‘No,’ said Peter flatly, ‘I haven’t. But it’s the tallest one yet.’
‘Nowt tall about it.’ Old Pop seemed a trifle annoyed now. ‘You ever wonder how we came to own our house, lad, and we only farmhands at eighteen bob a week, eh? Just ask yersel that one, all our folks had lived in cottage but it was Squire’s. It was Connie who gave the old ’un the cash for services rendered and some etceteras, which was nobody’s business but the old ’un’s and hers an’ he bought it. But he’s always steered clear of this bit water, and always hated the guts of the village women, so much so that he picked me mother from as far away as North Shields.’
This knowledge of how they had come to be living in their own property was indeed a surprise to Peter, for he had always been under the impression that the house was bought with money left to his great-grandmother; he had got that information from his mother. ‘Does me dad know this?’ he asked.
‘Aye, he does.’
‘And me mam?’
‘Rosie? No, begod!’
‘Then I wouldn’t ever tell her.’ Peter’s voice was stiff.
‘What, me?’ Old Pop threw his head up. ‘Not me! Think I’m barmy lad? Like as not she’d walk out. Very respectable is your mother. Look at the fizzle she’s caused the day in meetin’. All over the village it is. Raised stink in hall ’cos somebody hinted you was drunk in the wood and havin’ a bit of a lark.’
‘I wasn’t drunk. Nor having a lark. I’ve told you.’
‘All right, lad, don’t sound so testy. But if you was, there was nothin’ for her to get shirty about, was there? I wish they could still say it of me, I wouldn’t have been past a bit lark with she. Which reminds me, I was telling you, wasn’t I? Funny how I went off about the old ’un. She sort of put it in me head, the Miss, I mean. Don’t know why. Well, there I was behind the bushes when they stopped’—Old Pop picked up the main trend of his discourse as if he had never let it drop—‘and I heard them. “Anna”, he said, that’s what he called her.’
‘Anna?’ Peter put in sharply, his brows drawn together.
‘Aye, Anna. That’s what he called her, that’s her name. “Anna,” he said, “I tell you you’ve got to believe me on this one point. You could have knocked me down when they said you had gone three days afore.” That’s what he said, and she kept saying, “It doesn’t matter.” And he kept saying it did, and then he said, “You think me a rat, don’t you?” and she said, “I don’t even think about you, you don’t matter any more. You’ll never believe that, but you don’t.” And I stood there with me pants half up, almost seeing his face, ’cos he didn’t speak. And then she said, “I’ll be here for another week or so and all I ask of you is to leave me alone.” And then he went on jabbering, said a lot and so fast I couldn’t get it. But then I heard him say, “What about money?” Sharply, like that, he said it, and she said, “It’s too late for that an’ all, I have all I need.” “Well, what do you intend to do?” he said then, and she said, “That’s entirely me own affair.” “You can’t go on in the old Alvis, let me leave you the Austin.” It was at that she walked off saying she didn’t want the Austin or anything else. The last I heard her say was, “The Alvis is mine. I started with her and I’ll finish with her.” What do you make of it, lad?’ The old man now looked soberly and enquiringly at Peter.
What did he make of it? Mrs Booth’s comment was surging through his mind, and Old Pop sharpened this particular suspicion further by saying, ‘This coming out business that the bloke talked about sounds as if she’d been in somewhere, along the lines perhaps.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Well, it may be. I wouldn’t think none the worse of her for that for she’s a nice Miss. Take as you find, I say. Still, if you’d heard them ’twould have sounded to you as if there was something fishy. Then later I came along on, strolling like, an’ I heard them in here. He was at her again, saying, “You can’t stay in this dump”—dump he called the village, mind—“What you going to do with yourself?” An’ d’you know what she said?’
Peter waited.
‘“I can sit and watch an eel,” she said. Yes, she did. “And imagine I’m young again.” What d’you make of it, eh? And her just a young lass when all’s said and done. What d’you make of it?’
