Slinky Jane

by Catherine Cookson

  Peter had moments when the deep poetry of the hills took hold of him, and this was one of them. His natural shyness and slight gaucheness were sliding away, leaving him with words with which to break the silence. And he did break it, to quote of all things, Wordsworth. Softly the words slipped out as he gazed up at his inspiration:

  ‘She was a phantom of delight

  When first she gleamed upon my sight:

  A lovely apparition, sent

  To be a moment’s ornament.’

  So beguiled was he in this moment that he saw no double meaning in the oration, but he was abruptly brought from his moon-dream to a dead stop, and was suffused from head to toe in a hot, prickling glow. In a lather of embarrassment he jerked his head stiffly to the side and peered at the girl. She had stopped, and with her handkerchief pressed over her mouth she was struggling to suppress her mirth. She was standing in a patch of moonlight, and he could see her face plainly. And now she gasped, ‘D-don’t look like that. Oh…! I’m—I’m sorry.’ She seemed in pain with her laughter.

  ‘Go on—laugh,’ he said, ‘it does you good to laugh.’ His voice was cold and had an edge to it. She had one hand round her waist and was holding herself closely, and her head dropped forward as she said, ‘I’ve—I’ve got to—to—to laugh. I must—I must. Let me laugh.’

  His face was dead straight. ‘There’s nobody stopping you.’

  Once more she looked up at him; then turning swiftly to the solid trunk of the oak she leant against it, and to his actual amazement laughter burst from her afresh and mounted, peal on top of peal, and so ringing was it that he had the idea that it stirred the trees, for at that moment the top branches swayed and the leaves rustled, building up a wave of gentle sound to pass over the wood. But her laughter outdid the rustle, and in real panic now he thought, They’ll hear her in the village. What was she laughing at, anyway? Just because he had said that bit of poetry? Surely it couldn’t have tickled her that much. It wasn’t ordinary laughter; it sounded a bit hysterical to him. He went close to her, saying, ‘Ssh! Ssh!’

  ‘Oh dear! Oh dear!’ Her laughter took on a cackling quality, and in spite of himself he was forced to smile, although he looked about him apprehensively as he did so as if expecting the entire village to appear.

  He was cautioning her again when he remembered with something akin to horror that it was Monday and the minister would be holding his weekly educational meeting in the church hall, which lay not more than fifty yards to the right of them. This knowledge forced him to entreat her now, ‘Look…look, steady up…be quiet now, you see we are near the church and they’ll…’

  ‘Oh dear! Oh dear!…What? What did you say?’ She was drying her eyes but he did not repeat what he had said, only waited for her to quieten down further.

  Slowly now she moved from the tree and stood with her head bowed for a moment as if trying to regain her composure before starting to walk along the path again. But although her mirth had lessened, apparently she could not gain control over it altogether, and when they came to the stile that led into the road she stopped and said apologetically between gasps, ‘I—I must wait. It will pass…in a minute. Oh, I’m sorry.’

  He stood looking at her, with the bar of the stile between them. The moon was full on her now, showing her face as it had perhaps once been, pink and rose-tinted. The laughter had made her eyes bright and dark; her lips were wide and very red. He watched the moisture gleaming on them as they moved without framing words.

  ‘Why did you laugh like that?’ he asked soberly.

  She seemed to think a moment before replying, and then she said, still between little gasps, ‘It was a bit of everything. It’s been such an odd day. Finding the eel; then meeting your father in the wood; and Mr Fountain thinking…’ She did not elucidate further on this point and explain what she thought Bill had been thinking, but went on, ‘And us all scampering from the major. Then—then Wordsworth—in the wood.’

  The heat rose again and he rubbed his hand tightly across his mouth.

  ‘Please’—although she was still smiling, there was a sincere note of pleading in her voice—‘please don’t be vexed.’

  ‘I’m not vexed.’

  ‘Yes—yes, you are.’ She dabbed at her eyes and added, ‘Oh, if I’m not careful I’ll start again, and I mustn’t. Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Be quiet a minute.’ His tone compelled her silence, and she was quiet, but only with the aid of her handkerchief held tightly to her mouth.

