Winterking (1987)

by Paul Hazel

  madman certain.” Then he would count out the pile of

  guineas, letting each clink in the darkness on the dresser. He

  was astonished and disappointed when the last board came

  up

  “That will do,” Wykeham said, in a voice which seemed

  to say, Now off with you, the rest is my business only. But the

  Bristol men lingered about at the edge. Adam France was

  reaching down with a lantern.

  “It smells like an open grave,” Sam said.

  “Much you would know of that,” George Tennison

  answered.

  “Take the lanterns,” Wykeham said. And they did that.

  George Tennison stood in the doorway of the stable

  watching his fellows walking away down the drive. He waved

  and got a wave back but the darkness took them and the wind

  muttered and he lost the sounds of their shoes on the gravel.

  He ambled around out in front and peered in at the door. A

  light had been clicked on and he could make out a large

  center room.

  The stables had been divided. The left side, beyond the

  tack-room, disappeared down an aisle of wooden half doors

  behind which the beasts paced warily. To the right the stalls

  had been dismantled and the flooring replaced with paving

  stones. At the far end hugh black shapes of several very

  elegant, very old automobiles, now dull with dust, waited

  uselessly on blocks. It had been nearly forty years since

  George Tennison had seen the like of them.

  With a stab of memory he recalled the busy streets of

  Bristol. Sitting on the curb in the heart of the market, his

  eyes filled with envy, he had watched the great cars pass. He

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  WINTERK1NG

  had discovered then, for the first time, how bitter the part

  was he had been given to play in the world. As if no time had

  passed, with the same deep humiliation, he felt again his

  smallness and swore.

  At last there was a click of a latch, a clop of hooves. For

  an instant the light behind him was blotted out by a shadow.

  Through the dim opening Wykeham came forth leading a

  mare.

  “Hold the reins,” he said.

  “And mine?” George Tennison wondered, stepping aside

  awkwardly, for the mare was huge. “Surely for myself, a

  gentler. . .”

  Already the mare was beginning to dance. Wykeham

  grinned. "Going out you will sit up beside m e,” he said. “But

  watch me carefully, for you will be riding her back.” He laid

  his hand on the horn of the saddle, then finding the stirrup,

  hauled himself up. “1 will have your hand,” he said.

  George Tennison made a tentative protest; but strong

  fingers closed on his wrist. All at once his thin legs were

  straddling the mare s wide back.

  “You do remember the way out by the roads?”

  “I expect so,” George Tennison answered. “I walked

  them.”

  For a moment or two the mare trotted agreeably along

  the dark drive. But then Wykeham prodded her side and

  with alarming speed she bolted into the wood.

  For all George Tennison knew the mare might have leapt

  into pure darkness. A menace of shadows surged past his

  head. He could hear the thudding hooves, each jolting step

  shaking him clear to the bone. He grabbed hold of Wykeham’s

  waist. The young man laughed.

  When George Tennison opened his eyes again, the mare

  was trotting easily under the trees; the old trunks were

  distinct and separate against the sky’s shining blackness. The

  metal of the bridle, even the leaves of the trees seemed as

  lustrous as mirrors. The older man drew a breath. Between

  the branches, halfway out to the stars, a flight of swans rose

  like an arrow aimed at the moon.

  “This is South Wood,” Wykeham told him solemnly but

  the man heard the note of eagerness beneath. Wykeham

  shook the reins gently. “The tree-cutters have been busy

  here,” he said. “Yet their work comes to nothing.”

  The Hill and the Tower

  65

  They rode through the wood. Although he could only

  see the back of the younger man’s head, George Tennison

  imagined he was smiling. The mare lifted her neck.

  A long time after, or perhaps a short time, he never

  knew which, George Tennison realized that they were close

  to the village. Soon he saw the houses, snug behind their

  fences, and the top of the green and he remembered that he

  had not asked where they were going.

  “It is not far to the station,” Wykeham announced all at

  once. “You will leave me there. You might,” he added, “tie

  the mare up for the night wherever it is you are staying. You

  could ride her out to the house, if you wished, after breakfast.”

  George Tennison hesitated but then in his mind’s eye he

  saw Mrs. Tennison peering out from the window into the

  morning, watching him climb like a jockey onto the back of

  the mare. “I would like that,” he said, suddenly grinning

  himself.

  “Where are the men?” the stationmaster asked him.

  “I have sent them to their beds. Well you might go

  yourself.”

  “I have stayed to help.”

  “You look tired," Wykeham said. But the stationmaster

  insisted on walking with him into the yard where the stable

  car waited on the siding. Nevertheless he found he needed to

  lean on a post or a gate, if only for a moment, holding his

  weary head nearly upright in the cradle of his arms.