To this repeated question Peter said slowly and quietly, ‘It’s none of our business.’ Then he turned away and went out of the clearing, in case his feelings should reveal themselves to the all-seeing eyes of his grandfather. But Old Pop was quickly on his heels, and on coming to the main path he walked abreast of him, but had the sense to keep his tongue quiet until they reached the main road. And then he asked, ‘You comin’ along for a glass?’
Half an hour earlier he would have given a definite ‘No’ to this invitation but now he answered flatly, ‘I may as well.’
The Hart was packed, both bar and saloon, for a coach had come in, and after having stood his grandfather a drink they parted company, Old Pop joining his cronies while Peter stood near the counter, as if waiting.
He saw his father and Bill in their corners, and all the regulars, but there was no sign of her, or the fellow. Some of the villagers craned their necks and threw greetings at him, and one bolder than the rest called, ‘You on your own the night, Peter?’
He made no answer to this, and the smile that had been on his face slid away and he turned to the counter to be confronted by Mrs Booth. But she, looking over his head, answered the man by saying, ‘He’s been given the go-by. Anyway, he’s one of the night-shift lot.’
A muffled cry from Mrs Booth which indicated her having received a kick on the shins from her husband, who was standing with his back to the counter, did nothing to soothe Peter’s feelings. His face had now assumed almost a purple tinge. He had a strong desire to go for Mrs Booth, and he might have done so at that but Mr Booth, turning to him at that moment, asked in a level tone, ‘Well, what is it to be tonight, Peter?’
‘Give me a whisky. Double.’
Mr Booth showed not a flicker of surprise. Peter Puddleton’s drink was beer, and not much of that either; this was the first spirit he had asked for in this house. The only Puddleton whose drink was whisky was the old ’un, and Mr Booth remembered unhappily the results on certain occasions on the old man of an overdose of the delectable fire. But hadn’t he said last night that she would bring custom? Her type always did, one way or another.
‘And a pint.’
‘And a pint.’
The pint and the whisky gone, Peter did cause a slight ripple to pass over Mr Booth’s poker face as he demanded, ‘The same again.’
‘The same again,’ said Mr Booth. And when Mrs Booth stopped in her transit to the saloon and watched Peter give a mighty shiver after depositing the second whisky, she remarked under her breath, ‘What did I tell you!’ and Mr Booth, addressing a miniature keg of cider, replied, ‘Get on with it!’
Catching sight of Mrs Booth’s fixed stare upon him Peter now had a great desire to spit in her eye or to produce the equivalent effect in words, and these words presented themselves to him with such force that, for safety’s sake, he was urged to put some distance between himself and the mistress of the inn. And this he did, much to the disappointment of Mr Booth.
Outside once more, he stood for a moment looking about him. The night was young: it was barely nine o’clock, too light to go to bed, too light even to go home, for his mother would still be about and she’d likely start on one thing or another, and he couldn’t stand that the night.
To save passing the house or going back through the village he returned up the road along which he had come earlier with Old Pop. The whisky was now glowing soothingly inside him; he felt in some measure comforted and took on himself not a little of the blame for being so edgy. Folks were all right. He had always got on all right with everybody; that was all except Davy Mac. The name in his mind coming at the same time as he caught sight of Mavis checked his step and made him gulp. He had reached an opening to the
wood where once had been a gate, and standing almost hidden behind one of the old oak supports was Mavis.
He’d had no intention of going into the wood, and with Mavis about he would have shied like a hare from it but now, for some unexplained reason, he made straight for the gap, and when he came abreast of her he stopped, for if he hadn’t she would undoubtedly have brought him to a halt in some way.
Mavis, from the shelter of the gatepost, looked at him hard, very hard, and her eyes on this occasion did not appear doll-like and her tone was not just one of enquiry, as she asked sarcastically, ‘Off some place?’
‘Aye,’ Peter replied slowly, softly, and very definitely. ‘Aye. Yes, I’m off some place, Mavis.’