  ‘There’s somebody coming.’

  Her eyes widened and they seemed to say silently, ‘Well, why worry?’

  There was more than one pair of footsteps, and if Peter had wanted to retreat it would have been impossible now, for stepping off the grass verge onto the road came four people: the Reverend Mr Collins, Miss Bridget Collins, Mrs Armstrong, the postmistress, and Mavis Mackenzie. They were all silent. They all hesitated, and they all looked towards the stile. Then they all, without exception, gaped at the couple behind it. And it was evident from their varying expressions that the source of the unseemly laughter was being revealed to them. Peter Puddleton had been in the wood with a woman, was in the wood with a woman. Had it been Harry Puddleton or even Old Pop, three of the onlookers would have said ‘Well, what do you expect?’ But when it was Peter who was supposed to have none of the Puddleton ways, it would just show you, wouldn’t it? Blood would out! For here he was, before their eyes, larking boisterously in the wood in the moonlight with a woman. And such a woman! Long, blonde hair and painted!

  It was unfortunate that Mavis should have been standing nearest the stile, for she was being given a first-class view of the depraved pair, and her eyes seemed to leap from her aggrieved countenance and take in all that she could see of the girl. Then they were switched to Peter, and, her voice expressing their fury, she exclaimed, ‘Well!’

  Never had a word said so much.

  Peter’s reaction should have been a desire to sink through the ground, but, strangely enough, he wished to do no such thing. In this incident, which was the culmination of a strange evening, he saw a ready-made loophole for his escape from Mavis and the implications resulting from his having been a damned fool. So, in a tone quite unlike his own, for it held a ring of cockiness, he called out to her, as if she were at the end of the road, ‘Evening, Mavis.’

  Mavis, after one sizzling glare, gave voice to another pointed exclamation. ‘You!’ she cried, before marching off after the rest of the company, with nothing now of her genteel, mincing nature evident in her back view.

  ‘Oh, dear!’ This was not the prelude to more laughter but a definite expression of sorrow. The girl’s face showed deep concern as she looked in the direction Mavis had taken, and after emitting another drawled out ‘O…oh!’ she turned quickly to Peter, saying, ‘What have I done? I’m sorry. It was such a stupid thing to do, to laugh like that. I must explain to her and put things right.’

  ‘No! No! You’ll not.’ Hastily, Peter put up his hand to emphasise his words. ‘No, don’t explain anything—please.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ She gazed up at him, her brows puckered.

  ‘Yes. Oh, yes, I’m sure all right.’ Slowly his body relaxed, a grin spread over his face, and from under his breath he said, ‘I might as well tell you, you’ve done me a favour. And,’ he added, ‘you’ve wiped the slate clean for having taken the mickey out of me.’

  ‘Yes?’ It was a question.

  ‘Yes, honest. You couldn’t have done it better. I should thank you. The truth is—’ He took his eyes from her face and, looking down at his feet, kicked gently at the stile support, ‘I’m an easygoing type, I always take the line of least resistance. She, Mavis, was the line, in this instance.’ He raised his eyes now to hers, and the twinkle in them was deep as he concluded, ‘She’s aiming to tie me up with it.’

  Their gaze held, their eyes laughed into each others; their teeth nibbled at their lips, then like two errant children they clapped their hands o
ver their faces to suppress their laughter, and above the horizon of their hands they stared at each other. And it would seem that the testing period of friendship, without the aid of time, was accomplished, and in the first knowledge of it their laughter died in them, and there came on them a silence, and in the silence the girl turned away and leant on the stile and looked onto the road, while Peter turned and looked up at the moon. He had a ‘don’t care a damn’ feeling, and for no accountable reason that he could see he felt bubbly happy, as if he had caught a fish, perhaps an eel four feet long.

  ‘It’s odd, but today has been like a short lifetime.’