  The stationmaster awoke as the two a.m. train was

  pulling out of the station. The wind had dropped. An odd

  scent filled his nostrils. When he tried the doors of the car he

  found they were unbolted. He swung them open and poked

  in with his lamp. Its yellow beam ran along the floor and over

  the sides of the huge empty stall. His nostrils twitched,

  smelling the thick, unmistakable scent of oak-wood.

  4.

  4 tijk tree?”

  “At the crown of East Wood,” Longford continued,

  pushing his cup away from him and into the assortment of

  abandoned luncheon dishes. “Up from the house,” he said,

  “in the direct line of sight to the river.”

  Plum saw his disappointment. “Are you certain?” she

  asked.

  “I have made the measurements a good half dozen

  times,” he snapped, unaccustomedly cross with her for having doubted him. Plum folded her napkin. Her instincts told her to let it be. There had been no talk yet. She reached for

  the cup, seeking to touch what he had touched and restore

  whatever connection had broken. The mild brown liquid

  slopped unexpectedly over the rim. She watched the stain

  spread through the tablecloth and thought with gathering

  irritation, He might at least have drunk a little.

  “But if it wasn’t there yesterday,” she complained.

  “But it was,” he persisted, “this morning.” Indeed it had

  very much been there. He had come up the drive, having

  started out early to have his little chat with Wykeham, to

  invite him to dinner (after
all, the young man was his ward

  and there were things to be settled), to mention, in passing,

  the matter of a few old trees he wanted cleared from the

  wood. As he had let his gaze drift over the familiar line of

  the foliage, he had seen the shocking new growth, brash in the

  sunlight, like an enemy standard raised overnight on the hill.

  He had still not gotten over his surprise or his anguish. Only

  yesterday there had been nothing but gaunt, dying trees. He

  had banged on the door. No one answered and he had tacked

  up a scribbled note on an envelope letting Wykeham know in

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  The Hill and the Tower

  6 7

  the firmest possible way that he was expected at the parsonage at seven. On the way back toward the village he had met a man leading a mare. It was his habit to smile even at

  strangers, but he had trudged on past George Tennison

  sullenly, without looking up.

  The box was surprisingly heavy yet the old man continued to lift it. For much the same reason once a week he limped into the village for whisky. To do less, even by the

  smallest measure, would be to admit finally that he had

  grown too old. He removed the box from the corner, sliding it

  first with the combined efforts of his feet and hands. It was a

  pretty box, he had always thought, compounded of a great

  many layers of lacquered wood and fitted with a pair of heavy

  brass hinges. For several minutes it rested on the seat of the

  chair. When his heart hgd stopped pounding and the whiteness had gone from before his eyes, he lifted the box onto the table. He would not let the woman help him. Not yet, he

  thought with sly cunning. The woman squeezed next to him;

  he coidd see her bosom rise and fall with expectation. He was

  not altogether certain he approved. Angels, he had been

  taught, were, or at least ought to be, sexless.

  Nora reached for the lid.

  “There is a lock,” Chance said. He began to fumble in

  his pockets. Though it was difficult with her standing so close

  to him, he avoided her touch. He was still not frightened.

  But with Death’s Angel come into the house, he would have

  to be careful.

  Nora was happily unaware of his mistrust. Since Plum

  had brought her to his cottage, she had simply been waiting

  for whatever would happen next. She had not bothered to

  listen when the two had spoken. She may have wondered

  where she was but the sound of the wind, filling the treetops,

  reminded her of the great tidal race at Bodp, and the sound

  had distracted her. Nora had not followed when Plmn made

  her way to the door. No other words had been spoken. The

  old man spent the night sitting out on his step; she had slept,

  without dreaming, in his bed. When she awoke she had made

  him breakfast which, since he refused it, she had eaten

  cheerfully. She hadn’t the slightest idea what to do afterward.

  She had been sitting on the stool and humming when Chance

  came in the door.

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  WINTERKING

  “You’ll not find me any easier prey than you’ve found

  him,” Chance warned her.

  Nora caught a glimpse of her face in the window glass

  and wondered at the wicked flush on her cheeks. The morning was warm. Breathing in the tingly scent of her own damp skin, she unbuttoned her blouse.

  "Found who?” she asked, watching her reflection. The

  fabric of the blouse still clung to her. She wriggled and dug

  behind her back. Because he was only an old man and it

  scarcely mattered, she unfastened her brassiere.

  “He you have chased forever,” he said. “Though you ain’t

  got him.” He began to feel braver. “Nor is it likely you

  would.”

  She looked at him doubtfully.

  “Could you tell me what you mean?” she said.

  His gnomish smile widened; for he saw this as proof

  of his toughness. “Oh, better than that. I can show you!”

  It was then he had gone for the box.

