goose Fair come the end of next month. But that’s on account of my overlooking Alresford Sheep Fair on Old Michaelmas, since you’ll no doubt recall how I always lends old Braisher a hand with the drove.’

  ‘Aye, I do indeed recall how you do just that.’

  ‘We–ll, you know how it is; makes for a couple of days’ work now the harvest’s in. That’s if you can call it a harvest this year. By my reckoning ’twas as bad a year as last.’

  ‘Worse even. An’ there’s no one as can blame the weather for it this time.’

  ‘No; a shrewd observation if ever there was one. But either way, there’ll be no one wanting much help with the threshin’ this year and that’s for sure.’

  ‘No, them’s true words you speak; true words indeed.’

  The sound of feet shuffling about in the straw suggested that one or other of the men was shifting his weight against the side of the barn.

  ‘So what’s your interest in old Eli, then, if I might enquire?’

  At this, the two voices, having grown steadily louder, were lowered so much that she found herself straining to hear the reply.

  ‘Well, ’tis like this, see; last time you came back from your Eli’s, you brought word of them disturbances over Sussex and Kent and told us all how your Eli was quite a figure in the carrying of news around the villages, him being able to read an’ all.’ At this, the speaker paused and she sensed that disguised beneath his apparently circuitous approach to finding out what he wanted to know, lay the guile of a poacher. ‘So I was thinking how you might just know summat of more recent events…’

  The poacher’s quarry, however, having by this stage overindulged in the generous supply of ale, apparently failed to notice the skilfully laid trap.

  �
�Aye, ’tis true; Eli’s as much a figure as any at they gatherings, as he calls them.’

  ‘They Radicals, you mean?’

  ‘Shh! Quiet yourself. ’Tis well known that barns have ears and in any event, it don’t do to go about calling them Radicals, since it serves to attract the wrong sort of attention, if you catch my meaning. ’Tis precarious-enough business anyway. No, they call themselves The Musical and Radical Society.’

  ‘Oh aye? Sings to theyselves, do they?’

  Ducking her head, she smothered a giggle.

  ‘In point of fact, they do, aye. Each and every gathering starts with the singing of songs and then they sit and listen to the reading of pamphlets and tracts so as to discuss matters for themselves.’

  ‘Well forgive me then. I meant no disrespect but knowing so little of such things…’

  ‘No, well, ’tis fair enough. Indeed, I should like to go along meself before much longer, since the matters they discuss are of the utmost import.’

  ‘Well they must be, if they’re written down. In pamphlets.’

  What on earth, she wondered, were pamphlets? Perhaps George would know. She would try and remember to ask him. Although that supposed that he was ever going to come back.

  ‘Aye, matters such as the raising of wages…’

  ‘I should say!’

  ‘…an’ reductions in them blasted tithes, an’ fairer rents an’ better poor-rates for them that falls on the parish.’

  ‘Lord alive, now there’s a worthy cause an’ no mistake.’

  ‘Aye. And I’ll tell you summat else for nothin’…’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘They’re right with what they say, too.’

  ‘Aye? An’ what’s that then, if I might enquire?’

  ‘Well they say that if things don’t soon get better for ordinary folks like thee and me, then the sort of… unrest and… protests going on over there, will fetch up here.’

  ‘You reckon? What, even here in Verneybrook?’

  Verneybrook? She forced her eyes wide and determined to listen more attentively. What protests? And what sort of unrest?

  ‘You can mark my words on it,’ the conversation continued.

  ‘You know summat more than you’re lettin’ on, then?’

  ‘I do not, no. But it don’t need no learning to see how such unrest might spread, do it? I mean, according to Eli, feelings are running high across the whole county.’

  ‘Well, you should know, what with you being connected…’

  ‘Indeed, indeed, I count I am, as you say, connected. But anyways, enough of such talk; seems to me I can see the bottom of this ’ere mug an’ there’s another matter that can’t be right. So how about we go an’ help ourselves to some more ale before them there no-goods piss it all into the hedge?’

  ‘A timely suggestion, my friend. Lead on.’

  With nothing better to do, she turned to watch the pair’s progress towards the ale barrels. Was there, she wondered, any basis to what they had been discussing? But with no way of knowing, she turned back to take in the view across the barn, picking out that George was now heading towards her. Yes, the truth of the matter was that she had other, rather more pressing concerns.

  ‘Come on then, Mary, best get you home.’

  Home. If only.

  Somewhat stiffly she got to her feet and when he offered his arm, she accepted it so that together they began to pick their way through their guests towards the door.

  ‘Oh, forgive me,’ she mumbled when her shoe caught in the skirt of a woman sprawled in the straw. The woman, though, didn’t even stop snoring.

  ‘No harm done,’ he rejoined with a grin.

  ‘No,’ she agreed. Perhaps, all things considered, it was a just as well that her mother hadn’t come.

  When they eventually reached the door, he held it open; the fresh night air beyond it as reviving to her head as a cool drink would have been to her parched mouth, and at the shock of it, she shivered.

  ‘Cold?’

  ‘A little.’ His concern, she noted, as they set off, didn’t extend to offering her his jacket.

  ‘Ain’t much of a traipse.’

  She smiled, resolving that from then on, she would try to talk to him; well, at least try to answer his questions rather than just nod.

  ‘That’s good.’