  ‘What did you say?’ He turned quickly towards her, but she continued to look down onto the road as she repeated, ‘I said today has been like a lifetime, a short lifetime,’ She lifted her head and looked away over the low hedge on the other side of the road, across the moon-capped fells down to the valley. Her voice held no laughter now but a deep sadness, as she added, ‘Nothing ever happens in life as you expect it. Do you know that when I came into this village today I thought I would never laugh again, and I didn’t care.’ Her voice trailed away, and he moved with a soft step to her side, and his gaze like hers looking away into the moon-flooded night he waited, with a feeling strong in him that he was being taken into her confidence.

  And the waiting held no embarrassment. Then she went on, as if she were thinking aloud, ‘There was nothing left to laugh about, only things to cry over and questions to ask, and silence for answers—and fighting and proving and longing.’

  She turned her gaze from the road now and found his eyes on her, narrowed and puzzled. For a moment she remained very still, returning his scrutiny, then with a little smile touching her lips she asked softly, ‘Can I call you Peter? If I’m to be here for two weeks, or more, I cannot Mr Puddleton you all the time, can I?’

  Still he gave her no direct answer. Her eyes were filled with moonlight—its soft shadowings had lent to her face a flush—she was beautiful…she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Call me Leo…Leo Carter.’

  ‘Leo?’

  ‘Yes, Leo, short for Le-o-line.’

  ‘Strange name.’ His voice was deep in his throat.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  Suddenly she shivered and pulled her coat closer around her. ‘I’ll go back now.’ She put out her hand, palm frontwards, in a small protesting movement. ‘Don’t come.’ There was a pause before she added, ‘Goodnight, Pee-ter.’ She split his name. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Goodnight.’ His voice was gruff.

  She had her foot on the stile as she turned and prompted him, saying, ‘Leo.’

  He leaned forward and took her hand and helped her over; then repeated, ‘Goodnight, Leo.’

  She smiled at him once again, but now it was a small, somewhat sad smile. It was the smile that she had worn earlier in the day which just touched her lips, there was no trace of her laughter left. He watched her walk away, and when he could no longer see or hear her footsteps he turned and retraced his own to the beech wood again.

  It was queer, but he no longer felt bubbly happy, no longer did he have that don’t-care-a-damn feeling, but the feeling that was in him now he would not recognise, he would not say that he was afraid. Would his father have been afraid? Or yet, in their time, his grandfather, or great-grandfather? No, they would have known how to deal with her and all her strange facets. They certainly wouldn’t have let her walk off without an effort to stop her—and the night so young.

  But there were two weeks ahead, and there was one thing he was now certain sure of…there was something coming about between him and her—an affair. Aye, an affair! He paused and looked up at the moon and became lost in it.

  Chapter Three

  As he dressed Peter whistled softly under his breath, but before opening his bedroom door he abruptly cut off this expression of his feelings and went quietly out onto the landing. His intention was to make himself a cup of tea and slip out without waking any of them, but, on creeping downstairs and entering the kitchen, who should he see sitting at the table, a pot of tea between them, but the old ’uns.

  ‘Hello, what’s up with you two?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, hallo there, lad,’ they answered him, almost together. Then Old Pop, sucking at his tea, added, ‘Couldn’t sleep. Never do when moon’s full.’

  Although he had heard it before, this remark, for some reason, annoyed Peter, and he exclaimed, ‘Don’t talk daft, Old Pop.’

  ‘Daft? Nothin’ daft about it.’ Old Pop sounded huffy. ‘Affects old ’un an’ all, even at his time, don’t it?’

  ‘Aye, it does that.’ Grandpop wagged his head, then raised his bleared eyes to Peter. ‘And your dad, it does—oh, aye, your dad. Ah well’—he gave a throaty laugh—‘them days are gone for half’n us, any road. What d’you say, lad?’

  Peter, looking towards Grandpop’s thin, bony, multi-coloured legs, where they stuck out of his nightshirt, remarked, ‘You know what’ll happen if me mam finds you out here like that, don’t you?’