The reply and the manner in which it was said was certainly not what Mavis had expected. But her good sense coming quickly to her aid told her she must change her tactics as he had so obviously changed his, and so she assumed an expression of having just been struck…her face crumpled, her lips strained to meet, and into her eyes came the look of a woman betrayed, and she whimpered, ‘How could you, Peter!’
Peter, the Peter warmed with two double whiskies and two pints was on top. ‘How could I what?’ he grinned at her.
The whimper turned into a sob and she said, ‘You’ve changed. Why—why did you ask me out last week?’
‘God knows!’ This answer, by its boldness, tickled him, it also checked Mavis’s tears. Her eyes narrowed now, their pale blue turned to steely grey; she moved a step nearer to him, and after staring up into his face for a moment she exclaimed in horror, ‘You’re drunk!’ then added, ‘Again.’
This accusation brought no denial from Peter. Strangely, he had no desire to get mad and deny his supposed previous lapse, and what he was led to do next made him laugh loudly inside, for he opened his mouth wide, breathed hard on her, and uttered one word, ‘Whisky!’
This flippant action together with the strong aroma of spirit caused Mavis to react naturally, and she cried, ‘You!’ and it was the same kind of ‘You!’ she had thrown over the stile at him last night. Then again she delivered it, but followed it now with a spluttered, ‘Don’t—don’t you think you’ll get off with it, I’m not as soft as you think I am. As for your tart’—Peter’s eyebrows shot up, he hadn’t known she had even a nodding acquaintance with the word—‘do you want to know where she is? She’s in there!’ With a thrust of her arm Mavis indicated the depths of the wood. ‘Lying full length on the grass. And who with? The major. Yes, the major. I saw them with my own eyes…they couldn’t get closer. The things I saw and heard! Quoting poetry to each other…love poetry! The major at his age! You were always a fool and she’s made a bigger one of you. You’re the laughing stock of the village. Everybody’s sniggering at you. You know what they’re calling her? Slinky Jane. And you let yourself be taken in, you big galoot!’
‘You finished?’
‘Oh, you can appear cool and pretend you haven’t been taken for a ride, but you’re not taking me for a ride. You haven’t heard the last of this, Peter Puddleton. You’re not going to make a fool out of me. You wait, I’ll have me own back, you’ll see.’
After one bounce of her head that should have ricked her neck, Mavis turned and flounced away, and not until the heels of her shoes tapping out her indignation on the road could no longer be heard did he move on into the wood.
This was getting beyond a joke. Eel or no eel…things would have to be made clear. Damn the eel! No eel was worth her losing her name for—the eel must be brought into the open. Aye. Aye, it must. Its presence must be proclaimed to the entire population of the village and its name an’ all. Damn silly name anyway. Why had she to go and give it a name like that? And the major lying on the grass with her! Bloody silly thing to do, lie on the grass. You should never lie on the grass with a woman, even he knew better than that. By! If this got about it would take some explaining. He knew why they were lying on the grass; the eel must have been on the move, tucked itself away under the bank perhaps. The major had likely gone into the clearing and she had told him about it, and only seeing was believing with the major. But lying on the grass together, and Mavis to spot them. What if it had been him? On this thought he stopped abruptly, not brought to a standstill by his thinking but by the sight of Leo at the other end of the beech walk. She was coming towards him, and alone.
He moved on again, slowly, almost casually now, and as the distance between them lessened his thoughts toppled over themselves. She looked whiter than ever. Had she done time? Who was the fellow? If Mavis spread the rumour that she was lying on the grass with the major there’d be the devil’s own dance in the village about her, and there wasn’t much doubt but that Mavis would. She was beautiful, but she wasn’t good-looking, not really. But she was beautiful. And the way she walked, not throwing her feet about as if they didn’t belong to her. Who could the fellow be?
‘Hullo.’ It was he who spoke first.
‘Hello.’ She sounded tired and did not smile.
He looked steadily at her for a moment, and then remarked, ‘You look tired. Walked too far?’