  “Sixty— seventy years ago I made the drawing,” he was

  saying as he placed the key in the lock. He pulled the lid

  open. “I was a lad myself then, running where he ran and

  near as fast if I’m not mistaken. Galloping off after hares in

  the wood. Chasing foxes in and out of b am s. . . and houses

  that ain’t houses anymore, weren’t houses then to tell the

  truth, just big old cellar holes.” He put in his hand, touching

  the paper deep inside.

  Watching his face, Nora had a sudden premonition. With

  that part of her mind that had always taken the pieces of her

  life and rearranged them until, however wayward, they seemed

  to fit into a single urgent tale, she thought: So my father

  would have mourned his youth. It did not matter that she

  had never known her father; she found the old man comforting.

  She glanced about the tiny cottage that was bedroom and

  kitchen and remembered the little room in Bod0 and the

  ghost of the father who was not dead but gone. She would be

  glad of this old man’s company. She would not let it matter

  that he did not care for her own. So Eve smiled, discovering

  her will was stronger, that it could change the face of paradise. With just such a smile, Nora took the faded paper from the old man’s fingers.

  “He wasn’t pleased,” Chance said. He crouched in front

  of her, trembling and holding himself upright with the butt

  The HD! and the Tower

  69

  of his stick. “Not one bit pleased when I told him I had

  done it. Hated the idea of anyone making pictures of him.”

  Chance looked at her craftily. “But I kept it anyway. And he

  knows I have it. Told the same to Longford when he came

  around trying to chase me off. He won’t send me packing, I

  told him.”

  There was a little twitch of a smile, a pause while he

  stretched out his arm excitedly and pointed. “See for yourself,” he said. “Not a line changed!” He waited but she did not answer. “You do see?” he had cried at her.

  But Nora kept her mouth shut. It was already too late to

  cover her breasts with the paper. She had simply stepped

  back. Wykeham stood in the doorway. He did not move but

  then he did not have to to make her heart beat faster. Not

  that she minded. But she wondered how long he had been

  standing there, dressed in his old man’s coat, watching her

  nakedness.

  It was fairly late, past eight-thirty, when Wykeham

  knocked on the door of the parsonage. Longford, who had

  fallen asleep in his reading chair, now stood bewildered in

  the middle of the front room. It was Plum who had gone

  to the door. Wykeham waited on the step. He was holding

  an envelope in his large fingers. Plum glared at him

  suspiciously.

  “Forgive m e,” Wykeham said. “I do hope the dinner is

  not ruined.” Before she had found the courage to answer, he

  walked past her into the hall. She hurried after, pausing to

  relight a lamp on a table outside the kitchen. At last he

  turned so that she could see the side of his face. The features

  were strong and roughly handsome. Except for the way the

&nbs
p; wind had tousled his dark hair, he did not look like a

  boy.

  “It was only that I just found the note,” he said in a voice

  blameless and contrite by turns. She was aware of his slow

  smile. She was not deceived. She thought, Something has

  happened.

  Longford put aside the book and came forward.

  Wykeham waved the note in front of him. “1 am sorry if

  there has been any inconvenience.”

  “Quite all right,” Longford said. “My mistake probably.”

  He showed Wykeham into the parlor. There was a brief

  7 0

  WINTER KING

  silence. “You have already met Mrs. Longford, I believe,” he

  said formally.

  Wykeham smiled. “Yes. Yesterday, very early.”

  Longford’s lower lip turned ever so slightly as Wykeham

  took a seat in the upholstered chair where Longford himself

  had been reading. There was a longer silence. Longford

  blundered about the room. Settling at last on the edge of a

  sofa he had never liked, he crossed his legs uncomfortably.

  Plum remained standing.

  “It was kind of you,” Wykeham said to her, “to make a

  start on the kitchen. It needed a woman. The workmen, I am

  afraid, left quite a shambles.”

  “Men do,” she said, watching him. So far she had told

  her husband nothing of her visit to Greenchurch. Tim had

  not even remarked on it, when after the service he had come

  back to the parsonage and found her already home and

  furiously cleaning her own kitchen. He had merely welcomed

  the sight of her in her apron. .

  “But as you say,” Plum continued, “it was only a

  start.”

  “But a beginning has been m ade,” Wykeham said

  cheerfully. “And I am grateful,”

  Longford uncrossed his long legs. He had completely

  forgotten to look for a housekeeper. It was this awful business

  about the trees. He thought, At least he’s come and we can

  get that settled. But he was impatient with himself because

  he had not remembered.

  “Tomorrow,” Longford said apologetically, a little taken

  aback by the petulance in his voice. “There are women in the

  village who would be glad of the work.” He turned to his

  wife. “What would you say, dear,” he asked her, “to Mrs.