  Fragments from her earlier walk to the church unwound through her mind. Was that only a few hours since? It felt so much longer. The dread was still the same, though. Different hedgerows to pass maybe, but identical fears.

  With the flickering glow from the lantern illuminating just a small circle at their feet, she glanced upwards. A speckle of stars was spread unevenly across the midnight sky and the harvest moon, brim-full and honeyed, was suspended above the beech hanger. Her instinct was to comment upon the prettiness of it, just as she might have done when out walking with her father, when her remark would have brought him to a stop to admire what he called the majesty of the heavens. Would George, though, have a mind for such things? It was hard to tell. And in which case, it was doubtless preferable to remain silent. No man wanted a wife with a head full of fanciful nonsense. Or so Ma always said.

  ‘Here, let me go ahead,’ he suddenly said, coming to a halt at the top of a steep bank, ‘only, the steps down are a mite uneven until you get used.’ And after descending a short distance, he turned back and offered his hand. Briefly, she hesitated. If only she could still her nerves! Chiding herself, she grasped it firmly and with her other hand lifting the hem of her dress, followed him down. At the bottom of the steps she noticed the smell of fresh paint, and when he depressed the latch and pushed the low door, it opened to the sound of scraping hinges. ‘Well, then. Welcome to Keeper’s Cottage,’ he said and going ahead of her, stepped inside to place the lantern on the table in front of him.

  For the first time that day, she noticed that he, too, appeared to be nervous.

  ‘Thank you.’ She wished her voice had produced more than a whisper but at least she had answered him. She also wished that she could meet his look. Instead, though, she peered at the room before her: a fireplace with a chair beside it; a table with two stools tucked underneath; a further, smaller table under the far window with a pitcher and basin. In the far corner a ladder led up to the loft, and from the stamped-earth floor came the unmistakeable smell of damp soil.

  ‘It needs a fire,’ he said, seeming suddenly to see the room as she did, ‘but if it’s all the same to you, I won’t bother setting one now since we’ll be going up presently.’ She noticed the sidelong glance he gave her and the way that he shifted his weight from one boot to the other. Yes, he was nervous, too. ‘I brought in water earlier.’ Seeing him motion to the pitcher and basin on the side, she gave a single nod. ‘Well, you’ll most likely want to… wash, then, so I’ll just go outside and um…’ and as his statement petered out, she saw him gesture towards the back door.

  When it closed behind him, she exhaled a long breath. Gloomy: that was the word for it. She glanced quickly about, surprised by how the description made her feel disloyal. Tomorrow, by daylight – or even simply with a fire in the hearth – it would probably look less bleak… and less depressing. And a few of the odds and ends of everyday life would soon have it feeling a little more homely.

  By the windowsill, she fingered the glaze of the china basin – crackled now to the colour of old lace – and poured in some water. She had no idea how long he would be gone but it would be a weight off her mind if by the time he came back she could be in bed, because the last thing she needed right now was this man – this stranger – undressing her. Galvanised by the prospect, she splashed her face several times with the cool water and looked about for something with which to dry herself. Then she reached behind her back, but after a good deal of fiddling, had only managed to undo the first couple of buttons in the row that ran all the way down to her waist. Buttons. Of all the things to be thwarted by! And the pounding in her head wasn’t helping, either. Restin
g her hands on the ledge, she let her head fall forward. Well, seemingly, there was nothing to be done: seemingly, she was left with no choice but to ask for his help, and so when the back door opened and he reappeared, narrowing his eyes against the sallow light, she drew a breath.

  ‘I can’t…’ but it was no good; the words seemed stuck in her throat. She flicked a glance in his direction but clearly, he hadn’t the least idea of her problem and so withholding a sigh, she turned her back to him. ‘I can’t… undo the buttons,’ she managed to say now that she could no longer see his face.

  ‘Oh. Well. Here, let me take a look then.’ In her mind, she pictured him peering at the back of her dress. ‘Come back a bit nearer the lantern; they’re awful tiny.’

  For a moment, she stood with her breath locked tightly in her chest while he started to work his way slowly and awkwardly down the row, until with the feel of the last one coming undone, she spun around, still careful to avoid his eyes.

  ‘May I go up and take it off?’

  Silence.

  ‘Course.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Clearly her request had been a mistake. It was why he had hesitated to let her go. Yes, she had breached some or other custom; some or other understanding between a man and his wife on their wedding night. So what should she do about it? There was no point staying where she was; that would just make her look even more foolish. She had asked to go and take off her dress and he had agreed. So she would climb the ladder and if he called her back, well, that was his prerogative and she would obey.

  Hampered by the fabric of her dress and the trembling of her legs, she proceeded gingerly, hearing him exhale heavily behind her. And once at the top, she tiptoed so quickly across the cold floorboards that by the time he appeared through the hatch she was already folding her dress and laying it carefully on top of a trunk at the foot of the bed, the sharp chill of the room causing her to shudder as she did so. Now what was she supposed to do though? Indeed, what was he going to do? Unsettlingly, the immediate answer seemed to be ‘nothing’; and adding to the discomfort of his gaze was the fact that she had no idea as to the done thing; was she supposed to remove her chemise or would he expect to do that? Or indeed, would he leave it on? Sitting on the edge of the mattress, uncomfortable with any of these options, she braced herself and without looking in his direction, pulled the garment swiftly over her head, dropped it to the floor, swung her legs up onto the bed and hastily pulled up the blanket.