‘Yes, I do feel a little tired.’ With the faintest of smiles now she added, ‘But not with walking, it’s all the hard work I do. That eel takes some watching. I’ve just seen her. Your major was there. He got very excited, he couldn’t believe his eyes. He’s a nice old fellow, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, the major’s all right.’ He stood smiling blandly down at her and blinking.
With a sharp, amused glance she asked, ‘Have you been celebrating?’
His grin stretched. ‘Well, not exactly celebrating, but I went off me usual. Can you tell?’
The smile came to her lips again, wider now, and she said, ‘A little.’ Then with a movement of her head to each side she tossed her hair back from her face, and looking about her, asked, ‘Do you mind if we sit down?’
Sit down! This was going to be the major over again. What if Mavis should decide to come back? Damn Mavis!
Pointing to a tree with a fallen branch lying at its base, he said, ‘There’s a seat over there.’
As she left the path he moved ahead towards the log and snapped off some of the side branches, with their dead foliage still clinging to them, to make a seat for her. She watched him for a moment, then sat down on the part he had cleared. Slowly she leaned her back against the trunk, and after drawing in a number of deep breaths she sighed and then she asked him a very odd question. ‘When did I come here?’ she said.
He looked at her as he laughed. ‘You need me to tell you? Dinner time yesterday.’
‘Dinner time yesterday. If you had said dinner time ten years ago I should have said it was even longer than that. Yesterday I liked this place, I had made purposely for it. I was fascinated by the name, I had heard it somewhere years ago. And then recently I heard it again and felt I must come here. Yesterday I wanted to stay—the car seemed a good excuse—now I don’t know.’ She remained quite still but her eyes moved swiftly about, seeming to encompass the whole of the wood and the village beyond, and she finished, ‘I feel I must go.’
The warmth of the whisky left his bowels and he said ‘I thought you were going to stay put until the car was finished.’
‘I thought I was, but I can always come back for it.’
When he made no reply to this she looked up at him and said, ‘You’re a very nice person, Peter. Why you’re at large I don’t know, somebody should have snapped you up. Come and sit down’—she tapped the trunk—‘you look too big standing there, like one of the trees. And you must be tired after working all day.’
He did not do as she ordered, and again, not a little to his own surprise, he heard himself saying, ‘Don’t talk like me mother.’
Suddenly she laughed, not the loud, free laugh of last night, but a soft, gentle laugh of amusement. ‘All right, I’ll drop the maternal role. Nevertheless, come and sit down.’ She chuckled now. ‘You know, that sounded funny coming from you…“Don’t talk like
me mother.” You must go off your usual more often. Have you got a cigarette?’
As he pulled out his cigarettes he said, ‘I’ve never seen you smoke.’
‘No. I gave it up some time ago, but I feel the need of one now.’
She put the cigarette to her mouth, and he struck a match and cupped the flame for her.
‘Do sit down.’ It was now a request, and slowly he took a seat beside her, but not close.
‘Where’s your father?’ she asked.
‘In the Hart.’
‘And Bill?’
‘Yes.’
‘They’re a nice pair…refreshing.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Yes. Don’t you?’ She blew the smoke gently upwards.
‘They’re all right.’ He would not commit himself.
‘Have you ever thought of leaving here, Peter?’ The question brought his eyes to her face. They seemed to press on it, so hard was his stare.
‘No—not really.’
‘Then don’t. Stay here until you’re old, like your grandfather.’
‘Now, you are talking like me mother again.’ He said this not as he had done before, but quietly, almost under his breath. Then bending forward, with his hands between his knees and his eyes straight ahead, he asked, ‘How old are you?’
‘What an impertinent question!’ She was laughing gently at him now. ‘You’ll be sorry for all these questions in the morning and you’ll chide yourself for having dropped your guard, that’s if you remember.’
With his hands still between his knees, he turned his head towards her. ‘I’ll remember…and look, I’m not drunk, not really. I’ve had two whiskies and two pints. You don’t get drunk on that.’
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