  This threat brought forth no nervous murmurings from Grandpop; instead it released a mixed torrent of resentment and warning. ‘Blast yer ma!’ he said. ‘And all women. And you’ll get caught—aye, you’ll see, me lad, with one or t’other. And not in till ten past twelve. Aye, I heard you. Moon’s got him an’ all, I said. Aye, I did. Never been late like that afore. Were with that buck-teeth after all, weren’t you? You wasn’t with t’other one, for close on dark she went galloping along street as if devil was after her. Waved to me, she did. Aye, she’s all right, but too young and silly. Not for you, lad, not for you. But that other one…God above!’ Grandpop’s eyes roved around the ceiling as if searching for the Deity, and Peter, knowing that any comment whatever would only succeed in getting him more deeply involved in this conversation, made his escape to the scullery, where he washed hastily, made himself a cup of tea and slipped out of the back door.

  And that was the beginning of a very odd morning.

  At nine o’clock he had a visit from an agent. The man had breezed in, said his name was Funnel and offered him two hundred and fifty pounds for the spare bit of land. And he was hardly gone before old Mr Mackenzie himself put in an appearance. Like oil he was—he had come to warn him about the agent. He stayed half an hour doing this, and Peter went through three handfuls of tow.

  Then from ten o’clock onwards he had visits from his neighbours. Their sociability he laid down to curiosity about his intentions regarding the future of the garage; yet funnily enough most of them never mentioned the garage, they just stood about watching him tearing at the car, and laughed and joked, as far as he could see, about nowt.

  It had also been a good morning for petrol. If he’d had nothing to occupy him he wouldn’t have sold a gallon, but he had been from his knees to the pumps on and off all the morning.

  But most important of all was the fact that the twins had visited him twice to report that the eel was still there, but that they hadn’t seen ‘the Miss’. And he himself hadn’t seen ‘the Miss’, and it was now eleven-thirty. You would have thought, after what had taken place last night, that she would have dandered down towards the garage, wouldn’t you? He asked this of himself during one of the quiet spells, and when by twelve o’clock he still hadn’t seen her he began to ask himself further questions, such as had he been daft to imagine what he had done last night? Had his father and Bill Fountain jumped to similar conclusions because she had smiled at them? Had they thought, I’m on an affair? When he came to think about it he must have been a little cuckoo. And not only a little…plum barmy, he would say. And then to keep on wandering about in the woods till twelve o’clock on his own! Perhaps the old ’uns weren’t so far wrong after all about the moon.

  When another three cars in close succession drew up for petrol, he began to ask himself if the road had already gone through and he hadn’t noticed it.


  The last one was unusually big and bright. It was a deep blue outside and deep red inside, and it had lent a little of its flamboyancy to its owner who was wearing a fawn coloured suit, a blue check shirt, and light tan sandals, and although apparently only in his forties he claimed paternity over Peter straight away in addressing him, ‘Fill her up, son, and tell me where the hell I am supposed to be!’

  ‘Battenbun,’ said Peter briefly.

  ‘There, I told you, I said it was Battenbun.’ It was the other occupant of the car speaking, and Peter, looking through the window at the lady, summed these two up as ‘jaunters’. The fellow likely had a wife and family somewhere, and the present female was what was left over from a weekend. The garage business created the faculty of tabulating types, and these two were not new.

  ‘I want to get Durham way.’

  ‘Straight through the village, turn right at the crossroads. You can’t miss.’

  It was after Peter had switched off the last gallon that he noticed that the man had got out of the car and was now walking towards the garage door. He had his back towards him and he didn’t turn around when he spoke. ‘Here, a minute,’ he said. And when Peter got to his side he didn’t say what he wanted but walked with exaggerated casualness right into the garage and, of all places, to the back of the office, and there his casualness vanished.

  ‘Where did you get that plate?’ he demanded, pointing back to the number plate of the Alvis lying against the garage door.

  Peter did not reply immediately but stared at the man, and the man, shaking his head with a nervous movement which did not tie up with his bizarre manner, said, ‘Look, I know that number, and the car, an Alvis. Where is it?’